Dhruv's hands gripped the steering wheel as he drove, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. But amidst it all, there was one constant—her face. Shruti's smile flickered behind his eyelids, her laughter, once so familiar, now just an echo in his mind. He could feel the weight of it, that hollow emptiness in his chest. He tightened his grip on the wheel, trying to push the memory away, but it was futile.
It was always there. Her face. Her smile.
The past would never leave him.
Dhruv's grip on the steering wheel tightened as flickers of that night drifted through the fog of his mind. He couldn't piece it all together no matter how hard he tried, everything was hazy, like the memory was wrapped in smoke.
It was meant to be a break.
A rare escape from the chaos of the world they lived in. Dhruv and Shruti had driven to a quiet hill station for a few days—no phones, no guards, no obligations. Just peace.
She had been excited the whole ride, filling the car with her laughter, her soft humming. But the moment they checked in, he noticed the fatigue in her eyes. She brushed it off with a smile.
"Go have dinner," she'd said, tugging at his hand. "I'll sleep early. I'm tired." She excused herself from dinner with a light kiss to his cheek and a promise to meet him the next morning.
He didn't insist. He had smiled back, but now, that smile felt like a lifetime ago.
Shruti had taken her key and disappeared into her room, just two doors away from his. He watched her go, the soft sway of her ponytail, the yawn she didn't bother to hide.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
Without her across the table, pushing her food around and stealing bites from his plate, he barely tasted anything. He ate out of necessity, his mind already drifting back to her.
He remembered finishing the meal and asking for a glass of water. Cold. Clean. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Or so he thought.
His skin was on fire.
Every breath burned, every heartbeat pounded in his ears. Something wasn't right. Dhruv staggered against the table, fingers trembling as they clawed at the collar of his shirt. The air felt too thick. His pulse, too fast.
Then it hit him—his body wasn't reacting normally.
It was reacting to Shruti's absence.
He hadn't seen her since dinner she had stayed back, tired, in her own room. And now, as he stood alone in his, the ache inside him was relentless.
He closed his eyes.
He could feel her fingers graze his wrist.
Her voice, soft and teasing—"What's gotten into you today?"
His chest tightened.
God, he needed her.
Not just her body—her presence. Her voice. Her calm.
The dizziness came slowly. A heat rising under his skin. His vision swaying not enough to alarm him, just enough to confuse him. His body… tensed, pulsed. And in the center of it all was a name—
Shruti.
His instincts flared.
He'd been drugged.
And his body wasn't shutting down—it was reacting. Intensely. Every nerve felt exposed. His skin tingled with phantom sensations. His throat dried. His muscles tightened.
His body wasn't just burning—it was craving.
Her.
Only her.
Dhruv stumbled back into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The cold air of the room did nothing to settle the fire under his skin. His shirt clung to him, damp at the collar. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. But instead of clarity, a haze thickened. His skin was sensitive, burning like every breath was being dragged across raw nerves.
He clenched his jaw.
"No," he growled to himself. "Not now. Not her. Not like this."
He paced the room, trying to breathe, trying to fight the chemical fog clouding his mind. Every part of his body screamed for her—her voice, her scent, her skin against his. Just a touch. A whisper. A moment.
But he knew the line. And he had sworn never to cross it.
Not before marriage. Not with her.
His vision swirled. He tried to focus on the wall, the lamp, anything. He had to leave—leave before the storm inside him dragged him to her door.
He pressed his palms to the cool glass of the window, breathing in sharply through clenched teeth. But even the night air, crisp and still, couldn't ease the heat writhing under his skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, and the fabric of his shirt felt like fire against his skin—tight, suffocating, unbearable.
His mind screamed for control.
But his body… his body was betraying him.
He gritted his teeth, fists trembling at his sides. Every second that passed was a war. A battle between everything he stood for and the chemicals coursing through his blood, tearing down every wall he had so carefully built. His morals. His promise. His love. They were slipping through his fingers, smothered beneath waves of helpless craving.
He collapsed into the armchair, raking both hands through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. He wanted to scream. To claw his way out of his own skin. But all he could do was sit there—burning.
Images of Shruti flashed before him, not as memories, but as sensations.
Her lips brushing his knuckles. Her giggle against his chest. The way she looked up at him like he was the only man in the world.
He dug his nails into the armrest, grounding himself. He couldn't let the drug win. He couldn't let this moment taint her. Taint them.
"Damn it," he muttered, breath ragged, eyes clenched shut.
A knock would've destroyed him. A word from her, and he wouldn't have trusted himself. But she wasn't here. She was just two doors down, resting peacefully. Unaware of the chaos building inside him.
He had to stay away.
But his body didn't want distance. It wanted her—her warmth, her scent, her heartbeat under his fingers. Not lust. Not conquest.
