Chapter 41 :

Anvaya's POV

I stood naked, in front of the mirror, staring at myself blankly. No warmth, no empathy, no self respect.

Just guilt. Shame. Regret.

I don't know, how I even gave in.

My eyes trailed down from the hickey on my neck, down the chest to my breasts. My fingers grazed over the skin, that still burnt with his touch on them. My teeth clamped down on my lower lip, regret washing over me again.

Taking down my hands, I trailed my gaze down the abdomen, which had a small fat pad at the bottom. Below my abdomen, was the part I didn't want to look at.

There laid my dignity once.

And now, it was gone.

I let it rub… against his…

An uneven sigh escaped my lips, as tears pooled in my eyes. My eyes stung from the hot droplets, fingers clawed at the palm, feeling shame weighing me down.

I looked up into my eyes again, through the reflection.

A mocking chuckle escaped, "See, so pathetic. So desperate."

"You didn't care about anything, just for your lust. Even though you knew you'd regret. Now suffer, slut," I cursed at myself, sniffing away the tears.

"He was someone else's ending, not my beginning."

"This is the price of touching what was never mine."

I bit harder on my lower lip, drawing out blood. The warm, metallic taste spread on my tongue, making me pull away the torn skin harder. More blood drew out, painting my lower lip in crimson. That sting wasn't anything compared to the guilt, shame and regret I had inside me.

"It's your fault," I cursed again, gritting my teeth, inhaling a sharp breath.

My body trembled in agony and fury, feeling like burning myself to escape this whole mess. I craved for his touch whenever I was near him, with him. I'd give up on my morals because I myself didn't know what he did to me.

But when I'm alone, I feel like dying.

What have I gotten myself into?

"I stained myself just to feel wanted. What a pathetic little fool." I chuckled, despite the ache in my throat.

"She wakes up next to him while I rot in the guilt he left behind." I remembered the way he was so obedient to Viola. No wonder the day happens when she humiliates me like a piece of dust on her silk, and he'd stand by her.

Who am I even?

Did he ever make it clear?

"I let him touch me where his vows should've stopped him. And I moaned like I had the right."

Such a pathetic fool I was. I never knew I could loathe myself like this. The skin burnt in shame, it felt like I wanted to skin myself alive and disappear.

I didn't deserve anything.

I'd committed the sin I hated once.

Her accusations, blames for her shattering marriage, still echoed in my mind. The complexities between me and my supposed-to-be patient wasn't enough, that I pulled Viola in it too.

"God, if you're listening, punish me properly. Because I've only just started bleeding, and it's not enough," I looked up, praying for the almighty to look down at me, past the shame and disgust. Even he might be disgusted at me.

I laughed at my reflection, my breath hitching at the throat, but still, I mocked myself. My laughter was low, deep, laced with mockery and hatred. My voice cracked, as the agony had started to bubble out of me through sobs. My throat was aching, a lot, and it was getting unbearable.

Getting tangled with a married man.

Was I that lonely to seek warmth this pathetically?

My laughs were interrupted by the cracks in them, as tears streamed down my cheeks.

Those tears were of shame, guilt and pain.

They burnt my cheeks.

Picking up the sharp razor on the sink table, I brought it near the wrist, ready to end it all.

I wasn't ready to face more; face tomorrow's sun with guts.

Gulping down the hard lump, I pressed it against the wrist, not knowing if I'd back down or finally draw the line, marking as my ending. It didn't matter who Viola was, but it mattered who I was.

I was never a home wrecker, and now that I committed that sin, I didn't have enough guts to look at myself in the mirror anymore.

But then.

The door burst open.

Hard. Loud. Sudden..

The sound shattered the silence like a scream, and I froze. The razor slipped a little in my grip. My eyes shot to the mirror—and there he was. My eyes widened, heart stilled after a loud beat.

Kaaryaksh.

He stood at the threshold, not moving, not breathing. His eyes didn't flick to mine.

They dropped to my wrist.

To the blade.

To the line I hadn't yet drawn.

I didn't hide.

Not my wrist.

Not my body.

Not even the shame on my face.

My mind was getting messed up between the thoughts —I deserved to die, and, I was naked in front of him.

