---

The gunshot didn't just happen. It didn't slice through the air clean, didn't announce itself like something that could be understood, processed, filed away. No. It tore. Like a hand reaching into the world and ripping out the part where things made sense. The dhol stopped mid-beat-the drummer's arms still raised, his mouth still open in the middle of a shout that would never finish. The dancers froze mid-step, their hands still clasped, their feet still lifted, their laughter still caught in their throats like birds that had forgotten how to fly.

Aunty Sharma's gossip sentence stayed half-finished. Her lips were still moving when the bullet tore through the courtyard. "Maine bola tha uska blouse-" BANG. The word hung there, incomplete, like everything else in that moment. Like the universe had paused to take a breath and forgotten to let it go.

The flower petals that had been thrown in celebration-pink and orange and gold-drifted down in slow motion, suspended in the air like they had forgotten how to fall. The fairy lights flickered once, twice, then steadied, indifferent to the chaos unfolding beneath them. The brass thali that someone had dropped rang out like a temple bell, the sound echoing off the marble, off the walls, off the silence that was pressing down on everything.

Silence.

One second. Two.

The world held its breath.

Then-explosion.

"AAAHHH!"

"BHAGO!"

"KHOON!!"

The scream came from everywhere and nowhere at once. A wall of sound that rose and rose until it was impossible to tell where one voice ended and another began. People scattered like leaves in a storm, their bodies moving before their minds could catch up, their legs carrying them in directions they didn't choose. Chairs overturned. Tables crashed. Glasses shattered on the marble floor, the pieces catching the fairy lights, scattering them like dying stars across the courtyard. A tray of samosas flew into the air, spinning, the golden pastries raining down on the chaos below.

A child was crying somewhere, his mother's voice sharp with panic, calling his name over and over. An uncle ran in the wrong direction, his chappals slipping on the marble, his arms waving, his mouth open in a scream that made no sound. A cousin dropped a tray of sweets, the gulab jamuns rolling across the floor like small, brown planets, stopping at the feet of a man who would never eat sweets again.

Aunty Gupta slipped on a fallen dupatta, her saree flying, her hands reaching for something to hold, her voice rising in a wail that cut through the noise. "MERI CHAPPAL! KOI MERI CHAPPAL LAO!"

No one heard her. No one could hear anything over the screaming, the crying, the pounding of feet on marble.

Aunty Sharma was on her phone, her hands shaking, her voice rising above the noise. "POLICE! HAAN, JALDI-HAAN, GOLI CHALI-SHAADI MEIN-HAAN, BLOOD-"

The operator's voice was calm, professional, asking questions she couldn't answer. Where? When? Who? She didn't know. She didn't know anything.

The groom's mother was on her knees beside her son, her hands pressed to his shoulder, her saree soaked with blood, her voice a broken wail. "MERI JAAN! MERA BACCHA! KOI DOCTOR LAO! KYA HO RAHA HAI-KYA-"

Her hands were red. Her son's face was white. His sherwani, once gold, was now the color of rust. The wound on his shoulder was deep, the blood pulsing, spreading, soaking through the fabric, dripping onto the marble. His friends were frozen around him, their faces blank, their hands empty. His father was standing at the edge of the stage, his hands clasped behind his back, his face expressionless. He wasn't running. He wasn't screaming. He was watching. Waiting. Like he knew something no one else knew.

And in the middle of it all-

Aarohi.

Standing. Blinking. Processing.

Her brain was a traffic jam of information, cars piling up, horns blaring, no one moving. The groom was on the ground, his hand on his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers, red on white, red on gold. Meera was frozen on the stage, her face white as ash, her hands still raised, still holding the garland she was supposed to exchange, her eyes fixed on the man she was supposed to marry. Meera's father was shouting something no one could hear, his voice lost in the chaos. Her mother was on her knees, reaching for her daughter, her mouth open in a scream that made no sound.

Aarohi's brain caught up. Just enough.

"...acha."

She blinked again.

"...yeh normal shaadi nahi hai."

Her brain said: danger. Her brain said: run. Her brain said: get Meera, get out, get somewhere safe.

Her mouth said: commentary.

She turned slowly, taking it all in. The chaos. The fear. The blood. The way people were running in circles, not knowing where to go, not knowing what to do. The way the bride's father was frozen, his hand still raised, still holding the garland he was supposed to place around his new son-in-law's neck. The way the groom's mother was clawing at the stage, her voice gone, her hands red.

And then she saw him.

Walking in.

Slow. Like time followed him, not the other way around.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. Dark trousers, no crease, no wrinkle. Shoes that made no sound on the marble, like he was walking on air, like the ground itself was afraid to hold him. His face was calm, expressionless, like he was walking into a board meeting instead of a massacre. Not a single bead of sweat on his forehead. Not a single tremor in his hands. His eyes were grey-stormy, endless, the kind of eyes that had seen things and decided to become the thing that was seen.

Behind him-men in black. Armed. Silent. Their faces hidden behind sunglasses, their movements synchronized like they had done this a hundred times before, their hands resting on holsters, their eyes scanning the crowd for threats that didn't exist anymore because he was already here.

They spread out like shadows separating from their source, moving to the exits, blocking them, standing with their backs to the walls, their faces forward, their guns hidden but ready.

And him-he didn't hurry. Didn't rush. Didn't need to.

He walked straight through the crowd. People moved away from him automatically, instinctively, like water parting around stone. Not because they chose to. Because their bodies knew something their minds hadn't caught yet. Because something primal in them recognized something primal in him, and told them to move, to run, to hide.

He didn't look at them. Didn't look at the screaming women, the crying children, the men frozen in fear. Didn't look at the bride. Didn't look at the groom's mother, who was clawing at his feet, begging for mercy, her voice rising and falling like waves against a shore that would never give way.

He stepped over her. Not around her. Over her. Like she wasn't there.

Aarohi squinted. Her brain, still catching up, still processing, still trying to make sense of a world that had stopped making sense, produced exactly one thought.

"...yeh kaunsa entry style hai?"

No one answered. No one could.

He walked straight to the stage. Straight to the groom. The man was on his knees now, his sherwani ruined, his hand pressed to his shoulder, his face white with shock and pain. Blood dripped between his fingers, pooling on the marble, dark and slow, spreading like a stain that would never wash out.

He looked up at the man in black. His lips moved. No sound came out.

The man in black stopped in front of him. Looked down. His shadow fell over the groom like a shroud, like a judgement, like the end of something that had been ending for a long time.

"Please," the groom whispered. His voice was cracked, broken, the voice of a man who had never been afraid before and didn't know how to be. "Please, I'll give you anything. Money. Land. Anything. Just-just let me go. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. I'll-"

"Kitni ladkiyan?"

The voice was low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made you lean in to hear it, and then wish you hadn't. The kind of quiet that belonged in confessionals and execution chambers. The kind of quiet that didn't need to shout because it had already been decided.

The groom shook. His whole body was shaking, his teeth chattering, his hands trembling. "I-I don't know what you're talking about-I don't-"

The gun pressed deeper into his wound. Not firing. Just pressing. Just reminding. The groom screamed, his body arching, his hands scrabbling at the marble, his fingers leaving streaks of blood on the white stone.

