Mariam

Love isn't something that comes easily to anyone. It has the power to shatter a person into pieces if not held carefully. You might lose yourself to the wrong hands, have your trust ripped apart, or wake up one day emptied of all emotion because of a single betrayal. But love can also be beautiful. It can make you bloom in ways you never thought possible. You wake up smiling, thinking of the one you love, of the one who loves you back. Pure love shines through the eyes, so easy to see, so impossible to hide.

And I see it in his eyes. In Shiv's mahogany-brown gaze that glows as surely as daylight spilling across the sky. It's there, truthful, steady, so caring that I stumble and fall for him all over again each time we're together.

It's not only in his eyes, but in the way he holds me. Never too tight, afraid of breaking me, yet firm enough to steady me when I can't stand on my own. It's in the way his words soften when they're meant for me, carrying a rhythm almost poetic, so different from the clipped monotony he uses with everyone else. It's in his touches, his kisses, the way he shields me without hesitation, the way he takes his stand for me, even against the world if he must.

This kind of love is rare. Once in a lifetime, if you're lucky. I don't know if he sees it the same way, if he recognises the immensity of what my heart carries for him. But I try, every day, to make sure he knows. Through my words, my actions, through the way my eyes search for him in every crowd.

These past two months with him have felt surreal. Like I've been living a fairy tale life. We've been with each other, laughed with each other, and made promises that feel real and lasting. We've gone on dates, hidden from the world for hours under the sheets, taken drives that stretched through the night. We've laughed more than I thought was possible, argued about trivial things that always ended with one of us giving in, and pieced together little fragments of each other's worlds.

And it should feel too early to feel this way, to have this instinct tugging at my heart. I wanted to ignore it, but deep down, we both know what we share isn't just fleeting feelings and unfinished promises. This isn't ordinary love. It isn't the kind that lasts only as long as fate allows. It feels like the kind of sacred love destiny curated just for me. My soulmate, my lover. Maybe to others it sounds laughable, even foolish, to say all this so soon, but this man isn't just any man. Shivyansh isn't just someone who would fight for me; he's the kind who would bleed for me, who would give up his own breath if it meant I'd keep mine.

But even the brightest skies have storms creeping at the edges, waiting to break. For us, that storm has a name. His father.

Lately, his visits to the office have become too frequent, his presence around the company almost suffocating. It feels deliberate, like he refuses to leave us alone, refuses to let us breathe without his shadow pressing in. His eyes carry suspicion that cuts sharper each time they land on me, his voice laced with an anger that grows harder to disguise. And every time Shivyansh denies him, every time he chooses me over bending to his will, that anger only deepens, twisting into something darker, something that carries the weight of fear.

And like any other day, he's here today too. It's the day of a big proposal Shivyansh has been preparing for, and the office is alive with people supporting him, congratulating him, basking in the confidence that he'll pull it off. Everyone's attention should be on him, on his brilliance, his hard work, his moment.

But Sheryansh Khurana has spent the entire afternoon with his eyes fixed on me. Not on his son, not on the deal, not on the company's future. Me.

It's not admiration. It's not even curiosity. It's the look of a man searching for cracks, dissecting me with the kind of scrutiny that makes my skin crawl. Like every smile I've shared with Shiv, every step I've taken beside him is an offence he can't tolerate.

My wandering thoughts falter when I feel the warmth of his hand, firm around my waist. Shivyansh is standing right beside me, posture straight, confidence radiating off him like it's stitched into his very being. His voice is calm, measured, the kind of tone that makes people lean closer just to catch every word.

Beside us stands an older man, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, a tailored suit hugging his frame. Shiv had told me earlier he was a board member, an influential one. A future ally, he'd said, if this proposal succeeds. The kind of man whose support could tilt the balance of power within the company.

"...we're pushing for a long-term strategy rather than a quick return," Shiv is saying, his tone edged with conviction. "It's not about what we can make in a quarter, but what we can sustain for a decade. And I intend to make sure that growth happens."

The man chuckles low in his throat, impressed. "That's ambitious, Mr Khurana. Risky, too. But ambition is what builds empires."

