"Please... pleaseee leave me."

"Ho... how coul..could you do... this... to me?"

"Ahhhh... please don't, please—"

With a sudden jerk, I woke up—heart hammering, breath ragged, chest rising and falling too fast to control. My skin felt damp with sweat. I pressed a trembling hand to my forehead, trying to calm the pounding in my head. The same nightmare again. The same screams, the same helplessness.

I wiped my face with my palm and pushed my messy hair back, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

And then it hit me.

This wasn't my room.

Fuck, I wasn't even in my house.

The ceiling was too high. The air smelled different—rich, cold, faintly musky, nothing like the lavender scent I used in my diffuser. My heart dropped.

A luxurious bedroom—elegant, expensive, sterile. The walls were dressed in shades of grey, brown, and white, everything too neat, too deliberate. Behind the bed, a massive slab of black marble with white veining stretched like an art piece, framed by mirrored metallic panels that caught the morning light in sharp reflections.

The bed I was sitting on had a low-profile design—a white upholstered headboard, crisp neutral bedding that felt too smooth to belong to a home. A tufted ottoman-style bench sat at its foot, perfectly centered, like everything else in the room.

I hesitated, then pulled the comforter off and set my bare feet down. My toes sank into a thick rug laid over polished marble floors, the coolness beneath making my skin prickle. I swallowed hard.

This wasn't a dream.

My gaze darted to the side—two grey armchairs stood beside a small glass-topped side table near the corner. On either side of the bed were identical nightstands with modern lamps—sleek, gold accents, minimal design. Everything screamed money, but also control. Precision.

I slowly stood, every movement measured, afraid one wrong sound would alert someone I didn't want to meet. My knees felt weak, but I forced them steady and walked toward the source of faint light filtering in through sheer curtains.

Large windows stretched from floor to ceiling, veiled in translucent drapes layered under heavy dark ones. I hesitated for a second before pulling the sheer fabric aside.

And then my breath hitched.

The view.

Lush green trees surrounded the estate in every direction, and at a distance, I could see what looked like a water body—maybe a lake, maybe the sea—shimmering faintly beneath the sunlight. But what made my blood run cold wasn't the scenery. It was the wall.

A high concrete wall, lined with security cameras and guards stationed at intervals, each armed. They weren't just security; they were soldiers—disciplined, scanning every angle like a fortress was under watch.

My throat went dry. My fingers trembled as I clutched the curtain tighter.

This wasn't a hotel. This wasn't a safe house.

This was a prison.

A mansion disguised as luxury.

And I—Mahira Sen—was inside it.

"Holy shit," I whispered under my breath, stepping back from the window. My pulse thundered in my ears. "I'm for real kidnapped." 

The realization hit with full force. Images flashed in my head—men, ropes, the smell of metal, his voice. That man's voice. Deep. Controlled. Dangerous.

My heart pounded harder. I took a step back, glancing around the room for anything I could use—a phone, a weapon, anything. The bedside tables were spotless. The drawers—empty. Not even a pen. The door was closed, of course. 

I sank to the edge of the bed, trying to piece together the fragments of memory. Last night—his eyes, the cold press of a gun, the warning in his tone. "Better you behave, otherwise it won't take me a second to kill you."

I didn't know who he was. I didn't know why I was here. But the calm, terrifying certainty in his voice told me one thing—this man wasn't bluffing. He wasn't some random kidnapper. He was someone who planned, who calculated.

I rubbed my arms, the chill of the air mixing with the deeper cold of fear sliding down my spine.

"What do you want from me?" I whispered, voice trembling. "What did I ever do to you?"

But no one answered. Only the silence stared back—heavy, suffocating, final.

I drew my knees close to my chest, resting my chin on them. My mind screamed to think, to plan, to survive. But another part of me—the terrified part—just wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

Just after maybe a few minutes, I heard a knock on the door—a soft sound, followed by the faint click of the lock turning. My body tensed instantly. I stood up, taking a few steps back.

A woman entered—probably in her late forties—with a large bag in her hand. She looked calm, almost too calm. Her expression was soft, neutral, unreadable.

"Don't come near me," I said sharply, raising my hand in warning.

She stopped right there, sighed quietly, then placed the bag on the bed. "These are clothes for you to wear for now, and some toiletries," she said evenly, her voice polite but detached.

