The boutique was a temple of ivory silk and golden chandeliers, located in the most expensive district of South Mumbai. For Myra, it was a gilded cage.
"Not that one, it's too... pedestrian," Shanaya sighed, lounging on a velvet chaise with a glass of champagne in hand. She looked at Myra through the mirror, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Myra, darling, be a doll and put on the crimson silk. I need to see how the color interacts with the lighting before I decide if it's worthy of my skin tone."
Myra's fingers trembled as she unzipped the fourth dress of the hour. She was the Lead Architect of the Seafront Project, yet here she was, stripped down to her slip in a public boutique, acting as a live mannequin for the woman Reyansh intended to marry
"Faster, Kapoor," Shanaya snapped. "Reyansh is joining us in twenty minutes for the final selection. We can't have him waiting because you're being sluggish."
Myra stepped into the crimson dress. It was a masterpiece of couture—plunging neckline, open back, and a slit that reached the thigh. As she stood on the pedestal, the mirror reflected the dark, fading mark on her neck. She pulled her hair forward to hide it, a bitter taste in her mouth.
The bell at the entrance chimed. Reyansh walked in, looking like the epitome of power in a tailored charcoal suit. His eyes swept the room, landing on Shanaya first with a polite, vacant smile. Then, his gaze shifted to Myra.
For a split second, the "Ice King" mask cracked. His eyes darkened as they raked over the curves emphasized by the crimson silk. But just as quickly, the shutters went back up.
"What do you think, Reyansh?" Shanaya asked, standing up and looping her arm through his. "Does it look cheap? I'm worried the cut is a bit... common. Perhaps it's better suited for someone of Myra's standing than mine."
Reyansh looked at Myra as if she were a statue. "It serves its purpose, Shanaya. It highlights exactly what it needs to. But for you, we should look at the emerald velvet. It's more... regal."
He didn't defend her. He didn't acknowledge the humiliation. He treated her like a tool used to calibrate his fiancée's perfection. Myra stepped off the pedestal, her heart feeling like a lead weight, and retreated into the dark, cramped fitting room.
The Night Shift
The penthouse was silent when they returned. Reyansh had spent the evening at a board dinner, and Myra had spent it staring at the walls of the master bedroom, waiting for the "Stranger" to return.
The door opened at midnight. Reyansh entered, stripping off his jacket and throwing it onto the armchair. He didn't look at her, but the air in the room immediately changed. The professional distance of the boutique was replaced by a heavy, primal tension
"The crimson dress," he said, his voice a low, rough growl as he walked toward the bed. "You looked like a provocation."
"You let her treat me like a servant," Myra whispered, pulling the duvet to her chest. "You called me 'common' to her face."
"I called the dress common," he corrected, his hand reaching out to grip her ankle through the silk sheets. He pulled her toward him with a sudden, forceful jerk. "Out there, you are whatever I need you to be to keep the world quiet. But in here..."
"I called the dress common," he corrected, his hand reaching out to grip her ankle through the silk sheets. He pulled her toward him with a sudden, forceful jerk. "Out there, you are whatever I need you to be to keep the world quiet. But in here..."
He crawled over her, his weight pinning her into the mattress. He didn't kiss her with tenderness; he kissed her with a desperate, silent hunger that contradicted every cold word he had said in the office.
"In here, there is no Shanaya," he rasped against her lips, his hands roaming her body with the familiarity of an owner. "There is no contract. There is just this."
As they moved together in the dark, Myra realized the true horror of her situation. This wasn't "sex as usual." It was an addiction. He used her body to escape the very world he forced her to inhabit during the day. He was the Ice King in the sun and a starving man in the dark, and Myra was the only one who had to survive both versions of him.
He didn't say "I love you." He didn't even say her name. He just held her with a grip that left new marks, ensuring that when the sun rose, she would have a fresh reminder of exactly whose "sex buddy" she was.
Author's Thought
THE DUALITY! 😱🔥 Reyansh is a master of gaslighting. He treats her like trash in the boutique and then acts like he can't breathe without her at night. This is the peak "Dark Romance" dynamic!Myra is losing her identity. Is she an architect or just a shadow in his life? 🚩🚩🚩