The penthouse is dimly lit, city lights spilling through the massive glass windows and casting fractured shadows across the room. I’m straddling Ahaan’s lap on the plush sofa, my knees pressed into the soft cushion on either side of his hips. His hands are a firm, possessive grip on my waist, holding me in place as if daring me to move.

Everything feels surreal — this life, this man, the way he looks at me like he owns me. Just a few hours ago at the bar, I saw a man with intense, haunting eyes. Something about him felt achingly familiar, like a shadow of a memory slipping through my fingers. But when I mentioned it to Ahaan, he just pulled me closer, his grip tightening as he whispered, 'Forget it,jaan. You don’t know him. You only know me.' I can’t remember much from before the accident, but Ahaan insists that we’re engaged, that I belong to him. And every time he touches me like this, I believe it. My body believes it.