As we continued to walk,I saw her.Lilian.My school friend.
She stood across the street, half-hidden near a tea stall, her backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed on us. For a second, my brain refused to recognize her—then it clicked.
School.
Same class. Same benches. Same whispers back then, too.
My stomach dropped.
She didn't wave. Didn't smile. She just stared—at the car, at him leaning casually against it, at the way he looked at me like I already belonged there.
Then her lips parted slightly, as if she'd just solved a puzzle, and she turned away.
I stood frozen long after she was gone.
______
That night, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Unknown numbers. Half-known numbers. Girls I hadn't spoken to in years. Some messages blunt, some pretending concern.
Is it true?
Did you really land that guy?
Be careful… people like him don't date normal girls.
So you like that kind of guys, huh?
_______
By morning, it wasn't questions anymore. It was statements.
She's his lover.
She's kept.
That's why she walks around fearless now.
Rumors spread faster than truth ever could. By afternoon, people looked at me differently—curious, wary, calculating. Some boys who used to joke around suddenly kept their distance. Girls whispered when I passed, their eyes flicking behind me as if expecting him to appear.
By the time our next date came around, my nerves were shredded thin.
________
His black SUV pulled up near the café, smooth and unhurried, like always. The door opened, and he stepped out—dark clothes, composed expression, presence heavy enough to bend attention toward him.
I didn't wait for him to speak.
The words spilled out the second he closed the door.
"Do you know what you've done?" My voice shook despite my effort to steady it. "Everyone's talking. Everyone thinks I'm—" I swallowed hard. "They think I'm your lover."
He raised an eyebrow, calm, almost curious. "And?"
"And?" I stared at him, incredulous. "No one wants to come near me anymore. People are scared. They think I belong to you."
A slow smile curved his lips.
"That," he said, stepping closer, "is exactly what I want."
My chest tightened. "What are you talking about?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on mine. "No distractions. No alternatives. No one else thinking they have a chance."
"That's not romantic," I snapped. "That's trapping someone."
His smile didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened.
"Trapping?" he repeated softly. "No. Guiding."
I shook my head. "You're ruining my life."
He leaned in just enough that I could hear his next words meant only for me.
"I'm simplifying it."
I felt cold. "People won't even ask me out now."
He shrugged lightly. "Good."
Anger flared, sudden and bright. "You want me isolated?"
"I want you with no illusions," he replied. "No false exits. No pretending you'll run into someone safer, softer, easier."
I clenched my fists. "You don't get to decide that."
His gaze darkened—not furious, not loud. Controlled.
"I already have," he said quietly. "You're just catching up."
I swallowed. "This isn't love."
"No," he agreed without hesitation. "It's inevitability."
My heart pounded painfully. "You're forcing me."
He took a step back then, giving me space that felt deliberate, calculated.
"I'm waiting," he corrected. "You're the one still walking toward me."
I hated that part of me—the one that flinched at his words because they weren't entirely wrong.
"I didn't ask for this," I whispered.
He looked at me for a long moment, then opened the car door.
"Get in," he said calmly.
I stood there, the street buzzing with strangers, whispers, watching eyes.
Running didn't feel possible anymore.
And that scared me more than anything he'd ever done.
________
At the night:
Vorghese mansion—
The house was silent.Too silent.
He sat alone in the lounge, the lights dimmed to a low amber glow, shadows stretching long across the marble floor. A plush chair cradled his body as he leaned back, one ankle resting over the other. A bathrobe hung loosely around him, belt tied without care, the fabric slightly damp at the edges where it brushed against his skin.
In his hand, a glass of whiskey.
He didn't drink it immediately.
He watched the liquid sway gently instead, the ice clinking softly when he tilted the glass—back and forth, like a pendulum marking time.
She was upstairs.
In their room.
Too quiet.
Too careful.
Too distant.
His jaw tightened.
"She's delaying," he thought.
Not out of fear alone—no, he knew fear well. This was something else. Calculation. Survival instinct sharpened by experience. She wasn't refusing him outright. She wasn't running either.
She was waiting.
Dragging the days thin. Stretching patience like a wire pulled too tight.
