Raina's POV
I am tired. Completely worn out.
It has been a long day, and at this hour the only sounds left in the clinic are the slow tick–tock of the clock and my own steady breathing.
The clinic always smells of lavender and disinfectant at this time.
8:13 PM.
My favourite hour the end.
Betty, my receptionist who is with me for the last two years, had already left early today.
She'd popped her head into my cabin around 7:35 PM, waved a tired goodbye, and said,
"Doctor, the last file is on your desk. If they don't come by 8, just close."
She trusts me.
She thinks I'm always in control.
Everyone does.
I sit behind my desk, closing the file of my previous patient.
Everything is calm again.
My thoughts aligned.
My breathing stable.
My world controlled.
I love late-night silence.
Silence never argues. Silence never betrays.
I remove my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose.
This was supposed to be my final appointment.
I was literally about to shut down the computer when I heard footsteps.
At this hour?
I straighten slowly.
Maybe a walk-in. Maybe the last client finally showed up.
A new appointment, perhaps.
But I already feel the exhaustion tugging at me I don't want anyone else today.
I stand up, ready to gather my things… and then it happens.
A knock.
Not urgent.
Not nervous.
A slow, deliberate knock as if the person outside owned this place.
I inhale.
Professional mode switches on automatically.
I walk toward the inner door, ready to step out but before I even reach the handle, the door opens on its own.
He walks in.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No permission.
Audacious.
I lift one eyebrow.
My apricot blazer suddenly feels too warm under his gaze.
"Come in," I say professionally though he already has.
Our eyes lock.
Hazel. Sharp. Too familiar.
He's broad-built, at least 6'3.
I'm in white pumps 5'7 and I still have to tilt my chin to look at him.
There's an awkward stillness.
Professional mask.
Calm eyes.
Neutral posture.
But his expression reveals nothing no nervousness, no confusion, no vulnerability.
He sits before I can even offer the seat.
I blink once quietly, internally assessing.
Something is off.
Not violent.
Not reckless.
Just wrong in the way a blade looks harmless until pressure is applied.
"Good evening," I say evenly, pulling my chair forward.
"I'm Dr. Raina Mehta. You must be"
He interrupts softly.
"Rai."
A simple word and yet it slices straight through me.
My heart stops.
That nickname belonged to a girl I buried years ago.
A version of me that does not exist anymore.
Nobody in this city knows that name.
Not Betty.
Not my staff.
No one.
"Excuse me?" I whisper, my voice slipping the first crack in my composure.
He doesn't lean forward.
He doesn't smirk.
He simply tilts his head slightly like he's observing me under the microscope.
"You used to hate being called 'Rai'," he says quietly.
My throat tightens.
"Where did you hear that name?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Instead, he scans the room my degrees, my books, my structured order as if decoding my life through the objects I curated.
Then his gaze returns to me.
Cold. Steady. Absolute.
I inhale slowly, forcing my voice back into neutrality.
"Before we begin," I say, "why did you choose me for therapy?" I sounded quite pissed,
His answer comes quiet and precise like a trigger being pulled.
"I didn't choose you, Doctor."
Pause.
Eyes never blinking.
"I've been waiting for you."
My breath freezes.
My lips a bit apart,
My eyebrows frowned
He isn't here to be treated.
He is here… for me.
A chill rolls down my spine.
I wanted to bury my past and rebuild but what if he came here to break every piece I put back together?
He seems rich.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
But why me?
Did something happen between us?
Would I forget a man like this if we had ever met before?
No.
I would never forget this presence.
He speaks with a soft American Southern accent.
I still carry my Indian accent.
We shouldn't be connected.
We shouldn't intersect.
And yet he knows me.
Too well.
I just pray this is not what I think it is.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, forcing myself to look directly into those hazel dark eyes.
There is darkness in him that much is obvious.
Not loud darkness. Quiet darkness. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
His presence alone speaks volumes.
The couture suit he wears is not something ordinary rich men buy only billionaires touch that level.
And the Rolex on his wrist… the one studded with diamonds?
In Indian currency it's worth around ₹43 crore — just under 5 million dollars.
I could buy a villa in L.A. or Manhattan for that amount.
Who the hell is he?
I just pray I'm not in trouble.
"I'm curious what you're thinking," he broke the silence casually, almost amused.
My breathing is still uneven from hearing that old nickname from my past.
I need to take control again.
I need to be professional.
"I'm asking you how I can help you. What exactly are you here for?"
And in my mind ouder than anything the real questions scream:
Who are you?
How do you know me?
My head aches pressure building behind my temples and he stands there tall, calm, collected… while my entire world feels like it's spinning into chaos.
I hope to never see him in my life again.
I want this to be a mistake.
A coincidence.
A nightmare that ends quickly.
But I need to know who he is.
And what he wants.
Even if it means opening the door to a past I vowed to bury.
Because I can't risk losing everything again.
"Time will tell," he said his eyes darkening as they met mine, like a shadow swallowing light.
I hear the soft echo of his footsteps on the clinic floor as he approaches.
I don't want him closer.
My body tenses with every step.
There is a faint trace of cologne in the air expensive Ralph Lauren.
He has taste.
At least me and my alter ego agree on that.
I just hope desperately that I am not his taste.