Two years ago, I tried to kill myself.

Two years have passed since that dark, bleeding night in the mansion, since the water in the bathtub turned into a thick pool of crimson, since my vision slipped away into a cold, welcoming blackness.

And yet, against everything I had designed for my own fate, I was reborn. I didn't want to live.

When I sliced into the flesh of my wrists, I was looking for a final exit from the suffocating, inescapable web of obsession and power that had trapped me.

I wanted the void. I wanted the peace of nothingness.

And him...

Ishaan...

He didn't let me die.

All these years, while the world kept spinning and the days bled into months, I was in Delhi.

I was hidden away in the belly of that massive, sprawling metropolis, living my life in darkness.

I became a phantom moving through crowded streets, an invisible girl hiding from the wreckage of a past that refused to stay buried.

After whatever happened inside that house, after the blood dried and the secrets were sealed behind heavy iron gates, everything changed.

My MBBS... my studies... all went in vain.

The endless nights of reading, the flashcards, the white coats, the dreams of healing people—all of it crumbled into dust.

I never got the chance to become a doctor. The stethoscope I used to hold became a ghost, a reminder of a girl who no longer existed.

My dreams were shattered, broken into a thousand jagged pieces that cut me every time I tried to look back.

Everything I had built, everything I had fought for before the darkness swallowed me, was gone.

And then... Ishir, Rudra, Ishita, Rahul, and Priya.

They were the ones who found me in the aftermath. They were the ones who took my broken, fragile frame and helped me.

They helped me fly away—or more accurately, they helped me run away. They didn't know what happened exactly.

They didn't know the deep, twisted, toxic secrets that had transpired between their Don and his captive.

Only one thing they knew for certain: whatever happened inside Ishaan's villa had broke us completely. It had left both of us as hollow shells, burning down the bridge that connected our lives.

Life changed in an instant. I tried to tell myself that I had moved on, that the distance had cured the infection.

I told people I forgot everything.

Well, that was a lie.

A beautiful, pathetic, desperate lie I told myself every single morning when I looked in the mirror.

I didn't forget a fucking single thing.

The phantom touch of his fingers, the rumble of his voice, the way his dark eyes could strip away my defenses with a single glance—it was all there, playing on a loop in the theater of my mind.

Ishaan was the very stranger who had broken into my life, and the stranger was Ishaan.

Every damn memory of him was carved into my heart, etched with a blade so deep that no amount of time or distance could smooth over the scars.

I fell for my professor years ago inside the classroom.

I remember the way he stood, the authority he radiated, the dangerous, intoxicating intellect that had drawn me into his orbit before I even knew the true depths of his darkness.

But today... after two fucking years of silence, when I finally saw him in that office, he looked different.

He looked broken.

He looked shattered.

The pristine, untouchable, all-powerful figure of my past was gone.

He was not the one I fell in love with. The sharp edges of his composure had disintegrated, leaving behind something wild, feral, and dangerously unhinged.

He had completely changed.

But Ishita, Rahul, Priya, Ishir, and Rudra... they had lied to him.

For twenty-four long months, they had kept the truth hidden from him, letting him believe that the girl he had carried into the hospital was buried beneath the earth.

They kept me dead in his world while I tried to breathe in mine. I don't know why they did it.

I don't know if they were trying to protect me from his wrath, or protect him from his own consuming obsession.

But looking at him today, standing in the middle of that destroyed cabin, I saw it.

I felt it.

The betrayal.

The raw, bleeding pain in his voice when he screamed at them. He wasn't just angry; he was behaving like a madman.

A crazy man who had lost his very soul to the shadows, a man who had spent a year talking to a ghost because the reality was too painful to endure.

Now, I sat inside my apartment. The old place. The small, quiet rooms where the air felt heavy with nostalgia.

This was the exact spot where once he came, breaking through my boundaries, and found the dark romance novel I was reading.

I remember how he had leaned over me, his fingers tracing the spine of the book, teasing me with that low, wicked smirk that used to make my blood run hot.

I smiled at the memories, a bitter, twisting thing that brought more pain than comfort.

I leaned against the bed, my back pressing into the mattress as the quiet of the Goa night settled around me.

I lit up a cigarette, the small spark of fire illuminating the dark room for a fraction of a second.

Smoking, I blew a thick cloud of gray wool toward the ceiling, watching it drift out toward the open balcony.

I looked at the moon from the balcony, its pale, silver light cutting through the smog of the city.

But the worst part... the part that made my chest ache with a violent, suffocating pressure... was the realization of what had happened to his mind.

He had completely lost himself. Mentally, emotionally, he was a fractured mirror.

He was seeing my ghost, talking to it, sleeping with it, living a whole separate life with a phantom while the real me was just a few provinces away.

It made my skin crawl. A cold, violent shiver ran straight through my spine at the thought of him sitting in an empty, dark room, reaching out for a girl made of dust and memory.

How did I break the sinister?

How did I break Ishaan Khanna so completely that the ruthless king of the underworld had vanished into thin air, replaced by a weeping, raging madman?

As I sat there in the dark, the cigarette smoke swirling around my face, hot, heavy tears spilled from my eyes, burning my cheeks as they fell.

The dam broke, and my mind drifted back, pulling me down into the memories of the day I woke up from the dark.

FLASHBACK.......🖤

My body was aching to a level I never thought humanly possible.

Every muscle felt like it had been torn apart and sewn back together with rusted wire, a deep, throbbing soreness that radiated from my bones.

I slowly opened my eyes, the harsh, sterile white fluorescent light of the ceiling blinding me, making my vision blur.

And then... I froze.

The rhythmic, mechanical beep of a heart monitor echoed in my ears.

I was in a hospital bed, laying beneath thin, white cotton sheets that smelled of bleach and antiseptic.

I looked around, my neck stiff, my throat dry as ash.

Ishir, Rudra, Ishita, Rahul, and Priya were there.

They were standing in a tight, anxious huddle near the foot of my bed, their faces pale, their eyes rimmed with red.

Rudra bhai gasped the moment his eyes locked onto mine, his massive frame tensing as he took a step forward.

Ishita sobbed, her hands flying to her mouth as fresh tears flooded her face. "Oh... God... Oh god... you are alive..."

Priya was crying openly, her head buried against Rahul's shoulder, her frame shaking violently while Rahul held her, his jaw set so tight the bone looked ready to snap.

Ishir stood completely frozen near the door, his eyes wide as if he were looking at a miracle he didn't dare believe in.

And then it hit me.

The memories rushed back in a violent, suffocating wave.

The tub.

The water.

The razor.

I tried to kill myself.

I tried to die.

I had made a conscious choice to leave the pain behind, to escape the grip of the man who had claimed me.

But I was alive.

How?

I wasn't supposed to be here. The blade had cut deep enough; the blood had poured fast enough.

I was supposed to be a corpse.

Then who did it?

Who dragged me back from the edge of the quiet?

Ishir walked slowly toward the side of the bed, his voice a trembling, hesitant whisper. "How... how are you feeling, Ira?"

My throat tightened, a thick knot of emotion making it impossible to swallow.

My heart started pounding against my ribs like a hammer, the monitor beside me accelerating into a fast, erratic rhythm.

Rudra bhai stepped closer, his large hand resting on the bed rail. "You don't have to talk, Ira. If you aren't feeling good, just rest. Don't force yourself."

I ignored the weakness in my limbs, my voice a cracked, dry whisper that barely carried across the sheets. "How... how... am I here? Who brought me?"

Ishir swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the floor for a second before he met my gaze again. "It was bhai... he brought you here. He didn't wait for the ambulance, Ira. He ran through the streets, he brought you into the ER barefoot... only in his trousers. He was completely covered in your blood."

I gasped, a sharp intake of air that burned my lungs.

I felt like my world had stopped spinning, the axis tilting beneath my hospital bed.

Him...

Rudra bhai let out a heavy, ragged sigh. "He looked like a crazy person, Ira. A man who had lost his own soul in the dark. He threatened the doctors, he screamed that he would burn down everything, burn the whole hospital to ashes if you didn't wake up. He was losing his goddamn mind in the corridor."

Ishita whispered through her tears, stepping closer to squeeze my uninjured hand. "I have never seen bhaiya like that, Ira... never. He was crying. He was on his knees, weeping like a child, covered in your blood."

My heart stopped.

The image of the untouchable, ruthless professor, the man who controlled empires, weeping on a dirty hospital floor while barefoot and drenched in my blood—it shattered something deep inside me.

Tears spilled from my eyes, hot and fast, soaking into the white pillowcase beneath my head.

I whispered, my voice desperate, panicking as I tried to sit up against the pillows. "Where... where is he? Take me to him. Where is Ishaan?"

Ishir froze. Rudra froze. The entire room went dead silent at my question.

I froze seeing their expressions, a cold, dread-filled intuition settling into my gut. "Tell me... where is he?"

And then, Ishir spoke, his voice dropping to a low, heavy tone. "Something happened to him, Ira. When the doctors finally took you into the operating room to stitch the arteries, he... the doctor said that after he threatened them, after the adrenaline wore off, he simply collapsed on the floor. He's been unconscious for hours now. They have him in a room down the hall."

My heart sank into a dark, bottomless abyss.

Him.

Why him? Oh god, no... please.

I was the one who was supposed to be dead. I was the one who wanted to end the torment.

Why did he save me?

Why did he carry the weight of my blood through the city streets?

Why, god?

Tears spilled from my eyes in a ceaseless torrent, my chest heaving as the monitor beeped frantically.

I choked, the breath catching in my sore throat, as I whispered, "Is he... is he..."

I couldn't even complete the sentence. The fear of the word dead choked me, clamping down on my windpipe.

Rudra bhai quickly shook his head, trying to soothe the panic. "He's okay, Ira. He's breathing. His vitals are stable, but the doctor said..."

