TRIGGER WARNING
PANIC ATTACK (detailed description)

This book delves into heavy mental health themes. Please be mindful of your limits and read the note at the end.

• • • • • •

A dull, throbbing ache blooms at the base of my skull, spreading down my spine like ink bleeding through fabric. My body feels wrong—too heavy, too stiff, like I've been stitched into my own skin with thick, unyielding thread.

I try to move, but exhaustion presses me deeper into the mattress, a weight I can't shake off. My limbs resist, aching as if I've been wrung out and left to dry. Even opening my eyes feels like a task too monumental to attempt.

Somewhere in the haze, my fingers fumble for my phone. The screen glows bright against the darkness behind my eyelids. 12:07 PM.

I stare at the numbers, unblinking.

I missed my morning classes.

The realization barely stirs anything in me. No panic, no frustration—just a dull acceptance, like watching an irreversible ink stain spread across a page.

The phone slips from my fingers. I exhale, slow and deep, and let my body sink back into the pillows. Everything feels distant. My mind, my limbs, the world outside this room. Even the air in my lungs feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else.

I try to swallow, but my throat is raw. My eyes burn as if I've cried in my sleep, though I don't remember shedding a single tear. My body aches, but not in a way I can explain. It's not exhaustion, not soreness—it's something deeper, something tangled between flesh and bone.

I stare at the ceiling, watching the lazy sway of shadows. Everything feels untouched, frozen in time, except for the memories curling at the edges of my mind, creeping in before I can stop them.

Last night.

A curtains swaying against the dark.

A shadow.

The fear had been instant, sharp as a blade pressed against my throat. Even now, my breath hitches at the memory of it—the way the night had stretched, suffocating and endless, before—

Rudra.

His name crashes through the memory like a tidal wave, drowning everything else.

The sound of his voice—low, commanding, edged with something dangerous. The way he stepped into the dark like he belonged to it, like it bent to his will.

The bike ride. The wind slicing across my skin, carrying the scent of him—woodsmoke, leather, something darker, something that still clings to me even now.

The dinner. His gaze, heavy and unreadable. The quiet war between us, fought with stolen glances and unsaid words.

And then, the ride back. The heat of him before my chest. The way I hadn't exhaled until I was inside my house, door locked, lungs still holding the ghost of his presence.

My fingers curl into the sheets.

I need to stop thinking.

It's too much—the exhaustion, the weight of everything, the way my thoughts spiral the moment I let them wander.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my mind blank. It doesn't work.

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I push myself up. The room tilts slightly before settling. Every muscle protests, but I ignore it.

No more thinking. No more remembering.

Just move.

I push off the bed, my feet meeting the cold floor, and make my way to the bathroom.

The floor is cold beneath my feet, each step sending a dull ache up my legs. The soles of my feet throb with the remnants of last night's strain, how my body had fought exhaustion until it had finally collapsed under its weight.

I don't remember getting into bed.

I don't remember falling asleep.

But I remember the breaking. The sharp edges of it cutting into my skin, the raw gasps scraping against my throat, the silence that followed—thick, suffocating, stretching into the dark.

The bathroom is dim, the only light coming from the thin sliver slipping through the door. I walk to the sink, resting my hands on the porcelain, fingers trembling slightly as I turn the faucet. Cold water rushes forward, the sound too loud in the stillness.

I cup my hands beneath the stream and bring the water to my face. The chill stings, shocking against my overheated skin. Again. And again. Until the numbness sets in, until I can no longer tell if the cold is from the water or from somewhere inside me.

My breathing evens out, but the pressure in my chest doesn't lift.

Slowly, I raise my head.

And meet my own eyes in the mirror.

For a moment, I don't recognize myself.

The girl staring back at me looks hollow. Her eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, hold no light—just emptiness, a vacant sort of grief that lingers in the spaces where something softer used to be.

The evidence of last night is written across my skin. Tear tracks, half-washed away but still clinging to my cheeks. My hair is a tangled mess, strands sticking to my damp forehead. My lips are chapped, swollen from where I must have pressed them together too tightly, from where I must have bitten down to stop the sobs from escaping.

And my eyes.

Red-rimmed, sunken, dark crescents carved beneath them.

