The transition from Aryan's world back to her own felt like a cruel plunge into ice water. Neelanjana sat in the backseat of the luxury sedan, her fingers tracing the faint bruise on her collarbone—a silent testimony to the night that had just shattered her reality.
As the car pulled up to her modest apartment, she felt like a stranger in her own life. Everything was the same—the peeling paint on the door, the scent of jasmine from her neighbor's balcony—but she was different. She was no longer just Neela, the quiet librarian. She was the woman who had survived, and thrived, in Aryan Malhotra's bed.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"The dress for tonight is already in your room. Wear it. Don't make me wait."
Neela's heart skipped a beat. How did he get into her apartment? The realization that Aryan's reach extended into her most private sanctuary sent a shiver of fear—and a spark of excitement—down her spine.
Inside her room, a box lay on the bed. Inside was a silk dress the color of midnight blue, daringly backless and smelling faintly of his signature sandalwood. Beside it was a note in his bold, masculine handwriting:
"You look breathtaking in blue. But you look better in nothing. See you at eight."
Just as she was about to put the note away, her doorbell rang. It was her brother, Rohan. He looked worried, his eyes scanning her face suspiciously.
"Neela, where were you last night? I called you a dozen times," Rohan demanded, stepping inside. His eyes fell on the expensive box on the bed. "And what is that? That's not something you can afford."
Neela scrambled for a lie, her mind racing. "It's... it's for a work event, Rohan. A gift from a client."
"A client? Neela, stay away from people like Aryan Malhotra. I've heard rumors. He doesn't just buy people; he breaks them."
Rohan's warning echoed in her ears long after he left. He breaks them. As the sun began to set, Neela stood before the mirror, the blue silk clinging to her curves like a second skin. She looked like a masterpiece, but she felt like a lamb walking into a lion's den. She knew Rohan was right, but as she stepped into the waiting car at 8:00 PM, she realized she didn't want to be saved.
The car didn't take her to a party. It took her to a secluded gallery, closed to the public. The lights were dim, highlighting a single painting at the end of the hall.
Aryan was standing there, his back to her. He didn't turn around, but he knew she was there.
"Do you know why I brought you here, Neela?" his voice resonated through the empty hall.
"No," she whispered, stepping closer.
He turned then, his eyes darker than the dress she was wearing. He walked toward her, his presence overwhelming the space between them. He stopped inches away, his hand coming up to rest on the bare skin of her back.
"Because this painting is of a woman who thought she was free," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her spine. "Until she realized that the only cage she ever wanted was my arms."
He pulled her closer, his lips grazing her ear. "Rohan came to see you today, didn't he?"
Neela froze. "How did you..."
"I told you, Neela," he whispered, his hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her flush against him. "There are no secrets between us. Especially not when you're wearing my mark."
He suddenly turned her around, forcing her to look at the painting. It wasn't a woman. It was a bird, its wings clipped, resting in a golden cage. But the bird wasn't struggling. It was singing.
"Tonight," Aryan growled, his hand tightening on her waist, "I'm going to show you why the bird sings."