3. In My Territory

💌 Author’s Note 💌

Hey my beautiful readers,

First of all… I love you. Truly. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading, supporting, and sticking around for this story. Your love and presence mean the world to me.

I know the updates have been coming a little late—and I want to be honest with you all about why.

It’s not because I don’t care… it’s actually the opposite.

I pour my heart into every scene, every emotion, every word. But when there’s no voting, no comments—it gets hard. I start feeling like maybe what I’m writing doesn’t matter. Maybe no one’s enjoying it. And that feeling? It kills motivation.

Writing is my escape, my passion—but your votes and comments are what keep me going. They remind me that someone is waiting, someone is feeling the story with me. That I’m not alone in this.

So if you’re reading and enjoying—please vote. Please comment. Let me know you’re here. Let me feel your love, because I promise you—I’m giving you mine with every update.

You guys are everything to me. And I know you can make this journey beautiful again.

Love always,

Qwerty 🩶

with a heavy echo that seemed to belong to a different lifetime. The palace stood before him, still and regal under the muted golden lights, its arches and carved balconies glowing like something out of an old dream.

Time had passed, seasons had come and gone, but the structure remained untouched — not a crack in its marble spine, not a single vine grown wild. Nothing had changed.

Except him.

The moment he stepped through the towering gates, an invisible weight settled onto his shoulders. Was it nostalgia? Regret? Maybe both — tangled together like dust caught in sunlight.

Each step toward the main hall stirred something old and unresolved within him.

The ghost of a barefoot boy chasing laughter in these corridors haunted his every breath.

That boy — so full of wonder, so sure this palace was the safest place in the world — had been left behind long ago.

That boy didn’t exist anymore.

Pushing open the double doors of the hall, Viransh was greeted by the soft hum of laughter — low, warm, familiar. His eyes scanned the room.

Shahveer was sprawled across the couch with casual arrogance, legs tossed over the armrest, popping almonds into his mouth like it was his birthright.

Opposite him sat their grandparents — Dadu gesturing animatedly, eyes sparkling behind his glasses, while Dadi watched with that quiet dignity that had always made people sit a little straighter.

For a fleeting moment, Viransh stood at the threshold in silence. Watching. Just watching. As if he’d stumbled into someone else’s life — a life that had continued even in his absence.

Then Dadu’s gaze lifted. And in an instant, the air shifted.

“Viransh!” His voice boomed across the hall, alive with shock and a joy so pure it stole the breath from Viransh’s lungs.

He was on his feet in seconds — faster than age should have allowed — and crossed the room with trembling excitement. “Mera beta... You didn’t even call! Not a word!” His arms wrapped around him in a grip so tight it felt like the years of absence collapsed into that one embrace.

(“ My chid…”)

Viransh stiffened at first. Not because he didn’t want it — but because it had been so long since anyone had held him like this. Since someone had missed him like this.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. “I’m here now, Dadu. How have you been?”

Dadu pulled back just enough to look into his face — eyes gleaming, lips trembling with relief. “Ab toh sab theek lag raha hai, now that you’re here.”

("Now everything seems fine.")

Then came another shift.

His gaze flicked to the right — and there she was.

Dadi stood slowly, her frame barely holding the weight of all the emotions etched into her face. Her eyes welled, and before a single word could leave her mouth, a tear slid down her cheek.

Viransh moved to her instantly. He bent to touch her feet, reverence instinctive — but she stopped him, hands trembling as they gripped his shoulders, and then she pulled him into her arms.

She held him like something precious lost and finally returned. As if this embrace had been waiting for years in silence.

Her tears soaked into his shirt, and her voice cracked with grief and relief all at once. “Mujhe laga tu kabhi nahi aayega…”

("I thought you would never come...")

“I’m here,” he whispered, tightening his hold. “Main aa gaya na… dekho. Main theek hoon, Dadi… don’t cry.”

("I’m here now… look. I’m okay, Dadi… don’t cry.")

His throat tightened as he felt her heart racing against his. For a moment, it was just the two of them — a thousand unspoken things buried between the beats of a long-overdue hug.

Then, predictably, Shahveer cut in.

“Okay wow, this is getting very Karan Johar,” he called out. “Should I call for violin music or are you both good?”

