The upcoming chapter isn’t soft. It’s not sweet.

It doesn’t hold your hand—it wraps it around a throat and asks if you like the pressure.

If that makes you nervous...

If this isn't your cup of poison?

Leave. Quietly.

Don’t report. Don’t preach.

Just exhale, close the tab, and pretend you never met me.

(But between us—you’ll think about this later.)

Still here?

You filthy little masochist.

And hey—

thank you for giving this book a chance. Even the darkest stories deserve to be seen. 🖤

With that said—your final warning:

Go ahead. Ruin yourself.

The party downstairs has long since quieted down, leaving nothing but echoes trailing through the hollow hallways like the scent of spilled perfume—faint, cloying, and lingering far longer than welcome.

People always need a reason to indulge, to lose themselves in the haze of synthetic laughter and cheap rebellion. And what better excuse than the day before a new semester officially begins? One last grasp at freedom before the machinery of routine tightens its grip.

I joined them—until the giggles of girls became shrill, until the drunken games blurred into something predictable. I stayed long enough to be polite, then gave up the moment the itch beneath my wrist started to burn again. It always flared when I’d had enough—of people, of noise, of pretending.

The lights in my room dimmed like a slow exhale—amber and warm, diffused through panels of smoked glass. Soft enough to lie. Soft enough to forget what time it was.

"Tania?" I murmured, voice low, bored.

A wet gag answered me. Just more spit and an overly eager swirl of tongue.

Didn’t matter.

She'd stopped pretending five minutes ago. Now she just gagged and gasped and tried to keep pace with my hand in her hair.

She slipped into my room when the night was at its quietest—when the walls breathe slow and even the darkness starts to confess. Whispered some story about losing her phone, or her way, or maybe her morals—I wasn’t really listening.

The way she clung to my doorframe in a slinky red top and jeans told me everything I needed to know. Desperate. Willing.

High on curiosity or whatever she had snorted in the bathroom. Probably more coked up than I was sober.

I let her crawl into bed like a spider. Let her press her mouth to my neck, her hand to my zipper. Let her think she had me exactly where she wanted me.

And then I let the demons out to play.

Her mouth worked around me like she was praying for salvation. Her mascara was halfway down her cheeks, and her fake lashes drooped like broken wings. She looked up—expecting something. A moan, maybe. A groan. A curse of approval.

But I gave her nothing.

This isn't working.

She wants to get me off tonight? Then she better brace herself—I grabbed her hair and yanked—hard. She gasped around me, then choked as I shoved deeper. Her fingers clawed at my thighs but I didn’t let up. Her eyes watered instantly.

Still nothing.

So I pushed harder. Rougher. Like if I just fucked her mouth violently enough, maybe something would spark. Maybe I’d feel something other than this constant, gnawing void.

A flicker of heat lit up somewhere low in my spine as tears started to run down her face, then surged—fast, relentless. My jaw clenched as I drove in deeper, rough and punishing.

Trisha's throat worked around me, struggling, gagging—but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not when, for the first time all night, I felt something that wasn’t just white noise and that goddamn itch crawling beneath my wrist

Not when the static in my head had finally dulled to a low, manageable thrum. The chaos silenced, if only for a moment.

My fingers curled tighter in her hair, pulling her flush as my hips snapped forward, more out of need to drown than to feel.

Her nose pressed flush against my groin, her face turning a shade too red—but I barely registered it.

I chased the high like it owed me something—like it could burn the emptiness out of my bones. But when it finally hit, it was cold. Dull. A flat line pulsing through my senses, where the rush should've been, leaving me empty.

There was no heat, no rush—just a cold emptiness that spread through my chest as my body went through the motions. I exhaled, a low grunt that sounded more like a curse than a groan.

Atleast the itch beneath my wrist has quieted down to a low hum. Still there, but not as sharp. Not as demanding. Like a scream that’s turned into a whisper—faint, but impossible to ignore.

Tia slumped the moment I let go, her throat raw, breaths coming in short, shaky gasps. She swallowed every last drop of my release, her breaths shallow and uneven, chest hitching in weak gasps.

Kneeling, she peeled off that pathetic excuse for a top in one fluid, practiced motion. The jeans followed, slow and deliberate, confidence held together with cheap threads and false expectations.

I suppose she thought I’d return the favor.

Maybe she mistook silence for invitation.

Maybe she thought I’d want her. Touch her. Pull her close like this meant more a casual fuck.

But I just sat there—back pressed to the headboard, spine aching from a hunger that had nothing to do with her.

I turned away, reached into the bedside drawer. Fingers brushing past a lighter. A cold gunmetal kiss. A knife I didn’t need.

Then they closed around a crushed pack of cigarettes—habit, not comfort.

Behind me, she moved. Sheets rustled.

The mattress dipped with that slow, calculated slide—like she still believed she had control.

Like she hadn’t already given it up the moment she crawled in on her knees.

She climbed into my lap, naked. Like she already knew the script and didn’t care if I was even paying attention.

