You are my OBSESSION.....

Chapter 7 : First Touch

Siyara stepped into the glass-front building where the International Painting Competition was being held. The place smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh canvas. Light poured in through high skylights, bouncing off polished marble floors.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she took in the rows of easels already set up. Artists were busy unpacking brushes, stretching canvases, and mixing colours like it was second nature.

Nikita nudged her. “Come on, let’s grab a good spot before they all vanish.”

They walked to a corner near the big window where soft daylight spilled in. Siyara put her bag down, let out a slow breath, and started unpacking. She laid her paints in a neat semicircle, set out her brushes in order—thin to thick—and tied her apron around her waist.

Nikita crouched beside her, squeezing paint onto the palette. “You’ve got this. Just breathe.”

Siyara nodded faintly, dipped her brush in water, and looked at the blank canvas.

The first stroke was hesitant—deep blue across the top, dark as midnight. Silver streaks followed, like moonlight breaking through clouds. Slowly, her world began to take shape: a lone figure draped in smoke-like fabric, pale flowers blooming from cracked earth, a skyline twisted beneath a stormy violet sky.

It was haunting. Beautiful, but not gentle. The kind of beauty that warned you to keep your distance.

Nikita peeked over her shoulder and whispered, “Wow… it’s like you painted your soul.”

Siyara didn’t answer. Her hand kept moving, steady, almost detached, as though her truth could only exist in colour.

When the judges began their rounds, whispers filled the room—technique, emotion, light. Siyara kept her eyes on her lap until polished shoes stopped behind her.

They lingered at her painting longer than the others. One judge leaned in close, his hand hovering as if afraid to disturb it. Another scribbled notes without looking away.

Her canvas glowed under the gallery lights. A twilight landscape, a girl standing at the edge of a cliff, dark waves writhing below, a single lantern burning in her hands. Small. Fragile. But refusing to go out.

When they finally moved on, Siyara let out a shaky breath.

The results would be announced in the evening. She stayed, watching others laugh and chat, while she sipped her coffee in silence. Her eyes kept drifting back to her painting. She couldn’t walk away from it.

---

By evening, the gallery buzzed with voices. Siyara stood with Nikita at the far end of the hall, away from the stage.

Then she saw him.

Aarav.

Tall. Sharp suit. His presence cut through the crowd like a knife.

Nikita froze. “That’s him.”

Siyara’s stomach twisted. The memory hit her—the café, his stare, the feeling of being hunted without a word spoken.

“I told you,” Nikita whispered, “he’s dangerous.”

“I don’t want to go near him,” Siyara muttered quickly.

Before she could say more, the announcer’s voice boomed:

“And the first place in the International Painting Competition goes to… Miss Siyara Mehra!”

Her blood ran cold.

“No. No, I can’t go up there,” she whispered.

“You have to,” Nikita hissed. “Don’t make a scene. Just take the prize and walk off. I’ll be right here.”

The stage looked miles away. Every step felt heavier than the last.

And then—her eyes met his.

Aarav was holding the trophy. And he was looking at her like she was the only soul in the room.

The crowd blurred. The sound dimmed. For one dangerous heartbeat, there was no one else—just him and her.

She hesitated at the final step. Slowly, she reached out for the trophy.

Her fingertips brushed his hand.

The touch was brief. Barely anything.

But for Aarav, it was enough to set his blood on fire.

Her eyes darted away at once, but his stayed.

Watching. Drinking her in.

He memorized the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes dipped when she refused to meet his gaze.

He handed her the prize, his fingers lingering against hers for a second longer than necessary. His lips curved into the faintest smile — but there was no softness in his eyes. Only claim.

In Aarav’s mind, she wasn’t just a winner of some art competition.

She was his.

Even if she didn’t realize it yet.

As the applause faded, Siyara turned quickly, hurrying off stage. Aarav stepped down too, his strides long, closing the gap.

“Miss Mehra—” His voice was low, smooth as silk but edged with steel.

Before she could respond, Nikita appeared at her side. “Siya, I have to run. My brother’s train came early — I need to be at the station.”

Siyara frowned. “But—”

“I’ve already told Varun to pick you up from here,” Nikita interrupted quickly. “You’ll go with him.”

Siyara blinked. “Varun?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. He’ll be here in two minutes.”

Aarav’s jaw clenched. That name stabbed through him like a blade.

And then — he saw him.

Varun walked into the hall, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on Siyara. His face softened immediately, and he walked straight to her.

Aarav didn’t move. He just watched, every muscle tight, as Varun greeted her easily — naturally. Siyara handed him the trophy without hesitation. He carried it like it belonged in his hands.

Aarav’s chest rose sharply. His stare never left them.

Varun wasn’t just another man. He was close. Too close.

A darker thought tightened in Aarav’s mind. He needed to know everything about this Varun. Who he was. Why he was here. And most of all — what he was to his Siyara.