Laughter rippled through the room. Even Dadu chuckled. And just like that, the tension softened.

But then — Dadi’s fingers paused mid-motion. Her brows furrowed.

She pulled back, eyes dropping to his chest. “Yeh kya hai?” she asked, gently touching the dried brown stain darkening the fabric.

("What is this?")

“Yeh daag kis ka hai, Viransh? What happened?”

("What stain is this, Viransh? What happened?")

Her voice was soft but laced with worry.

And suddenly, the air changed again.

Viransh’s body went still.

The laughter died in his throat.

In the blink of an eye, he was no longer standing in the palace — he was back in the chaos of that tea stall, and her.

That girl with fire in her eyes and rebellion on her tongue.

The one who didn’t look at him with fear, but with fury. Who didn’t ask who he was. Didn’t care. Who threw chai on him with trembling hands and blazing conviction.

He could still feel the scalding warmth seeping through his shirt.

He didn’t even know her name, and yet her image burned sharper in his memory than most people he did know.

His jaw tensed, the muscle ticking beneath his cheek.

But he caught himself. Forced his expression to settle before Dadi could see the flicker of something sharp and unspoken.

“Nothing,” he said, the lie rolling off his tongue like armor. “Just… a small accident on the way.”

He didn’t glance at the stain again. He refused to.

“No big deal,” he added smoothly, even as the ghost of her eyes still lingered somewhere at the edge of his mind.

But Dadi’s gaze lingered a beat longer.

As if she could sense there was more beneath the surface — something he wasn’t saying. Something that had left a bruise on more than just fabric.

He offered her the faintest smile, almost like a distraction. And then shifted quickly.

“I’m starving, Dadi,” he said, voice light again. “After all these years… won’t you feed me something yourself?”

The moment changed.

Her face lit up with maternal pride. The worry dissolved as if it had never existed.

“Main sab banaungi apne Veer ke liye,” she declared, beaming. “I’ll make everything you love — with my own hands tonight!”

She turned toward the kitchen without hesitation, her steps light, her smile soft as she disappeared into the hallway — like she had waited years just to hear those words from him again.

Viransh watched her go, his smile slowly fading.

Because he hadn’t come back for comfort.

Not just for warmth and love and second chances.

He turned to Dadu, his voice quiet now.

“Dadu… I want to talk to you. Alone.”

Dadu’s expression shifted. The joy in his eyes dimmed slightly, a shadow replacing it — like he sensed that whatever Viransh had to say next wouldn’t belong to the happiness they’d just shared.

He gave a single, solemn nod.

“Let’s go to the study.”

And just like that, the warmth of the reunion was replaced with something colder.

Quieter.

Like a storm waiting just beyond the door.

.

.

.

.

Inside the quiet warmth of Meetha Mahal, the once-sweet scent of cardamom and sugar was now overpowered by the bitter sting of frustration radiating from one very fuming Iraaya.

She sat rigidly on one of the corner chairs, staring down at the brown stain blotched across the front of her white dress— a dress she adored, had worn countless times on soft, rainy evenings like this one, and had once called her lucky.

Now, it looked like a war casualty. Riya, crouched beside her like a determined soldier, was trying valiantly to dab away the mess with tissues, as if a handful of dry paper could erase both the stain and the insult that came with it.

“Hold still!” Riya hissed, half-laughing, half-serious, attacking the stubborn fabric like it had personally offended her.

“Maybe it’s not permanent. Maybe—”

“It’s ruined,” Iraaya groaned, her voice dramatic enough to rival a tragic heroine. “My favorite dress. Do you even understand the emotional trauma?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Riya nodded solemnly, like a doctor delivering bad news. “And I’m also trying to save your soul from being dragged into eternal suffering by a chai stain.”

But Iraaya wasn’t laughing. Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed into a tight, furious line.

Her hands fisted in her lap, and the glimmer in her eyes had nothing to do with tears — it was pure, undiluted rage.

“That stranger—” she began, spitting the word like it burned her tongue. “He didn’t even apologize. Just stood there like some brat, like I should have said thank you for his tea ruining my clothes.”

Her voice turned sharp, muttering curses under her breath, she barely used unless she was really, truly angry. And Riya, brave soul that she was, tried to keep her face straight — until she couldn’t.

