“Tumhari nigahon ka asar hai kuch aisa,
Ke duniya ke beech bhi tanha mehsoos karti hoon.
Tumse bachna chahti hoon,
Par tum meri saanson ka pehra ban gaye ho.”
(The spell of your gaze is such,
That I feel alone even in a crowd.
I try to escape you,
But you’ve become the guard of my every breath.)
The Morning After
Haya woke with a start.
Her breath stuttered as if even in sleep she had been running, chased, hunted. For a moment she thought it had been a nightmare—his voice, his touch, his command still echoing in her head. But then her trembling hand brushed against the side of her neck, and she froze.
The bruise was there. Dark. Tender. Burning.
She sat up quickly, clutching her dupatta to her chest, heart hammering in panic. Morning sunlight streamed faintly through the thin curtains of their cramped apartment, but it didn’t feel warm. It felt cruel, exposing.
Haya stumbled to the mirror, tugging the fabric down just enough to look.
A mark bloomed like spilled ink over her pale skin. His mark. His mouth had written it on her body, with the weight of ownership. The reminder of last night punched the air from her lungs—his lips bruising, his hands unrelenting, his voice claiming her as if she were never hers to begin with.
Shame burned her cheeks. Disgust twisted her stomach. But beneath it all—deep, forbidden—was something far more dangerous. A tremor that wasn’t entirely fear. A heat she didn’t want to name.
“No,” she whispered harshly to her reflection, yanking the dupatta up to cover her throat. Her own wide eyes looked back at her, glassy and frightened. “No. This is wrong. He is wrong.”
But the tremor didn’t leave.
From the hall, she heard her brother. Sameer’s voice, low, frustrated, muttering curses under his breath. The familiar clink of a lighter followed, then the acrid smell of his cigarette drifted in.
Haya swallowed, pulling herself together, tying her hair back with shaking hands. She stepped out of her room to see him hunched at the dining table, head in his hands, smoke curling around his knuckles. He looked… old. Defeated. Like the debt had eaten years off him overnight.
“Tumne khana banaya?” His voice was gruff, not looking at her.
“Banati hoon,” she said quietly, moving towards the stove. Her voice felt small, and she hated that.
Sameer finally looked up at her then. His bloodshot eyes flicked over her face, lingered on the edge of her dupatta where it covered her neck. She froze. His mouth opened, as if he might say something. As if he might ask. As if he might protect.
But he didn’t.
He just looked away, exhaling smoke, tapping ash into an already full tray. “Bas… college late mat ho jana.”
The hollow in her chest widened.
She wanted to scream at him—Bhai, do you not see? Do you not care? But she bit her tongue until it hurt. What use was screaming, when the chains around both their necks were already tied to the same man?
The same man who owned their nights.
Her hands shook as she kneaded the dough for breakfast. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t scrub his voice from her head.
“Tum ab meri ho, Haya. Chaahe tum maan lo ya na.”
(You’re mine now, Haya. Whether you accept it or not.)
Her stomach lurched. She pressed the dupatta tighter around her throat.
The sharp trill of her phone broke the heavy silence.
Haya flinched, nearly dropping the rolling pin.
Aaliya’s name flashed across the screen, heart-shaped emojis exploding in her contact photo. Haya exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. If there was one person who could drag her out of suffocation, it was Aaliya—her best friend, her shield of laughter.
She swiped to answer.
“Haan, Ali?”
“Don’t haan me,” Aaliya scolded, her voice bright and impatient through the line. “Tu abhi tak ready bhi nahi hui hogi na? I swear Haya, if I have to bunk the first lecture because of you—”
“I’m coming,” Haya murmured.
“No. I’m coming.” Aaliya cut her off. “Wait outside. Five minutes. And wear something cute. Aaj mujhe tere saath ghoomna hai, beizzati nahi karni hai.”
Before Haya could protest, the line went dead.
She almost smiled. Almost.
True to her word, Aaliya’s battered Scooty screeched into their narrow lane like a tornado, her dupatta flying behind her, music blasting from her phone’s tiny speaker.
