Book #1 of the psychopath series
𝙎𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨...
But for 𝖍𝖎𝖒?
She's just his little ᴘsʏᴄʜᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴡɪғᴇʏ-
Unhinged, unpredictable, and madly, dangerously in love.
The kind of l...
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The house was wrapped in an unsettling silence. Not a single sound echoed through its walls, except for the faint, heart-wrenching sobs drifting from Nandini’s room.
Inside, the room was cloaked in shadows. No lights were switched on, the curtains remained drawn, and darkness settled like a second skin across every surface. In one corner, Nandini sat curled up, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Her face, streaked with dried tears, and her red, puffy eyes bore silent witness to a day spent crying.
No one knew what had pushed her into this state—she never spoke about it, never let anyone in. She chose silence as her armor, distance as her comfort.
A sudden, persistent ringing of the doorbell broke through the stillness. Startled, Nandini wiped her face quickly, pulling herself together. She walked downstairs, her steps hesitant.
Peeking through the peephole, she spotted a courier guy standing outside.
“Yes?” she said, opening the door just slightly.
He handed her a medium-sized box with a polite nod and turned to leave.
Nandini shut the door behind her and immediately returned to her room. She sat on the bed, the familiar box resting in her hands.
For the past four years, she had received this very parcel on this exact date, 4th of October. In the beginning, it had frightened her—a nameless package delivered without any sender’s details. But as the years passed, she realized it contained nothing but harmless, heartfelt items: her favorite chocolates, a bag of chips, and a handwritten note—always humorous, always crafted to make her smile.
She never found out who sent them. At times, she suspected it might be her cousin Vishal, but she never confronted him about it. She even tried tracing the source, but every attempt led to a dead end.
Yet, whoever it was, they had managed to pierce through the darkness she wrapped herself in every year on this day. They gave her a reason, however small, to smile.
Today was no different. The pain remained, the memories still stung, but the mysterious parcel offered a sliver of warmth she silently cherished.
She exhaled deeply, placing the box beside her on the bed. After a moment’s thought, she pulled out her stationery and wrote a short thank-you note—just as she did every year.
Then she changed into fresh clothes, pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, and made her way to the garage.
Sliding into her McLaren 720S, she started the engine, the soft roar filling the silence she had grown too used to.