He stopped, his jaw tightening as he looked over at Ishir, refusing to finish the thought.

I whispered-yelled, my voice cracking with a fierce, desperate authority. "But what?! Tell me, please! What is wrong with him?!"

Ishir stepped forward, his face grim. "They said... they said he's in some kind of trauma, Ira. A deep, psychological shock. He's not waking up because his subconscious mind is refusing to let him. His brain is protecting itself by keeping him under. He's trapped in the memory of finding you in that tub."

I froze to death.

The words turned my entire body numb, the blood in my veins turning to ice.

My wrist was aching under the heavy white bandages, a sharp, throbbing pain that matched the agony in my soul.

My brain was throbbing against my skull, my whole body sore and broken. I had wanted to escape him, but in my attempt, I had dragged him down into the grave with me.

And then, the darkness returned, a heavy, black curtain falling over my vision as my exhaustion took over.

The last thing I heard before the void claimed me again was Rudra bhai's voice, booming and furious, yelling at the doctors to bring more medication, his heavy boots slamming against the floor tiles.

FLASHBACK ENDS.......

I opened my eyes with a sudden, violent gasp.

The memories dissolved, leaving me back in the dark silence of my Goa apartment.

A sharp, stinging pain on my right index finger brought me back to reality.

The cigarette butt had burned down to the filter, the live ember scorching my skin.

I gasped, flinching as I threw the spent butt into the ash tray on the bedside table.

I rubbed my burned finger against the fabric of my dress, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the physical pain grounded me.

Slowly, my shaking hand reached out toward the small wooden table beside the bed.

I took the silver photo frame that sat there, my fingers gripping the metal edges with a fierce, desperate intensity. It was a photo of me and Ishaan.

The only picture of us that I had managed to keep, the only physical proof that those years hadn't been a fever dream born of a fractured mind.

Tears spilled from my eyes, heavy drops falling through the dim light of the room and landing directly on his face beneath the glass.

In the photo, he was smiling—that rare, genuine smile that he only ever showed when the doors were locked and the world was locked out.

But his eyes... his eyes weren't on the lens.

His eyes were on me, fixed on the side of my face with an intense, burning devotion, while I was busy looking directly at the camera, smiling like a naive girl.

His eyes had never left me, not even for a second.

I whispered into the quiet room, my voice a broken, wet sob against the silver border. "I broke you this bad... didn't I, baby?"

I sobbed, the sound muffled by the dark walls of the apartment.

I clutched the photo frame tightly against my chest, pressing the sharp metal corners into my skin through my dress, wanting to feel the pain, wanting to anchor myself to the ruin we had created.

I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking as the realization of his madness washed over me again.

I whispered into the empty air, the words a confession I had kept hidden for two years. "I miss you, Ishaan..."

We kissed today. After twenty-four months of silence, our lips had met again in the center of that shattered cabin.

But it didn't feel like the kisses of our past; it felt like raw, unadulterated hatred.

It was a violent collision of two people who had burned each other to the bone and were now fighting over the ash. And yet, despite the venom, my body was still vibrating from the contact.

His touch was still lingering on my skin—the ghost of his bleeding hands still felt heavy on my ass, his fingers clamping around my waist with a bruising force that had left marks beneath my clothes.

I reached up with a trembling finger and touched the side of my throat.

His hickey was there, blooming into a dark, violent purple shade against my pale neck, a bruised collar that marked me as his property once again.

As I lay down on the mattress, curled on my side in a protective ball, I held the photo frame even closer to my chest, hiding it beneath my arms.

Tears spilled from my eyes, wetting the fabric of the pillow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will be going back to that corporate tower. I will be meeting him again, stepping into his territory under the bright, unforgiving lights of his empire.

But this time... he wasn't my professor.

The classroom was gone; the books were closed.

He will be the CEO, the absolute authority who controlled the fates of hundreds.

And I... I will be just an employee standing before him for the interview.

I didn't want to go.

I wanted to take my things and run back into the darkness of Delhi, back into the obscurity that had kept me safe.

But I knew the truth. If I leave again, if I try to disappear from his sight now that he knows I'm breathing, he will do exactly as he had said earlier.

He will reduce Singhania Industries to a pile of smoking ash, destroying innocent lives just to force my hand. And I knew him too well.

He wasn't bluffing; he had the power, the money, and the complete lack of sanity required to do it. He can do it. He will do it.

That's it. The choice had been made for me the moment I stepped into his office.

Once upon a time, Professor Khanna had caged me in his golden cage, keeping me as his pampered, secret little bird, dressing me up and watching me from across the desk.

Now, the little bird was gone. I had killed her the night I took the razor to my wrist.

I made him suffer in ways that had dismantled his entire existence, turning the king into a madman who talked to phantoms.

Now... Mr. Ishaan Khanna, the CEO, had laid down the new rules of our game.

As he had promised me while his fingers were dug into my hair, this time there will be no golden cage.

There will be no luxury, no gentleness, no soft mattresses to catch my fall.

It will be rotten bars. Cold, harsh, and unforgiving.

And as he had whispered to me, his breath hot against my bleeding lips...

Little prey.

I was his little prey now. The roles had shifted, the dynamic hardening into something lethal.

He was my captor, my tormentor, my executioner... and he was my Ishaan.

And finally, as the early morning hours began to creep through the balcony doors, sleep came.

My eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion of the emotional violence draining the last of my strength.

Finally, I slept.

But there was no peace in the subconscious.

The moment my mind slipped beneath the surface, he was there.

In the theater of my dreams, he was standing in the shadows, a cigar clamped between his teeth, the smoke curling around his scarred face as he looked down at me in pure, unadulterated hatred.

It was a look I had never seen on him before—a cold, calculated malice that promised a hell far worse than the one we had left behind.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The morning light hit me like a physical slap across the face, ruthlessly slicing through the heavy, suffocating layers of my exhaustion and forcing my eyelids open.

I groaned, a raspy, pathetic sound catching in my completely parched throat as I rolled over against the tangled sheets.

My head was throbbing with a rhythmic, blinding intensity—a localized, merciless thunderstorm pounding right behind my temples.

It was the brutal, bitter hangover of yesterday's emotional warfare, the endless tears, and the toxic clouds of nicotine I had consumed until the early hours of dawn.

Slowly, dragging my heavy, protesting limbs out from beneath the blankets, I stood up.

The apartment felt too small, too filled with the ghosts of my thoughts.

I walked with unsteady steps toward the balcony, needing to escape the stifling air of my bedroom.

The moment I stepped outside, the fresh morning air hit my skin, cooling the feverish flush on my face.

God... oh god, how I have missed this place like crazy.

For two long years, the simple geometry of this terrace, the chaotic hum of the city waking up below, and the particular way the sun hit the concrete had been nothing but a distant, agonizing memory while I was hiding out.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, filling my lungs with the crisp morning air, trying to anchor my fractured mind to the physical reality of the day.

I turned around, walking back inside toward the bed with slow, hesitant steps, and sat heavily on the edge of the rumpled mattress.

I reached out and took my phone from the bedside table.

The moment the screen illuminated and the lock screen flipped open, the breath sucked right out of my lungs.

I froze to death.

The display was a terrifying sea of flashing notifications, a digital wall of absolute panic that made my stomach drop into a bottomless, icy pit:

10 missed calls from Ishir bhai

7 missed calls from Rudra bhai

35 missed calls from Rahul

26 missed calls from Priya

100 missed calls from Ishita

There were literally hundreds of unread messages from all of them piling up in my chat notifications, a relentless wave of texts filled with capitalized warnings and frantic demands.

I froze to death, the device trembling violently in my cold, sweaty palm.

What the fuck happened?

My mind immediately bypassed every rational explanation and plunged straight into the darkest depths of my paranoia.

Did anything happen to Ishaan?

Did his mind completely shatter after the volatile confrontation inside his office yesterday?

Did the sinister king of the underworld finally snap?

I checked the digital clock at the top of the screen. It was 9:30 AM.

I didn't wait. My fingers flew across the glass, tapping the screen with a frantic, desperate speed.

I called Ishita, bypassing the messages entirely because I needed a human voice—I needed to know if the monster had finally consumed himself.

On the very first ring, before the line could even complete a full connection tone, she picked up.

She didn't offer a greeting, didn't check if I was breathing.

She shouted out of her lungs, her voice booming through the speaker so violently that I had to instinctively pull the phone away from my ear.

"Bitch... where the fuck are you?!"

I froze again, the raw, unbridled aggression in her voice stalling the very blood in my veins.

My heart was pounding against my ribs like a frantic mallet, my knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white as I gripped the phone.

Cold, panicked sweat instantly broke out across my body.

"Did... did anything happen to Ishaan...?" I asked, my voice a breathless, trembling whisper, the terrifying weight of the question choking the volume right out of my throat.

Ishita gasped for a fraction of a second on the other end of the line, the sudden, raw terror in my tone catching her completely off guard.

Then, she let out a loud, incredibly exasperated groan that sounded more like a sigh of relief. "What? No! Bhai was in his villa with his friends last night... he didn't even come to his penthouse. He's perfectly fine, you lunatic."

I took a massive, deep breath, my shoulders dropping instantly as the suffocating weight lifted from my chest.

He was fine. He wasn't dead. He hadn't burned the city to the ground yet.

But before I could even fully process the relief, Ishita's voice returned, louder, sharper, and vibrating with an absolute, terrifying impatience. "Bitch, get out of that fucking bed and get ready right now!"

I blinked, my sleep-deprived, panicked brain failing to connect the dots. I whispered, "What...?"

"I can't fucking believe this!" she shouted, her voice reaching a pitch that made the phone's speaker rattle violently. "It's your interview today, you dumb bitch! Have you completely lost your goddamn mind?!"

