The car glided past the dying hum of the city, the chatter and chaos fading into a cold, eerie quiet. The wind had grown sharper, biting through the thin fabric of my coat.

We raced down a deserted path lined with towering trees, their branches entwined overhead like skeletal fingers forming a canopy against the night.

I clutched my coat tightly, my knuckles pale against the dark fabric. My mind wrestled with paranoia. Tarun hadn't done anything insane—nothing worthy of me freaking out like this.

It was just a campus; students wandered freely. It wasn't some strict boarding school, and it wasn't even curfew yet. But he'd looked...off. Too curious. Too focused on the car. He knew I lived alone in the dorms. Maybe that's why.

Or maybe I just find everyone creepy. What's new, Mukti?

I fidgeted with the power button on my phone, clicking it over and over as though the act of checking the time would somehow speed it up. The edge of my thumb was starting to feel raw.

At this rate, the button would give out before my nerves did. Great—how does one even explain that to a repair guy?

"Oh, I clicked the life out of it." Would they judge me for it?

Do people even fix power buttons? My lips twisted into an amused grimace, the reflection in the rearview mirror catching my distorted expression. I sighed. I really needed to stop overthinking.

The car slowed to a halt. The driver lowered his window, revealing massive iron gates and the shadowy silhouette of a stone-walled estate.

A mansion? No—something older, more stately. The kind of place that felt heavy with secrets.

Thanks to my architecture-obsessed roommate, I'd learned to appreciate these details, even in my current state of mild panic. The nameplate beside the gates read in bold, authoritative letters:

Rajvardhan.

The gates creaked open, and the car rolled into the estate, gravel crunching beneath its tires. The vehicle stopped directly in front of the main entrance, a grand wooden door framed by elegant stonework.

The driver stepped out, rounding the car to open my door. His movements were efficient, practiced.

"Mr. Rajvardhan will see you now," he said, extending a hand to help me out.

Cue the mental chaos. "Mr. Grey will see you now." I stifled a laugh. This wasn't a movie, Mukti. Get a grip.

I ascended the steps to the front porch, each one feeling heavier than the last. My breath fogged in the chilly air as I rang the bell, the sound echoing faintly in the silence.

The door was enormous, intricately carved, and more imposing up close. For a fleeting moment, I thought about bolting.

The thought dissolved when I heard the car retreating down the driveway, its engine fading into the night.

No escape. Fantastic.

I checked my phone again, a nervous tick at this point. The time hadn't magically changed, and neither had my life. The only notifications on my screen were from Swiggy and Zomato, aggressively flirting with me.

"Bas wahi log message karte hain mujhe." I muttered, forcing down a self-deprecating laugh.

("The only people that bother to text me.")

The door creaked open, spilling warm golden light into the cool night air. A tall shadow stood at the center of the entryway, commanding and still. My eyes traveled up the figure, taking in the details slowly.

It was him.

Dressed in effortless arrogance. Crisp white linen shirt, tailored to perfection, and pants that probably cost more than my semester's tuition. He stood like a painting come to life, the perfect embodiment of his god complex.

"Hello to you too," he drawled, voice unnecessarily low and laced with amusement. The smirk on his face was the kind you wanted to wipe off with a slap.

I entertained the thought briefly. Slap and run? Tempting.

He stepped aside, gesturing with mock chivalry for me to enter. I glanced past him into the house—spacious yet intimate, warm and elegant. My eyes flitted back to him, his smirk deepening as if he knew the exact turmoil in my head.

Ab toh jo hona hai ho hi gaya.

(It is what it is.)

With that resigned thought, I stepped inside.

The house was deceptively simple, its beauty lying in the small details. The crackling fireplace drew my attention first, its warmth casting flickering shadows across the room.

A low table sat in front of it, placed on a luxurious rug that screamed wealth. It probably cost more than my education.

Couches were arranged neatly around the fireplace—a large sofa flanked by two armchairs. The table held scattered study materials, notebooks, and papers.

He was studying?

The door closed with a soft thud behind me, making me jump. I turned to see him leaning casually against it, his gaze raking over me in a way that made my skin prickle.

He took a step forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate. "So..." His hands rubbed together, the sound soft but charged.