She turned to leave, but words burst out of me before she could take another step. "Who are you? And why the hell am I here?" I shouted.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob, then said quietly, "For now, I can't tell you anything."

And with that, she left—locking the door behind her.

I ran toward it, twisting the handle, pounding once, twice, but it didn't move. The sound of the lock echoed through the silence. I felt numb for a moment—helpless and confused. Slowly, I turned back toward the bed and the bag she'd left behind.

I unzipped it and emptied it onto the bed. A small toiletry kit rolled to the side, followed by a neatly folded pair of clothes. I picked them up—a beige ribbed knit crop sweatshirt and a wide-leg pants loungewear set.

My breath hitched. It was... perfectly my size. How the hell did they know that?

I gripped the fabric tighter, staring at it for a second, then caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a mess—eyes puffy, hair tangled, fear written across every line of my face.

Without another thought, I grabbed the clothes and walked into the bathroom. The moment the warm water hit my skin, I let out a shaky breath. The shower washed away the grime, the dried tears, and the confusion clinging to me like a second skin. For those few minutes, I just stood there, letting the water drown everything else out.

After freshening up, I changed into the new clothes. My damp hair clung to my neck as I stepped out of the bathroom, the faint scent of soap still lingering in the air. The room was silent again—but that silence felt heavier now, like it was watching me.

Then the door opened again.

A man stepped in—tall, built like a wall, dressed in all black with the air of someone used to giving orders—definitely a guard.

"Follow me," he said, his voice calm but firm, leaving no room for argument.

"The hell I would," I snapped back instantly, glaring at him. "First, tell me what's happening. And.  Why. Am. I. Here?"

"You will know," he replied, still calm, not even blinking. "But for now, I'm asking you politely—follow me. You'll get your answers."

He turned, clearly expecting me to obey.

I hesitated. My stomach twisted; my mind screamed not to go, but curiosity—or maybe desperation—pushed me forward. I bit my lip, debating for a second, then finally took slow steps after him.

Outside the door, two guards stood on either side like statues, guns strapped across their chests. Their eyes didn't move, but I could feel their gaze follow me.

The passage beyond the room was long and elegant—white and grey walls perfectly carved, lit by warm lamps that threw golden light on the marble floor. Paintings adorned the walls, polished tables lined the corners, everything precise, spotless... controlled. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and power.

We walked in silence, my footsteps soft against the black marble floor, until the corridor opened up into a vast, open space. To my left, a black railing overlooked another floor below, where I could see movement—more guards, more rooms.

Then, as we turned a corner, I saw it—a grand staircase. Ornate marble steps, gleaming beneath soft recessed lights, with a golden decorative railing that shimmered faintly under the chandeliers.

The guard led me down the staircase, our steps echoing in the vastness of the hall. My pulse quickened when I saw the group below.

Several guards stood in the center of the room, lined up like soldiers awaiting command. And there—sitting on the Sofa, his back to me—was a man.

He looked composed even from behind. His posture was relaxed yet deliberate, as if he owned every inch of this place.

The guard who brought me stopped beside the others and bowed slightly. "Sir," he said.

I froze where I stood, my fingers fidgeting unconsciously. Every muscle in my body tensed as silence filled the room.

He man got up slowly, and when he turned, my breath hitched.

That same pair of stormy grey eyes. They locked onto mine again, sharp and unreadable. His olive skin glowed faintly under the light, and his neatly trimmed beard framed a face that looked like it had been carved with precision—high cheekbones, a jawline sharp enough to wound. His dark brown hair was slightly tousled, but not carelessly so—like he didn't try, yet everything about him stayed perfect.

He stood tall—towering, at least 6'3—broad-shouldered and built like someone who could break bones without effort. The white shirt he wore was crisp, the grey vest and matching coat fitting him like they'd been stitched by a tailor who understood power. A watch gleamed on his wrist, and his other hand rested casually in his pocket.

And those eyes—God, those damn eyes—stayed fixed on me. Cold, assessing... yet magnetic. For a fleeting second, I forgot I was supposed to be terrified. I forgot I'd been kidnapped. Because right now, all I could think about was how his gaze felt like gravity—pulling me in even when I knew I should run.

