Her POV
The sound ripped through the room like a blade.
Not loud—
sharp.
That shrill, mechanical scream that didn't belong in a kitchen that still smelled like toast and safety.
My body reacted before my mind could. Every muscle locked. My breath vanished. My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
No. No no no.
I knew that sound.
Fear doesn't announce itself politely—it crashes in, dragging the past with it.
"Rishabh?" My voice came out thin, broken around the edges. I hated that. Hated how fast I was right back there—small, bracing, preparing to disappear. "Is it him?"
He didn't answer immediately.
That scared me more than if he had.
His hands were still on my elbows, steady, firm—but not trapping. Grounding. He shifted slightly, positioning himself between me and the monitor without making it obvious.
A shield.
He glanced at the screen once. Just once.
And whatever he saw there didn't make him flinch.
"No," he said calmly. Too calmly. "Not inside."
My knees felt weak. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, already reaching for his phone, "that you're staying right here."
Another alert cut through the air.
I swallowed. "Rishabh—"
"Riya." My name from his mouth wasn't sharp this time. It was low. Anchoring. "Look at me."
I did.
His expression had changed—but not into fear.
Into focus.
"I need you to listen," he continued. "Nothing happens without my say. No one comes near you. Not today. Not ever."
The way he said ever didn't sound romantic.
It sounded like a vow carved in stone.
"I don't want you to fight him," I whispered, panic clawing its way up my throat. "I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me."
His jaw tightened—not in anger, but restraint.
"This isn't because of you," he said. "This is because he crossed a line a long time ago."
Another beep. Then silence.
The alarm stopped.
My ears rang in the sudden quiet.
Rishabh exhaled slowly, then guided me—gently—back toward the couch. "Sit."
I obeyed. My legs barely felt like mine.
He crouched in front of me, bringing himself to my level, his hands resting on his knees. No dominance. No pressure.
Just presence.
"You're shaking," he said softly.
"I always do," I admitted. Shame burned behind my eyes. "I hate it."
"Don't." His voice didn't allow argument. "Your body learned how to survive. That's not weakness."
My throat tightened.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the jacket still hanging off my shoulders like borrowed courage. "What if he doesn't stop?"
Rishabh's eyes didn't leave mine. "Then I escalate."
The word sent a strange shiver through me.
Not fear.
Relief.
"You don't have to be brave right now," he added. "That's my job."
I blinked hard. "I don't want to be your responsibility."
"You're not," he said immediately. "You're your own person. I'm just… standing with you."
Standing.
Not owning.
Not deciding for me.
Not pulling me into another cage with softer walls.
Something inside my chest loosened.
I leaned back against the cushions, exhaustion washing over me in heavy waves. The adrenaline crash was brutal.
"Can I just…" I hesitated. "Can I stay quiet for a bit?"
"Yes."
No conditions. No expectations.
He stood, moving toward the door, checking the locks with unhurried precision. Watching him, I realized something quietly terrifying.
He wasn't improvising.
This was a man who planned for storms.
When he returned, he didn't sit beside me. He took the chair across the room, close enough that I could see him—far enough that I could breathe.
Boundaries.
My eyelids burned.
"Rishabh?" I murmured.
"Yes?"
"If I panic again…"
"You will," he said gently. "And when you do, I'll still be here."
The certainty in his voice wrapped around me like a blanket.
I didn't fall asleep this time.
But for the first time in a long while—
I rested.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and the shaking and the echoes of a man who thought he owned me—
I felt something new take root.
Not dependence.
Not desperation.
Choice.
And outside, as the city fully woke—
I knew this wasn't over.
But I also knew—
I wasn't facing it alone.Time moved strangely after that.
Not forward—
around me.
Rishabh stayed where he was, silent but alert, like a constant horizon I could keep my eyes on if the ground beneath me started to tilt. He didn't ask questions. Didn't hover. Just existed in the same space, solid and unyielding.
I focused on small things.
The way sunlight crept across the floor inch by inch.
The steady rhythm of my breathing slowly syncing with the quiet of the room.
The fact that my phone hadn't buzzed once.
That last part felt unreal.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Finally, I spoke. "When the alarm went off… I thought I'd disappear again."
He didn't look surprised. "You didn't."
"I wanted to," I admitted. "My head told me to shrink. To apologize. To prepare for the fallout."
He leaned back slightly in his chair. "And instead?"
"I stayed." The word felt fragile. Powerful. "I asked a question. I didn't freeze."
Something unreadable flickered across his face—approval, maybe. Pride, carefully restrained.
"That's progress," he said.
I let out a shaky laugh. "It doesn't feel heroic."
"It never does," he replied. "It just feels uncomfortable."
I thought about that.
About how staying felt harder than running. About how silence had always been easier than truth.
"My whole life," I said quietly, "I thought strength meant enduring. Taking it. Not making things worse."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now I think… strength might be leaving before you forget who you are."
He nodded once. "That's exactly what it is."
The weight of the morning settled deeper into my bones. Tiredness tugged at me again—not the panicked exhaustion from before, but something slower. Heavier.
Healing tired.
"I should probably call someone," I said, though the idea made my stomach twist. "My sister. Or a friend. Someone who knows me outside all of this."
"That's a good idea," Rishabh said. No hesitation. No possessiveness. "Do you want privacy?"
"Yes." Then, softer, "But… not too far."
He stood. "I'll be in the other room."
Before he walked away, I said his name again.
He paused.
"Thank you," I said. This time, it wasn't desperate. It wasn't clinging. It was clean.
He met my eyes. "You don't owe me anything, Riya."
"I know," I said. And for the first time, I truly meant it.
He left me alone then.
I stared at my phone for a long moment before dialing. My fingers trembled, but I didn't stop them.
When my sister answered, her voice warm and sleepy, something inside me cracked—not into pieces, but open.
"I need help," I said.
No excuses. No justification.
Just truth.
When the call ended, I felt lighter again—not because everything was solved, but because I had finally let someone see the mess without trying to clean it first.
Rishabh returned a few minutes later. He didn't ask who I'd called. He didn't need to.
"I'm going to step out for a bit," he said. "Make sure things are… handled."
The word carried weight.
"Will you come back?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then, carefully, "Yes. I'll come back."
Not because you need me.
Just because he chose to.
I nodded, accepting that.
As the door closed behind him, I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself and stared out the window.
The city moved on—cars, voices, ordinary lives.
And for the first time, I wasn't watching from behind glass.
I was still afraid.
But I was also awake.
And whatever came next—
I would meet it standing.