United States Of America

New York, 9:30 p.m.

Present Day

7 years later from

the previous chapter

M A Y A

Life is unpredictable, full of surprises you can say, and you never really know what will happen next. Things can change in an instant, in ways you never expected, never wanted.

I’ve always loved surprises, the thrill of the unexpected, the joy of not knowing what’s coming next. And my husband? He knew that very well. He adored me enough to plan a surprise of his own. But here’s the twist…

Instead of flowers or a heartfelt note, I was greeted with something far more shocking—a video of him, naked and utterly exposed, his disgusting mouth tangled with hers, his lower body merged with hers in a way that made me feel like puking, right on his damn bullshit face. And it was no one other than his so-called, “she's just my secretary and nothing more” secretary, Soniya Kapoor. A surprise, indeed but not the kind I ever wished for.

A video of him and that girl with him pounding in her like a starving desperate man who was lost in his own world of desires, as if it were the first time he had a naked body to satisfy his lifetime of longingness of having sex.

As if he wasn't the same man, who once couldn't breathe without having me on his bed for hours and leaving me almost lifeless, utterly drained and breathless under him, after hours of his relentless lovemaking.

Well, Surprise! Are you surprised? I was too! Did you love the surprise, No? Me too.

In those 4 years of our marriage, not a single day passed without him claiming me, without our bodies tangling in a hunger that never seems to fade.

Even when I begged him to stop, nothing could ever hold him back. And I, the bitchy fool that I was, let him take everything he wanted, mistaking his unrelenting desire for love, surrendering to the illusion that I ever truly mattered to him, convincing myself it meant something more.

Well! Life is cruel, and so are the people in it. It’s always the ones you love, trust, and give your heart to who hurt you the most. Why? Because only they have the power to break you. They are the ones who know your deepest fears, your weakest moments, the parts of you no one else sees. And when they turn against you, it’s not just betrayal, it’s devastation.

Two years. It’s been two long, aching years since that ugly truth tore everything apart. Since the lies I trusted came crashing down. Since I walked away from that country—not with strength, but with shattered pieces of myself.

And yet, the wounds? They still burn like they were made yesterday. The betrayal still echoes in my chest. The memories still feel sharp, still feel too loud. I thought time would heal it… but some scars don’t fade. Some pain doesn’t soften, it just learns how to hide behind a tired smile.

I may have left the place. But the pain? The pain followed me. It crawled into my bones. It sleeps beside me. It wakes with me. And some nights, when it’s too quiet, I swear I can still feel it—like it's happening all over again.

He didn’t just hurt me—he shattered me, tore me apart in a way that left nothing of who I used to be. I was Maya Singhania, the kindest, softest soul, someone who felt deeply, cried with others in their sorrow, and laughed in their joy. My heart was easy to touch, easy to trust, easy to break.

But not anymore. That Maya is gone. The woman who once cared too much has turned into someone unrecognizable—cold, distant, and heartless.

I am Maya Singhania, a woman rebuilt from the shattered remnants of the innocent girl I once was. I’ve mended myself, shaped my broken pieces into something whole again. But don’t you know? When glass shatters, you can try to fit the fragments back together, but the cracks never truly disappear. They remain—jagged, sharp, and unyielding. A constant reminder of what was lost. No amount of effort can erase them, no force can make them vanish. They are etched into me, just as the past is, inescapable, unforgotten.

Coming to the bullshit, Love, a word so beautifully deceiving, nothing more than an illusion. A sweet lie whispered to claim what was never theirs to take. A mask people wear to hide their true intentions. To me, it’s just another form of deception, another name for a transaction where emotions are merely an excuse, another way to dress up something far less pure.

Say I love you, and suddenly, it’s not your heart they want, it’s your body, your presence, your surrender. But never your soul. Never the part that truly matters.

Love, the word I once lived for, the very foundation of my world is eventually the same word which now lingers like a shadow, haunting me in ways I never imagined. It was my childhood dream, the fairytale every girl imagined, and I was no different. So tell me, was it wrong to dream? Was it wrong to hope for a love that was mine to keep?