A snort escaped.

Then another.

And then, before iraaya could process it, Riya burst into full-blown laughter — loud, unfiltered, and absolutely contagious.

“What?” Iraaya snapped, stunned. “Why are you laughing?”

Riya, now curled sideways on the floor, tears gathering in her eyes, managed between gasps, “You—you just launched a cup of chai at him! Like, full Bollywood slow-mo! Your expression, your arm—bam! It was majestic.”

“I wasn’t aiming for style, Riya. It was pure instinct. Self-defense,” Iraaya argued, though the corners of her lips twitched with reluctant amusement.

“Swag wali self-defense!” Riya cackled, nearly tipping over. “Seriously, it was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

“Oh please,” Iraaya rolled her eyes, but even she had to admit, in retrospect, it had felt weirdly satisfying. “He deserved worse. The way he walked in — like the entire street belonged to him. Like gravity bent around his ego.”

Riya sat up, grinning like a devil. “He was arrogant… but hot, though.”

Iraaya’s head whipped toward her. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Riya lifted her hands, eyes twinkling. “Tall, sharp jawline, that mysterious ‘I command silence without speaking’ energy. You saw his entry, right? That slow, confident walk. Like he was about to ruin hearts for a living.”

“Riya,” Iraaya said, her voice low and deadly.

“Okay, okay, shutting up,” Riya zipped her lips and mimed throwing away the key.

“But I’m just saying, if that were a drama, you two just had your first iconic scene.”

“This isn’t a drama,” Iraaya muttered, arms crossed. “This is my life. And now I can’t even go home because of this stupid chai. Ma will go full Sherlock if she sees this.”

“Yeah, no way you can walk in wearing a stained white dress and not get interrogated,” Riya agreed, examining the damage again. “She’ll know you’ve been in battle.”

“So now what?” Iraaya sighed, staring helplessly down at the mess on her lap. “I don’t even know what to do anymore. I want to forget his face, but it keeps floating in my head like a ghost.”

“You’re thinking about him way too much for someone who claims to hate him,” Riya teased, poking her side.

“I do hate him.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, Riya clapped her hands. “Wait! I have an idea. I’ll call my place and have them send a kurta set. You can change here and go home like a normal, scandal-free girl.”

Iraaya blinked, hope flickering in her eyes. “You’d do that?”

“Duh. Anything to prevent you from getting grounded and ruining your dress even more,” Riya winked.

“Riya, you’re a savior,” Iraaya sighed in relief, wrapping her in a tight hug. “I owe you my life.”

“And a dozen cupcakes,” Riya smirked, already pulling out her phone. “And maybe a latte. And—”

“Riya.”

“Fine, fine.”

Less than twenty minutes later, the driver arrived with a small plastic bag —a practical solution wrapped in simplicity.

Inside was a pale pink suit — soft cotton, modest embroidery, light as a breeze — exactly the kind of comfort Iraaya needed after the chaos of the evening.

She slipped into the bakery’s backroom to change, and when she stepped out, the transformation was more than physical.

The storm on her face had faded, replaced with something calmer. The pink complimented her skin like the gentlest sunrise after a long, grey night.

She adjusted her dupatta, checked her reflection in the window, and took a deep breath.

“You look sweet and innocent,” Riya said with a smirk. "Hard to believe that you just committed a tea-based violence"

“Let’s not talk about it ever again,” Iraaya muttered, but her tone had softened, finally, just a little.

“Done,” Riya said, grabbing her keys. “Come on, I’ll drop you.”

And with that, the two girls walked out into the velvet dusk, climbing into Riya’s car as laughter lingered in the air.

But even as they drove away from Meetha Mahal, Iraaya’s mind couldn’t shake the echo of a stranger’s eyes, the arrogance in his walk, and the way her heart had thudded — not just from rage… but from something she didn’t yet understand.

Something that, despite her best effort, refused to fade.

By the time Riya dropped her off, the night had deepened into a velvet hush, the kind that made footsteps echo louder and shadows stretch longer.

Iraaya stepped out of the car, her pale pink dupatta fluttering slightly in the breeze, and offered her best friend a small wave before pushing open the gate to her side of the estate — the once-separate guest house now converted into the private quarters she and her mother shared.

