Chapter 4

Aaryan Rathore's Journal

(⚠️ This content includes unhinged, obsessive and deranged thoughts of Aaryan Rathore that maybe triggering to a few readers, proceed with caution)

22nd September, 2025

Wednesday

Dear Diary,

Tara.

The name alone had the power to make my chest tighten, my blood ignite. It was unfair, absurd, intoxicating—the way she existed in my world without my permission, the way she thought she could move, breathe, and look around without my approval.

I watched her. Always. Even when she wasn't aware. Even when she thought she could escape my gaze. Every heartbeat she took was mine to count, every breath a rhythm I memorised and controlled in my mind.

There was a thrill in the subtlety—the twitch of her fingers when she was flustered, the flush creeping across her cheeks when I approached, the way her pulse quickened when she thought she was unnoticed. It was mine to awaken. Mine to command. Mine to ruin.

Control. The very word pulsed through me like a drug. And she... she was my addiction. My sickness. The mere thought of her defiance made my teeth clench, my veins hum. I craved her fear. I craved her rebellion because it meant she was alive, and it meant I could bend her to me.

I imagined her trembling when I whispered a command she didn't want to obey, imagined the way her body betrayed her no matter how hard she tried to hold composure. I loved it—the panic, the shame, the heat of her secret surrender.

Every encounter left me hungrier. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every nerve-ending glance she gave me without realising it—it was all reinforcement. The addiction tightened its grip with every heartbeat she took in my presence.

And yet, no one knew. Not the staff, not her friends, not her naive family. To the world, I was the exemplary professor, the calm, collected intellectual. The man who could charm, command, and be trusted.

But in private... oh, in private, in private I was a monster. I was a criminal. And she belonged to me.

Every moment she walked, sat, breathed—she fueled the obsession, twisted and exquisite. I couldn't look away. I wouldn't. I would never let her go.

Because I didn't just want her. I needed her. I craved her with every fibre of my being. And I would take it.

─── ⋆⋅🎀⋅⋆ ───

The blinds were drawn halfway, spilling stripes of sunlight across Aaryan's desk, catching on the neat rows of files he didn't actually care to look at. His fingers tapped absently against a pen, his mind still tangled in the memory of Tara's flushed face earlier. The way her breath stuttered, the way her body froze when he pulled her close. It was seared into him.

There was a knock, light and rehearsed.

"Professor Rathore?"

Meher Solanki. Ms. Solanki to the students, Meher to her colleagues. The click of her heels preceded her perfume, floral, just a little too sweet, like something that had been spritzed one too many times.

"Meher," Aaryan greeted, slipping on his polite smile, that effortless curve of lips that made people think he was approachable, decent, safe. "What brings you here?"

She closed the door behind her, leaning on it just a fraction longer than necessary. She wasn't here for departmental files, and they both knew it.

"I was just... passing by." Her tone was playful, almost girlish, though she was far too polished for that. She glided over to his desk, eyes darting to the papers he hadn't bothered to read. "Thought you might need a break from all this... heavy work."

Aaryan chuckled low and deep, leaning back in his chair. "Work does have a way of piling up. But someone's got to keep order, right?"

She laughed, touched her hair, then her hand slipped casually—far too casually—onto the corner of his desk. Nails painted wine red. Aaryan could feel the weight of her gaze on him, probing and daring.

He let her look. Let her think she had him pinned under her spell. That was the fun of it.

Her hand drifted closer, brushing against his arm. A bold move. Aaryan's smile didn't falter. Instead, he leaned forward, dropping his voice just slightly. "Careful, Ms. Solanki. If anyone walked in, they'd get the wrong idea."

Her laugh was throaty, deliberate. "Maybe I wouldn't mind that."

Inside, Aaryan almost sneered. So eager and so shallow. She wanted the man people thought he was—the charming professor, the disciplined scholar. She had no idea. No one did.

He let her linger, even allowed the brush of her fingers against his, the suggestive tilt of her leaning into the desk. Aaryan's face stayed warm, welcoming. His eyes, however, softened with something else—something she couldn't quite read.

"Ms. Solanki," he said slowly, deliberately, letting her name roll off his tongue like a tease. "You're flattering me. But let's just say... my mind is already occupied."

He let that hang there, heavy. A suggestion. An insinuation. Her curiosity sparked instantly; he saw it in the flicker of her eyes, the tiny parting of her lips.

Occupied.

She wanted to know by who. She wanted to imagine it was her.

But it wasn't.

And it never would be.

Because while she was here, painting herself in perfume and perfection, his mind was already down the hall, tangled around Tara's trembling form, her flushed cheeks, her fire and her fear.