Did I not deserve to be loved? To be cherished by the man who vowed to stand by my side? But now I see it—our marriage, those four years… they weren’t built on love. They were held together by fleeting desires, by longing, by something that felt like passion but was never truly love. It wasn’t bounded by love, it was bounded by sexual needs, lust, money, status and everything I once thought love could never be.

But standing here alone, looking back, love is nowhere to be found, not even a single trace remains. If there’s one thing I’ve come to resent with every part of me, it’s that one word—love.

I opened the side drawer and pulled out a box of black Marlboro cigarettes. Taking one between my fingers, I pressed it to my lips and flicked open a lighter from the same brand. As the flame touched the tip, I took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling in a quiet release.

If love could never truly have me, then why not have everything else…everything beyond anyone’s reach, beyond even that so-called ex-husband of mine?

He couldn’t even afford a single box of these cigarettes, while I go through thousands without a second thought.

That Bastard truly believed that I was some fragile, helpless girl he could toss aside without a second thought, as if I would beg and weep over him. Over HIM? The very thought is laughable. His donkey face and piglet ass was nothing but a delusion I once mistook as love, and now even his memory isn't worth a tear.

I took another slow drag of my cigarette as I walked toward the balcony of my 2 BHK flat, exhaling the smoke into the open air.

It’s been two years since my life took that unexpected, brutal turn since the moment that shattered every illusion I had. And yet, the strangest part? I find myself wanting to kiss that unknown man to death who exposed those videos of that asshole for all to see. Perhaps it’s proof of just how much I’ve changed, how far I’ve strayed from the person I once was, and how much of a whore I've become.

Well! This is what that asshole turned me into—a sex addict, a prisoner of the very desires he fed. He craved me endlessly, got intimate with me after every fucking second, never letting a moment pass without burying himself inside me, until it shaped me into something I never intended to become.

A damn sex addict.

A lump formed in my throat, and I tried to swallow it, but it felt too heavy to be pushed down. This wasn't just pain, it was my punishment. Punishment for loving him, for believing every lie, for embracing his every betrayal as if it were love.

I never wanted to become this person, but here I am, shaped by everything I once tried to escape.

The gentle breeze brushed against my face as I took another slow drag of my cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke while gazing at the city from my balcony. But instead of bringing comfort, the air felt heavy like a weight pressing against my chest, a punch to my gut that despite everything that had happened to me I still couldn't escape my past.

Neither really Nor fully.

With one last drag, I pressed the cigarette into my palm, crushing it against my skin. A sharp sting followed, the burn spreading across my skin like a slow, searing poison. But it was nothing, nothing compared to the poison already flowing through me, the one that had seeped into my soul long before this moment.

My eyes stayed fixed on the sky as I tossed the crushed cigarette into the air, watching it disappear into the night. A slow, knowing evil smile curled on my lips as I whispered dramatically to myself, "Seduce and destroy."

And this is the only purpose that now drives me.

"Raat baaki... Baat baaki..." I sang softly, my voice just a little louder than a whisper, each word laced with quiet seduction. A slow, knowing smile curved my lips as I turned around, my steps unhurried, trailing back into my room.

I kept singing, the melody wrapping around me like a secret, until I stopped abruptly in front of the full-length mirror. My gaze met my own, my reflection staring back with that same alluring smile. And with a quiet, unwavering intensity, I continued, "Hona hai jo ho jaane do."

I took in my reflection in the mirror—dark grey shorts barely reaching my thighs, a white tank top that rode up just enough to leave glimpses of my bare stomach. The faint smudge of kajal at the corners of my light brown hazel tired eyes, my shoulder-length hair tied up in a messy ponytail, and a face that looked as if life had drained away.

But despite the exhaustion that clouded my features, one look of me was enough to bring any man on his knees. A small giggle slipped from my lips, growing louder until it turned into full-blown laughter, echoing through the room as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The sound was almost unhinged, a mix of amusement and something far darker.

Then, just as suddenly, the laughter faded. My smile disappeared as I fell back onto the bed, my eyes fluttering shut. A slow breath escaped me as my back arched slightly against the mattress, my hands trailing lower, disappearing beneath the fabric of my shorts.

