Aaine ne chehra dikhaya tha,

Par us raat humne rooh dekh li.

I hated that he had left me thinking. Truly hated it. Because once Anirudh planted an observation inside my head, it refused to leave. Even after I excused myself from the balcony and wandered back inside the penthouse, his words followed me like an irritating echo. You doubt yourself.

The statement should have been easy to dismiss. Instead, I found myself replaying it over and over. Not because I agreed with him. Because I didn't want to. I had spent years building myself from nothing.

Years proving people wrong. Years surviving things that should have broken me. Self-doubt didn't fit the image I had of myself. Yet somewhere deep down, a small voice whispered that perhaps he wasn't entirely wrong.

The realization annoyed me enough that I grabbed a random book from the library and settled onto the couch. Reading usually helped.

Today it didn't. My eyes moved across the words while my mind remained elsewhere. Eventually I gave up and dropped the book onto my lap with a sigh. Wonderful. Apparently I couldn't even escape into fiction anymore.

Leaning back against the cushions, I stared at the ceiling and allowed my thoughts to wander. Somewhere along the way, I realized something unsettling. For the first time in months, my thoughts weren't dominated by fear.

They weren't consumed by running. They weren't trapped in survival mode. Instead, they kept circling around ordinary things. Future plans. Hospitals. New beginnings.

And unfortunately, Anirudh. The realization made me groan softly and cover my eyes with one arm. What was wrong with me? Every sensible instinct I possessed told me to maintain distance.

Yet every interaction with him seemed to blur that distance a little more. Not because he was charming. He wasn't. Half the time he was infuriating.

Not because he was kind. He hid kindness behind layers of arrogance and control. No, the problem was simpler than that. Anirudh saw things.

Things other people missed. Things I missed. And there was something dangerously comforting about being seen when you had spent so much of your life pretending you were fine.

The thought lingered longer than it should have. Slowly, I lowered my arm and looked toward the enormous windows overlooking the city. The afternoon sunlight painted everything gold. Beautiful. Calm. Peaceful.

A strange warmth settled inside my chest. Not happiness exactly. More like hope. Fragile. Uncertain. But present. And for someone who had spent months feeling like she was drowning, even a little hope felt significant.

A small smile appeared before I could stop it. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe the hospital application would work out. Maybe life hadn't completely fallen apart after all.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time in a very long time, uncertainty didn't feel terrifying.

It felt possible. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought surfaced that I immediately refused to examine too closely.

Because if I did, I might have to admit a truth I wasn't ready to face. That a certain dark-eyed, impossible man was slowly becoming part of the reason I felt safe enough to hope again.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange sort of peace. Not the dramatic, life-changing kind. Just the quiet kind. The kind I had forgotten existed.

I wandered through the penthouse with a mug of coffee in my hands, occasionally stopping by the windows to watch the city below. Mumbai moved with an energy of its own. Fast. Relentless. Alive.

Yet somehow, up here, everything felt distant enough for me to breathe. For the first time in weeks, I wasn't checking over my shoulder every few minutes.

I wasn't waiting for my phone to vibrate with another message that would turn my blood cold. I wasn't rehearsing escape plans inside my head.

The realization settled over me gradually, and with it came something unexpected. Guilt. Because while I was standing here enjoying sunlight and coffee, people back in Jaipur were probably worried.

Kavyashree would definitely be worried. The thought alone made my chest tighten. She would be furious too. Extremely furious. I could practically hear her lecture already.

The image almost made me smile. Almost. Instead, I looked down into my coffee and exhaled quietly. I missed her. More than I wanted to admit. Missing people was dangerous.

It made you want to go back. And going back wasn't an option. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The uncertainty hurt, but I had learned to live with pain.

Pain was familiar. What felt unfamiliar was this strange calm that kept settling over me whenever I forgot myself for a few seconds. Whenever I stopped thinking about the past.

