Aarohi didn't believe in clichés.
Until tonight.
Until the night she found herself in a dimly lit hotel bar with a glass of whiskey burning its way down her throat, and a heart cracked so wide she wondered how she was still breathing.
The message from Mia was still open on her phone.
Mia: Aarohi… I saw Karan. He's at The Ravelle. He's not alone. I'm so sorry.
A blurry photo followed. Karan, her boyfriend of three years, pressed up against another woman in a hotel hallway — his lips on her neck, his hands possessive, careless. The timestamp said it happened less than an hour ago.
Aarohi had read the message ten times before the grief caught up to her.
And now here she was.
In the very same hotel.
The Ravelle was the city's most expensive, most scandalous place. A den for the wealthy and wicked. Aarohi had never set foot inside it before tonight. But some broken part of her needed to see it for herself — the place her so-called forever love had chosen to ruin everything.
And when she stepped inside, shattered and numb, she headed for the bar.
She slid onto a stool at the bar, ordered something sharp and burning, and tried not to look like she was falling apart. Her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles betrayed her anyway — smeared mascara, too-wide eyes, trembling fingers clutching a glass of whiskey.
Aarohi was the kind of woman people noticed twice. Her skin was porcelain-pale, the kind of flawless, milky white that looked like it would bruise from a whisper. Under the soft, warm lighting of the hotel bar, it almost seemed to glow — smooth, untouched, and delicate.
She had a slender, graceful frame — around 5'5" tall, with narrow shoulders and a subtle, feminine curve to her hips. Not overly voluptuous, but with enough natural softness to her waist and thighs that hinted at innocence rather than seduction.
Her hair was a deep, glossy brunette, falling in loose waves down her back, framing a heart-shaped face with high, delicate cheekbones. Wide, doe-like eyes — a rich hazel flecked with amber — that seemed too innocent for the cruel world around her. Long, dark lashes framed them, giving her a fragile, almost breakable look.
Aarohi's lips were naturally full, a soft blush pink, and seemed made for trembling confessions or bitten-back sighs. There was an air of untouched purity about her, made only more obvious by the soft, almost shy way she carried herself.
Her legs were slender and smooth, leading to small, dainty feet often wrapped in simple, elegant heels. There was barely any hair between her legs — she always kept herself neatly bare, though no one had ever touched her there. Until tonight.
She looked like a girl who belonged to poetry, not to sin. A fragile thing made of glass, about to shatter.
The bartender didn't ask questions. Just poured. The burn of the drink was sharp, but it wasn't enough to dull the ache inside her.
Nothing would be.
Aarohi's mind replayed every moment — the years she waited, the nights she told Karan she wasn't ready, believing he'd understand. He said he did. Swore she was worth waiting for.
But he'd lied.
He didn't love her. Not enough.
Because in the end, it wasn't about her heart. It was about her body — the one thing she wouldn't give him. And tonight, he'd taken it from someone else.
"You don't look like you belong here."
The voice was deep,
Aarohi blinked up, her gaze locking onto the stranger who slid onto the barstool beside her, expecting another drunk loser looking to score, but what she found was… dangerous.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of lean, predatory build that spoke of violence more than vanity. His sharp jawline was shadowed with dark stubble, hair ink-black and slightly tousled like he'd run his fingers through it out of irritation. Everything about him was made for danger, from the tailored black shirt clinging to his chest to the way he lounged with a kind of lazy, caged-animal grace.
But it was his eyes that truly held her.
Almost black. So dark they seemed to swallow the dim light around them, as though every terrible thing in the world had poured itself into those irises and found a home. Not brown. Not even dark brown. But a fathomless, unholy shade of near-black, unreadable and bottomless.
Aarohi felt something strange twist in her stomach when their gazes met. It wasn't safety. It wasn't even warmth. It was the electric jolt of stepping too close to the edge of a rooftop and knowing, for the briefest second, that you might jump.
He didn't smile. Didn't offer some practiced line like the other men had that evening. He simply watched her — head tilted, those obsidian eyes dragging over her like a wolf sizing up an injured fawn.
And she hated herself for it, but some traitorous, broken part of her liked the way it felt.
Aarohi clutched her drink tighter, her fingers pale against the glass. She wasn't sure if she was terrified or intrigued. But either way… she couldn't look away.
"I could say the same about you," Aarohi murmured.
A faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "I own my vices. You look like you're running from yours."