A slow exhale left his nose.
Patience had never been his strongest virtue. He had learned it—forced it into himself—but that didn't mean it came naturally.
"I've already given you time," he murmured to the empty room, lifting the glass and finally taking a sip. The burn slid down his throat, familiar, grounding. "More than anyone else ever got."
He stared toward the staircase, eyes dark.
Marriage.
A signature.
A vow.
She was his now—on paper, in the eyes of the world. And yet she still held herself like she could vanish if she chose the right moment.
That wouldn't do.
"If you won't step forward," he thought calmly, "then I'll move the ground beneath you."
He set the glass down slowly, deliberately, the sound sharp in the silence.
Enough waiting.
He reached for his phone.
One name sat pinned at the top of the screen.
He hesitated for exactly one second—not out of doubt, but calculation.
Then he pressed call.
The line rang once.
Twice.
It connected.
His voice was low when he spoke, stripped of warmth, stripped of pretense.
"Change of plans," he said. "I need pressure applied."
A pause.
"Yes," he continued smoothly. "Public. Legal. Messy enough that she'll feel it—but not so much that she breaks."
His fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
"She needs to come to me on her own," he added. "Not because I dragged her. Because she chooses me."
Another pause.
A faint smile touched his lips—not kind, not cruel. Certain.
"And make sure it happens soon," he finished. "I'm done waiting."
He ended the call and leaned back again, eyes lifting to the ceiling.
Upstairs, she slept—or pretended to.
Down here, a decision had already been made.
Tomorrow, the world would tilt.
And when it did—
She would cling to him.
Just like he intended.
______
The next day—
The first crack appeared on a morning that should've been ordinary.
I was halfway through my lecture when whispers started rippling through the classroom—phones lighting up, heads bending together. Someone behind me gasped softly. Another laughed under their breath. I felt it before I saw it, that cold pull in my chest, the instinct that something had gone wrong.
My phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
I didn't pick it up until the professor paused to write on the board.
BREAKING NEWS
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN UNDER INVESTIGATION—FRAUD, ASSAULT, CORRUPTION ALLEGATIONS
My father's name stared back at me.
The room tilted.
By the time I reached the hostel gate, students were already looking at me differently. Curious. Judging. Some pretending not to stare. Others not bothering.
Is that her?
Her father?
I heard—
Apparently—
I didn't wait. I walked. Faster. My palms were slick with sweat, my breath shallow. Every sound felt amplified—the scrape of shoes, a laugh too loud, a scooter passing too close.
Then I felt it.
That same wrongness I'd felt the day I was kidnapped.
Footsteps behind me.
I turned sharply. A man stood near the tea stall—hood pulled low, phone raised like he was texting. When our eyes met, he smiled. Not friendly. Knowing.
I walked faster.
So did he.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The street narrowed ahead, people thinning out, the afternoon sun suddenly too harsh. I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.
Another man stepped out from between two parked bikes.
"Hey," he said casually, blocking my path.
I froze.
"This way," the one behind me murmured.
Panic swallowed thought. My vision tunneled. I took a step back—and my heel slipped.
Strong hands grabbed my arm.
I screamed.
And then—
"Aiden!"
I didn't even remember dialing his number. I didn't remember when he arrived. All I knew was the sudden shift—the way the air itself seemed to change.
The men stiffened.
Aiden stood a few feet away, calm as ever, coat immaculate, expression almost bored. His eyes flicked from them to me—wide-eyed, shaking, on the verge of breaking.
"Problem?" he asked softly.
The grip on my arm loosened.
One of them muttered a curse and stepped back. The other followed. They disappeared into the street as if they'd never existed.
My legs gave out.
I clung to Aiden.
Not gently. Desperately. My fingers fisted in his shirt, my face pressed against his chest as if he were the only solid thing left in the world. My breath came in ugly sobs I couldn't stop.
He didn't hug me back.
But he didn't push me away either.
I felt it—the slight rise and fall of his chest, the stillness of his body. Then, slowly, his hand came up and rested on my back. Possessive. Certain.
When I finally looked up, his mouth was curved in a faint smile.
Not relief.
Satisfaction.