Power isn’t about money. Not really. It’s about precision. Leverage. Timing.

It’s about knowing exactly where to press your fingers when you want someone to bleed— and how long to keep pressing before they beg for air.

And right now, I knew exactly where to press.

The conference room at Maheswari Capital was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels intentional— engineered, like the hush before a sniper’s breath.

I leaned back in the leather chair, fingers steepled under my chin as I stared at the screen in front of me. Digital numbers danced across it— red and green flickers like pulse rhythms.

But I wasn’t watching the market.

I was watching her.

Oberoi Industries.

Cloaked in its usual armor: dominant, stable, pristine.

But even the cleanest glass hides fractures. And I’d found the crack.

I picked up the cigar resting in the ashtray beside me and lit it. The click of the lighter was sharp, final. Smoke curled around my knuckles, slow and possessive. Like a warning. Like a promise.

Control wasn’t just a drug. It was the bloodstream.

The door opened without a knock. Of course. Only one man had that kind of death wish.

“You planning world domination,” Kabir, my annoying bestfriend, said, striding in with his usual recklessness, “or seducing another tragedy in heels?”

I didn’t turn. “Neither,” I said. “Just laying bait.”

He poured himself a drink from the decanter. “Let me guess. Sara Oberoi.”

He didn’t have to ask. He knew.

I took a long drag from the cigar, silence confirming it.

“You’ve been watching her again,” he said.

“She’s… fascinating,” I admitted, the word dragging itself across my tongue like something sharp and warm.

He snorted. “She’s dangerous.”

“Exactly.”

She moved like someone constantly calculating risk— every step choreographed, every breath filtered. But I’d studied her long enough to see the cracks.

The way she blinked—just once—too slowly when her father’s name was mentioned.

The ghost of something broken in the sharp lines of her posture. The tension in her hands when she thought no one was watching.

She was ice, yes. But even glaciers splinter, don't they?

“She won’t fall for games,” he warned, taking the chair across from me. “And you know it.”

“She won’t have to. I’m not playing.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t chase women, Ishaan. You hunt ghosts.”

I stubbed out the cigar slowly. “Maybe she’s both.”

And maybe that’s what drew me.

I imagined her now— reading headlines, fingers curling into her palm, teeth sinking into her cheek like she could chew through fury if it tasted like strategy. Alone, in her glass-walled office, steel in her bones and smoke in her lungs.

She was probably pacing.

No. She’d never give herself away like that. Too much control. Too much pride.

She’d be still. Calculating. Planning the counter-strike. And ofcourse, cursing me in her head.

Why him? Why now? Why this?

She wouldn’t ask aloud. But I knew the questions clawing at her skull.

And I liked it. I liked imagining her thinking of me. Trying to get ahead of me. Failing.

“She doesn’t know I’m coming,” I said under my breath.

“Or maybe she does,” Kabir replied, eyes narrowing, “and she’s waiting with a loaded gun.”

I smiled. “Then she better aim for the heart.”

Because if she missed? She’d never get another shot.

He fell silent. We both knew this had stopped being about profit. This was about tension. Control. Obsession in a thousand-dollar suit.

“You really think she’ll sit still while you dismantle her?” he asked.

“No,” I said, walking to the window. London stretched beneath me— steel, fog, firelight. “I want her to fight. I need her to.”

Because I didn’t want obedience. I didn’t want surrender.

I wanted resistance. Her sharp tongue. Her knife-edge logic. Her anger. Her disgust.

So when the walls finally crumbled— when she finally looked at me, really looked— it would be raw.

Not performance. Not manipulation.

Real.

And if she hated me for it? Perfect.

Because hate is a tether.

And love? Love is born in the ruins.

Kabir’s voice broke through. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Ishaan.”

I didn’t turn around. “And I never lose.”

But behind the words, buried deep, something stirred.

A flicker. A woman in a dark hallway, her face blank but her hands trembling. A silence laced with grief and fury. And maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want to win.

Maybe I just wanted to be seen.

By her.

And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Kabir sighed, the sound heavy with something between warning and weariness. “Does she know she’s the thread in your spiderweb?”

The question hung in the room, thick as the smoke spiraling between us. I didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was— I wasn’t sure she even knew she’d walked into the web. Not yet. But she would.

“She will,” I said finally, my voice low and even. “Soon.”