Whenever I stopped worrying about the future. It was always temporary. Yet it kept returning. I wandered back toward the living room and curled up on one of the enormous sofas, pulling my knees slightly closer as I watched the sunlight shift across the floor.

Somewhere in another part of the penthouse, I could faintly hear movement. Staff. Security. Life continuing. Oddly enough, it no longer made me feel like an outsider.

A few days ago, everything here had felt intimidating. Too expensive. Too perfect. Too unfamiliar. Now it was beginning to feel... normal. The realization startled me. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Because homes weren't supposed to happen this quickly. Comfort wasn't supposed to happen this quickly. Neither was trust. Yet despite all my attempts to remain cautious, the walls I'd spent years building were beginning to loosen around the edges.

Not collapse. Never that easily. But soften. Just enough to let sunlight through the cracks. I rested my head against the back of the sofa and closed my eyes briefly.

Somewhere inside this giant penthouse was a man who infuriated me on a daily basis. A man who asked questions I didn't want to answer and noticed things I didn't want noticed.

Yet somehow, despite all of that, his presence had become woven into the quiet rhythm of my days. And perhaps the most frightening part wasn't that he was getting closer.

The most frightening part was that I wasn't trying nearly as hard to stop it anymore.

I finished my coffee and walked into the kitchen, rinsing the cup carefully before placing it back on the shelf. After turning off the water, I wandered through the penthouse without any destination in mind.

Anirudh was busy attending a meeting inside the office room he had built within the penthouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts—which was probably the worst thing possible. Because no matter how much I tried to deny it, something had changed inside me.

Anirudh had become addictive. Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was the attention he gave me. Maybe it was the way he looked at me as if he was actually seeing me instead of merely looking.

No one had ever paid attention to me like that before. And now, shamefully, I found myself craving it. His presence. His scent lingering in the air after he left a room. His calm voice. Those dark eyes that looked into mine as though I was the only thing worth noticing.

While another part of me constantly whispered that I wasn't worth noticing at all. Sighing, I continued walking until I noticed a door tucked away from the main rooms.

Curiosity immediately took over. I opened it slowly and froze. The entire room was covered in mirrors from wall to ceiling, illuminated by soft blue neon lights. For a moment, I simply stared.

Then my gaze landed on my reflection. Me. Every version of me. Every angle. Every scar hidden beneath clothes. The girl I used to be no longer existed. The softer, healthier figure from years ago was gone. In her place stood someone thinner, wearier, sharper around the edges.

Collarbones visible beneath skin. Tired eyes carrying years of sleepless nights. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Fear. Fear that never truly left. The memories surfaced without warning. My step-parents' voices. The slaps. The kicks. The boiling water that burned my skin. Being locked away for hours. Sometimes days. Hunger so severe my stomach cramped.

Pain so normal it became routine. Having nobody during the moments I needed someone most. Then losing my parents forever in an airplane crash and realizing there would never be anyone coming to save me.

My throat tightened painfully. I stared at the woman in the mirror and wondered how much longer a person could carry this weight before finally collapsing beneath it. How many scars could a soul survive? How many memories could a heart hold before it simply stopped feeling altogether?

Yet somehow, despite everything, I was still here. Still breathing. Still standing. Still moving forward on whatever strength remained inside me. The realization hurt more than the memories themselves.

Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes as I continued staring at my reflection, seeing not just who I was, but every broken version of myself that had somehow survived long enough to become this woman standing beneath the blue lights.

The tears gathered before I could stop them, blurring the reflection staring back at me from a hundred different angles. Every mirror showed the same woman, yet none of them felt familiar.

I slowly raised a trembling hand toward the glass, my fingertips hovering inches from my own reflection.

How strange. People always talked about survival like it was something beautiful, something brave, something inspiring. Nobody ever talked about how exhausting it was.

How every scar demanded to be carried long after the wound had healed. How some nights you woke up gasping because your body remembered pain your mind desperately wanted to forget. I stared at the girl in the mirror and tried to recognize her.

