She’s halfway down the stairs when she hears his voice.

It freezes her mid-step — that deep, warm tone she knows by heart, the one that once whispered I love you into her neck, the one that turned cold the day she left.

She peers through the railing, careful not to be seen. There he is — Raghav — sitting on her family’s living room sofa like he belongs there, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. His hair is a little longer than she remembers, beard neatly trimmed. He looks… settled. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.

Her father is talking — voice tight with forced politeness. Her mother keeps glancing toward the stairs, knowing she’ll have to face this sooner or later.

"Uncle, you know I’ve always respected you. It’s time we make things right. I want her back — not as a girlfriend, but as my wife. She’s always been mine."

The word mine sticks in her throat like glass.

She grips the banister so hard her knuckles ache. Memories crash behind her eyes: the nights she tried to leave and he said he’d change; the fights that ended in tears, promises, and his hands tracing the bruises he never really called by name.

Her father’s voice sharpens — “You don’t understand how much she suffered when you two ended. She says she doesn’t want this. How can I—?”

"Uncle, please," Raghav cuts in, all smooth certainty. “She’s confused. She’s always been impulsive. I know her better than anyone — I can handle her. She just needs time. I’ll fix everything.”

She wants to scream. To run down the stairs and drag him out by his collar. But her feet won’t move.

"Papa — don’t do this," she whispers, but no one hears her yet.

Her father sighs, shoulders drooping under years of pressure — family honor, gossip, old-school pride. He rubs his temples, like this is the only choice left.

"We’ll set the date soon," he says finally. “It’ll be good for her. Good for both families. She’ll understand.”

Raghav leans back, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flick upward, searching — and for a heartbeat, they lock with hers through the railings.

He smiles wider. Slow. Certain.

Like he’s always known he’d win.

She storms down the last few stairs, her footsteps echoing off the hallway walls. Her father and Raghav both turn to look — her father’s face a mask of helplessness; Raghav’s a calm smile, smug at the edges.

"Why are you here, Raghav?" she snaps, her voice trembling with something between anger and dread. “We’re done. You don’t get to just come back and—”

"Hey, hey—" He lifts his hands, palms out like he’s calming a child. “I came because I love you. Because I want to make this right. You said so many things you didn’t mean back then—”

"Don’t tell me what I meant!" she spits, the words bouncing too loud in the quiet living room. Her father flinches but says nothing.

"Beta, lower your voice," her father murmurs. “It’s not the time to argue—”

"This is exactly the time to argue!" she snaps back, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “Papa, you can’t do this. You can’t—”

Before she can finish, the front door swings open with a creak.

Laughter. Familiar voices. Raghav’s parents step in — his mother carrying a box of sweets, his father’s arm draped fondly around her dad’s shoulder. They look like they’ve always belonged in her house — like they’ve been family all along.

"Oh, look at our daughter-in-law," Raghav’s mother beams, sweeping across the room to press a sticky-sweet kiss to her forehead. She recoils, but the woman just laughs it off. “She’s still shy — good girls always are.”

"She’s just overwhelmed," Raghav says smoothly, sliding an arm around her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His touch burns, but her feet won’t move.

His father clasps her dad’s hand in a tight shake. “This is perfect, bhai saab. We all know this was meant to be. Look how happy they look together!”

She feels the walls closing in, the air thick with the scent of sweets and stale secrets. She wants to scream I’m not happy — but the words die under their beaming smiles.

Her father’s shoulders relax, melting under the warmth of old friendship and promises of honor. “Fine. Let’s fix the date,” he says at last, almost to himself.

Raghav’s mother claps her hands together in delight. “God bless them! It’ll be a wedding to remember. Such a perfect match. Such beautiful children.”

Raghav’s grip on her shoulder tightens, just enough to keep her still. His voice drops to her ear, low enough that only she can hear:

"See? I told you. You’re mine. You always were."

She feels her chest cave in, her protests swallowed by everyone else’s happiness. In this house, her no means nothing — not when the fathers are best friends, not when the sweets are passed around, not when he smiles like he never let her go.

And she stands there, frozen in the living room that used to feel safe — feeling her freedom slip away under the weight of other people’s joy.

The living room is a blur of chatter, laughter, sweet boxes being passed around. But inside her head it’s so loud she can’t hear a word they say.

She can still feel it — that night, a year ago. His hands grabbing at her wrists, pinning her down against the mattress. The burn of fabric tearing under his grip. Her own heartbeat like thunder in her ears. The way he shushed her, telling her she was his, she was overreacting, she was making him do this.

