Disha

I look down at the token clasped between my fingers flipping it restlessly to pass the dragging minutes. The waiting room hums with the low murmur of patients and the occasional shuffle of footsteps but my mind is elsewhere counting breaths, steadying myself.

 Thankfully, the cramps and the heavy flow had eased after the medicines the doctor prescribed yesterday. At least today I can sit without curling into myself. My train isn't until the afternoon. I have enough time to prepare.

The door to the doctor's cabin clicks open, and the patient before me steps out with a faint smile of relief indicating my turn. Pushing myself upright I smooth down my trousers and tug at the sleeveless top that suddenly feels too thin under the hospital's sharp air-conditioning. A trail of goosebumps prickles my skin as I walk in.

The cabin smells faintly of antiseptic, clean and sterile, almost unnervingly so. The walls are white, lined with neatly pinned medical charts, and in the center rests a desk cluttered with files and instruments that gleam under the tube light. Behind it sits the same doctor who had attended me yesterday, her face warm, professional, lips curved into a knowing smile.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Sehgal?" she asks, her voice gentle but deliberate as she gestures for me to sit.

The title alone makes my jaw tighten. Mrs. Sehgal. Even in this room, away from him, the name feels like chains clinking at my wrists. I roll my eyes inwardly, but on the outside, I manage a polite smile and lower myself onto the stool.

"I'm feeling much better," I reply, keeping my tone even.

She nods approvingly checking my temperature, my blood pressure, and asking the routine questions with mechanical ease before leading me to the examination table. The paper sheet beneath me crackles as I lie back, staring at the ceiling's blank whiteness. The cool gel she spreads across my lower abdomen makes me flinch, a shiver running through me before the cold pressure of the scanner presses against my skin.

Something churns uncomfortably in my stomach. I force myself to focus on the monitor, the black-and-white static shifting into blurred images. The doctor's hand moves with steady precision, pausing at one particular spot, and I feel my breath stutter. There a faint, almost invisible dot small but real.

She sets the scanner aside and hands me a tissue. I wipe the gel quickly, my fingers trembling slightly, then sit up with a silent prayer burning through me, Please, let it not be what I think. Not again.

The doctor turns toward me with practiced calm. "You have an ovarian cyst, Mrs. Sehgal. Don't worry, it's small. With the right diet and the medicines I prescribe, it will heal."

Her words hit like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading through me. The last thing I wanted to hear. My chest tightens at the realisation. 

 Again?

I thought I was done with this. Healed completely. I remember my last scan two years ago showed everything was normal then. Why now? Why when I had finally convinced myself I had left that part of me behind? Memories surge, being seventeen, overweight, hiding my insecurities behind laughter while carrying the pain of two cysts that had taken me nearly three years to cure naturally. Three years of patience and discipline and many more of struggle when i was unaware of this. And now, it's all back, dragging me into the past I didn't want to revisit.

She guides me back to the stool and begins scribbling on the prescription pad, explaining doses and diet restrictions. I nod, not fully hearing.

"Please... don't tell this to Rudra," I say finally, my voice lower, urgent. I know it's useless. The hospital, the staff, everything here bends to his command. She probably reports to him anyway. Still, the plea escapes me, fragile but necessary. A small attempt to keep this secret mine.

With the prescription in hand, I step out of the cabin. My eyes scan the paper, the unfamiliar names of medicines blurring into lines I barely comprehend. My mind is still trapped in the room in the dot on the screen, in the words I didn't want to hear.

Then, suddenly—

A hand shoots forward, snatching the slip from between my fingers.

I jerk my head up.

And there he is.

Rudra.

Towering, broad-shouldered, filling the narrow hospital corridor like he owns it. His presence is overwhelming, magnetic in its danger dressed in business suit even in hospital. The faint, bitter smell of cigarettes clings to him, wrapping around me like smoke I can't escape. His dark eyes flick down at the prescription in his hand, then up at me with unreadable expression, yet burning.

My stomach knots. 

"What did the doctor say?"

His voice comes low, edged with something that isn't concern but control as if i am obliged to answer him.

Before I can step away, Rudra's fingers wrap firmly around my wrist, his grip deceptively casual yet unyielding as he pulls me to walk in step with him.

The heat of his touch seeps into my skin. My eyes lower to where his hand clasps min roughly, a silent reminder that I don't get to walk freely, not even here, not even in a damn hospital corridor.

