🌶️ Sinful Raabta

> “He didn’t touch her skin that day. But he touched something far more dangerous — her control.”

---

The sprawling gates of Rathore Mansion creaked open slowly, like the entrance to a forbidden realm. Meher sat stiffly in the backseat of the car Veer had sent — a sleek black Mercedes with leather interiors that smelled of power and secrets.

She hadn’t been able to sleep the night before.

Not after what happened in his office.

Not after the way his eyes had devoured her like a silent threat wrapped in silk.

This wasn’t just a job anymore. It was a contract with the devil — signed by a gaze, sealed by submission.

The car halted in front of the mansion. Traditional yet modern, the estate looked like something out of a royal fantasy— sandstone pillars, intricate jaali windows, and heavy carved doors that whispered old money.

A butler opened her door.

“Ma’am. Mr. Rathore is expecting you.”

Expecting.

The word stirred something in her stomach. Fear? Excitement? Both?

As she stepped in, a hush settled over the space. The air smelled of oud, leather, and rain. The walls were lined with antique paintings — some too bold to belong in a family home.

At the far end of the hallway stood Veer.

Black kurta, sleeves rolled up, jawline sharp enough to hurt. His icy eyes found her instantly — and didn’t let go.

“You’re late,” he said.

She glanced at her watch. “It’s 10:03.”

“I said ten. Not three minutes after,” he replied, walking toward her slowly. “Three minutes means you hesitated.”

Meher opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came.

He stopped just inches from her. Close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. Jasmine. Of course it was jasmine.

“Follow me.”

---

He led her through a corridor into a side wing of the mansion. This part was different — dimly lit, moodier. A lounge space with velvets, mahogany, and shadows. A single chandelier flickered above, making the gold accents glow.

“This is where we begin,” he said. “Redesign it. Make it reflect me. But not the part the world sees.”

She blinked. “And... what part is that?”

“The one I keep behind locked doors,” he said, eyes burning into hers. “You’ll figure it out... if you’re brave enough.”

He handed her a blank sketchbook.

“I don’t want Pinterest. I want you. Your instinct. Your raw aesthetic. Sketch here. No copying.”

Meher took the book with slightly trembling fingers. “Okay.”

“You have three hours.”

She sat on the velvet lounger, opened the sketchbook, and let her pencil meet the page.

He didn’t leave.

He stood by the French window, back turned, watching the rain — but she could feel his attention.

Every line she drew. Every flick of her wrist. She knew he was watching. Reading her body as much as her ideas.

At one point, her pencil fell.

He bent to pick it up before she could.

Their hands touched.

A single touch.

Not passionate. Not inappropriate. Just contact.

But it burned.

> Like his fingers had left something behind on her skin — a brand, invisible but impossible to ignore.

He handed it to her. Their eyes met.

"You draw like a woman who dreams too much," he said.

"And you look like a man who doesn’t believe in dreams," she whispered, surprising them both.

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him darkened.

“You’re wrong,” he murmured. “I do believe in dreams. I just prefer... controlling them.”

---

⚠️ A Locked Door

As she explored the wing for design inspiration, she found a room at the end of the hallway. The door was jet black, with a gold lion emblem. It was locked.

She reached for the handle.

“Don’t,” his voice boomed behind her.

Meher jumped.

“That room is off-limits.”

“But what—”

“It’s not for you. Not yet.”

There was silence.

Then he stepped closer.

“I told you,” he said, voice lower now, almost tender, “if you work for me, you’ll follow my rules.”

“And if I don’t?” she whispered.

His gaze dropped to her lips.

> “Then I’ll teach you the difference between disobedience and punishment.”

---

🌧️ Rain & Raabta

Later, she sat alone on the balcony with her sketchbook, watching the rain. Her body was humming. Her mind a storm. Everything about this man unnerved her — but what scared her most... was how much she wanted him to touch her again.

She heard his voice behind her.

“Do you always sketch barefoot in the rain?”

She looked down. She hadn’t realized her sandals were off. Her anklet chimed.

“I think better when I feel the earth,” she said.

He chuckled — the first sound of warmth from him.

“I like that,” he said. “It means you’re grounded. I’m not. I float above the world. Watching. Controlling.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, Meher,” he murmured, standing behind her chair now, “some men are made to burn the earth... not touch it.”

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear — not a kiss, not a breath, but something in between.

> “You're the only thing that makes me want to come down.”

---

She didn’t sleep that n

ight either.

Because she realized something terrifying.

She was no longer afraid of him.

She was afraid of what she might do... to have more of him.