The heavy tick of the grandfather clock in the Patel mansion echoed through the silence, filling the space between sharp breaths and unspoken words. Anaya Patel sat straight-backed on the edge of a velvet chair, her palms pressed tightly together in her lap. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and aged books, but to her it carried only dread.

Her father sat across from her, his thick brows knitted, his knuckles white around the armrest of his chair. Beside him, her mother tried to look composed, though her downcast eyes betrayed a current of unease.

Something was wrong.

“Anaya,” her father began, his voice deep and deliberate, “a proposal has come for you.”

Her heart gave a sudden, violent jolt. Already? She had known this moment would come one day, but she thought she had more time—time to travel, time to dream, time to fall in love by choice and not obligation.

“With whom?” she managed, though her throat had gone dry.

Her father’s gaze sharpened, as though to test her strength before delivering the blow.

“Adrian Moretti.”

The name struck her like ice water poured down her spine.

Everyone in Mumbai’s high society had heard of him. The elusive heir of the Moretti empire—young, brilliant, ruthless. He was a man cloaked in power, yet shrouded in whispers. Some said he had more control over the city than its politicians. Others murmured about smuggling routes, bloodied hands, and enemies who mysteriously disappeared.

“Moretti…” she whispered. The name tasted foreign, heavy. “But—”

Her mother reached over, placing a hand on hers. “We know what you’ve heard. Dangerous. Merciless. That’s what people say.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?” Anaya snapped, pulling her hand back. “That you would marry me off to a man like that?”

“Anaya.” Her father’s tone cut across her rebellion like a knife. His voice had always been stern, but tonight it carried steel. “This alliance will secure our family. Do you understand? The world is changing. Business is brutal. With the Morettis behind us, no one will dare touch us.”

Business alliance. Strategy. Power.

Not love. Not happiness.

Her chest constricted, anger and despair warring in her veins. “And what about me? Am I just another pawn on your chessboard?”

Her father’s jaw hardened. “You will do your duty.”

The finality in his tone silenced her. She wanted to fight, scream, run, anything—but the walls seemed to close in on her. For all her education, all her dreams, she was still their daughter. Bound by blood, bound by obedience.

That night, long after her parents had retired, Anaya sat at her window, her forehead pressed against the cool glass. The city stretched before her, glittering like a thousand unkept promises.

She whispered the name again. Adrian Moretti.

The stories of him came flooding back. The dark eyes that could strip a man’s soul bare. The silence that spoke of violence held in check. A man people obeyed not just out of respect, but out of fear.

And this was the man she was to marry.

Her pulse quickened. The idea of binding her life to a stranger felt unbearable. And yet… somewhere in her chest, beneath the fear, something tugged at her. A strange sense of déjà vu. The name felt familiar in ways she couldn’t explain, as if it belonged not only to the man she had heard of, but to some shadow buried in her memory.

She shook her head violently. No. I’m imagining things.

Across the city, in a sprawling villa guarded like a fortress, Adrian Moretti stood at the window of his private study, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. His black shirt was half unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled, the faintest scar visible along his forearm.

On his desk lay a photograph, old, worn at the edges. A little girl by a lakeside, her smile radiant, her hair tousled by the wind.

His gaze lingered on the picture before lifting to the glittering skyline.

“Soon,” he murmured, a dangerous softness curling in his voice. “Soon, you’ll be mine, Anaya.”

The ice in his glass clinked as he tipped it back, eyes burning with something far deeper than mere duty.

The Moretti estate was nothing like Anaya had ever seen.

Her parents’ car rolled past towering wrought-iron gates guarded by men in black suits, their expressions cold, their eyes sharp as blades. Beyond stretched a driveway lined with cypress trees, leading to a villa that looked more like a fortress carved from stone. Its tall arches and shadowed balconies loomed under the twilight sky, as if daring anyone to step inside and leave unchanged.

Anaya’s hands trembled against her silk clutch. She had dressed carefully, an elegant pastel sari, understated jewelry, hair pinned neatly, but no amount of preparation could quiet the storm inside her.

