The attendant, a slender man whose eyes were as neutral as his expensive gray suit, led Aisha out of the main hall. She didn't look back at Siddharth Raichand.
To acknowledge him was to admit his victory.
​The journey to her new quarters was a bizarre procession through marble and glass corridors that felt more like a museum than a home.
Every piece of art was ancient, every surface immaculate. She was a single, jarring imperfection in his perfect, cold world.
​Her suite was enormous. The main room alone could have fit her old apartment twice over, but it felt sterile, designed for display, not dwelling.
The panoramic windows offered the same sweeping, dizzying view of the city, only now, it looked less like a kingdom and more like the roof of her golden cage.
​The attendant paused, his expression unchanged.
"Your needs will be anticipated. Clothes, toiletries, electronics-everything is stocked. Your sister's private medical updates will be delivered to the tablet on the nightstand every morning at 8:00 AM."
​"When can I leave?" Aisha asked, her voice flat.
​"You may use the upper floors of the Tower, Ms. Sharma.
He didn't answered the question she asked.
I said when I can leave this penthouse . She said in a cold tone.
However, you will not leave the building without Lord Raichand's personal escort."
The attendant hesitated, then added, "You should know, he is not a man to be trifled with. Your cooperation will benefit you greatly."
​"And if I try to contact anyone outside?" She said nervously.
​The attendant finally allowed a flicker of something-pity, perhaps, or warning-in his eyes.
"Lord Raichand has access to everything. Please, do not give him cause to remind you of the gravity of your situation. He values tranquility." With a shallow bow, he departed, the door clicking shut with a heavy finality.
​Aisha stood in the center of the vast room, the silence now deafening. She walked to the window, placing her palm against the cool glass.
She could see everything, but touch nothing.
​Cooperation, she thought bitterly. That meant bending to his will, surrendering to the chilling charisma that had almost paralyzed her moments ago.
She had felt a spark-an undeniable, terrifying magnetism-and the memory of his cold hand on her neck made her throat tighten.
He was right "she was bound to him, and he knew she would hate him for making her feel anything else".
​She walked over to the nightstand and found the tablet. Ignoring the fancy interface, she found the browser and searched for "Siddharth Raichand."
The results were endless: headlines detailing his massive real estate holdings, his philanthropic ventures (always anonymous), and his iron grip on the city's infrastructure. There were no personal details, no family history, no scandals. He was an enigma, a polished myth.
"How is this even possible...not even a single detail about this man "she said in disbelief with furrowed brows
I have to find out everything and get out of this golden cage as soon as possible.
She said in low tone
​She moved to the private bedroom. The enormous bed looked like it belonged in a cloud. Exhaustion finally crashed over her. She stripped off her clothes, the heavy jacket and shirt feeling like the uniform of her old life, and fell onto the soft sheets, pulling the duvet over her head.
​A few floors above, in a room dedicated entirely to advanced surveillance and communications, Siddharth Raichand watched Aisha on a massive hidden screen.
He wasn't watching the room, he was watching her.
His chief strategist, a human named Vikram, stood respectfully two paces back.
​"She's researching you, my Lord," Vikram noted, his voice low.
​"Naturally. She is cataloging the extent of her cage," Siddharth replied, his tone detached.
He watched as Aisha threw herself onto the bed, burying herself in the blankets. A moment later, a wave of palpable exhaustion and despair registered on the thermal imaging overlay.
​"Her vitals are highly unstable," Vikram reported, referencing the hidden medical sensors woven into the suite's environment. "Her adrenaline levels are crashing. She'll sleep hard.
Siddharth dismissed the clinical data with a wave of his hand.
His blue-tinged eyes were fixed on the screen, drawn only to the sight of her defiant form.
​"That defiance is the most beautiful thing about her.
I won't crush it.
I'll cultivate it."
​He knew he had shaken her with his proximity and his claims.
He had seen the unwanted attraction bloom beneath her fear, that vital sign that proved his assessment was correct.
She was resisting, yet subconsciously, she was already reaching for the security he offered.
​"Initiate Phase Two," Siddharth commanded.
"Begin the transfer of Diya Sharma's medical oversight to our team.
No expense spared, no corners cut. "When you'll wakeup Jaana you'll know the kind of care that only I can provide."
Till then sleep tight ,love . He said in low and dark voice with a smirk in his lips.
Your Emily_inktales
My story is fully based on imagination.
I'm writing this story just for a experience. That's it.
Your Emily 💖
Emily_inktales was born from the chaos of emotions — from stories that ache, burn, and refuse to fade. I write for those who crave intensity, for readers who find beauty in broken things and poetry in pain. Every line I write is a heartbeat; every character carries a fragment of truth that I’ve bled onto paper. My goal isn’t just to tell stories — it’s to build a world where darkness and desire coexist, where readers feel seen, haunted, and healed all at once. Fan support helps me keep that world alive — to create more chapters, deeper worlds, and characters who feel heartbreak the way we do. It fuels the late nights, the endless rewrites, and the quiet moments where stories turn into something raw and real. With your support, I dream of expanding Emily_inktales into a realm where readers can step behind the curtain ,to see the unspoken thoughts, the drafts, the secrets behind every scene. A space for those who don’t just read… but feel. Every share, every message, every moment you
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