My eyes squeezed shut, and a shaky breath escaped me as my fingers brushed seductively over the lace of my panties, sending a shiver through me.

As my fingers slipped beneath the fabric, a soft, almost lewd gasp escaped my lips. I bit down on my bottom lip, sinking my teeth in until a faint metallic taste lingered on my tongue.

“Aaahhhh.” I cried out as my eyes rolled back when I pushed my middle finger inside my already soaked pussy.

With a slow, deliberate motion, I continued thrusting my middle finger inside my pussy, drawing soft whimpers out of my mouth, each movement measured, controlled, yet undeniably intoxicating and then my back arched again, as I thrust another finger inside my slippery damped hole.

Picking up the pace, I began moving my middle and forefinger in and out of my hole more rougher and wilder than the last. My fingers moved faster, chasing a release that felt just out of reach. My breaths turned into soft, desperate gasps, each one heavier than the last. The tension coiled inside me, winding tighter and tighter until my fingers brushed against that one deeply sensitive spot, a sudden jolt of pleasure surged through me, stealing the breath from my lungs.

My body tensed, every nerve igniting as my back arched against the sheets. A strangled gasp slipped from my lips, turning into a cry as the overwhelming sensation of my orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave.

My eyes fluttered shut, rolling back as the intensity consumed me, pulling me under. A tremor ran through my limbs, my chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. The heat, the tension, everything that had built up inside me unraveled in that single, shattering moment, leaving me breathless and lost in the lingering haze of my release.

After some time, I stood before the full length mirror, my reflection staring back at me—disheveled, yet exuding an undeniable allure. Strands of hair clung to my damp skin, my lips slightly parted, my gaze dark and unreadable.

Slowly, almost teasingly, I hooked my fingers around the hem of my shorts, sliding them down inch by inch. The fabric grazed my skin, the motion unhurried, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Once they pooled at my feet, I stepped out of them, never breaking eye contact with my own reflection.

Now, standing there, bare except for the delicate lace panties that still clung to me, I held my own gaze—unwavering, intense. The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the girl I used to be. She was something else entirely who looks nothing less than a sex goddess.

With slow, deliberate movements, I grasped the hem of my tank top, lifting it inch by inch. The fabric skimmed over my skin, teasingly light, before I finally pulled it over my head and let it slip from my fingers, falling soundlessly to the floor.

Now, standing before the mirror in nothing but a delicate peach lace bra and the same coloured lace panties, I held my own gaze steady, unwavering. The dim light traced over my skin, highlighting every curve, every shadow. There was something different about the way I looked at myself now—no hesitation, no doubt. Just a quiet, smoldering intensity, as if the woman staring back at me had been waiting to emerge all along.

With a slow, deliberate glance, I let my hand move behind me, fingers expertly finding the clasp of my bra. My touch was unhurried, yet charged with an intensity that sent a deep shiver through me. A quiet gasp caught in my throat as I unhooked it, my chest rising and falling with anticipation.

I held my breath for a moment, savoring the feeling, the power coursing through me. Then, ever so slowly, I slid the straps down my shoulders, letting the fabric drift away from my breasts leaving my upper body bare as I stood in front of the mirror stark naked. My eyes never wavered from my reflection, locked onto the woman staring back at me—strong, untamed, completely in control.

With a knowing smirk, my fingers drifted to the waistband of my lace panties, tracing the delicate fabric in slow, teasing strokes. The anticipation sent a shiver down my spine, but my gaze never wavered from the reflection before me.

With unhurried grace, I pushed them down, feeling the fabric slide over my skin before pooling at my feet. Stepping out of them, I stood completely bare before the mirror, completely exposed, yet utterly unapologetic. The woman staring back at me wasn’t hesitant or afraid. She was bold, untamed, and dangerously captivating.

But then my teeth pressed together as my gaze dropped to the scars etched along my skin, slightly faint now, but still whispering stories I never asked to remember as they lay there like delicate yet horrible calligraphy. Each one was a silent cry, carved on a night when words failed me and pain became louder than breath. They weren’t just marks… they were ugly, aching memories that still lived beneath my skin like an unhealed wound

Then my eyes shifted to the tattoo on my hip. It sits there, untouched, yet loud enough to stir everything I try to bury.