"KITNI?"

"TWELVE-maybe more-I don't know-the records are in Delhi-my father has them-I was just following orders-"

The gun moved away. Just slightly. Just enough.

Behind him, the groom's father was trying to move forward, trying to reach his son, but one of the men in black held him back, his arm across his chest, immovable. The father's face was red, his veins standing out on his forehead, his voice rising in fury.

"Do you know who we are?" he shouted. "Do you know what family you're messing with? Do you have any idea what will happen to you when-"

"I know." The man in black didn't look at him. His voice was flat. Final. "That's why you're still breathing."

He turned his head, just slightly, just enough to acknowledge the father's existence. His eyes were grey. Stormy. The kind of eyes that had seen things. The kind of eyes that had done things.

"Your son, though-" He looked back at the groom. His voice dropped. "Your son is not so lucky."

The father's mouth closed. His face went white. He understood. For the first time, he understood.

Aarohi had been watching all of this from the edge of the stage, her body half-turned, her mind still trying to process. She had heard the groom's words. Twelve. Maybe more. She didn't understand. She didn't know what they meant. She thought it was about money. About deals. About the kind of things rich families did when they thought no one was watching.

Her gut was tight. Her hands were cold. But she didn't understand.

She looked at Meera. Her friend was still frozen, still holding the garland, her face blank, her eyes fixed on the groom. On the blood. On the man in black.

"Meera-" Aarohi started, but her voice was lost in the noise. Meera didn't hear her. Meera didn't hear anything.

She looked back at the man.

He was standing over the groom, his gun still pressed to the wound, his face unreadable. He looked like a statue. Like a judgement. Like something that had walked out of a nightmare and decided to stay.

The groom was crying now. His tears mixed with the blood on his shirt, turning pink, then red, then dark again. His mother was still clawing at the man's feet, her voice a broken wail, her saree torn, her hair coming loose from its pins. His father was still standing at the edge of the stage, still watching, still waiting, his face a mask of terror he was trying very hard to hide.

Aarohi's chest tightened.

She didn't know what was happening. She didn't know who these people were, or why they had come, or what the groom had done. She didn't know anything.

But Meera was crying. Meera's mother was crying. Meera's father was standing at the edge of the stage, his face white, his hands shaking, his eyes fixed on his daughter like he was seeing her for the last time. The wedding that was supposed to be the happiest day of her life was falling apart in front of her, and no one was doing anything, no one was saying anything, no one was even trying.

And the man in black was just standing there. Watching. Waiting.

Something inside her stirred. Something that had always been there, that had gotten her into trouble her whole life, that had made her run toward things other people ran away from. Her feet moved before her brain caught up.

She was walking before she knew she was walking. Her lehenga dragged on the marble, the sound of silk against stone the only thing she could hear over the pounding of her heart. Her dupatta had fallen somewhere behind her, lost in the chaos. Her hair was wild from running, strands of it sticking to her forehead, to her cheeks, to the back of her neck. Her mehendi was dark on her hands, the letter R hidden in her palm, waiting.

She didn't care. She marched toward him. Straight. Unstoppable. Like a storm that had no idea it was about to hit a wall. Her chin was up. Her eyes were blazing. Her hands were fists at her sides.

The crowd parted for her like it had parted for him. Not because they were afraid of her. Because she was moving with a purpose they didn't understand, and sometimes that was enough.

"HELLO?!"

Her voice cut through the chaos like a knife. Not because it was loud-it wasn't-but because it was unexpected. No one was shouting at the man in black. No one was even looking at him. They were all looking away, looking down, looking anywhere but at him.

She was looking right at him.

He didn't respond.

She stopped in front of him. He was tall. So tall. She had to tilt her head back to see his face, and even then she was looking at his chin, his jaw, the hollow of his throat. His eyes were still fixed on the groom, his expression unchanged, his gun still pressed to the wound.

"Main yahan khadi hoon," she said, her voice rising. "Invisible nahi hoon."

Nothing.

She waved her hand in front of his face. Her mehendi flashed in the fairy lights, dark and intricate, the patterns moving with her fingers. "Hello? Excuse me? Shooting someone is illegal, in case you didn't know. Also kidnapping. Also terrorism. Also being generally creepy at a wedding. That's not illegal, but it should be."

He stepped past her.

Just-stepped past her. Like she was a piece of furniture. Like she was air. Like she was nothing.

Aarohi blinked. Her hand was still raised. Her mouth was still open. Her face was hot.

She turned slowly. Followed him with her eyes. He was still focused on the groom, still calm, still ignoring her. His back was broad, his shoulders straight, his head high. He looked like a man who had never been ignored in his life, and who therefore had no idea what it felt like to be the one doing the ignoring.

Something in her chest tightened. Not fear. Something else. Something that felt like a challenge she hadn't asked for but wasn't going to walk away from.

She marched after him. Faster this time. Her feet slammed against the marble, her heels clicking like gunshots.

"Tum hero banne aaye ho ya villain? Decide kar lo pehle."

Nothing.

"Dekho mujhe nahi pata tum kaun ho, par main yeh jaanti hoon-"

Still nothing.

Aunty Sharma's whisper carried from somewhere behind her, sharp and clear despite the chaos. "Yeh ladki khud ko marwayegi. Koi isko rokega nahi?"

Someone-she didn't know who-answered. "Isse koi rok nahi sakta. Kabhi nahi rok paaya."

Aarohi ignored them.

She stepped in front of him again. Planted her feet. Crossed her arms. Her chin was up. Her eyes were blazing. Her lehenga was twisted, her hair was a disaster, her face was flushed, and she was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent done.

"Tum sun rahe ho ya selective hearing ka problem hai?"

He looked at her.

No-he looked past her. His eyes moved over her shoulder, scanning the crowd, cataloging threats, dismissing everything that wasn't a threat. His face didn't change. His expression didn't shift. He looked at her the way he looked at the chairs, the tables, the flower arrangements.

She wasn't a threat.

Her eye twitched.

"ACCHA."

She stepped closer, close enough to see the scar on his eyebrow, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the pulse at his jaw. "Toh ab ignore karna shuru kar diya? Main yahan khadi hoon, chilla rahi hoon, aur tum mujhe dekh bhi nahi rahe?"

Nothing.

"Tumhe sunai deta hai ya main mic leke aau?"

Still-nothing.

Aunty Gupta's voice, barely a whisper: "Iska ego ab zameen mein ghus jayega."

She was right.

Aarohi's hands were fists at her sides. Her nails were digging into her palms. Her whole body was shaking. She had been ignored before. She had been dismissed before. She had been told to sit down, shut up, stay out of it. But never-never-had she been dismissed like this. Like she was nothing. Like she didn't exist.

She stepped in front of him again. Determined. Annoyed. Ego fully activated. She waved her hand in front of his face, close enough to touch.

"HELLO?! Main yahan hoon. Neeche bhi log exist karte hain by the way."

Still-nothing.

Aunty's whisper again: "Isko height complex ho gaya ab..."

