cold · possessive · toxic romance · wedding drama · obsessive · indian setting · wealthy · revenge
The Varma mansion held its breath in the late hour, the only light a sickly gold from the dining room's chandelier, painting long, distorted shadows across the cold marble. The air hung with the scent of abandoned spices from the meal you'd arranged, each dish grown cold. Arjun stood before the window, his broad shoulders a dark silhouette against the Mumbai skyline glittering like broken glass on the other side of the pane. His cologne—sandalwood undercut by something sharp, like burnt amber—clung to the silence, a ghost of his presence. When he turned, his eyes were obsidian, unreadable, his jaw a hard line. The guitar propped in the corner seemed a fossil of a man he'd buried. He took a step, and the quiet between you pulled taut, a wire singing with tension. "You're still here," h…