He turned to face me fully, the glass in his hand catching a sliver of light. “Careful,” he said, and beneath the sardonic edge in his tone, there was something colder. Older. “The last time you got obsessed— people didn’t survive it.”

I didn’t flinch. That was the thing with Kabir— he remembered too much. Remembered the wreckage. The casualties. The blood under my nails.

But this was different.

This wasn’t chaos for chaos’s sake. This was order. Reclamation.

I picked up the photograph lying beside the tablet. Sara. Mid-stride. Head high. Eyes like blade tips, cutting through the camera like it had dared to stand in her way. She wasn’t looking at me—but I felt it anyway. That invisible thread. That electric sting.

She looked like war in heels. A woman born from fire, walking untouched through a world too fragile to hold her.

And I wanted to break that world.

“She’s already in the game, Kabir,” I said, almost to myself. “She just doesn’t know how deep.”

But I did.

I’d mapped out her pressure points. I’d studied her silences more than her speeches. I knew what made her blink slower, what made her spine stiffen. I knew the ache she buried behind boardroom power plays and cold stares.

Because I carried the same kind of ache.

His voice cut in again, tight and sharp. “You’re going to burn for this.”

A smile tugged at my lips—slow, deliberate, dark as sin. The kind of smile that only ever meant one thing.

“I’m not going to burn,” I murmured, placing the photo back down like it was a piece on the board. “I’m going to make her mine.”

And not in the fragile, fleeting way the world understands. No. I wanted to own her breath. Her choices. Her rage. I wanted her strength to turn toward me and her hate to bind her to my name.

Because hatred— real, undiluted hatred— is closer to obsession than love ever dares to be.

Silence followed, thick and uneven. Kabir didn’t argue— not because he agreed, but because he’d seen this version of me before. The one made of obsession, ambition, and the unholy craving for control. And he knew— logic didn’t survive here.

He studied me like a man standing outside a burning house, trying to decide whether to douse the flames or let it collapse.

“What’s the endgame here?” he asked. “Possession? Vengeance? Redemption?”

My jaw flexed. Heat rose beneath my skin, slow and suffocating.

But my voice— my voice stayed cold. “Control.”

“Of her?”

“Of the truth. Of the chaos. Of the narrative she’s walking blind through.”

Because if I didn’t hold it… someone else would. And I couldn't let that happen. Not again.

The memory of my father’s betrayal burned behind my ribs. All those lies— smiling like salvation and tasting like ruin.

No. Not this time.

This time I wrote the story. I set the traps. I held the leash.

Kabir exhaled slowly, his glass tapping softly against the edge of the mahogany table. “She’s not stupid, Ishaan. You can’t just twist her. Bend her into something you can use.”

I turned back toward the glass, toward the city blinking beneath us like an organism too dumb to notice the scalpel descending.

“I don’t need her to trust me,” I said.

My voice dropped, rough and raw with the intensity I never let anyone see. “I just need her to need me.”

Not love. Not loyalty.

Need.

The kind that drives you insane. The kind that keeps you tethered even as you scream inside. The kind that makes you crawl back when everything inside you says run.

Because when you need someone, even pain becomes addictive.

Below us, the city pulsed— traffic streaming like veins, neon signs flickering like fractured hearts, buildings standing tall, unaware of the storm about to unravel them.

But the real storm wasn’t out there. It was already here. And her name... was Sara Oberoi.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

“Sara’s CFO is sloppy,” Kabir said, flicking a pen between his fingers. “Too many offshore shell transfers. If we leak even a whisper to the media, her board will start to sweat.”

“She can handle the board,” I murmured, eyes trained on the screen in front of me. “What she won’t see coming is the fracture in her supplier chain.”

He arched a brow. “You’re planning to choke her out from underneath?”

I gave a single nod.

And maybe, just maybe—she’d finally look up. See the hand tightening the leash. Mine.

Oberoi’s textile plant was her jewel— her pride. A powerhouse of craftsmanship that draped the world’s elite in silent elegance. But like any empire, it had its pressure points.

And I had found hers.

She thought she held the reins. That control lived in her spine, in her sharpened words, in those goddamn icy eyes that haunted my every waking thought.

But control was a myth. And I was ready to shatter hers.

What she didn’t know?

I owned the niche supplier her plant was married to. Quiet acquisition. No trails, just shadows. Bought last month under three shell companies and a string of offshore proxies. If someone looked, they'd find a dead end every time.

I had waited— like a fucking spider.

