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Longest chapter till now!

  Divya

“Baba…”
The word slips from my mouth, fragile and trembling. My body reacts before my mind...back pressed hard against the cold window railing, as if I can melt into the glass and disappear.

He's here.
I should have known he’d find me.

He stands there in that crisp light blue shirt and black pants...his usual composed self.

But there’s something in his eyes… something sharper than anger. Disappointment? Control? I can’t tell.

“I never thought you’d escape from your home…”
His voice is calm, too calm.
“Really? You used a fake passport?”

My stomach twists.
I want to scream that he left me no choice. That the cage he built, disguised as love and protection, was suffocating me.

But my throat closes.

He lowers his gaze to the ground, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me.

His voice softens, almost as if he's the concerned father again.

"Look at yourself… in the hospital. I don’t even know how you survived here alone."

His words try to reach the part of me that still remembers him as Baba...the man who once held my hand when I was afraid of thunder.

But that version of him… it’s gone. Or maybe it never existed.

I straighten my spine, ignoring the tremble in my hands.

"I will not go with you!"
The words burst from me, louder than I intended, but I don’t care.

He pauses.
His eyes flick up to mine. The softness vanishes in a blink.

I don’t step back.

His voice rises, sharp and wounded, like a whip laced with guilt.

"You are yelling at me? Me?! Am I… am I a stranger? An enemy now?"

He places a hand on his chest, as if he's the one who’s been betrayed.

"I just want you to stay safe… to stay with me," he says, softer now, layered in that twisted warmth he always used when he wanted control masked as care.

My heart is racing. I press harder into the window behind me, but there's nowhere else to go.

He continues, his voice laced with warning now.

"You know what a fake passport scandal can do? Two years imprisonment in India. Two years, Divya. I handled all that… for you."

His eyes bore into mine, as if expecting gratitude....for silencing the law, for playing God.

But I don’t thank him.
Because I’m not scared of prison.
I’m scared of the cage he calls love.

But it’s true.
If I go to jail, everything—every night of studying under a dim bulb, every stolen moment of freedom, every ounce of courage to break away—
All of it will be in vain.

My voice is tight, barely above a whisper.
"Now what do you want?"
He sits on the edge of the bed.

He is  Measured and  Dangerous.

He smooths down his shirt as if this is just another boardroom negotiation.

"Umm... I knew it. You wouldn’t come with me."
A pause. Then a slight smile.
"So, I thought… I’ll help you settle down a little bit. Here. You can carry on with your studies."

That smile of his—sweet on the surface, sour underneath.
He always talks like he's giving gifts, when all he ever does is take.

But it’s true.

If I go to jail, everything—every night of studying under a dim bulb, every stolen moment of freedom, every ounce of courage to break away—
All of it will be in vain.

My voice is tight, barely above a whisper.

"Now what do you want?"
He sits on the edge of the bed like he belongs here. Like he always does. Calm. Measured. Dangerous.

"Are you here alone?" I ask, my voice soft, guarded.

He chuckles lightly, brushing invisible dust off his knee.
"Me? Of course not. My driver is here." He rises.

"Come with me."

I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Are you really... not going to take me to London?"
My voice cracks.

"Baba, I didn’t want to leave you like that. I didn’t want to lie."

He opens his arms gently, that old warm tone slipping back into his voice.
"Okay, darling... come here."

I hesitate. My feet don't move right away.

But something deeper than thought pulls me forward. I walk into his embrace—slowly, unsure. His arms wrap around me, and for a moment… it feels like safety.

But is it really safety—or the illusion of it?

His hugs have always done this—soothing, anchoring. Familiar.
Is this what they call Stockholm syndrome?
The comfort in the arms of your own storm?

All the paperwork is done. He signs, I follow. Silently.

I’m going with my Baba—but where?

He promised.

I slide into the car, a cold shiver trailing my spine. Two female guards press in on either side of me.

In front, two men—definitely guards—sit rigidly. And then there’s the driver. And him.

My Baba.

I glance around, trying to make sense of it. Too many people.

I lean forward, voice wary.

