“Jo qaid mein rakhe jaayein, woh gulam kehlaate hain.
Jo qaid kar liye jaayein, woh ishq kehlaata hai.”
(Those kept in chains are slaves.
Those taken in chains… that is called love.)
The drive was endless.
Or maybe it only felt endless because every second stretched tight, like her nerves, like the silence sitting thick between them.
Haya pressed her trembling hands together in her lap as the car slid through the deserted streets of Lucknow, tinted glass turning the world outside into shadow. The man beside her didn’t speak, didn’t move more than necessary. Yet his presence filled every corner of the car, choking the air.
Rudraansh Rathore.
She knew his name only because Sameer had whispered it in drunken fear months ago, warning her never to cross paths with the man who owned half the city’s underworld. And now—here she was—trapped beside him, being carried away like property bought and claimed.
She dared a glance.
He was dressed in black. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, veins standing out on his forearms. A watch gleamed coldly against his wrist. His jawline was cut in stone, his lips set in that faint, unreadable curl that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer. His eyes—when they flickered to her—were sharper than knives.
Haya turned away quickly, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.
Breathe, Haya. Just breathe.
But even her breath trembled.
Arrival
When the car finally slowed, her heart stuttered. The gates loomed like iron jaws, opening soundlessly to swallow them whole. Beyond it rose a mansion that looked nothing like a home.
It was a fortress.
Tall, sprawling, with domes that gleamed faintly under the moonlight. Marble lions crouched at the entrance. Rows of windows glowed dim and watchful, like eyes waiting to see what the master would bring home tonight.
The car stopped.
The door clicked open—she hadn’t even touched the handle, but a uniformed guard bowed and held it wide.
Rudraansh stepped out first. He didn’t offer his hand, didn’t even look back. Yet Haya’s body obeyed, legs moving stiffly as if pulled by an invisible chain. The air here was colder, sharper, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood smoke and something metallic underneath.
Inside, the house was worse.
Golden chandeliers glittered, silk curtains swayed gently, marble floors shone so bright she could see her own fear-stained reflection. Everything screamed wealth. But none of it felt warm. The silence was too heavy, the shadows too deep.
Haya shivered.
The Grandmother
“Haya beta?”
The voice startled her. Soft, cracked with age, yet filled with warmth.
From the staircase descended an old woman in a pale sari, her silver hair coiled neatly, her thin wrists stacked with glass bangles that chimed faintly as she walked. Her eyes—brown, faded with time—lit up when they landed on Haya.
She came forward, cupping Haya’s cheek with trembling hands. “You’re so young… so fragile. Arey, look at you.”
Tears pricked Haya’s eyes at the simple human touch. For a moment, she felt safe.
But that illusion shattered when Daadi’s gaze flickered past her shoulder. Straight to Rudraansh.
The warmth drained from her face, replaced with something that looked like helpless pleading. She lowered her eyes quickly, pressing her hands together.
Rudraansh’s silence was answer enough.
Daadi touched Haya’s cheek once more, lingering, before murmuring softly, “Come, beta. You must be tired.”
Her bangles jingled faintly as she guided Haya forward, away from the marble jaws of the foyer.
The Brotherly Friend
“Arre wah, bhaiya brought home a doll.”
The voice came from the hallway. Young, mocking, with laughter bubbling just beneath. A boy—no, not a boy, maybe twenty—leaned against the doorway. Ruffled hair, shirt untucked, a lopsided grin on his lips.
Shiv.
Rudraansh’s cousin, Haya guessed, from the slight resemblance in the sharp jawline, though his eyes lacked that predator’s edge.
He sauntered closer, hands shoved in his pockets. “Kya scene hai, haan? College se seedha Dulhan Banke entry?”
Haya froze, cheeks flushing.
Shiv smirked wider, clearly enjoying her discomfort. But when his gaze flicked toward Rudraansh, his laughter cut short, replaced by a nervous cough.
“Bas mazaak tha, bhaiya,” he muttered, backing off quickly.
Haya realized then—whatever Shiv pretended, even he feared the man standing silent beside her.
The Cage Room
The room was beautiful. Too beautiful.
Velvet drapes spilled across tall windows. A four-poster bed stood draped in silk. Fresh flowers bloomed in crystal vases, their scent heavy and intoxicating. There was even a bookshelf, rows of novels lined neatly.
It should have felt like a sanctuary.
But to Haya, it was a coffin lined with velvet.
Because when Daadi left with a murmured blessing, and Shiv wandered off with a whistle, the click of the lock behind her echoed louder than any scream.
Haya turned, panic rising. She pulled the handle. It didn’t move. She pushed, yanked, rattled—but nothing.
Her throat tightened.
And then she heard it.
His footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming closer.
The door opened again—not because she had managed to unlock it, but because he had. Rudraansh stepped in, shutting it behind him with a soft, final click.
He didn’t speak.
He just circled. Like a predator in his territory.
Haya backed up until the wall pressed cold against her spine. Her fingers twisted in her dupatta, knuckles white.
Finally, his voice cut through the silence. Low. Dangerous.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” He gestured to the room. “Every luxury you could want. Books. Clothes. Food. Comfort.”
His eyes locked on hers, unblinking.
“A golden cage.”
Haya flinched.
He moved closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath scorching.
“You’re not my prisoner, Haya.”
His hand slid along the wall beside her head, boxing her in.
“You’re my possession.”
Her heart thundered so loud she thought it might burst.
He straightened suddenly, pulling a folded file from the inside pocket of his coat. Tossing it onto the bed, he stepped back.
“Read.”
Haya blinked, hesitant.
“Read,” he repeated, voice harder.
Her hands shook as she opened the file. Rows of numbers, clauses, signatures. Her brother’s name scrawled across the bottom of every page.
Sameer.
Every line cut deeper. Loans taken, interest compounded, payments missed. And then, in fine print at the bottom: collateral.
Collateral: Haya Kapoor.
Her breath hitched.
Her brother had signed her life away.
“No…” The word slipped out, broken. “This can’t—this can’t be real…”
Rudraansh’s shadow fell across her.
“It’s real.”
Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the papers, shaking her head. “He wouldn’t—Sameer wouldn’t—”
But he had. And the ink was proof.
Rudraansh leaned down again, so close she could feel his lips ghost her skin.
“Your brother gave you to me. And I don’t return what I own.”
Her tears fell freely now, dripping onto the silk sheets.
Rudraansh’s hand tilted her chin upward, forcing her to look into his eyes.
“You think you’re free? That you have choices?” His thumb brushed against her trembling bottom lip, almost tender. Almost. “No, jaan. Your choices ended the day he signed your name.”
Haya tried to turn her face, but his grip held her steady.
“Cry if you want. Scream if you want. But remember this—” His voice dropped, sharp and final.
“You are not my prisoner. You are my possession. And from this night forward, every breath you take belongs to me.”
He released her suddenly, the absence of his touch almost worse than its presence. Straightening, he strode toward the door.
The lock clicked again, this time from the outside.
Haya collapsed onto the bed, papers still clutched in her hands, sobs tearing from her throat.
Somewhere beyond the door, she thought she heard his voice again, low and certain:
“Main hi teri saans hoon, Haya.”
(I am your very breath, Haya.)
And in that moment, she realized—this wasn’t the end.
It was only the beginning.
To be continued...
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