Aarohi's eye twitched. She stepped closer, her chin lifted, her voice sharp. "Tum sun rahe ho ya selective hearing ka problem hai?"

Silence. Then-

Finally-he spoke.

Without looking at her. Without turning his head. Without acknowledging her existence in any way beyond the sound of his voice, which was flat, bored, like he was discussing the weather.

"I don't talk..."

A pause. His eyes were still fixed on the groom, still cold, still distant.

"...to dwarfs."

And just like that-he ignored her again. Turned back to the groom, pressed the gun deeper into the wound, asked another question she couldn't hear.

Silence.

Aarohi stood there, frozen. Her brain was a slow burn, processing, understanding, refusing to believe.

The words echoed in her head. Dwarfs. Dwarfs. To dwarfs.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"WHAT?!"

Her voice cracked on the word. Not from fear. From disbelief. From the sheer, audacious, impossible fact that this man-this man who had walked into a wedding and shot someone-had just called her a dwarf.

Behind her, someone-she didn't know who, she didn't care-let out a choked sound. A laugh. Someone was laughing. At her. Aunty Gupta's shoulders were shaking. Her cousin Rohan had his hand clamped over his mouth. Even the man in black's men-the cold, expressionless men in suits-seemed to shift slightly, like they were hiding smiles.

Her eye twitched again. She looked down at herself. At her height. At the way she barely reached the man's shoulder. At the way she had to crane her neck to see his face. At the way her feet dangled when she sat in chairs that were too tall, the way she had to stand on her toes to reach things on high shelves, the way people had been making jokes about her height her whole life and she had laughed them off because she didn't care, because she was comfortable, because height didn't matter.

It mattered now.

"MAIN BONI HOON?!"

She stepped closer, trying to get in his line of sight. She was standing right in front of him now, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the sandalwood and something else, something darker. She jumped slightly, just enough to get her face level with his.

"HELLO?! MAIN YAHAN HOON! MAIN DWARF NAHI HOON! MAIN-" she paused, breathless, "-AVERAGE HOON!"

Nothing.

He didn't even blink.

Her hands were fists at her sides. Her chest was heaving. Her face was hot. She was angry. She was embarrassed. She was something else, something she couldn't name, something that felt like her whole body was on fire.

He was still ignoring her. Still looking at the groom. Still asking questions she couldn't hear. Still acting like she didn't exist.

Her voice dropped. Dangerously calm.

"Look at me."

No response.

"LOOK. AT. ME."

Still-nothing.

Her hands were shaking. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. The world had narrowed to this man, this moment, this unbearable, impossible insult.

She stepped forward. Her feet planted. Her hands clenched. Her eyes burning.

And she shoved him.

Full force. Both hands against his chest. She put everything she had into it-every ounce of frustration, every grain of anger, every particle of humiliation.

He didn't move. Not a step. Not a sway. Not a flinch.

His chest was like a wall. His body was like stone. Her hands pressed against him and he was still there, unmoving, unshakeable, like she had pushed a mountain and expected it to fall.

But his eyes-closed. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was stopping himself. Like there was something inside him that had woken up, something that had been sleeping for a very long time, and he was pushing it back down. His jaw tightened. His hands, still holding the gun, went still. A muscle in his neck jumped. His chest rose and fell once, twice, three times, each breath deeper than the last.

Aarohi stood there, her hands still pressed against his chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She waited. For an explosion. For a reaction. For anything.

He opened his eyes.

And ignored her again.

He turned back to the groom, his voice flat, his face empty. "Kahan hain baaqi? Records kahan hain? Naam kahan hain?"

Aarohi stared at him.

He was ignoring her. Again. After she had shoved him. After she had yelled at him. After she had made herself impossible to ignore.

And he was just-turning away.

Her face went hot. Her chest went tight. Her hands started shaking. The blood rushed to her ears, pounding, pounding, pounding.

She didn't know what she was feeling. Anger. Embarrassment. Something that felt like a wound she didn't know she had. Something that felt like being seen and dismissed, like being measured and found wanting, like being nothing.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

Her voice was loud. Too loud. But she couldn't stop it.

"Main tumhe push kar rahi hoon aur tum reaction bhi nahi de rahe?!"

Nothing.

He was still talking to the groom. Still asking questions. Still ignoring her.

She stepped closer. Her voice dropped, dangerously calm, the kind of calm that came right before everything broke.

"Look at me."

No response.

"LOOK. AT. ME."

Still-nothing.

Her hands were fists. Her nails were digging into her palms. Her whole body was shaking. The world had narrowed to this man, this moment, this unbearable, impossible silence.

And then-

She stopped thinking.

She stepped forward, raised her hand, and because she couldn't reach his cheek-because he was too tall, too far, too everything-her palm hit his jaw.

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the courtyard like the gunshot had. Sharp. Final. Impossible to ignore.

Silence.

Absolute. Complete. Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not the rustle of fabric. Even the wind seemed to stop. The fairy lights held their breath. The flowers hung motionless on their stems.

For one endless second, no one moved. No one breathed. The man in black stood frozen, his head turned to the side, her handprint blooming red on his jaw. His eyes were closed. His hands were still. His chest was still.

And then-

He moved.

Slowly. Very slowly.

His head turned back toward her. His eyes opened. His hand came up. His fingers touched his jaw where she had hit him. His eyes-grey, endless, ancient-lifted. And locked. On her.

She stood there, her chest heaving, her hand still raised, her palm stinging. Her mind was blank. Her body was shaking. She had just slapped a man who had shot someone. She had just slapped a man who could kill her with a flick of his wrist.

But she didn't step back. She didn't look away.

His gaze dropped. To her hands. From her hands to her mehendi.

Her mehendi was dark on her palms, intricate, beautiful. Vines and flowers and hidden patterns that Rumpi had spent hours drawing. And there, in the center of her right palm, half-hidden in the swirls, half-revealed in the light-a letter.

R.

His eyes stopped. His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers caught her wrist. Pulled.

She stumbled forward. Her body collided with his. Her hands pressed against his chest again, but this time not in anger. In shock. His chest was warm. His heart was beating under her palm. Fast. Hard.

He didn't let go.

His thumb traced the letter on her palm. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorizing it. Like he was confirming something he had been waiting to confirm for a very long time. His eyes lifted again. To her face. To her eyes.

And then-that smirk. Slow. Dark. Possessive. The kind of smirk that didn't ask permission. The kind of smirk that didn't need to.

"...sweetheart! "

Aarohi blinked. Her brain was static. Her breath was caught. Her hand was still pressed against his chest, and she could feel his heartbeat, steady, slow, there.

"What?!" Her voice was a whisper.

He didn't repeat it. Didn't explain. Just looked at her-like she was no longer random. Like she was no longer air. Likep she was something he had been searching for and had finally, finally found.

She pulled her hand back. He let her. She stepped away, her legs unsteady, her mind racing.

"...excuse me?!"

She stared at him, offended, confused, something else she couldn't name.

"Main tumhe jaanti bhi nahi hoon aur tum-sweetheart?!"

She paused. Her brain, finally catching up, added: "Tum sabko aise bulate ho kya ya main special case hoon?"