I feel Shiv's thumb brush absently over the fabric of my dress, a barely-there gesture that steadies me in the middle of the crowded room. Then he turns slightly, drawing me closer into the conversation. His voice softens, but his pride sharpens when he speaks.

"This is Mariam," he says, glancing at me with the kind of look that makes my stomach flutter. "She's been managing the financial wing of the company. If this project goes the way I plan, you and she will be working closely in the future. You'll be acquaintances, if not allies, soon enough."

The man shifts his attention to me, extending a hand. His palm is dry, grip firm but courteous. I slide my hand into his, polite smile on my lips, but in that exact moment, I feel it, Shiv's hold on my waist tightening. Not harsh, not restrictive. Just a small squeeze, grounding and protective, as if to remind both of us that I'm his anchor, his choice, no matter who else tries to lay claim to my attention.

I glance at him briefly, and he doesn't look back, not directly. But I see it in the way his jaw flexes, in the subtle possessiveness hidden beneath his carefully composed exterior.

The board member excuses himself after a few more polite words, drifting off toward another cluster of suits. The moment he's out of earshot, I turn to Shiv with a grin stretching across my face—wide, exaggerated, deliberately ridiculous.

He doesn't look at me, of course. Typical.

"You know," I murmur, tilting my head so he has no choice but to catch the teasing glint in my eyes, "for someone who prides himself on professionalism, you're awful at hiding it."

His brow pulls together, the perfect mask of control slipping just enough for me to spot the crack underneath. The corner of his mouth twitches before he wrestles it down, his gaze sliding toward the chandelier like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says evenly.

"Oh, really?" I lean closer, my voice low, playful. "Because I could swear that handshake lasted three seconds too long for your liking. And this hand," I tap the one clamped on my waist, "felt like it was welded here."

His jaw tightens. Still, his eyes stay fixed anywhere but on me. "It's called being protective."

"Protective," I echo, stretching the word out until it sounds like a joke. "Right. And the glaring? Was that part of your protection package? Or just you showing off your charm?"

That does it. A laugh bursts out of him, low and reluctant, slipping past his attempt to smother it behind his fist. The sound is warm, unpolished, so real it makes my chest flutter.

When he finally looks at me again, his eyes have softened, unguarded, carrying that rare spark I keep finding myself chasing.

"God, you're impossible," he mutters, shaking his head.

"And yet," I say, grinning up at him, "you still can't resist me."

His fingers tighten at my waist, the smallest squeeze, wordless but impossible to miss. And just like that, I know I've won this round.

I squeeze his arm lightly, still grinning, before leaning closer. "As much as I'm enjoying your jealous streak, I need to slip away for a moment."

His brows draw together instantly. "Where?"

"The restroom," I say casually, like it's obvious.

"I'll go with you." His tone is firm, no hesitation.

I stop mid-step, turning to stare at him with an incredulous smile tugging at my lips. "And ruin my lipstick?" I arch a brow, giving him a look that's equal parts mock-serious and mischievous. "Absolutely not. I've as much of an impression to make as you do, Mr Khurana."

His jaw flexes, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing whether he can argue this. For a moment, I think he might actually insist, but then his mouth curves into that crooked half-smile that always makes my stomach flip.

"Fine," he says finally, leaning just close enough for only me to hear, his voice dropping into that husky edge he knows rattles me. "But don't take too long. I don't like being away from you."

A chuckle escapes me, soft and unguarded, because it's ridiculous how easily he knows how to play me. Shaking my head, I turn and make my way toward the washroom, his presence still clinging to me like a shadow I can't shake.

The soft click of the restroom door shutting behind me muffles the noise of the party outside. I pause in front of the mirror, pressing my palms lightly against the counter as I take a moment to breathe. My reflection stares back, lipstick still perfectly intact, hair still in place. Good. I smooth down the front of my dress, roll my shoulders back, and let out a slow breath. Time to go back to him.

I push the door open and step into the dimly lit hallway, the low hum of voices spilling faintly from the main room. My heels tap against the marble floor as I head in the direction of the crowd. My mind is already painting the image of Shiv waiting for me, probably scanning the room with that impatient frown he gets whenever I'm out of his sight for too long. The thought makes me smile.