The moment the door creaked open, a chill swept through her — not from the weather, but from the silence inside.

And then, as expected, her mother’s voice called out from the living room. Cold. Flat. Clockwork.

“You’re late.”

Iraaya flinched slightly, forcing her tone into something breezy. “Sorry, Ma. Got caught up at the bakery — a few last-minute things.”

Her mother stepped into view from the hallway, the soft overhead light catching the grey at her temples and the tension etched into her features. But her eyes didn’t stay on Iraaya’s face. They dropped lower. Stilled.

“That’s not your dress.”

Iraaya’s breath hitched.

Her fingers instinctively tugged at the hem of the kurta, guilt rushing to her cheeks like a child caught red-handed.

“Uh… Ma, wo… actually Riya gave it to me,” she said quickly, then winced at her own clumsy lie. “She didn’t get me anything for my birthday last month, so… she, uh, gave it to me now. As a late gift.”

She could hear it — how absurd it sounded.

She cursed herself silently. Lying had never been her strength.

Her mother’s eyes stayed on her for a long second — not accusing, not angry, just quietly… knowing.

And that somehow hurt more.

But she didn’t push. Didn’t question further.

Just said, with that same distant frost she’d perfected over the years, “Food’s in the fridge. Go and eat. I’m going to sleep.”

And without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway, the soft click of her door closing more final than any argument.

Iraaya stood there, rooted for a moment, lips parted like a reply might still escape — but nothing came. Nothing ever did, between them.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, slipped off her juttis, and moved to the kitchen.

The food was exactly where her mother had said — a simple plate of sabzi and roti covered in foil, slightly cold, the kind of meal you didn’t complain about because it meant someone still remembered to feed you.

She ate quietly at the table, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the room, her thoughts scattered and loud.

By the time she finished and rinsed her plate, the house had gone fully still. Like it always did.

But tonight, the silence didn’t bring her peace.

.

.

.

Later, as the clock crept past one, Iraaya lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

Her fan whirred softly above, but it wasn’t lulling her to sleep — not even close. She tossed once. Then again.

Hugged her pillow. Threw it aside. Pulled the sheet up to her chin. Kicked it off a minute later.

Nothing helped.

Her mind was a battlefield — and the war had a name.

That stranger.

She groaned into her pillow. “Why am I still thinking about him?”

Maybe it was because it had been the first time in her life she’d reacted that way — so bold, so reckless, so raw. She wasn’t the type to lash out. She didn’t throw things.

She didn’t yell in public.

And yet today…

She’d launched tea at a stranger in the middle of a street like a warrior queen fighting a war over dignity.

She sighed and rolled over to her side, blinking at the study lamp. “It’s because he got under my skin,” she muttered, trying to convince herself it was just that. Just an annoying memory.

Nothing more.

A sip of water might help, she thought, reaching for the bottle beside her bed.

Empty.

She sat up, annoyed. Great.

Dragging herself out of bed, she padded barefoot to the kitchen just off the hall. But the water canister was empty too.

Her brows furrowed. Ma probably forgot to send it for refill, she guessed. It had happened before — rare, but not impossible.

Her gaze shifted to the antique wall clock ticking softly above the door.

1:27 a.m.

Everyone in the palace would be asleep by now.

But she needed water. And the corridor that connected their wing to the main palace kitchen was just a few turns away.

She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed her water bottle and quietly stepped into the corridor, barefoot, careful not to make noise on the cool marble floors.

The air inside the corridor was still, the dim night-lamps casting long shadows across the walls, their golden glow flickering like half-kept secrets.

The palace, in its midnight quiet, didn’t feel like a home — it felt like a story, paused mid-chapter. Ancient. Silent.

Grand.

She kept walking, arms folded tightly across her chest as if the quiet might settle too deep in her bones. Her footsteps echoed softly until she finally reached the main kitchen.

There was no one there.

The huge space stood silent, the soft hum of a refrigerator the only sound.

Moonlight spilled in through the high window, casting a faint silver glow on the tiles. She stepped in, almost tiptoeing, and moved to the corner where the drinking water set up kept.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter as she filled her glass. She sat on the stool.