Now?

Now it was time to pull the string.

“She’ll notice by morning,” I said, dragging a memo draft onto the second screen. “Two major shipments rerouted. An artificial bottleneck. And a leaked whisper that Maheswari Capital is circling Oberoi’s textile division for acquisition.”

Let the panic seep in like poison through the walls. Let her sweat. Let her curse my name.

Because in chaos— she'd have no choice but to turn toward me.

Kabir’s eyes narrowed. “That’ll set off every internal alarm. She’ll know it’s you.”

“I want her to.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re escalating fast.”

“She’s not taking my calls.” The words came out sharper than I meant. Like a wound exposed too quickly.

But the silence on the other end of that line? The rejection?

It had done something to me. Unsettled something deeper.

It wasn’t just about control. It was about being seen.

She had seen me once. Beneath the layers. For a flicker of a second.

And then she shut the door.

He scoffed. “So this is your version of sending flowers?”

I smirked, jaw tight. “War is the purest form of intimacy, Kabir.” I said, voice low and fierce. “Because when you fight for someone, you stake everything— body, mind, and soul. Nothing is more real than that.”

He muttered something under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re completely unhinged.”

Maybe I was.

But obsession is just devotion with blood in its mouth.

And Sara? She was the only prayer I ever whispered with my eyes open.

Let her hate me. Let her try to fight me. Because either way— she’d have to come closer.

And when she did, when her world tilted just enough to make her fall, she wouldn’t hit the ground.

She’d land in mine.

“She’ll call,” I said quietly. “Not out of fear. Out of necessity.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “And if she doesn’t?”

“Then we move to phase two. Live.”

He knew what that meant. We both did.

Phase two wasn't just strategy— it was psychological warfare.

It was the art of pressure, applied in silence.

Press leaks timed like precision cuts. Rumors in hushed corridors, slipping into investor ears like venom. Sweetened acquisition offers whispered to minor shareholders just enough to breed betrayal.

All without ever signing my name.

This wasn’t about domination. Not yet.

I didn’t want to crush her. I wanted her focused. Off balance. Looking for me in every shadow.

I leaned back slightly, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the edge of the desk.

She hadn’t taken my calls.

That was the first mistake.

Because silence—her silence—wasn’t resistance. It was a vacuum. One I would fill.

Desperation strips people bare. It rewires decision-making. Takes logic and dresses it in panic.

And her?

She was a fortress— obsidian walls and iron will. Beautiful in her restraint. Terrifying in her calm.

But even fortresses crumble.

They always do.

All it takes is the right pressure in the right place. And I intended to find hers.

“Draft the leak to Business Insider UK,” I ordered my assistant over the intercom. “Hint at a shadow investor quietly reshaping the textile market. Don’t name us. Let them spin their rumors.”

“Yes, Boss.”

The anticipation curled in my chest like a slow burn.

“And Oberoi’s CFO?”

“She received the shipment delay notification ten minutes ago. Miss Oberoi will be informed any moment now.”

Perfect.

Let the first domino fall. Let her day ignite with fire—nand let her know I was the one holding the match.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

By midday, the first tendrils of smoke began to curl through the financial headlines.

Subtle. Calculated. A whisper designed to disturb— not destroy.

“Silent Moves in Luxury Textile Sector — Oberoi’s Supply Chain Questioned.”

I knew she’d see it. Of course she would.

She’d inhale every word like oxygen, dissect every headline like a surgeon hunting for rot.

She’d trace the tremors until her instincts told her the ground beneath her wasn’t shaking on its own.

But Sara— my beautiful, razor-edged disaster— wasn’t built to bend. She was built to bite.

And that’s what I wanted.

I wasn’t here to conquer her. Not yet. I was here to provoke her.

To pull her out of her high castle with smoke in her lungs and rage in her blood. To make her move.

Because once she did, once she stepped into the arena—

She was mine.

That evening, I stood on the balcony of my penthouse, the Thames sprawling beneath like a river of broken glass. The city glimmered with its usual indifference— cold, merciless, and ambitious. London didn’t flinch for anyone.

Neither did I.

I lit a cigarette, letting the smoke unfurl into the bruised sky. I rarely indulged. But tonight—

Tonight, the ache in my chest demanded something tangible. Something that burned.

Footsteps. Then the soft clink of crystal.

Kabir emerged, carrying two glasses of scotch. He didn’t speak. Just handed me one, letting silence stretch between us like an old habit.