But before I can take another step, a sharp tug yanks me backwards.

My breath hitches as I whirl around, startled, and my gaze collides with eyes I wish I hadn't met. Sheryansh Khurana's.

His hand is locked around my arm, fingers digging into my skin with enough force to make me wince. It's not just a grip, it's a claim, cold and suffocating. For a split second, my body freezes, my mind scrambling to catch up with what's happening.

"Mr Khurana." I start, my voice catching, too soft, too uncertain.

The hallway is quiet, almost unnervingly so, every sound from the party muffled by distance. It feels like I've been pulled into a bubble where no one can see, no one can hear. His presence alone fills the air like a storm cloud, heavy and impossible to ignore.

His eyes roam over me in a way that makes my skin crawl, lingering where they shouldn't, a faint glimmer of something dark twisting in his gaze. His jaw is set, his expression sharp with something between anger and something else. Something worse.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is low, rough, almost mocking, as though he already knows the answer. His grip tightens, sending a pulse of pain up my arm.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs, but force my chin up, meeting his stare even though my stomach twists with unease.

"Can I... help with anything?" My voice is soft, careful, carrying the kind of tone I use in meetings when I need to tread lightly. I'm trying, God, I'm trying, to keep it civil. Because no matter what his eyes scream at me right now, this is Shivyansh's father. A member of the board. Someone whose presence I can't afford to make a scene with.

But the way his gaze lingers on me doesn't speak of boardrooms or professionalism. It unsettles me, coils my stomach into knots. His lips curve, not into a smile, but into something sharp and humourless, as if he's amused by the fact that I'm still choosing politeness while his hand all but bruises my skin.

"Help?" His tone dips lower, rough, mocking. "You've already helped yourself enough, haven't you? Into my son's life. Into my company."

My throat goes dry. I try to pull my arm back again, just slightly, a subtle movement I hope he'll let go of, but his grip only hardens.

"I got into this company with my own abilities, Mr Khurana," I say, my voice steadier than I expect, though my pulse is hammering against my skin. "Whatever position I have here, I've earned it."

His grip on my arm doesn't loosen. Instead, his mouth twists into a cold smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Abilities," he repeats, like the word itself is a joke. "Don't flatter yourself, Mariam. You think I don't see what you're doing? Wowing my son, making him believe you're some kind of saving grace. Keeping him tethered to you like a dog on a leash."

My breath catches, but I force myself not to look away. His words drip with disdain, every syllable meant to cut, to unravel me.

"You don't belong here," he continues, his voice low, sharp. "Not in this company, and certainly not in my son's life. Shivyansh was supposed to rise, to lead, to make this family untouchable. And yet here he is, wasting his time, his focus, his name on you."

Each word feels like a lash, but I refuse to let him see me break.

"I'm not keeping him back," I manage, my tone firm but respectful. "If anything, I'm standing by him while he builds the future he deserves. He's worked for it, not me."

That draws a dark chuckle from him, low and humourless. His fingers dig harder into my arm, enough to make my skin throb.

"You really believe that, don't you? That he needs you. That without you, he can't fight his battles. But I'll tell you the truth, Mariam," his eyes narrow, and for a split second, the mask of control slips into pure hostility, "You are nothing but a distraction. A woman whose liability. And sooner or later, I'll make sure he sees it too."

The air feels heavier now, suffocating, and I can feel my chest tightening. But still, I lift my chin a fraction higher. Without another word, I rip my hand free from his grasp. His nails scrape against my skin as the hold breaks, leaving behind a dull ache, but I don't flinch. I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing pain. I turn on my heel, my back straight, my steps sharp and deliberate as I start walking away.

And in that silence, in the space between his venom and my restraint, my thoughts sear through me.

How dare he?

How dare he look at me and see anything less than what I am? I've clawed my way into this world with nothing but my own hands, with the strength of my work, my mind, my determination. I've spent nights bent over numbers, chasing deadlines until my bones screamed with exhaustion, and yet I stood tall every single morning. I wasn't handed anything. Not pity. Not favours. And certainly not power. I earned it. Every ounce of respect I hold in that company, I bled for it.