Her.
Tears welled up behind his eyes—furious, frustrated tears. Because no matter how hard he tried to sit still, to breathe through the fire, her name pulsed in his veins louder than the blood in his ears.
Shruti.
He stood up, dizzy. Stumbled. Fell against the wall. Just as Dhruv tried to steady his breath, the door creaked open on its own.
He hadn't locked it.
He cursed under his breath, stumbling to his feet as a shadow slipped through the narrow gap.
The woman stepped in uninvited—confident, unbothered, her robe falling off one shoulder as if it were intentional. Her gaze swept over him like he was something already claimed.
"You looked like you could use… company," she whispered, voice thick with artificial sweetness.
Dhruv's body tensed. His vision blurred.
"Get out," he growled, but even to his own ears, his voice lacked its usual force.
She smiled like she knew that. Like she'd been waiting for this exact weakness.
She stepped closer.
Too close.
The scent of her perfume hit him like poison—sickly sweet and cloying. She reached for his chest, her hand brushing over his buttons, lingering too long.
His skin recoiled. But the heat inside him betrayed his will.
He staggered back, bumping into the edge of the bed, and she followed without hesitation.
Her hand slid up his chest, fingers grazing the edge of his shirt collar with deliberate slowness. Dhruv flinched.
Not from pain.
From disgust.
His skin crawled beneath her touch. Soft fingers brushed against his arm.
A whisper of silk dragged across his skin.
And Dhruv froze.
It should have felt tempting. Inviting. His body, drugged and on fire, reacted. But his soul… rejected it instantly.
He didn't know who she was—just that she wasn't Shruti.
The girl's hand slid up to his shoulder, her nails grazing him deliberately. She pressed closer, the scent of her perfume now suffocating in the air-conditioned room.
"You're burning up," she murmured into his ear, her breath warm, sticky. "Don't worry... I can help with that."
A shiver ran down Dhruv's spine—not of anticipation, but repulsion.
His muscles tensed. His skin itched where she touched. He wanted to scrub it off, tear it away. But the drug flooding his system twisted everything. His body betrayed him, responding in heat and confusion even as his mind screamed No. Not her. Never her.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
This wasn't how he ever wanted to feel. But the more he tried to resist, the more his body blurred the line between instinct and will. The drug heightened everything—her fingers felt like fire, and the wrongness of it seared into him.
When she leaned in, lips brushing the side of his neck, something inside him cracked.
He flinched hard, staggering back a step, but she followed—like a shadow he couldn't shake.
"You're tense," she purred. "Let me—"
"No," he growled, voice thick, disoriented. "Don't touch me."
But his protest was too weak. Too drowned in fog.
She reached for his chest, fingers slipping under the edge of his shirt.
And Dhruv snapped.
Not in anger—but in self-loathing.
He didn't want this. He didn't want her. But his body… it didn't understand. It was still reacting, still pulsing, still longing—but not for the one standing in front of him.
For someone else.
For her.
Shruti.
That's when the disgust turned into panic.
Because the shame clawing inside him wasn't going away.
He needed her to make it stop.
He needed to feel her, not to satisfy the fire, but to erase the filth that had just touched him. He needed her arms. Her scent. Her voice.
The moment the other girl tried to unbutton his shirt again, he shoved her away—hard.
She stumbled back, startled. But she didn't stop.
Even after he shoved her, even after he turned away and warned her again.
She laughed softly behind him, sultry and smug. "Still pretending you've got control, Dhruv? Come on… just let go. I can feel what you want."
Her voice slithered through the fog, wrapping around his senses like poison. He wanted to scream—but the drug buried the sound. His body was a battlefield, craving one thing and assaulted by another. He could still feel her hands—wrong hands—on his chest.
He clenched his jaw, his fists, his eyes. Shruti. He needed Shruti. Only her. Only her touch ever made sense. This? This was defilement.
When the girl reached for him again, sliding her arm around his waist from behind, trying to press herself against him, something inside him snapped.
He turned, fury and revulsion flashing in his eyes.
She didn't even flinch.
Big mistake.
The gun was in his hand before he even realized he'd reached for it. A deafening bang filled the room as he fired into her arm—non-lethal, but enough to drop her to the floor, screaming, blood soaking through the silk of her dress.
She cried out in pain, and Dhruv's chest heaved, his body shaking—not just from the drug, but from what she'd tried to do. What she almost succeeded in doing.
"You made me feel dirty," he snarled under his breath. "Don't ever touch me again."
His own voice sounded distant. Hollow. But he didn't care.
He staggered to the door, opened it with trembling hands, and stumbled into the hallway like a man escaping a fire.
He couldn't breathe.
He could still feel her on him. Her scent clung to his skin like oil. The shame—hot, sticky, unbearable—burned in his throat.