She got away then. She doesn’t even remember how — just the slam of the door behind her, her feet pounding down the dark street, half-dressed, shaking so hard she thought her bones would splinter.

She left him after that — blocked him, erased every trace she could. Told her parents only that they’d “grown apart.” She thought it was over. That she’d never see that look in his eyes again.

But here he is — calm, sweet, polite for the families — and she can still see that same hunger in the way he watches her, the way his hand sits heavy on her shoulder like a leash.

She tries to meet her father’s eyes across the room — tries to find that old trust — but he won’t look at her for long. He just keeps nodding at Raghav’s parents, caught up in the warmth of old friendship, blind to what they’re giving away.

"Beta, you’ll see — you’ll be happy this time," her father says when he catches her staring. “He’s a good boy. He’s changed.”

But she knows. He hasn’t changed. He’s just gotten better at wearing the mask.

And this time, if he wants what he wanted then — she won’t have a locked door to run behind. She’ll have no one to believe her no. Not when her father has already said yes.

So she stands there — a polite smile stretched across her lips like a bruise — and inside her mind, the scream curls up tight and sharp:

What now?

Because this time, she can’t just run.

This time, she’ll have to survive him under the same roof, the same bed.

This time, he won’t take her choice — unless she finds a way to fight back.

They’re all gathered around the living room table now — cups of tea, plates of sweets, polite laughter. Maya sits stiffly beside Raghav on the sofa, her hands clenched so tight her nails bite crescents into her palm.

Raghav’s mother leans forward, her bangles clinking, eyes soft with affection that feels like poison.

"Beta, you look so serious. Are you happy with this match? After all, this is your life — you should be happy, na?"

For a heartbeat, Maya feels her lungs expand — like maybe this is her moment. Maybe if she says it out loud, someone will listen. She draws in a shaky breath.

"Aunty, I— I am not—" she begins, voice raw, words trembling on her tongue.

But before the truth can slip free, Raghav’s arm tightens around her shoulders. His fingers dig in, a silent warning. He laughs — warm, charming — like she just made an adorable joke.

"She’s more than happy," he interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting hers clean in half. “She’s just shy. Always been shy, our Maya.”

His mother beams. His father chuckles. Her own father nods along, eyes glassy with relief that this will all be “settled” now.

And just like that, the conversation drifts on — the sweets passed around again, talk of venues and dates and gold jewelry.

She tries to pull away but his fingers stay locked on her shoulder. His thumb rubs circles into her skin — a touch that looks tender to everyone else but burns like a brand.

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear — his voice so low that only she can feel how sharp it is.

"You can’t save yourself from me now," he whispers, each word dripping with satisfaction. “You’re mine. No locked doors. No running away. I’ll take every piece you tried to hide from me — you’ll give it to me now, like a good wife should.”

She goes rigid, her breath caught in her throat. He pulls back just enough to press a soft kiss to her temple — for the parents, the audience. They coo at how adorable they look.

But inside, she’s screaming.

Because she knows — no one here will save her this time.

And he knows it too.

She doesn’t even feel the next few sentences passing between their families — the polite jokes about wedding food, the laughter about honeymoon destinations.

She’s frozen — locked inside her own body while his hand stays heavy on her shoulder like a brand.

She tries to keep her eyes dry, tries to stare straight ahead at the clock on the wall, the faded family photo above the TV — anything but him. But the tears come anyway. Slow at first, then quicker, spilling hot and helpless down her cheeks.

He feels her shoulders tremble.

He turns his head, his breath warm against her ear — the sweetness in his tone mocking the sharp twist underneath.

"Aw, baby," he murmurs, too softly for anyone else to hear, “Don’t start crying now.”

His thumb brushes her cheek — wiping a tear so slowly it sends a cold shiver down her spine. He studies the wetness on his thumb, then looks at her with a spark of amusement in his eyes — like he’s enjoying this too much to hide it.

"Save these for later," he says, voice dipped in dark amusement. “You’ll need them then. I haven’t even done anything yet, Maya.”

She opens her mouth — to say no, to beg him to stop, to tell her father to look at her, really see her — but the words stick like stones in her throat.

Raghav leans in, so close his lips graze her ear — soft, deadly:

"You ran away last time. You saved yourself once. But you can’t save yourself from me after marriage. There won’t be anywhere to run, will there? My pretty wife… always mine."

His hand slides down her arm, squeezing her fingers just tight enough to hurt. Then, like nothing happened, he turns back to the family with that same charming smile, answering some question about the guest list.