But in his eyes, I'm still just a woman who doesn't belong. A distraction. A liability. Someone who isn't good enough for his son.

The irony burns in me. Because if only he knew, if only he opened those cold, calculating eyes, he'd see that I am the one who holds Shivyansh together when the weight of his world threatens to crush him. That when Shiv falters, when the burden of his father's name claws at his skin. I'm the one who steadies him. I don't weaken him. I don't chain him. I make him stronger.

And maybe I should scream it. Maybe I should turn back and let my anger pour out, let him hear every word he deserves. But I don't. Because I refuse to sink to his level. I refuse to let his cruelty strip me of my dignity.

No. My silence will be my weapon. My calm, my shield. Let him think he's won this little battle, because the truth is, his son already sees me for who I am. His son already chose me, in a hundred ways Sheryansh can't undo.

And as I walk away, every step is a vow I make to myself: I will not let his hatred poison what we have. I will not let his storm cloud blot out the love that has become my anchor.

Because what Shiv and I share it's bigger than his father's pride. It's bigger than fear. It's love in its truest form. And no amount of venom can corrode that.

My heels click louder as I near the door to the main hall, each step measured, each inhale drawn slowly to keep my rage from spilling over. The muffled buzz of voices seeps through the heavy wooden door, a reminder of the safety and light just beyond. Shiv is in there. People are in there. I just have to cross this threshold and put this whole moment behind me.

I reach for the handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. Relief whispers through me, faint but steady, one push, one step, and I'm out of his shadow.

But the second the door cracks open, a hand clamps onto my arm and yanks me back with brutal force.

I stumble, the breath knocked out of me, the door slamming shut again with a dull thud that echoes down the empty hallway. My back collides with the wall, and my eyes snap wide as the same iron grip digs into me, harsher, unforgiving this time.

The wall is cold against my back, but it's nothing compared to the ice in his grip. His face is inches from mine now, the mask he wore earlier stripped away, replaced with raw, boiling fury.

"How dare you?" he seethes, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. His fingers tighten, and I wince. "How dare you turn your back on me like that. Do you think you can just walk away when I'm speaking to you?"

I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his glare. His eyes are dark, alive with a storm that feels like it could swallow me whole. But I won't cower, not now.

"You will leave," he spits, the words fired like bullets. "You will get out of this company, and you will stay away from my son. If you want him to complete this deal, if you want him to succeed, you'll disappear. That's the only way he'll win."

The audacity, the cruelty of it, claws at me, but I don't let it show. My voice, when I finally speak, is steady, respectful, because Shiv's father or not, I won't give him my rage.

"I'm sorry, Mr Khurana," I say, keeping my chin lifted. "But no. I will not leave him. I will not leave this company. Not when I've worked for everything I have here. And not when I know that being by his side makes him stronger, not weaker."

His nostrils flare, his face darkening with disbelief, as though no one's ever dared tell him no.

And then his mouth twists into a sneer. "Of course. Respectful words, sweet voice, obedient tone, you've perfected the act, haven't you?" His gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my stomach churn. "Tell me, Mariam, what is it you're really after? My son's money? His power? The Khurana name? Girls like you don't fall in love with men like him for free. You see a throne, and you dress yourself up as a queen to steal it."

The words slam into me, crueller than his grip, and for a second, heat burns at the corners of my eyes. But I blink it back. He will not see me break. Not him.

"You think I don't see you for what you are?" he says, his grip bruising my arm as he leans in closer. "Women like you... you're nothing but,"

The word hovers on the edge of his tongue, ugly and vile, the kind meant to gut me in one clean strike.

A whore.

I see it forming in his mouth, taste the venom before it even leaves him. My blood runs hot, a roaring pulse in my ears. And that's it, that's where my calm fractures, shattering like glass beneath a hammer.

I don't think. I move. I wrench my arm free with everything I have. His nails rake my skin as I pull away; a line of hot sting blooms along my forearm. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, but it barely registers beneath the burn of fury. I shove him with the edge of my shoulder and step back until there's space, real space, between us.

"Mr Khurana," I say his name like a bell, loud and clear in the narrow corridor. It echoes off the walls. I can taste the salt of adrenaline on my tongue. "You will not speak to me like that."