The child who had waited for parents who would never come home. The teenager who learned to stay silent because silence hurt less than arguing.

The woman who buried herself inside textbooks, hospitals, operating rooms, and impossible surgeries because saving other people felt easier than saving herself. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped looking at myself.

Truly looking. Not because I hated what I saw. Because I didn't know what I was supposed to see anymore.

The room remained silent except for my uneven breathing. Blue neon light painted everything in a dreamlike glow, making the reflections seem distant, almost unreal. Yet the pain was real.

The loneliness was real. The exhaustion was real. Slowly, a tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. Then another. Then another. I didn't wipe them away. For once, I was too tired to pretend.

Too tired to be strong. Too tired to convince myself that everything was fine. My knees felt weak, and I sank onto the floor, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could somehow hold all the broken pieces together.

The memories came in fragments. A locked door. A dark basement. A slap. Hunger. Fear. Silence. Always silence. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to push them away, but they lingered anyway.

And beneath all of it, beneath every scar and every nightmare, a single question echoed inside me with unbearable weight. When do I get to stop surviving and start living? The thought shattered something inside me.

A quiet sob escaped before I could stop it. I lowered my head, tears falling freely now, unaware that for the first time in years I wasn't crying because I was weak.

I was crying because I was finally allowing myself to feel the weight of everything I had survived.

I wiped away my tears quickly and forced myself to stand up straight. The version of me staring back from the mirror looked almost cruel, as if she was mocking every miserable chapter of my life, every scar hidden beneath my skin, every storm raging inside my head. I hated looking at her. Hated looking at myself.

Then suddenly, I heard the door open.

"Ishika, are you here?"

Goosebumps immediately rose across my skin.

God. The way my name rolled off Anirudh's tongue always did something strange to me.

Why? Why was he affecting me this much? I didn't understand my own body anymore.

"Yeah," I replied.

My voice came out hoarse from crying. I quickly cleared my throat and tried to compose myself. How did he even know I was here? Maybe there were cameras throughout the penthouse.

Or maybe his meeting had ended and he simply came looking for me. The thought alone made my heartbeat stumble. The door opened wider.

"What are you doing here?"

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. What was I supposed to tell him? That I was standing here drowning in memories?

That a mirror had managed to destroy me more effectively than people ever had?

No. There was nothing left to say. I lowered my head instead. Nervous. Pathetic. Silent. A sigh left him.

The next second, I heard the door click shut behind him. Then his footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Echoing through the empty mirrored room. Each step seemed louder than the last. Louder than my breathing. Louder than my thoughts.

I felt his presence before he even stopped. Close. Too close. My nerves instantly went wild.

Like hundreds of flowers blooming and dying at the same time inside my chest. Nervous. Terrified. Yet strangely safe. A dangerous combination.

Then his voice came again. Low. Calm. The kind of voice that sent shivers racing down my spine.

"Are you crying again?"

I immediately shook my head. No. But my eyes betrayed me. They always did. Silence stretched between us. Then he spoke again.

"Look at me through the reflection."

My breath caught. I shook my head once more. No. I couldn't. I refused. A few seconds passed. Then his voice returned, quieter this time. More patient. More dangerous.

"Why are you refusing to look at the mirror, Ishika?"

My throat tightened painfully. Of all the questions he could have asked, he asked that. Not where I had been. Not why I was crying. Not what happened.

Instead, he asked the one thing I had spent years avoiding. "Why are you refusing to look at the mirror, Ishika?"

I stared at the floor, refusing to answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I could feel his gaze on me through the reflection even though I wasn't looking.

My fingers trembled slightly at my sides. Pathetic. I hated this. Hated how vulnerable I felt. Hated how easily he unsettled me. "Look at me," he said again, quieter this time. Not an order. Not quite. Something worse. Patience.

Slowly, unwillingly, my eyes lifted toward the mirror. Instantly I regretted it. There I was. Surrounded by endless reflections of myself. Every flaw multiplied. Every weakness staring back at me.