Meher Solanki could only ever think he was the good man she flirted with. But Tara... Tara was the one who'd see the monster he truly was.

Her eyes sharpened at his words, like a cat catching the flicker of prey. She tilted her head, lips curling into that little smile she thought was coy.

"Occupied, huh?", she drawled, her manicured fingers drumming lightly against his desk. "Now you've got me curious, Professor. Who could possibly have your attention?"

He leaned back, folding his arms slowly across his chest, letting silence do half the work. The longer he kept her waiting, the more desperate she became.

Finally, he shrugged lightly, gaze flicking toward the window as if distracted. "She's... different," he said, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "She's... sharp. Restless. A little reckless."

Meher's smile faltered, just a flicker, but he saw it. Her nails tapped harder against the wood.

"And," he added, lowering his voice as though he were letting her in on a forbidden secret, "she doesn't even realise what she does to me."

A sharp intake of breath—barely audible.

She laughed a second too late, forced brightness covering the spark of unease in her eyes. "Well... sounds mysterious." Her voice was tight, her body shifting, shoulders stiffening. "And I suppose she must be very lucky."

Aaryan allowed himself a small smirk, leaning just a little closer, enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne. "Or maybe," I murmured, "I'm the lucky one."

Jealousy glinted in her eyes, quick and bitter, hidden beneath her polite smile. She pulled her hand back from his desk, though the stiffness in her fingers betrayed her irritation.

Exactly what he wanted.

Let her think she had competition. Let her stew in it, wonder, speculate. She'd never guess the truth, never imagine it was the girl she'd see in class tomorrow, sitting with her notebooks and wide, defiant eyes.

Because Meher Solanki could flirt and sigh all she wanted. But only Tara had the power to set his veins on fire.

He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, buttoning his coat with deliberate ease. Meher blinked up at him, still perched on the edge of my desk, clearly unsatisfied, still clawing for scraps of his attention.

He gave her my most disarming smile—the kind that made people believe he was kinder than he was. "Always a pleasure, Ms. Solanki," he said, voice warm, almost indulgent. "But duty calls. My students await."

She tilted her head, lips parting as though she wanted to say more, to tug him back into her little game. He didn't give her the chance. With a courteous nod, Aaryan moved past her, leaving behind the faint trace of sandalwood cologne and a silence thick with her unspoken frustration.

The corridor outside was bright with mid-afternoon light, the usual shuffle of students echoing against the tiled floors. Aaryan adjusted his cuffs, already shifting into the commanding rhythm of his next lecture, when motion caught his eye.

Aanya.

She was sprinting down the hall like a hunted thing, her phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Her breath came in ragged sobs, face blotched and wet with tears. The sheer panic in her eyes was raw—animalistic. Students turned to look, whispering, but she brushed past them, as though the world itself had narrowed into a tunnel she needed to escape.

Aaryan slowed his pace, watching her with a tilt of his head. Interesting—he thought. Very interesting.

Her panic wasn't ordinary. It was sharp, guttural, the kind born from secrets rotting beneath the surface. And secrets always had a way of finding Aaryan.

His lips curved faintly as he resumed walking, the sound of her muffled sobs trailing down the corridor like a scent.

Aanya's fear didn't concern him. But it might, very soon.

The lecture ended in the usual haze of scribbling pens and half-formed questions, the third-years shuffling out with relieved chatter. Aaryan closed his notes, slid the chalk back into its tray, and reached for his phone.

A notification blinked at the top of the screen—Message from Faculty Head.

He opened it lazily, eyes scanning the words.

All Academically weak students will be allotted personal tutors to ensure progress. Professors are requested to identify those struggling and assign appropriate guidance.

Aaryan let out a dark laugh, sharp and low in his throat. Guidance. That sanctimonious word the university loved so much. As if shaping clay was anything but power.

His mind, unbidden, painted her face. Tara. Her sharp tongue, her fire, the way she bristled whenever he ignored her, yet couldn't stop chasing his attention. She wasn't weak—not truly. But she could be made to appear weak. He could make her stumble, he could dim her brilliance until the only light she sought came from Aaryan.

All it would take was a few careful slips—a question she couldn't answer, a test graded with precision cruel enough to pull her down but merciful enough to keep suspicion away. And then, when the list came out, her name would shine at the top.

And the beauty of it? No one would question Aaryan. He was the professor, the mentor, the trusted guide. His word was final.

He slid the phone back into my pocket, lips curling into a cruel and a dark smirk only she can light up. Soon, she would have no choice. She would come to him—alone, unguarded, desperate for help.

And Aaryan would be there.

Not to guide.

To break.