The Parisian night was a silent canvas of falling snow, each flake a delicate brushstroke against the obsidian sky. Tara trudged home, the fatigue from her art studio weighing heavily on her slender shoulders. The crunch of fresh snow under her boots was the only sound, a rhythmic companion in the quiet darkness. But for the past few days, that quiet had felt… watchful.

A feeling. Just a feeling, she told herself, clutching her coat tighter. The chilling sensation of unseen eyes boring into her back made her spine rigid. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs, her breath misting in the frigid air. The street was empty, desolate. It's just your imagination, Tara. You're exhausted.

Shaking her head, she dismissed the paranoia and turned into her building's left wing, seeking the sterile safety of concrete and glass. The elevator ride to the 27th floor was a blur of fluorescent lights and mechanical hum. Stepping out, the familiar, slightly clinical scent of the hallway greeted her. Her boots clicked a lonely tune on the marble until she stopped at a door.

Apartment 1027.

Her fingers, numb from the cold, lifted almost of their own volition to trace the raised numbers. A broken, wistful smile touched her lips, a silent testament to a pain she carried deep within. The numbers were not random; they were a date, a ghost, a heartbeat from her past.

Inside, she tossed her bag onto the plush couch and shrugged off her long coat, the warmth of her apartment doing little to thaw the ice in her veins. Her gaze drifted, as it always did, to the small table by the window. Two photo frames stood like silent sentinels of her life.

One held a vibrant, happy family portrait: Tara, her sister Eraya, and their beaming parents. A lifetime ago. The other frame held a different kind of memory. It was a candid shot of him—Aryan. His profile was sharp against the sunlight, his attention captured by something outside the frame. And behind him, slightly blurred, was Tara. Her smile was radiant, her eyes shining with a love so pure and unguarded it now made her throat tighten. The photo had been a random click by Siya, a perfect, painful capture of her unrequited devotion.

A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. "I hope you are fine," she whispered into the silence, her voice cracking. "And living your life happily... I miss you every day, Aryan."

She swiped the tear away angrily, refusing to succumb to the grief. Be strong. This is the choice you made.

Seeking solace in routine, she headed to the washroom. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, clad in a soft pajama set and a button-up shirt, her skin smelling of lavender and soap. She was ready to bury her sorrows in the mindless comfort of sleep.

But fate had other plans.

The moment she stepped out of the washroom, the world plunged into absolute blackness. The lights died with a soft click, swallowing the apartment whole. A jolt of pure, unadulterated fear shot through her. This has never happened before. Not once since I moved here.

Her breath hitched. Phone. I need my phone for light. She began to move cautiously, her hands outstretched in the oppressive darkness, navigating by memory alone. And then she felt it—a warm, distinct breath on the nape of her neck.

Her entire body froze. Every hair stood on end. This was no imagination.

"W-Who... who is there?" she stammered, her voice a terrified whisper in the void.

Silence. A heavy, predatory silence.

It's him. The one who's been following me. Her mind raced, panic clawing at her throat. She forced her legs to move again, one shaky step after another. But in the next heartbeat, a strong, unyielding arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back with a force that stole the air from her lungs.

She stumbled backward, her back colliding with a solid, muscular chest. A gasp tore from her lips.

"Who are you?! What the hell do you want?!" she cried out, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and fury.

Then, she felt it again. The hot caress of a breath near her ear, followed by a voice—a voice she knew in her dreams, a voice that haunted her every waking moment. A voice that shattered her world and put it back together all at once.

"Stella."

The nickname, his special name for her, spoken in that deep, familiar baritone, sent a seismic shock through her system. Her breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

"A-Aryan...?" she stammered, disbelief rendering her weak.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated through his chest and into her very soul. His hold tightened, pulling her flush against him until not a sliver of space remained between them. His both hands rested possessively on her waist. Then, she felt the soft, devastating pressure of his lips planting a tender kiss on the sensitive skin of her neck.

Tara’s eyes fluttered closed.

"Aryan... is it really you?"

He turned her in his arms, and suddenly, they were face-to-face in the consuming darkness. The click of his phone flashlight illuminated the space between them, casting sharp shadows on his face. And what a face it was. Her Aryan. But his eyes... they held storms. He looked utterly exhausted, as if he hadn't slept in weeks, with dark circles bruising the skin beneath his piercing gaze. And I know the reason, her heart wept. It's me.

"Who else could it be, huh?" he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Who else could get this close to you?"

Tara tried to summon her strength, to push against the solid wall of his chest. "Why the hell are you here, Aryan?"