I gasped, my eyes widening to the size of saucers as the realization hit me like a physical blow to the sternum.

Oh my fucking god.

The corporate interview.

The deadline.

The explicit threat he had made about ruining everything if I didn't show up on time today.

It had all been completely wiped from my mind by the sheer trauma of our confrontation yesterday.

"You have exactly 40 minutes, Ira!" she yelled back, her tone a mix of frantic panic and dark, wicked amusement. "Come on! Run, you lazy bitch!"

She paused for a split second, the line going strangely quiet, and then I heard her let out a sudden, mischievous giggle before adding, "Get here before bhai fucks the life out of you for being late."

The call disconnected with a sharp, definitive beep.

Oh my god.

She didn't just say that.

My whole body burned instantly, a wave of intense, molten heat rushing from the tips of my toes straight up to my cheeks.

I became all red, burning from the inside out at the raw, suggestive weight of her words.

She knew him; she knew what he was capable of, and she knew exactly what kind of dangerous, predatory tension had been simmering between us yesterday.

I didn't wait.

I threw the phone onto the rumpled bed, the mattress absorbing the impact, and ran inside the washroom with a manic, unhinged energy.

Every second was a ticking time bomb now. I didn't wait to neatly undress; I stripped myself with frantic, desperate violence, almost ripping my satin pajamas down the seams as I tore them off my body and kicked them onto the cold tile floor.

I threw myself under the shower, cranking the handle to a lukewarm temperature.

After almost 15 minutes of a rushed, chaotic shower—scrubbing the scent of old smoke and yesterday's sweat off my skin with an absolute fury—I turned the water off and stepped out onto the bath mat, my breath coming in short, ragged pants.

Fuck... I forgot to brush my teeth.

Fuck my life.

I cursed viciously under my breath, my hands shaking as I grabbed a plush white towel and wrapped it tightly around my body, tucking the edge over the heavy swell of my breasts.

I grabbed my toothbrush, loading it with paste, and began brushing my teeth with a furious, mechanical rhythm while staring at my flushed, panicked reflection in the mirror.

My lips were still slightly swollen from the brutal, blood-drawing kiss he had delivered yesterday, the faint, bruised outline of his dominance still visible on the sensitive flesh.

Once I was all done, rinsing my mouth hastily, I walked outside into the bedroom and hurried toward my small closet to assemble an outfit that could somehow serve as a shield against the man who wanted to break me.

I dried my body quickly, the friction of the towel leaving my skin pink and tingling, and then turned my attention to my hair.

It was soaking wet, dripping onto my bare shoulders.

I grabbed the blow dryer, cranking it to maximum heat, and half blow-dried it, leaving the strands with a damp, wild texture that curled naturally around my face and shoulders.

I didn't have time for elaborate styling, so I did my minimal makeup—just a touch of concealer, a swift coat of mascara, and a dab of tint on my lips that did absolutely nothing to hide the bruised look he had left there.

I turned to my wardrobe, my eyes landing on the structured, dark pinstripe corporate ensemble I had prepared.

It was a breathtakingly modern, sharp power suit that managed to be completely professional while radiating a lethal, undeniable edge of femininity.

The blazer was a masterpiece of tailoring, done in a deep, midnight-charcoal black with crisp, vertical silver pinstripes running down the fabric.

It was structured sharply at the shoulders, but the design featured a daring, avant-garde cutout neckline—a built-in choker band that wrapped snugly around my throat, drawing direct attention to my neck, while leaving a sharp, geometric keyhole opening right across my collarbones.

Below the cutout, the blazer fastened tightly down the front, nipping in drastically at my waist to emphasize the narrow, hourglass curve of my torso.

Because of the frantic rush and the absolute terror racing through my veins, my breathing was shallow, causing my swollen breasts to heave noticeably against the structured fabric of the jacket.

The tight, tailored cut of the blazer pushed my chest upward, making my breasts look incredibly full and prominent, the fabric straining subtly against their weight with every sharp breath I took.

The silver chain of my necklace rested perfectly against the exposed skin of my chest, catching the light.

The matching pinstripe skirt was short, high-waisted, and hugged my curves like a second skin, clinging to the roundness of my hips and ass with dangerous precision.

It ended high up on my thighs, putting the full length of my legs on display.

My legs and thighs looked long, smooth, and incredibly toned, the bare skin glistening slightly from the residual moisture of the shower and the body lotion I had hastily applied.

Every time I shifted my feet, the hem of the skirt tautened against the thick, soft curve of my upper thighs, creating a look that was utterly intoxicating, sophisticated, and dangerously provocative.

I let my hair open as it was, the long, dark strands still a little bit wet, draping over the structured shoulders of my pinstripe blazer. And then, I was all ready.

I grabbed my black vanity bag from the dresser, unzipping it to stuff my essentials inside.

I took my printed resume, neatly tucked in a leather folder, my pens, a small notebook, and, of course, one of my dark romance paperbacks—Little Liar by Leigh Rivers.

Ha ha ha... of course I will take my novels.

They were my comfort, my escape, and a subtle, ironic reminder of the fictional monsters I read about while preparing to face a very real one.

I jammed a pair of scrunchies, a few black hair clips, my phone, my charger, and my AirPods into the remaining pockets.

Everyone... everything was packed into my vanity.

I took my phone, opened the ride-sharing app with a trembling thumb, and booked a cab.

I ran down the stairs and walked out of my apartment building, stepping onto the bustling street without having touched a single bite of food or a drop of water.

My throat was dry, my stomach empty, but the sheer adrenaline running through my veins was more than enough to keep me upright.

I stood by the side of the street, watching the digital map update.

To steady the frantic shaking of my hands, I pulled a cigarette from my purse and lit it, taking a deep, long drag.

Smoking silently, I watched the morning traffic zoom past, the gray smoke drifting away into the humid air.

After a sharp five minutes, the white cab pulled up to the curb.

I threw the half-smoked bud onto the asphalt, crushed it beneath the heel of my stiletto, and hopped into the back car seat.

The ride toward the corporate headquarters was awkwardly silent and suffocating.

The driver didn't say a single word, the only sound being the low hum of the air conditioner and the ticking of the digital clock on the dashboard.

I watched the minutes slip away with a growing sense of absolute dread.

It was already 10:30 AM.

Oh god... my interview was officially supposed to be by 11:00 AM, and the traffic at the main intersection was starting to pile up into a massive gridlock.

I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. He is going to kill me.

The threat he had made yesterday wasn't just corporate warfare; it was a personal promise to cage me.

But before him... before I even reached his office, Ishita, Rahul, Priya, Ishir bhai, and Rudra bhai will be killing me first for making them wait in the lobby like idiots.

I checked my phone again.

It was already 10:58 AM.

Fuck my life.

The cab finally screeched to a halt in front of the towering glass skyscraper.

I practically threw the cash at the driver, didn't wait for the change, and ran through the spinning glass doors of the lobby.

My high heels clicked violently against the polished marble floor as I hurried toward the executive elevator bank.

As I stood by the metallic doors, waiting for the indicator light to drop, I could feel all eyes on me.

Of course they will look.

The corporate gossip mill worked faster than light; Ishaan Khanna had held me like fragile glass inside the crowded canteen yesterday, making a public scene that had probably been dissected by every single department before the end of the business day.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

I stepped inside the mirrored cabin and pressed the button for the 18th floor.

Oh god.

Even inside the elevator, as other employees filtered in, I could still feel all eyes on me.

The space was tight, claustrophobic.

I could see the women looking and glaring at me out of pure, unadulterated jealousy, their eyes scanning the sharp cut of my pinstripe suit and the faint mark on my neck with a sharp, judgmental scorn.

The men were no better, openly gawking at my exposed thighs and the heavy, heaving swell of my boobs beneath the structured cutout blazer.

I didn't care.

I rolled my eyes, a cold, detached expression settling over my features to mimic the armor I had worn for two years.

I put my AirPods in my ears, turning the volume up to block out the whispers, listening to music.

“Meri aashiqui ab tum hi ho...”

The familiar, melancholic melody flooded my ears, the lyrics about an all-consuming, destructive love echoing the exact chaos of my life.

The song continue as the elevator ascended, the floor numbers flashing on the digital display until a sharp chime announced our arrival.

The elevator door click open at the 18th floor.

I walked out, my heels sinking into the plush corporate carpeting of the executive wing, and my heart stopped completely.

The atmosphere up here was different. It felt exactly the same—the same heavy, suffocating pressure, the same quiet authority that used to govern his private wing back on the university campus.

It was his private wing, recreated in glass and steel, a modern fortress for the Don.

Except, instead of university proctors, Ishir, Rudra, Ishita, Rahul, and Priya were standing right there by the glass partition, glaring at me.

I bit my lower lip, the raw skin stinging. I opened the AirPods, pulling them out of my ears, and kept them hastily in my bag.

I walked towards them, my legs feeling slightly heavy under their collective gaze.

I whispered, my voice small, "Am sorry... guys... I slept..."

Ishita stepped forward, her eyes wide with frantic urgency as she whispered back, "Bitch, now go before... bhai burn the entire building down!"

I cried, a soft, desperate sound catching in my chest. "Oh god... save me from the monster..."

Rahul leaned in, his expression completely deadpan as he whispered, "The monster is waiting."

Ishir bhai patted my arm, giving me a reassuring, calm look. "All the best, kiddo."

Rudra bhai stepped closer, his massive frame standing like a solid wall. "Not panic, okh? Not be nervous."

I whispered, "Thank you..." trying to draw strength from them.

As I took my first step down the long hallway, Priya yelled in a sharp, urgent hiss, "Run, Ira! You are already 7 minutes late!"

Oh god.

