“You always asked about your father. Always begged to know how he was.”

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the room.

“Now look.”

Dread twisted in her gut the moment he mentioned her father.

Dark possibilities clawed through her mind—visions of him harmed, imprisoned, or worse. Her pulse raced, her feet heavy as stone.

“What did you do to him?” she asked, voice low and shaking.

Raghav looked at her, face void of expression.

“See for yourself.”

He pushed open the door and tugged her inside. She stumbled, barely catching herself, and her eyes locked on the hospital bed.

Her father.

Pale. Unmoving. Draped in white sheets. An IV in his arm. His chest rising and falling slowly.

“W-What did you do?” she whispered, panic erupting.

She turned toward Raghav, voice rising, tears pressing behind her eyes.

"What did you *do* to him?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“I saved him.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t pretend to be the savior now,” she spat.

“You did this to get back at me. You hurt him because I refused to give in to you.”

He stepped forward, calm and precise, the steel in his voice unmissable.

“Your father’s condition was self-inflicted. His addiction had escalated to a fatal level. When I found him, he was dying. I didn’t hurt him—I got him into treatment. A liver transplant saved his life.”

Her breath caught. That wasn’t what she expected.

She looked back at her father—he was sleeping peacefully. Weak. But not dead. Her hands trembled.

"Why? How is he"?

"He is good. He'll get better eventually".

"Really. Are you sure".

She turned to him with her eyes shining in desperation.

He paused looking at her in uncertainty and spoke.

"Mostly yes. High chances are in our favour".

She sucked a nervous breath as she shook her head looking down and asked.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why would you even do this?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because I want you.”

She froze.

His voice had dropped. Quiet. Controlled. But heavy with something more dangerous than anger.

“I want your mind, your attention, your *existence* to revolve around me, Asha. And I’m willing to cross every line to make that happen. Saving him? That was part of it.”

Her throat tightened.

“So you’re using him,” she whispered.

“No. I’m using myself,” he corrected.

“Every move I make, every restraint I show—it’s all for one thing: *you*. To earn space in your mind. In your life. You hate me, but even that hate binds you to me. That’s why I don’t care what it costs. If saving your father shifts your hate by even one degree—I’ll do it again and again.”

Her hands curled into trembling fists.

“You’re manipulating me.”

“I’m claiming you.”

He stepped in, close—deliberate and slow, voice thick with restrained fire.

“This isn’t a game. This is obsession, Asha. I’ve erased everything and everyone who stood between us. I’ve burned it all down—just so I could rebuild. With you. On my terms.”

She let out a sharp breath and stepped back like she’d been slapped.

“Of course. On your terms.”

She let out a bitter scoff.

“It’s *always* your terms, Raghav. You took me on your terms. You touched me on your terms. You married me—your terms. You held me hostage, made me your wife—your terms again.”

Her eyes were sharp, voice rising.

“Now you expect me to accept this new, improved version of you... still on *your terms*? Tell me, does what I want ever matter to you? Do you even care if I like you? Or is my *existence* enough for you to demand loyalty?”

He didn’t move. But the edge in his jaw tightened.

“I care,” he said, firm but low.

“But I care in my own way. I don’t want you to *like* me, Asha. I want you to be *mine*. That’s not a preference. That’s a fact. And if everything I’ve done has been on my terms—then yes, I own that. But not because your terms don’t matter. Because I’ve never learned to live by anyone else’s.

“That’s not love,” she muttered.

“That’s not love,” she muttered, her voice low, trembling with disgust and disbelief.

He didn’t even flinch.

“It *is* love.”

His voice was calm—too calm—and that made it worse.

“But not the kind you read about in fairytales. Mine doesn’t sit quietly in a corner waiting for a chance. Mine claws. It devours. It haunts.”

He took a step closer, eyes dark and sharp.

“It’s love, Asha. Just a version that bleeds into obsession and crosses the lines good men don’t go near. But it’s still love. It’s just—*mine*. On my terms ”

She stared at him, breath faltering. It wasn't softness she saw in him. It was possession cloaked in sincerity. A twisted kind of devotion that could just as easily protect as destroy.

“You’re sick,” she whispered.

He tilted his head.

“I know. But it doesn’t change what I feel. It doesn’t lessen it. If anything, it makes it stronger. I never had rules for love. All I know is that I want you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life pulling you closer until you stop running.”

Her throat locked. It felt like too much—too raw, too consuming.

She couldn’t breathe in that intensity.

So she did what she always did when his madness cornered her.

She turned her head away and deflected.

“What’s... his condition?”