Saanvi Khanna
I wake to the sound of silence and the weight of his absence.
The space beside me is empty. The sheets, still tangled and warm, smell like sex and something else—something unspoken. Possession, maybe. Or a promise that was never actually made.
My body aches. Not just from what we did, but from how much I let him in.
I sit up slowly, wrapping the sheets around myself like armor. The bedroom is dim, bathed in the pale glow of morning. The only sign of him is the discarded shirt on the chair and the bruise blooming along my collarbone like a signature.
I find him on the balcony, dressed again, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, city sprawled beneath him. He doesn't turn when I step out, the cold tiles biting at my feet.
"Morning," I say, voice raspier than I want it to be.
He nods but doesn't respond.
And something in me twists.
We crossed a line. One we can't uncross.
But he's standing there like nothing happened.
"Regretting it already?" I ask, folding my arms.
That gets his attention. He turns slowly, eyes unreadable.
"No," he says. "Just calculating."
"Calculating what? How fast you can bury it and move on?"
He exhales through his nose. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like I used you."
I laugh—dry, sharp. "You didn't?"
He sets the cup down, crossing the space between us.
"You think I sent you that dress just to fuck you?" he asks, voice low.
"You mean you didn't?"
His jaw clenches. "I sent it because I knew what would happen when you wore it. I knew I'd lose control."
"Then maybe don't dress me like a weapon if you can't handle the damage."
We're too close again. That same unbearable tension threading between us. Lust and anger and something softer we both refuse to name.
His fingers brush my wrist, gentle despite the fire in his eyes.
"I don't regret last night," he says. "But I regret what it means."
I frown. "And what does it mean?"
"It means you're under my skin. In ways I didn't plan for."
My breath catches.
Because it's the closest thing to vulnerability I've ever heard from him.
"And that bothers you?" I ask.
He nods. "It terrifies me."
We stand in silence, city noise humming far below. He's still close enough to kiss. To touch. But the emotional distance? That's miles wide.
"You said I'm yours now," I whisper.
"I meant it."
"Then act like it."
He tilts his head. "What does that mean to you?"
"Stop hiding. Stop calculating. Just… be honest."
"You think I can afford honesty in my world?"
"You already bought me the dress, Aaryan. You might as well try the truth."
His lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Not my lips. Not my neck. But my forehead—soft, reverent. And it breaks something in me.
"I'll try," he says. "But don't expect miracles."
I nod. "I never do."
---
Later that day, back at the office, everything is colder.
He's back to suits and clipped tones. No one would guess we spent the night wrapped in each other. No one would suspect my bruises are from passion, not pain.
He barely looks at me during the board meeting. Speaks through me like I'm a colleague, not the woman who once screamed his name against silk sheets.
And yet—I feel him.
Every glance he doesn't give. Every word he doesn't say.
I step into his office after the meeting, closing the door behind me.
"You're avoiding me."
"I'm managing perception."
I walk to his desk, hands on my hips. "You think they don't notice the way you flinch when someone else talks to me?"
His eyes flash. "Let them. But they won't touch you."
"Then say that. Out loud."
He stands, moving around the desk, stopping just short of touching me.
"You belong to me."
"Say it like you mean it."
He grips my chin, tilting my face up, fire dancing in his gaze.
"You're mine, Saanvi. And God help the man who thinks otherwise."
The possessiveness in his voice should scare me.
Instead, it anchors me.
I lean in. Not for a kiss. But to whisper against his lips.
"Then stop pushing me away."
And for the first time, he doesn't.
He lets me close.
Lets me feel.
Lets himself *feel*, too.
And maybe that's more intimate than anything we did the night before.