The sheets smelled of her — saffron, smoke, and sin.
Riaan lay still in the heavy silence of Devika's bedroom, his mind echoing with the rhythm of last night's surrender. Her hands had explored like cartographers. Her body had moved like she'd done this a hundred times — and he was just the latest territory.
But it wasn't the pleasure that haunted him.
It was the precision.
Everything she did had intention. Every kiss, every word, every silence.
He hadn't been seduced.
He'd been studied.
And the worst part? He hadn't wanted her to stop.
---
The door creaked.
Riaan sat up fast.
It wasn't Devika.
It was a servant. Thin, trembling, gray hair tucked under a dupatta.
She didn't speak. She only placed a tray on the side table. But as she turned to leave, she paused.
Then whispered, barely audible:
"She does this to every man. You'll vanish next."
Before he could reply, she was gone.
---
He dressed quickly and stepped into the corridor. The Haveli was too quiet for mid-morning.
Downstairs, no sign of Devika. The staff avoided his gaze. The air felt heavier, as if it had heard something it shouldn't have.
He found his way to the sunroom. The one place that still felt real.
But Meher wasn't there.
In fact, no one had seen her since yesterday.
"She's in the city with her tutor," one maid lied.
"She's resting," another said too fast.
Riaan didn't buy it.
The Haveli felt like it was missing something vital. Something warm. Something innocent.
And then he saw it.
Tucked beneath the cushion of a rattan chair — a photograph.
Old. Slightly torn.
It showed Devika.
Younger. But unmistakable.
Next to her was a man — tall, sharp-jawed, with eyes so familiar it froze Riaan's blood.
Because it was him.
No — not him.
Someone who looked exactly like him.
Same bone structure. Same gaze. Same damn scar above the brow.
The back of the photo had one word:
"Nikhil – 1999."
Riaan dropped the picture.
What the hell was happening?
Why had Devika looked at him like she knew him from the first second?
Why was Meher trying to warn him?
And why did a dead man from twenty years ago have his face?
---
That evening, Devika appeared again.
In a red saree that didn't cover — it declared.
She found him in the library, holding the photo.
"You found him," she said softly.
"Who was he?" Riaan demanded.
"My husband," she replied. "The one I never buried."
She stepped closer. Her perfume coiled around him like a memory.
"You're not him," she whispered, brushing his cheek. "But your body… your face… your energy… is a mirror."
"I'm not your ghost," he said.
"No," Devika said, lips almost touching his, "you're my reincarnation."
Then she kissed him — not out of desire.
Out of ownership.