Because to Aarav, obsession wasn’t just a feeling. It was ownership.

And the man standing beside her had just stepped inside his territory.

He watched them leave together, his eyes burning into the space where Siyara disappeared. His jaw tightened, but his whisper was soft — a promise and a threat all at once.

“She’s mine.”

---

Night – Aarav’s Penthouse :

The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, but Aarav barely saw it. He stood with both hands braced on the railing, jaw locked, the image of Siyara leaving with another man replaying in his head.

Varun.

His face. His presence. The way Siyara hadn’t pulled away.

Aarav’s lips curved — not a smile, not a snarl. Something dangerous in between.

He turned to his desk, grabbed his phone, and pressed speed dial. His voice came out low, steady, lethal.

“Find him. Varun. I want everything — his full name, where he works, his family, what he eats, who he sleeps with. I want it all. Tonight.”

The man on the line hesitated. “…Yes, sir.”

Aarav poured himself a drink but didn’t touch it. His thoughts were already tearing through possibilities. Was Varun just a friend? A fiancé? Something more?

Every answer lit a different fuse inside him. But all led to the same fire.

An hour later, a sealed envelope landed on his desk. Aarav opened it, flipping through the papers one by one.

Name: Varun Malhotra.

Occupation: Architect.

Connections: Close to the Mehra family.

Engagement: Pending.

Aarav’s grip on the file tightened. “Pending,” he repeated softly, the word turning dark in his mouth.

In his world, “pending” meant unfinished. And anything unfinished could be undone. Broken. Reshaped. Claimed.

He leaned back in his chair, leather creaking beneath him. His eyes darkened.

“If she’s going to marry him… she’ll understand what it means to have me in her path.”

In the shadows of his penthouse, Aarav began to plan. Not rushed. Not loud. But with the patience of a predator who already knows the end belongs to him.

Because for Aarav, obsession wasn’t a phase.

It wasn’t fleeting.

It was forever.

Sunlight crept lazily through the curtains, falling across a half-finished canvas in Siyara’s art room. The air smelled of turpentine and wet paint, thick and familiar.

She sat on the stool, brush in hand, but her focus wasn’t on the canvas.

It was on him.

On the way his eyes had followed her yesterday. On the way her fingers had brushed against his when she took the prize.

That touch — small, accidental — still burned on her skin.

“Don’t think about it,” she whispered, dipping her brush into crimson.

But the strokes came out rough, uneven. Her hand betrayed her.

Because no matter how hard she tried, the memory wouldn’t let her go.

---

Meanwhile…

In his office, Aarav sat at his desk, the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond the glass. The world outside was just noise, a blur of lights and movement.

But she wasn’t.

That girl from the stage.

The one who had fought for those orphanage girls.

The one whose name still lingered on his tongue like an unfinished word.

And now—Varun.

Aarav leaned back slowly in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His jaw tightened.

“Find out everything about him,” he said, his voice calm but cold. “Varun. Where he works. Who his family is. His entire life. And why the hell he was with her.”

---

That evening, Siyara got a message from Nikita.

Come to the gallery tonight. Big exhibition. Good chance.

She hesitated. Crowds meant people staring. People staring meant judgement.

But her chest felt tight with restlessness. She needed to get out of her head.

“Fine,” she texted back.

---

Soft jazz floated through the gallery as Siyara wandered between canvases bathed in warm light.

The painted colors felt safe — quiet company that didn’t ask too many questions. She moved slowly, letting herself breathe.

Then she rounded a corner and stopped cold.

There he was.

Aarav, standing by a large monochrome piece, hands in his pockets, looking at her like he’d been waiting all evening.

Her throat tightened. She tried to look away, to keep moving, but his voice reached her — low and steady.

“You paint with pain, don’t you?” She froze.

He walked toward her without hurry, never taking his eyes off her. “I saw it yesterday,” he said. “In your eyes, in the way you hold the brush. Every stroke hides something you won’t say out loud.”

Siyara’s heart hammered. When he stopped, he was only a breath away. She managed, barely, “I’m not hiding. I’m just looking.”

A small, almost careless smile touched his lips. “Good. Then notice me.”

For a moment the room narrowed to the space between them; the gallery’s hum fell away. She wanted to step back. She didn’t.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. “You’re mine. You just don’t know it yet.”

Siyara left the gallery earlier than planned. Her breath was uneven, her palms damp. She kept telling herself it was nothing — just another man with too much confidence.

But when she reached her bench outside, she froze.

A single red rose lay there. Beside it, a small white card with handwriting that pulled the air from her lungs.

You can’t hide beauty from the one who sees it.

—A

Her fingers trembled. She stood under the streetlight, the city noise fading around her.

And somewhere in the shadows, a pair of eyes watched. And smiled.