My chest tightened. "Because I don't like her," I whispered. The words escaped before I could stop them. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Her?" My gaze remained fixed on the reflection.

"The girl in the mirror." My laugh came out broken and hollow. "She looks exhausted. She looks scared all the time. She looks like she's one bad day away from falling apart." My voice grew quieter with every word. "And no matter how much she tries, she never seems enough." The confession hung in the air. Raw. Ugly. Honest. I immediately wanted to take it back.

To pretend I never said it. But it was too late. Anirudh remained silent for several seconds. Long enough to make me regret everything. Then his voice came from behind me. Low. Controlled. Dangerous in a completely different way. "You know what's interesting?"

I swallowed hard. "What?" His eyes never left mine in the reflection. "Not once did you mention your appearance."

I blinked. Confused. "What?" "You didn't complain about your face. Your body. Your looks." He took another slow step closer. "Everything you hate about that reflection has nothing to do with what you see."

My breath caught. "It has everything to do with what you believe." The words struck somewhere deep inside me. Painfully deep.

My eyes immediately dropped again. Because I didn't know how to argue with that. I hated that. Hated how he always seemed to find the exact wound without even trying. The room fell silent once more.

Then unexpectedly, I felt his hand rest lightly against the mirror beside my shoulder. Not touching me. Just there. Steady. Grounding. "You're looking at yourself like you're responsible for everything that happened to you."

His voice was calm. Firm. "And that's your biggest mistake." My eyes burned again. Tears threatening to return. Because no one had ever said that before. Not once.

Everyone either ignored the pain or pitied it. Anirudh did neither. He simply stood behind me, forcing me to face my own reflection while quietly refusing to let me destroy myself with it.

"'I may not know what scars you carry.' He stepped closer, voice dropping to something that felt less like comfort and more like a verdict. 'But whoever gave them to you...' A slow, almost smile. '...should start running.'" "But for now —" his voice dropped, wrapping around the silence like smoke, "— look at me."

I didn't move.

"You don't need to feel empty. Whatever you're carrying in that void of yours..." a pause, deliberate, calculated, "...put it down. Just for now."

Just for now.

Like he was offering me a temporary amnesty from myself.

"Look at me. Through the mirror. Just be."

Something in his voice made it impossible to disobey. Slowly, I lifted my head.

Our eyes met in the glass.

Him — unbothered, unreadable, dangerously still.

Me — completely unraveling.

"Tell me one thing." His gaze didn't waver. "What do you feel... when you're with me?"

The question should have been simple.

It wasn't.

My lips trembled before the words even formed. But he was still watching me through that mirror, patient in a way that felt almost predatory, and somehow the truth slipped out before I could cage it —

"Safe." I swallowed. "Weirdly safe. Comfortable." My brow furrowed. "And confused."

The silence stretched.

Then he chuckled — low, dark, like thunder that hadn't decided to strike yet.

"For now," he said softly, almost like a command dressed as kindness, "feel the safe."

A shiver ran through me before I could stop it.

Not from fear.

That was the most terrifying part. "You can't block it away forever." His voice was measured, unhurried — like he had already mapped every corner of her mind and was simply waiting for her to catch up. "Your self-doubt. Your insecurities. The trust you buried so deep you forgot it existed."

I said nothing.

"But tell me —" the air shifted, "— have you ever considered letting yourself feel? Actually letting your desires out?"

The heat hit my face before I could prepare for it.

I lowered my lashes, suddenly unable to hold his gaze in the mirror. My own reflection felt like a stranger — flushed, unguarded, caught.

No man had ever spoken to me like this.

Not like this.

"There you are."

His voice was almost soft. Almost.

"You don't need to feel shame. This is natural. Entirely, completely human." A beat. "So tell me — have you ever let your desire out?"

My lower lip caught between my teeth before I could stop it.

Slowly, I nodded.

"I never..." I started, my voice barely a thread, "I never touched myself but I —"

I stopped.