Her father’s voice, low but commanding, broke the silence in the car.

“Remember, Anaya. You are to be respectful. Say little. Observe much.”

Her mother added softly, “Do not let fear show on your face. The Morettis value strength.”

Anaya bit back a sharp retort. Strength. Respect. Duty. They spoke as if she were being sent into battle, not to meet the man who was to become her husband.

The car halted at the grand steps. A servant opened the door, bowing slightly. As Anaya stepped out, the air felt heavier, thick with the weight of unseen eyes.

They were led into a vast hall, marble floors glistening beneath a chandelier that dripped crystal light. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint tick of a clock somewhere deep inside.

And then he appeared.

Adrian Moretti descended the staircase with the quiet authority of a king. He was taller than she expected, his broad shoulders filling the dark suit he wore with effortless elegance. His face was striking, sharp jawline, straight nose, lips pressed in a line that hinted at both control and cruelty. But it was his eyes that unsettled her most: deep, unreadable, a storm contained within obsidian.

For a moment, time seemed to falter.

Anaya’s heart thudded. This is him. The man whispered about at parties, feared in boardrooms. The man whose name alone sent shivers through society.

And yet… as his gaze locked on hers, she felt something else. Familiarity. The strange pull she had felt last night returned, stronger, as if his eyes carried a memory she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Mr. and Mrs. Patel,” Adrian said, his voice smooth, low, and deliberate. He greeted her parents first, his handshake firm, his words precise. Then his gaze shifted back to her, lingering, assessing. “And this must be Anaya.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she said softly, bowing her head in a gesture of respect.

“Welcome to my home,” he said, and though his tone was polite, his eyes betrayed something else, something sharper, more possessive.

They were seated in the grand salon. Her father spoke of business, alliances, opportunities. Adrian listened with the patience of a man used to power being offered to him rather than taken. He nodded occasionally, but his attention, Anaya realized with growing unease, kept flickering back to her.

Finally, he addressed her directly.

“Do you always let others speak for you, Anaya?”

The question caught her off guard. Her parents stiffened, clearly uncomfortable. But Adrian’s gaze remained steady, challenging.

“I speak when there is something worth saying,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady.

His lips curved faintly, something between amusement and approval. “Good.”

After dinner, as their parents finalized the engagement details in hushed tones, Adrian offered to walk Anaya through the gardens. She hesitated, but propriety demanded she accept.

The night air was cool, scented with roses and earth. Lanterns lit the stone path, casting pools of golden light. For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.

“You’re afraid of me,” Adrian said suddenly, his tone matter-of-fact.

Her head snapped toward him. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” His eyes bore into hers. “And you should be.”

Her breath hitched. The audacity of his words should have angered her, but instead it left her strangely breathless. He spoke not as a man courting a bride, but as someone warning her of the storm he carried inside.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered, defensive.

A shadow of something unreadable flickered across his face. “No,” he said softly, almost too softly. “But I know you, Anaya. More than you think.”

Her pulse quickened, confusion tightening her chest. Know me? How?

But before she could question him, they reached the end of the garden path where a single olive tree stood tall, its leaves rustling in the breeze. Adrian’s hand brushed against the trunk with reverence, as if it held a secret.

“Some bonds,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something intimate, “are written long before we understand them.”

The words lingered in the night air, unsettling and intoxicating all at once.

Anaya looked at him, her heart racing with a mix of fear and inexplicable pull. Who exactly was Adrian Moretti?

And why did her soul whisper that she had known him long before this night?

The Patel mansion had never been so alive, yet Anaya had never felt so hollow.

The air was thick with jasmine garlands, the rustle of silk sarees, and the endless chatter of relatives who cared more about spectacle than the bride herself. Laughter echoed off marble walls, priests recited mantras in steady rhythm, and golden lamps flickered across the ceremonial stage.

To everyone else, it was a celebration. To Anaya, it was a performance.