He chuckled again, the sound devoid of humor.
"Well, my wedding is supposed to happen soon. Was I not supposed to come and take my bride-to-be home... Mrs. Aryan?"

The title dried her throat. Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Don't break. Don't you dare break.

She forced her voice into a firm, icy tone.

"I already told you, Aryan. I don't love you. It was all just a joke, a silly infatuation. I will not marry you. Now, leave."

But Aryan’s grip only tightened, his fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her impossibly closer.

"No, Stella. You are the one... the one who told me you loved me. The girl who left everything and came this far, just to keep me safe, is now standing here telling me she doesn't love me?" His voice cracked with raw pain.

"You, who took an apartment with a number that is my birth date... and you still have the audacity to say you don't love me? You love me so much, Tara."

His voice broke completely. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry I realized your love so late. But please... please don't leave me, Tara. Please."

Her composure was a fragile dam about to burst. "Aryan, I have told you, I don't love—"

His mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing the lie she was so desperately trying to sell.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. A confession. A punishment. His lips moved over hers with a fierce desperation, sucking and devouring, as if he could drink the truth straight from her soul. Tara stood rigid for a moment, her mind screaming in protest. No! You can't do this! You can't give in!

But then, she felt the hot sting of tears as they finally escaped her closed eyelids. This... this was the moment she had waited for, dreamed of, ached for through countless lonely nights. Her resolve, built so carefully over months, shattered into a million pieces.

Sensing her surrender, Aryan gentled his assault. He nibbled softly on her lower lip, and with her gasp, he seized the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. And it was emotional. This kiss was every unspoken word, every missed moment, every ounce of love and longing he had carried for her.

Tara’s hands, which had been braced against his chest, now flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer as if her life depended on it. She kissed him back with all the pent-up passion, pain, and love she had been forced to bury. She poured every "I miss you," every "I love you," every silent prayer into that one, searing connection.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting together. Tara’s eyes were still closed, but Aryan’s were open, gazing at her with a wonder that mirrored the turmoil in his soul.

His voice was a ragged whisper. "This... this is our third kiss, Stella."

His words were a bucket of ice water. Her eyes flew open, wide with horror. What have I done? She remembered her own eager response, the way her body had molded to his. She had given herself away.

"Aryan, you need to go," she said, pushing against him, her voice laced with renewed panic.

Instead of releasing her, he simply scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Tara gasped, her arms instinctively circling his neck.

"Now, I will only leave by taking my bride with me," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And this time, let's see who dares to separate me from my Stella."

Tara began to cry in earnest, her tears soaking his shirt. "Please, Aryan, just go... leave me alone... please..."

He carried her to the bed and sat down, cradling her in his lap as if she were the most precious thing in the world. One hand rested securely on her waist. "No, Tara. I'm not going anywhere. You cannot suppress your love because of some fear, and trust me, nothing will happen. Please, Tara. Marry me."

"No, Aryan... please... I won't marry you," she sobbed, her body shaking. "Understand!"

His voice became firm, laced with an iron will she knew all too well. "The wedding will happen, Tara. It definitely will. You, Tara Sharma, will become "Tara Aryan Singh Rathod." So get ready. Our wedding is next week."

Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "No! I don't love you! I won't marry you!"

Aryan looked at her tear-streaked face, his expression unyielding. Then, his gaze dropped to the buttons of her shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and began to undo the first button, his eyes locked with hers.

"Wait," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Let me show you just how much you love me."

He unfastened the second button, then the third, the soft pop of each button giving way echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence.

Tara’s breath hitched, her mind scrambling. No, no, no... This was an interrogation. He was moving to expose more than just her skin; he was moving to expose her soul. And he knew exactly what he would find.

A violent tremor wracked her body as the third button came undone, the fabric of her shirt falling open to reveal the delicate, pale skin of her chest and the top of her camisole. And there, just above her heart, peeking from the edge of the linen, was the tip of a dark, intricate design.

Recognition, sharp and terrifying, dawned in her eyes.

No. Not that. He can’t see that. Her secret. Her most sacred, painful, and foolish secret. The permanent proof of her love etched into her very being

"N-No... Aryan, stop...Please" she pleaded, her voice a mere whisper.

He paused, his fingers on the fourth button. "Why? Are you afraid... afraid of proving how much you love me?"

She said nothing, her body trembling, her will crumbling under the intensity of his gaze.

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing hers. "I'm asking you something, Mrs. Aryan."

********