I didn't care about corporate decorum anymore; I ran down the carpeted hallway, my heels clicking faintly against the floorboards beneath.

As I reached the massive, imposing double doors of the CEO suite, my heart skipped a beat entirely.

I stopped, took one deep, ragged breath, and knocked.

From inside, a deep, gravelly, and terrifyingly familiar voice came cutting through the wood. "Come in."

Oh my god.

A cold, violent shiver ran straight through my spine at the sound of his voice.

I wrapped my fingers around the heavy handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

As the heavy door closed behind me, clicking shut with a definitive, trapping sound that cut off the rest of the world, I froze to death.

There he was.

He was sitting right there on his desk, leaning back against his high leather chair, smoking his cigar with a slow, predatory grace.

The thick, blue-gray smoke curled around his head like a crown of ash.

His dark, charcoal eyes fixed onto my frame instantly, scanning me from top to bottom, slowly tracing the lines of my blazer, down to the plunge of my neckline, and lingering heavily on the exposed skin of my thighs.

But what made me freeze completely, what stopped the very breath in my lungs, was his suit.

He was exactly wearing the same pattern, the same deep, rich charcoal black color with silver pinstripes as mine.

The fabric, the tailoring, the sharp lines—it was a flawless, terrifying match, as if we had coordinated our armor before stepping into the arena.

How is this possible?

He looked like a Greek god carved from dark stone, but yesterday's Ishaan and today's version were entirely different.

There was a massive, terrifying difference in the way he held himself now.

He didn't look like the broken man weeping over a ghost in a cabin; he looked like a God of War, pristine, lethal, and ready to conquer his world with an iron fist.

The tailored pinstripe jacket clung to his massive, broad shoulders, the fabric straining against the heavy muscles of his chest and back.

His white dress shirt underneath was crisp, the top buttons undone completely, revealing the thick, corded muscles of his chest and neck.

A heavy silver chain bracelet glinted around his wrist as he held his phone up for a brief second before tossing it onto the desk.

The tension in his body was palpable, dynamic.

The thick, rigid veins on his skull and neck were popping out against his tanned skin, throbbing with the sheer force of his repressed adrenaline.

His large hands were resting on the desk, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white as he gripped the dark wood, his grip strong enough to shatter the surface.

His dark eyes were completely unreadable, blazing with a hungry, predatory intensity as they stared at my body.

He looked at my thighs and the heavy, heaving swell of my boobs with a raw, ravenous hunger that felt like a physical touch stripping away my clothes.

Fuck, he looks so fucking handsome.

My subconscious immediately reared its head, screaming at me from the back of my mind. Ira, you bitch... he's not your professor anymore! Nor is he your Ishaan... get over yourself!

I shook my head subtly, trying to clear the fog of desire and terror that was settling over my brain.

I bit my lower lip again, hard enough to feel the sting, but the gesture did nothing to stop the reaction of my body.

I was already completely flushed, a deep, molten heat pooling between my thighs.

I was wet.

The raw, primal aura he radiated was a physical trigger, my arousal dripping from my pussy, leaking down until I could practically feel the warm moisture tracing a path toward my inner thighs.

And fuck... because of the frantic rush this morning, I was wearing a tiny, lace thong inside, offering absolutely zero protection against the tide of my own desire.

The thin fabric was already soaked through, the friction of my movements making my pussy throb with a needy, agonizing pulse.

​Not now, kitty cat... he's not yours anymore.

​He lowered his cigar, the ash falling into a crystal tray on the desk, and leaned forward, his massive frame casting a long, intimidating shadow across the polished wood.

​He whispered in his most sexy and husky voice, a deep, gravelly sound that vibrated directly against my raw nerves. "Miss Mishra... you are totally 15 minutes late."

I looked at him in complete confusion, my blinking eyes trying to calculate the numbers through the haze of my flush.

I was 7 minutes late.

I had checked my phone right before knocking.

Why is he saying 15 minutes?

Then, the familiar, cruel smirk came back to his lips, stretching the scar on his jaw into a dark line.

He leaned his elbows on the desk, his eyes dropping back down to the hem of my skirt.

He said, "The rest 8 minutes... you were busy gwaking at me... and..."

He paused, his dark gaze locking onto the exact spot where my thighs met the edge of the chair, his nostrils flaring slightly as if he could smell the change in the room.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous, purring whisper. "...and getting wet... Little Prey."

My eyes widened to an impossible degree, my lips parting as a sharp gasp left my throat.

The room felt like it had been set on fire.

I turned all red, burning from the inside out as my secret was laid bare before him.

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I stood there, rooted to the spot, the sheer weight of his predatory gaze pinning me against the floorboards.

Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to turn around and run, to burst through those heavy mahogany doors and never look back. But my limbs refused to move.

I was completely trapped in the gravitational pull of the man sitting behind the black obsidian desk.

He broke the silence, his voice a low, commanding rumble that brooked absolutely no argument.

"Sit."

I gulped down, a tight, dry knot forming in my throat as I forced my trembling legs to move.

Every click of my high heels against the polished floor felt like a countdown to my own execution.

As I walked towards his desk, the distance between us felt endlessly suffocating, yet terrifyingly short.

I reached the front of the massive desk and sat on the chair, sinking into the leather right in front of him, facing him.

The proximity was overwhelming.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the rich, smoky aroma of his cigar swirled around me, invading my senses and making my mind race.

With fingers that wouldn't stop shaking, I reached into my black vanity bag, took the resume from my bag, and handed it to him across the black stone surface.

He took it.

His large, scarred fingers brushed against mine for a fraction of a second, and a literal bolt of electricity shot up my arm, making the hair on my nape stand on end.

He didn't say a word.

He simply laid the paper down on the desk and started reading it, his dark eyes scanning the text with a cold, calculated focus.

And me... I couldn't just take my eyes off of him. It was impossible.

The sheer, raw masculinity he radiated was a physical force, drawing my gaze like a moth to a flame.

As he moved his fingers across the edge of the paper, turning it slightly, the thick, rigid veins in his hands were popping out against his tanned skin.

They looked corded, powerful, and dangerously alive, tracing a path of pure strength up his wrists and into the rolled-up sleeves of his pinstripe jacket.

Looking at those hands, remembering how they felt when they were dug into my skin, sent a violent, uncontrolled jolt straight down to my core.

The friction of my lace thong against my sensitive flesh became unbearable, making my pussy throbbing with a fierce, demanding pulse.

A wave of intense heat flooded my lower body, the moisture pooling so fast and heavy that a desperate, wild thought crossed my mind: I'm gonna fucking cum just by staring at his veins.

Oh god... what the fuck is wrong with me?

He is my tormentor, the man who wants to see me break, and here I am, dissolving into a puddle of pure arousal just by watching him read a piece of paper.

I bit my lips, sinking my teeth into the sensitive, swollen flesh to force myself back to reality, to anchor my mind through the sharp sting of physical pain.

Desperate to hide the evidence of my body's betrayal, I squeezed my thighs together tightly, crushing the wet fabric of my underwear between my legs to stop the throbbing.

But it was a losing battle.

My nipples were already hard, pressing tightly against the silver silk camisole and the structured lining of my pinstripe blazer, standing out like small, rigid peaks that betrayed my desire.

And thank the lord I was wearing a blazer dress today—the tailored, high-waisted pinstripe skirt and matching jacket provided at least some semblance of a professional barrier, hiding the chaotic ruin of my composure.

It's hot.

It's fucking hot today.

The air conditioning in the executive suite was running perfectly, casting a cool breeze through the room, but inside my skin, a forest fire was raging.

Or maybe... he's just too hot to handle.

The sheer sight of him, looking like an absolute king in his matching pinstripe suit, was dragging me under.

I was sweating, tiny beads of moisture forming along my hairline and down the valley of my chest, making the silver necklace stick to my skin.

And then, without a single word of warning, he looked at me.

His dark, charcoal eyes snapped up from the paper, locking onto my face with a piercing, predatory focus that stripped away the last of my defenses.

I gasped, my chest heaving violently as the sudden impact of his gaze caught me off guard.

My breath hitched in my throat, my breasts rising and falling sharply against the plunging neckline of my suit.

He didn't give me a single compliment. He didn't ask a single professional question.

With a swift, careless motion of his large hand, he threw the resume right in front of me, letting the white paper slide across the black obsidian desk until it hit my leather folder.

And then he said, his voice flat, absolute, and devoid of any emotion, "You are joining from today."

What the fuck...

I froze completely.

My eyes widened to the size of saucers, my lips parting in sheer, unadulterated shock.

A cold, violent shiver ran straight through my spine, followed immediately by a wave of disbelief.

No interview.

No questions about my qualifications.

No discussion of my past or my sudden two-year disappearance from the professional world.

Nothing.

Just an absolute command.

Just joining.

What on earth is going on inside his twisted, brilliant mind?

Before I could even find my voice to protest, he reached down, opened his desk drawer with a sharp click, and took out a thick, heavy leather file.

Without an ounce of gentleness, he threw the file before me, the heavy cover slamming against the black stone with a loud thud.

I flinch, my shoulders jerking at the sudden, aggressive noise.

"Read, Miss Mishra."

I gulped down, my throat feeling like sandpaper. With my trembling hands, my fingers slick with a nervous sweat, I reached out and opened the heavy cover of the file.

The crisp white paper gleamed under the desk lamp, and the very first line written in bold, black capital letters made my heart stop dead in my chest.

CONTRACT OF 3 YEARS.

I froze to death.

The words blurred before my eyes, the reality of the trap slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave.

Three years.

Three years of being bound to his company, to his world, to his immediate presence.

What the...

My eyes frantically scanned down to the next line, and a sharp, choked gasp left my throat.

POSITION: PERSONAL SECRETARY OF ISHAAN KHANNA.