No one notices her tears now.

No one sees how her chest heaves, her heart cracking open under the weight of what’s coming.

They only see a beautiful, shy bride-to-be, tucked under her perfect fiancé’s arm.

And all she can think is — Who will believe me now? Who will save me now?

The laughter drifts from the hallway as their fathers shake hands one last time, sealing the arrangement.

Maya stands by the sideboard, her palms pressed so hard against the wood that her fingertips sting. She tries to steady her breathing — tries not to let her eyes flick toward him.

But of course, Raghav watches her — the whole time. Like he’s memorizing every crack in her armor, every tremble she tries to hide.

When the front door finally closes behind his parents, Raghav lingers — waiting just long enough for her father to follow the guests outside.

And then it’s just the two of them, in the hush of the hallway that once felt safe.

He steps closer — so close she feels the heat of him again, the scent of the aftershave she used to love. His smile curves wide — that same amused sweetness that makes her want to scream.

"You didn’t cry too much this time. Good girl," he says softly, his tone like a pat on the head. “But come on, Maya… we can’t have you acting like a stranger now.”

She lifts her chin, forcing herself to look him in the eye — though her voice comes out as a whisper:

"What do you want?"

His grin sharpens, teeth just barely showing. He reaches for her phone on the sideboard — picks it up, rolls it between his fingers like a toy.

"You still have me blocked everywhere, hmm?" His tone is mocking, like they’re exes laughing over an old joke. “That’s not how a good fiancée treats her future husband, is it?”

She doesn’t answer — her pulse pounding in her ears.

He leans closer — his lips brushing her temple this time.

"Unblock me tonight. Everywhere. I want to see you. Talk to you. Whenever I want."

She swallows, her throat dry as paper. “I don’t want to.”

He laughs under his breath — a low, dark sound that makes her stomach knot. His hand comes up — two fingers tipping her chin up just enough to trap her gaze.

"You don’t have to want to, Maya. You just have to do it."

His thumb drags over her lower lip, so gentle it makes her want to bite him. “You’re mine again. Stop pretending you can shut me out. You can’t save yourself from me now… so be good. Be smart.”

She jerks her face away. He lets her — for now.

The front door swings open again — her father’s voice booming cheerfully from the porch. The moment breaks. The world shifts back to pretend normal.

Raghav tosses her phone back onto the sideboard — his grin widening.

"Tonight," he murmurs as he passes her by. “Unblock me. Or I’ll do it myself when we’re husband and wife. And then there’ll be no blocking me ever again.”

That night, Maya sits curled up on her bed, the phone a dead weight in her hands.

Her room — the same walls she grew up in — feels like a cage now. No locked doors can keep him out anymore.

She scrolls through her contacts, her thumb hovering over his name — that familiar string of letters that once made her smile. Now, it makes her hands shake.

She knows if she doesn’t unblock him, he’ll find a way. He’ll twist her father’s ear, turn it into “she’s being disobedient.” She can’t afford to make him angry — not yet.

So she does it. One flick of her thumb — Unblock.

A little green circle lights up next to his name. Active. Waiting.

She drops the phone onto her blanket like it’s burned her. She can’t breathe — her chest tight, her mind racing with old memories she’s tried to bury.

It takes less than a minute.

Her phone buzzes. One new message.

And another.

And another.

She stares at the screen, the words swimming before her eyes:

Raghav: “Good girl. I knew you’d listen.”

A second message pings — more mocking, almost playful:

Raghav: “You look so pretty when you cry. Did you cry while you did it? Did you think about me touching you when you pressed that button?”

Her stomach twists. Her thumb hovers over Block again — but she doesn’t dare.

A third message slides in, colder now — a hook hidden in the honey:

Raghav: “Meet me tomorrow. That little café near the OYO on Ring Road. 4 PM. You remember that one? We used to sit there for hours… maybe you’ll change your mind again after.”

The implication hangs in the air — You know what happens if you say no.

If she refuses, he could do worse than text her. He could show up at her door. He could tell her father she’s misbehaving, spoiling the family name.

The phone slips from her fingers onto the blanket. She buries her face in her knees, trembling so hard she thinks her bones might rattle right out of her skin.

He’s never going to let her go.

And tomorrow… she’ll have to see him again. Near that cheap OYO — the same place he always hinted about when they were together. A place where secrets don’t get locked doors.

She squeezes her eyes shut — wishing the world would swallow her whole. But she knows wishes are useless now.