“She’s holding her cards,” he finally said. Low. Wary.

“For now,” I murmured, watching the skyline blur, the lights bleeding like open wounds.

“She’s not like the others, Ishaan,” he said, his tone edged with something close to warning.

I took a slow drag, let the smoke crawl past my lips. “I know.”

“She won’t come just because you set fire at her feet.”

I turned then, my voice quieter, darker. “I don’t want her to fall, Kabir. I want her to choose to walk through the flames. To meet me in the fire.”

He looked at me then— really looked. “And when she does?” he asked.

What would I do?

Conquer her?

Save her?

Lose myself?

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Because inside me, something primal howled.

Two wolves fought in silence. 

  One thirsted to tear her down— to shatter the fortress she’d built with ice and fire.

The other wanted to worship her darkness— to kneel before it, crown it. To be the only man unafraid to love the cracks and shadows she hid from the world.

Maybe obsession was exactly that: a marriage of ruin and reverence, destruction and devotion tangled so tightly they could no longer be separated. 

The mirror she became. The chaos I saw in her— the same chaos I carried in my veins.

And maybe… just maybe, I was done pretending I could choose between ruin and reverence.

Maybe I wanted both.

To destroy her and to keep her forever.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Later that night, I stood alone in my study, the only light a dull red glow from the screen flashing urgent updates. The room felt too quiet, too still— like the calm before a storm I was already dragging toward us, inch by inch.

Oberoi Industries’ internal communication breach. The CFO was scrambling. Damage control in full swing.

And yet… I’d written every line of this script. Everything is unfolding exactly as I intended.

So why the tight pull in my chest? Why did it feel… incomplete?

I shifted my gaze to the photo pinned above my desk— not one meant to be seen, not meant to be kept.

But I kept it.

Sara Oberoi.

Caught on a raw South Kensington morning. No designer sheen, no corporate mask. Just a woman standing in the wind, clutching her handbag like a lifeline. Her face— cold. Guarded.

But her hands…

Her hands told another story. Tension. Restraint. Pain.

She was holding something in.

And it wasn’t just grief. It was rage.

It was something deeper— coiled so tight inside her, it was only a matter of time before it snapped free.

What are you hiding, vixen? What did they take from you that made you this ruthless? This cold?

And why do I want to be the one to break it open?

Not out of pity. Not even out of curiosity. But because that kind of fire deserves to be seen. Unleashed.

And maybe—just maybe—because I know what it’s like to burn behind a mask.

The knock came then, sharp and sudden.

“Enter,” I said, not looking up.

My assistant stepped in, nerves flickering like static in the air.

“There’s… there’s a response, Boss.”

I straightened. Muscles coiled tight.

“From Ms. Oberoi?”

“No. From her legal team.”

The words hit harder than expected.

Not because I was surprised.vBut because I was hoping she’d come herself. Already.

“She sent lawyers?” I echoed, voice flat.

“Yes, Boss. They’ve filed a notice of concern about the supplier acquisition. Accusing us of anti-competitive behavior.”

Good.

A slow smirk crept in, unbidden.

She was rattled. And she was fighting back.

The sound of footsteps pulled my attention. Kabir stood at the door again, arms crossed, watching me.

“She’s smart,” he said quietly. “And she just declared war.”

“Good,” I murmured.

Let her come at me. Let her throw everything she had.

I want her angry.

I want her to drop her boardroom etiquette and show me what she’s like when the gloves are off.

“She’s reacting exactly how I wanted her to,” I said, voice dropping low, almost reverent. “Once she realizes lawyers won’t win this game, she’ll come herself.”

Kabir took a slow sip from his glass, studying me. “And when she does?”

A cold smile slid across my face. “I’ll be waiting.”

Not in some sterile boardroom. Not behind legal jargon or PR-safe apologies.

No.

I’d be waiting with an offer. One she’ll hate. One she’ll need.

Because she wants answers. Because she wants peace. Because deep down, she wants blood.

And I’ll hold every shard of the truth.

Every dirty thread she’s been trying to untangle. Every lie they fed her like medicine. Every secret they buried, hoping it would never crawl back up to the surface.

She has no idea how far this rabbit hole goes.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Two hours later, I stood in front of the glass map mounted on my wall. Pins gleamed like silent sentinels— each one a flag on territory I’d taken without noise.