He opens his mouth, stunned for the first time since this started, and I take that breath and I don't waste it. Words pour out of me, hot and honed, the calm I practised gone like smoke.

"You are cruel," I say, each word deliberate. "You are mean. You sit behind your title and your power, and you think that gives you the right to wound people and call it authority. You stand here and decide who belongs and who doesn't as if people are pieces on the board you can move at will."

His face hardens, but I keep going. "You call me a distraction, a liability, you call me every ugly thing in your head because you're terrified. Terrified that someone you didn't pick for your son chose him anyway. Terrified that your command isn't absolute. That's why you lash out. Not because of me, but because you know that if you can't control everything, you'll lose everything."

"You are misogynistic," I spit, the word loud and raw. "You think women are prizes or problems, not people. You think love is a transaction and loyalty a commodity. You judge, you assign worth, you reduce lives to rumours and prices, and you wonder why people resist you."

My voice shakes now with what I let go, not fear but a kind of fierce grief. "You come here with your threats and your sneers and you try to terrify me into leaving my work, my life, the man I love. Do you know what that is? That is cowardice. You are so afraid of losing your son to anything that isn't your choosing that you would rather strip him of choice altogether."

I step closer despite the distance, into his space so he can feel the truth of it. "You call me names in your head because you don't dare to look at your own failure. You think force will fix what kindness could not. But you are wrong. You can't break people by brandishing titles and threats. You only show everyone what you already are: small, brittle, and angry."

I hear nothing but the hammer of my heart. He's pale, colour gone out of his face, and for the first time, his fury is edged with something else, confusion, maybe, or the sting of being exposed. Around us, muffled through the door, the party goes on as if this is not happening. As if his cruelty is private and mine the public shame.

I look at him once more. "I will not leave. I will not be erased because you are afraid."

His hand shifts, swift, sharp, and terrifying. For a second, I swear the air stills, as if even the walls are holding their breath. I see it, the tilt of his wrist, the rage burning in his eyes, the intent clear. He's going to slap me.

I don't flinch. My jaw locks, my chest tightens, but I don't move. If he wants to hit me, let him. Let him prove, with his own hand, every word I just threw at him.

And then.

Creaaaak.

The sound slices through the tension like a blade. My gaze flicks sideways. The door. Slowly, quietly, it opens.

He stands there.

Shivyansh.

His silhouette is carved against the light from the hall, his eyes dark and unreadable, but burning with something I can't quite name. His presence is like a storm entering the room, silent yet suffocating.

My lungs forget how to work. Sheryansh freezes too, his arm halfway lifted, his face caught in an expression that's equal parts fury and shock. For the first time since this battle began, the balance of power shifts, not because of me, not because of him, but because of the man now standing at the threshold.

Shivyansh doesn't speak at first. He just stands there, the door half-open behind him, the faint light from the other room spilling across his shoulders. But his eyes. God, his eyes.

They lock onto his father's raised hand.

There's no flicker, no dramatic widening, no outburst. Nothing. Only a stillness that's more terrifying than a scream could ever be. The kind of stillness that coils, that threatens to break bones when it finally moves.

His jaw is clenched so tightly that I can see the muscle ticking there, his lips pressed into the thinnest line, as though every word burning inside him is being caged behind his teeth. His hands are at his sides, curled slightly into fists, just enough to betray the storm brewing under that rigid calm.

And then, slowly, his gaze shifts. From the hand. To me.

It's not pity in his eyes. It's not even a worry. It's something sharper, darker, heavier. As if my pain, my fury, the sting on my skin, he's absorbing it all, piece by piece, building it into the anger simmering inside him. My chest tightens. I can't breathe under the weight of it.

Finally, his eyes drag back to his father.

The silence between them is deafening. The air feels electric, charged, like one wrong move could spark an explosion. Sheryansh's hand falters in the air, his wrist trembling just faintly before he lets it fall back to his side. And yet, he doesn't look ashamed. He just looks cornered.

