Demon's Physco obsession

The Unspoken Battle Lines

The shrill clang of the college bell sliced through the humid morning air, jolting Ankita from her thoughts.
Another class over.
Another empty seat beside her.

Pallavi's absence echoed louder than the bell itself.

Three days.
Three whole days without a call, a text, not even a single forwarded meme. Pallavi—who couldn't go twelve hours without explaining something nobody had asked about—had vanished. A knot tightened in Ankita's stomach. Not sharp, but steady and heavy, like a shadow that refused to leave.

After her partial recovery, Adhiraaj had sent her back to college.
Begrudgingly didn't even cover it. He had practically scanned her from head to toe before letting her step outside. And she knew—she knew—he had done it only because he had no other choice.

Because of her.

Shakuntala Devi.

Despite his warning—despite the cold steel in his voice and the boundary he had drawn—Shakuntala had marched into the estate with the entitlement of royalty reclaiming her palace. She had brandished a copy of the will like a sword, proclaiming that her brother had granted her unrestricted rights to stay there whenever she pleased.

Every word had frayed the last threads of Adhiraaj's patience.

But the will was clear.
Legal. Binding.
Even he couldn't contest it.

So he did the only thing he could: he removed Ankita from her path.

College in the mornings.
His office in the afternoons.
Always with a driver.
Always with security.
Always under watch.

Not a cage—he would never call it that—yet a shield he fortified more each day Shakuntala remained.

Ankita hugged her notebook to her chest as she walked down the corridor, the noise of students washing over her. She felt like a visitor in a place that had once been hers. Everything was too loud. Too bright. Too normal.

Pallavi's absence should have been insignificant compared to the chaos her life had become.

But it wasn't.
Something was wrong.
Deeply wrong.

Her phone buzzed.

A single message.
From him.

The driver is at the gate. Don't linger. – A

Even in text, she could sense the storm simmering beneath his words.

She gripped her phone tighter and quickened her pace.

Whatever was happening—Pallavi's disappearance, Shakuntala's sudden permanence, the walls closing in around her—none of it felt right.

And at the centre of it all waited the man in the car, jaw clenched, eyes vigilant, heart tethered to her in ways neither of them dared name.

Malti stood beside the vehicle, posture stiffening the moment she saw Ankita. The girl looked exhausted—too exhausted—and Malti's chest tightened with helpless pity. Without a doubt, if Adhiraaj had seen her like this, he wouldn't have allowed her to leave the estate.

The dengue had weakened her brutally. Malti had witnessed her collapse more than once from sheer exhaustion. She had also seen how the constant battle between nephew and aunt gnawed at Ankita's already fragile state.

But Malti was only a guard. A caretaker. She had no authority to interfere. She had confided in Ved, and Ved had tried to speak to both Adhiraaj and Shakuntala, warning them that their ego clashes were affecting Ankita.

Instead of cooling, the fire had only raged hotter—burning everyone caught between them.

With a quiet sigh, Malti opened the door. Ankita climbed in slowly, almost dragging her feet, and rested her head against the seat, eyes fluttering shut. As the car pulled away, she drifted into sleep. Malti noticed immediately through the rear-view mirror.