Anirudh did not summon her the next day. Nor the day after.
He told himself it was deliberate restraint — a test of patience. But the truth was far more dangerous: he didn't need to summon her to know where she was, what she was doing, or how she was leaving her mark on his world.
The palace spoke to him. It always had. Every shift of silence, every flicker of unease in a servant's eyes, every whisper carried through the marble corridors — all of it reached him. And now, woven into those whispers, was her.
The painter.
He knew when Aayat lingered in the courtyard, sketchbook balanced on her knees, trying to capture the symmetry of arches older than memory. He knew when she paused by the fountains, fingertips grazing the cool water as though searching for something deeper than reflection. He knew when her laughter drifted down the hallways, a sound so light it felt almost… alien here.
He shouldn't have noticed. He shouldn't have cared. Yet he did.
And it unsettled him.
Because Anirudh Rathore did not notice. He decided. He claimed. He possessed. His life had been built on control, on bending others to his will until they broke or bowed. There was no room for distractions.
But with her… it wasn't distraction. It was disturbance.
The first time he heard her laughter echo in the gallery, his hand clenched so tightly around his glass of wine that the crystal cracked. The servants scattered, terrified, but he said nothing. He only listened.
The second time, when she paused near the veiled portrait, staring at it with curiosity, he felt a flicker of rage. Not at her, but at the thought of her touching something she wasn't meant to. His world was dangerous, poisonous — and she moved through it with an innocence that was infuriating.
And yet, it was that very innocence that kept pulling him closer.
He told himself it wasn't love. It couldn't be. Love was weakness, a leash men willingly slipped around their necks. He had no use for it.
But obsession? Obsession he understood.
And she was already becoming that. A slow, creeping hunger he couldn't silence, no matter how tightly he held the reins of his self-control.
Some nights, he stood in the shadows of the eastern wing, watching as she sketched in the moonlight, her face soft with concentration. He never stepped forward. Never revealed himself. Not yet. But the restraint cost him more with every passing day.
Because the truth was merciless.
Each time he saw her, he didn't just want her. He wanted her closer.
Each time she smiled, he wanted to own the reason for it.
Each time she breathed within these walls, he wanted to make sure she never breathed outside them again.
And he knew — whether slowly or suddenly — it was only a matter of time before patience gave way to possession.
Because Anirudh Rathore had never waited for anything in his life.
But for her… he almost could.
Almost.