I look horrendous.

I grip the edges of the sink, my knuckles turning white.

It had been worse last night.

After Rudra dropped me off, after the door shut behind me, after the sound of his motorcycle faded into the distance—everything had unraveled.

The silence had pressed in first, thick and unbearable, curling around me like a vice. My lungs had refused to expand, my hands had started shaking, and before I could stop it, the wave had hit.

And I had let it.

The silence greeted me first.

Thick. Hollow. Unbearable.

Rudra's bike had disappeared into the night, its distant hum swallowed by the city. And yet, I stood there—frozen in place, staring at the same spot where Tarun had sat just hours ago. The window was shut now.

The air inside the house was still. But the weight of his presence lingered, curling around my ribs, pressing against my chest, as if he had branded himself into the walls, into the very fabric of my existence.

My fingers twitched.

The back of my neck prickled.

A slow, sinking feeling pooled in my stomach.

I turned away, forcing my legs to move, but they felt unsteady beneath me, each step up the staircase sending a tremor through my limbs. My breath came in shallow pulls. My fingers felt numb as I reached for my bedroom door.

Inside, I peeled off my clothes in a rush, discarding the dress as if it carried the filth of the night. My body felt foreign—tainted, exposed. The air was too cold against my skin, yet my throat burned. I grabbed the thickest night set I could find, the fabric heavy, suffocating, but grounding.

I climbed into bed, curling into the mattress, seeking warmth. Seeking safety.

But then it hit me.

The weight of it.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The panic.

It crashed over me, sharp and unrelenting, like a thousand hands closing around my throat, pressing me into the bed, into the memory of what had just happened. My breathing stuttered. My chest heaved. My hands—shaking.

And then my vision blurred.

Only when the hot streams of tears rolled down my cheeks did I realize I was crying. Again.

Pathetic.

A choked sound wrenched from my throat. Silent tears turned to quiet sobs. And then, they weren't quiet anymore. They were ragged, uncontrollable, spilling from a place so deep inside me I didn't even know it existed.

I clutched the duvet, my body folding into itself as if I could disappear within the fabric, as if I could shrink so small that I would no longer be real. But the memories wouldn't stop playing.

A man had stood in my house.

While I was barely clothed.

He had sneered at me, reduced me to nothing more than a joke, accused me of things I hadn't done, questioned my worth—not just as a person, but as a woman. And I had let him.

I had stood there. Silent.

Because if I had spoken—if I had said the wrong thing, if I had pushed just a little too hard—what would have happened?

A fresh sob tore through my lungs.

The possibilities—the endless, horrifying possibilities—wrapped around me like a noose. I gasped, trying to breathe through it, but my throat was too tight, my lungs too weak. My heart pounded against my ribs, a violent rhythm, wild and uneven.

And then came the nausea.

I barely made it to the bathroom before the bile surged up my throat. I heaved into the toilet, my body convulsing, emptying itself of everything I had consumed, of everything that had tainted me. My fingers dug into the cold porcelain, my body shaking as I gagged over and over, even when there was nothing left.

Tears streamed down my face, hot, relentless. My stomach clenched, my ribs ached, but still, I couldn't stop.

It wasn't just about tonight.

It was everything.

The humiliation. The betrayal. The way Tarun had twisted everything, warped reality to make it seem like I was the one in the wrong, like I deserved to be treated this way.

Like he had the right to walk into my home and strip me of my dignity—again.

A broken sound slipped from my lips.

He had cheated on me.

Humiliated me in front of strangers.

And then come back—not to apologize, not to explain, but to break me further. To make me question my worth, to manipulate me into feeling like I was the problem.

How easy it had been for him.

How easily men did this.

How confidently they invaded, destroyed, and walked away unscathed.

A sharp tremor ran through me.

I wiped my mouth, forcing myself up, gripping the sink for support. My hands were still trembling. I tried to brush my teeth, but the brush slipped from my fingers, clattering into the sink. I picked it up again—only for it to fall once more.

My body was failing me.

I gave up.

I stumbled back toward my bed, my legs barely holding me up. But just as I reached the edge, my knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the mattress, curling into myself, hiding beneath the heavy duvet.