"She said, that I have a long life to live." I begin lightly, tilting my chin up pausing, catching the faint spark in his eyes before flashing him a smile that is anything but innocent. "And do you know what I plan to do with my long life?"

His lips tug upward into a smirk, the kind that both dares and warns, but he stays silent, a tilt of his head encouraging me to continue.

"I planned to kill you within months," I murmur sweetly, "and then live in luxury with all your wealth." I wink.

For a moment his gaze locks on mine, those deep brown eyes, steady and unreadable, like a predator that doesn't need to snarl to terrify. Then he looks away, forward again, the smirk gone, his profile hardening into something colder. No retort. No threat. Just silence. And somehow, that stings more than any cruel remark he could have thrown.

My eyes linger on his side profile as we walk the sharp slope of his nose, the clean line of his jaw, the lashes thick enough to shame any woman. His sun-warmed skin catches the corridor's light, and in that moment, he looks less like a man and more like the villain of every story told in whispers. Dangerous. Magnetic and Unavoidable if there eyes set on you.

And yet, he distracts me again. Just as he did this morning when I woke to see him stepping out of the bathroom. Normally, men step out in towels, half-dressed, careless. But Rudra had emerged in black lowers and a long-sleeved T-shirt, hair damp, falling in messy strands across his forehead. It should have been ordinary. It wasn't.

The second time was breakfast. He sat across the table while I stubbornly cooked for myself because I don't want to trust anyone related to my food, not after the sleeping pills incident. He didn't argue, Just watched me eat with that unnerving calm.

The third was before he left for work. He had demanded, in his own way, that I send him off with bad luck, the way I had been these past few days. He had even leaned in, intent on stealing a kiss. I slapped his shoulder in defiance as usual. He didn't react. The lack of response had unnerved me more than anger ever could.

And now, his silence again.

Suddenly, Rudra's steps halt. My body jolts to a stop with him, his grip on my wrist keeping me tethered. I follow his gaze and notice the pharmacy counter ahead. Without a word, he strides forward, dragging me with him, and hands the prescription slip to the man at the desk. His hold on me doesn't loosen not tight, but steady. Like a man who doesn't want to touch me yet refuses to let go.

The pharmacist bags the medicines, placing them on the counter. My throat tightens. I know those pills especially the birth controls. I've lived with them before. They are the very same my gynecologist once prescribed for my PCOD. The ones that gave me nosebleeds until I finally stopped taking them. I had chosen a harder path instead, changing my diet, forcing my body to shed more than twenty kilograms, suffering through a year of painful cycles, headaches, hair fall, and nights curled up in silent agony. I survived it once. I don't want to go back there again.

Rudra takes the medicines, thanks the man curtly, and turns to me. His hand shifts back to my wrist, leading me out of the hospital like I am a shadow he refuses to let stray.

The silence stretches between us all the way to the parking lot. I unlock my car, sliding into the driver's seat. He doesn't ask me to ride with him, doesn't try to force me into his car. Perhaps he knows I won't agree. 

I drive out first, the gates of the hospital shrinking behind me. But in the rearview mirror, I see his car tailing mine always behind me and watching. Only god knows how long he has been doing this.

The traffic thickens, and the twenty-minute drive feels longer with the weight of his presence trailing me like a shadow. When I finally turn through the mansion gates, his car slips in behind mine without hesitation.

Inside, the silence continues as we both step into the house. The vast living room swallows us, polished marble reflecting the late afternoon light. My heels click against the floor until his voice cuts through the air.

"Where are you going?" I stop mid-step, his tone more command than question. I had expected him to ask me the moment he had seen my packed bag in morning. 

Turning slowly, I face him. "I am going home—"

"This is your home now." The interruption slices through my words, final and absolute. His voice is calm, but the authority in it wraps around me like iron chains.

Instead of snapping back at him in rage, I force my lips into a bitter curve, lacing my words with sarcasm. Taking a slow step closer, I cross my arms over my chest, holding his gaze with stubborn defiance.

"This is not a home, Rudra," I say, each word deliberate, sharp. "This is a prison where I'm expected to behave, where my food is spiked to keep me obedient, and if I dare step out of line—" my voice dips into a razor whisper as I look into his eyes, "—the man of the house decides to rape me into sanity. Isn't that how it works here?"

His dark brown eyes flare, the color deepening with fury. The muscle in his jaw twitches, his teeth gritting as he clenches his fists at his sides. He doesn't roar. He doesn't lash out.

