By the time Tara stumbled back into her room, it was already nine thirty eight. Her makeup was smudged, her feet aching and her mind still echoing with his words.
"Do you understand what 'couldn't recall' looks like to me?"
"It looks like failure, negligence and disobedience. And I do not tolerate any of that."
She grabbed her laptop from her study desk, breathless and panicky. The laptop screen glared at her, a white void mocking her trembling fingers. She tried to reconstruct the lecture, fragments of formulas and definitions scattering like broken glass in her head. She typed, erased, typed again—jagged sentences strung together more from fear than clarity.
The clock ticked louder than her heartbeat.
9:40.
9:47.
9:52.
When she finally attached the file and hit send, the timestamp at the corner read 10:00 p.m. sharp.
Her chest tightened as the "Sent" notification blinked.
She collapsed back on the bed, pulling the blanket over her though the room was already warm. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but her mind wouldn't still.
─── ⋆⋅🎀⋅⋆ ───
The days after the hall incident blurred together, though Tara felt every second like a thread pulled too tight.
Professor Rathore had acknowledged her late summary in a single line. "Received. Work on clarity." No reprimand or a clinical remark, which should have been a relief.
But every lecture since, she felt an invisible current between them.
When he spoke, chalk screeching softly across the blackboard, she couldn't help but feel as though his words were directed at her directly or indirectly. When his gaze swept the classroom, lingering a fraction too long on Tara, her pen would still in her hand, her throat tightening as if she'd been caught voicing her thoughts.
To everyone else, he was the same—sharp, charismatic and untouchable. To her, he was a something even she could not decipher. Tara feels that he was hiding something from everyone. She could sense something unusual with him that she never felt with anyone else.
At lunch with Aanya and Vihaan, she found herself quieter, stealing glances at her phone, wondering if his name would appear in her inbox again. On the walk back from the canteen, she half-expected him to fall into step behind her, though he never did. The absence was almost worse than the presence—it left her unmoored.
It was on a Thursday evening, back home in her room, when an email came.
From: Delhi University Housing Office
Subject: Resumption of On-Campus Residence
"Dear Miss Kapoor,
This is to remind you that your week-long home visit has concluded. As per university regulations, you are required to resume residence in your allocated dormitory from this weekend. Attendance in classes during your absence has been noted, and we appreciate your compliance. Kindly move back into your dorm room no later than Sunday evening."
She stared at the words. Her week at home—supposed to be a breather—had become anything but. Between the political events, her parents' constant demands.
The thought of the dorm feels like a relief: distance, friends, the chaos of campus life.
Days had stretched into a rhythm she barely recognised.
Mornings began early, the sun still hesitant over Delhi's skyline, and she found myself following her father through a relentless chain of political events—launches, press briefings, photo ops. Her role was to appear polished, attentive, unflinching, a silent pillar to bolster his public image.
Afternoons were consumed by study. She had carved a schedule that left no room for indulgence. Psychology notes, lecture summaries, assignments, practice problems—she followed each with the precision of a drill sergeant, measuring each hour, each minute. Discipline was the only thing that kept the panic at bay.
She had skipped two days of college entirely. Math and English projects demanded her attention, and deadlines loomed like storms on the horizon. She spent those days holed up in the library, surrounded by open textbooks and scribbled notes, the weight of numbers and essays pressing on her like concrete.
Evenings ended with her room dimly lit, head bent over her laptop or notebooks, her hands cramped, eyes stinging, but the work never stopped. Every completed assignment felt like a temporary reprieve, a small victory against the chaos that had begun to seep into her veins.
It was a Monday morning when she had arrived the college residence. The key felt heavier in her hand than she remembered, and the hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished wood.
Sliding the door open, she stepped into the dorm room, a small exhale escaping her. The familiar scent of textbooks, fabric softener, and faint coffee lingered in the air. Sunlight spilled across the bed, glinting off the metallic edges of her study lamp and the neatly stacked notebooks she had left behind.
She set her bag down, the soft thud echoing slightly against the bare floor, and began unpacking. Clothes folded carefully, books placed on their shelves, stationery arranged just so. Each movement was deliberate, a small attempt to regain control after the chaos of the past week.
The room gradually transformed from a temporary space into her own again. She straightened the curtains, arranging them so the sunlight fell gently across the bed. She opened her laptop, aligning it with a pile of notes, and set out pens and highlighters within easy reach.
Sitting back on the edge of the bed, she ran her fingers over the neatly made sheets. There was a quiet satisfaction in this—the small act of creating order. A rhythm she could follow.
For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of calm. College, though busy, was predictable in ways that home had never been. Here, she could carve her own hours, pace herself, and slowly rebuild the momentum she had lost while away.
