Saanvi Khanna
I don't flinch easily.
I've walked into rooms where men twice my size tried to measure me with their egos. I've stared down boardrooms, raised my voice in courtrooms, and never once blinked. But there's something about being watched in silence—that kind of silence—that unsettles even the strongest parts of me.
It's not loud. It doesn't scream. It hums. Creeps.
It started the moment we left Aaryan's estate. A shiver. That itch at the base of my neck. That creeping sensation that someone—or something—was just two steps behind. Close enough to touch. Too quiet to catch.
At first, I blamed the air. Blamed her—his sister—and that cruel smile she wore like a weapon. I told myself I was imagining it. That she just knew how to stir the pot and leave it to boil.
But back in my apartment, that feeling doesn't fade.
It sharpens.
I bolt the door. Once. Twice. I pull the curtains closed like a ritual. Try to distract myself with mundane things—shoes, coat, wine. But the silence presses in tighter. Too tight.
Then I see it.
The envelope.
Plain. Beige. No stamp. No return address. Just my name. Written in thick, messy black ink like someone carved it instead of writing it. It's the kind of envelope that doesn't feel like mail—it feels like a warning dressed in politeness.
I stare at it.
Then I open it.
Inside, one photo. Just one.
Me and Aaryan. From last night. At the dinner table. Our heads tilted toward each other in some quiet moment I don't even remember. The angle is wrong—like it wasn't taken by accident. Like it was planned. Staged.
And scribbled in the corner, in red ink this time:
"You're next."
My stomach flips.
Not from fear—yet—but from the pure wrongness of it.
I don't hesitate. I grab my phone and call Aaryan. He picks up on the second ring.
"Saanvi?"
"There's something you need to see."
I don't give him time to ask questions. I drop the phone and keep pacing.
Ten minutes later, he's at my door. His coat's still flapping behind him. He doesn't even knock—he just walks in like the air inside might strangle me if he waits too long.
His jaw is locked. I can hear it grind. The silence between us isn't awkward. It's heavy. Like something rotten just walked in and we both know it.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay.
He doesn't need to.
I hold out the photo. No words. Just the image, the message.
He takes it. Looks at it once. Doesn't flinch.
"Who did this?" I ask, stepping closer. My voice is sharper than I intend. Accusation hiding inside worry.
He's silent.
"Aaryan." I shove it against his chest. "Who. Did. This."
Finally, he speaks. Voice low. Controlled. Lethal. "My past. The part I thought I buried deep enough it wouldn't crawl back."
I study his face. It's unreadable. But something in his eyes is terrified—not for himself.
"Tell me everything."
This time, he doesn't resist. Doesn't deflect. He just leads me to the couch, pulls me down beside him, and starts speaking like he's peeling open wounds.
"There was a deal. Years ago. Bigger than me. Dirty men with dirtier money. I walked away. Thought I was out. But someone stayed in."
"And now they're coming for you?" I ask.
He doesn't even blink.
"No." His eyes meet mine. "They're coming for you. Because I finally have something to lose."
The words hit harder than they should.
It's the first time he's said it—not love, not forever, not I need you—but something worse. Something truer.
I stare. "You think sending me away is going to fix this?"
"You should leave the city," he says, standing abruptly. "Tonight. I'll handle it."
I fold my arms. "I'm not running."
"This isn't a game, Saanvi."
"No. It's war. And I don't run from those either."
His eyes flash—equal parts fury and fear. "This isn't about pride. It's about your life."
"And what about yours?" I step closer, daring him to flinch. "Do you get to burn while I walk away untouched?"
He looks at me like I've gone mad. Like I've just dared him to throw a match into the gasoline between us.
"You don't understand, Saanvi. I've lived with this poison. I've waded in it. Breathed it. I know what it does."
"Then teach me." I'm toe-to-toe with him now. Unafraid. "Show me how to burn without turning to ash."
He grabs my wrist. Not rough. But firm. Like he's afraid that if he doesn't hold on, I'll vanish.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," I whisper.
But he just stares at me. "I already have."
His voice fractures. And I know—this is the breaking point.
This isn't about some shadow from his past. This isn't even about the threat anymore.
It's about us.
What we've become.
And how close we are to something fatal.
Not from the outside.
But from within.