The sobs started again.

I pressed my face into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, but the tears wouldn't stop.

I wanted my mother.

I wanted my father.

I wanted home.

I wanted something—anything—that felt safe.

But there was nothing.

Only the darkness.

Only the aching emptiness in my chest.

And finally, exhaustion took over.

And I blacked out.

The walk to Rue's was exactly what I needed.

The late afternoon sun stretched lazily across the cobblestone paths, weaving through the crisp autumn air, warming my skin just enough to push away the last remnants of exhaustion. My steps felt lighter than they had all day, my muscles still sore but no longer trembling under the weight of last night.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted out of Rue's before I even reached the entrance, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. A mixture of vanilla, caramel, and something warm and nutty curled into my senses, comforting in a way I hadn't realized I was craving.

I pushed open the glass door, and the soft chime above rang out—a sound I had heard so many times before, but today, it felt different. Maybe because, for the first time in hours, I wasn't drowning in silence.

Rue looked up from behind the counter, her hands wiping down a ceramic mug, and the moment her eyes landed on me, the gentle smile on her lips faltered just a little.

"Mukti, sweetheart," she said, setting the mug down, her gaze soft but searching. "You look..." She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully.

Like hell. That's probably what she wanted to say.

I forced a small smile, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan. "Just tired."

Rue's eyes lingered for a moment longer, but then, as if sensing that I wasn't ready for concern, she nodded and shifted the conversation effortlessly.

"French vanilla latte and blueberry muffins?" she asked, already turning toward the espresso machine.

I exhaled, the smallest hint of relief settling in my chest. "Always."

She hummed in approval as she got to work, and I leaned against the counter, letting my shoulders loosen.

"The Possession by Reva is being adapted into a series," Rue said suddenly, glancing at me over her shoulder. "Saw the article this morning."

That piqued my interest. I straightened, the familiar name pulling me out of my haze. "Really? Did they announce the cast?"

Rue shook her head. "Not yet. But it's happening."

I sighed, half-exasperated, half-wary. "If they're going to miscast the characters, I'd rather they leave it as a book."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," came an unfamiliar voice from beside me.

I turned my head, blinking in surprise as I met a pair of warm, dark eyes.

A girl stood there, her hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized sweater, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulder in soft waves. She had an easygoing smile, the kind that wasn't intrusive but rather welcoming, as if she was genuinely invested in the conversation and not just inserting herself for the sake of it.

Rue straightened, suddenly realizing she had another customer. "Oh, I'm sorry, Saanvi dear. I didn't notice you were waiting."

The girl—Saanvi, waved a hand dismissively. "It's alright. I was invested in your conversation. I like Reva's books too."

Rue smiled, her usual warmth returning. "What can I get you, darling?"

"A matcha latte, please," Saanvi replied before turning back to me. "You really think miscasting can ruin an adaptation?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. There's something about imagining a character in your head, about the way they live in the spaces between the words on a page. A bad casting choice can shatter that illusion."

Saanvi hummed thoughtfully. "True. But at the same time, acting is an entirely different art. Sometimes what looks perfect on paper doesn't translate on screen."

That caught me off guard. Not because I disagreed, but because I rarely met people who understood the nuance.

"I guess that's where the business side of the industry comes in," I said slowly. "Studios pick actors based on marketability, not just talent. It's frustrating, but it makes sense from their perspective."

Saanvi smiled, tilting her head. "Exactly."

Rue set down my latte and muffin, then turned to prepare Saanvi's drink. "You two are the first people I've heard have a discussion about this without immediately going feral over bad casting."

I let out a short laugh, and surprisingly, it wasn't forced.

Saanvi grinned. "We're rational book lovers."

Rue returned with Saanvi's matcha latte and then slid two pecan danishes onto a small plate, placing it between us. "On the house, girls."

Saanvi beamed. "You're the best, Rue."

Rue patted my hand lightly before moving to help another customer, leaving me alone with Saanvi.

She took a small sip of her latte, then looked at me with curiosity. "I know I've seen you around campus before, but I don't think we've officially met."

I hesitated for a moment before answering, "Mukti. Second year, Art History."

Saanvi's face lit up. "No way. I'm in second year too—English Lit."