The dorm felt like a canvas again. A place where she could focus, study, and breathe—just books, and the hum of campus life outside the window.
The campus felt alive in a quiet way—students rushing between lectures, sneakers scuffing the marble corridors, the faint hum of ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead. She clutched her project files tighter, taking a deep breath before knocking on the door of the English department.
"Come in," called a soft, melodic voice.
The moment she stepped inside, she was struck by Ms. Solanki's presence. Young, perhaps in her late twenties, she had an effortless elegance that seemed to fill the room without effort. Her hair was chestnut, cascading in gentle waves over her shoulders, catching the sunlight streaming through the window. Her Saree was a muted shade of lavender, delicate embroidery tracing the neckline.
But it wasn't just her attire—it was the way she carried herself. Graceful, composed, yet approachable. Her eyes, a clear hazel, were warm, intelligent, and observant, with just the faintest glimmer of curiosity. She smiled when she saw Tara, polite and encouraging.
"Oh, Tara! Just in time. Come, let me see your work," she said, gesturing to the stack of papers Tara held. She handed her the files, noting the way her fingers lingered over the edges, almost reverently.
She flipped through the pages humming softly as she read. "You've been thorough," she said finally, looking up at her. "Good attention to detail. I can see you've put thought into every section."
A small, genuine smile tugged at Tara's lips. "Thank you, ma'am," she murmured, relief and pride mingling together.
Next, she made her way to the math department. The office door opened to reveal Mr. Sharma, a man in his forties whose warmth seemed to radiate like sunlight in the room. He had a round, friendly face, expressive brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled, and a laugh that made the small space feel immediately welcoming.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, tie loosened, as though he had been scribbling on the board just moments before. His easy demeanour made the room feel safe, almost homey.
"Tara!" he exclaimed, voice rich and warm. "Project submission, let's see." He took the files from her, thumbs tapping lightly on the cover sheet. "You've been working hard, I can tell. I appreciate that." Tara smiles at him softly nodding, "thank you, sir."
He leafed through the papers, nodding approvingly at calculations and diagrams. "This is solid work. Very clear, very neat. You've done well to stay on top of your schedule."
"Thank you, sir," Tara replied again, a sense of quiet satisfaction settling in. Between the two submissions, the weight of deadlines and projects felt a little lighter.
Stepping back into the corridor, the afternoon sun hitting her back, she allowed herself a small exhale. College—its chaos, its demands—was manageable. And for the first time in days, she felt in control again.
Tara walked back to her dorm humming to herself softly and hoping that she still have time to revise on psychology notes before her professor's lecture. She pushed the door open, brows knitting when she noticed it slightly ajar. The frown deepened into a full-on scowl the moment she stepped inside.
Aanya—sprawled out on her bed as though she owned the place. Her glossy hair, dark and perfectly ironed, spilled across her pillow. She was scrolling through her phone lazily, crimson-tipped nails grazing her lips as she gnawed absentmindedly, her designer bangles clinking softly with the movement. Her duvet was twisted beneath her like it was nothing more than a prop for her pose.
Across the room, Vihaan had made himself very comfortable in her study chair. His curls were a disheveled halo around his head, and his usual mischievous smirk was plastered across his face as he leaned back, feet planted carelessly on her desk. He wore his trademark black hoodie and ripped jeans, one headphone dangling loose from his ear as he gestured animatedly while talking.
And then, of course, Kabir—stretched out like he'd been invited—was sprawled flat on the crochet carpet she'd painstakingly ordered from Etsy. His broad frame nearly covered the whole thing, his wavy hair falling into his eyes as he lounged with the ease of a cat sunbathing. He wore a crisp white tee and faded blue jeans, looking infuriatingly relaxed, hands propped behind his head as if this were his living room and not her dorm.
She stood in the doorway, arms folded, the picture of indignation, while her room looked less like a sanctuary and more like a teenager's hangout zone.
They still haven't noticed her yet! she cleared her throat loudly and apparently that makes everyone's eyes snap up to her.
"Finally! what the hell are you guys doing here!? I arranged my room this morning!", Tara exclaimed glaring at them like they're naughty children who look up innocently after making a mess of a room.
And unsurprisingly, they burst into laughter, and grinning at her annoyance. "Awww, is miss kapoor angry over her sweet little friends?" Vihaan sing-songs in his annoying voice making her frown more.
"oh she is so ungrateful guys, look at her!" Aanya says giggling and her snarky comment making Kabir snicker and Tara's eyes roll in annoyance.
"you guys done with your dramatic comments? Now scoot over!" she says shooing Aanya to the side of the bed and sits down next to her.
For a while, the room was just warm, filled with laughter, teasing, and the comfortable ease of friendship. The messy textbooks, the scattered pens, even the hum of the ceiling fan seemed to fade into background white noise.