The heat crawling up my neck was unbearable.

"Continue."

One word. No room for retreat.

I steadied myself. Drew a breath. And spoke to the mirror rather than to him, because looking at his reflection felt safer than nothing at all.

"I used a vibrator." The admission sat naked in the air between us. "But I've never truly been in desire. Not for anyone. Not for... anything real."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

It was deliberate.

Like he was letting the words settle, turning them over, studying them the way someone studies something rare and fragile and worth understanding completely. He didn't react the way I expected.

No smirk. No amusement dancing in his eyes. Nothing that made me feel small or exposed or foolish for saying what I said.

Just silence.

Weighted. Deliberate. His.

Then —

"So you've felt pleasure," he said finally, voice unbothered, clinical almost, "but never desire."

It wasn't a question.

It was a diagnosis.

"There's a difference." He moved — not toward me, just a slight shift, enough to change the gravity of the room. "Pleasure is something your body takes. Desire —" his eyes found mine in the mirror again, "— is something your mind chooses. And yours has never felt safe enough to choose."

My throat tightened.

Because he said it so simply. Like he'd just handed me back a piece of myself I didn't know was missing.

"You used a vibrator," he continued, tone unchanged, "because it required nothing from you emotionally. No vulnerability. No trust. Just function."

I hated how accurate that was.

I hated more that I couldn't deny it.

"Look at me."

I hadn't realized I'd dropped my gaze again.

Slowly, I lifted my eyes back to the mirror.

To him.

"Your body already knows what it wants," Anirudh said quietly, something shifting beneath the surface of his calm — subtle, like a current moving under still water. "The problem was never your desire."

He paused.

"It was that no one ever made you feel safe enough to want."

The words landed somewhere deep. Somewhere unguarded.

My lips parted but nothing came out.

"And that —" the corner of his mouth curved, just barely, dark and unhurried, "— is something I find very... interesting."

A shiver moved through me.

He noticed. He always noticed.

"Don't be afraid of what you feel right now." His voice dropped lower, wrapping around the room like something inevitable. "That warmth in your chest. That confusion. That pull you don't have a name for yet."

His gaze held mine. Unblinking. Certain.

"That is desire. And it's yours. I'm simply the first person who didn't make you want to run from it."

The silence returned.

But it felt different now.

Less empty.

More like the moment before something changes permanently — the held breath before the fall — and somehow, terrifyingly, I didn't want to step back from the edge.

I wanted to look down. "But now —" he said, something shifting in his tone, becoming quieter, more deliberate, like a decision being made in real time, "— it's not about healing something neither of us can name yet."

His eyes stayed on mine in the mirror.

Unmoving. Unreadable.

"It's about making you feel yourself." A pause. "What your body already knows. What your heart has been whispering underneath all that noise you call logic."

I swallowed.

"The self-doubt —" he continued, almost gently, "— it doesn't leave because someone tells you it should. It leaves when you remember what it feels like to exist inside yourself. Not above it. Not watching from a distance." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Inside. Present. Yours."

Something about the way he said it made my chest ache in a way I couldn't explain.

"That's called self love," he said simply. "Not the kind they sell you. The quiet kind. The kind that makes you stop apologizing for taking up space."

The words settled over me like something warm and unfamiliar.

I turned them over slowly.

Then, before I could stop myself —

"But how?"

It came out smaller than I intended. More honest than I wanted.

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then —

"Just trust me right now."

I blinked.

Of all the things I expected —

"Just trust me," he repeated, completely unbothered by my confusion. "I'll earned that. And I'm not asking for it."

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to mine in the mirror — steadier than before, if that was even possible.

"Just feel it."

"Feel... what?" I whispered.

He didn't answer immediately.

And somehow that silence said more than words could.

What is he up to?

The question moved through me slowly, like smoke filling a room. Not panic. Not alarm. Just... a quiet, unsettling awareness that something was shifting. That I was shifting. And I wasn't entirely sure when it had started.