That explained a lot.

We fell into easy conversation, talking about professors, upcoming assignments, and—of course—more book adaptations. Saanvi had a natural warmth about her, the kind of person who made conversation feel effortless, who didn't push too hard or demand too much. It was... nice.

Eventually, she glanced at the time on her phone and sighed. "I have to run to my next class." She grabbed her latte and stood. "It was really nice talking to you, Mukti."

I nodded, feeling strangely reluctant to let the conversation end. "You too."

She smiled once more before walking out, leaving me in the quiet hum of the café.

For the first time since last night, I let myself sink into the comfort of it—the smell of coffee, the warmth of the latte between my palms, the soft chatter in the background.

I slipped into my usual corner, curled up with my e-reader, and let myself breathe.

Just for a little while.

The evening air was crisp when I stepped out of the cab, a strange stillness settling over the mountains. The iron gates of Rudra's house loomed ahead, imposing yet dangerously familiar now.

My grades were important, hence, I'm here.

Viren was walking out just the beautiful wooden gate as I reached the entrance. He held the gate open wider for me, his usual composed presence softened by a faint smile.

I whispered a quiet, "Thank you," and stepped inside.

And there he was.

Seated on the couch, his posture relaxed, yet there was an air of quiet power around him. He was dressed sharper than the last time—charcoal trousers, a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with strength.

One hand held his phone, the other rested lazily on the armrest. The car keys beside him suggested he had just gotten in, but the empty whiskey glasses on the table told a different story.

The moment his gaze locked onto me, the air thickened.

Commanding. Dark.

He didn't move instantly, just observed—slowly, unrelentingly. I felt that stare everywhere.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but absolute.

"You weren't at school today."

Not a question. A statement.

I shifted slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of my presence in his space. "I had a lazy day," I answered, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

He hummed in response, a low sound that didn't confirm whether he believed me. But his eyes—they saw through everything.

The urge to escape this intensity was suffocating, so I did the only thing I could. I moved toward the couch opposite him. "I was working on the contemporary world. I think that's where I mostly fumble."

I hated how my voice wavered, how I filled the silence just to avoid his scrutiny.

But it didn't work.

Because the silence stretched.

I glanced up, only to find his gaze still fixed on me. Searching. Assessing.

Then, his next words hit like a gunshot.

"Did you report him?"

My breath caught.

My chest tightened so suddenly that I almost curled into myself.

I forced myself to answer, keeping my voice neutral. "I will."

There was a pause. Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator, he stood.

A shiver ran through me.

He didn't need to do anything more than exist in a space to command it. His presence alone felt overpowering, wrapping around me like an invisible force.

I watched as he took one slow step forward, then another—until he was close. Too close.

I was certain he could hear the erratic beats of my pulse.

His breath ghosted against my skin, feather-light, teasing, taunting. But he didn't touch me.

I hated that I wanted him to.

"Let's go to the study."

And just like that, he pulled away.

Leaving me with the maddening ache of anticipation that he had no intention of satisfying.

I swallowed hard, gripping my bag tighter. He turned toward the hallway, moving with an ease that irritated me. As if none of this affected him.

"You coming?" His voice cut through my haze.

I exhaled sharply and followed.

We walked through a long corridor lined with floor-length glass windows. The view beyond was breathtaking—snow-capped peaks stretched into the horizon, the garden below blanketed in frost.

The beauty was lost on me.

Because my mind was still reeling from the way his presence had unraveled me in mere seconds.

The study was nothing like I had imagined.

The scent of leather, aged books, and rich wood greeted me as I stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the towering shelves packed with legal books. A massive wooden desk stood at the center, flanked by a leather couch and a fireplace. Heavy curtains obscured the tall windows behind the desk, casting long shadows.

A soft click.

The chandelier above breathed to life, bathing the space in a warm glow.

Rudra gestured toward one of the two chairs opposite his seat.

I lowered myself onto it, placing my bag on the table. My gaze followed him as he walked toward a bar setup in the corner. He poured himself a drink—dark amber liquid over an absurd amount of ice.

I frowned slightly. Ice. Although it was relatively warm today.

Quirky Rajvardhan.