No one answered. The crowd was still frozen. The groom was still bleeding. The world was still holding its breath. But he was looking at her now. Really looking. And she didn't know what to do with that.

"...yeh banda ajeeb hai," she muttered.

Then, louder: "Dekho jo bhi hai-mujhe chhodo."

He stepped closer. His hand found her wrist again. His grip was firm, not painful, but final. Like it had already been decided. Like she had already been claimed.

"Main kahin nahi ja rahi."

He leaned in, just enough, just so his voice was only for her.

"You already came."

Her breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!"

He didn't answer. He just pulled her closer, and the world around them dissolved into noise again.

Behind her, Meera was screaming. "AAROHI! USSE CHHODO!"

Her father rushed forward, his voice shaking, his hands reaching. "Haath hatao! Police bulata hoon! Koi police-"

The men in black moved. One step. Two. A wall of suits and guns and silence. The father stopped. His hands fell. His face went white.

Aunty Sharma was shouting into her phone, her voice high, her hands shaking. "HAAN, JALDI-GOLI CHALI-EK LADKI KO LE JA RAHE HAIN-HAAN-USSE BACHAAO-"

Aunty Gupta was crying, clutching her dupatta, her eyes fixed on Aarohi. "Beta ko chhodo! Pagal ho gaye ho?! Yeh kya kar rahe ho-"

Meera's mother was on the ground, her hands reaching for her daughter, for anyone, for something to hold. "MERI BETI! MERI BETI KI SHAADI-"

Aarohi's cousins tried to run forward. They were pushed back. Her uncles tried to argue. They were silenced. Her friends tried to reach her. They were blocked.

And through it all, he held her wrist. Steady. Unbreakable.

"Koi mujhe samjhaega yeh ho kya raha hai?!" Aarohi shouted, struggling against his grip.

No one could. No one knew. The truth was still hidden, buried under blood and lies and years of silence.

But he knew. He knew everything. And he had already decided.

Without warning, he lifted her. Straight up. Over his shoulder. Her lehenga tangled, her hair flew, her feet kicked. She screamed, her voice lost in the chaos.

"OYE-!!!"

She hit his back. "NEECHE UTARO MUJHE!"

He didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't even slow down.

"Tum sun rahe ho?!"

His voice was calm. "Hmm."

"...HMM?! BAS HMM?!"

" Pagal aadmi!!, neeche utaro mujhe!"

" I will not put you down, but you'll fall if you keep moving like this!

" To gira do!!!"

" Try karun? "

" ..... Nahi!"

She hit him harder. Kicked. Screamed. Her fists pounded against his back. Her legs flailed. Her voice was hoarse from shouting.

He walked through the crowd like she weighed nothing, his men parting the way, clearing the path, making sure no one got close.

Behind her, the wedding was chaos. People running, people crying, people shouting her name.

"AAROHI!"

"USSE CHHODO!"

"KOI BACHAO!"

She twisted, trying to see them, trying to reach them. Her hand stretched out, her fingers grasping empty air.

"MAIN TUMHE CHHODUNGI NAHI!" she screamed.

He walked on. Unhurried. Unbothered.

And then-just before the gates, before the world she knew disappeared, before the lights and the noise and the people faded-he said, his voice low, meant only for her:

"Dekhenge."

The gates closed behind them. The car was waiting. The door opened. He put her inside.

She scrambled for the handle. Locked. She clawed at the window. "LET ME OUT!"

He sat beside her. The car moved.

She didn't know where they were going. She didn't know who he was. She didn't know anything.

But his eyes, when they looked at her, were grey and endless and full of something she didn't understand.

And her hand-her palm-still burned where he had traced the letter.

R.

---

..

..

---

The car door slammed.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just-final. The sound of something clicking into place, of a decision already made, of a cage locking around her.

Aarohi didn't have time to process. She didn't have time to think. Her body was already moving, her hands already reaching, her voice already climbing before her brain could catch up.

"RUKO!!! GAADI ROKO!!!"

She lunged forward before the car had even properly left the curb. Her fingers found the driver's hair before she knew what she was doing, twisting into the short strands, pulling, yanking, using her whole weight to throw the man off balance.

"BHAIYA GAADI SIDE LAGAO!!!"

"AAAH-MADAM-!"

The steering wheel jerked violently. The car swerved, tires screaming against the asphalt, the whole world tilting sideways. The driver's hands were shaking, his voice high and panicked.

"M-Madam-main control kho raha hoon-"

"ACHHA HOGA!"

She pulled harder. The car veered toward the divider, the headlights of oncoming traffic blinding her for a split second, the horn of a truck blaring past, close enough to shake the windows.

And then-an arm.

Not gentle. Not asking. It wrapped around her waist like iron and pulled.

Her body snapped back. Her back hit his chest. Her arms were pinned. Her legs were trapped between his thighs. In the space of a single breath, she went from a hurricane to a bird in a cage, and the cage was him.

"CHHODO MUJHE!"

She kicked. Her heels connected with nothing but air, his legs pressed so tight against hers that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to move.

" konhi (elbow) maar dungi main!"

She threw her elbow back, aiming for his ribs. It connected. Pain shot up her arm. He didn't react. Not a sound. Not a flinch. Not even a change in his breathing.

That unnerved her more than anything.

"Driver," Rudra said. His voice was low. Calm. Like nothing had happened. Like she wasn't fighting for her life in his backseat. "Drive."

The car steadied. The driver straightened the wheel, his hands still trembling, his breath coming in short gasps. The world stopped tilting.

Aarohi stared at the dashboard, her chest heaving, her hands still caught in his grip. Her whole body was shaking. Her heart was a trapped bird, beating against her ribs, beating against his arms.

"...tum log normal ho?" she muttered, disbelief coating every syllable.

She twisted again. Tried to free her arms. His grip didn't loosen. She tried to slide sideways, to create space between her back and his chest. His thighs tightened. There was no space. There was no escape.

"Main warning de rahi hoon..."

Silence.

"Main kaat bhi leti hoon."

She could feel his breath near her ear. Steady. Unhurried. "Try."

She paused. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"...confidence dekho iska."

She was offended now. Offended and trapped and somehow, impossibly, more angry than afraid. She twisted again, harder this time, trying to throw her weight forward. His arms didn't budge.

"Main car se kood jaungi!"

The words came out before she could stop them. She felt him pause behind her. Just for a second. Then his voice came, low and amused.

"Try."

She froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She looked at the door handle, at the window, at the blur of buildings and lights rushing past. The car was moving fast. Too fast. If she jumped-

She swallowed.

"J-just wait... speed kam kar do pehle."

His chest vibrated against her back. A laugh? No. Something close. His lips brushed her ear.

"Scared?"

"NO!" Too fast. Too loud. She coughed. "I mean-no. Main darti nahi hoon. Main... main adventurous hoon. Bohot adventurous. I'll jump. Any minute. Just-just waiting for the right moment."

She could feel him waiting. Not moving. Not speaking. Just-waiting.

The silence stretched. Her face was hot. Her hands were sweating.

"...speed kam karo na," she muttered.

His voice was flat. "No."

"Please?"

A pause. "No."