The cold water slid down her throat, but it didn’t calm the restlessness inside her. It only reminded her how wired she still was, how her mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment she returned.

The quiet wrapped around her, a cocoon of stone and shadow. She held the glass in both hands now, elbows resting on her knees, head bowed slightly.

And then… a soft hum escaped her lips.

Barely a sound. A half-forgotten tune.

Something old, something without words — like muscle memory.

The kind of melody you hum when your heart doesn’t know what else to say.

But even as she hummed, her mind wasn’t really there. It was floating somewhere else entirely.

She closed her eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. “I just want to forget today,” she whispered into the dim kitchen air. Her voice didn’t echo — it dissolved into the stillness like breath on glass.

But just as she thought a strange feeling crawled down her spine — like someone was watching.

She turned, slowly.

The kitchen was empty.

But the feeling remained.

That odd, invisible thrum under her skin — the sense of being seen, even when alone.

She shook it off, took a sip of water, and leaned against the counter, trying to steady her thoughts.

She should be asleep.

She should be calm.

She should not be thinking of a stranger.

And yet…

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Because some days didn’t fade.

And some people didn’t leave your mind just because you wanted them to.

The silence in my wing was complete, save for the soft hiss of the wind brushing against the curtains and the occasional crackle of burning tobacco.

The cigarette balanced between my fingers had burned nearly to the filter, but I hadn't moved.

I stood at the edge of the balcony, motionless, staring out into the dark horizon of Rathore Palace, city lights flickering in the far distance like dying stars.

But my mind wasn’t here. Not anymore.

It was back in the study, replaying every second of that conversation with Dadu — the moment he placed the medical file on the table like it was nothing more than another bill to sign. Like it wasn’t a fucking death sentence.

Brain tumor.

Third stage.

Advanced.

Terminal.

Those were the words printed so cleanly, so clinically, on that paper. But the pain they delivered? Anything but sterile. It hit like a fist in my gut. The kind that knocks the air out of you but doesn’t leave a mark anyone else can see.

He had said it so simply. No drama. No fear. "Mujhe pata tha, Veer. Pehle se. But tu aa gaya na... ab sab sahi ho jayega."

("I knew it, Veer. For a while now. But you’re here now… everything will be alright.")

No, Dadu. Everything is not okay. And I don’t know how to fix this.

He had asked me not to say anything. Not even to Dadi. No one.

Only me.

I was the one trusted to carry this secret, to stand by and watch while he pretended everything was normal.

And I had promised him. Of course I had.

Because how could I say no when this was the one thing he wanted from me.

But now it felt like someone had poured lead into my chest. A weight I couldn’t remove. Couldn’t share. Couldn’t even scream about.

I brought the cigarette to my lips again, dragging hard. The smoke stung, harsh and bitter in my lungs, but at least it drowned out the tightness in my throat.

A knock broke the silence.

I didn’t turn. “What”

“Veer baba,” came the voice of one of the older servants. “Dadi ne aapke liye chai bheji hai.”

(“Grandma has sent tea for you.”)

That word.

Chai.

It shattered the already cracking glass of my mind.

I turned my head sharply, eyes narrowing.

Chai.

That girl.

Her.

Her.

It was like a match to gasoline.

All over again, her eyes blazing with something I hadn’t seen in years — unfiltered rage. Unapologetic fire.

She had looked me straight in the eye like I was nothing special. Like I was just some arrogant stranger. Like I didn’t matter.

Like I wasn’t Viransh Singh Rathore.

And when I opened my mouth and said what I knew would provoke her — when I said what I always say to women who get too close — she didn’t cry. She didn’t crumble. She didn’t plead.

She threw the tea.

Right on my chest.

Right there in public.

Like I wasn’t someone whose name turned heads. Like I wasn’t someone who could have her erased with a phone call.

Who the fuck was she?

I hadn’t even know her name. I didn’t need to. Names didn’t matter. Reactions did. And hers? Hers was burned into my memory now — eyes fierce, hands trembling with fury, lips parted in disbelief. She didn’t hold back.

Not like the rest of them.

Girls usually giggled. Or stuttered. Or leaned in closer.

She pushed.

She rebelled.

And I hated her for it.

I hated the way she made me feel unseen. Unheard. Human.