Maybe it started the moment he said safe.

Maybe it started before that.

Maybe —

"Okay," I heard myself say.

A small nod. Barely anything.

But he saw it.

Of course he saw it.

And something moved behind his eyes — not triumph, not satisfaction — something quieter than both. Something that looked almost dangerously close to —

Patience.

Like he had decided something too.

Like whatever this was —

He was willing to wait for it.

She stood frozen in front of the wall of mirrors, her back to me, shoulders tense like she was bracing for another blow from the world.

Blue neon light painted her reflection in every direction — fragile, raw, and painfully beautiful. Her eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks wet with tears she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. She looked like I was one breath away from shattering completely.

And something dark and possessive inside me stirred at the sight.

I didn’t speak at first. I simply walked closer, my footsteps measured on the marble floor, each one echoing through the mirrored room like a verdict. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She could feel me the way prey feels the predator circling.

I stopped just behind her, close enough that my chest nearly brushed her back. Close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with salt from her tears. My eyes met hers in the reflection — hers wide and vulnerable, mine dark and unreadable.

“Look at me,” I said quietly. Not an order. Not yet. Just a low command wrapped in patience.

She hesitated, then slowly lifted her gaze to the mirror. Our eyes locked.

“You’re shaking,” I murmured, voice low and steady. “Not from fear of me. From fear of yourself.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. I watched it trail down in the reflection, then reached out slowly, my fingers brushing it away with the back of my knuckle. She flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

“Good girl,” I whispered. “You didn’t run.”

My hand moved lower, tracing the line of her jaw, then down the side of her neck. Her pulse jumped wildly under my fingertips. I kept my touch light, controlled, ironclad restraint wrapped around every movement. I wanted her to feel it — the power I was choosing not to use.

“Strip,” I said softly, eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. “The kurti. Nothing else. Let me see you.”

Her breath hitched. For a second, I thought she might refuse. But then her trembling fingers moved to the hem of her kurti. Slowly, painfully slowly, she pulled it up and over her head, letting it fall to the floor.

She stood there in just her bra and lower clothes, arms instinctively moving to cover herself. I caught her wrists gently but firmly, pulling them down to her sides.

“Don’t hide from me,” I said, voice dark and commanding. “Not tonight. Not in this room.”

Her reflection showed everything — the slight tremble in her shoulders, the way her breasts rose and fell with each shaky breath, the scars and stories written across her skin that she tried so hard to hide from the world. From herself.

I stepped closer until my chest pressed against her back, my hand sliding slowly down her arm, then across her stomach. My palm was warm, steady, possessive. I didn’t grope. I claimed.

“Look at yourself,” I whispered against her ear, my breath hot on her skin. “Look at what I see. Not the girl who survived. The woman who still stands. Still breathes. Still wants.”

Her eyes fluttered, but she kept them open, locked on our reflection.

My fingers traced the curve of her waist, slow and deliberate. “You think you’re broken. But broken things don’t feel like this.” I pressed my palm flat against her stomach, pulling her back against me. “This heat. This tremble. This need you’re trying so hard to bury.”

She let out a soft, broken sound.

I smiled against her ear — dark, controlled, hungry.

“Let it out, Ishika. Just for tonight. Let me watch you feel.”

My hand moved lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of her clothes, but I stopped there. Teasing. Testing. Giving her the choice even as I took control.

“Say it,” I murmured, voice like velvet over steel. “Tell me what you want right now.”

Her lips parted. Her reflection showed the war inside her — fear, desire, shame, and something deeper fighting to break free.

I waited.

Patient.

The mirrored room wrapped around us like a cage made of glass and blue light. Ishika stood trembling in front of me, her kurti now discarded on the floor, leaving her in nothing but her bra and the rest of her clothes.

Every reflection showed her — vulnerable, exposed, breathing like she was fighting a war inside her own skin. My chest pressed against her back, solid and unyielding, while my hands rested lightly on her waist, fingers spread wide enough to claim without crushing.