She glared at the windshield. "Bahut bure insaan ho tum."

"Haan."

The car moved through the city, the lights blurring past, the buildings growing taller. She pressed herself against the door, as far from him as she could get. He let her. His arm was still around her waist, his legs still trapping hers, but he didn't tighten his hold. He didn't need to. She wasn't going anywhere.

She hated that he knew that.

She looked at the window again. The city was a smear of gold and red, the night pressing against the glass. She could see her reflection-hair wild, face flushed, eyes too bright. And behind her, his reflection. Still. Watching.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

No answer.

"Hello? I asked you a question."

Still nothing.

She twisted, trying to see his face. His profile was sharp in the dim light, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at anything.

"Tum sun rahe ho?"

Nothing.

Her frustration spiked. She shoved at his arm-the one around her waist-trying to loosen it. He didn't move.

"I asked you a question."

"I heard."

"Then answer."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Ghar."

She blinked. "...ghar?"

"Haan."

Her voice climbed. "THAT'S NOT MY HOME."

"Ab hai."

She stared at him. His face was calm. His eyes were fixed on the road. He looked like he had just told her the weather, not that he had stolen her from her life and was now claiming ownership over her existence.

"You can't just-you can't just decide that."

"But I already did, sweetheart."

"Well, I don't agree."

"Hmm."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "That's not-that's not how things work!"

"Hmare yahan esa hi hota hai. "

"...Reels tum bhi dekhte ho ..... Itne bhi boring nah-

"No"

"To line kese pta?"

"Bcz it is not any reel , but reality, Darling!"

She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to throw herself out of the car and never look back. She did none of those things. She pressed herself against the door, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on the window.

"I hate you," she said.

"Haan."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"You're the worst person I've ever met."

His voice was flat. "Haan."

She glared at his reflection. "Tum kuch aur bolte ho ya bas haan haan karte ho?"

He didn't answer.

She huffed, turning back to the window. The city was changing now-the lights fewer, the buildings taller, the streets wider. They were leaving the chaos behind, moving into a part of the city she didn't recognize. Glass towers rose on either side, their windows dark, their lobbies empty. This wasn't a place where people lived. It was a place where people owned.

Her stomach tightened.

"I'm not staying," she said.

No answer.

"I'm not. I'll find a way out. I'll run. I'll scream. I'll make your life hell."

"I know."

"You keep saying that."

"Bcz, it's true."

She turned to look at him. He was still watching the road, his face calm, his hands relaxed on his thighs. He looked like he was waiting for something. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Why?" she asked. "Why did you take me? You don't even know me."

His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Then they were gone.

"I know-."

"You don't!!!"

"I know"

She shook her head. "I would remember you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand moved from her waist. His fingers found her wrist. He lifted her hand between them, his thumb pressing against her palm.

"Yeh," he said. His voice was different. Softer. "Kisne likha?"

She frowned. "Kya?"

"R."

She looked down. At her hand. At her mehendi, dark and intricate, the patterns Rumpi had spent hours drawing. And there, in the center of her palm, half-hidden in the vines-a letter. She had seen it before. She hadn't thought about it.

"I don't know," she said. "It's just mehendi."

His thumb pressed down. Just slightly. " You don't know?"

"No."

He was quiet for a long moment. His thumb traced the letter, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing it. Then his eyes lifted to hers.

"But , i know... again!"

She pulled her hand back. He let her. She pressed herself against the door, her heart pounding, her skin burning where he had touched her.

"You're crazy," she whispered.

"For you."

"You're insane."

"For you only."

"You're a kidnapper and a psychopath and-and-"

He waited. She couldn't find the words. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched. He didn't pull back.

"Baat khatam kar lo," he said. "Phir main kuch kahunga."

Her voice was shaking. "What do you want from me?"

He looked at her. His eyes were grey and endless and full of something she didn't understand.

"You, sweetheart!"

Her breath caught. The car moved. The city blurred. And she had nothing to say.

---

The car stopped.

No jerk. No sound. Just... stillness. The kind of stillness that came from a machine so perfectly engineered that it didn't need to announce itself. The engine didn't cough, didn't shudder. It simply ceased to exist, leaving behind a silence so complete that Aarohi could hear her own heartbeat, could hear the blood rushing through her ears, could hear the faint whisper of her own breath.

She felt it before she saw it. That shift. That unnatural quiet. The way the air changed, grew heavier, like the building itself was holding its breath. Like the walls were waiting. Like the darkness outside the tinted windows was pressing closer, watching, waiting for her to step out.

"...yeh jagah normal nahi hai," she muttered under her breath. Her voice sounded too loud in the sudden absence of noise. The leather seat creaked as she shifted. The sound was deafening. She stopped moving.

The door opened. Before she could even move-before she could process what was happening, before she could plan her next escape attempt, before she could so much as take a breath-he moved.

One second she was sitting, her hands still wrapped around his wrist from the fight in the car, her heart still pounding from the last collision, her mind still reeling from the way he had said sweetheart like it was a vow and a warning all at once.

The next second, she was lifted. Again.

"OH MY GOD-PHIR SE?!"

Her voice cracked. The world spun. Her stomach dropped. Her body was airborne, folded over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, like she was a sack of grain instead of a grown woman with opinions and rights and a very strong desire to not be manhandled by a man who had shot someone and called her sweetheart in the same breath.

She hit his back instantly. Her fists connected with his spine, thudding against the solid muscle beneath his shirt. Her elbow dug into his shoulder blade, sharp, vicious, the way her mother had taught her when she was twelve and a boy had grabbed her arm in the school corridor.

" Sach mae konhi mar dungi main ab! Meri maa ne sikhaya hai!"

No reaction. Nothing. Not a flinch. Not a change in his breathing. His steps were steady, unhurried, like she was barely there. Like her chaos was just... background noise. Like she was the wind, and he was the mountain.

"MAIN CHAL SAKTI HOON! MAIN BADI HOON! MAIN KHUD CHAL SAKTI HOON! Meri do pair hain! Main unpe khadi hoti hoon! Ye concept tumhe pata hai ya nahi?!"

Still nothing.

He walked through the garage with long, easy strides. His men moved out of his path without being told. Without questioning. They melted into the walls like shadows, their eyes forward, their faces blank, their bodies trained to make room, to disappear, to be nothing in his presence.

Aarohi noticed. Of course she noticed. Even while hanging upside down over his shoulder, her fists still pounding against his back, her elbow still searching for soft spots that didn't exist, her brain was cataloging everything. The way everyone around them moved without instruction. The way the guards kept their eyes down, their shoulders hunched, their hands empty. The way even the air seemed to part for him, like the building itself was afraid.

Her hitting slowed. Just slightly. Her eyes scanned the space-the polished concrete floors that reflected the dim light, the rows of black cars lined up like soldiers, the security cameras pointed at every angle, every blind spot covered, every exit watched.

"...yeh banda kaun hai..." she whispered to herself. The words were barely audible, lost in the fabric of his shirt.

But her mouth? Still chaos. Always chaos. Because chaos was her armor, her weapon, her way of making the world make sense when it didn't.