I couldn't decide what to do, so I just stood there, staring down at the wrist.

Because in that moment, nothing made sense. My skin was bare, my mind was bleeding, and my heart had already given up the right to beat.

And in a swift motion, the razor was thrown in a corner. The metal was gone.

He'd ripped it from my hand and flung it into the corner, the sound of it clattering against tile like a gunshot. Before I could react—before I could speak, breathe, hide—he was on me.

His body slammed into mine, pinning me against the edge of the sink.

The impact jolted a breath out of me. My spine arched, hips trapped, chest crushed against the unforgiving press of him.

Heat.

So much heat from him—and I had nothing to cover myself. Not even shame could shield me now.

And still—he said nothing.

I looked up into his eyes, which looked down at me with… emotions, for the first time. Only fury, coiled in the tightness of his jaw, bleeding from the stillness of his movements.

There was fury.

Why was he angry?

Did Viola say something to him?

His hand clamped down around my wrist, the same one I had lifted the razor with. He squeezed it—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me I had been caught. Not just physically.

Exposed.

And then his other hand grabbed my opposite arm and pinned it behind me —locked there, caging me in completely. My bare body was flushed against his clothed one, and in the cold air of the bathroom, he was the only warmth, and that was the cruelest punishment of all.

My subconsciousness laughed at me, mocking me, at how I was relying on him all over again, after almost killing myself for making the mistake of relying on him.

But every emotion inside me shifted, when his body further pressed against mine.

I couldn't breathe.

My throat tightened.

My chest stuttered against his.

I felt my pulse scatter, and my body —without warning—began to tremble.

Not from cold.

From fear. From the uncertainty of what I might end up doing.

From the way his silence said more than any words ever could.

From the way his eyes weren't gentle, weren't shocked, weren't even disappointed.

They were dark.

Piercing.

Furious.

He wasn't angry that I was broken.

He was angry that I dared to do it quietly.

His grip didn't loosen. If anything, it became more restrained—as though he was holding himself back from something even darker.

I was shaking now.

My knees felt weak, my breath sharp, my mind unraveling thread by thread. I tried to speak, but my voice died somewhere in the wreckage of my pride. My lips parted—useless. My throat closed.

The humiliation of being seen like this —all of me, no performance, no defenses, just bare flesh and a bleeding mind—it scorched me from the inside out.

My body reacted without permission —tightening, folding in on itself, trying to hide, but he wouldn't let me. His hold was too strong, too still.

His eyes scanned my face like I was something he didn't recognize. But he never looked down at my body.

Or maybe he saw it all too clearly.

And then, finally—he spoke.

But not kindly.

"This is what you are now?"

Low. Cold. Measured. His voice was a blade sharper than the one I dropped.

"Crawling to a razor to fix what you thought you ruined?"

His abyssal eyes held no empathy or warmth. That cold storm still swirled in them, binding me to him despite my resistance.

I remained silent. Frozen.

My eyes stung, and I hated that I couldn't even look away from him.

I hated that his words cut more than steel.

"You think you can bleed it out and be forgiven?" he husked, his face close to mine. "You think pain makes you pure?"

"How are you here?" I managed to whisper, my voice trembling. "This isn't your business, Oberoi."

He didn't respond.

There was no tenderness in his tone. No affection.

Just displeasure wrapped in fury.

"Do you even understand what you've done?"

I didn't answer.

What was left to say?

Instead, I smiled. It wasn't real. It wasn't sane. But it was all I had.

"Don't tell me I don't even have the right to kill myself now," I whispered. "I don't even own that?"

He said nothing at first. Just looked at me like I had taken a part of him and crushed it in front of him.

Then, he moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He grabbed my chin, fingers firm, holding me still like I was something fragile and explosive all at once.

"No," he said. "You don't. Not anymore. You gave that right up the moment you became mine."

Mine.

That word struck something low in my stomach. Something hot. Something hollow.

I hated him. I hated how he made me feel.

I hated how he showed his authority on me. I hated everything about him, yet, I was always drawn to him.

I hated how he said it. Like a promise. Like a vow. Like a curse carved into bone.