He started walking toward me, slow, measured steps that echoed across the marble floor.

Instinct made me step back—once, twice—until he stopped, tilting his head slightly to the right. A silent command passed through the air. Every guard in the room bowed and quietly exited, leaving the two of us standing alone in the vast hall.

The silence that followed was heavy. I could hear my heartbeat—loud, uneven.

Then his voice came, low and smooth, carrying that faint accent that definitely wasn't Indian.
"Follow me."

And damn it—that voice. It rolled off his tongue with effortless authority, deep and laced with something dangerously calm.

My intrusive thoughts decided to wake up at the worst time possible. Follow me? Yeah, sure, why not? Let's walk right into hell, Mahira.

I swallowed, muttering inwardly, I'm so going to regret this.

God, I miss Mr. Spencer.

We reached what looked like a dining area—grand, warm lights reflecting off the marble, the table long enough to seat ten people, but somehow feeling too empty. He walked straight to the chair at the center, calm, confident, like he owned every inch of this mansion—which, apparently, he did. Then he gestured for me to sit across from him, in the chair right in front.

When I didn't move, he glanced up from fixing his napkin, and those sharp grey eyes locked on me again—stern, piercing. My throat went dry, and before I could stop myself, I walked over and sat down quietly.

Two women entered the room then—one of them the same lady who had brought me clothes in the morning, the other younger, maybe in her thirties. They both moved with the kind of trained grace that said they'd done this routine for years. Without a word, they placed plates before us, served water, and stepped back.

The aroma hit me immediately—naan, dal makhani, rice, and a small bowl of fruit salad. My stomach betrayed me with a growl. God, I was hungry. Desperately hungry. But my eyes darted to him first—his plate had grilled fish and vegetable salad, neat, simple, perfectly portioned. He picked up his fork and knife and began eating, unbothered.

I stared down at my plate. Should I eat? What if it's too...? Stop thinking, Mahira. Just stop overthinking for once.

As if he could read my mind, his voice cut through the air, low and firm.
"Eat."

He didn't even look up, just kept cutting his fish.

My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my napkin. I couldn't make myself move. My pulse was loud in my ears.

"What happened?" he asked finally, this time lifting his gaze to me.

I looked up at him, opened my mouth to speak—but no sound came out. I just shook my head.

He exhaled through his nose, a hint of irritation slipping through as he set down his fork.
"Don't worry," he said flatly, "I haven't added poison in it."

The sharpness in his tone made both servants flinch. My jaw clenched, and before I could stop it, I muttered under my breath,
"If it had been poison, it would've been better."

His hand froze mid-air. He heard that.

And then, without a word, after a few seconds, he stood up. My body went rigid as he walked toward me—calm, deliberate. He stopped right beside me, picked up a piece of naan from my plate, dipped it into the dal, and took a bite. Then, as if to prove a point, he scooped some rice, ate it, and even picked a fruit from the salad bowl before returning to his seat.

He swallowed slowly, eyes still on me, silent but clear in what they said: Now eat.

I hesitated for another second, then picked up the naan and took a small bite. My eyes widened—whoever cooked this deserved a medal. Without meaning to, I began eating properly, not like a starved animal but with quiet focus. I finished the naan, mixed the dal with rice, and finally picked up the fruit bowl. Carefully, I avoided the peaches.

When I was done, I set the bowl down. He was also finishing, taking a sip of water. Then his gaze flicked from my empty plate to the untouched fruit bowl, then to me. His brows knit slightly.

"I'm allergic... to peaches," I said quietly.

He tilted his head, watching me.

"Genuinely," I added quickly, voice low but sincere.

He studied me for a moment, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small paper bag. From it, he took a few blister packs of medicine and placed them on the table.

"It's for your allergy—the redness, fever, and rash," he said, his tone more neutral now. "A doctor came to check you yesterday. You can look at the medicine name if you want."

I hesitated but picked up the packet, scanning it—yeah, I recognized the pills. They were the same ones I used. I nodded slightly and reached out to take them from his palm. My fingers brushed his—just barely—and an unexpected shiver ran through me. His jaw tightened immediately, that same flicker of tension returning in his eyes before he withdrew his hand.