"Log dekh rahe hain! Thoda toh dramatic entry kam karo! Normal log lift mein jate hain, bhaiya! Lift! Normal! Not-not whatever this is!"

She waved at a guard who was very pointedly looking at the wall, his face carved from stone, his hands clasped behind his back. "BHAIYA! ISKO SAMJHAO NA! THODA NORMAL HOJAYE! Tum log roz aise dekhte ho isko? YE HAR DIN LOGON KO ESE AALU KI BORI KI TARHA LEKE AATA HAI KYA? "

The guard's lips twitched. Just for a second. A flicker, there and gone. Then his face went blank again, and he was stone, and she was alone.

Rudra didn't even blink. Didn't slow. Didn't acknowledge her existence beyond the arm that held her steady against his shoulder. He walked toward a set of doors that slid open automatically, revealing a lift that gleamed like a mirror, like a promise, like a trap.

They entered. The doors closed behind them with a soft, final hiss. And then-silence.

The kind that presses against your ears until your own heartbeat sounds loud. The kind that makes you want to scream just to prove you still exist. The kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes.

Only her voice filled it.

"Tumhari personality bhi itni hi boring hai kya?"

No response.

"Sachi mein. Kidnap karne ka style dramatic hai, par baat karte time pata nahi kya ho jaata hai. Battery down? Charging chahiye? Main charger laa doon? Colour black se kuch aur bhi pehente ho ya wardrobe bhi boring hai?"

Nothing.

She twisted, trying to see his face. The lift walls were mirrors, and she could see herself reflected back-her hair a wild mess, her lehenga twisted, her face flushed, her eyes too bright. And behind her, over her shoulder, his face. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the lift doors. He was looking at her reflection in the polished metal, and she was looking at him, and for one second their eyes met in the dark glass.

Her heart stopped. Just for a second. Then she looked away. Fast. Her face was hot. She didn't know why.

She hit his back again, harder this time. "Andar se kuch bolte ho ya sirf lift ke numbers gin rahe ho?"

Silence.

"Teen. Do. Ek. Zero. Aa gaye. Ab bol do."

The lift stopped. The doors opened. And then she saw it.

The penthouse.

It was huge. Minimal. Cold. Perfect. Floor-to-ceiling windows that showed the city sprawled below like a carpet of lights, like a kingdom he owned and she was being brought to. Furniture that looked like it had never been sat on-sharp edges, dark leather, glass surfaces that reflected nothing. Art that had probably cost more than her entire house, hung on walls that were painted the colour of shadows.

Everything was sharp edges and dark tones. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

Not a home. A space of control. A cage built to look like freedom. A palace for a man who had never learned how to live, only how to conquer.

He walked in. Didn't slow. Didn't look at her. Didn't pause to let her take it in, to let her breathe, to let her understand where she was.

And then-he dropped her.

She landed on the couch with a bounce that knocked the breath out of her, that sent her hair flying into her face, that made her teeth clack together. Her lehenga tangled around her legs, trapping her. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the smooth leather and found none. Her dignity? Somewhere on the garage floor. Possibly in the car. Possibly back at the wedding.

"PAGAL HO TUM?!"

She was on her feet instantly, her hands pushing her hair back, her eyes blazing, her whole body vibrating with fury. The couch was behind her, the windows were to her left, the door he had come through was to her right, and he was walking away, already walking away, his back already turned.

"Kidnap karke laate ho, phir ignore karte ho?! Logic naam ki cheez hoti hai?!"

He didn't answer. Didn't even look. He was walking toward a door on the far side of the room, a door she hadn't noticed before, a door that was probably locked, a door that led somewhere she couldn't follow.

"...HELLO?!"

Nothing. His hand was on the handle.

"Main tumse baat kar rahi hoon!"

Still nothing. The door opened. He stepped through.

"I AM TALKING TO YOU!"

The door closed behind him. Soft. Final. The sound was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the empty room like a gunshot.

She stood there. Her hands were fists. Her chest was heaving. Her face was hot, her eyes were burning, her throat was tight.

He had taken her. He had carried her. He had called her sweetheart. And now he was walking away like she wasn't worth another second of his time.

That hit her ego. Hard. Harder than the car ride. Harder than the slap. Harder than being called a dwarf. Harder than anything else that had happened tonight.

Because this wasn't anger. This wasn't violence. This wasn't even threat.

This was dismissal. He had taken her, carried her, trapped her-and now he was walking away like she was nothing. Like she was air. Like she was already forgotten.

"Wow."

She laughed dryly, the sound hollow in the empty room. "Main chillaoon, ladun, maru-tumko farak hi nahi padta?"

The penthouse swallowed her voice. The high ceilings, the glass walls, the empty spaces-they absorbed her words and gave nothing back. The city lights flickered outside, indifferent. The furniture sat in silence, waiting for someone who would never sit on it.

She stood there, still. Her hands were fists at her sides. Her nails were digging into her palms. Her chest was rising and falling too fast. Her whole body was shaking.

"...yeh kya tha..." she whispered.

Then she shook her head. Hard. "Focus, Aarohi. Drama baad mein."

She looked around. Glass walls that reflected her own face back at her. Locked doors-she walked to the one he had left through and tried the handle, just to confirm what she already knew. Locked. The one she had come through was the same. Solid wood, no handle on her side. The windows were floor to ceiling, but they didn't open-she checked. She ran her hands along the frames, looking for a latch, a button, a crack, anything. Nothing.

There was a kitchen, open and gleaming, with knives she could use, maybe, if she needed to. A dining table that could seat twelve, with chairs that weighed more than she did. A hallway leading to what looked like bedrooms, dark and silent.

But no phone. No people. No way out.

"Great. VIP jail."

---

She paced. She stopped. She paced again. Her brain was a hamster wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning. The same thoughts circled back again and again. What does he want? Who is he? Why me? How do I get out?

"Pagal hun kya main...?" she muttered, her hands running through her hair, tangling in the strands that had already been tangled a hundred times tonight. "Seedha ghar aayi thi shaadi mein... aur ab-"

She looked around again. The penthouse was even bigger than she had thought. There was a whole other wing she hadn't seen, rooms she couldn't access, spaces that were probably watching her right now.

"Kidnap ho gayi main."

Pause.

"...aur main itni shaant hoon?"

She blinked. Then shook her head violently.

"NAH. Yeh normal nahi hai."

She walked to the door. Locked. Of course. She knocked. Sharp. Insistent. "HELLO?!"

No answer.

She kicked it. "OPEN THE DOOR, YOU OVERCONFIDENT PSYCHO!"

The wood was thick. Her foot hurt. There was no sound from the other side.

She huffed, turning back into the room. Her eyes scanned again, looking for something, anything. A phone. A weapon. A vent she could crawl through. A window she could break. A way out.

The window.

Her eyes lit up. A slow smile spread across her face. Dangerous. Chaotic. The kind of smile that had gotten her into trouble her whole life, that had made her teachers sigh and her mother pray and her friends love her.

"Oh ho..."

She walked to the window, running her hands along the frame. It was huge, floor to ceiling, seamless glass that probably cost more than her entire college education. But there-in the corner, near the balcony she hadn't noticed before-there was a small section that opened. Just a crack. Just enough.