"So?" My voice came out weaker than intended, barely above a whisper. He knew I was nervous. Hell, my racing heart probably betrayed every thought running through my head.

"Student," he began, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "We'll start with what you already know. Then, I'll outline the action plan."

He walked toward the fireplace, his presence consuming the space. He stopped abruptly, turning slightly. "Also, my tactics..." He paused, his lips curling into another infuriating smirk.

"Tactics?" I prompted, hating the uncertainty in my voice.

"They're...unique."

"Oh, great." My voice was dry, sarcasm masking my discomfort. "Unique. Can't wait."

"Rule one—respond quicker," he said, his tone sharp, cutting. "You can't afford to live in your head."

Who the hell does he think he is?

"Well, I'm slow. Deal with it, Sir," I shot back, throwing the last word like a dart.

His smirk vanished. His expression darkened, eyes narrowing.

"Don't," he said, his voice devoid of amusement.

I dismissed his mood swing with a wave, dropping my bag on the couch and heading toward the table. But before I could take another step, I felt my body spin violently.

"Listen to me." His voice was low, dangerous, as he pinned my hands behind me. His body caged mine, the heat of him seeping through my thin coat.

My pulse thundered as his face lowered to mine, our breaths mingling. "We're going to do this, and it will be on my terms," he said, his tone a threatening whisper. "And you...you're going to behave."

My body trembled under his grip, every nerve screaming at me to fight back. But I couldn't.

His dark eyes burned into mine, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Who does he think he is?

"This isn't a royal court, Your Highness. So, if you're done with your god complex performance, how about we get to work?"

My voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Wow, I can be rude. He had it coming, though—definitely not my fault. I try to wrench my wrist free, but his grip only tightens, firm and unyielding, like steel wrapped in velvet.

And there it is—his face shifts, that insufferable smirk spreading across his lips. Is he bipolar? Probably. He even talks in ellipses for some reason. Infuriating.

Finally, he releases me and lowers himself onto the carpet with a deliberate elegance that seems almost rehearsed. Confused, I stand there, frozen, until he gestures towards the floor with a flick of his eyes.

Ye log niche baithte hain?

(These people sit on the floor?)

Reluctantly, I sink down, the plush texture of the carpet brushing against my palms. He powers up his MacBook with the same casual precision, while mine sits abandoned on the sofa behind him. Without even glancing my way, he reaches back and hands it to me.

"What do you think went wrong in the last test?" His voice is clinical, almost detached—such a stark contrast to the man who'd opened the door moments ago.

"There's nothing to think about. The scores are out." I flip my laptop towards him, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light, but he doesn't even glance at it.

"Yeah, act arrogant. That's definitely going to help," he mutters, his tone razor-sharp and dismissive. My temper flares, rising like a tidal wave.

Every second he breathes near me feels like an assault on my sanity. He makes me angrier than I ever thought possible.

"Rudra, this isn't going to work. You and I... we don't see eye to eye. Let's not waste each other's time." My voice is clipped as I pull my laptop back, ready to leave.

That's when he looks up, his gaze piercing through me, calculating, almost predatory.

"You're right."

Wait, what? Did he just... agree?

Before I can process it, he rises from the floor with a fluid grace, every movement deliberate, almost regal. He crosses the room and sinks into an armchair by the fire, the warm glow of the flames casting shadows across his chiseled features. My eyes follow him, unwillingly captivated.

There it is—the aura of royalty. It clings to him like a second skin. His rolled-up sleeves reveal intricate tattoos snaking down his forearm, stark against his skin. His hands, resting casually on the armrest, radiate quiet power.

And then it hits me, low in my stomach, like a punch I wasn't ready for. He's hot. Stupid hot. I blink, trying to shake the thought, but it's already there, rooted in my mind.

I stand abruptly, ready to grab my bag and escape, but before I can, his hand snakes out, gripping my wrist with a force that leaves no room for argument. My breath hitches as he pulls me toward him, and the next thing I know, I'm in his lap.

My heart pounds violently as his arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me in place. His other hand tilts my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze.

Darkness.

That's what I see in his eyes. Not sadness, not anger—something far more complex. It's like staring into an abyss, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Who the hell is this man?

"This is how it's going to work," he begins, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around me like a noose. His breath brushes against my skin as he leans closer, the heat of him almost suffocating.

