≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
💋
I don't remember the last time I blinked.
Not since I saw her. Never since I saw her.
They tell me I'm violent.
That I feel too less. Want too hard. That I Never break.
They don't get it.
She is the only thing I ever wanted to break me.
To fucking shatter me.
Raya Arora didn't walk into my life.
She detonated into it. And now?
I wear her name inside my mouth like a curse and a prayer—
Ri. My Ri. My fucking downfall.
I saw her today. Like every other fucking day.
Do you know what that means to a man like me?
It means I won't sleep tonight.
It means I'll sit in the dark, shirtless, chest heaving, aching, Unable to breathe.
Palms twitching like they still remember how her waist felt on that day. The best fucking day of my life.
That white shirt?
Untucked, oversized, buttoned all wrong?
That wasn't fabric. That was foreplay.
That was a funeral for my sanity. If I had any, left.
They call me sick. They call me a fucking Psycho.
I call them Stupid.
Because sickness is random. This—this is precise.
This is a man with a scalpel, slicing into himself just to make space for her name.
I don't just love Raya Arora.
I belong to her.
She belongs to me.
She owns me, and she doesn't even know.
Yet.
Do you want to know what obsession looks like?
It's every damn wall in my private apartment, filled with photos of her.
No, not just pictures.
Moments.
Captured. Frozen. Stolen.
She's brushing her hair in one. Laughing in another.
One frame—her sneaking in class, head down, bottom lip parted.
I stood across the quad for two hours to get that shot.
Not because I couldn't hire a man to capture her. But because I wanted to see her, from my own damn eyes.
Besides, why the fuck would I even let another man look my Ri?
I am not dumb. I am obsessed. I am in love with this woman.
And it wasn't enough. It's never enough.
And she is mine.
Not in the poetry-book way. Not in that "I hope she likes me" teenage agony.
No.
I mean: if another man so much as breathes near her—I will rearrange his bones into ash.
Because Raya Viren Arora belongs to me.
By the rules of the universe. By the law of obsession.
By the contract my soul signed the moment I first saw her.
She doesn't know it yet.
But she's already mine.
To me.
No ring. No vows. Not yet.
But my blood sings her name. My Bones Ignite the moment I think about her. The irony? I think about her the whole damn time. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Every Second.
My walls hear her voice.
My mouth still tastes her from that night—her skin, her sweat, her fear.
That night? That night rewired me.
I came undone on her.
And I've never been put back together.
Every woman I've seen since has been a crime. If I even looked at them, that is.
Because they aren't her.
They don't tremble the way she does when I lean too close.
They don't lie as beautifully as she does when she says she's "not afraid of me."
Liar.
Her body remembers me.
And one day soon, her mouth will confess it too.
You think this is desperation?
No.
This is destiny in a straitjacket. Precision wrapped in madness, all consuming. The kind that doesn't knock — it kicks the door down, walks in, and fucking stays.
I don't just worship her.
This isn't some tragic, aching, stars-in-my-eyes devotion.
It's cleaner than that. Filthier than that.
I own her.
I own the way her eyes shift when a nameless and faceless thought about me comes to her mind — like her skin remembers what her mouth pretends to forget.
I own the hitch in her breath she tries to hide, the stiffness in her shoulders when she feels me in the room, even if she could never see me.
She thinks she's careful. That she's hidden every piece of herself I might want.
Her true, Raw self. The one she hides from the world. And I, intend to get just that.
But I've already found them.
Scattered between her bedsheets, tucked into the corners of her goddamn smile, never failing to make me crack into a smile, stitched into the fucking silence she tries to drown me out with, it fucks me just by the knowledge of how she remembers me.
A faceless, Nameless, one night stand.
She knows.
That's why she flinches when I get close — not out of fear.
But recognition. Even if the closeness is me hidden, out of her sight.
Because deep down, buried under all that attitude and Armor, she knows there's no one else. And even if she doesn't, I do. Every fucking piece of her.
No one who will love her like I do — with violence.
No one who will protect her like I do — with blood.
No one who will ruin her like I will — with intent.
I don't need her permission.
I don't need her yes.
Because this isn't a choice.
This is inevitable.
I'll marry her in red — not for romance. For reminder.
She'll walk to me with wrists kissed by rubies and a silence heavy with surrender.
Because she's not just my princess.
She's, more than just my possession. The light in my darkness. The one thing keeping me sane.
My end. My beginning.
The only thing in this rotten world I would keep breathing for — and the only thing I'd burn that same world down to cage.
And I will cage her.
Not in iron. In love.
