I woke up to warmth.
Not sunlight—
that would've been too kind.
It was the warmth of a blanket.
A heavy one. Soft.
Tucked around me with a care I didn't remember.
My eyes blinked open slowly.
The unfamiliar ceiling stared back at me first.
Cream marble.
Gold accents.
A chandelier I would never, ever touch.
His penthouse.
Reality hit so hard my breath caught.
I shot upright—only to freeze.
His jacket was around my shoulders.
Not mine.
His.
Rich black wool, warm from someone's skin hours ago, smelling faintly of cedar and storm.
I ripped it off like it burned.
My heart pounded as last night flooded back:
The rain.
The blood.
The man tied to the chair.
The way Rishabh had kissed my forehead like a vow he shouldn't be allowed to make.
The way I'd nearly fallen apart in front of him.
God.
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
I needed to think.
I needed to breathe.
I needed—
A voice behind me made me flinch.
"You're awake."
I whipped around.
Rishabh stood at the bedroom door.
No footsteps.
No sound.
Just presence.
He wasn't wearing the blood from last night.
He'd changed into a black shirt, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower.
His eyes were trained on me like I was the only thing in the enormous room.
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
He stepped closer.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just with the confidence of someone who knew I couldn't outrun him.
"You slept for five hours," he said. "Your body needed it."
My pulse hammered.
"Where… where were you?"
He didn't look away.
"Handling the man responsible for your parents."
My stomach twisted.
"Is he…"
I swallowed hard.
"Alive?"
"For now."
The casualness of it made something in me jolt.
"And he'll stay that way," he continued, "until I get the full truth."
I shook my head violently.
"Stop. Just—stop talking like this."
He paused.
Then he stepped forward again, close enough that the air changed.
"You're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said calmly. "And that's fine."
"No," I snapped. "Nothing about this is fine. Last night wasn't fine. You—dragging me here—wasn't fine. My parents—Rishabh, I can't—"
My voice cracked.
He closed the remaining distance.
But he didn't touch me.
He just stood there, his presence filling the space like a shelter I didn't want to want.
"Aarya."
My name was a low vibration.
"You're in shock."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
His jaw flexed.
"You're trying to outrun something your mind hasn't processed yet."
My throat tightened painfully.
Tears threatened.
I blinked them back.
"Don't—" I whispered. "Don't talk to me like you understand."
"I do."
His eyes softened just a fraction.
"I understand better than you think."
The softness broke me more than the violence had.
I looked away.
"I want to go home."
"You don't have a home anymore."
My breath hitched.
He wasn't being cruel.
He wasn't taunting.
He was stating a fact.
Cold.
Unavoidable.
Final.
"I'll find somewhere else to stay," I whispered.
"No."
My head snapped up.
"No?" I repeated.
"You're not leaving."
The words hit like a physical force.
"Rishabh—"
"You're staying here," he said, voice low, unshakeable. "With me."
"No," I choked. "No, I don't want—"
"You're not safe anywhere else."
"I'm not safe with you."
That finally made him react.
His expression tightened.
Not offended.
Not angry.
Something darker.
He stepped closer.
"When have I ever hurt you?"
A memory flashed:
His hands pinning me against the wall.
His breath on my neck.
His whisper: "You already have."
I looked away again. "You scare me."
A long, heavy silence.
Then—
"Good."
My heart dropped.
He reached out.
I recoiled instinctively.
He stopped.
His voice dropped so low it barely existed.
"I'll never hurt you."
A pause.
"But I won't let you go."
A tear slipped down my cheek.
He reached again—slowly.
This time, I didn't move.
Maybe I couldn't.
His thumb brushed the tear away.
"You should eat," he said quietly. "Your hands were shaking all night."
The gentleness felt like a knife.
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be."
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing only once.
"Aarya."
I didn't want to look.
I did anyway.
"Don't try to run again," he said softly.
"You'll only hurt yourself."
Then he left.
The silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence.
I sat on the bed, shaking, for a full minute before forcing myself to stand.