The empire was closing in on her. Slowly. Silently.

One move at a time.

You always thought you were untouchable, didn’t you, little vixen? You built your fortress out of ice and teeth. But even the sharpest queens bleed.

And I was going to find the wound.

“Send an anonymous counter-statement to her legal team,” I said to the silence, not needing to turn around.

Kabir, now lounging on the leather couch with his second drink, raised a brow.

“Cite standard global market regulations. Say the supplier was drowning in debt. No foul play involved.”

“And if they throw injunctions at us?”

I poured myself a bourbon, letting the scent wash over me— oak, fire, smoke. Steadying.

“Let them,” I said. “Every minute they waste playing by the rules is a minute we move forward.”

He exhaled, long and low. “You sure this is the path?”

No. I’m not sure.

I’ve never been sure of anything that wasn’t carved in blood.

But this? This is the only path left.

The only one that ends with her in front of me— no masks, no lies, no armor.

Just her.

And me.

And everything we’ve been trying to bury between us.

I lifted the glass to my lips, eyes locked on the map.

This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was war. And I was done playing fair.

“I’m not trying to win a lawsuit,” I said, voice low, deliberate. “I'm baiting a conversation.”

Kabir’s eyes narrowed, sharp and skeptical. “You’re forcing one.”

I turned, the edge of a smirk tugging at my lips. “Semantics.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You really think she’ll come to the table after all this?”

I stared into the amber depths of my glass, swirling the bourbon like it held the answer.

“She will come,” I said quietly, cold certainty threading my tone. “She won’t have a choice.”

Because I know her. Better than she knows herself.

Every move she makes— it’s predictable, beautifully calculated, laced with fury and pride.

She’ll never let someone else write her story. Especially not me.

When she finally steps into the light—eyes blazing, spine unbroken—she’ll look straight at me and demand answers.

About her company. About her past. About me.

And I’ll give them.

On my terms. In my timing.

When I’ve tilted the world just enough that she won’t be able to tell if she’s negotiating… or surrendering.

Because the truth?

I don’t want her to submit. I want her to choose the war.

And then lose herself in it.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The next morning, the headlines hit like a thunderclap.

Bolder. Sharper. Impossible to ignore.

“Maheswari Capital suspected in aggressive supply takeover — Oberoi Industries destabilized?”

Perfect.

I didn’t need to read beyond the title to know the damage was done.

By the time I strode into my office, my phone buzzed relentlessly. A dozen calls I had zero intention of answering.

Behind her desk, my assistant shifted nervously, the tension thick enough to taste.

“Boss, Ms. Mehta called twice. She says Ms. Oberoi is—”

I cut him off smoothly. “—handling it. I’m aware.”

Of course she is.

She doesn't scream. She strikes.

Right now, she’d be sitting in a boardroom, voice razor-sharp, eyes colder than ice, slicing through opposition like it was sport.

And God, I could see her there.

One leg crossed, chin lifted, that diamond-sharp stare daring anyone to breathe wrong.

The thought of it— of her fury, her mind sharpening under pressure— sent something dark and possessive curling through my chest.

She’ll retaliate. She always does.

And if she won’t come forward willingly...

I whispered under my breath, a vow and a threat wrapped in one—

“I’ll descend into her darkness myself.”

Because this isn’t just a game anymore.

This is ritual.

And obsession always demands sacrifice.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

I summoned my tech advisor into the dim glow of my study. The shadows clung to the walls like secrets. The silence hummed.

“Any word on the Oberoi mainframe breach?” I asked, voice steady but sharp.

He shifted uneasily, avoiding my gaze. “Minimal access. Just enough to monitor internal emails. No direct data extraction.”

Good. I didn’t want to burn the bridge before she even reached it.

Control isn’t about chaos.

It’s about knowing when to pull the string— how hard to tighten it without snapping the thread.

My goal wasn’t destruction. Not yet.

It was control. A fragile dance of pressure and release.

Too much force shatters.

Too little lets it slip away like smoke through fingers.

She needed to feel me— not like a hurricane. But like a crack in the foundation.

A presence. A threat. A man she couldn’t afford to ignore.

The clock blinked 02:43.

Then came the notification.

An encrypted message routed through a maze of proxies— impossible to trace.

No name. No signature.

But I knew her rhythm.

Unknown

Text Message

02:43

Stay away from my company or I’ll bury yours.

A slow grin crept over my face.

There she was. The fire. The fight.

