The fabric still hung from his fingers like temptation.
Black. Silk. Dangerous.
Backless. Slit. Laced to be noticed… and removed.
And it wasn't just a nighty—it was a revelation. A side of her she kept hidden behind soft words and steady routines. The version of Anaya she thought he didn't see.
But Rudra Singhaniya?
He always saw what no one else dared to.
He stared at the nighty for a long beat. His eyes unreadable, but his silence said everything—desire, possession, confusion, calculation. All of it simmering just beneath the surface of his stone-carved expression.
Then, slowly, with a smirk that curled up just one side of his mouth—the kind of smirk that came right before a storm—he turned away from the wardrobe and walked back to her suitcase.
His steps made no sound.
He crouched, unfolded one of her salwar suits near the top, and carefully slid the silk nighty beneath it—deep into the middle layer of her clothes, buried just enough to go unnoticed by anyone else.
But not by her.
No. She'd find it. Eventually.
Not where she had left it.
But exactly where he wanted her to.
And when she did?
She'd know.
He wasn't hiding it out of shame.
He was reminding her who it belonged to.
He stood, dusted invisible lint from his hands, and glanced at the suitcase with a quiet nod.
"You were going to take it with you," he murmured to the empty room. His voice was low, rich, dark—like velvet soaked in espresso.
Then added, louder this time, "So keep it with you. Just remember who saw it first."
He returned to the wardrobe, this time opening it fully. And now, his eyes scanned her side differently—not as a husband. Not even as a lover.
But as a man trying to understand the evolution of the woman he was beginning to unravel.
Rudra opened her wardrobe like he had a right to it. Technically, he did. She was his wife now. Nineteen, almost twenty-one, and still hiding things like a schoolgirl.
He smirked.
The kurti was there. The jeans too. All the usual middle-class modesty layered up just like she always wore. Safe. Predictable. But behind that row, tucked carefully like contraband, was something else.
"Aha," he murmured to himself, pulling out the red dress. Soft satin. Spaghetti straps. Not her usual type. Not the kind she ever wore around him. Not the kind she bought when shopping with his sister. That was always floral prints, baggy cuts, things that screamed, "Don't look at me."
This?
This screamed look. And he did.
"Toh yeh sab chhupake rakhti hai, haan? Kya sochti hai main dekh nahi sakta tujhme kya chal raha hai?"
He held the dress for a second longer before folding it carefully, then slipping it into her bag—right under the cotton nightwear. Just beneath the pretense. Just like her. Hiding fire under all that cotton.
But that wasn't all. Another piece caught his eye.
A black nighty.
She must've bought it without telling anyone. Not his sister, not him. It was delicate, almost see-through, with lace at the hem. Rudra held it like it might vanish. His eyes narrowed.
"Tujhme ek alag duniya chhupi hai, Siya. Mujhe lagta tha main sab jaan gaya hoon. Par tu toh ek puzzle hai. Aur mujhe lag raha hai... main addicted ho gaya hoon."
He wasn't lying. There was an ache inside him now, deep and sharp. The need to know her fully. Every version. Every shadow.
He put it in her backpack, right next to the red dress, zipping it shut like locking away a secret. But this time, he was the one who knew.
He looked back at the wardrobe. Even her mess was organized. Neat stacks. Color-coded hangers. But now he saw it—a pattern.
All those safe clothes. All those safe choices. But behind them? The things she chose for herself, not for the world. Not even for him.
He stood there for a moment, quiet.
Then chuckled.
"Tumhe lagta hai main pathar hoon. Cold. Cruel. Haan, tha. Shayad ab bhi hoon. Par tu... tu kuch kar rahi hai mere saath. Dheere dheere."
He shut the wardrobe slowly, still smiling to himself.
Then, just before walking away, he muttered, "Yeh ladki kisi din mujhe barbaad kar degi. Aur main khushi khushi hone dunga."
Later that night, she was in their room, unaware. Busy humming some old Lata tune under her breath, rubbing lotion into her arms. Rudra sat on the couch in the corner, pretending to check mails on his phone, but his eyes flicked toward her every few seconds. That red dress kept flashing in his mind. The way she hid it. The way she pretended it didn't exist.
He didn't just want to see her in it now. He needed to.
His jaw clenched.
She didn't even know what she did to him.
His phone buzzed, but he didn't read the message. Instead, he said, "Tum kabhi woh dress pehnogi jo... tumne chhupaya hai?"
She froze. Her back to him. Shoulders stiffening. "K-kaunsa dress?"
He smirked to himself. "Jisey tumhare cotton ke neeche chhupaya gaya hai. Jise tumne kabhi mere saamne pehnne ki himmat nahi ki."
She turned around slowly, eyes wide. "Tumne mere bag mein dekha?"
"Wardrobe mein. Bag mein. Tum kahan tak chhupati ho, Siya? Mujhe lagta tha tum simple ho. Par tum toh... fire ho, andar se."
She didn't respond. He could see her jaw clench.
"Main tumse kuch nahi chhupa rahi thi," she said finally, her voice quiet but defiant.
He got up, walked towards her, slow and deliberate. "Toh phir dress kyun chhupaya? Batao mujhe. Kiss ke liye kharida tha?"
She lifted her chin. "Mere liye."
That hit him harder than it should've. For a second, he forgot the smirk. Forgot the cold stare. Forgot who he was supposed to be.
"Mere liye?"
"Haan. Mujhe dekhna tha main kaise lagti hoon usmein. Mujhe yaad dilaane ke liye ki main sirf kisi ki biwi nahi hoon. Ki main abhi bhi... main hoon."
Rudra stared at her. Something twisted in his chest. This girl. This small, fierce thing who still found ways to own herself.
He raised a hand, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Tu mujhe barbaad kar rahi hai, Siya. Pata bhi hai tujhe?"
She stepped back. "Mujhe barbaad mat karo, Rudra. Mujhe khud pe bharosa karne mein waqt laga hai. Abhi mat todna."
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Not when all he could think of was her in that dress.
That night, long after she fell asleep, Rudra sat on the edge of the bed. Watching her.
His need wasn't just desire anymore. It was obsession. He wanted to possess every thought she had. Every glance, every secret. He wanted to be the reason she bought that dress. The reason she felt fire under her skin.
He reached into her bag and pulled out the red dress again. Let it spill across his palm like liquid fire.
"Tu meri ho. Sirf meri. Aur main tujhe khud se door jaane nahi dunga," he whispered into the dark.
He imagined her standing in front of him, wearing it, eyes uncertain but curious. Vulnerable. Brave.
"Ek din... tu yeh mere liye pehnegi. Apne liye bhi. Aur us din main tujhe wahi dekhunga jo tu sach mein hai. Not my wife. Not some obligation. Par tu. Sirf tu."
He folded it again, slower this time. Possessive now. Protective. Obsessive.
She didn't know yet what she'd started.
He was Rudra. Ice, stone, storm. But when it came to her?
He was burning.
And there was no going back.