Her fingers worked open the remaining buttons of my shirt—slow, steady, almost reverent. I lit the cigarette, watching her through the curl of smoke.

Then came the kisses. Wet. Warm. Trailing down the edge of my jaw, brushing the hollow of my throat.

“Are you always this quiet?” she whispered against my neck.

I didn’t answer.

She reached my lips but didn’t touch them—just stared into my eyes like she was searching for something buried deep.

Her hands slid from my shoulders to the base of my neck, fingertips grazing over skin.

And then she started to lean closer.

Just as her fingers were about to brush the back of my head—

I snapped.

I hate that.

Hate being touched there. It’s instinct. A trigger I never learned to dull.

Myy hand shoots up, clamping around Tanya's throat with a bruising rhythm that’s almost muscle memory now. No warning. No hesitation.

The itch under my skin kicks back to life—low and guttural. A haunting hum that’s always waiting for an excuse. It sings through my nerves, coils tight around my ribs, and sinks teeth into everything I’ve tried to hold back.

Her eyes go wide.

That look—

Fear, pure and electric—

It lit something inside me. Something dark. Rotten.

Something feral.

Something familiar.

My fingers pressed in just a little harder. Not enough to crush.

Just enough to promise.

She clawed at my wrist—feeble, frantic. Her legs shook where they straddled me.

But it wasn’t enough.

I watched her. Unmoved. Detached.

Then, slowly—deliberately—I loosened my grip. Not out of mercy. Just to make sure she could hear me.

As my fingers unhooked from her throat, the itch roared—frantic, feral, demanding I finish what I’d started.

But I didn’t.

I let it simmer beneath the surface, feeding on restraint. Starving it was half the thrill.

“I don’t like being kissed,” I said, voice flat. “And I never let anyone touch me there.”

She blinked—stunned, maybe humiliated. Her pride scrambling to catch up with her fear.

Didn’t matter.

“You climbed into my bed, Tia. Did what you came to do.” I flicked ash into the tray beside me, gaze never leaving hers. “Now get out.”

She opened her mouth, tone trembling on the edge of wounded.

“It’s Tina—”

“Tina. Tanya. Whatever helps you sleep tonight.”

I smirked—slow, detached—as I exhaled smoke straight into the silence that stretched between us.

She didn’t move.

I started thinking about how to get her out without wasting another word.

Maybe I’d light another cigarette and stare through her until she disappeared like the rest of them. Or I could even let the silence do its job—

The door slammed open.

Hard.

It crashed against the wall with the kind of force that said whoever entered had never learned how to knock, or just didn’t care.

Tia jerked in my lap like a guilty secret mid-confession, scrambling for the sheets that had already betrayed her.

I didn’t flinch. I never do.

But I should’ve known.

Only one person had the audacity to break into my room like it was his goddamn birthright.

Rishabh.

Shirtless. Still in his jeans.

His chest was a mess—smeared in lipsticks of every shade from slutty coral to midnight sin. Hair tousled like it had been gripped too tight, too often. Probably had. With Rishi, it’s always a revolving door of sins.

He stopped in the doorway like he’d just remembered where he was, blinked once, then grinned. That stupid, boyish grin that got him laid faster than most people could finish a sentence.

And then—

Ahaan stepped in.

The contrast hit like whiplash.

Calm. Calculated.

Pressed collar. Untouched sleeves. That goddamn Rolex catching the light like a scalpel—sharp, cold, clinical. The bastard looked like a walking PR campaign, all tailored precision and muted arrogance.

Too trimmed up for this hour of the morning.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just took in the scene. Like he was assessing rot.

His gaze landed on Tia.

And the temperature dropped.

One word.

Cold. Precise. Cut from stone.

“Leave.”

That was it.

No raised voice. No second glance.

No mercy.

And somehow, that was worse.

Her eyes locked with his—and whatever she thought she was, whoever she pretended to be, shattered.

Something in his stare—or the lack of anything human in it—tore straight through her.

She bolted.

Off my lap before I could even blink.

No argument. No fake pout.

Just panic.

I just watched the door swing shut.

The itch under my skin had already started to crawl back.

Smack.

Something soft and hostile hit me square in the chest. Sweatpants.

“Jesus Christ, put that thing away,” Rishi’s voice cut through the fog like static wrapped in sarcasm. “I love you, but not enough to see that much of you.”

He strolled in shirtless, unapologetically smug, the lipstick smudges on his abs now half-faded like souvenirs from sin. He flopped onto the edge of the bed like it was his, not giving a shit that the sheets still smelled like sex, smoke, and ruined expectations.

I stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re getting bold.”

“I’m getting bored,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Ahaan took the chair in the corner of the room—legs crossed, posture sharp, like even the dust motes knew better than to drift too close.

I glanced at him. “And who’s this early-to-bed, early-to-rise prude grandma still up?”

He shot me a look—dry, unimpressed. “Hard to sleep when someone threatens to host a threesome on your bed with a bisexual ballerina and her girlfriend if you don’t follow him.”

I snorted.