Her reflection in the ornate mirror startled her: heavy bridal jewelry framed her face, kohl rimmed her eyes, and layers of crimson and gold fabric wrapped around her slender frame. She looked like a queen from some ancient tale. But behind the crown of flowers and painted lips, her eyes betrayed the truth, restless, uncertain, caged.

Her mother entered the room quietly, her expression soft but resigned. “You look beautiful,” she whispered, adjusting a strand of Anaya’s hair.

Anaya’s voice cracked. “Am I beautiful, or am I just… useful?”

Her mother froze, but instead of rebuking her, she sighed. “This marriage is more than you or me, Anaya. One day, you’ll understand.”

Anaya blinked back tears. She didn’t want to understand. She wanted to choose.

The music shifted, signaling his arrival.

Adrian Moretti stepped into the courtyard, flanked by his men. The moment he appeared, the air shifted. Conversations faltered, eyes widened, and even the priest momentarily stumbled over his chant. He was dressed in a tailored sherwani of midnight black with subtle gold embroidery, simple, understated, yet commanding.

He carried himself with the stillness of a predator, each step measured, deliberate. While the guests whispered in awe, Anaya’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Their eyes met.

It was only for a second, but it felt like an eternity. His gaze was unwavering, dark, unreadable. But beneath the steel, something flickered, a silent claim, a message only she seemed to understand.

You are mine.

Her throat tightened.

The ceremony began, flames crackling in the sacred fire pit, chants echoing like ancient promises. Anaya moved through the motions almost mechanically, guided by her parents’ hands and the priest’s words.

When it came time for the garland exchange, she lifted the flowers with trembling hands. Adrian leaned slightly, bowing just enough for her to place it over his head. His cologne, rich, smoky, intoxicating, wrapped around her like a trap.

Then it was his turn. He slid the garland over her with a steadiness that unnerved her, his fingers brushing against her wrist just long enough to send heat rushing up her arm.

The murmurs of the crowd grew as the ceremony moved forward. Vows were spoken, mantras recited, and finally, the moment came: Adrian tied the mangalsutra around her neck. His fingers lingered against the back of her neck, firm, deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her heart whispered, I am bound.

But his eyes whispered something far more dangerous: I have always bound you.

The night wore on with endless blessings, photographs, and relatives pressing sweets into her hands. But all Anaya could think of was him, how he stood beside her with unwavering calm, how every smile he gave the crowd was measured, how his hand at her back guided her like he had been born to command her steps.

Later, as they stood for one final photograph, Anaya dared to whisper through clenched teeth, her lips curved in a polite smile for the camera.

“Are you enjoying this charade?”

Adrian’s gaze flicked to hers, his lips barely moving as he replied, “This is no charade. This is fate.”

The camera flash blinded her for a second, but even after the light faded, his words burned brighter.

The festivities finally ended. Anaya was escorted to his villa, her new home.

The mansion’s doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, sealing her away from the familiar world she knew. The hall stretched out before her, cold and grand, lit by chandeliers that glimmered against polished marble. Adrian dismissed his men with a simple nod. Within moments, silence engulfed them.

Her steps faltered as they climbed the staircase. She could feel his presence behind her, steady and unrelenting, like a shadow that would never leave.

At the threshold of her new chamber, she turned to face him. “Why me?” she whispered, unable to hold the question any longer. “You could have had anyone. Why me?”

For the first time that night, his composure shifted. His eyes softened, not with warmth but with something deeper, more dangerous.

“Because,” he said, his voice low, “you’ve always been mine, Anaya. Long before this night.”

Her breath caught, her skin prickling with the weight of his words.

Before she could ask what he meant, he stepped back, his mask of control snapping back into place.

“Rest,” he said simply. “Tomorrow, everything changes.”

And with that, he left her standing in the room, heart racing, mind spinning.

She was married to Adrian Moretti.

The mafia heir. The stranger.

And yet, a part of her couldn’t shake the terrifying thought, what if he wasn’t a stranger at all?