Chapter 4: Warnings and Vows

Poornima didn’t speak until they reached home.

The moment the door closed behind them, the silence thickened—heavy, waiting. Gayathri dropped her bag on the table, unaware or pretending to be, until Poornima finally turned to face her.

“Stay away from Veeresh Raisinghania.”

Gayathri blinked, surprised by the sharpness in her sister’s voice. “Poornima—”

“I’m serious,” Poornima cut in. Her control was still there, but it was strained now, stretched thin. “He’s not harmless. Don’t mistake charm for character.”

Gayathri studied her, really studied her, and something shifted in her expression. Concern replaced amusement. “You don’t talk like this unless you feel something’s wrong.”

Poornima exhaled slowly. She hated how hard it was to explain instinct. “There are people who don’t touch you and still hurt you,” she said quietly. “He’s one of them.”

Gayathri was silent for a moment. Then she reached out and cupped Poornima’s cheek, thumb brushing gently. “I can handle myself,” she said, firm but kind. “But I’ll be careful. For you.”

Poornima’s shoulders loosened just a fraction.

“And you,” Gayathri added, eyes narrowing slightly, “take care of yourself. That boy doesn’t look at you like an enemy. He looks at you like a challenge.”

Poornima looked away. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t want to acknowledge the unsettling truth buried in it.

“I won’t let him near us,” she said. “I promise.”

Across the city, Veeresh Raisinghania made a promise of his own.

He stood by the balcony of his room, phone pressed to his ear, the city lights bleeding into the dark like wounds that never healed. His reflection stared back at him from the glass—calm, composed, empty.

“They were smiling today,” he said softly. “The Rathores. Still whole. Still untouched.”

A pause. Then his jaw tightened.

“My grandparents died believing justice would come,” he continued. “It didn’t. Their family kept everything. Mine learned how to survive loss.”

His fingers curled into a fist.

“So I’ll take what matters most.”

He ended the call and let the phone drop onto the table. His mind replayed the canteen scene—Poornima’s restraint, her fury locked behind dignity, the way she refused to bend even when provoked.

Strength like that always hid cracks.

He smiled, slow and cold.

He wouldn’t destroy her with cruelty. That was too easy. Too obvious.

He would make her fall.

Make her trust him. Lean on him. Need him.

He would become her safety.

And then—

Then he would break her.

Not her body.

Her faith.

Her certainty.

Her belief that love didn’t come with a price.

They broke my family, he thought, eyes darkening. So I’ll break theirs.

Poornima Rathore would love him.

And when she finally did, when her world revolved around him, when she chose him over everything—

He would remind her that love, too, could be a weapon.

Because revenge tasted sweetest when it wore the face of devotion.

And neither of them knew it yet—but the line between hatred and obsession had already been crossed.