She pushed. It moved.

Cold air hit her face. The night sky stretched above her, a deep velvet blue, scattered with stars she couldn't see through the city lights. The wind was sharp and clean, pulling at her hair, her clothes, her skin. The city sprawled below, a carpet of gold and silver, alive and indifferent, so far down that the cars were specks, the people were ants, the world was a dream she was falling out of.

She leaned out, looking down. The drop was dizzying. Her stomach flipped. There was a ledge, narrow but there, running along the side of the building. Maybe a foot wide. Maybe less. It was slick with dew, dark with shadows, disappearing into the night.

If she could just get to it-

She looked down again. Her vision swam. Her hands gripped the frame tighter.

"Bhagwan bhi kehta hoga-iss ladki ko thoda chance de don."

She climbed out.

Her hands gripped the edge of the window frame, her fingers white, her knuckles straining. Her feet found the ledge, her sandals slipping on the smooth stone. The wind was stronger up here, pulling at her sari, her hair, her balance. The city lights blurred below her, spinning, spinning, spinning.

"Bas... thoda aur..."

She inched sideways. Her back pressed against the cold glass of the building. Her arms were spread, her fingers searching for holds that weren't there. The ledge was wet. Her feet slipped. She caught herself, her heart slamming against her ribs, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

"Shaadi mein dance karna easy tha... yeh kya kar rahi hoon main..."

She kept moving. One step. Two. The wind howled. Her sari caught on something-a rough edge of stone, a piece of the building that had been there longer than she had been alive. She tugged. It didn't move. She tugged again, harder, and the fabric tore, and she was free, and the momentum almost took her with it.

She steadied herself. Her breath was ragged. Her hands were shaking. Her legs were shaking. Her whole body was shaking.

She looked down. The ground was so far away. If she fell-she wouldn't even have time to scream. She would just be gone. And no one would know. No one would find her.

She looked up. There was a railing ahead. A balcony. Safety. Freedom.

She moved.

One step. Another. Her foot slipped again, and she caught herself against the wall, her palms scraping against the stone, her breath hissing through her teeth. The pain was sharp, grounding. She pushed off, kept moving.

And then-she jumped.

THUD.

She landed. Barely. Her knees hit the stone. Her hands hit the ground. Her breath left her in a rush. She lay there for a second, her cheek pressed against the cold floor, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Silence.

"...ALIVE."

She pushed herself up, her arms shaking, her legs weak. She looked at her hands. Her palms were scraped, bleeding, the mehendi smeared, the letter R half-obliterated. Her knees were raw through the torn fabric of her lehenga. Her hair was a wild tangle, her face was streaked with dirt and sweat, her whole body was one big bruise waiting to form.

She laughed. Nervous. High. A little unhinged.

"Dekha? Main marne wali type nahi hoon."

She pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her lehenga, wincing as her hands touched her scraped knees. Her legs were shaking. Her hands were shaking. But she was standing.

She started walking. Fast. Her eyes scanned the darkness, looking for a gate, a road, a way out of this place. The building loomed above her, dark and silent, its windows like eyes, watching. The garden around her was manicured, perfect, but wild with shadows. Trees that had been shaped into submission by hands she couldn't see. Flowers that bloomed in the dark, their petals pale and ghostly.

"Bas nikal jao... seedha gate... phir road... phir-"

She stopped.

Something felt... wrong. Too quiet. No guards. No alarms. No footsteps. No voices. The building behind her was a tomb, the garden in front of her was a graveyard, and the silence was pressing against her ears, her throat, her chest.

She had been running for minutes. Maybe longer. She should have found something by now. A wall. A fence. A road. Something.

Her steps slowed.

"...yeh jagah itni shaant kyun hai?"

Then-

A low sound.

A growl.

Deep. Rumbling. Animal. The sound vibrated through the stones, through the air, through her bones. It was the sound of something that had been waiting, something that had been watching, something that had known she was coming before she knew herself.

She froze. Her blood went cold. Her breath stopped in her chest. Her hands, already shaking, went still.

Slowly. Very slowly. She turned.

And saw it.

Black. Massive. Still. A panther.

It was standing in the middle of the path, right in front of her, blocking her way. Its eyes were gold fire, fixed on her, unblinking. Its muscles were coiled under its dark fur, ready. Its tail moved once, slowly, like a pendulum counting down to something. Its breath steamed in the cold air, and she could see its teeth, white and sharp, behind its dark lips.

Her brain went blank. Every thought, every plan, every word-gone. There was only the panther. Only those eyes. Only that stillness.

"......"

"........"

"...mujhe lag raha hai main hallucinate kar rahi hoon."

The panther moved. One step. Closer. Its paws made no sound on the stone. Its eyes never left her face.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. Her legs went weak. Every survival instinct she had screamed at her to run, and every part of her that knew anything about big cats told her that running was the worst possible thing she could do. That she would be dead before she took two steps.

"NAH. MAIN FULLY REALITY MEIN HOON."

She stepped back. Slow. Careful. Her hands came up, palms out, like she could reason with a predator, like she could talk her way out of being eaten.

"Good kitty..."

Her voice shook. Cracked. She swallowed, her throat dry.

"...tu apna kaam kar... main apna karti hoon..."

The panther's eyes didn't leave her. Another step. Closer. Close enough to see the muscles shifting under its skin, the gleam of its claws, the weight of its presence pressing down on her like a physical force.

She gulped.

"Tu vegetarian hai na...?"

Silence.

"Please bol de haan..."

The panther growled. Louder. The sound vibrated through her chest, through her bones, through her fear. It was a warning. A promise. A judgement.

"...non-veg confirmed."

She stepped back again. Her foot hit something. A rock. A loose stone. She stumbled, her balance gone, her arms flying out, her body falling-

And collided.

Hard.

With something solid. Warm. Still.

Her breath hitched. Her heart stopped. Her hands pressed against fabric, against heat, against a chest that rose and fell with slow, steady breaths. The scent of sandalwood filled her nose, familiar now, terrifying now, the scent of the man who had taken her from everything she knew.

Slowly. Very slowly. She looked up.

Black shirt. Broad shoulders. Dark eyes fixed on her face. He was standing behind her like he had always been there. Like he had been waiting. Like he had known she would run, and known exactly where she would go. Like he had planned this, every step, every breath, every moment.

Her heartbeat went wild. Her breath came in sharp gasps. Her hands were still pressed against his chest, and she could feel his heartbeat under her palms, steady, slow, there.

"...tum phir aa gaye."

No response. His eyes didn't leave her. They moved over her face, her hair, her hands. To the scrapes on her palms. To the blood on her fingers. To the dirt on her lehenga. To the fear she was trying so hard to hide.

Then-he moved.

One hand. Lifted slightly. A signal, not a command. His fingers moved through the air like he was conducting silence.

The panther stepped back. Silently. Obediently. It sat in the shadows, its eyes still watching, but its body no longer coiled to strike. It was waiting now. Waiting for him. Like everything else in this world.

Aarohi blinked.

"...yeh... tumhara hai?"

Silence.