My eyes burned with a quiet storm. The sting behind my lids grew heavier with every second I stared, the urge to cry clawing its way up my throat. I could feel the nerves tighten, the tears gathering—so close, so ready to fall. But I didn’t let them. I held them back with all the strength I had left.

Yet I don't let a single tear escape.

Because tears no longer feel like relief—they feel like surrender. And I’ve surrendered enough. So I stood there… emotionless watching a war behind my eyes, against the tears that ached to set free. The quiet reminder that pain may live in me, but it no longer owns me.

And then a smirk sprawled across my face, a wicked yet alluring one as I traced a finger down my collarbone, my gaze locked onto the woman in the mirror, untamed, dangerous, dripping with sin. Tilting my head, I whispered, “Sinner’s Temptation and Saint's Downfall, Aren't we?”

A low, sultry chuckle escaped my lips as I turned away from the mirror, my bare feet gliding across the floor. Each step was slow, deliberate, like a predator reveling in its own power.

A U T H O R

As she stepped into the bathroom, her gaze fell on the waiting bathtub—covered in delicate black rose petals above the deep crimson coloured water. She had poured in the rich red color herself, watching as it spread, dark and intoxicating, staining the water. The sight was almost mesmerizing, a twisted kind of beauty bled through the water like liquid sin, making it look as if she were about to sink into a bath of blood.

The soft flicker of lavender-scented candles bathed the bathroom in a golden glow, their warm light dancing across the walls. The air was thick with the rich, sensual fragrance, wrapping around her like an unseen embrace—calming yet dangerously intoxicating.

In the background, a slow, sultry melody played—"Dil se tujhko bedili hai, mujhko hai dil ka guroor." The words dripped into the air like silk, each note carrying a whisper of longing, of something dangerously irresistible.

With an almost lazy smirk, she dipped one foot in seductively, the warmth licking up her skin, the petals brushing against her skin like whispered secrets. As she sank deeper, letting the water embrace her, consume her—like a queen settling into her throne of chaos.

"Tu yeh maane ya na maane, log maanenge zaroor." The song wove through the dimly lit bathroom, blending with the flickering candlelight and the intoxicating scent of lavender. The air felt heavier, thick with something unspoken, something sinful.

As the thick, velvety foam of the shower gel caressed her skin, wrapping around her like a lover’s touch, she let her body sink deeper into the warmth. The dark petals floated around her, clinging to her smooth legs, teasing her bare skin as she lifted one leg into the air, droplets tracing a slow, sinful path down her thigh.

The dim candle light flickered against the tiled walls, casting golden shadows that swayed with the rhythm of the song. The rich lavender scent curled around her, seeping into her senses, wrapping her in a spell of seduction and sin. And as the song's haunting refrain filled the space—"Yeh mera deewanapan hai, ya mohabbat ka suroor."

It felt like the music itself was pulling her deeper into temptation, making the night feel more forbidden, more electric, more intoxicating than ever before.

It was hypnotic—the flickering glow, the heady fragrance, and the haunting melody weaving together like a forbidden fantasy she had no desire to escape from.

Her fingers glided up her body, trailing through the soapy lather, leaving tingling heat in their wake. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, her hands reached her chest and she gave a light squeeze to one of her breasts, her breath hitched as a needy whimper slipped past her lips.

The sensation was intoxicating—her own touch, her own power, sending a wicked shiver through her spine. She was fire and silk, sin and temptation, drowning in the indulgence of her own desires.

She took her time, letting the warm water embrace her until every inch of her skin felt indulged. Slowly, she stepped out of the bathtub, her body glistening as she moved beneath the shower, allowing the cascading water to rinse away the last traces of soap.

Reaching for a plush bathrobe, she wrapped it around her bare body, the soft fabric brushing against her damp skin like a whisper. With each step, she carried an air of slow, deliberate grace as she left the bathroom, the warm glow of candlelight welcoming her back into the dimly lit room.