"All these people? You said it’s just you and the driver..."

He says nothing. Not a word. His eyes are fixed ahead like I never spoke.

"Baba? Baba!"
I raise my voice, panic sliding in.
"You’re taking me to London, right? Huh? Tell me!"

The engine hums to life. The car starts to move.
No answers.

Something’s wrong. So wrong.

Fear blooms in my chest like wildfire.

Sir... I need to call Sir.

My hand trembles as I reach into my pocket.
But the guard beside me leans over and snatches the phone.

"Sorry, ma'am. You can’t."

My blood turns hot.

"W-What the f—what do you mean I can’t? Give it back!"

No reply.

Just silence.

And the soft, terrifying click of the car doors locking.

She grabs my phone—and throws it out the window.

"You bitch!" I scream, my voice breaking as I thrash against her.
My body’s weak, trembling, but rage fuels me. I swing, push, anything—but I can barely lift my arms.

"Leave me! Let me go! Baba!"
Tears blur my vision.
"I trusted you!"

But he doesn’t even flinch.

Another woman behind me grabs my arms, twisting them cruelly behind my back.
"Stop! STOP!"

And then—
A hand clamps over my mouth.
The front woman presses down the tape. Sticky. Suffocating.

I scream into it.
Muffled. Helpless.

My heart pounds so loud it echoes in my ears.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.

                                  ★★★

They transfer me into another car. I'm seated alone in the backseat now, the two female guards standing just outside with their arms crossed, eyes sharp like hawks.

I lean toward the window slightly, voice dry.
"Can I have some water?"

One of the guards in the front seat glances back, then pulls out a bottle, handing it to me over the shoulder.

"Free my hands?" I ask quietly.

They hesitate—exchange a quick look.
"I’m not going to run," I say.

"Even if I tried, you’d catch me anyway..."

Another pause. Then one of them shrugs, sighs, and unclasps the restraint.
My arms drop like dead weight.

"Ahhh... aghh!"
I wince, rotating my wrists. They're cramped, sore as hell.

I open the bottle and drink greedily.
The water tastes like freedom.

Then—I glance through the window again.

Not far off, he’s there in the car talking with my baba .

He came. He actually came.

A slow warmth pushes through the fear.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I know I shouldn’t.
But somehow—
A small smile escapes onto my lips.

He didn’t break his promise.

He came early.

For me.

They didn’t tape me again. I guess they think I’ve calmed down, or maybe they’re just too distracted to care now.

I shift in my seat, restless, the silence in the car dragging like hours.
God, I’m bored.
But it’s not the regular kind of boredom. It’s that weird kind—when your body’s still catching up from fear, and your brain suddenly has space to overthink everything.

And then—
Oh. Fuck.
He had a gun in his hand.
A gun.

My eyes widen at the memory.
How did I not freak out right then and there?

Maybe because everything happened too fast.
Maybe because I was already too scared.
Or maybe—maybe it was just... weirdly natural?
That’s what’s bothering me now.

Seeing that gun in his hand didn’t feel wrong.
It didn’t shock me. It didn’t feel unnatural.
It felt like… like it belonged.

Wait. What?

I sit up straighter.
No way. No way.
He’s my professor. He is
Educated. Soft-spoken. Sharp as hell.

But a gun? In daylight? On a highway?

And he used it.!!!!!

He shot at a tire without hesitation. Like he’s done that before.

So... what is he? A gangster?  Born into a crime family? Trying to escape it by teaching in some university?
Why is my heart still not afraid of him?

Now I need to know more.
Who is he? What is his actual life story ?

And why, even with all of this—
Do I still feel... safe with him?

Back in the day, what I remember most I thought he is in Mafia .

Covered in tattoos. Bold, unapologetic ink that snaked across his skin like stories never told.
Symbols I couldn’t quite understand back then. Some in Latin, others like abstract chaos.

Now he is teaching in a well known University. He is a Physcis Proffesor? What the actual heck ...

South pole north pole .

Then I see it—
he's stepping out of the car.

My heart lurches.

His bike.
It’s right in front of the car.
He walks over, and seats himself.