I stared at the glass of water in front of me, still full. My fingers trembled slightly as I tried to decide—drink it or not?

He sighed quietly, almost like he was running out of patience. Then, he picked up his own glass, took a small sip, and passed it to me without a word.

This time, I didn't argue. I took it, swallowed the medicine, and set the glass down carefully.

He stood up from his chair after finishing his meal, straightened his coat, and turned to leave.

Wait—what? That's it? Just eat, take your meds, and walk away like I'm invisible?

My pulse spiked. "Hey—wait!" I called out, but he didn't even glance back.

I turned toward the two women still standing by the table and gave them a quick thumbs-up, nodding toward the plate to show the food was good. They didn't react, just stood there quietly, their eyes trained anywhere but at me.

Screw this.

I pushed back my chair and ran after him. "Stop!" I said sharply.

He didn't.

I felt my irritation boil up, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor as I followed him out into the living area—this massive, echoing space that made my voice sound louder than I intended. "I said stop and answer me!" I shouted, and the servants nearby froze mid-step, clearly startled.

But he still didn't turn.

The leash on my patience snapped.
"You rascal, I said stop!"

And that did it.

He halted mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face me—his eyes cutting through the distance like blades. I instantly regretted opening my mouth. The room suddenly felt too cold, my bare feet pressing against the marble, the air heavy enough to crush me.

"What did you just say?" His voice was low, dangerously calm, but I could hear the anger beneath it.

I swallowed but forced myself to stand straight. "I said stop and answer me, you rascal." My voice didn't waver, even though my heart was ready to burst out of my chest.

For a second, nothing happened. Then—he chuckled. Not kindly, not amused. The sound was sharp, dark, a warning cloaked in calm.

He took a slow step toward me. My instincts screamed bad idea, and I glanced around—anything I could use. My eyes landed on a white-and-blue porcelain vase sitting on a side table near the sofa.

Before I could think twice, I grabbed it and slammed it against my right knee. The vase cracked in half with a sharp sound that echoed across the marble. Pain shot up my leg, but I bit my tongue to stop a wince from slipping out.

Shards scattered around my feet. The noise brought everyone running—guards poured in from outside, weapons drawn, servants huddling in the corners.

I raised the half-broken vase like a weapon, pointing it straight at him. "Stay back!"

His men immediately aimed their guns at me.

He didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Keep that down," he said evenly.

"I won't until you answer me," I snapped, the words trembling somewhere between fear and defiance.

And for a second, just a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—amusement? Disbelief? I couldn't tell. But the way he looked at me made my skin prickle.

"Keep that down and you will—" he started, voice calm but sharp like a blade, and I cut him off before he could finish.

That earned me a flicker of amusement in his expression—his brows twitching up slightly, as if he hadn't expected anyone to interrupt him.

"Since yesterday," I snapped, "everyone around me keeps saying the same damn thing—' you will know, you will know'—but when the hell will I know?" My voice rose, shaking the silence of that grand, echoing hall.

Every word burned in my throat, anger clawing its way out. "I'm done waiting, done playing whatever twisted game this is!"

He didn't move, just stood there—tall, composed, unreadable. The kind of stillness that made my fury boil harder.

"But now I'm out of patience!" I screamed, the half-broken vase still clutched tight in my hand. "So tell me—why have you brought me here!? Who the fucking hell are you!? And what's with this childish play of sedating and kidnapping someone!"

My voice cracked at the end, echoing off the marble walls. I could hear the guards behind him gasp quietly, some of the servants covering their mouths in shock. The air felt like glass—fragile and cold.

"Tell me!" I screamed again, every nerve in my body strung tight, my chest rising and falling fast.

For a second, he just stared at me—expression unreadable, the faintest ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. And that silence? It was louder than any answer I'd ever heard.

I heard a sound from my left—a faint shuffle, like a step against the marble. I turned slightly to check, and before I could even react, a hand gripped my wrist—the one clutching the broken vase—and another wrapped firmly around my stomach, pulling me back.

My breath hitched. His grip was solid, unrelenting, and my back pressed against his chest. His cologne hit me—dark, strong, rich—something expensive and suffocating all at once.

"Leave me," I snapped, thrashing in his hold. "I said fucking leave me, you maniac!"

