Velvet Leashes
1266 Words
The kiss still lived in her skin.
Even hours later, even after she'd scrubbed her lips raw with water that was too cold, too punishing—she could still feel the way he held her. Not like a man kissing a girl, but like a man trying to own her with breath.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't soft.
It was a warning wrapped in affection.
And she hated how much her body had responded.
She hated more that part of her mind—traitorous and quiet—kept whispering what if he means it?
But meaning didn't matter in a house like this.
Intent didn’t erase control.
And obsession wasn’t love, no matter how sweet the silence after might feel.
So she stood in front of the mirror that morning, her hair pulled back into a low braid, a plain white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat. No makeup. No jewelry. Just skin, scars, and strategy.
Today, she wouldn’t tempt him.
She’d remind him that not everything soft stays still.
Zayan liked fire—but only the kind he could contain.
She intended to show him what happened when it burned on its own.
---
He was in the library, dressed in gray.
Not his usual black. Not sharp like armor. But muted. More… human.
Isha entered without knocking. Her shoes made no sound on the marble, but he looked up anyway. He always felt her before he saw her.
“Back for more?” he asked, tone unreadable.
She didn’t sit.
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“That doesn’t make it mutual,” she said flatly.
Zayan closed the book he was holding. Set it down carefully, like every motion meant something. He stood slowly, watching her with that too-calm expression he wore like a second skin.
“Everything you do is a choice,” he said. “You’ve made that clear.”
“Then don’t act surprised when I make more of them.”
He took a step closer.
She didn’t move.
Another step.
Still.
Only when they were toe-to-toe did he stop and say, “I don’t like this version of you.”
“No,” she murmured. “You like the girl you locked up and called obedient. I’m not her anymore.”
“You say that like I ever cared who you were.”
It was a cruel thing to say.
Too cruel for how gently he said it.
And yet—it hit. Hard.
She stiffened but didn’t break.
“Liar,” she said.
He laughed under his breath. “You keep calling me that, yet you stay.”
She met his gaze. Calm. Controlled.
“For now.”
---
The rest of the day passed in silence.
A strange silence—not empty, not angry. Something… suspended.
She spent her time walking the hallways. Learning which doors were still locked. Which had been unlocked quietly without notice.
She counted the windows in the west wing. Marked which ones were alarmed.
Watched the guard rotation from the balcony outside the music room.
Every step was memory. Every glance was preparation.
Zayan wanted her soft.
She was becoming sharp.
And she didn’t care if he noticed anymore.
In the greenhouse, she found a woman tending the orchids. Dressed in all white, eyes lowered, silent.
“Do you speak?” Isha asked gently.
The woman didn’t look up.
But her hand trembled where it held the spray bottle.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Isha added. “If you don’t want me to.”
Still nothing.
But before Isha turned to go, the woman whispered:
> “Not all cages have locks, miss.”
The words followed her back into the mansion like shadows stitched to her steps.
---
That night, he came to her room.
No knock. No guards.
Just his presence at the door, shadow against the light.
She opened it, half-expecting him to say nothing.
But instead, he handed her a small velvet box.
No words.
Just a look.
Inside: a bracelet.
Gold. Heavy. Minimal.
But there was a tiny latch on the inside.
A tracker.
She looked up, fury rising like blood behind her eyes.
“You think you can wrap chains in velvet and call them gifts?”
His voice didn’t rise. “I think if you’re going to walk the estate without permission, you’ll wear a leash I can follow.”
She held the box for a second longer, then threw it onto the floor.
It bounced once. Then rolled to a stop at his feet.
He stared at it. Then at her.
And smiled.
Not pleased.
Amused.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said softly.
“So are you,” she replied. “But the difference is—I know I’m playing.”
He took a step forward, and for the first time in weeks, she stepped back.
But he didn’t chase.
Just looked at her like she was starting to confuse him.
Like maybe she wasn’t a possession anymore.
Maybe she was a problem.
One he didn’t know how to fix.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You already have.”
“I can stop.”
She looked him in the eye.
“No, Zayan,” she said softly. “You just want to own me in a way that doesn’t leave bruises.”
That was when he left.
Without another word.
Without a threat.
But the silence he left behind felt like the calm right before glass shattered.
---
Later that night, she found a note slipped under her door.
In neat handwriting, unfamiliar:
> Do not trust what you see in his eyes.
He is not the only one watching you.
Room 9C. Midnight. Come alone.
Her heart raced.
Because there were no rooms labeled by numbers in this house.
Unless…
She grabbed her map of the west wing—hand-drawn from her walks.
Yes.
There was a door, tucked behind the servants’ stairwell. One she'd assumed was for storage.
Maybe it still was.
Or maybe…
This house wasn’t just hiding her.
Maybe it was hiding something worse.
She waited until the mansion went dark.
Until even the staff quarters quieted and the footsteps of the last patrolling guard faded down the marble corridor.
She dressed in black.
Slipped the map into her pocket.
And made her way down the spiral servants’ staircase like a breath with no sound.
Her fingers touched the cold brass doorknob.
It turned without resistance.
Inside: darkness.
But not empty.
A flickering red light pulsed from the far wall.
A screen.
A security monitor?
Her breath caught as her eyes adjusted.
There were shelves. Files. Dust-covered recordings.
One screen showed the east hallway. Another showed the guest room.
And the third—
Her room.
Live.
She was being watched.
But not just by Zayan.
> There was a second camera in the room he never mentioned.
And the timestamp at the bottom of the screen… it stretched back years.
The archives were dated.
Five years. Ten years. Even older.
This wasn't just surveillance.
This was obsession, recorded and organized.
Not just of her.
But others.
Women.
Her mother.
And just as she reached for a drawer marked “1999 – Singhania,” a voice whispered behind her—
> “You weren’t supposed to find this.”
She turned slowly.
And saw a face she hadn’t seen since she was a child.
One she thought was long gone.
One her mother had told her to forget.
> Her aunt.
> Amaya Singhania.
- Writer