"...OF COURSE TUMHARA HI HOGA. NORMAL INSAN KE PAAS PANTHER NAHI HOTA!"

Her voice cracked on the last word, the fear finally bleeding through the chaos. She stepped away from him, fast, her legs unsteady, her heart still racing, her hands still shaking.

"Stay away from me!"

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched. That calm. That stillness. That control. It was more terrifying than anger. More terrifying than the panther. Because she didn't know what was behind it. She didn't know what he was thinking, what he was planning, what he was waiting for.

"Tum samajhte kya ho apne aap ko?!" She snapped, her voice rising, her hands shaking. "Kidnap kar liya matlab ownership mil gayi?!"

Silence.

"Main koi object nahi hoon!"

He tilted his head slightly. Still silent. Still watching.

That pissed her off more. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but underneath it was something hotter. Something that had been building since the wedding. Since the slap. Since he called her sweetheart and looked at her like she was something he had lost and finally found.

"BOL NA KUCH!"

She pushed him. Hard. Both hands against his chest, shoving with everything she had.

He didn't move. Not a step. Not a sway. Not a flinch. Her hands stung. Her breath came in sharp gasps. She pushed again.

"REACT KARO!"

Nothing. Not even a blink. His eyes were on her face, on her hands, on her chest heaving, on her lips moving, but he didn't react. He was a statue, a wall, a mountain.

Her frustration exploded. She hit his chest. Her fists pounded against him, fast and wild, the blows echoing in the silent garden.

"SAY SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING! STOP-JUST-STANDING-THERE-"

She hit him again. Elbow this time, digging into his ribs, trying to find something, anything that would make him flinch.

"ARE YOU MADE OF STONE?!"

Nothing. Not a sound. Not a movement. Her fists were red. Her arms were shaking. Her voice was hoarse.

And then-he moved.

His hand caught her wrist. Fast. Firm. His fingers closed around her arm, his grip iron, his skin warm. She froze. He pulled, and she stumbled, her body colliding with his, her chest pressed against his, her face tilted up to his, her breath mixing with his in the cold air.

"Leave me!" She struggled, kicked, tried to pull away. Her heels scraped against the stone. Her free hand pushed against his chest. Her body twisted, trying to find space, trying to find air, trying to find anything that wasn't him.

His grip didn't loosen. His other hand moved, wrapped around her waist, pulled her closer. There was no space left. No room to move. No air between them. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, steady, slow, mocking her own racing pulse.

"CHHODO-"

His fingers tightened around her wrist. Not hurting. But warning. A reminder of what he could do. A reminder of what he was.

And then-he spoke.

Low. Calm. Deadly. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to be heard. The kind of voice that made the air thick, that made the shadows deeper, that made her forget there was a world outside his words.

"You talk too much,... Sweetheart."

Her heart skipped. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Her brain scrambled for a comeback, for a retort, for anything that would make her feel like she wasn't drowning.

"...toh tum sunna band kar do."

That smirk. Small. Dangerous. The corner of his mouth lifted, just a fraction, just enough to make her want to hit him again. His grip shifted. His hand slid from her wrist to her back, pressing her closer, and she felt the heat of him, the strength of him, the absolute certainty of his presence.

His face was inches from hers. His breath was warm against her lips. His eyes were grey and endless and full of something she didn't understand, didn't want to understand, couldn't understand.

"Run again..."

He murmured. His voice was silk wrapped around steel. A promise. A threat. A vow.

"...and I won't stop the panther next time."

Her eyes widened. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She should be scared. She was scared. But underneath the fear, there was something else. Something that made her push against his chest again, made her chin lift, made her voice come out sharp and defiant.

"Tum pagal ho."

His lips curved. A whisper of a smile. His eyes never left hers.

"Sirf aap keliye!"

His face moved closer. His lips hovered near hers, not touching, just-there. Waiting. A breath away. A heartbeat away. She could feel the warmth of his mouth, the shadow of his presence, the weight of a choice she hadn't made.

Her breath stopped.

She pushed him again, harder this time, her hands flat against his chest, her whole body straining against his hold. "Main tumhari koi nahi hoon!"

He pulled back. Just enough to see her face. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. The smirk was gone. In its place was something else. Something she couldn't name.

"Nothing," she said, her voice shaking but steady. "No relation. No connection. NOTHING!!!"

She waited. For anger. For dismissal. For him to throw her words back at her, to prove her right, to let her go.

Instead, he smiled.

Slow. Sharp. The kind of smile that made her stomach drop. The kind of smile that belonged in the dark, in the quiet, in the space between a promise and a lie.

"Oh?"

His hand moved from her wrist to her throat. Not choking. Not squeezing. Just-holding. His fingers were warm against her skin, his thumb pressing against the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse race under his touch.

Her breath caught. Her hands grabbed his wrist, tried to pull it away. He didn't move. Her fingers wrapped around his arm, his skin, his bones, and found nothing to push against. He was stone, and she was air, and he was holding her like she was something precious.

Then he pulled her back. Against his chest. Completely trapped. Her back pressed to his front, his arm locked around her waist, his hand still at her throat. His lips were near her ear. His voice was low. Intimate. Dangerous.

"Then let's make something..."

Her heart slammed. Her breath was gone. Her body was frozen. The night was cold, and he was warm, and she couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

"...so now you will be something to me. Not nothing."

---

His words hung in the cold night air, heavier than the silence, heavier than the weight of his arms around her, heavier than the chain that would soon sit around her neck.

Then let's make something… so now you will be something to me. Not nothing.

Aarohi's breath stopped. Her mind, her beautiful chaotic mind that always had a comeback, always had a retort, always had something to say—went blank. Her lips parted. No sound came out. Her hands were still pressed against his chest, her fingers curled into the fabric of his black shirt, her knuckles white.

"What… what does that mean?" Her voice was a whisper, fragile, lost.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His eyes—grey, endless, dark—held hers for a moment longer, and then he moved.

One arm slid under her knees. The other stayed around her back. He lifted her. Not over his shoulder this time. Not like she was a sack of grain, not like she was an inconvenience to be carried. Bridal style. Her body folded into his, her head against his shoulder, her legs draped over his arm. He held her like she was something precious. Like she was something fragile. Like she was something he had been waiting to hold for a very long time.

"HEY—" Her voice cracked. She struggled instantly, her legs kicking, her hands pushing against his chest. "NEECHE UTARO MUJHE! MAIN CHAL SAKTI HOON! MAIN—"

He walked. His steps were steady, unhurried, like she was nothing, like she weighed nothing, like her protests were wind against a mountain.

"PUT ME DOWN!"

"No."

"I WILL SCREAM!"

"Scream."

"PEOPLE WILL HEAR!"

"No one will hear."

She screamed anyway. Loud. Long. Her voice cracked on the end, the sound swallowed by the walls, the garden, the night. No one came. No one moved. The shadows held their breath. The panther watched from the edge of the garden, its gold eyes tracking them, its tail still.

" You said we are nothing... But not anymore..I will make you something that you can never undo, sweetheart!"

He said in low, soft, rough voice. Looking deep into her eyes.

Her heart pound in her chest. Is he going to do tha—??...

--

To be continued...