But Shiv, he doesn't let go of that quiet rage. He doesn't erupt. He doesn't shout. He just stands there, still as stone, but I can feel it, the promise of destruction humming in every line of his body. His calm isn't calm at all. It's the calm of a storm holding itself back, waiting for the moment it's allowed to tear through everything in its path.

And in that moment, I realise. Shivyansh Khurana is far, far more terrifying in silence than his father could ever be in fury.

He doesn't hesitate. His voice is low, steady, and the words land like a verdict.

"Leave," he says, eyes locked on his father. "Now. And don't make an argument of it, unless you wish to die tonight."

The corridor goes silent as if someone has pressed pause on the world. Sheryansh's mouth opens, then shuts. Rage warps his features into something uglier, more animal. For a breath, it looks as if he might lunge; then the older man straightens with a shove of pride, his face a mask that tries to hide the indignation. He jerks his chin as if claiming a last word, then turns and stalks away. The door clicks behind him, and the hallway exhales.

Shiv doesn't move at first. He stands where he is. I can see the colour rise and fall in his neck, the way his hands curl and unclench tells me the storm hasn't passed, only focused. Then, finally, his gaze drops to me, and it's no longer the terrible, coiled thing it was with his father. It's plain, hungry concern.

He crosses the space between us in two long strides, silent now, and reaches for my arm. His fingers are gentle this time, as if afraid to bruise more than they already have. He studies the crescent of scratches along my forearm like he's reading a map he can't quite believe.

"Did he..." he starts, voice raw at the edge, then stops, because every word would be too small.

Instead, he closes the distance and draws me into him. His hand goes to the small of my back, his forehead rests against mine, and the hard edge in him melts for the smallest, truthful fragment of a second.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, the apology more for the sting on my skin than for anything else. "I should have been here."

I press into him, tasting the faint tang of adrenaline and something like home. Around us, the party hums on, oblivious, but in here, there is only the press of his chest against mine and the rumble in his ribs that matches my own. He doesn't promise the world away with words; he simply holds me like he means it.

His hand shifts from my waist to my cheek, fingertips brushing so lightly that it feels like he's tracing the edges of me, as if I'm something fragile. His thumb pauses just beneath my lower lip, and the weight of his gaze pins me in place. The storm still lingers in his eyes, but beneath it there's something else, a softness he shows only when no one else is looking.

Then he leans in, closing the last breath of space between us. His lips find mine, firm but unhurried, carrying all the words he doesn't say. It's not a kiss meant to ignite; it's a kiss meant to anchor. And God, it works.

The chaos, it all blurs into nothing under the warmth of Shiv's mouth. I can feel the steadiness in him bleeding into me, grounding me where fear had tried to scatter me apart. His palm cradles the side of my face, his other hand still tight on my waist.

I melt into him, my body softening against the strength of his hold, my heartbeat syncing to his steady rhythm. The comfort in his kiss isn't delicate; it's fierce in its own way, like he's swearing against my lips that nothing will touch me again. That no shadow his father casts will ever reach me if he has breath left in his body.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough for air to pass between us, my lips still tingling, I realise, I believe that thought.

My lips part, the word sorry trembling at the edge of my tongue, but before it can leave me, Shiv's finger is against my mouth, silencing me.

"You don't apologise," he says, voice low, steady, and sharp. His eyes hold mine, unblinking, unwavering. "You said nothing wrong, Mariam. Nothing."

I swallow, the protest dying in my throat, because the way he looks at me, it's as if my pain has become his, my scars carved into his skin.

His hand drops from my lips, settling back at my waist, pulling me a fraction closer. "This was his last string," he murmurs, each word laced with a finality that makes my chest tighten. "And now he's snapped it. He's officially declared war."

I blink up at him, the weight of those words pressing down on me, heavy and terrifying, but he doesn't flinch. His jaw tightens, his breath steady, his presence solid like a shield wrapping itself around me.

"I'll fight for us," he promises, the vow so sure, so unshakable, it sounds less like hope and more like destiny. "For you. For everything we've built. And for this company and its future, without letting him drag it down."

The conviction in his tone settles deep into my bones, burning away the last tremor of fear his father left behind.

And the moment his forehead lowers to rest lightly against mine, I know, this isn't just love. This is war, and he's chosen me as both his reason and his cause.