Author's POV:

Before she could utter a single word, the world around her began to spin. The smell of blood and gunpowder, the sight of the lifeless body on the pavement, and the suffocating proximity of the man beside her became too much to bear.

 Her eyes blurred, the light fading into a hazy grey, and her knees finally buckled.

She didn't hit the ground.

Dev's arm snapped out with lightning speed, catching her around the waist and pulling her limp body against his chest.

 He stood there, unmoved by the chaos of the screaming crowd, looking down at her fainted face with a terrifyingly calm expression.

He brushed his thumb across her pale, cold cheek, his eyes glowing with a dark, manic pride.

"Dekho... kitni masoom lag rahi ho," he whispered, his voice a jagged, chilling rasp. He pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply as if her terror was his finest perfume.

"Maine kaha tha na Gulaab... tum sirf mere liye bani ho. Yeh duniya, yeh log... yeh sab sirf bhed-bakriyan hain jo hamare beech aane ki koshish karte hain."

He looked up at the trembling crowd, a twisted, jagged smirk playing on his lips. His voice suddenly boomed, filled with a lethal power that made the air freeze.

"Is shehar ka har rasta, har saans, aur har ek dhadkan mere naam par chalti hai. Aur yeh ladki? Yeh mera khuda hai... aur apne khuda ko kaid karna mujhe achi tarah aata hai."

He turned his gaze back to Jhanvi, his expression shifting into a terrifyingly tender look of obsession.

"So jao, meri Gulaab. Jab tum aankhein khologi, toh tumhara ateet raakh ho chuka hoga. Aryan ho ya koi aur... agar kisi ne mere junoon ki deewar phandne ki koshish ki, toh main unki lashein bicha kar tumhare liye raasta banaunga. Tumhe paane ke liye main is puri duniya ko jala sakta hoon, aur uski raakh se tumhari maang bharunga."

He swept her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly toward the car, leaving the stench of death and the echoes of his madness behind him.

Jhanvi's POV:

I opened my eyes, and for a few seconds, everything was a blur. My head felt heavy, throbbing with a dull ache. 

As my vision cleared, I realized I was lying on a massive, king-sized bed covered in silk sheets. I sat up quickly, looking around the room. The high ceilings, the expensive furniture, the heavy velvet curtains—this was not my room.

 This wasn't my house.

A surge of panic hit me like a physical blow. I scrambled off the bed, my legs feeling weak, and ran for the door. I threw it open and found myself in a long, marble hallway.

"I have to get out. I have to go home," I whispered to myself, my heart racing.

I ran down the grand staircase, the cold marble biting at my bare feet. I headed straight for what looked like the main entrance, but halfway there, I stopped. 

To my right, a door was slightly open. Something about it felt strange—magnetic and terrifying at the same time.

 I could see a sliver of something bright peeking out from behind the wood.

Slowly, as if moving in a nightmare, I walked toward that door. I pushed it open fully, and the air left my lungs.

My world stopped.

The entire room was a shrine. Every single inch of the walls was covered with pictures of me.

 There were massive oil paintings, candid photos from the cafe, sketches of me sleeping, and 

even photos of me as a child that I didn't even know existed. It was a sea of my own face staring 

back at me. I felt a sheer terror crawl through my veins. This wasn't love—it was a sickness.

I was staring at a large portrait of myself when a deep, chilling voice echoed through the room.

"Are you lost, babygirl?"

(HEHEH While writing this scene i remebered this dialoige)

I gasped and spun around. Dev was leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, watching me with a dark, satisfied smirk.

 He didn't look like the man who had just committed a murder; he looked like a man who had finally brought his most prized possession home.

"D-Dev... why am I here? Take me home, please," I begged, my voice cracking.

He walked toward me, his steps slow and echoing. He didn't stop until he was inches away, his shadow completely swallowing me. He gestured to the walls around us.

"Home?" he whispered, his eyes scanning the photos with a terrifying pride. 

"Gulaab, you are home. These walls have been waiting for you for a long time. Everything in this house, every breath I take... it's all for you."

He reached out, his cold fingers grazing my arm. 

"Don't be scared. You're safe now. Safe from the world... and safe from that person you keep thinking about. From this moment on, the only world you need to know is right here, within these walls. With me."

I looked at the pictures, then back at his psychotic eyes. I realized with a sickening horror that the market shooting was just the beginning.

 He hadn't just brought me to a mansion; he had brought me to my prison.

I stepped back, my chest heaving as I looked from the wall of photos to the man standing before me. The air in the room felt heavy, like it was made of lead.

"Pagal ho tum!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the portraits of my own face.

 "Pehle tumne ek khoon kiya... aur yeh sab? Tum mujhe stalk karte the? Har pal, har jagah?"

Dev didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a low, melodic chuckle that made my skin crawl. 

He walked toward a large oil painting in the center—one that looked years older than the others.

 He reached out, his fingers tracing the painted line of my jaw with a terrifying tenderness.

"Stalking? Nahi, Gulaab," he whispered, his eyes distant as if he were traveling back in time. 

"Ise stalking nahi, ibadat kehte hain."

He turned to look at me, his gaze intense.

 "Chaar saal, Jhanvi. Char saal se main is din ka intezar kar raha hoon. Do you remember that old bookstore near the city square? The one with the blue door?"

I froze. I remembered that bookstore, but I didn't remember him.

"It was raining," Dev continued, stepping closer until I was backed against a cold marble pillar.

 "You were standing there, drenched, arguing with the shopkeeper over five rupees for a second-hand poetry book. You were so fierce, so full of life over such a small thing. You didn't see me sitting in my car across the street, but I saw you."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. 

"In that moment, while you were fighting for five rupees, I was deciding that I would spend billions to own you. I saw the fire in your eyes and I knew... 

I knew right then that you were mine. Not because of fate, but because I commanded it."

"Tum tab se... tab se mere peeche ho?" I whispered, horrified.

"Since that very second," he confirmed, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. 

"Every step you took, every person you met, every smile you gave—I was there. In the shadows. Watching. Waiting for the perfect moment to cage my bird. 

You think your life was a series of coincidences? No, Jhanvi. Your life has been a script written by me. And today, we finally start the final chapter."

I looked at him and realized that my entire existence for the last four years had been a lie. I wasn't living; I was being curated by a monster.

I pushed him with every ounce of strength I had left, my palm connecting with his cheek in a stinging slap.

 His head tilted to the side, his jaw clenching so hard I could see the bone pulsing beneath his skin.

"Tum jaise insaan meri mohabbat ke kabil kabhi nahi ho sakte!" I screamed, my voice cracking with pure loathing. 

"Chahe tum jitni ibadat karo, jitni tasveerein lagao... main tumse nafrat ke alawa kabhi kuch nahi karungi. Tum mere liye sirf ek ghatiya saaya ho!"

I tried to bolt past him, desperate to get out of that suffocating room, but I never stood a chance.