The next day, Sidharth sat in his office chair, a file open in his lap, reading quietly. Or at least pretending to. His eyes kept drifting back to the woman standing a few feet away.

She wore six-inch heels that clicked softly against the floor, a simple light-blue sundress that made her look almost calm. Her hair was loose down her back, the upper half pinned with a clip. But her eyes weren't as composed as her outfit.

Without asking, without waiting for permission, she moved from one cabinet to the next, opening drawers, flipping through folders, too determined to find the truth—or maybe just too determined to prove herself right.

Sidharth sighed, the sound low and tired in the quiet room. He set the file down on the desk, the paper sliding with a soft rustle.

"You know," he said, voice even, "I knew you were coming. So I already cleared everything up."

A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. She glanced at him for a second, something sharp flashing in her gaze, then looked away, rolling her eyes as if his words were just another lie she didn't have time for.

Her fingers paused on a cabinet handle. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the quiet rhythm of her breathing. Then she continued, more stubborn now, as if his confidence was a challenge she refused to back down from.

"Roll them again and see what happens," he said, his voice lower this time, stripped of the earlier mockery. A warning, plain and simple.

She didn't even glance up. "Who do you think you—"

Her words died in her throat the moment he stood.

The chair scraped softly against the floor. The sound was small, but it hit her like a signal. Her posture stiffened instantly, spine straightening, fingers curling slightly at her sides. She hadn't meant to react, but she always did. And now, he enjoyed it.

He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, each step measured as if he knew exactly how it affected her. The quiet click of her heels seemed suddenly loud in the space between them, but she didn't move back. She couldn't. Or maybe she just forgot how.

When he stopped, he was right in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that the air between them felt charged, heavy. His hands—veined, strong, steady—slid to her waist in one swift motion, pulling her against him before she could think to resist.

Her breath hitched. One of her hands flew up to his chest, as if to steady herself, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. Without her heels, she stood at 5'9", but in her heels, half an inch taller than his usual 6'2", but the way he leaned into her erased that difference completely. He bent his head slightly, his nose almost brushing hers, his eyes dark and unblinking.

"Trust me," he said, voice low, rough at the edges, "I have a meeting to attend. Otherwise, I would've taken the proper time to explain to you... exactly who I am."

The words hung between them, heavy with something unspoken. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The office was silent except for the faint hum of the AC and the unsteady rhythm of her breathing.

Then, slowly, his grip on her waist loosened—but only just. He didn't step back. He didn't let her go. Not yet.

She gulped hard, trying to force her voice to stay steady. "What? Huh? You think you—"

He leaned down a fraction more, closing the last sliver of distance between them, and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't cruel, either. It was a claim.

Her breath caught, trapped in her throat. Her mind screamed at her to push him away, to step back, to do anything but stand there melting into him—but her body refused to obey. His hands on her waist tightened, anchoring her against him, while his other hand slid into her loose hair, fingers tangling in the strands, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

She closed her eyes, waiting—waiting for him to move, to deepen it, to pull her closer and devour her the way her traitorous body begged him to. But he didn't. He stayed like that, lips barely brushing hers, unmoving, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter between them until it was almost unbearable.

Then, softly, his voice rough against her mouth, he whispered, "Don't force me to become what I hated being. You see... I'm very possessive when it comes to my things."

Something in her snapped.

"I'm not a fucking object," she cut in, voice sharp, trembling with anger and something else she refused to name. "That you dare to call me a thing."

Her words hung in the air, hot and defiant. For a moment, neither of them moved. 

The only sound was their breathing—hers uneven, his steady, controlled. But the way his grip on her waist tightened, just slightly, told her he'd heard. 

And he wasn't letting go.

He smirked against her lips, the faint curve of his mouth sending an unwanted shiver through her. "That's exactly what I was saying," he murmured, voice low and rough. "You're not a thing. You're my wife. Don't you think I should be... doubly possessive about you, huh?"

Before she could respond, he pulled back just enough to look at her. Then his hand in her hair tightened, tugging her head down at a sharp angle—maybe fifteen degrees, just enough to expose the pale line of her throat. Her breath hitched, but she didn't—couldn't—pull away.

His voice dropped even lower, a dark, dangerous timbre that vibrated through her bones. "If you ever dare to say that again... or talk to me rudely..." 

He paused, leaning in until his lips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck, making her shudder. "I will make you bend over right here, right now, and fuck the hell out of you. Until you forget whatever leftover memories you have in this tiny brain of yours."