I gasped... oh my god.

Personal secretary.

That didn't mean managing schedules or organizing files in a corporate database.

In his lexicon, in the dark, twisted world of the man sitting before me, that title meant complete submission.

It meant being within arm's reach of his dominance every single hour of the day. I didn't dare to look up at him.

I couldn't. I knew that if I met his eyes right now, he would see the absolute terror and the forbidden excitement war lagging across my face.

While I was reading the details, my eyes skimming through the dense legal clauses regarding confidentiality, working hours, and absolute obedience,

I was sweating and shivering like hell. The paper in my hands was rattling against the desk, the soft rustle of the pages betraying the absolute chaos in my soul.

Then, the heavy silence of the room was broken by a sharp, metallic sound.

I heard his chair snapped at the floor, the heavy leather rollers shifting against the ground as he suddenly moved.

I flinch, my head snapping up instinctively.

He stood up, his massive, broad-shouldered frame rising to its full, intimidating height, towering over the obsidian desk like a monument of dark power.

But to my surprise, he didn't come to me. He didn't cross the distance to trap me against the desk like he had yesterday.

Instead, he turned on his heel, his long legs eating up the distance as he walked towards the leather couch situated in the corner of the large room.

He sat down, leaning his back against the deep cushions, spreading his legs wide in a posture of absolute, unbothered dominance.

But me... even though there were yards of space between us now, I could feel his gaze.

It was a physical weight, a burning sensation that felt like he was burning holes on my thighs, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the exposed, smooth skin beneath the hem of my pinstripe skirt.

I was done reading.

The words were swimming on the page, the legal jargon fading into the background as the sheer panic of the situation took over.

I can't stay here anymore.

The air in this room was too thick, too charged with a dangerous sexuality that was eroding my sanity by the second.

Desperate to escape, to get out into the hallway where my friends were waiting,

I just took the pen from my black vanity, my fingers slick against the metal barrel, and signed the contract at the bottom of the page with a shaky, jagged cursive.

I kept the contract at his place on the desk, closing the leather file with a sharp snap.

As I stood up, my knees feeling weak and unstable on my high heels, I reached down to gather my things.

A sharp, metallic click of something happened behind me.

I flinch, my body tensing instantly at the sound.

I was about to grabbed my bag, my fingers reaching for the leather strap of my vanity, desperate to make my exit.

Then, his voice cut through the distance, low, gravelly, and laced with a terrifying authority.

"Miss Mishra... please come here."

I froze to death, my hand hovering just inches above the strap of my bag.

Fuck my life.

And fuck my submissive body, which always, without fail, listens to him.

Years before, inside that closed classroom when he was my professor, and now, when he was the absolute ruler of this corporate empire—my body recognized his voice as its master, bypassing my brain entirely.

As I looked at him, turning my head slowly, I found his eyes on me.

He was watching me from the couch, his head tilted back slightly against the leather, his gaze tracing the heavy, frantic rise and fall of my chest.

I was breathing heavily, the air rattling in my lungs as the sheer proximity of my surrender approached.

Slowly, step by step, my heels dragging against the plush carpet, I walked towards him.

Every step felt like a deeper descent into his cage.

As I stood right in front of him, my knees almost brushing against his spread legs, the sheer size of his frame looking even more imposing from this angle, I stopped.

He looked up at me, the cigar smoke drifting between us, and said, his voice a dark, velvet purr, "Little closer."

Oh my god... I can't.

I can't do this.

Every rational part of my mind was screaming at me to turn around, to tear up that signed paper, to run.

I need to run.

I whispered, my voice a cracked, desperate plea, "Mr. Khanna... I have to..."

He didn't let me finish.

With the lightning-fast speed of a predator striking its prey, his large hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my arm so hard that the fabric of my pinstripe blazer strained against his grip.

With one powerful, unyielding tug, he pulled me down.

I gasped as my balance evaporated, and in the next second, I fell on his lap.

My hands landed flat against his broad chest, feeling the solid, granite-hard muscle beneath the crisp white shirt, the heat of his skin radiating through the cotton and burning my palms.

He didn't wait.

He didn't give me a single moment to recover my breath or try to scramble away.

Before I could even protest, his one hand slid under my thighs, grabbing me with a bruising, iron-clad grip, while his other hand wrapped firmly around my waist, pulling my torso flush against his massive chest.

Our positions shifted instantly, my legs resting on the leather couch beside him, my short pinstripe skirt riding up dangerously high, exposing the full, smooth length of my thighs to the cool air of the room.

I gasped, my lips parting as our eyes met at point-blank range.

Up close, the raw, unhinged intensity in his gaze was terrifying.

There was no gentleness there; it was a storm of raw possession and ancient anger.

And then... he pulled his hand out from under my thighs, only to slide it back over the top, grabbing them from above with an absolute, crushing force.

He squeezed the soft, sensitive flesh of my upper thigh, his large fingers digging deep into my skin, marking me through the dark fabric.

I bit my lower lip, a sharp, choked gasp leaving my throat as the sheer pleasure of his rough touch sent a violent tremor straight down my spine.

The friction was excruciatingly good, driving my senses to the absolute brink.

And then I said, my voice trembling, a desperate attempt to appeal to whatever professional boundaries were left between us, "You... you can't do this, Ishaan..."

The moment the name left my lips, the air in the room turned ice cold.

He smirked, a dark, wicked twist of his lips that showed no teeth, his eyes darkening until they looked like twin pools of obsidian.

He leaned in closer, his hot, nicotine-laced breath fanning across my flushed cheek as he whispered, "It's Ishaan sir... or Mr. Khanna... or Sir for you, Miss Mishra."

I gasped, my chest heaving violently against his, my swollen breasts pressing hard against his shirtfront with every ragged breath.

The sheer dominance in his voice was making my mind spin. I tried to find my anger, tried to leverage my position.

I said, my voice cracking with a fierce, desperate defiance, "Then why on earth are you even touching your Personal Secretary like this... Sir...?"

He looked at me, his gaze dropping to my lips, then to the exposed keyhole of my blazer neckline, before that cruel smirk returned to his face.

"Why can't I?" he purred, his large hand tightening around my waist until I could barely breathe. "You just signed for that, didn't you?"

I looked at him in complete, utterly blank confusion, my brain failing to process his words through the thick fog of my arousal.

I asked, my voice a breathless whisper, "What... what are you talking about?"

He let out a low, mocking chuckle that vibrated deep within his chest, a sound that made my heart hammer against my ribs. "You should read the contract before signing it, Miss Mishra. Every single page of it."

A sudden, terrifying shiver ran straight through my spine, the cold realization of a trap snapping shut around me making my blood turn to ice.

I gasped, my fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt as I realized what I had done in my haste to escape.

I whispered, my voice desperate, panicking as I began to twist against his hold, "Please... please let go of me..."

I tried to shoved him, pressing my palms against his broad chest, pushing with all the meager strength I had left in my trembling limbs.

But he didn't move an inch. His massive frame remained completely immovable, a granite wall against my frantic struggles.

Instead of releasing me, his expression darkened, and he slid his hand inside my tight skirt, his large, hot palm making direct contact with the bare skin of my right thigh.

He held my right thigh tightly, his long fingers squeezing the sensitive inner flesh with a brutal, uncompromising possessiveness.

The moment his hand made contact with that hyper-sensitive zone, I was gone.

The world dissolved around me.

I was completely drenched, the sheer, overwhelming intensity of his touch acting like a match thrown onto gasoline.

I could feel my arousal soaking my skirt, the thin lace of my thong failing completely to contain the sudden, violent rush of my body's surrender.

But it was a lie.

The corporate distance, the professional denial—it was all a beautiful, pathetic lie.

The real truth was... I came all over.

Right then and there, without him even doing anything else, without his fingers even crossing the border of my underwear, just the sheer, terrifying weight of his rough grip on my thigh was enough to push me over the edge.

I came all over, my body stiffening against his lap as a silent, violent orgasm ripped through my pussy, my inner muscles contracting in a frantic, needy rhythm that I couldn't stop.

Oh god... the shame and the absolute ecstasy of it burned through my veins.

And then he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration right against my ear, his fingers moving slightly against my trembling skin, "Why should I let go... when you signed for every bit of giving me pleasure?"

My eyes widened to their absolute limits, my lips parting in a silent scream of disbelief.

The fog of pleasure evaporated instantly, replaced by a sudden, fierce rush of adrenaline.

My blood boiled, a primal, defensive anger flaring up from the depths of my shock.

I whispered-yelled at him, my voice cracking with a raw, unbridled fury as I stared into his smirk, "What the fuck are you talking about, Ishaan?!"

He smirked, his eyes gleaming with a dark, satisfied amusement at my outburst. "So... my little filthy student still has claws. I wondered when they would come out."

I twisted violently in his grip, my hands tearing at his shoulders as I tried to break free from his lap. "I'm done! I can't do this with you! Tear up that paper, I'm leaving!"

The amusement vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by a cold, terrifying mask of absolute authority.

He grabbed me more tightly, his large hand around my waist squeezing until a soft gasp left my lips, pinning me down against his thighs so hard I couldn't even wiggle.

And said, his voice dropping into a register that was pure steel, "You have no other option, Ira. You signed for it. It's a legally binding document now."

My blood boiled, the sheer injustice of his manipulation making me lose all sense of fear. "I signed for what, you asshole?! Tell me!"

And then, the air changed completely.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop to below freezing, the corporate elegance of the suite dissolving into the raw, territorial violence of his true nature.

He slid his hand from my waist, his long fingers traveling up my back, bypassing my collar, and buried them deep into my hair at the back of my head.

With a brutal, sudden motion, he yanked at my hair harshly, pulling my head back until my neck was completely extended, the sudden movement burning my scalp with a sharp, stinging pain.