I didn’t rush.

I never did.

Control was the only thing I trusted completely.

“Look at yourself,” I murmured against her ear, my voice low and steady, the kind of tone that left no room for escape. “Not with the eyes that judge. Look with the eyes that want.”

Her breath hitched. In the mirror, her gaze flickered, uncertain, but she didn’t look away. Good.

I wanted her to see what I saw — the woman who had survived hell and still stood here, pulse racing under my touch, skin warming beneath my palms.

My right hand slid slowly up her side, tracing the curve of her ribs, stopping just beneath the edge of her bra. I didn’t grope. I explored. Claimed. Let her feel the weight of my attention like a brand.

“You feel that?” I whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That shiver running down your spine? That heat pooling low in your belly? That’s not shame. That’s you waking up.”

She let out a soft, broken sound, her body leaning back into me almost involuntarily. I held her there, one arm banded across her stomach, anchoring her while my other hand continued its slow descent.

My fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her pants, not removing them, just resting there, warm and deliberate, letting her feel the promise without taking.

“Tell me what you feel right now,” I said, voice dark and commanding. “No hiding. No pretty lies. Just the truth.”

Her lips parted. For a moment, nothing came out. Then —

“Safe,” she whispered, voice cracking. “And… scared. But not of you. Of how much I want this. Of how long I’ve gone without feeling anything like this.”

The confession hit me like a drug. I kept my expression controlled, but inside, something primal stirred. I wanted to ruin her for anyone else. I wanted to be the only man who ever made her feel this way.

“Good,” I said softly, my fingers pressing firmer against her lower stomach, pulling her back flush against me. “Feel it. All of it. The way your body is responding to my touch. The way your pulse is racing under my fingers. The way you’re getting wet just from my voice.”

A visible shudder ran through her. In the mirror, her eyes fluttered half-closed, lips parted on a silent gasp. I watched every second of it, committing it to memory.

I turned her slowly in my arms until she faced me, her back now to the mirrors. My hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at me.

“You don’t need to be perfect here,” I told her, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You don’t need to be strong. You don’t need to hide. Just feel. Let me show you what it’s like when someone wants you exactly as you are — scars, tears, fears, and all.”

I leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss. Not rushed. Not demanding. I kissed her like I had all the time in the world to unravel her, tongue tracing her lower lip, coaxing her open.

When she melted into me, a soft whimper escaping into my mouth, I deepened it, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slid down her back, pressing her closer.

When I pulled back, her eyes were dazed, lips swollen.

“Strip the rest for me,” I said quietly, stepping back just enough to give her space.

“Slowly. I want to watch you choose this.”

Her fingers hesitated at the clasp of her bra. For a heartbeat, I thought she might stop. Then her eyes met mine in the mirror — wide, uncertain, but burning with something deeper than fear. She unhooked it. The lace slipped down her arms and fell away.

I didn’t move. I simply watched.

Her breasts were full and soft, nipples already tightened into peaks from the cool air and the weight of my gaze. She shivered visibly, arms instinctively rising to cover herself again. I caught her wrists gently but firmly, pulling them down to her sides.

“Don’t,” I murmured, stepping closer until my chest brushed her back once more. “You don’t hide from me here. Not tonight.”

My hands slid up her arms, slow and deliberate, mapping every inch of skin like I was memorizing a map only I was allowed to read. One palm settled over her heart, feeling the wild rhythm beneath. The other traced down her stomach, fingertips brushing the waistband of her pants.

“Feel it,” I whispered against her ear. “The way your body is reacting to my touch. The heat building between your thighs. The way your breath catches every time I speak. This is yours, Ishika. This desire. This need. Stop fighting it.”

She let out a soft, broken sound, her head falling back against my shoulder. I took the invitation, pressing my lips to the side of her neck, sucking lightly, then harder, marking her with my mouth while my hand slipped beneath her pants. My fingers found her already wet, slick and swollen, and I groaned low against her skin at the feel of her.