I freeze.
He’s… starting it?

No—
Is he leaving?
Just like that?

What about me?!

Panic coils tight in my chest. My mouth opens to call out, but no sound comes.
Everything in me screams to run—to reach him—to ask him not to go.

Because if he leaves now…
what will happen to me?

He stops.
Right in front of my car.

The engine hums beneath him, but his eyes—his eyes are locked on me through the glass.

There’s something unreadable there. Not anger. Not softness. Something in between—like a storm waiting to choose its shape.

Then, the door opens.
My baba crosses the road slowly, deliberately, like he owns every inch of it.
He opens my car door and sits beside me, calm as ever.

I blink at him . Definitely I am sad. My luck is great.. very much .

It's hard to trust ... The way he treat me few minutes ago ...

Huh..

And then—
“You want to get married to him?”
His voice is low, like steel wrapped in silk.

My breath catches.

What?
How… how does he know?

Did sir tell him?

“I… I mean—”
Words stumble out of me.

But he doesn’t let me fumble.
His eyes narrow.

“Yes or no?”

The air stills.
Everything outside the car fades—
The noise. The heat. The guards. Even the man on the bike.

Just me…
And this moment.

Yes?
No?

My heart is thundering.

I look down.

My heart’s a mess. On this answer depends my life .
Maybe it’s the only door I see open.

“Yes…” I say quietly.

Baba doesn’t speak. I lift my eyes slowly, unsure if I just signed my fate or saved myself.

Then he asks again, this time softer, but not any less serious.

“Do you love him?”

My throat tightens.

Do I?

I glance at Sir again. The man who came for me. Fought for me. Faced my father with a gun in his hand and fire in his eyes. The man who didn’t let me disappear.

I breathe in. My voice is barely more than a whisper, but this time… I don’t look away.

“Yes…”

I don’t have that kind of attachment.
I definitely respect him. I’m grateful to him.
And sometimes, his presence… it makes my heart flutter, just for a moment.
Like warmth seeping through cold skin.

But is that love? No..

I can feel Baba watching me, weighing every word like he’s trying to read between lines I haven’t written yet.

But I speak," Yes.. "

                                      ★★★

PRAVEER SIR HOUSE

"It's very much unbelievable... that old memories, which should have been buried, are getting dug up again," Baba says, his voice low, almost bitter.

I sit quietly beside him on the couch, inside Sir’s house — though it feels more like a battlefield now. Sir is sitting across from us in a single chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

Around us, the female guards stand alert, and from the windows, I can see male guards posted outside.

My heart is beating like a trapped bird in my chest.
I honestly don't know what exactly happened between them, what was said in hushed tones or cold stares... but somehow, I can feel it — Baba agreed.

Agreed to our marriage.

But the real question burning inside me is..
How the hell did Sir convince him? And how the fuck Sir agreed?

Really? My head is spinning.

The room feels heavy, like the walls themselves are listening.

Finally, Baba breaks the silence.

"So... I have talked with Praveer. It will be a contract marriage."

Contract marriage?
The words hit me like cold water.

My mind races.
Oh.
Wait.
Right — I had said it before, hadn’t I?
That stupid thing about him taking 30 percent if he marry me…

My stomach knots uncomfortably as I glance at Baba, then back at Sir.
What have I gotten myself into?

"The contract will be for two years " Baba says.

Humm...
I agree.
I said that too.
It’s okay... right?

"I hope you agree... Divya," he adds, his voice firm but probing.

Umm...
Wtf am I supposed to say now?

If I agree too quickly, he’ll start doubting everything — like our so-called relationship, the love I 'confessed.'
Sir probably already told him about my financial situation...

Fuck.
Everything feels so tangled.
So confusing.

"A... I mean..." I stutter, searching for the right words, for the right mask to wear.

Before I mess things up, Sir speaks for me, smooth and steady.

"Yes, she agrees. I told you once — if I can complete my work, she’s going to stay here.If I can't he will go with you after two years"

I sit there, frozen.

Work?
What work?