In loyalty. In control. In the kind of love that doesn't beg.
It takes.
Because I'm not some fuckboy with a fucking soft spot.
I'm Nirvan fucking Agnihotri.
And she's already mine. Forever.
I shifted on the bed slightly, watching her. Again.
Her voice is echoing through these walls.
Not mine. Not Nyra's.
Hers.
Raya Viren Arora.
I hear her speaking — all casual, like it doesn't burn. Like her laugh doesn't sound like it should belong to me, Like I should be the one making her laugh. Like she isn't trespassing in my mind without even fucking trying.
She's talking to Nyra.
Nyra, my little sister.
My only fucking family.
She used to be the only one I had. Used to.
Before all this. Before the lies. Before the betrayal stitched itself between our names.
We used to share everything.
The blanket during thunder, the fear of our mother's madness, the promises we made with pinkies and scraped knees.
I told her I'd never leave.
That I'd always be on her side.
And then—
I chose him.
Our father.
Just once. One time.
But sometimes?
Once is enough to break everything.
She looked at me like I was him.
Like I was the same man who manipulated, controlled, devoured our mother until she was a ghost in silk. Of course that wasn't the whole truth. Not even close. Not one bit.
That was just a made up lie by Nihita Agnihotri, the woman I was supposed to call mom. The woman who was supposed to be my mom. The woman who was supposed to treat me and Nyra as her children, instead of mere pawns she can use against my dad. Instead of mere pawns she could manipulate against my dad.
He isn't a great man either. But he knew what kids are meant for. To love.
Anant Agnihotri. A good father, not a dad...A father. A Bad person.
Choosing him wasn't anything but survival. At least I could live that way.
But she chose to trust our mom when the voices got too loud.
That I was just like our father. Detached.
Nyra thought I would do the same to her.
She was wrong.
Because I don't manipulate the people I love.
I consume them whole.
And speaking of consumption—
My jaw clenches as I lean back against the doorframe, the low murmur of their conversation wrapping itself around my spine.
Her voice is clearer now.
Raya's.
Sharp. Smoky. Mocking.
A fucking threat wearing lip gloss. That lip gloss, the one she wears when she feels down. Mostly to put it on and pretend to be the untouchable Raya she claims to be.
I close my eyes.
I can see her through them.
White shirt, collar half undone, laughing like the world's made of gold and glass and she's the only one allowed to break both.
She's not even here.
Not in this room. Not in this house.
But I can feel her.
I always do.
The bones under my skin shift restlessly, hungry. My blood pulses in one direction — her. My lungs breathe in a rhythm carved by the syllables of her name.
Raya.
She doesn't know it yet.
But I've already started building her a world.
One where she doesn't leave.
One where she doesn't get to hide behind Nyra's room, or phone calls, or cities, or lies.
One where she doesn't get to laugh without me being the reason.
You think I'm watching her?
No.
Absolutely not.
I'm studying God's favourite design. Like always.
Like it's my favourite thing to do, of course it is.
Perfect from every distance. Better up close.
I don't flinch. I don't smile.
I just watch.
And somewhere inside this skull, where thoughts should be, all I hear is her.
I can't help it.
My mind's a cathedral with her name carved into every wall.
Every prayer I never meant to say — spelled in her lipstick.
And if obsession had a sound?
It would be her whispering my name,
Even when she doesn't know she is.
So, I stay here.
Listening.
Waiting.
Planning.
And in this silence?
I start writing our story again.
Except this time—
There's no Nyra.
No father.
No Mom.
No betrayal.
Just me.
And the girl who doesn't know she already belongs to a monster who made her his the second she breathed too close.
My princess.
My end.
My forever.
There's a commotion outside.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just... hurried.
Something shifts in the air before the sound even reaches my ears.
I know that rhythm. Memory from years ago, how Nyra used to run when she was excited.
The pounding footsteps across marble. Classic Nyra.
The clatter of Nyra's voice laced in excitement, irritation, something frantic—
She's running.
To the front door.
To someone.
And my heart — the one I carved out and buried years ago — thuds once again.
Twice. I know what this means.
Like it recognizes the incoming storm.
I move.
Door swings open. I step into the hallway, the light from the chandelier falling across my bare chest, because I hadn't even bothered with a fucking shirt since the morning. Why would I?
Nothing outside this room mattered.
Until now.
Because I see her.
Her.
Raya. Viren. Arora.
Ri.
My fucking end.
My beginning.
The only fire I've ever let burn me again and again and begged for more.
And there she is.
She walks through the threshold like it belongs to her.
And fuck — hell, it does.