“So ready for me,” I said, voice rough with restraint. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

I circled her clit slowly, deliberately, learning what made her gasp, what made her hips jerk against my hand. Her reflections surrounded us — endless versions of her coming undone in my arms. I watched every single one, drinking in the sight like a man starved for truth.

“Tell me what you want,” I commanded softly, two fingers sliding inside her, curling just right. “Say it.”

Her voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper. “You… I want you. Like this. Making me feel… everything.”

I smiled against her neck, dark and satisfied.

“Then feel it.”

I moved my fingers deeper, faster, thumb pressing against her clit in tight, relentless circles.

Her knees buckled. I held her up with my other arm banded across her waist, keeping her pressed against me as I worked her closer to the edge. Her moans filled the mirrored room, raw and unrestrained, echoing back at us from every angle.

When she came, it was with a broken cry, body arching hard against me, inner walls clenching around my fingers in powerful spasms. I didn’t stop. I rode her through it, drawing out every last tremor until she was shaking, whimpering, completely undone in my arms.

I turned her to face me, lifting her chin so our eyes met.

“You’re beautiful when you let go,” I told her, voice rough with barely leashed hunger. “Never doubt that again.”

She looked at me like I was the only real thing in her world.

And in that moment, in the blue neon glow of a hundred reflections, I realized something dangerous.

I didn’t just want to ruin her for anyone else.

I wanted to be the only one who ever got to see her like this.

She passed out in my arms like a fragile flame finally giving in to the wind.

One moment her body was trembling with release, the next her knees buckled completely.

I caught her effortlessly, one arm sliding under her knees, the other supporting her back as I lifted her against my chest. She was so light. So delicate. Soft in a way that made something primal and protective twist deep inside my chest.

Thank you, I thought, pressing my lips to her temple. For trusting me enough not to hurt you.

I carried her out of the mirrored room, her kurti clutched in my free hand. The penthouse corridors were silent, the city lights of Mumbai glittering far below like distant stars.

I pushed open the door to my bedroom with my shoulder and shut it behind us with a quiet click, sealing us away from the rest of the world.

I laid her down gently on the massive bed, the black silk sheets contrasting beautifully against her skin.

For a long moment, I simply stood there, watching her sleep. Her lashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks. A few strands of hair had fallen across her face, stubborn and unruly. I reached down, brushing them away with the back of my fingers.

These cheeks are mine to touch, I thought, a dark, possessive smile tugging at my lips. Not yours, stupid hairs.

I tucked the strands carefully behind her ear, letting my fingertips linger on her skin just a second longer than necessary. She looked peaceful like this.

Almost innocent. The woman who had survived hell and still found the strength to let go in my arms.

I walked to the walk-in closet and pulled out one of my black shirts. Returning to the bed, I carefully slipped it over her body, buttoning just enough to cover her. It swallowed her frame, the hem falling to mid-thigh — perfect.

Seeing her in my clothes stirred something deep and primal in me. Mine.

I brushed one last strand of hair from her forehead, then turned toward the bathroom.

A meeting waited. The world didn’t stop for anyone, not even for this.

I slid open the transparent glass door attached to the bedroom and stepped inside. Stripping off my shirt and pants, I let them fall to the floor.

The hot water hit my body like a punishment I welcomed — pounding against my shoulders, my chest, my back, easing the tension that had built from the day’s chaos.

I tilted my face up, letting the stream run over my closed eyes, through my hair, down my neck.

The transparent glass began to fog up from the steam, blurring the view of the bedroom where she lay sleeping in my shirt. Good. For now, the world outside could wait.

I stood there, water cascading over me, mind already shifting back to the empire — the launches, the deals, the ghosts still hiding in the shadows. But beneath it all, one thought remained.

She was safe here.

In my bed.

In my shirt.

In my world.

And for the first time in a very long time, that knowledge brought me something dangerously close to peace.