I hissed in pain, my eyes watering as my head was forced back, leaving my throat completely exposed to his gaze.

He leaned down, his face hovering just inches above mine, his dark eyes boring into my soul as he delivered the terms of my captivity. "You will be my pretty little slut for three fucking years, Ira. Whatever I say, whenever I say it... you are bound to do that. You belong to me in this office, in my bed, and anywhere else I dictate. And if not... if you choose to break that contract, if you try to run away to Delhi again... you will pay the penalty amount of three million dollars."

I froze completely. The breath died in my throat, my lips parting in absolute, stunned disbelief.

Three million dollars.

What the actual fuck...

Three million dollars was an amount I could never hope to see, a number designed specifically to keep me chained to his side forever.

It wasn't a corporate penalty; it was a ransom for my soul.

My blood boiled with a desperate, wild fury, the sheer helplessness of my situation driving me to the brink of tears.

I whispered-yelled, my voice shaking with a mix of rage and terror, "You got to be fucking kidding me! Do I look like a whore to you?!"

Suddenly, his grip tightened in my hair with a violent, punishing twist.

I hissed in pain, my fingers clawing at his wrists as the burning on my scalp intensified.

As he did that, he slid his other hand—the one that had been resting on my outer thigh—more inside my inner thighs.

He didn't stop at the fabric of my skirt.

His large, rough hand pushed the material away, sliding straight up the bare, smooth skin of my inner thigh until he reached the epicenter of my shame.

I felt his fingers making direct contact with the slick, hot wetness that was dripping down my skin.

He didn't turn away in disgust; instead, he used his long fingers to touch my cum, smudging the hot, thick moisture all over my inner thighs, tracing slow, deliberate circles against my bare skin that made my body tremble against his will.

He whispered-growled, his voice a feral, low frequency that vibrated right against my sensitive ears, his breath burning my skin. "Whatever you are... from whore to my slut... you are mine. And that means only me. I repeat... only I am allowed to call you that. Not even you can use that word for yourself. Every single drop of this wetness belongs to me."

The absolute humiliation and the intense, forbidden pleasure of his fingers smudging my own arousal against my skin broke something inside me.

I sobbed, a wet, heavy tear slipping from the corner of my eye and tracing a path down my cheek. "Please, Ishaan... let go... it's burning... please..."

Hearing his name spoken in that broken, weeping tone seemed to satisfy some dark craving inside him.

He let go of my hair, the sudden release making my head drop forward against his shoulder.

But before I could even draw a breath of relief, he slid his large hand onto my neck from behind, his fingers wrapping around my nape, gripping it with a firm, unyielding pressure that kept me anchored to his chest.

He smirked, leaning his heavy frame against me, his chest pressing my breasts flat against his body as he looked down at my ruined face.

He whispered, his voice a low, mocking taunt that made my skin crawl with desire, "I didn't even touch you... and you already came so hard, Miss Mishra. Look at you... drenched for your boss."

I closed my eyes tightly, refusing to look at the dark satisfaction dancing in his eyes, as fresh tears spilled from my eyes, wetting the fabric of his white pinstripe shirt.

The sheer helplessness of my body's betrayal was worse than any physical cage he could build.

I whispered, the words a jagged, broken confession of my hatred, "I fucking hate you... I hate you so much..."

He came closer, his face dipping down until his lips brushed against my tear-stained skin.

Without any gentleness, he bit my cheeks softly, his teeth catching the sensitive flesh in a small, marking pinch that made me gasp.

And then, he whispered against my ear, his voice a dark, triumphant purr that sealed my fate for the next three years. "You still sure... you hate me? When you cum this good for me... Little Prey?"

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He didn’t wait.

He didn’t give me a single second to recover from the involuntary wave of release that had just left me trembling and breathless against his chest.

With a sudden, deliberate shift of his weight, he spread my legs wide just by using his long, powerful fingers, ruthlessly casting aside the tailored hem of my pinstripe skirt.

Before a protest could even form in my dry throat, he arched his hand and slid his two thick fingers straight inside my wet, aching pussy.

The sudden, deep invasion made my entire body jerk violently against him.

My spine arched, my hands gripping the crisp fabric of his white dress shirt for dear life as a sharp, fractured sound tore from my chest.

I moaned, the sound raw and desperate. "Aaa... Ishaan, please don’t..."

The sound of his name on my lips didn't soften him; it only fueled the dark, possessive fire burning in his eyes.

He growled, the deep sound vibrating against my chest as his fingers stayed embedded deep inside my heat, holding me still. "Did you let anyone touch you these two years?"

The question was a demand for my absolute truth, a heavy weight pressing down on my soul.

I sobbed, my eyes watering as I shook my head frantically against his shoulder, the raw vulnerability of the moment completely stripping away my pride. "No... I didn't..."

A dark, satisfied tension seemed to ripple through his massive frame at my confession, but it brought no mercy.

As he started moving his fingers inside my pussy, pulling them out almost to the entrance before plunging back in to the hilt, the sheer, overwhelming sensation made my strength evaporate.

My head fell heavily onto his broad shoulder, my face burying into the crook of his neck.

Desperate for an anchor against the rising tide of pleasure and pain, I leaned forward and bit his collar tightly, tasting the salt of his skin as he finger-fucked me with a slow, ruthless precision.

It was the honest, unvarnished truth.

All these two years of hiding, of running from the ghost of his obsession, I didn't let a single soul touch me.

The mere thought of another man's hands on my skin had made my stomach turn with revulsion.

It was only me who ever touched myself in the dark, lonely hours of the night, my own fingers mimicking the ghost of his heavy hand, crying myself to sleep over the monster I couldn't forget.

He kept moving his fingers in and out inside my pussy, his pace deliberate, unhurried, and perfectly calculated to drive me insane.

It was a slow, torturing way to break me, stretching my tight, unaccustomed walls with every stroke.

The friction against my hyper-sensitive flesh was too much, sparking an ancient, deep-rooted instinct that bypassed my brain entirely.

My ass began moving on its own, my hips tilting upward to meet his hand, matching his rhythm against my will.

Driven by a primal need for friction, I started grinding my ass directly on his cock, feeling the thick, rigid length of him through the layers of his pinstripe trousers and my soaked lace thong.

He was hard rock beneath me, an unyielding ridge of heat that strained against his zipper, proving exactly how much my proximity was destroying his control.

Feeling the desperate, needy roll of my hips, he growled into my hair, his grip on my waist tightening until it bruised. "I missed this little pussy of yours so fucking much, baby..."

The raw vulgarity of his praise mixed with the slow, deep stretch of his fingers made my breath catch.

I sobbed and moaned into his neck, my voice a broken, high-pitched whimpering. "Please don't... aaa... I can't..."

He let out a low, mocking groan against my skin, his fingers twisting inside me, hitting a spot that made my toes curl. "Why...? Why can't you take this? You have taken the worst things I have ever did to you, baby..."

He was right.

The realization cut through me like a knife.

This was nothing compared to the emotional desolation of the past, nothing compared to the brutal ways we had torn each other apart before I ran.

My body betrayed me completely, welcoming the invasion even as my mind wept.

I felt my pussy's inner walls stretching around his intrusion, the friction creating a deep, heavy ache.

His fingers were long, thick, and rough, scarred from years of violence and hard work, and they were stretching and burning my walls with every merciless thrust.

And me... I was already a moaning mess, my head rolling against his shoulder, my lips parted as a continuous stream of broken, breathless sounds filled the quiet space of the executive suite.

He kept fingering my pussy, refusing to quicken the pace, keeping the strokes agonizingly slow and deep.

The deliberate delay was an exquisite form of torture.

And me... the slow movement was driving my senses to a fever pitch.

I wanted more.

The dark, submissive core of my soul wanted it rougher, wanted the frantic, bruising pace that would drown out the screaming of my conscience.

I moaned, my hands twisting into the fabric of his blazer, pulling him closer. "Please... aaa... Ishaan..."

He growled, his breath hot and fast against my ear, his fingers deliberately bottoming out inside me. "Please what, baby?"

I moaned and sobbed, all my pride fracturing into dust as I begged for the release he was withholding. "Please... faster..."

He smirked, a dark, low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he heard my undoing.

He pulled his fingers almost entirely out, letting the cool air hit my wet opening before plunging back in with a heavy, unyielding slowness. "No... it's not up to you anymore, Little Prey. I will fuck you the way I like it."

I sobbed against his skin, my hips jerking weakly against his hand. "I can't take this... please..."

He paused his hand for a fraction of a second, his fingers buried deep inside me, holding me captive against his lap.

He looked down at my flushed, tear-stained face, his dark eyes glittering with a dangerous, unchecked dominance. "Do you want me to bend you over my desk, tear this pinstripe skirt off you, and just fuck your little cunt raw by my cock?"

The image sent a violent, terrified thrill straight to my core, my pussy clamping down hard around his trapped fingers.

I cried, shaking my head as the sheer weight of his control overwhelmed me. "No... please..."

He smirked, his thumb tracing the outer edge of my soaked underwear. "Then just let me at least fuck you by my fingers, baby."

He resumed the movement, his fingers inside my pussy remaining slow but incredibly deep, bottoming out against my cervix with a relentless, mechanical rhythm.

I felt his fingertips almost touching my womb, a deep, blunt pressure that sent a wild, visceral ache radiating through my lower abdomen.

My eyes rolled back, my eyelids fluttering shut as my brain short-circuited under the sheer depth of the penetration.

He kept fucking my pussy with his fingers, the wet, squelching sound of his movement filling the small gap between our bodies.

And then... just as I thought I could survive the slow pace, he added his thumb to my clit.

Oh god...

What is happening to me?

The sudden, direct friction against my hyper-sensitive bud was an explosion of pure, unadulterated electricity.