"I'll help you with the project," he continues, his thumb tracing slow, maddening circles on my cheek. "And you'll do everything I say. I repeat, Mukti—everything."

My hands, trembling, rest on his chest, the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt an unwelcome distraction. "What do you mean?" I manage to whisper, my voice barely audible.

His presence overwhelms me, his touch igniting something I've spent years trying to bury.

His hand slips from my face to my neck, his fingers wrapping around it like a collar. My pulse races beneath his grip, and I feel trapped, cornered—but not entirely unwilling. His cologne clouds my senses, the warmth of his body seeping into mine.

"D-dekhiye, Ru-Rudra. Main uss type ki ladki n-nahi hoon," I stammer, trying to summon a shred of defiance. But my resolve crumbles under the weight of his gaze.

("L-look, Ru-Rudra... I-I'm not that kind of girl.")

"I know," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. "And that's why I want you all to myself."

His words are shameless, unapologetic, and they send a jolt of panic through me. This is insane. I'm not some BookTok heroine in a "dark romance" trope. This isn't some Fifty Shades fantasy.

" I have to go," I blurt, my voice breaking, desperate to escape. But his arm around my waist is like iron, unyielding. My breath quickens as I feel his lips graze the shell of my ear, his breath hot and intimate, burning a trail straight to my core.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, dark and knowing. It's not a question; it's a taunt, a dare. My body betrays me, a shiver running down my spine. Every nerve feels alive, hyperaware of the dangerous allure of him.

My heart races as if I'm standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing one wrong move will send me plummeting.

The floodgates open in my mind, and memories surge forward—unrelenting, merciless. Tarun's face as he cheated right in my face. The gut-wrenching sight of betrayal, the humiliation that followed like a shadow I couldn't shake.

The suffocating loneliness that gripped me night after night, choking me in the silence of my own room. My chest tightens painfully, my throat raw from holding back tears that I refuse to let fall in front of him.

"Agar yeh koi challenge hai to fool around with the quiet girl," I choke out, my voice splintering, sharp with bitterness and anguish, "then tell me directly. We can put up an act."

("If this is just some challenge to fool around with the quiet girl...")

"I trusted the wrong person... but that doesn't mean I'm up for sale—"

His fingers find my chin, the grip firm and commanding. He tilts my face up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are an inferno, blazing with an intensity that strips me bare.

"Enough," he growls, the single word slicing through the space between us. It's not just a command—it's a warning, laced with barely-contained anger.

The word breaks me. My composure shatters like glass, the cracks spidering out until the dam finally bursts.

"It wasn't my fault," I whisper, but the words come out jagged, strangled by my sobs.

"Mukti," he interrupts, and this time his voice is different. Softer, almost tender, but still laced with a weight that presses down on me.

His forehead presses against mine, grounding me even as I feel like I'm unraveling. His hand moves to the back of my head, and his fingers thread through my hair in a gentle caress that undoes me.

It's as if he knows the exact moment I'm about to fall apart and holds me together just enough to keep me breathing.

"Agar sab pata hai, tou ye haal kyu banaya hai khudka?" he whispers, his breath warm against my skin, his words cutting deeper than I thought possible.

("If you're aware, then why do this to yourself?")

They scrape against the raw edges of my self-loathing, exposing truths I've been too afraid to face. My hands clutch his shirt, my fingers curling tightly around the soft fabric, as if holding on to him will keep me from crumbling completely.

And then the tears come. Hot and relentless, spilling over like a storm I can't contain. They soak his shirt, turning the pristine white translucent, a physical reminder of my breakdown.

I cry with abandon, each sob ripping through me, hollowing me out. His hand never leaves my head, the gentle pressure of his palm a strange comfort amidst the chaos inside me.

I hate myself for finding solace in his touch, for needing this moment as desperately as I do.

I was humiliated, scared, and so much more than I could even fathom right now. This moment was suspended in the air between us, fragile and devastating.

His forehead doesn't move from mine. If anything, he leans in closer, as if trying to absorb the weight of my confession. For the first time, his presence doesn't feel like an intrusion.

It feels steady, grounding, as though he's tethering me to the moment, refusing to let me disappear into the dark spiral of my thoughts.

I hate myself.