Then Tara notices how Aanya became unusually quiet and she had been behaving a little weirdly since morning.
Her fingers stiffened around her phone, lips parting slightly as if she were mid-sentence. Her eyes widened, staring blankly at the screen, unblinking. A faint tremor ran through her hands.
"Uh... Aanya?" Tara asked gently, leaning forward. "What's wrong, love?"
She blinked rapidly, snapping out of it for a moment, and forced a small smile. "Nothing. Just... uh, a weird message. Don't worry about it."
But her composure didn't hold. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her temple, and her fingers flexed nervously around the phone. She tucked it into her lap, shaking her head.
"You're sweating," Tara said softly, frowning. "Seriously, what's going on?"
She waved her off, a little too quickly. "It's fine, Really. Just... nothing. Forget it."
Tara exchanged a look with Vihaan and Kabir, both of whom were trying to gauge her reaction without pressing. There was no mistaking it—Aanya was clearly distressed.
By 11 a.m., the psychology lecture hall was buzzing quietly with students shuffling into their seats. Tara slipped inside, the familiar weight of her bag pulling against her shoulder, and spotted Sara waving from the third row. Sliding into the seat next to her, she felt the thin thread of comfort that friendship always brought.
Professor Rathore stood at the front, chalk in hand, an unreadable expression carved into his face. His coat hung neatly from the chair, sleeves rolled, presence commanding the room with that effortless, unshakable authority.
Tara should have hated him for it—hated the way he acted so superior, so cold, so above the rest of them. And yet, her eyes betrayed her every single time. They lingered too long on the veins running down his forearms, the sharp angles of his jaw when he tilted his head, the way his dark hair fell just slightly over his forehead before he brushed it back with absent precision.
'God. Why did he have to look like that?'
'Why did power look so good on him?'
this was the only thing she would think every time she saw him
Every movement was deliberate, restrained, as though he knew people couldn't help but watch him. He didn't even have to try. The room bent around him—students leaned in, curious, scribbling down every word like scripture. But she? she was caught on something else.
The darkness in him.
It was there in the clipped way he spoke, in the sharp lines around his mouth that rarely softened, in the sheer stillness of his body when he paused to think. A stillness that felt like danger waiting.
And she hated herself because her body reacted before her brain did—pulse quickening, skin heating, the gnawing ache of wanting to be noticed by the very man who had so expertly ignored her.
Cold. Detached. Unreachable.
And somehow, that made him irresistible.
She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, biting down on her pen to mask the heat curling in her chest. It wasn't fair—how someone could make silence feel like a touch, distance feel like an invitation.
She told herself to focus on the lecture, to scribble down notes, to breathe. But her gaze wouldn't let go.
He was dangerous. And that was exactly why she couldn't look away.
A sharp thwack landed on the top of Tara's head.
She gasped, jerking upright to see a sleek black pen rolling down onto her notebook. Her heart stuttered—half from the sting, half from the realisation of who had thrown it.
Professor Rathore's gaze was locked on Tara, dark and merciless. "Miss Kapoor," he said, voice smooth but laced with steel. "Am I boring you?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "N-no, sir. I was—"
"Lost." His mouth curled into a smile that wasn't a smile. "Clearly elsewhere. Daydreams, perhaps?" His voice dipped lower, quieter, but somehow the entire class still heard. "Or maybe you were waiting for me to drag you back... like I just did."
The room tittered with nervous laughter, but his eyes never left hers.
"I expect focus," he continued, walking closer, his footsteps unhurried, deliberate. "Every second and every word. Psychology is not a subject you can... drift through. If you want to get lost, Miss Kapoor..." He leaned on the desk beside her row, close enough to make her breath hitch from his expensive masculine and spicy cologne. "...then at least choose somewhere worth getting lost in."
Her throat went dry and mind going blank because of the proximity.
"I... I'll focus."
His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something unspoken. "Good." He tapped the pen against her desk—tap, tap—each sound a little reminder of control. "Keep it. Maybe next time, you'll remember where your attention belongs."
And with that, he pushed off the desk and strolled back to the board, as though nothing had happened, leaving her staring at the pen like it was a brand burned into her skin.
The bell rang and chairs scraped. One by one, students filed out, their chatter filling the hallway until the door clicked shut and silence sealed itself around them.
Tara lingered in her seat, the pen he'd thrown earlier still clenched in her fingers. Her pulse pounded, traitorous, as she forced herself to stand and walk toward the desk.
"Professor Rathore," she began carefully, voice softer than she intended, "I had a doubt about—"
He cut her off without even looking up from the papers he was stacking. "Of course you do." His tone was sharp, dripping with derision. "You always do, don't you?"