She Knocks.
She enters the Mansion like sin enters a prayer room — defiant. Glorious. Fucking holy.
My jaw clenches.
And I swear to every god I don't believe in—
my mind goes quiet.
For the first time in days.
Weeks.
Years?
Peace.
Except this peace is violent.
It's loud.
It roars inside my bloodstream, screams inside my bones. Like it never has.
Because it's her.
She's not just wearing white.
Short skirt. Long legs. That mouth. That mouth.
God, that fucking mouth.
She smiles at Nyra like nothing's wrong.
Like her presence isn't shaking my reality apart one fucking second at a time.
And the worst part?
She doesn't even see me yet.
She doesn't know I'm watching from the shadows of the hallway, half-wrapped in silence, fully drowned in her.
My fists curl at my sides.
My sister runs to her, hugs her, whines about something — I don't hear it.
I don't care. I only see her. The end of my reason.
Because Raya just stepped into my house.
And now?
She's never leaving.
She doesn't know that yet.
But I do.
Because this isn't just fate.
This isn't just romance.
This isn't just love.
This is everything.
And she's mine.
She has always been mine.
*****
Eighteen minutes.
Eighteen Minutes, and twelve fucking seconds.
Eighteen agonizing minutes of her laughing in the next room.
Of her perfume—my perfume now—bleeding into these halls like it owns the air.
Of her sitting there like she's not the reason the floor under my feet feels like it's cracking. Like she's not reason for me losing my sanity.
But I haven't moved either. Not yet. Not till now.
Because some moments are precise.
You wait for the right moment.
The second the world spins just right.
And now?
Now it spins.
Nyra gets up—says something about coffee and snacks—and walks into the kitchen.
A whole five seconds pass before her voice fades into cupboards and utensils and whatever-the-fuck normal people do.
The hallway stills.
I move.
She doesn't look up at first.
Not until I'm closer.
Not until my footsteps—deliberate, slow, calm—begin to wrap around the room, trapping her.
I don't stop at the edge of the corridor this time. Not anymore
I walk into the room.
I see her.
Really see her.
Really see her.
She's still on the couch, legs crossed, posture too damn straight for someone who is visibly spiralling, hands fidgeting with the hem of that skirt like she knows something—she knows—something is off but doesn't really know what is. Her spine tenses like a sixth sense just whispered something it shouldn't at all.
Her head tilts, just slightly. Her eyes flicker towards my face.
And then she sees me.
Her body stills, as if trying to remember something.
Not a gasp. Not a jump. No fear.
But her gaze narrows, just a touch. Like her mind is sorting through something.
A file she can't quite open, or maybe didn't even want to.
I take a step closer towards her.
That's all it took.
She turns her head—slow, sceptical. Brows pull together the tiniest bit, a habit she's picked up when she is bugged about something.
She's trying to place me.
Good.
Because if recognition's coming, I want to watch it crawl up her throat like smoke from an explosion she didn't know she started.
I stay silent.
And so was she.
But her lips part. Almost.
Like a name is sitting there—one she can't quite find, or a face, maybe.
Or won't let herself say.
I should walk away.
But I don't.
Instead, I lean a little, just enough that the light hits the edge of my jaw, casting the rest of me in shadow.
I see her eyes drop—just for a second—before she forces them back up, meeting my gaze.
Still quiet.
Still watching.
Good girl.
Then I speak.
One line. Quiet. Dead calm. Dipped in threat and curiosity and promise all at once.
"Funny... how easily people forget they're being seen."
Her face goes blank.
That's all I needed, for now.
Because her breath stutters, uneven.
Her hand tightens on her thigh, trembling.
And her eyes—God, those traitorous, gorgeous eyes—flare in something close to panic before she locks it all back in.
But not fast enough.
Too late, Ri.
I saw it.
Every inch of you remembered me.
Not from that night.
But from all the nights after.
She knows.
Not everything. Not yet.
But something inside her just screamed- loud, panicked, and confused.
And I?
I smiled at her.
Small. Crooked. empty. Just for a second.
Then I turn. Casual. Like I didn't just rip open her peace.
I walk back down the hallway, every step a countdown to the moment she stops pretending this is just a visit.
Because I'm not just the man from the shadows.
I'm the one she keeps seeing when she closes her eyes.
And now?
Now the game has changed.
Let her guess.
Let her wonder.
Let her tremble.
Because I'm done watching.
It's time she remembers.
Me.
The real me.
The man who already owns her nightmares—
and is coming for her reality next.
≿━━━━༺ 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 ༻━━━━≿
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