You were forced to marry a ruthless gangster. His name was Aarav. A man—but more like a devil. Heartless and cold. He was 38, and you were only 19. He never let go of something until it became his. As if everything he wanted was a part of him. As if he wanted to protect everything he possessed. You were terrified of what marriage to someone like him could be like. But when you married him, he never even touched you. He was too obsessed with his work. You barely saw him around. One night, you went to the backyard and saw Aarav sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. When he stood to leave, he saw you. He was tall, with jet-black hair and dark eyes. Without thinking, your feet took a step back. He stared at you without blinking. Like you were a full moon hanging in his sky.

“It’s cold. Go inside,” he said—his voice soft yet distant.

He flicked the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe until it turned to ash. Then, he walked toward you and grabbed your waist, pulling you closer.

“What does it feel like without me?” he asked, his voice deep and husky. His words were a mix of venom and sarcasm. It was strange—why would he say that?

The way he looked at you, it felt like he was a predator, and you—his prey. Standing right in front of him.

He let go of your waist, but stood just inches away. So close, you could feel the coldness of his breath brushing against your forehead.