I needed a plan.
A real one.
Running blindly didn't work.
He was right about that.
But staying wasn't an option either.
I paced the room, pressing my palms to my forehead.
My thoughts finally settled into one desperate instinct:
Find answers.
What happened to my parents?
Why was my father involved with men like Rishabh?
Why was I the debt?
I had no money.
No family left.
No safety net.
I had only truth.
And he was the only one holding it.
I crossed the room.
Opened the door.
And walked out.
The penthouse was bright now; morning light broke through tall windows, casting a pale glow over sleek marble floors. Guards patrolled silently—always, always watching.
But not Rishabh.
I found him in the dining area, sleeves still rolled up, tying the bandage around a freshly bleeding knuckle.
He didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
"I told you to rest."
"I can't."
"Try."
"No."
That made him lift his head.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
His eyes locked on mine with unsettling focus.
I swallowed the fear and stood my ground.
"I need answers."
He didn't move.
"Ask."
"Did you kill them?"
His jaw ticked.
"Tread carefully."
"Then tell me what happened to them," I said, voice trembling despite my best effort. "Tell me the truth. Stop talking in riddles. Stop… stop treating me like something fragile or stupid."
His gaze softened at something in my voice.
It made my chest hurt.
He stood.
Walked toward me.
Every step deliberate.
He stopped a breath away.
"Aarya."
His voice was quiet.
"I didn't kill your parents."
My breath rushed out in relief—
but it didn't last.
"But they're dead because of a debt they couldn't pay."
I froze.
"What debt?" My throat tightened. "What did they owe?"
His jaw tightened.
"You."
The word shattered something inside me.
"What do you mean?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he took my wrist—gently this time—and guided me to the long glass window overlooking the city.
Rain streaked the glass.
Wind howled.
The world below looked small and distant.
"You were seventeen," he said quietly. "Your father was drowning in drug debt. Someone he owed wanted collateral."
My stomach dropped.
He looked at me.
Direct.
Unfiltered.
"He offered you."
I staggered back a step.
"No," I whispered. "No. He wouldn't. He—he couldn't."
"He did."
The words echoed in my skull.
Sickening.
Heavy.
"But I paid more," Rishabh added softly. "I outbid the man who wanted you."
My vision blurred.
"You bought me?" My voice broke. "Like property?"
His jaw flexed. "I saved you."
"No!" My voice cracked. "You bought me into a different kind of cage!"
He didn't flinch.
"You don't understand," he said. "The man who wanted you wouldn't have let you stay alive long."
"What?"
My voice was barely a whisper.
"You were never supposed to make it past eighteen."
The world went silent.
He stepped closer.
His voice dropped into something deadly soft.
"I didn't buy you to own you, Aarya."
He reached toward my face—
I backed away.
He stopped immediately.
But his voice didn't soften.
"I bought you so you'd survive."
My chest hurt so sharply I had to press a hand to it.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why would you do that? You didn't even know me."
He looked at me like I'd said something absurd.
"I knew enough."
"How?!"
His eyes darkened.
"You looked at me."
"What does that even—"
A shrill alarm cut through the penthouse.
A guard stormed in.
"Sir—he escaped!"
Rishabh's head snapped toward the hallway.
"Who?" I whispered.
But I already knew.
The man from last night.
The man who'd been tied.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Rishabh's eyes flashed with something lethal.
He turned to leave—
Then paused.
And looked back at me.
"Aarya."
His voice was ice.
"Don't move."
My breath stilled.
He added, softer, but more dangerous:
"Don't open the door for anyone.
Not even if they say my name."
Then he disappeared down the hall.
I stood frozen, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Footsteps thundered below.
Voices rose.
Guards barked orders.
Then—
A soft sound behind me.
A shift of air.
Someone breathing.
Inside the penthouse.
Not Rishabh.
I turned slowly.
My blood ran cold.
The man from last night stood in the doorway—
bleeding, shaking, eyes wild—
And he was looking directly at me.
"Aarya," he rasped.
"They're coming for you next."