“Arre madam!” Aaliya called out the moment she spotted Haya at the gate, dupatta wrapped tight, bag clutched. “Yeh kya hai? Full burqa mode? Chal, chal, fresh hawa le.”
Haya rolled her eyes, clutching her dupatta tighter. “Bas, Ali—”
“Bas-bas kuch nahi. Tu meri heroine hai. Chal ab.” Aaliya hooked her arm through Haya’s, dragging her toward the Scooty. “Waise bhi, today ka vibe is… gossip, chai, aur thoda padhai. In that order.”
Her chatter was relentless, ridiculous, and exactly what Haya needed. For a little while, as the wind whipped her hair and Aaliya sang off-key, Haya could almost pretend. Pretend the bruise wasn’t there. Pretend last night hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just… normal.
At College
The campus buzzed with life. Students spilled over the stairs, voices rising in laughter, arguments, hurried recitations of assignments. The chaos was loud, messy, vibrant.
Here, surrounded by it, Haya felt invisible. Safe.
She let Aaliya pull her through the gates, their bangles clinking, the scent of canteen samosas in the air. Professors barked instructions, someone shouted about a cricket match, seniors teased juniors. It was noise that filled her ears, pushed away the silence of their apartment, the echo of his voice.
“Haya,” Aaliya nudged her as they made their way to class, “you look like you didn’t sleep. Kya hua?”
“Nothing,” Haya lied quickly, adjusting her dupatta when it slipped too low.
Aaliya narrowed her eyes. “Tere ‘nothing’ mein hamesha sab kuch hota hai. Bata na…”
“Bas… Sameer,” Haya whispered, and that was enough. Aaliya’s face softened instantly. She knew. She didn’t push.
Instead, she linked their fingers together, squeezing. “Tu tension mat le. Hum sab sort out kar lenge. Abhi ke liye, just… breathe.”
Haya inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Tried to believe her.
The Black Car
It was after the second lecture, when Aaliya tugged her toward the library—“Come na, mujhe reference book chahiye”—that Haya’s world fractured again.
The sleek hum of an engine cut through the campus noise. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
A black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the courtyard. Not just any car—expensive, predatory, too polished for the dusty college grounds.
He stepped out.
Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but Haya knew. She felt them. Felt his gaze slice through the crowd, past every chattering student, landing only on her.
Her stomach dropped. Her pulse stuttered.
Rudraansh.
The name itself was enough to turn her skin cold.
“Arre wah!” Aaliya whistled under her breath, elbowing Haya. “Yeh toh VIP lagta hai. Tujhe dekh raha hai kya?”
Haya jerked her head away, panic clawing up her throat. “N-no.”
But she could feel it. His stare was a chain pulling tight around her lungs.
Aaliya giggled, oblivious to the storm in Haya’s chest. “Oho, hero entry. Chal, library. Nahi toh main hi stalker ban jaungi uske liye.”
Haya forced a laugh, but her legs trembled as they climbed the steps. She knew he was following. Knew his shadow stretched long enough to swallow her whole.
The Library
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, the smell of paper and ink thick in the air. Students bent over notebooks, whispering only when necessary, the silence sacred.
But in the narrow aisle, where Haya had pressed herself against the wooden shelves, silence became suffocation.
She could feel him before she saw him. That weight. That presence.
And then—
“Mujhe dhoondh rahi thi… ya mujhse chhup rahi thi?”
The voice slithered through the quiet, low and velvet-dark.
Haya’s heart slammed against her ribs. She turned.
Rudraansh stood barely inches away. No sunglasses now. His eyes—obsidian, gleaming, merciless—devoured her face as though she were prey that had finally cornered itself.
He lifted one arm, bracing it against the shelf above her head. His body leaned close, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. A trap disguised as proximity.
Her dupatta shifted with the faint breeze of his movement, slipping from her shoulder. His gaze dropped. To her throat. To the fading bruise like a signature branded into her skin.