Her brows furrowed. "I... I just wanted clarification on—"
"Clarification," he repeated slowly, finally lifting his gaze to hers. His eyes were dark, hard and unyielding. "Tell me, Tara, do you even know what you want clarified? Or is this just another excuse to stand here and waste my time?"
The words hit harder than they should have, cruel in their precision. Her throat tightened. "That's not what I—"
"You think I don't notice?" He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, voice lowering to a velvety whisper that somehow cut deeper than a shout. "I see everything very, very clearly, Tara. And just so you know, you're not very subtle about it. I can smell your desperation from miles away."
Heat surged through her—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled into one unbearable knot. "I'm not desperate," she shot back, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
His mouth curved into something crueler than a smile. "No? Then why are you still here?"
She froze, caught between leaving and proving him wrong, caught between shame and the sick pull that dragged her closer instead of further away.
He leaned forward now, elbows on the desk, voice dropping so low it felt like a secret. "Let me give you some advice, Tara. Stop chasing attention you cannot handle. Because when you finally get it..." His eyes flickered down, sweeping over every inch of her then back to her eyes, a slow, deliberate sweep that left her skin burning. "...it will destroy you."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
She gripped the pen tighter, nails biting into her palm, and forced herself to turn away. But her legs felt like lead, her body thrumming with every word he'd left behind, echoing like a curse.
She spun on her heel, notebook clutched tight, determined to walk out with whatever dignity she had left. But before she could take two steps, an arm shot out—firm, unyielding—curling around her waist.
Her breath caught as he pulled her back, her spine colliding with the solid wall of his chest. The papers in her arms slipped slightly, the composure shattering with the sudden closeness.
"Going somewhere?" His voice was low, lips brushing against her ear like a dangerous secret.
Tara tried to steady her breathing, but his grip only tightened, fingers pressing into the curve of her waist, anchoring her where she stood. Her body betrayed her—heat flooding, pulse hammering—as if it had been waiting for this very moment.
He chuckled darkly, sensing it. "There it is," he murmured, his breath grazing her skin. "You fight so hard, Tara, but I know that..." His lips curled against the words in mockery. "...you want me."
"Let me go," she whispered fiercely, though her voice trembled, betraying every ounce of what she wanted to hide.
"Why?" His tone was mocking, velvet over steel. "Because you can't stand the way you react? Because you hate that I see right through the pretty little defiance you parade around?"
His hand slid slightly higher on her waist, the movement slow, deliberate, calculated. Tara stiffened, caught between fury and an undeniable pull she despised herself for feeling.
"You pretend to hate me," he said, tilting his head, eyes glinting as he studied every flicker of her reaction. "But deep down? You crave this. You crave me."
Tara's lips parted, a protest half-formed, but nothing came out. she was trembling, not with fear—but with the sick, terrifying awareness that he wasn't entirely wrong.
His menacing smirk deepened. "Pathetic. How easily I can break you. Its dangerous, Tara."
Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released her, stepping back with the careless grace of someone who knew he had already won. Tara staggered a little, clutching her notebook to her chest, breath ragged, eyes burning.
"Run along, Miss Kapoor," he said smoothly, turning back to his desk as though nothing had happened. "Before I decide to test just how much control I have over you."
Her legs finally remembered how to move. She clutched the notebook to her chest like a shield and scurried out of the lecture hall, the slam of the door behind her far too loud in the empty corridor.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, chest heaving as though she'd run a mile. Heat burned across her cheeks, crawling down her neck, betraying her more than words ever could.
She was left flushed, breathless and shaken.
Tara pressed her back against the cool wall outside, squeezing her eyes shut. His voice still rang in her ears, curling low and dark, each word carved into her skin like it belonged there. The memory of his grip on her waist lingered too vividly—firm, claiming, impossible to erase.
She hated him.
She hated how he made her feel.
She hated that she had melted instead of resisting.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she forced herself upright, fingers tightening around her notebook until the edges dug into her palms. Students walked past in small groups, laughing, unaware of the storm crashing inside Tara. She forced herself to straighten, to mask the tremor in her steps as she walked down the hallway.
But no matter how quickly she moved, she couldn't outrun the truth pulsing in her veins—
I wasn't only afraid of Aaryan Rathore.
she was afraid of herself.
The phone buzzed sharply in her hand. The screen flashed Aanya. She answered before she could think.
"T-Tara..." Her voice was strangled, trembling, breaking with every word. "I... I don't know what to do... Please... please come to me... now..."
Sobs rattled through the line, and Tara could hear her uneven breaths, the rapid scrape of her nails against something—papers, maybe her desk—her panic raw and unfiltered.
"I... I need you—now!"
And then—click. Silence.
Tara froze, heart hammering, the line dead.
─── ⋆⋅🎀⋅⋆ ───
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