"You don't know what a real prison looks like," he says finally, voice low, each syllable edged in steel. Then, leaning closer, he adds in a tone that brooks no argument, "You're not going to your mother. End of discussion."

Before I can draw a breath, his hand clamps around my wrist again, harder this time, and he drags me down the corridor. His stride is merciless, mine stumbles to keep up until he shoves me into a room and reaches to lock the door.

I roll my eyes, watching him with mockery dripping from my voice. "Don't think locking me inside will stop me. I need to see my mother. If I don't, I'll lose my mind, Rudra." My voice rises, louder with each word, echoing off the four walls until it feels like the room itself is trembling with me.

The door suddenly flies open, making me stumble back in surprise. His shadow fills the frame. His expression is unreadable carved in stone.

"I'll let you leave," he says, his tone deceptively calm, "if you apologize to Jessica for the insult you threw at her yesterday."

I turn my face away, jaw tightening giving my answer in silence.

His eyes narrow, but his voice holds no anger only conviction. "She is like a mother to me. I don't accept anyone disrespecting her."

I glance back at him, catching something he always carries for her, Respect. That's when it hits me. The only two women he values is the ones who hold any power over him are his mother, and Jessica. It shouldn't disappoint me, but it hurts. 

"You can disrespect other people's mothers," I snap, my voice quivering despite myself, "but you can't bear it when your mother-like figure gets insulted. I treated her like mother. But she had been poisoning me behind my back while i complimented her all meals."

The tremor in my tone doesn't go unnoticed. His gaze hardens further, like steel cooled to ice. Then strangely he takes a step back, putting distance between us as though my words carry a weight even he doesn't want near him or he isn't capable of comforting someone.

"I never disrespected your mother, and I never will." he says flatly.

A bitter laugh escapes me. "Using her to threaten me into marrying you is considered disrespect. But you wouldn't understand. People like you born in luxury never have to struggle for the things we do. You'll never know what it feels like to fight for something as simple as dignity."

He doesn't respond. His silence feels heavier than his words. Without another glance, he steps out of the room and locks the door again, leaving me to collapse into the chair, clutching my head in both hands agony twisting through me.

Ho gya syaapa. 

(It's all screwed up.)

I should have known. I was right not to tell my mother about my arrival. If she knew, she'd worry, and this scene is exactly what I feared. He may have locked me in, but this is not defeat. Not yet.

I have to be with her tomorrow. It's her wedding anniversary. If I don't go, she'll sit alone with her memories, sinking back into the grief of the man who ruined our lives. I won't let that destroy her health.

Pacing the room, my mind races until an idea sparks wild, reckless, but the only way out.

I stride into the walk-in closet, pulling open drawers until my fingers close around what I need. His lighter and pack of cigarettes.

I dial the fire brigade on my phone, breathless, preparing for what comes next. Then, without hesitation, I flick the flame and set the curtains ablaze. One corner catches, then another. I step back as smoke curls upward in dark fingers, the fire spreading faster than I expected. It's dangerous but danger is the only language Rudra understands.

Because Rudra doesn't want me dead. He needs me alive. Alive to hate me and yet belong to him, whether I want it or not. 

Flames leap, licking at the furniture, devouring fabric. Smoke thickens, choking the air, stinging my eyes and throat. I cough violently, but I don't stop. When the fire reaches the ceiling, the sprinklers burst open, spraying water in sharp bursts, soaking me, drenching the room in chaos. Alarm violently rings in the entire mansion almost feeling like a shattering of my plan.

The door slams open. 

He storms in, his tall frame cutting through the smoke, his face tight, breath sharp as his gaze rakes over the blackened marks of destruction. Finally, his eyes settle on me drenched, coughing, wild-eyed, standing amidst the wreckage I created.

"You are so stubborn, little one" he says, his voice flat, devoid of anger but laced with something deeper.

He steps further into the room, surveying the damage with a grim calm before turning his gaze back to me. "I want you back in two days. Understand?"

His words make me freeze. For a second, I almost forget to breathe. If I had known fire would make him bend, admit even for a moment that he can't keep me caged, I would have lit a match long ago.

I turn toward the closet, pausing at the doorway, water dripping from my hair, a smirk tugging at my lips despite the smoke still burning my lungs.

"If you're going to renovate this room, paint the walls in lighter colors and please no pink." I toss over my shoulder.

Then I walk inside, leaving him standing amidst the ashes i created probably wondering, what kind of trouble he got himself into by bringing me into this hell.

 Who knows i might turn his hell upside down until i am the one who rules over him.