I didn’t hesitate– I typed back.

Then come and stop me, little vixen. Let’s talk.

No reply.

But I didn’t need one. Because silence was a language too.

And hers always came before impact.

Her silence meant she was thinking. Calculating. Running scenarios in her mind— each one ending in confrontation.

And if she was thinking...

I was already inside her mind.

Later that night, Kabir and I sat in the dim glow of the strategy room, a silence thick with the weight of unspoken consequences. Maps, numbers, contingency breakdowns— everything lay sprawled across the oak table like blueprints of war.

“She might pull the textile contract with her biggest retail client,” Kabir muttered, absently flicking his Montblanc between his fingers. “Cut her own losses to freeze the damage.”

I didn’t flinch. My fingers drummed against the table in quiet rhythm. “Let her. Every retreat she makes only coils the noose tighter. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”

I paused, watching Kabir’s face as he processed that.

“She thinks she’s acting on her own terms,” I added softly. “But every move she makes was designed to be made.”

Because I knew her. Better than she wanted to admit. Better than she wanted me to.

His brow furrowed. “She’s not stupid, Ishaan. She’ll retaliate—publicly. Loudly.”

“She should,” I replied, voice calm, calculated. “The world loves a queen under siege. It stirs curiosity. Sympathy. Fear. And behind that chaos, I’ll be the villain whispered about in boardrooms and bars— the faceless force dismantling her world, piece by perfect piece.”

I leaned back, eyes unfocused as if watching the future unfold. “That’s how you turn strength into vulnerability. Make her feel seen... but not in control.”

He sighed, the fatigue in his frame more emotional than physical. “You’re gambling with fire.”

I met his stare, steady and unapologetic. “Maine kabhi paani se khelna nahi seekha, Kabir.”

(I never learned to play with water, Kabir.)

My voice was low, almost reverent— as if fire was the only element I trusted.

He shook his head slowly, a flicker of pity softening his features. “She’s going to hate you.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at my lips as I lifted the glass to my mouth, the whisky burning down like penance. “She already does.”

And yet, it was the kind of hate laced with tension. Too focused. Too potent.

Hate was interest— just in sharper clothes.

And passion... Passion was the sibling of obsession.

If she could hate me with that much fire...

She could burn for me just as fiercely.

That’s all I needed— just the smallest shift in the axis of her rage.

Before dawn, I found myself in the private security room, bathed in the sterile light of monitors. The Oberoi HQ security feed blinked across the screens, stolen pixels and encrypted paths giving me a god’s eye view of her empire.

Legal? Not even close.

Ethical? Laughable.

But war didn’t bend to moral codes— it bent to results.

I rewound the footage manually. Hours blurred until one clip made my breath catch.

Her.

Alone. Leaving her office, shoulders stiff, steps deliberate. The camera caught her mid-turn, tucking her hair behind one ear as if trying to maintain a semblance of order in the middle of a storm.

Even exhausted, she looked... commanding.

But there— there it was.

A crack. Small. Fleeting.

The tremor in her posture, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. That wasn’t the Sara Oberoi the world saw. That wasn’t the dragon in stilettos.

That was the girl beneath the armor.

And for a moment—just a moment—something in me twisted.

Guilt? No.

Longing.

I hated that it existed. Hated that some forgotten part of me wanted to step into that hallway, reach out, and—

No.

Don’t.

She’s not meant to be rescued. She’s meant to come to me.

Because that vulnerability—those cracks—I didn’t want to fix them.

I wanted to possess them.

To know every fracture. Every wound. To turn them into the keys that would open her up from the inside out.

I leaned closer to the screen, voice barely a whisper, my breath fogging the glass like a lover’s ghost.

“Soon, little vixen.”

I watched her shadow disappear down the corridor.

“You’ll have no choice but to come to me.”

And when she does…

I’ll be waiting.

Not with pity. With the truth.

And an offer she won’t be able to refuse.

Because obsession isn’t about chasing. It’s about building the kind of trap that makes them walk in willingly.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

HELLOOO, my sweet lil sinisters.

Did you just survive that chapter??

Did you scream?? Cry?? Want to slap someone??

(Ishaan probably. It’s okay, I want to slap him too. And then kiss him. And then slap him again.) 😤💋

Anyway.

LIKE before I throw you into the next emotional rollercoaster.

COMMENT before I unleash more chaos.

Love ya, mean it.