Classic Rishi.

Knowing him, it wasn’t just a threat—it was probably scheduled.

And knowing Ahaan, nothing pissed him off more than strangers in his space.

Especially naked ones.

This was routine.

The three of us—well, sometimes four—crammed into Rishabh’s dad’s private villa just off campus.

Because dorms were too crowded. Too noisy. Too... civilian.

Technically, we all had our own places. At admission, each of us was handed a penthouse, a villa, or some glass-walled luxury prison in the sky—keys still warm from the real estate agent’s hand. A "gift" for getting in.

As if we didn’t already have our futures prepaid in blood and black cards. In surnames that echo louder than our first.

But life alone got boring pretty quick.

Silence has a way of turning on you when you’ve got too many ghosts in your head.

So we ended up here—together.

Rishi’s place was the obvious choice. His dad’s weekend getaway turned permanent frat temple. The house never slept. Music bled through the walls. Lights stayed on even when the city dimmed. Strangers came and went like whispers—models, dealers, musicians, someone's mistress, someone else’s secr

It’s a fucking club half the time, chaos the rest.

And honestly?

The noise helps.

Keeps the demons from getting too loud. Keeps the itch in my wrist dull, manageable.

It drowns out the static. Blurs the edges of whatever’s rotting in my chest. Keeps the itch beneath my wrist to a low hum instead of a full scream. In silence, I unravel. In noise, I survive.

Ahaan bitches about the mess every third day—reorganizes the kitchen like it’s a chessboard and he’s two bad days away from throwing it all in the pool.

Rishi, on the other hand, thrives in the madness. That bastard could turn a hostage crisis into an afterparty if the lighting was good enough.

Me?

I exist somewhere in between.

Observing. Calculating. Breathing like it’s a habit I never signed up for.

We’ve known each other too long to call it friendship. Grew up in the same elite prep schools, bled through the same scandals, wore the same tailored uniforms stained with the same secrets. Learned early that power isn’t earned—it’s inherited, hoarded, and wielded in silence.

And when you’re at the top of the food chain?

Loyalty isn’t a choice. It’s currency.

It’s survival.

Our fathers ran in the same circles before us—back when money smelled different and betrayal cost lives, not headlines. They were kings in training, drunk on ambition and brotherhood. They had a dream back then—a legacy they built with blood, mergers, and midnight deals.

They achieved it.

And now?

We are the maintenance crew. The heirs. The perfectly molded monsters they created to protect the empire.

We don’t get to dream.

We inherit.

We carry.

We become.

It sounds dramatic. Cheesy, even. Like something out of a movie no one believes in.

But trust me—

We don’t just represent legacy.

We are legacy.

Polished, dangerous, untouchable.

That’s what the world sees when it looks at us.

But inside these four walls, legacy wears sweatpants and poor decisions.

Rishi, now half-sprawled across the bed like it was his personal stage, clapped his hands once—loud, gleeful.

“Right! Now that the trauma bonding’s done, I have an announcement.”

I groaned. Ahaan exhaled like he was already regretting his entire existence.

Rishi grinned wider. “We have fresher duty tomorrow.”

Silence.

I blinked. “We what?”

Ahaan just stared at him, expression flatlined.

“Fresher. Duty,” Rishi repeated slowly, like we were toddlers with hearing problems. “You know—smiling, supervising, pretending we’re functioning members of society. And between probation or playing mentor at orientation, I picked the one where I get free cupcakes and less paperwork.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

He stretched like this was the part he’d been waiting for. “Because someone—won’t name names—was caught having very enthusiastic extracurriculars in the Dean’s office.”

Ahaan turned his head. Slowly. “In his cabin?”

“On his chair, actually,” Rishi corrected. “Leather. Awful back support. Surprisingly bouncy.”

“You defiled the Dean’s chair,” I muttered. “So now we’re on clean-up crew for his fragile masculinity?”

“First of all, I did not defile it,” Rishi said with mock offense. “She did most of the work. I was just there for moral support and thrust management.”

I sighed, long and slow. “Why the hell are we roped into this?”

He pointed at me. “Because this one—” a dramatic pause, “—Golden Boy—cares way too much about keeping up appearances. This is your moment to shine like the pure, pious, people-pleasing saint you pretend to be.”

Then he turned to Ahaan. “And you, my emotionally bankrupt overlord, would be bored out of your fucking mind if left alone. You’ll either reorganize your sock drawer by color gradients and then decide to strangle a junior for sneezing too loud. I’m saving you from a homicide charge.”

He spread his arms like he’d just gifted us enlightenment. “You’re welcome.”

Ahaan didn’t say a word. But the look he gave Rishi could’ve leveled small countries.

Rishi just laughed. “Cheer up, boys. Tomorrow, we play nice. Fake smiles, tighter shirts, and possibly bribes in the form of cupcakes.”

He paused, then added seriously, “Also, I may or may not have signed us up as mentors.”

Ahaan’s jaw ticked. I closed my eyes.

Rishi clapped his hands again. “God, I love this team.”