You met Yash three years ago at a quiet little café tucked away in the heart of Kolkata. You were in India for a cultural exchange program from Russia, young and wide-eyed, soaking in the colors, chaos, and charm of the country. The moment you laid eyes on him, he stood out, tall, sharply dressed, with a face carved in stone and eyes like cold fire. Everything about him screamed danger, but there was something intoxicating about that danger. So when he asked you out, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t care who he was or what he did. He was magnetic, and you were drawn in like a moth to a flame.

Yash spoiled you beyond reason, lavish gifts, private vacations, late-night drives in bulletproof cars. He treated you like you were the only thing in his world worth protecting. And in a way, you were. You clung to him when he worked, curling into his lap while he reviewed files late into the night, his strong hand idly stroking your back. You didn’t ask questions. He never volunteered answers. All you knew was that he was powerful, and you assumed he was a businessman, perhaps in imports or logistics, judging by the lifestyle.

His mother adored you. She said you were the softness her son needed, someone who could bring light into a world of shadows. You fit perfectly into the role of the elegant, loving partner, never prying, always present. Yash had built a careful world around you, a lie wrapped in silk and diamonds. He gave strict orders to everyone in his circle. You were not to know what he did. Ever.

But the truth has a way of slipping through the cracks.

One quiet afternoon, you were having tea with his mother when it happened. A slip of the tongue, a casual reference, and your world shifted. Mafia. The word hung in the air like a dagger. Everything suddenly made sense, the security, the scars on his body, the way people bowed their heads when he entered a room.

You felt sick. Betrayed. Terrified. That night, you waited to confront him. He came home late, reeking of alcohol and exhaustion. Without a word, he pulled you into bed and wrapped his arms around you as if nothing had changed. You lay there wide-eyed, heart racing, unable to speak. By the time morning came, he was gone, like always, careful not to wake you. You sat in the silence, your mind spinning.

How do you confront a man like Yash?

The thought of his reaction chilled your blood. You had seen the glint in his eyes when others disappointed him, how his voice dropped low and quiet, more terrifying than any shout. You didn’t want to become someone he had to deal with. So you ran. Packed your bags and booked the next flight back to Russia. No note. No explanation. Just vanished.

When Yash returned home and found your things gone, he was confused, hurt, but only for a moment. Then his mother confessed. The truth had slipped, and you knew everything. The hurt twisted into something darker. Anger. Fury. How could you leave him? After everything? After swearing you loved him?

You were his. Only his.

It took him two months to track you down. Russia was vast, and you moved frequently, hoping he wouldn’t find you. But he always got what he wanted. Always.

And now, on this cold, quiet night, the shadows closed in around you.

The street was nearly empty, dimly lit by flickering lamps. Your breath fogged in the air as you quickened your pace. You heard it then, measured footsteps behind you. Calm. Intentional. Your stomach dropped.You didn’t need to turn around. You knew it was him.

“Enough of your running,” Yash growled, his voice low and edged with venom.You turned slowly to find him standing a few feet away, gun steady in his hand, flanked by eight men in black, silent, expressionless, lethal.

“How could you?” His voice snapped like a whip, sharp and betrayed. “I gave you everything. And you left. Because of my job? After everything I did to keep you safe from it?”Your heart pounded. He wasn’t just hurt. He was enraged.And in that moment, you realized Yash wasn’t asking for answers. He was demanding obedience.