This was worse than his punishments, worse than any cold distance or harsh word he had ever used to break me.

While he kept fucking my pussy with those two long fingers, his thumb was aggressively rubbing my clit, pinning the swollen nodule against my pubic bone with a heavy, relentless pressure.

My body buckled, my hips jerking upward in a violent, uncontrolled spasm that should have dislodged us, but he held me tightly, his iron arm around my waist locking me down against his thighs like a vice.

He leaned in, his gaze fixed on my parted lips, his breathing as ragged and heavy as mine.

He said, his voice a dark, velvet growl that brooked no refusal, "I want to kiss you so fucking hard."

And me... I didn't wait.

The remaining distance between us was a torture I couldn't endure.

I grabbed his collar with both hands, my knuckles turning white as I hauled him down, and crashed my lips onto his with a desperate, wild violence.

Our lips moved against each other in a brutal, bruising clash of teeth and tongue.

The kiss was a war, a chaotic struggle for dominance that mirrored the frantic movement of his hand between my thighs.

I sucked his upper lip with a fierce, hungry desperation, trying to consume him, while he sucked harshly on my lower lip, his teeth clamping down on the tender flesh with a punishing strength.

As his fingers kept fucking me, stretching my tight walls, and his thumb kept aggressively rubbing my clit, the sensory overload reached a breaking point.

He bit my lower lip harshly, his sharp teeth piercing the skin and drawing blood.

I moaned into his mouth, a sharp, metallic taste filling the gap between our tongues. "Aaaa..."

He groaned deep inside my mouth, a low, rumbling sound of absolute possession as he swallowed my cry. "Moan for me... do you hear me? Moan only for me..."

I cried, the tears flowing freely now, a mix of pain, shame, and an ecstasy so intense it felt like dying.

He ignored my weeping, his tongue sliding deep inside my mouth, sucking my tongue harshly, his tongue fucking my mouth with a relentless, invading force that was almost making me gag.

He spit inside my mouth, a hot, dominant gesture of complete ownership, while I gulped down blindly, swallowing him whole because I had no choice, because my soul was already his.

I sucked his tongue back with a manic fervor as he sucked mine, our breaths mingling in a hot, suffocating rush of air.

His fingers were still going in and out, in and out, a rhythmic, wet friction that was tearing my composure to shreds.

The thumb on my clit never wavered, rubbing with an aggressive, unrelenting speed that drove my nerves to the absolute brink.

Fuck... This is...

Oh god... It feels so fucking good.

The pleasure was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I couldn't breathe, tightening the muscles of my thighs until they trembled against the leather couch.

I was on the edge, the precipice of a cliff so high that the fall would completely destroy whatever was left of my sanity.

I was about to cum, the contractions already starting deep within my lower belly.

I cried inside his mouth, my voice muffled by his lips, a desperate, frantic warning. "Ishaan... fuck... I'm gonna cum..."

He bit my lower lip again, his teeth grinding against the small cut he had made, while he groaned deeply inside my mouth, his fingers delivering three fast, deep thrusts that hit the very back of my throat.

He said, his voice a dark, absolute command against my tongue, "Cum for me... only for me."

And then... I shattered.

The dam broke with a violent, body-shaking intensity that made my spine snap straight.

I came all over his fingers, my internal muscles clamping down around his hand in a series of fierce, rhythmic spasms that went on and on, milking him for every ounce of pleasure.

The release was a torrent, my cum dripping and soaking my inner thighs, ruining the thin lace of my thong, ruining the tailored hem of my pinstripe skirt, and leaking through to soak into the dark fabric of his pants.

I was shaking, my chest heaving as the waves of the orgasm ripped through me, rendering me completely helpless in his arms.

He bit my lower lip harshly one last time, a hard, marking pinch that anchored the pleasure with a sting of pain, and then let go of my mouth.

He didn't push me off his lap. Instead, he let his hand stay resting against my wet inner thigh, his fingers slick with the evidence of my undoing.

Our foreheads pressed against each other, our noses brushing together in the small, humid space between us, our lips brushing lightly with every ragged breath we took.

We were breathing each other's air, the scent of sex, nicotine, and blood swirling between us in the quiet office.

His eyes opened, looking into mine with a cold, unyielding promise that made the warmth of the orgasm evaporate into dread.

He said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against my mouth, "I will make your life hell, Little Prey."

I let out one last, broken sob, my head resting back against his shoulder as the reality of my three-year sentence settled over my chest.

I cried, my voice a faint, exhausted whisper. "You already did, Ishaan..."

.

.

.

.

.

.

As I sat on his lap, completely drained and breathing his very air, the illusion of whatever intimacy had just transpired vanished in a split second.

His frame went rigid beneath me, the warm, pulsing predator turning back into a block of unyielding ice.

He didn't wait.

He didn't offer a single soft touch or a moment to let me gather the scattered pieces of my dignity.

He simply muttered, his deep voice slicing through the quiet room like a dull blade, "Get up."

I froze.

The coldness in his tone was an physical blow, jarring my system so hard that the residual warmth in my veins turned to ice.

My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.

I gulped down the lump of absolute shame rising in my throat, forcing my weak, unstable legs to move as I got up from his lap.

My high heels clicked unevenly against the floorboards as I took a tentative step back, trying to smooth down the wrinkled hem of my pinstripe skirt.

The moment I gained my footing, my eyes fell on his thighs. It was completely drenched.

The dark pinstripe fabric of his expensive trousers was heavily stained, a stark, glossy wetness soaking through the material right where I had been grinding against his rock-hard length.

The sight of my own wanton surrender marked clearly on his clothes made my chest tightening, a suffocating weight crushing my lungs.

Fresh tears spilled from my eyes, tracking hot lines down my flushed cheeks as the absolute humiliation of the scene settled into my bones.

He stood up, his massive, broad-shouldered figure towering over me for a fraction of a second, before he calmly walked towards his desk.

He moved with a terrifyingly slow, deliberate grace, completely unbothered by the state of his clothes or the ruin he had left me in.

As he sat back down in his high leather executive chair, leaning back with an insufferable air of detachment, his dark eyes fixed onto me.

And then, right before my eyes, he raised his hand and sucked his fingers, one by one.

He did it slowly, his tongue licking across his knuckles, cleaning every single drop of my cum from his skin while keeping his predatory, unwavering gaze locked onto my trembling form.

He swallowed the fluid with a dark, deliberate smirk, making sure I witnessed every second of my own submission.

Once his fingers were clean, he reached for his crystal tray, lit up his cigar with a sharp flick of his lighter, and smoked.

He took a long, deep drag, blowing a slow plume of blue-gray smoke into the space between us, framing his sculpted face like a cruel god.

Through the haze, he looked at me and said, his voice a low, mocking purr, "You have been a good little slut. Tomorrow, wear something nice."

I gasped, my lips parting in utter disbelief.

The sheer vulgarity of his praise, delivered with such casual corporate authority, made my skin burn.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my parched throat.

And then, seeing my hesitation, his expression shifted instantly from mocking amusement to absolute fury.

He whispered-roar, the sound vibrating through the massive desk, "What the fuck are you still standing for, Miss Mishra?!"

The sheer volume of his command made my shoulders jerk.

I swallowed my fear, a desperate, irrational need to understand his madness pushing past my lips.

I whispered, my voice cracking, "Why... why are you behaving like this...?"

He let out a low, mocking chuckle, tapping the ash from his cigar into the tray.

He smirked and said, "Don't get ahead of it, Little Prey. Remember, we aren't the same as we used to be."

That hit me like a physical slap across the face, cutting deeper than any insult.

The reminder of the unbridgeable chasm between our past and this twisted, transactional present made my stomach turn.

I forced my weak legs to move, walking towards his desk with my head held as high as my trembling neck would allow.

As I take my bag and my things—my leather folder, my pens, and my novel—my fingers were shaking so violently I could barely grip the leather strap of my vanity.

As I turned to leave, his voice cut through the room again, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"One more thing," he said, his tone flat and absolute. "There will be no 'us'. I will be your Boss, and you will only be my filthy whore."

More tears spilled from my eyes, blurring the sight of the heavy mahogany doors in front of me.

The raw, unadulterated cruelty of his words stripped away the last of my defenses.

I turned my head slightly, not daring to look him fully in the eye, and whispered, "This is the reason you had the contract... didn't you?"

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, I heard the heavy squeak of his leather chair as he stood up, walking towards me with slow, predatory steps.

He stopped just inches from my back, the heat radiating from his massive chest warming the fabric of my pinstripe blazer.

He smoked, the thick scent of the cigar enveloping us both as he spoke right into the nape of my neck.

"It's all about breaking you, Little Prey," he whispered, his voice a gravelly, terrifying promise. "The way I suffered those two years... I will make sure you suffer the same. Maybe more."

I looked away, closing my eyes tightly as the weight of his vengeance pressed down on my shoulders.

The sheer malice in his voice was a physical pressure, a debt he was extracting from my flesh for every single day I had spent hiding from his shadow.

He leaned closer, his chest almost brushing my shoulder blade, and he said again, his voice dropping into a low, haunting register that sent a thrill of absolute terror through my veins. "If it had been only me, baby... I would have bowed down to you. But you broke my son, too."

I froze completely.

The very blood in my veins turned to absolute ice at that single word.

My heart stopped, the room tilting on its axis as a name I hadn't permitted myself to whisper for two long years crashed into my mind.

"Khizan..." I breathed, the word slipping out like a broken prayer.

My baby. The innocent little boy caught in the crossfire of our adult madness.

I whispered his name again, the agony of the memory ripping through my chest. "Khizan..."

The moment the name left my lips, his control snapped entirely.