Aarohi snorted a bitter laugh. "What makes you think I have any?"
"Everyone does." He glanced at her glass. "Especially when they drink alone looking broken in places like this."
Aarohi let her head drop back, eyes to the ceiling. "You're not wrong."
"Name?" he asked.
"Ruhi" she lied.
"Vish."
Of course it was.
He looked like a man who broke hearts for fun.
Aarohi offered a humorless smile. "Well, Vish, congratulations. You've officially found the saddest girl in the room."
His gaze sharpened. "Heartbreak?"
She didn't know why she told him.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the storm outside. Or maybe because for the first time in hours, someone was looking at her like she wasn't invisible.
"My boyfriend," she said, voice thin. "Three years. My best friend just caught him here, in this hotel, with someone else."
Vish's expression darkened. "Fool."
Aarohi swallowed the lump in her throat. "I thought I meant something to him. But I guess… I wasn't enough."
"Why would you think that?"
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Because I wouldn't give him what he wanted."
Vish's brow arched. "Which was?"
She hesitated, then met his gaze. "Me. All of me. I was saving it. Stupid, right?"
The corners of his mouth twitched. "No."
"I thought it would mean something. That it made me worth waiting for. Turns out, it just made me replaceable."
Vish was quiet for a moment, then leaned in, his voice low and rough. "Maybe it made you dangerous."
Aarohi frowned. "Dangerous?"
He nodded. "A woman who holds onto something sacred in a world this dirty? That scares men like him. Makes them realize they'll never own you the way they want."
Aarohi stared at him, her pulse unsteady.
"You're not weak," Vish murmured. "He was. And he traded diamonds for broken glass."
The words shouldn't have mattered coming from a stranger, but something in his voice — dark, edged, undeniable — settled deep in her bones.
"Want my advice?" Vish asked, swirling his drink.
Aarohi forced a small smile. "I doubt it involves therapy."
He chuckled, low and dangerous. "No. It involves tonight. Right here. Right now. Proving to yourself that what he threw away was something he'll never get back."
Aarohi's stomach twisted. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Vish said, leaning closer, his voice a sinful whisper, "that sometimes the only way to bury the past is to replace it with something darker. Something reckless."
Aarohi knew what he meant.
She felt it in the air between them — thick, electric.
"I'm not that kind of girl," she whispered.
Vish's smile was slow, predatory. "You could be. For one night."
Aarohi's heart thudded.
"This isn't you," a voice in her head warned.
But another one, louder, more broken, asked why the hell not? Why should Karan get to do whatever he wanted while she spent another night crying into a pillow, asking what she did wrong?
Maybe she needed to do something wrong.
She stared at Vish.
"I've never… before."
His expression shifted, something darkly tender beneath the hunger. "Good."
Aarohi swallowed hard. "I don't want it to be his anymore."
Vish's gaze never left hers. "Then don't let it."
His hand brushed hers — a silent offer.
Aarohi hesitated, then wrapped her fingers around his.
And in that moment, she stopped being the good girl.
The one who waited.
The one who believed in forever.
And became someone reckless.
Someone free.
He led her through the hotel's velvet corridors, into a private elevator.
Somewhere in her mind, she knew that this is a horrible mistake.
But Aarohi had made many more in innocence.
The elevator ride was silent.
Not because there was nothing to say — but because the air between them had thickened, a storm of heat and grief and reckless impulse that neither was willing to shatter with words.
Aarohi's heart pounded against her ribs, the buzz of whiskey mingling with the ache in her chest. She should've been afraid. Or ashamed. Or something.
But all she felt was alive.
The doors slid open to reveal the penthouse — floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the city skyline a tapestry of blinking lights against a midnight sky. Rain streaked the windows, the sound a soft hush over the pulse in her ears.
Vish's gaze never left her.
"You sure about this?" His voice was low, rough velvet.
Aarohi swallowed hard. "I don't want to think tonight."
A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face. Approval. Hunger. Darkness.
"Good," he murmured.
He moved toward her with a predatory grace, like a panther closing in on prey. Aarohi's breath hitched as his fingers brushed her jaw, tipping her face up.
Then his mouth was on hers — claiming, punishing.
The kiss was nothing like Karan's had ever been. There was no hesitation, no asking. Just teeth and heat and desperation. Vish kissed her like a man who wanted to ruin her.
And God, did she want to be ruined.