I hated that I could still smell the tea on my skin, even after changing.

I hated that her eyes — so bold, so reckless — kept flashing in my mind even when I was trying to think about Dadu. About his fucking tumor.

But no matter what I did, she kept coming back.

A stranger.

A no one.

And yet she had managed to embed herself in my bloodstream like venom.

Quiet, slow, crawling.

I stepped back from the balcony, exhaling smoke through clenched teeth. My fingers twitched slightly, like they wanted to curl around something. Around her throat. Around that moment and twist it back into silence.

I didn’t like not being in control. I didn’t like being questioned. Disrespected.

Ignored.

And she’d done all three in a matter of minutes.

No woman had ever had the audacity.

Every girl I’d met either wanted my name, my money, or my bed.

They smiled when I was cold. They flirted when I insulted them. They adapted.

But her.

She had the nerve to throw tea on me and still walk away like she’d won.

My jaw clenched harder, muscles ticking.

The servant was still waiting.

“I don’t want it,” I snapped, voice low, deadly.

He said sorry and scurried off.

I turned back to the sky. The stars were faint. Clouded.

Much like my restraint.

I leaned on the railing again, palms flat, breathing harshly through my nose.

“Chai girl...”

I spoke the words aloud this time. Not to anyone. Just to the sky. To myself. To the weight that was slowly becoming something sharper.

“Pray,” I murmured, “that we never cross paths again.”

A bitter smirk touched the corner of my mouth.

“Because if we do... you won’t be lucky second time.”

I stared into the darkness, letting the obsession take root.

Letting the fire settle deep.

And deeper still.

Because whether she knew it or not…

She had started something.

And I wasn’t the kind of man who let things go.

.

.

.

.

The wind had stilled, but inside me, the storm hadn’t.

My jaw ached from how tightly I’d been clenching it.

The cigarette was gone— just ash and memory now — but the fire in my chest hadn’t dulled.

The walls of my wing felt too close. The silence, too loud.

I couldn’t breathe in here anymore.

I needed something — anything — to anchor me. Not that tea. That word alone was enough to ignite something dangerous in me again.

No, what I needed was bitterness of a different kind.

Black coffee.

Maybe it would chase out the echoes of Dadu’s words. Maybe it would cut through the poison of that evening.

I moved, slow but deliberate, pushing open the door and walking down the marble corridor toward the kitchen.

The palace was still, its long hallways bathed in gold-shadowed moonlight. No footsteps. No voices.

Everyone was asleep.

Everyone but me.

I stepped into the kitchen — and stopped dead.

A current of air moved across the room, cool and indifferent, brushing past the long curtains that framed the door.

The soft hum of the water filter was the only sound. But that wasn’t what made me pause.

There was someone already there. A girl.

Alone.

She sat with her back to me, perched casually on a low wooden stool near the marble counter — elbows on her knees, glass in her hand.

The light from the overhead lantern cast a warm halo around her figure, outlining the curve of her shoulders, the way her back rose and fell with each slow sip of water.

She wore a plain white T-shirt — slightly loose, sleeves rolled up — and black trousers.

Her hair was tied up high in a messy knot, strands falling loose around her neck, and her feet were bare.

She didn’t look like a guest. She didn’t look like someone who needed to be anywhere.

She looked... comfortable.

Too comfortable.

As if this place was hers.

As if this place belonged to her.

Something in me tightened — an instinct, maybe. Possessive. Territorial.

Who gave her that kind of ease?

I narrowed my eyes, watching her without stepping forward. My gaze moved over her slowly, unwillingly, like I was searching for a threat in her calm.

She shifted a little, then — she turned her head slightly.

Just a tilt. Nothing dramatic. The kind of turn you give when checking for someone behind you.

And the light touched her cheek.

My lungs stopped.

It was her.

Her.

That impossible girl.

The one who’d looked me in the eye and seen nothing to fear. The one who’d dared — actually dared — to throw hot tea at me like I was some roadside creep and not Viransh Singh Rathore.

My teeth sank into the inside of my cheek.

My fists clenched without me realizing.

What the hell is she doing here?

Why the hell is she in my place?