A soft hum slipped past her lips, the haunting melody weaving through the air— "Yeh mera deewanapan hai, ya mohabbat ka suroor." The words held a dangerous allure, lingering like a spell, like a promise of something irresistible yet ruinous.

Meanwhile, miles away on the other side of the country, a man lounged in a plush black leather chair, exuding an air of effortless dominance. One leg rested over the other, his back pressed against the chair in a posture of quiet control. His fingers lazily brushed against his lips, his sharp honey-brown eyes fixed on the screen before him.

An evil yet undeniably seductive smirk curled at the corners of his lips as he watched her every movement—every slow step, every flick of her fingers, every strand of damp hair that clung to her skin. The dim glow from the screen cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the raw intensity in his gaze. It wasn’t just hunger—it was something darker, something possessive. A silent claim.

On the screen, the woman had just stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a bathrobe. She loosened her damp hair, letting it fall over her shoulders, and began drying it with a towel, completely unaware of the eyes watching her so intently.

There was something dangerously intense about the way his gaze never wavered, as if he wasn’t just watching—but dissecting, consuming. The soft amber hues danced with a molten fire, darkening at the edges, scanning her figure in like a moth to a flame.

Every move she made only deepened the darkness flickering in his eyes, a dangerous blend of amusement and desire. And then, as her soft humming of that intoxicating tune reached his ears, his smirk widened. A slow, knowing chuckle rumbled in his chest.

She had no idea. Not yet.

That whole time, she believed she was alone. She had no idea that a pair of sharp, unblinking eyes were watching her every move.

On the screen before him, she stood with a seductive smile playing on her lips, her fingers slowly tugging at the strings of her bathrobe. The fabric loosened, teasingly slipping from her shoulders, inch by inch revealing the bare skin beneath.

His breath hitched. His jaw clenched.

For the first time, his unwavering gaze faltered. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look away, his eyes shifting to the empty space in front of him. But the image of her stayed burned in his mind—her smirk, the way her body moved, the way she unknowingly held him captive even from miles away.

A low, frustrated exhale left his lips.

After a moment, he couldn't resist. Slowly, he peeked at the screen from the corner of his eye.

And then, with a maddening smile, he sank back into his chair, his head pressing against the leather as his gaze locked onto her once again.

She stood in front of the mirror, her fingers moving slowly—too slowly—as she pulled the zipper of her tight jumpsuit upward. The fabric hugged her like a second skin, clinging to every curve, every dip and rise of her body. It barely reached her mid-thighs, leaving just enough exposed to drive him insane.

His throat went dry. His fingers curled against the armrest.

A slow exhale left his lips, but it did nothing to ease the heat simmering inside him. Watching her like this, so unaware of his hungry gaze, left a tension coiling in his gut, something dark and possessive.

She had no idea what she was doing to him.

And that made it even worse.

A deep, frustrated sigh left his lips as he shifted in his chair, his body tense, rigid with unspoken need. His jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists as he fought against the growing heat surging through him.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed the rolling chair slightly back with his foot, letting it glide lazily across the floor. His eyes slipped shut as he began to turn, slowly spinning in circles, round and round as though he could breathe her into his lungs if he just kept moving. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the screens. His breath felt heavier, thick with the ache of something he couldn’t name out loud.

And then, suddenly, he stopped.

His foot came down firm against the ground, halting the chair in place. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, as his gaze rose to take in the room before him. Walls covered in glowing screens, small and large. Each playing her like a haunting memory. Some footage was old, hidden camera clips stolen from the past. Others were live, blinking with the cruel truth of the present.

She was everywhere. And yet, nowhere near him.

A breath caught in his throat, sharp and dry. He sighed, almost in pain, "Bohat tadpa rahi ho tum..." he whispered to himself, his voice gravelly, worn thin by longing, "Bohat zyada..." The words fell heavier, rougher, more desperate, as if speaking them tore something raw inside him.

(You are tormenting me a lot. Too much)

He stood slowly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. Each step he took toward the screen was deliberate, his eyes locked on her image. She wasn’t looking at the camera. Her face was soft, calm, unaware of how completely she consumed the air he breathed. Her lips were parted slightly, a gentle curve resting at the corners as if she had just exhaled a secret.

