Chapter 1 – The Night It Ended

I still remember the sound of the rain that night — the kind that drowns out everything except your own heartbeat. It was past midnight, and the city outside my window had gone silent, as if even the streetlights had grown tired of watching us fall apart.

Aaryan stood by the doorway, his coat half-buttoned, his jaw tight, his eyes colder than the rain. He always looked like that — composed, unshakable — the kind of man who could control boardrooms, empires, and men twice his size with a single word. But that night, his control was slipping, one heartbeat at a time.

“I told you, Meera,” he said, his voice low, almost trembling with restraint. “You don’t walk out on me like that. Not after everything—”

“After everything what?” I snapped, my hands shaking as I tried to keep my voice steady. “After everything you decided for me? Everything you controlled?”

He flinched, just a little, and I saw something flicker in his eyes — hurt, maybe, or pride breaking apart under the weight of truth. But then he straightened, hiding it behind the same armor that had always kept him safe.

“This isn’t about control,” he said. “It’s about protection.”

That word. Protection. He always used it like a shield — a justification for every wall he built between us. He’d say he was protecting me from his world, from his enemies, from the press, from pain. But somewhere in the middle of all his protection, I had stopped breathing.

“I don’t need protection,” I whispered. “I just needed you.”

He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. The man the world called a wolf had no idea how to be gentle, not with words. He knew how to conquer, not comfort. He could buy anything, build anything — but when it came to love, he was lost.

The thunder rolled outside, and for a moment, the lightning caught his face — and I saw him, really saw him. Not the billionaire. Not the legend. Just a man too scared to admit he was afraid of being left alone.

“I can’t do this anymore, Aaryan,” I said softly. “I’m tired of being the only one trying to make us human.”

He took a step forward, his breath uneven. “You’re not leaving.”

I swallowed hard. “Watch me.”

And I did. I picked up my small bag from the sofa — the one I’d packed quietly two days ago when I first realized love wasn’t supposed to feel like drowning — and I walked toward the door.

He didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t beg.

That was the worst part.

The silence between us was heavy, full of words we would never say again. I reached for the handle, my fingers cold, my heart louder than the rain outside. Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him whisper behind me.

“Don’t go.”

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

I froze. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it — the billionaire who had the world kneeling at his feet, sounding like a lost child in the dark.

But I didn’t turn around. Because if I did, I knew I would stay.

So, I stepped out into the night.

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The rain hit my skin like needles — cold, relentless, cleansing. I didn’t even open my umbrella. I wanted to feel everything. The heartbreak, the loss, the quiet liberation that came with finally walking away from someone you still loved.

Behind me, I heard the door close softly. That was it — the final sound of us ending.

I walked for blocks, barefoot at some point, my heels dangling from my hand, mascara mixing with rain on my cheeks. The world around me blurred into a smear of headlights and puddles. But inside, everything was sharp. Painfully sharp.

By the time I reached my apartment, my phone buzzed — his name flashing across the screen.

I didn’t answer. Not then. Not that night.

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It’s strange, the things you remember after a heartbreak.

Not the fights. Not the lies. But the quiet details.

The way his hand always found mine when we crossed the road.

The way he’d stand too close in elevators, pretending it was crowded.

The way he’d call me “meri jaan” when he thought I was asleep.

Those memories followed me home like ghosts.

I sat by the window all night, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights fade one by one. By dawn, I convinced myself I had done the right thing. I told myself he’d move on — after all, Aaryan Vora always moved on. He never lost. Never chased.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Until the next morning.

---

It was six a.m. when I heard it — a faint thud outside my building. At first, I thought it was just the sound of rain against the gate. But when I looked out the window, my heart froze.

He was there.

Aaryan.

Standing in the rain, soaked from head to toe, no umbrella, no car, no security detail — just him. The man who once ruled every room now looked like a ghost of himself. His shirt clung to him, his hair plastered against his forehead, and even from the third-floor window, I could see the way his shoulders trembled.

I pressed my palm against the glass, as if the touch could warm him from this far away.

For a moment, I wanted to run down. To throw open the door and yell at him for being so stupid, so stubborn, so heartbreakingly human.

But I couldn’t move.

My heart raced. My mind screamed.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this.

And yet, there he was — the wolf of Mumbai, waiting quietly like a lost dog in the rain.

I stayed there for hours, watching him through the fogged glass. He didn’t leave. Didn’t move. Didn’t even look up at my window. Just stood there, letting the storm swallow him whole.

By the time the sun began to rise, I could see his body sway slightly, his hand pressed against the gate for support. He looked weak — feverish, maybe. My throat tightened as I realized what was happening.

He was burning up.

Something inside me broke — that fragile wall I’d built all night. I grabbed my keys and ran down the stairs, ignoring the fact that my hair was a mess, that my heart felt like it was going to burst.

When I opened the gate, he turned slowly, eyes red, lips trembling. And when he saw me, he smiled — faint, broken, relieved.

“Meera…” His voice cracked. “I told you… I don’t know how to stop loving you.”

Then, his knees gave way, and before I could catch him, he collapsed into my arms — heavy, feverish, trembling like a child. His head rested against my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck.

“I won’t be mean anymore,” he whispered weakly, clutching my hand as if I’d vanish. “Please… don’t leave me.”

And just like that, the rain didn’t feel cold anymore.

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