Poornima’s throat felt dry, her pulse hammering as Veeresh’s words sank into her. He had stripped her bare—not her body, but her soul.

She tried to look away, but his hand lifted her chin gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Say it, Poornima,” he whispered. “Why do you write them?”

Her lips trembled. “Because… because reality never gave me love the way I dreamt it. I wanted someone who would burn for me, someone who would choose me even in darkness. In my stories, the villain never abandoned the heroine. No matter how twisted, he fought for her, against the world—even against himself.”

Her eyes welled, but her voice grew stronger. “I wrote what I could never have. The rawness. The loyalty hidden behind cruelty. The devotion hidden behind obsession. I… I craved it.”

Veeresh’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling as if her words were flames licking through him. “And now?” he asked, his voice rough. “Now that I stand in front of you, a man with blood on his hands, with a past dipped in shadows—do you see your villain? Or do you see a mistake?”

Poornima blinked, her silence stretching, heavy. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand and traced the scar that cut across his knuckle. “I see both,” she said softly. “The man who broke me… and the villain who still wants to piece me back together. I don’t know which one will win.”

His breath hitched. He caught her hand, pressing it against his chest where his heart thundered. “I’ll make sure it’s the latter,” he vowed. “Because for the first time, Poornima… I don’t just want to own you. I want to deserve you.”

The words pierced deeper than any kiss.

Poornima’s lashes lowered, her hand trembling against his heartbeat. “Veeresh… if you fail me again, I won’t write you into a story. I’ll erase you.”

Veeresh gave a low, dangerous chuckle—but his eyes were glassy, vulnerable. “Then I’ll just have to make sure, Mrs. Raj, that you never pick up your pen for another villain. Because you already married the last one you’ll ever need.”