I stepped back, instinctively sinking into the shadows by the archway. The carved curtain and wood shielded me like a mask — one I wasn’t sure I wore out of strategy…

I didn’t want her to see me yet.

I wanted to watch.

Study.

Like a flame that had no idea it was standing in a room filled with gasoline.

She hummed under her breath — something soft, vague, tuneless.

She said something which I didn’t understand.

Her fingers turned the knob on the water filter, her other hand lightly tapping the bottle to stay upright.

Her eyes flicked again toward the door — and for a second, my breath locked. Did she feel me here?

She stilled.

But then… she turned back to the water.

Finished. Capped the bottle. Slid off the stool.

And quietly walked out through the kitchen’s back door.

No fear. No hesitation.

Like she had every right.

I waited a beat, then stepped into the space she’d left behind. The bottle-shaped condensation ring still clung to the marble.

Her scent lingered faintly — not perfume, not anything artificial — just the soft, clean warmth of skin and rain and nerve.

I followed her.

Not loudly.

Not obviously.

Just enough to keep her in sight.

She walked through the eastern corridor — the one that led to the guest quarters.

Her steps weren’t cautious. They were familiar.

She knew where she was going.

She wasn’t lost.

She wasn’t a guest.

She was staying here.

A slow, burning understanding uncoiled in my chest like something ancient waking up. Cold. Intrusive. Powerful.

She wasn’t a one-time mistake.

She was a presence in this palace.

In my home.

In my fucking territory.

My jaw locked tight, and something in me — the part that didn’t like surprises, that didn’t tolerate chaos — snapped awake.

My thoughts twisted, spun, tangled in a way they never did. The control I kept over everything — every step, every person, every conversation — had been disrupted. And by her.

Again.

And this time, she had no idea what she'd walked into.

I remained in the shadows, the golden strip of moonlight slicing across the corridor, casting lattice patterns across my face.

I stared after her, watching the exact door she entered in the guest wing. And for a long moment, I didn’t move.

I just stood there — letting that realization curl and darken inside me.

She was under my roof now.

She was here.

And that changed everything.

“Looks like destiny wants us to meet again,” I murmured, the words falling from my mouth like smoke — curling, deliberate, poisonous.

A low, cold chuckle rumbled up from my throat. But it wasn’t amusement I felt.

It was hunger.

A need to dismantle. To bend. To break.

“Who will save you from me now?”

There was no one to answer.

Only silence.

But I didn’t need an answer.

Because I already knew.

She wouldn’t be saved.

Not from me.

Not anymore.

I took a slow step forward, one hand slipping casually into my pocket. My shoulder leaned against the cool stone wall as I tilted my head, gaze still fixed on the closed guest room door.

A dark smirk curved across my lips — slow, deliberate, dangerous.

And then, I whispered again — softer now, darker than before.

“Chai girl.”

This time, I said it like a curse.

Like a brand I wanted to carve into her.

She had no idea what she’d done. What she’d woken in me. She thought that cup of tea was some small act of rebellion, some moment she could laugh about with a friend and forget.

But it wasn’t.

It was the beginning of something else.

Something deeper. Obsessive.

Unforgiving.

Because now, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

About the way she stood her ground.

About the way she looked at me.

About the way, for a moment, I’d felt more alive facing her rage than I had in years of commanding silence.

And that — that fire — I was going to destroy it.

No matter what it took.

Because girls like her.

They didn’t get to look into my eyes like that and walk away.

Not untouched.

Not unburned.

Not again.

∘◦ ❈ ◦∘

How was the chapter, guys? 🖤

This one was extra close to my heart because it was the first time I gave you all a glimpse into Viransh’s mind—his storm, his obsession, his control… and the fire Iraaya unknowingly lit inside him.

Let me know what you thought!

If there's any flaw or anything that didn’t sit right, please don’t hesitate to tell me—your feedback truly helps me grow and make the next chapters even better. 🙏✨

And as always… your votes and comments mean the world to me.

They’re not just numbers—they're my motivation, my energy, my reminder that someone’s out there feeling these words with me. So please do take a moment to vote 🩶 and drop a little comment. I read every single one.

Also... what are your thoughts on Viransh now? His POV just opened up, and I would love to know what you feel about him so far—dark, dangerous, or something else entirely?

Can’t wait to hear from you!