He nipped lightly at her skin, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp. "Until the only thing you remember is my name. Sidharth. Your husband. Your only man." His teeth grazed her pulse point, feeling it race under his mouth. "Understand, Mrs. Aarohi Sidharth Sisodia?"

The words hit her like a physical blow, sending a chill racing down her spine. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his. 

Her hands, which had been clenched on his chest, now trembled slightly, unsure whether to push him away or grab onto him more for support.

He loosened his grip, letting her head return to its natural position. The moment stretched between them, heavy and unresolved, before a sharp knock at the door shattered the silence.

His secretary stepped in—and immediately looked down, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: Sidharth standing close, Aarohi flushed and breathless, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Sir, Mr. Yashraj Khanna is here," she said in a hurried tone, not daring to meet either of their eyes. Before anyone could respond, she slipped out again, closing the door softly behind her.

Sidharth slowly turned his gaze from the door back to Aarohi. She was still looking at him, shock written all over her face, her lips slightly parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"7598 is the password to my drawer," he said, voice calm now, almost casual, as if the last few minutes hadn't happened. 

"The biometric card is kept there. Be a good girl and check whatever you want in here—or in the whole company, for that matter. But I don't want any complaints about you, or anyone else, in that process. Understood?"

He stepped closer again, just enough to make her breath catch. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and unyielding. "I'll be back in an hour or two. Call me if you feel like going home."

Then, without warning, he leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to her jaw. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't rough. It was a reminder.

He stepped back, picked up his coat from the chair, and slipped it on with practiced ease. Without another word, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Aarohi stood there for a moment, completely still, her body trembling slightly. 

She was shocked—no, stunned—by how bold he'd been, how suddenly he'd shifted from threatening to almost... caring. It didn't make sense. None of it did.

A tiny droplet of sweat slipped down from the side of her forehead, tracing a path along her temple. She finally moved, sinking onto the nearby couch as if her legs could no longer support her. 

Her hands shook as she reached for the glass of water on the table, lifting it to her lips and gulping it down, trying to steady herself, trying to stop the whirlwind of emotions spinning inside her.

But the taste of water did nothing to wash away the memory of his voice, his touch, his words.

After a few seconds, she reached for her phone, desperate to distract herself from whatever had just happened. She unlocked the screen, scrolling mindlessly through apps, social media, messages—anything to keep her mind occupied.

Nearly half an hour passed.

Then, a notification popped up.

She pulled down the notification bar, ready to swipe it away without a second thought—but froze when she read the headline.

"Sidharth Sisodia Linked to City's Biggest Mafia?"

Her breath caught. The name hit her like a punch to the gut. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she tapped on it, opening the article.

The page loaded, and her eyes scanned the bold title at the top. Then the first paragraph:

"It has been made clear by the police themselves that Sidharth Sisodia, one of the leading businessmen in the country, has been in connection with the mafia boss of North India, Yashraj Khanna, for the last six months—"

Her eyes stopped at the name.

Yashraj Khanna.

It felt familiar. Too familiar.

Then it clicked.

Her secretary had said that name just minutes ago. "Sir, Mr. Yashraj Khanna is here." The same person Sidharth had left to meet. The same meeting he'd used as an excuse to walk away from her.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. Her heart, which had finally started to slow, began to race again—but this time, not because of him. Because of what she was reading.

She scrolled down, eyes darting over the lines, searching for more, anything that could confirm or deny what the article was claiming. The words blurred together, but one sentence stood out:

"Sources suggest that Sisodia's recent business expansions may have been funded through illegal channels, with Khanna's organization allegedly providing protection and influence in exchange for—"

She stopped reading.

Her chest felt tight. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. She set the phone down on the couch beside her, her hands trembling slightly.

This wasn't just about power. This wasn't just about control.

This was something else entirely.

She continued reading, her eyes scanning the next paragraph:

"The police have informed the Mumbai police, and they are currently tracking him. According to secret reporters, he is somewhere in Mumbai and will soon be meeting Sidharth Sisodia regarding human trafficking. As a large number of people—especially young girls—have been getting kidnapped, it is suspected that the next meeting will be on such a topic."

Aarohi tapped the home button, closing the article. She looked up from her phone, a slow, smug smile spreading across her face. A victorious smile.

"Huh," she muttered to herself, voice laced with triumph. "What did everyone say, huh? That he's a gentleman? That he's honest? That he's kind? That he's this, he's that?" She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Bullshit. I knew it. He was mafia. And I'm pretty sure his house in West Bengal is also true. Maybe that's where he's been sending all those girls."