He lifted the bottle slightly, silently offering.

I shook my head. As if.

He smirked. Almost like he'd expected my reaction.

Returning to the table, he pulled his chair closer to mine.

I tried not to let it affect me. But then he just—sat there. Watching me.

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.

He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly.

I clenched my jaw. "Are you done? Kaam kar le?"

("Can we get to work now?")

Before I could process his movement, my chair was turned sharply toward him.

My breath hitched.

"What the—"

His fingers pressed against my lips.

I froze.

Cold. His touch was ice-cold.

My lips parted involuntarily, a small gasp escaping me.

His voice was steady, unwavering. "So you didn't report him."

I forced myself to hold his gaze. "I said I will."

"But you didn't."

I could barely breathe.

Rudra's gaze was relentless, peeling me open layer by layer.

"What happened before I arrived?"

I clenched my hands into fists. "Nothing."

He leaned in, his scent—whiskey, cedar, something inherently male—curling around me.

"What exactly happened between you two before you decided to go absolute alcoholic?"

My stomach dropped.

I sucked in a breath, my mind scrambling for control. "None of your business, Mr. Rajvardhan."

His jaw ticked.

Then suddenly—

His hands wrapped around my wrists, pulling them behind me.

A sharp inhale tore through my lips.

I should resist. I should—

But the way he held me—firm, unyielding—made something inside me shatter.

He dipped his fingers into his glass.

A second later, he retrieved an ice cube.

What the fuck?

"I'm asking again." His voice was lower now, darker. "What happened between you two?"

Then—

A sharp gasp tore from my throat as the ice cube landed on my nipple, piercing through the fabric of my T-shirt and bra beneath.

Rudra's eyes darkened. And he just hummed urging me to speak.

The cube circled, the fabric of my T-shirt and open cardigan doing nothing to shield me from the cold torment.

My breath came out in shallow, desperate pants. My back arched involuntarily.

"I—I—uh," I gasped.

He applied just the slightest bit more pressure.

My head fell back.

"Kya hua tha?"

("What happened?")

"Ru—uh," I moaned, unable to stop myself.

He didn't let me finish.

The ice trailed lower, the contrast of his warmth and the cold setting me on fire.

He rolled the ice slowly, circling my nipple with agonizing precision. My breathing shattered, my body betraying me as my back arched against the sensation.

The cold burned.

"R-Rudra—" My voice was strangled, but he ignored it.

"Still nothing to say?" he murmured, voice like silk and steel.

I pressed my lips together.

The ice dipped lower.

I whimpered.

His lips curved into something dark. "Interesting."

The ice traveled further. Lower.

It slid beneath the cardigan, down the center of my stomach, trailing along my navel. My thighs clenched. My body was on fire and frozen at the same time.

I struggled, but it was useless. He was stronger.

The ice cube melted it he trailed it up my torso under my T-shirt.

And then —

I felt a jolt of electricity when it touched the spot. Right on my nipple.

"Ahh—"sharp moan broke from my lips before I could stop it. I felt him go still.

I would be the first person to be burning under the ice.

His grip on me tightened.

"What did he do to you?" His voice was different now. Darker. Rougher.

His nose tracing the contours of my neck. I'm sure he could hear my pulse. I wanted him to do more but he maintained the delicate ministrations.

My body betrayed me again. My hips arched, my thighs parted on instinct.

But the ice cube stayed there. Melting against the heat of my skin. Torturing me.

And still, I didn't speak.

Rudra growled.

"Say it."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "He—he called me to the forest behind campus."

Rudra froze. His face nuzzled in my hair.

"Go on," he commanded.

My voice shook. "I—I refused to go at first, but he insisted. And when I got there, he—" My throat closed up.

I felt his breath near my ear, dangerously warm compared to the ice.

"Tell me."

I exhaled shakily. "He was with a girl."

His hand tightened around my wrists.

I opened my eyes just in time to see it—his mask slipping.

A storm in his gaze.

"He knew I was coming," I whispered. "He saw me and—he didn't stop."

Silence.

A deadly, suffocating silence.

Then, the ice was gone.

His fingers wrapped around my throat, tilting my chin up.

His eyes were hungry. Dark. Possessed.