With shaking fingers, he dialed his men.
"Clear the room. Get the footage. No traces. No witnesses. Handle the girl. Quietly."
He didn't wait for a reply.
The call ended.
And then—he turned down the corridor. He didn't know where his feet were taking him.
He didn't think—couldn't think.
The hallway twisted, not from distance, but from the fog in his head. The drug was still alive in him, eating away whatever restraint he had left. Logic dissolved. Control burned.
Shruti.
He needed her touch to replace the filth crawling on his skin. Needed her scent to drown the bitter perfume that choked him. Needed her closeness to silence the echo of another woman's voice—the voice that shouldn't have reached him, shouldn't have touched him.
His body felt alien—untrustworthy. But one thing it knew without doubt was where she was.
Her door.
His hand hovered just above it, trembling. His breath came in quick, ragged bursts. The cold brass handle blurred before his eyes, and still, his fingers wouldn't move.
Not yet.
Because once he touched it, there would be no turning back.
But then her name spilled from his lips, barely a whisper, desperate—"Shruti…"
The door opened.
Warm light spilled into the hallway—and then she was there.
Shruti.
Barefoot. Hair loose and damp from a shower, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. Her oversized t-shirt hung just past her thighs, sleeves slipping down her arms. The collar slouched slightly, exposing the gentle dip of her shoulder.
Dhruv's breath hitched. The fire inside him surged.
She blinked at him, sleep still clouding her lashes—then worry cut through. "Dhruv?" Her voice was a whisper of alarm.
He swayed.
She reached out instantly, her hands grasping his arms, steadying him. "Hey—what happened? Dhruv, you're burning up…"
Her touch.
It was too much.
His skin lit up where her fingers pressed—hot, electric, real. Her voice vibrated through his veins. Her scent wrapped around him, soft and familiar, yet overwhelming.
He couldn't think.
All he knew was her—the only anchor in a night that had drowned his mind in filth and fire.
"Shruti…" he rasped, but it wasn't a plea. It was a breaking point.
His restraint shattered.
He pulled her close—desperate, trembling— his hand sliding around the back of her neck and before her gasp even left her lips, his mouth was on hers.
Hard.
Hungry.
Shruti gasped.
The shock hit her like cold water. Her body stiffened, lips parted in surprise as her back thudded softly against the wall. Her hands instinctively rose, pressing against his chest, trembling—trying to push him, trying to understand. This was Dhruv. But not the Dhruv she knew. He was on fire. Desperate. Unrelenting.
His kiss wasn't hesitant—it was hungry. Demanding. She couldn't even catch her breath.
Shruti's eyes flew wide, Her lips, untouched by any kiss before, stung with the unfamiliar force of it—bruising, burning, but electrifying.. The kiss wasn't gentle—it devoured. His hold was unyielding, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist like she was the only thing anchoring him.
She tried to breathe—but his mouth was everywhere.
The foreign sensation of his lips—hot, trembling, a little rough—made her nerves light up like sparks under her skin. Her fingers reached up to push him, but they trembled uselessly against his chest.
She couldn't move.
His grip was too tight.
Her knees nearly buckled from the intensity, her heart crashing against her ribs, lips throbbing under the onslaught. Her body… her body didn't know what to do. Heat swirled in her stomach, panic and something deeper twisting through her all at once.
Her breath hitched. Her head swam. Her first kiss—and it didn't taste like butterflies and shy glances.
It tasted like desperation.
Like longing.
Like a man who had lost every shred of control. His mouth moved against hers with desperation—lips parting, teeth scraping, tongue brushing like he needed to memorize her, claim her, cleanse himself of what had just happened moments ago.
Her breath caught when his mouth finally tore away from her lips, but it wasn't to stop. It was to move—lower.
Dhruv's lips found her neck.
Hot. Heavy. Unrelenting.
She gasped, her hands now clutching his shirt, her balance already hanging by a thread. He wasn't gentle. There was nothing slow or sweet in the way his mouth trailed down her jawline to the delicate curve of her neck. His breath was erratic, warm against her skin, as though even the air between them was burning.
"Dhruv—" her voice was a broken whisper, half-protest, half-plea, but the moment his lips found the hollow of her throat, her knees faltered.
And then came the bite.
Not sharp enough to hurt, but firm enough to brand.
A whimper escaped her lips as the sensation pulsed straight through her—foreign, dizzying, electric. Her fingers, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, uncertain whether to ground herself or pull him closer.
He wasn't thinking—he couldn't.
His teeth grazed her skin again, his tongue following the trail, his grip at her waist unrelenting. He needed to drown in her, anchor himself in her, wash away every sickening memory the other woman had etched onto his skin. And Shruti—she was warmth. She was his sanity.
