5

The next morning, Mira left the mansion before sunrise.

She did not tell security.

She did not leave a note.

And she did not care what Aarav Malhotra thought.

The bookstore owner had asked her to arrive early to help arrange a new shipment of books. It was the first thing she had done entirely on her own since her father’s death, and she refused to let Aarav take that away from her.

For four peaceful hours, she forgot about the mansion.

She forgot about the debt.

She forgot about the cold eyes of the man who seemed determined to control every part of her life.

When she returned in the afternoon, the mansion gates were already open.

Two guards were waiting.

“Miss Sharma,” one of them said, “Mr. Malhotra is waiting for you.”

“I’m sure he is.”

She walked inside.

Aarav was standing in the main hall, still dressed in the same black shirt he had worn the night before. He looked as if he had not slept.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“At work.”

“I told you not to go.”

“I remember.”

“Why did you leave without informing security?”

“Because I didn’t want security.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not my father.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Aarav’s expression darkened.

“Don’t compare me to him.”

“Then stop acting like you own me.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“I didn’t ask for that!”

His patience finally snapped.

“Enough!”

The sound echoed through the hall.

Mira flinched.

He noticed it immediately.

But instead of apologizing, he took a step closer.

“You will follow the rules of this house.”

“No.”

“You will.”

“No.”

Before she could move, he grabbed her wrist.

His grip was firm.

Too firm.

“You’re hurting me,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Then stop fighting me.”

“I hate you.”

His grip tightened for a second.

Then he let go.

A red mark remained on her wrist.

Mira looked at it, then looked at him with tears of anger in her eyes.

“You’re exactly what people say you are.”

She turned and ran upstairs.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Downstairs, the entire mansion had fallen silent.

Kabir entered the hallway slowly.

“You crossed the line.”

Aarav stared at the staircase.

“I know.”

“Then apologize.”

“I don’t apologize.”

“That girl has lost her father, her home, and her future. You don’t need to become another person who breaks her.”

Aarav said nothing.

Hours passed.

Mira stayed inside her room, sitting near the window with her knees pulled to her chest.

The red mark on her wrist had begun to darken into a bruise.

Her mother noticed it immediately.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mira.”

She looked away.

“We argued.”

“Did he do this?”

Mira stayed silent.

Her mother held her hand gently.

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“I know.”

“I’ll find a way.”

That evening, Savitri brought dinner upstairs.

“You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Savitri noticed the bruise.

Her eyes softened with sadness.

“He has never learned how to speak when he is angry.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“No,” Savitri admitted quietly. “It isn’t.”

After Savitri left, Mira walked to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.

She looked exhausted.

Older than nineteen.

She whispered to her reflection, “I will leave this place.”

Downstairs, Aarav entered the library.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey but did not drink it.

His eyes kept returning to the memory of her wrist in his hand.

The fear in her eyes.

The way she had looked at him as if he were someone capable of destroying her.

He hated that look.

Not because it was unfair.

Because it was true.

Kabir entered without knocking.

“She hasn’t eaten.”

Aarav remained silent.

“You should go to her.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“She definitely doesn’t.”

He gave Aarav a pointed look.

“But sometimes the person who caused the wound has to be the one who acknowledges it.”

Aarav looked toward the staircase.

For the first time in years, guilt felt heavier than anger.

Near midnight, Mira heard a soft knock on her door.

She ignored it.

Another knock.

“What?” she asked coldly.

The door opened slightly.

Aarav stood outside.

He did not enter.

“I came to check if you had eaten.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t.”

“I’ll send food.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He looked at the bruise on her wrist.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She laughed bitterly.

“But you did.”

He had no answer.

After a long silence, he said quietly, “It won’t happen again.”

Mira looked at him.

For the first time, the man standing outside her door did not look like the feared mafia leader everyone talked about.

He looked tired.

Regretful.

Almost human.

She still hated him.

But something inside her shifted—not forgiveness, not understanding, only the realization that even monsters could carry guilt.

Aarav closed the door gently and walked away.

Neither of them knew that the small bruise on her wrist would become the first scar in a story that was only beginning.

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