Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It’s been over three weeks now since we slipped into this routine, a rhythm that’s become as natural as breathing. Every day, every night, is filled with moments that make me question how I ever lived without her like this. We’ve found our little pieces of heaven in the mundane—small moments of teasing, quiet laughter, and stolen kisses. It’s in these times that I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not the VILLAIN from her story, but rather the man who can protect her from the world.
Tonight, the moonlight filters softly through the windows of her bedroom, casting a silvery glow over her sleeping form. I find myself watching her, unable to look away. She looks so peaceful, her breathing slow and steady, her hair splayed out on the pillow. My hand moves almost instinctively, brushing a few strands away from her face. She stirs slightly, her lips parting as she lets out a soft sigh.
I’ve been staying at her place almost every other night, finding excuses that neither of us bother to question anymore. It’s a routine I’ve come to depend on, waking up beside her, sharing our mornings, our nights. But tonight, as I sit here in the quiet of her room, with her so close yet so far in her dreams, I can’t help the uneasy feeling creeping into my chest.
She’s going to meet Mr. Roy tomorrow, a meeting I’ve delayed as much as I could without raising suspicion. I wasn’t ready to let her out of my sight, especially not for something like this. I can’t help but remember the last time she found out about one of the darker parts of my world, how she almost shut me out completely. I swore then that I would never let her know the full extent of who I am.
But no matter how hard I try to push it aside, the fear lingers, gnawing at me. What will she do when she finds out? What happens when she learns that the man she’s been sleeping beside, the man she’s come to trust, is not just the hero of her story but the villain of her own book as well?
I run my fingers gently through her hair, my heart heavy with the weight of secrets. She shifts again, her body curling closer to mine, and I feel a pang of guilt. How much longer can I keep this from her? How much longer can I lie by omission, keeping her in the dark?
My thoughts are interrupted as she moves closer, her face nuzzling against my chest. She lets out a contented sigh, and I can’t help but smile despite the turmoil in my mind. She’s so beautiful, so trusting, and it makes me want to protect her all the more—even if that means protecting her from myself.
I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She stirs, her eyes fluttering open slightly, and she looks up at me with a sleepy smile. “Yash?” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.
“I’m here, Little Swan,” I whisper, my voice soft, soothing. I continue to run my fingers through her hair, feeling her relax under my touch.
She smiles again, her eyes slipping closed as she leans into my hand. “You should sleep,” she whispers, though there’s no real conviction in her voice.
