01.

𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚

My heartbeat—it's all I can hear right now.

Darkness—it's all I can see.

Fear—it's all I can feel.

I'm the weakest, the most cowardly person. At first, I used to argue with everyone who called me that. I fought back when they told me I was nothing, that I didn’t deserve to live, that I deserved all the pain. But now… I wonder if they were right. Maybe the problem was me all along.

How do I always end up in these situations?

Kidnapped. That’s all I know. And the thought of reliving what happened when I was sixteen makes my skin crawl. My chest tightens. It feels like the air around me has vanished. I can't breathe.

No. No, Aliya. Don’t think about that. Please. I beg you, don’t think about that.

I used to be terrified of the dark. They called it a phobia, but like a coward, I denied it. Said it was just a normal fear. But now, the darkness has swallowed me whole, wrapping its strings around me, binding me. And this time, there is no escape. No one to pull me out of this abyss that is eating me alive.

Then—

A gunshot.

It wasn’t distant. It was close.

My eyes flutter open, the darkness clawing at me, desperate to keep me in its grasp. My vision is blurry.

A figure.

Moving toward me.

It’s not him. It can’t be him.

But I was wrong.

It is him.

Yuvraj Chauhan.

And what’s terrifying is his hands—drenched in red. Blood. I know it’s blood.

I can’t convince myself that this isn’t scary, that he isn’t scary, because he is. He is.

You know that hatred—the kind you see in the eyes of an enemy who wants nothing but your destruction?

That’s what I see in his.

I want to run. Just like I always do.

“Congratulations, Aliya Sharma—”

His voice cuts through the silence as he leans toward me. I'm still sitting on the ground, frozen. Three years. Three years. And these are the first words he says to me.

His voice sends a cold shiver down my spine, as if the temperature around me has dropped.

“You’re getting married today,” he continues, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Now, be a good girl and get ready.”

His voice is rough, sharp like a blade. But his hands—when they grab mine—are unexpectedly gentle. He pulls me up, and the soft chime of my anklet fills the heavy silence.

“Yuvraj…” His name escapes my lips, barely a whisper. My voice trembles, turns fragile.

A sudden jerk.

Before I can react, he yanks me forward by my wrist, pulling me closer.

He’s wearing a crisp white button-up, the top two buttons undone, paired with a sleek black suit. Effortlessly powerful. Effortlessly dangerous.

And me? I’m in a short, puff-sleeved cottagecore dress, delicate and soft, the exact opposite of everything he is right now. The square neckline exposes my collarbones, and the hem barely reaches my knees. I feel Vulnerable.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to wear a red lehenga on your wedding?” His voice is quieter now, rough yet deliberate. “So I bought you one. Exactly how you described it to me.”

My breath hitches as he twirls me around. And then—I see it.

A red bridal lehenga.

The skirt is heavy, adorned with intricate zari, sequins, and delicate threadwork. The blouse has a deep neckline, half-sleeved, embellished to perfection. The sheer dupatta drapes like a whisper over the ensemble. A breathtaking mix of tradition and grandeur. Just like I had once told him.

I tear my gaze away from it, scanning the room instead. A large mirror stands against the wall, a makeup table beside it. But when I turn to the door—two guards. Armed. Watching. Waiting.

“Dare to run,” he murmurs, stepping behind me. His voice is low, just a breath against my ear. “You know what I can do to get what I want.”

A pause. A heartbeat. Then—

“I want you ready in an hour.”

And with that, he steps away, leaving me standing there.

Confused.

Trapped.

And burning with rage.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

I need to run. I need to escape.

I can’t marry him. He’s freaking insane.

Three years. After three whole years, I see him again, and the first thing he says is that we’re getting married? Does he think marriage is a joke?

I never even wanted to marry. I’d rather be the female version of Salman Khan—single forever, untouchable, free. But running away isn’t an option. Not when I have two people in my room, pretending to help me. Not when two armed guards stand outside my door, waiting for me to make a mistake.

This whole thing is messed up. And Yuvraj? He’s even more messed up.

Maybe all those articles calling him a spoiled brat were true after all.

I’m wearing the lehenga now. And some jewelry—not too heavy, just subtle ornaments. But it feels wrong.

The wedding lehenga feels like a cage, tightening around me. The jewelry presses against my skin like shackles. It’s suffocating. I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I don’t cry anymore. Crying does nothing. It only makes me feel weak.

And I am weak.

But I won’t admit that.

"Do you see them? That’s how you’ll be treated too. I’m going to make you my puppet. Let’s see how my sweet little puppet entertains me."

Flashbacks.

No. No, Aliya, not now.

Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. I beg you.

My past lurks in the shadows, waiting for moments like this—when I’m vulnerable, when I’m weak. It creeps in like a whisper, replaying the moments that destroyed me. I don’t know if my brain does it to remind me that nothing could be worse than what I’ve already been through…

Or to mock me.

My hands tremble as I grab the vase near the mirror. Without thinking, I smash it against the glass, shattering my reflection into a thousand broken pieces.

Just like they shattered me.

Just like they broke me and made me their puppet.

Don’t think about that place. Don’t think about that place.

I chant it like a mantra in my mind.

The door bursts open.

The two bodyguards rush in, their guns at their sides. One of them dashes out, probably to inform Yuvraj. The other steps closer.

“Ma’am, are you hurt? Please step back. We’ll get this fixed.” His voice is alert, cautious.

But before he can move any closer, I lunge forward and snatch a sharp shard of glass from the broken mirror.

I press it against my neck.

“Back off, or I’ll hurt myself,” I warn, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

“Ma’am, please,” he pleads, his tone shifting to something almost desperate. “Sir will not spare me if he finds out you’ve harmed yourself.”

The two women in the room beg me to stop, their voices trembling. But I don’t hear them. I don’t care.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

I ran.

But how far can I go?

I don’t know where I am. The road ahead is unfamiliar, endless. Tall trees stand at a distance, their shadows stretching over the empty path like ghosts.

I’ve been running for thirty minutes. The heavy lehenga is slowing me down. The jewelry feels suffocating. The red bangles on my wrists jingle with every step—a cruel reminder of the wedding I was supposed to be trapped in.

The only sound that doesn’t suffocate me is the soft chime of my anklet.

I want to stop. To sink to the ground and cry until there’s nothing left of me.

But I can’t.

My legs refuse to carry me any further. My body collapses onto the cold ground.

My eyes drift toward the sky. The sun is setting.

My eyelids flutter closed.

I can feel the wind brushing against my skin, whispering mocking words.

She is free. She belongs to no one.

She is not a puppet.

A sharp sound cuts through the silence.

Engines. Tires screeching.

I knew it. I knew he would come.

My eyes snap open.

Cars. So many cars.

They circle around me

, trapping me once again. Caging me, just like before.

And then, the door to the black car in front of me opens.

Yuvraj steps out.

His eyes meet mine.

He walks toward me.

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