His fingers rose. Slowly. Lazily. As if he had all the time in the world to unmake her.
The pad of his thumb brushed over the mark. Pressed. Hard enough that she hissed, jerking back.
“Yeh nishaan…” his voice curled around her, thick with amusement and menace, “sabko dikhana chahti thi, Haya?”
She shook her head violently, panic sparking in her chest. “N-no… I—”
“Ya sirf mujhe yaad dilane ke liye?” His smirk deepened, his thumb stroking the bruise again, almost gentle now, like a lover’s caress turned cruel. “Ki tum ab meri ho.”
Her breath hitched, a weak whimper escaping her throat. She shoved at his chest with trembling palms, but his body was immovable, like stone.
“P-please… leave me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“Leave you?” His laugh was soft, dangerous. “Main tumhe apne aap se bhi chhudaa sakta hoon, Haya?” He bent closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Tum meri aadat ban chuki ho. Aur aadat chhodi jaati hai kya?”
Tears pricked her eyes. She hated that her body froze instead of fighting. She hated how his nearness made her knees weaken, not only with fear.
As if sensing the battle inside her, Rudraansh’s grip shifted. He caught her wrist, lifting it, pinning it against the shelf above her head. The other hand slid over her waist, not fully touching, just hovering, the threat more intimate than actual contact.
“Darr lagta hai mujhse?” he whispered, eyes boring into hers.
She nodded shakily.
“Good.” His lips curved, cruel satisfaction flashing. “Dar hi toh mohabbat ka pehla darwaza hai.”
Her pulse thundered. His words coiled inside her chest like poison, confusing, twisting.
“Tum ab sirf meri ho,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with almost tender precision. “Aur meri cheezein… main duniya ko dikhata nahi. Chhupata hoon. Bandh karta hoon. Samjhi?”
Haya’s breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. She wanted to scream, but the library was too silent, too sacred, and his presence too commanding. Her voice betrayed her before it even reached her lips.
His hand slipped down from her wrist, trailing deliberately slow across her arm, until his fingers tangled with hers. He laced them together like chains.
“Itni masoom lagti ho… aur phir bhi mujhe junoon tak le aayi ho.” His whisper was a confession and a threat. “Tum samajhti ho ki tumhaara dil pehle dhadakne laga tha mere liye… Haya, main toh tab se tumhe chahta hoon, jab tum khud ko pehchanti bhi nahi thi.”
Her eyes widened, a horrified shiver running through her. His words weren’t attraction. They were obsession. A timeline that reached back into shadows she didn’t even know existed.
Before she could stammer a reply, he bent even closer, his lips brushing her hairline. “Aur ab… tum mujhse bhaagogi toh bhi main pakad loonga. Mera hona tumhari majboori ban chuka hai.”
Her body trembled. Her throat burned. She couldn’t breathe.
And then, with terrifying ease, Rudraansh released her hand only to grab her wrist again—harder, tighter—and tugged her forward.
“Chalo.”
It wasn’t a request. It was law.
She stumbled after him, helpless, the rows of books blurring as he dragged her through the silent library.
The Car
The air outside the library was too bright, too loud. Sunlight spilled like an insult, mocking her ragged breaths, the thundering of her heart.
Rudraansh’s grip on her wrist never loosened. His fingers were a cuff of iron, digging into her pulse, dragging her through the courtyard as if she were weightless, invisible.
No one dared to look. That was the worst part. Students passed them by, heads bowed, pretending they didn’t see. Professors glanced once, then quickly away. The world itself seemed to acknowledge him as untouchable.
“Ruko—please—Rudraansh—” she whispered, her heels scraping against the concrete as she struggled to match his stride.
He didn’t slow.
His silence was worse than his words. Silence meant inevitability.
From the corner of her eye, Haya spotted Aaliya standing by the canteen steps, mid-laugh with a group of friends. Relief flooded her chest like water to a drowning body.
“Aaliya!” Haya’s voice cracked, desperate.