And now, she was trembling beneath his lips.
Her body betrayed her mind. With each press of his mouth, each hot exhale against her collarbone, the tension in her melted—not completely, not yet, but enough to make her limbs slow their protest.
The heat curled in her stomach, spread through her chest. She had never been touched like this—never been claimed so completely by sensation alone.
Her breaths turned into soft gasps, then into shallow moans, lost against his hair as he left another mark just beneath her ear.
The first kiss had startled her, stolen her breath.
This—
This was unmaking her.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her body pressed against the wall, his weight anchoring her there, her mind swirling in heat and haze. Every new kiss, every suck of his mouth, left her skin aching in ways she'd never known. And somewhere inside her—deep beneath the fog—she knew this wasn't how it was meant to happen.
His mouth was everywhere.
Trailing lower—just under her collarbone, across the dip of her shoulder. His breath was feverish, each kiss more desperate than the last, as though trying to erase the stain of another woman's touch from his body by branding himself with hers.
His hand gripped her waist tightly, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her oversized t-shirt—hot, trembling, unsteady. He didn't stop there. Slowly, his hand began to move upward, dragging fire in its path over her bare skin.
Higher.
Too high.
Shruti's back arched slightly against the wall, her body responding instinctively to the searing heat of his touch. For a moment, she was lost again—dizzy, dazed, unable to tell where she ended and he began.
But then…
His fingers brushed dangerously close to where no one had ever dared.
Her breath hitched. Her lashes fluttered open.
And everything snapped.
The fog that had wrapped around her senses—seductive, warm, blinding—was suddenly laced with alarm. The overwhelming ache twisting in her belly gave way to a sharp pang of clarity.
"Dhruv," she gasped, her voice shaky—barely a whisper, but it trembled with urgency. "Stop…"
He didn't hear her.
His mouth was moving again, lips brushing just above her chest, hand still rising—blind, drugged, lost in her.
Her hands flew to his chest, pressing hard this time. "Dhruv, stop—please!"
It wasn't just the words.
It was the tremor in her voice. The sudden fear underneath the fire. The break in her breath.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
This wasn't him. Not the way she knew him. His touch was desperate, urgent, but not cruel. And yet, the way his hand moved now—exploring, grasping—he wasn't hearing her. He wasn't seeing her. His body was acting on a pull that wasn't grounded in the man she loved.
Her voice broke with a plea, but he didn't pause. He couldn't. His mouth was on her neck again, leaving bruising kisses, his breath hot and ragged as he pushed her tighter into the wall, his frame pressing her down, trapping her.
She was caught—torn between the man she knew and the storm that now consumed him.
Her heart ached.
And her eyes filled.
Because for the first time, she felt afraid.
---
The next morning, the shrill buzz of his phone shattered the silence.
Dhruv stirred, the sound digging into his skull like nails. His body felt heavy, too heavy—like gravity had doubled overnight. Every inch of him throbbed with a dull, unfamiliar ache. His limbs refused to move properly. His mouth was dry, breath shallow.
"Dhruv," came Rajveer's voice, sharp and urgent through the speaker, "your brother's gone. Vanished mid-mission. I need you. Now."
Dhruv blinked against the blinding light filtering through the curtains. His head spun. "Wha—what?"
"I've already sent the vehicle. You've got ten minutes. Get ready."
The line went dead.
He slowly pushed himself up, wincing. A jolt of pain shot through his muscles. His breath hitched—something felt off. His body… it felt used. Spent.
Then he looked around.
It wasn't his room.
The familiar softness of her bedsheets brushed against his bare skin.
His eyes widened.
He was in Shruti's room.
On her bed.
And he was naked.
His heart stopped.
Clothes were scattered across the floor—his and hers. A chill swept over his spine. "Shruti?" he called, voice cracked and raw, barely rising above a whisper.
No response.
He dragged the blanket off his legs, stumbling to the edge of the bed, panic rising. Every movement reminded him—his body knew. The soreness in his muscles. The heat that still lingered under his skin.
The memories were fractured—like broken glass.
The shot.
The girl.
Shruti's door opening.
Her voice.
His mouth on hers.
Her pushing him.
And him— not stopping.
Dhruv's stomach turned. He staggered to the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.
He couldn't breathe.
What had he done?
He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling, and found one thing waiting for him—a note, folded neatly on the nightstand.
"I've gone back."
No explanations. No accusations.
Just those words.
And it was enough to shatter him.
He didn't have time to find her, to make sense of anything. The car engine revved outside. The driver was already waiting.
Fingers numb, he typed out a message.
"I'm going away for two months. I won't have any connection. It's family. But I'll come back. To you. I promise."
He hit send.
Then he dressed, mind spinning, heart aching.
And walked out.
Not knowing that this goodbye would stretch across years.