The next morning, Meher found a note on her pillow. Black paper. Gold ink.
“Meet me in the cellar. Come alone.” —K
She hesitated. The cellar was where Kabir kept his secrets—the kind that didn’t breathe.
She went anyway.
He stood in the center of the room, sleeves rolled, eyes unreadable. Behind him: a desk, a new contract.
Meher narrowed her eyes. “Another deal?”
Kabir didn’t smile. “The old one’s expired.”
“Our bargain had a month left.”
“I’m changing the terms.”
She stepped closer. “And what if I say no?”
His voice was low, deadly calm. “Then I go back to being what I was before you. Cold. Unforgiving. Unattached. You’ll lose the version of me that chose to keep you alive.”
Her heart beat faster.
She scanned the contract. Fewer words. But more final.
No escape.
No limits.
No time frame.
Just one sentence at the bottom:
“You’re mine until I no longer want you.”
Meher looked up, trembling. “And when you don’t want me?”
Kabir met her gaze. “Then you’re free. Or dead. Depends on how this ends.”
She signed.
Not because she trusted him—
But because her heart had already stopped knowing the difference between prison and passion.
As he took the paper, his fingers brushed hers.
“I never thought I’d need someone,” he whispered. “And yet here you are… rewriting me.”
But Meher knew better.
She wasn’t rewriting him.
She was rewriting herself.
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