"I would handle Yamini. He would handle the girl."

Her breath hitched.

"What do you mean… taking care of that minor girl?"

I glanced at her lazily.

She had empathy to throw at everyone—everyone but me. She didn’t even know that bitch.

"Whatever my brother planned to."

Her eyes hardened.

"She was a minor. I’m sure she did it under compulsion."

Something snapped.

I turned fully toward her, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Tears shimmered at the edges of her eyes, and I brushed my thumb over them slowly.

So she *did* feel something for me.

That’s what these tears were for, right?

"Who are these tears for, Asha?" I asked quietly. "Did you cry for me?"

Only then did I realize I’d missed them earlier.

Careless.

Her face schooled itself instantly. She wiped her tears, lashes fluttering.

"Of course. I felt bad for you. For you and your brother."

I shut my eyes hard, pinching the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply. When I spoke again, my voice had gone dark—controlled, edged with warning.

"Listen to me carefully, Asha."

I lowered my hand.

"Yes, I’m trying to be good. But there are boundaries."

I leaned closer.

"And one of them is this—you are not allowed to feel anything for anyone except me."

Her eyes glared as she looked at me.

"Love. Anger. Happiness. Revenge. Empathy. Sympathy. Joy."

My voice dropped.

"Even hate."

I held her gaze.

"All of it belongs to me. And no one else."

Not my brother. Not my family. No one.

Who was she to feel anything for anyone else? I was allowed empathy for my brother—but she was supposed to exist *for me*. Was it really that hard for her to focus only on me?

She felt everything for everyone.

Except me.

Her hand slid into mine then—gentle, reassuring. She rested her chin against my chest, looking up at me through the dim light. Her eyes were soft. Kind. Almost… apologetic.

As if she were trying to give me what I’d never received.

"Of course I feel for you too," she said quietly. "I feel so much for you."

I froze.

"A child torn away from his mother’s protection… thrown into disaster overnight. You weren’t even given time to mourn her properly."

Her words pierced deeper than any knife.

"You lost your mother. Your life. You were forced to live a life you never imagined."

Her fingers trembled against me.

"It must have been unbearable."

Her hand brushed my face like a feather.

That’s when it happened.

The tears I’d been restraining spilled—silent, traitorous—sliding into my hairline. I clenched my jaw, trying to pull myself together, but she noticed.

Of course she did.

She wiped them away gently.

"It was," I whispered.

The word barely survived my throat.

I bit my tongue.

Reliving memories was one thing. Letting emotions out was another.

"You must have missed your mom a lot."

"I do."

Every word hurt.

"Every morning feels like a slap reminding me she’s gone. I choose dreams over reality because she exists there."

My voice cracked.

"I want her to be here. To live her life. To grow old."

Her hand continued to caress me, and I took everything she gave—every ounce of warmth and let my tears out silently and peacefully under her warmth. That hollow place inside me began to close.

For the first time, I didn’t feel broken.

I felt… normal.

I expected sympathy.

What she gave me was consolation.

Healing.

"Stay with me," I said softly. "Will you?"

Her hand stopped.

Fuck.

I’d lost control.

She wasn’t trying to escape—she was trying to enter the cave I built around myself, reaching out with bare hands.

I held her hand against my cheek and whispered—

"Don’t leave me."

And for the first time, I was terrified of what her answer might be.

"Don’t stop."

I said it low, almost a command.

And despite my earlier question, she continued—patting me, combing her fingers through my hair, caressing me exactly the way I’d asked. Slow. Steady. Like she understood something without being told.

Noted.

This is how one consoles.

With touch. With closeness. With presence.

I’ll remember this. I’ll do the same to her one day. I’ll trace every wound she carries and kiss it until she forgets it ever hurt.

I turned and pulled her fully into me, wrapping her body against my chest. She shifted, adjusted, then settled comfortably, still running her fingers through my hair, her touch unbroken.

She might’ve forgotten by now that she was naked with me.

Or she didn’t care.

Good.

I want her to feel being naked with me like breathing—natural, unavoidable, nothing to hide behind shyness or hesitation.

"Do you want to know anything else?" I asked quietly. "Anything more about my past?"

She shook her head.

"Do you still miss her?"

"I used to," I said. "Until you came."

The truth slipped out easier than I expected.

"You consumed every thought I have. I can’t think about anything except you. Except the business."

A pause.

"I need money to feed you. To pamper you."

A soft scoff left her lips.

"I don’t need you to feed or pamper me."

"But I need to," I replied calmly. "It doesn’t matter whether you need it or not."

She looked at me then—offended, guarded.

"Why are you like this?" she asked. "You express how you feel about me. You convince me you love me. You make me feel special—like I’m a queen."

Her voice tightened.

"And then you take away my power of choice. You don’t let me decide anything. Your decision becomes final whether I like it or not."

I smiled faintly.

"I love how clearly you’re finally understanding me, love," I said. "I hope you follow it now that you have clarity."

Her fist thumped against my chest.

"I asked that as a question," she snapped. "That’s a good way of escaping it. Can you answer me properly?"

"No," I said simply. "That’s how I am. And you don’t get a choice but to comply."

She got up, bracing herself with one hand, clutching the blanket with the other, covering herself as she faced me.

"Why are you so overbearing Raghav?" she asked. "Why do you have to be like this?"

My eyes snapped to her face.

"What did you call me?"

She sighed, irritated.

"What did you call me, Asha?" I pressed. "Say my name again."

"Raghav."

The sound of it sent something sharp through me.

"Will I ever be given a choice, Raghav?"

My heart kicked hard at the way she said my name again.

"Of course you have choices," I said smoothly. "You can choose your lipstick. You can choose which side of my bed you sleep on."

I leaned closer.

"You can choose which cheek you kiss."

Her hand struck my cheek.

A clean, sharp smack.

I smiled.

That was a nice one.

"I’m not sleeping with you here," she said firmly. "And I’m deciding that."

"You lost the game, Asha."

"To hell with your game. You played foul."

I smirked.

"That’s not true," I said softly. "You know it."

"Shut up. I’m going."

She walked out. I followed.

She chose another room and collapsed onto the bed. I joined her immediately, pulling her against me from behind. She struggled, grumbling.

"Do you really have to do this just to show me I have no choice again?"

"There *is* a choice," I murmured. "You chose the room. I let you."

My arm tightened around her.

"But sleeping with me isn’t a choice. Some things are fixed."

She huffed angrily, cheeks puffed in frustration.

"Hands off," she snapped, shoving me away.

I chuckled and withdrew.

"See?" I said. "That was a choice."

"It’s my body, Arnav."

I smiled into the darkness.

"No," I said. "It’s mine."

She turned away, wrapped herself completely in the blanket, and went still.

Morning came quietly.

She stirred beneath the weight on her body, nudging it half-asleep. When she opened her eyes and looked down, she found me there—too close, too comfortable, entirely unrepentant.

Exactly where I wanted to be.