I jerked, kicked, twisted—anything to get free—but my legs barely touched the ground. His arm held me tight enough to steal my balance.

"Stop struggling," he said lowly, voice brushing my ear like a warning—lethal and calm, the kind that didn't need to shout to be terrifying.

"Damn you!" I hissed and slammed my elbow into his stomach. He hissed softly, grip loosening, and I tore free, stumbling forward.

Instantly, the guards raised their guns again, aiming straight at me. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

He straightened, rubbing his stomach once, then lifted a hand. "Down," he ordered, and the guards lowered their weapons.

Then his gaze met mine—sharp, unyielding. "You're really too wild," he said, voice flat but carrying a dangerous edge. "You almost make me lose my patience."

That glare—God—it could have frozen fire itself.

"Don't give me those glares!" I shot back. "I need an answer or I'll—"

"You want to know?" he interrupted smoothly, his tone too calm. I bit my tongue and nodded, chest heaving.

"Then first," he said, eyes flicking to my hand, "keep that vase down."

I looked at him suspiciously, clutching the broken ceramic tighter.

"I promise," he said—just that. No softness, no false sweetness. Just... something in his tone that made me pause.

Slowly, I lowered the vase to the floor. He gestured toward the sofa. "Sit."

I hesitated, then did. The single chair felt colder than it should have.

He took the seat opposite me, every movement precise, controlled—as if even sitting down was part of some calculated plan. And in that heavy silence between us, I could feel it—whatever was coming next, it wasn't something I was ready to hear.

"Yes, you have been kidnapped," he said—straight to the point, no hesitation.

I just stared at him, my brain already half-knew it, but hearing it out loud still made my stomach twist.
A curse slipped out before I could stop it.

"You shouldn't curse, miss," he added, calm as ever.

"Miss?" I shot back, folding my arms across my chest. "What type of kidnapper doesn't even know my name?"

I swear I heard someone from his guards snicker.

He didn't blink. "Mahira Sen," he said quietly, almost like he was testing how my name felt on his tongue. "Youngest daughter of Rakshit Sen; three siblings—eldest son, already married, destined to lead the Sen Group; eldest sister, working in a subsidiary of the family; younger brother, entrenched in finance, also tied to another family venture."

He continued effortlessly, like he'd rehearsed every word.
"B. Tech in AI from Delhi's top university; thesis on neural network optimization and predictive algorithms. Lives in Delhi, occasional stays in Mumbai for family business affairs. Early riser, a full package of trouble; prefers running over the gym."

He completed it like reading a damn dossier.

"What the—" I said, blinking hard. "How the hell...?"

My breath caught. "You've been stalking me?"

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near the edge. "For years," he said, tone clipped. "And it's called tracking."

That single sentence sent a cold shiver down my spine.
"You're insane," I whispered.

"Maybe," he said, almost like he agreed. Then he stood up, towering over me—tall, composed, his presence filling the room like shadow and smoke. "But insanity doesn't erase truth."

I looked up at him, confusion and anger wrestling in my chest. "What truth?"

He didn't answer immediately. Just watched me, silent. The kind of silence that unnerves you more than words ever could.

The words that came next didn't even make sense.
"What—what are you talking about?" I asked again, louder this time.

He gave a bitter half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough. For now, you'll stay here. Safe... until you behave."

"Safe?" I repeated, disbelief lacing my voice. "You call being drugged, kidnapped, and locked in some goddamn mansion safe?"

He leaned back slightly, eyes darkening. "All I can tell you is—you're the key to my revenge. And more like... You need to pay for your father's sins." His words were venom, each one burning through me.

"Dad?" I whispered, heart hammering in my throat.

"Rakshit Sen," he said, almost spitting the name, "owes me everything he stole. His empire. His name. His peace. And now it's my turn to take it back."

I stared at him, trying to process every word, every edge of his tone.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Your father," he said finally, voice calm but cutting, "isn't the man you think he is."

"Stop bluffing," I shot back.

"I ain't," he said simply.

"So it means," I said slowly, piecing it together, "I've been kidnapped and will be kept as a hostage till my dad repays you for whatever he owes you in simple words?"

"Correct," he said. 

I stared at him.

And that word—correct—hit harder than any threat.
Because it wasn't just a statement.
It was a sentence.

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