Her cousin’s smile faltered. Concern flickered across her face as she stepped forward. But before a single syllable could escape Aaliya’s lips, Rudraansh’s head turned.
The weight of his gaze froze her cousin where she stood.
Aaliya’s eyes widened. Her throat bobbed. Then—almost shamefully—she looked away, clutching her books tighter, retreating into the group as though she hadn’t seen anything.
Haya’s stomach plummeted.
Rudraansh leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice silk wrapped in steel. “Dekha? Tumhare liye koi rukega nahi. Tumhare liye ladhne ki himmat kisi mein nahi.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?” she choked out.
“Kyuki main kar sakta hoon.” The words were ice. “Aur kyuki mujhe karna hai.”
The black Mercedes gleamed at the edge of the parking lot like a waiting predator. Its tinted windows reflected nothing, giving nothing away. A driver stood by, stiff-backed, eyes cast downward, already holding the door open as though this abduction were rehearsed.
Rudraansh halted before the car. With one brutal jerk, he spun her to face him.
Her breath hitched.
The world shrank to the width of his shoulders, the black silk of his shirt stretched across hard muscle, the abyss of his stare locking her in place.
“Phir se bhaagne ki sochi bhi… toh yaad rakhna, Haya,” his voice dipped lower, deadly soft, “main tumhari duniya jala doonga. Tumhare ghar se shuru karke.”
Her knees buckled. “You wouldn’t…”
His hand slid to her chin, gripping it cruelly, forcing her face up to his. The corner of his mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t human. “Karke dikhana meri aadat hai.”
She trembled. The ache in her wrist, the sting in her chin, the fire in her chest—it all collapsed into one shattering truth. He wasn’t bluffing.
In one smooth motion, he shoved her inside the car.
Haya stumbled against the leather seat, palms flat against the door in a futile attempt to bolt back out. But before she could push, the door slammed shut behind her with a final, echoing thud.
The driver returned to his seat silently, eyes never lifting to the rear-view.
And then—he was beside her. Rudraansh slid in, shutting the other door with terrifying calm. The confined space shrank instantly, the scent of leather mixing with his cologne, thick, inescapable.
Haya pressed herself against the far door, fingers fumbling for the handle. Locked. Of course.
Rudraansh watched her, unhurried, his arm draping across the back of the seat as if they were lovers out for a drive. The predator at ease, because the prey had nowhere left to run.
“You can’t keep me,” she whispered, though her voice broke on the last word.
He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he’d already solved. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing her temple, voice low enough to brand her skin.
“Main tumhe rakhunga nahi, Haya. Main tumhe khatam kar dunga… aur phir tumhe dobara banaunga, apne hisaab se.”
Her throat closed. Tears slipped down her cheeks despite her desperate attempt to hold them back.
He caught one with his thumb, smearing it across her skin like ink. “Rona band karo. Rooh bhi meri hai, aansoo bhi.”
The engine roared to life. The car lurched forward, gliding out of the campus gates. Each turn of the wheels was another nail sealing her inside his world.
Haya’s chest heaved as panic warred with denial, her voice a trembling whisper. “Where are you taking me?”
Rudraansh’s eyes never left her face. His hand slid from the back of the seat to her thigh, fingers spreading with deliberate possession. The touch burned, claiming.
“Ghar,” he said simply. Then, with a chilling pause, “mera ghar… aur tumhara qaidkhana.”
Her heart slammed, her breath hitched, her body recoiled—
But the hand on her thigh tightened, stilling her.
“Aaj raat ke baad,” he murmured, his words tasting of prophecy and sentence, “tum sirf tum nahi raho gi. Tum sirf meri raho gi.”
The car swallowed the silence whole. The city blurred past the tinted windows, a world moving on, oblivious.
And Haya sat trapped in leather and shadows, staring at the man who had just rewritten the course of her life with a single car ride.
The cliffhanger wasn’t the car.
The cliffhanger was the realization.
That she hadn’t been taken.
She had been owned.
To be continued...
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