They both talk like it’s obvious, like I’m supposed to know.
But I don’t.
I don’t know anything.

My hands are clasped tightly on my lap. I force myself to smile faintly, nodding like a perfect doll.
Inside, my mind is running wild.

"Exactly what work...?" I ask, my voice low but firm, unable to hide the edge of nervousness.

Sir looks at me, calm and unreadable, as if he expected this question.

"You don't have to know that much. It's my work," he says, his tone steady, final.

"Just know this — if I can do it, your father won’t take you away. You’ll stay here, continue your studies, and live your life by your own will."

I stare at him, my heart beating faster.

He’s hiding something.
Something big.

But he’s also offering me freedom — real freedom — something I’ve only dreamed of.

I bite the inside of my cheek, holding back the million questions burning on my tongue.
For now, I nod slowly, forcing myself to believe in him.

Because honestly... what other choice do I have?

A car hums to a stop in front of the house. I hear the tires crunch against the gravel, and moments later, the front door opens.

"I hope I’m not late," says an aged man, his voice familiar — my father's old lawyer uncle.

He steps inside, carrying a black leather briefcase. His sharp eyes catch mine.
"Oh, Divya... you really have guts to pull all this off alone," he says with a half-smirk.

I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling the weight of his words. Guts? Or desperation?

He pulls out a thick set of papers and settles onto a chair, spreading the documents out neatly.
Without looking at me, he hands one copy to Baba and one to Sir.
Not me.

Why the fuck am I even here, then? Just decoration?

"Read it carefully, both of you," the lawyer says, voice dry.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to peek at Baba's paper. He's reading, serious and quiet.
Sir... I glance at him — unreadable again, but his eyes move steadily over the document.

"I want to read it too..." I mumble.

Without a word, Baba slides his copy to me.

I clutch it, heart pounding, and start to read.

And then — it all clicks. A little bit.

The paper says that Praveer Malhotra — Sir — is going to marry Divya Chatterjee — me — through a legal contract.
If he successfully completes a certain "work," I can stay married to him, free to continue my studies and live as I wish.
Unless, after two years, there will be an automatic divorce, and Mr. Mrinmoy Chatterjee — Baba — will take me back.
After that, I would have to follow whatever he says.

And in return... if Praveer succeeds, Baba promises to "help" with whatever Sir demands.

But what demand?
What does Sir want?

A cold chill runs down my spine.

There’s so much I still don’t know.

And yet... somehow, my life now depends on the decision written in this stupid piece of paper.

"And yes, this is the marriage certificate," uncle says, tapping the papers.
"If reading is done, we can proceed with the registry marriage."

"I have no problem," Sir says, casually, as if he's discussing the weather.

Uncle nods and turns to us. "Divya, you? And Mr. Chatterjee?"

"I have no problem... if Divya agrees," Baba says, voice stiff.

What should I do?
Should I say yes?

My throat dries up. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I gulp hard.
"...Okay. I have no problem too," I say, barely above a whisper.

Uncle pulls a pen from his pocket and hands it to Baba.

"Sign on the contract."

Baba signs quickly, without hesitation.

Sir takes the pen next. His hand moves steady, confident, like he’s done this a hundred times.

Then... he passes the pen to me.

I hesitate. My fingers tremble when I take it.
Our eyes meet for a second. His stare is deep but soft.

But his eyes are saying like ... You can trust me ..

Can you trust me?

I don’t know.
I have no choice.

With trembling hands, I sign my name on the contract.
Each letter feels heavier than the last.

Now it's time for the marriage certificate.

Sir signs his name with the same smooth, effortless hand.

The pen waits for me again.

I grip it tighter and write — slowly, painfully..

Divya Chatterjee (Malhotra)

When I put the final ink, the room feels too loud, too silent, too real.

I am married.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Everything inside me screams, but outside, I just sit there — married to a man I barely know, trusting a future I can’t even see.
        ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────────

Sorry for the slight delay, but Wattpad was glitching, so I had to wait a bit to upload. Thanks for being patient. Love you!

⁉️Also, can you tell me exactly what Praveer needs to do to make her stay

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