He growled, a feral, terrifying sound that rattled through his chest as he stepped around to face me. "Don't you fucking dare say his name! Like me... he's also seeing your ghost every single day."

I sobbed, covering my mouth with a trembling hand as the sheer weight of the guilt crushed me. "I didn't know, Ishaan... why are you doing this to me...?"

Before I could finish, his large hand shot out, his fingers tangling roughly into my dark strands.

He yanked my hair towards him with a brutal, sudden force, tilting my head back until my scalp burned under the pressure of his grip.

He looked down at me, his eyes blazing with an unhinged, dangerous light as he spoke through clenched teeth. "Because of you, pathetic whore... my son is losing his mind like me. I can bear the pain, I can handle the madness... but I can't see him like that."

I cried out, my hands flying up to grip his wrist, trying to alleviate the agonizing pull on my roots. "It's hurting, Ishaan... please let go..."

He let out a dark, mocking chuckle, his thumb brushing against my wet cheek but offering zero comfort. "It never hurt when I fucked you with my fingers minutes ago, did it, baby?"

I looked away from his piercing gaze, my cheeks burning with the memory of how easily my body had yielded to his touch despite the hatred between us.

The hypocrisy of my own desires was a bitter pill to swallow.

Seeing the submission in my posture, he left me, releasing his grip on my hair so suddenly that I stumbled back a step.

And then he said out, his voice returning to that cold, professional distance, "Get out."

I couldn't take it anymore.

The walls of the suite were closing in on me, the air too thick with the scent of our shared sin.

I grabbed my vanity bag, turned on my heel, and walked out of the massive double doors, my high heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the carpeted hallway.

But I wasn't alone.

As I walked out, I heard his heavy steps behind me.

He followed me outside into the main executive corridor, his presence a dark cloud trailing my every move.

I didn't turn around, keeping my eyes fixed ahead, until he spoke up, his voice echoing in the wide hallway.

"That's your cabin."

I stopped, my eyes tracking his gaze toward the glass-walled office situated right in front of his own.

It was a perfectly appointed executive space, separated from his fortress by only a few yards of carpeted floor.

A direct line of sight.

He wanted me where he could watch me every single second of the working day.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic beating of my heart, and walked towards the cabin.

I reached out, turned the handle, and as I opened the door to step inside, he followed me from behind, stepping into the small room before the door could even swing shut.

I felt the heavy weight of my vanity bag slip from my fingers, landing onto the desk as I realized he was right behind me.

The proximity was suffocating. Before I could even turn around to face him, his large, scarred hands shot out, grabbing my waist from behind with a bruising, inescapable grip that pulled my hips back against his hard thighs.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of my ear as he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet threat. "Wash yourself. And if I catch you walking in my office like the pathetic, desperate whore you are... I'm going to fuck the life out of you."

I was done.

The absolute degradation, the constant whiplash between his touch and his insults—it was too much.

My blood boiled, a sudden, blinding rush of pure rage erasing every single ounce of fear or submission left in my body.

I turned around in his grip with a violent, frantic strength, breaking his hold on my waist as I faced him fully.

And then...

CRACK.

The sound echoed sharply against the glass walls of the small cabin. I slapped him.

The impact of my palm against his tanned, scarred cheek was solid, the force of my anger leaving a bright red mark across his jawline.

"Fuck you!" I yelled, my voice cracking with a raw, unbridled fury that I hadn't used against him in years.

But the moment the words left my lips, the reality of what I had done crashed down on me.

As he turned his head back slowly to face me, the sheer terror of his expression made my breath hitch.

I flinched back, stepping two steps away from him until the edge of my new desk bit into the back of my thighs.

His eyes were blood-shot red, the dark pupils dilated with a sudden, feral rage that looked entirely inhuman.

The thick, rigid veins were popping out from his forehead and neck, throbbing violently against his skin as his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bunched.

And then...

CRACK.

He slapped me.

The force of his large, heavy hand striking my cheek was immense, a brutal, uncompromising display of his physical superiority.

The impact sent a blinding flash of pain through my jaw, the world spinning on its axis as the momentum almost made me fall to the floor.

Desperate to stay upright, my fingers scrambled backward until I grabbed my desk, my nails digging into the wood to anchor myself as my knees threatened to buckle.

Tears spilled from my eyes, hot and fast, blinding me as the metallic taste of blood burst across my tongue from where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

Before I could even blink away the tears, he lunged forward. In the next split second, he pinned me over my desk, his massive, heavy frame crushing my pinstripe blazer against the hard wood as he grabbed my neck, his large fingers squeezing the life out of me.

His grip around my throat was tight, unyielding, cutting off the passages of my breath as he leaned down until our noses were almost touching.

He looked down at me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated dominance as he spoke, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.

"I'm not your old Ishaan, remember this," he growled, his grip tightening just enough to make my vision blur at the edges. "I'm your fucking boss. Next time you dare to raise your hand at me... I will break the very hand."

I gasped for air, my chest heaving uselessly against his weight as my fingers clawed weakly at his iron wrist, my lungs screaming for oxygen.

The sheer lethality in his eyes told me he wasn't lying; the man who used to protect me from the world was completely gone.

I whispered, the words a broken, pathetic wheeze through my squeezed throat, "Let go... please..."

He let go suddenly, pulling his hand away from my neck as if the contact had burned him.

I slumped back against the desk, drawing in a massive, ragged gulp of air that burned my raw throat, my chest heaving as I tried to stabilize my breathing.

He stood there, looking down at my ruined posture, and then... his voice softened suddenly.

The terrifying, predatory king vanished for a brief second, replaced by a glimpse of the shattered man underneath.

A single, heavy tear slipped from his left eye, tracking a slow path down his scarred cheek before he could stop it.

"You made me this," he said, his voice cracking with a deep, ancient sorrow that cut worse than his anger. "You made me the worst version of myself, baby... and whenever I look at the mirror... I myself feel disgusted."

The raw vulnerability of his admission hung in the quiet air of the cabin for a single heartbeat, a glimpse into the hell he had lived in for the past two years.

But before I could even process the words, the walls went back up.

The darkness returned to his eyes, and once again, he pinned me against the desk, his large hand slamming down beside my head with a loud thud.

He leaned in, his lips hovering over mine, his voice dropping to a dark, absolute promise. "I will make sure this time you don't cut your wrist, Ira. It will be your throat."

I cried and sobbed, my shoulders shaking as the sheer terror of his threat washed over me.

He backed away, his expression turning back into a cold, unreadable mask as he turned on his heel, about to leave my cabin and close the door on my misery.

But my anger, my hurt, and the absolute humiliation of my own body's betrayal wouldn't let me stay quiet.

As his hand reached for the door handle, I whispered, my voice trembling but clear through the quiet space, "I feel disgusted by your touch, Mr. Khanna... and I fucking despise you."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned back around to face me, a dark, dangerous smirk stretching across his lips as he walked back into the center of the room.

"Hate...?" he purred, his eyes scanning the state of my disheveled pinstripe suit. "Yes... I hate you more. But disgusted by my touch...? That's a very big lie, Ira Mishra. Because as far as I know... you only love to moan beneath me."

There it was.

The truth. It hit me like a physical slap across the face, shattering the last remnants of my denial.

He was right; my body didn't care about the contract, didn't care about his cruelty, didn't care about the two years of silence.

The moment his fingers had entered me, I had dissolved into a moaning mess on his lap, coming for him exactly the way he wanted.

The absolute shame of that realization made my blood boil, a reckless, self-destructive fury taking over my mind as I scrambled for any weapon to hurt him back, to puncture the insufferable armor of his dominance.

I looked him dead in the eye, my voice dripping with venom as I said, "You call me a whore... then you fuck this whore. How about I go around this office and fuck your employees, and let them fuck me?!"

The air in the cabin changed instantly.

The temperature didn't just drop; the very atmosphere became suffocating, charged with a lethal, explosive tension that made the hair on my arms stand on end.

His eyes became blood-shot red, the pupils shrinking into tiny points of pure, unbridled malice.

His jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap through his skin, his large fists clenching at his sides so hard his knuckles popped like gunshots in the small space.

He came towards me, his long strides eating up the distance until he was towering over me, his shadow completely blocking out the morning light from the glass walls.

"I dare you to repeat that sentence," he growled, his voice dropping to a register so low it felt like a vibration in the floorboards.

I gulped down, my chest tightening until I could barely draw breath under the sheer pressure of his proximity.

But my pride, my stupid, reckless pride, refused to let me back down.

I looked up at him, my chin trembling as I forced the words out. "I will let your employees to..."

I couldn't finish that sentence.

With a sudden, violent movement, he yanked my hair so tight I thought my strands would rip open from my skull.

My head was forced back with an agonizing snap, my fingers flying up to grip his iron hand as the burning on my scalp flared into pure, blinding pain.

He leaned down until his lips were pressing against my ear, his hot breath burning my skin as he delivered his final, terrifying decree.

"If I ever... ever find out that anyone... I repeat, anyone has even dared to think of breathing the very air you breathe..." He paused, his grip tightening until a small whimper left my lips, before he finished, his voice a dark, absolute promise of death. "...I will kill that person right in front of your eyes. And then... I will fuck all of your holes raw... in his grave."

He yanked my head one last time, a brutal, marking pull that left my scalp stinging, and then... he left.

He let go of me so suddenly I stumbled against the desk, the heavy glass door of the cabin slamming shut behind him with a definitive click.

I stood there alone in the quiet office, the silence crashing down around me like a physical weight.

My knees buckled completely, the last of my strength evaporating from my limbs.

I fell on the chair behind the desk, my vanity bag rolling across the polished wood as I buried my face in my hands.

And there, in the quiet fortress he had built to cage me, I cried and sobbed, the bitter tears washing away the blood on my lip as the reality of my three-year sentence began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~