"You don't get to destroy what's mine," he gritted. "You don't get to run. You don't get to vanish into the void. If you bleed, I'll make you bleed more, so that, I can unalive you in my way."

In his way. It sent shivers down my spine.

"If you try again—"

His breath hit my cheek.

"I will lock your soul inside mine so tight that not even death could take you."

My knees trembled.

I wanted to scream.

To run.

To collapse into him and shatter.

But I just stood there, teeth clenched, breath catching in my throat.

"You think you hate me," he said softer now, "but you don't even know how much of you is already mine."

"You still want me," he whispered, leaning in close, so close I felt the words on my lips.

"Even now. Even after this. After everything. Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong."

My breath caught.

I couldn't. I couldn't lie.

I couldn't say no—not when my body betrayed me by clinging to his heat, by trembling beneath his hold like something desperate to be either punished or forgiven.

Or both.

"I hate you," I breathed, tears rising again, uninvited.

"Good," he said. "Then we're even."

I looked up, into his eyes, through the tears in my eyes. I didn't know what he wanted. I didn't know what he was doing to me.

One moment he'd be obsessed with me, the next moment he'd show his hatred. But it hadn't happened before. He never showed his hatred.

I frowned.

"Why do you hate me? Why are you claiming me if you hate me?" I whispered.

He left one wrist—just one—but the other stayed pinned behind me.

My freed hand shook violently, unsure whether to cover myself or strike him.

I did neither.

I just stood there, shattered. Drenched in silence.

And then he leaned in closer, his voice a whisper of venom in my ear,

"Trust me, you wouldn't like the answer." His tone held coldness. "Next time you want to cut yourself open like that again... do it where I can't fucking see it."

My heart shattered.

What was he even saying?

This man was making me go insane.

"But remember, the moment you bleed a drop, I'll make you bleed dry. And then, I'll fill you in the way that even you won't recognise yourself afterwards," he husked against my lips.

And his lips crashed down on mine before I could answer.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was desperate. As if he was trying to breathe life back into me with his mouth, trying to pour all the reasons I shouldn’t disappear into my body one kiss at a time.

His hands slid around my waist, pulling me flush against him, until I could no longer tell where his skin ended and mine began. Until the pain disappeared, until I forgot what I'd been trying to escape.

He kissed me like I was breaking— and he refused to let me fall.

My mind screamed, but my body betrayed me, melting into his fury, into the obsession that wrapped around my throat like silk and steel.

His mouth moved to my neck, biting, claiming, consuming.

I whimpered—I hated how it sounded. Like I needed him. Like I wanted him to take away the ache.

"Say it," he gritted against my skin.

"Say you’re mine."

I shook my head, lips trembling. "I hate you. Hate you for ruining me every fucking day." He confused me. I was lost.

He bit harder, then kissed it away. Slow. Deliberate.

"Liar."

His fingers slipped up my skin—not hurried, but with a terrifying kind of patience, like he had all the time in the world to break me. And maybe he did. Maybe I’d given that to him too.

"Every time you run," he whispered, "I'll follow. Every time you try to disappear, I'll find you. Because you're not allowed to leave me."

His hand slid lower, and my breath hitched. My walls crumbled.

"You belong to me. Even when you want to die. Especially then."

The storm he'd unfurled within me, would bring my end one day. And I feared that— I'd let that storm destroy me, if that kept him beside me.

Nothing happening between us was pure. His behaviour, noxious, my infatuation, noxious. Nothing was left that would keep me sane. Nothing between us hadn't crossed the line of forbidden.

I didn't want to feel.

But he made me.

Over and over again.

Until pain turned to pleasure.

Until the void inside me was drowned in him.

Until I forgot I ever wanted to leave at all.

Detaching our lips, I looked at the string of saliva that connected the forbidden infatuation between us. I don't even know if it was infatuation anymore.

"Why are you punishing me like this?" I muttered lowly. "What do you want from me?"

Holding my chin, he made me look into his eyes.

"Because I hate you. I hate what you make me feel. I hate that I'm obsessed with you and that… I'll never let you go." He replied.

"I want you shattered. Ruined. Mine."