Her excitement surged through her, electric and intoxicating. "Now I'll call the cops and win this battle. Finally."

She stood up, phone in hand, and walked toward the huge glass window, ready to make the call. But then she paused.

Her breath caught.

Outside, the entire building was surrounded.

Multiple police cars lined the entrance below, their blue and red lights flashing in the distance. Two helicopters hovered in the air, clearly visible even from the 55th floor. Inside each chopper, she could make out two men—armed, watching. On the ground, guards stood in formation, surrounding the building like a fortress.

Her smile faltered.

The phone in her hand suddenly felt heavy. Her heart, which had been racing with victory, now pounded for a different reason.

This wasn't just an investigation.

This was a siege.

This was her chance. Now she could see the police catching him with her own eyes. And then—finally—she could live peacefully.

She turned quickly, almost running, out of his office and toward the reception area. The lady sitting there looked up as Aarohi approached, her expression polite but guarded.

"Where is he?" Aarohi demanded, voice sharp.

The receptionist hesitated. "I'm sorry, ma'am, he's in an important meeting. I can't—"

"Tell me where he is," Aarohi cut in, her voice rising, "or else I will kill you right here."

She pulled out the gun—Ritvik's fake metal gun, the one she'd sneaked in while coming inside. No one had dared to check her. She'd made her entry with Sidharth, after all. Of course they hadn't.

The receptionist's eyes widened as the barrel pointed at her. Her hands trembled slightly on the desk. "23rd floor," she stammered, voice shaking. "239 hall."

Aarohi nodded once, turned, and walked toward the lift. She pressed the down button, her heart racing with excitement. This was it. The day was finally here. 

The day this stupid story would end. The chapter would close—the one where she was called a forgotten memory, where she was doubted, where she was made to feel small.

And then she could live freely.

She stepped out of the lift as soon as the doors slid open on the 23rd floor. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from excitement, from the thrill of finally seeing justice served with her own eyes. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor as she walked briskly toward room number 239, her mind already replaying the moment she'd imagined a hundred times: Sidharth in handcuffs, the police surrounding him, the end of his empire.

But when she neared the hallway, she paused.

Through the open doorway, she could see multiple police officers moving around, their uniforms crisp and authoritative. They were tying ropes around an injured man—someone who looked unmistakably like a mafia figure. Blood stained his shirt, his face bruised, his body slumped as if he'd already given up. Her excitement surged higher. He must be dead now. Or maybe just crying in pain, tied up, helpless.

And surprisingly, no one stopped her.

No one asked for her ID. No one tried to block her path. No one even looked at her twice.

A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips. Of course. They were all scared of her. And why wouldn't they be? She had once been an IAS officer. She had power. She had authority. She had respect.

As she reached the door, one of the men in uniform stepped forward, his expression cautious. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but sir is—"

She turned to him, her eyes flashing with anger. "Stay away," she snapped, voice cold and commanding, "or else I will make sure you get posted in some rural jungle for the rest of your career."

The man hesitated. His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He sighed, remembering his senior's instructions, and stepped back without another word.

Aarohi didn't wait. She pushed past him and entered the room.

The room looked like a war zone.

The entire space was devastated. Multiple TV screens were smashed, some cracked in jagged lines, others bearing fresh gunshot marks. Papers were scattered everywhere, fluttering slightly in the draft from broken windows. The glass table in the center had been reduced to shards, its remains glittering across the dark carpet like broken stars. Laptops lay messily on the ground, screens cracked, wires tangled.

And in the middle of it all, an unknown fat man was bleeding badly.

Multiple red spots stained his white coat—arms, shoulders, chest—each one a vivid mark of violence. He was lying on the floor, his face pressed against the ground, being dragged slightly as an officer's boot nudged him forward. His skin scraped against the shattered glass on the floor, leaving faint red trails. He groaned, crying out in pain, mumbling curses under his breath, his voice thick with agony and fear.

Aarohi's excitement increased. Her heart pounded faster. She scanned the room, eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for another body—Sidharth's body—tied to the floor, defeated, finished. But nothing came into her view.

All the while, her head was cast down, her knees slightly bent as she moved through the dark-themed room, trying not to miss a single spot. She circled the space once, then twice, her breath growing heavier with each step.

And just as she was about to complete the round, her head bumped into a chest.