His hands found her waist, yanking her against him. She gasped at the hard press of him, a heat blooming low in her stomach. The ache between her thighs sharpened.
Her fingers clutched his shirt, pulling him closer as he backed her toward the massive bed draped in black silk. The room smelled of spice and rain, of danger and desire.
Aarohi's mind spun.
Every nerve ending screamed. Every thought of Karan bled away under Vish's touch.
He pushed her down onto the bed, looming over her, his eyes dark with intent.
"Take it off," he ordered, his voice a sinful growl.
Aarohi hesitated for a heartbeat — then pulled her top over her head. The cool air kissed her bare skin. She felt exposed. Seen. Wanted.
Vish's gaze raked over her, lingering on every inch like a man savoring his favorite sin.
"You're beautiful," he said, and the words didn't sound like a compliment.
They sounded like a threat.
Then his hands were on her again, rough and unyielding. His mouth traced a path down her neck, nipping, tasting, claiming. Aarohi arched into him, a moan slipping free as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her jeans, dragging them down.
She felt the warmth of his touch against her bare skin.
Felt herself ache.
Her eyes widened as she felt something hot and hard pressing against her leg, moving and staining her white skin all the way up to her thigh. The contact made her body tingle in ways she'd never known.
Vish's lips curved against her throat. "Sensitive, aren't you?"
Aarohi's cheeks flushed, a mix of arousal and embarrassment.
He made a pleased sound deep in his throat and spread her thighs wider, his palm ghosting along the inside of her leg.
Every nerve sparked.
She whimpered as his touch grew bolder, rougher.
There was a wet, sinful sound as his hand moved against her, and her thighs trembled, the ache turning sharp and desperate.
Aarohi reached for the sheets, her fingers digging into the silk, her pulse frantic.
Vish pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his gaze predatory. "No running. You wanted to forget, remember?"
She bit her lip, nodding.
"Then take it."
His mouth crashed onto hers again, swallowing her gasp as his body pressed fully against her. The weight of him made her squirm, the hard ridge of his arousal sliding against the sensitive skin between her thighs.
Aarohi cried out, the sensation unbearable and perfect all at once.
Her thighs quivered as wave after wave of tingling heat spread through her, her pulse a relentless drumbeat in her ears.
Vish's hand tightened on her wrist. "You feel that? How much you want this?"
She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe.
Her body was no longer her own — it belonged to this wild, dark moment, to the man she barely knew but felt like she'd been waiting for her whole, lonely life.
Vish's name tore from her lips in a strangled moan as the pressure built, the ache tipping into sharp, consuming pleasure.
He cursed softly, his voice a jagged rasp. "Beautiful when you break."
And she did.
She shattered beneath him, her body arching, every muscle trembling.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
He gave her no time to recover before flipping her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up, his hand fisting in her hair.
Aarohi gasped, the roughness sending a jolt of dark, wicked thrill through her.
She was on top now.
His body was a canvas of ink and scars, stories she'd never ask to hear. She traced one down his chest with her mouth, biting hard enough to leave a mark.
"Fuck," he growled, grabbing a fistful of her hair, dragging her head back.
"Good," she whispered. "Hurt me."
"This is mine, tonight," he growled against her ear.
She whimpered in agreement, unable to deny him, unable to deny herself.
His eyes darkened. A silent understanding passed between them. This wasn't about love, or even lust. It was about something, was it about forgetting the past or revenge ? She didn't knew anymore.
Vish moved again, relentless and consuming. Aarohi surrendered to it, letting the pain and pleasure twist together until she couldn't tell them apart.
The rest of the night blurred into heat and ache, his hands bruising, his mouth claiming every inch of her. Every thrust between her reddened thighs sent sharp sparks of pain laced with pleasure, her body a raw, desperate mess of sensation, she could even feel the the veins protruding from his mnahood.
There were wet, obscene sounds and low, dark curses. Aarohi's voice cracked on every moan, every plea. She clung to the sheets, her body strung tight as a bowstring.
Aarohi lay in the aftermath, her skin slick with sweat, her body marked by him.
She should've felt regret.
Should've felt shame.
But all she felt was empty.
And free.
When it was over, dawn bleeding through the windows, Aarohi lay tangled in silk sheets. Vish's warmth gone.
A single note rested on the pillow beside her.
"We're not done, Aarohi ."
A chill chased down her spine.
Aarohi stared at it, heart pounding. She hadn't told him her real name. Hadn't mentioned it once.