He stopped in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of his obsession radiating back from the screen. Raising one hand, he mimicked twirling her hair between his fingers—an illusion, a fantasy, but it felt real in the madness of the moment. Then, his thumb brushed the screen lightly, tracing the curve of her chin with a kind of reverent madness.

"Sabse mushkil zindagi toh main jee raha hoon, tumhare bina…" He rasps, his voice a low murmur against the stillness of the room as he continues, "Saans toh le raha hoon, lekin har saans... woh bhi bejaan lagti hai.” He stops dropping his forehead against the screen and then closing his eyes, he continues in a low breathy whisper, "Main zinda hoon, lekin har pal lagta hai jaise mujhe… jaise mujhe maut aa rahi hai tumhare baghair.”

(I am living the most difficult life, without you… I am breathing, but every breath… that too feels lifeless. I am alive, but every moment it feels as if… I am dying without you)

"Tum aaogi... tumhe wapas aana hoga mere paas," he murmured, his voice low and rough, like it had clawed its way out from somewhere deep. His jaw tightened, the thought of her being away igniting something dangerous in his eyes. For a moment, he looked less like a man and more like a storm barely held back.

(You will come... you must come back to me)

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. "And I know exactly what I have to do for that."

Without wasting another second, he slipped a hand into the pocket of his black pants and pulled out his phone. His fingers moved with calm precision as he dialed a number. The line rang only a few times before a voice answered from the other side.

"Hellooooo?" Veer greeted, instantly softening his tone, wrapping his words in warmth and mischief, like sugar melting on the tongue.

Then came the sound that never failed to melt his heart. "Hewwooooo!" A tiny, drawn-out voice chimed through the speaker.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. His expression changed entirely, lit with a rare softness. "Am I talking to my princess?" he asked, his voice gentle and full of affection, like he was cradling her name inside every word.

"Yethh... Am I tawking to my Vee Vee?" she asked, in that adorable lisp, her tone all giggly.

“Yes, love, you are,” Ranveer replied, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion only she could draw out of him. A smile lingered on his lips, not the smirking one the world knew, but the gentle, rare kind that belonged only to his little girl.

“How’s my princess?” he asked, his tone playful, eyes glowing as he leaned back into the chair, letting her voice pour through the phone like comfort.

There was a tiny pause, and then came her soft reply, delicate yet full of emotion.

“Saaad… wifout my Vee Vee…” she said, her words slow and stretched, as if her tiny heart truly ached for him.

Ranveer’s heart clenched. “Aww! I’ll come back soon, baby, I promise.” His voice grew tender, more serious beneath the sweetness. “But hey… I need help. A very, very big favor from my little tornado. Will you help your Vee Vee, baby?”

A brief silence followed, and then her voice returned—soft, clear, and absolutely heart-melting.

“O’course! I hep my Vee Vee!” she chirped, her R’s melting into soft sounds, full of innocent pride and pure devotion.

Ranveer shut his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the sweetness in her voice. If he had any doubt about what he needed to do, it melted away with those four little words.

After a few moments, Ranveer glanced at his phone and asked softly, “Okay, Princess?”

Her tiny, cheerful voice burst through the speaker, full of innocence and mischief, “Otay! Bye bye! Bwing me chocwates, pwease!” He began, “Okay, Princess but keep it a sec—” but before he could finish, the call was already cut.

Ranveer sighed deeply, a mix of frustration and affection washing over him. “God! Please keep this little tornado’s mouth shut,” he whispered with a smile, shaking his head at her unstoppable energy.

Turning toward the camera that showed Maya’s darkened room, he noticed the faint moonlight spilling in through the window, gently painting her face in silver. He studied her quietly, his voice lowering to a fierce, almost sacred vow.

“You really thought you could run from Ranveer Singh Raghuvanshi by leaving India?” His words were cold, sharp like a blade. “Tsk... I’ve worked too hard to have you slip away now. You've taken enough personal space you needed... but now, it’s time to cross every line and in

vade your world. And trust me, I will…” He stops as his voice hardened into a low dangerous murmur,

“Again.”

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