Marked By Possession
885 Words
Ariana curled up on the tiny couch in her Brooklyn apartment, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. The warm liquid did little to settle her nerves. She could still feel the weight of his stare from earlier that night, like invisible fingerprints pressed against her skin.
Across the room, Rehaan strummed his guitar, lost in thought. The soft melody filled the cramped space, but Ariana barely heard it.
“You’ve been quiet since we left the club,” he said, breaking the silence.
She hesitated. “That man… in the VIP section. He was staring at me.”
Rehaan chuckled, shaking his head. “Rich men stare, Ari. It’s what they do. You’re beautiful, you sing like a dream—of course they notice you.”
Ariana bit her lip. It wasn’t just staring. It was more. It was claiming.
She forced a smile. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
But deep down, she knew he wasn’t.
---
Across the city, at the top of a high-rise building, Dante Knight sat in his penthouse, his dark eyes fixed on a photograph of Ariana. He traced his thumb over the image, a slow smirk forming on his lips.
“She doesn’t even know it yet,” he murmured, “but she already belongs to me.”
Cole, his right-hand man, sighed from across the room. “Dante, she’s just a singer. You’ve never gone after a woman like this before.”
Dante leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “That’s because no woman has ever been worth chasing.”
Cole’s jaw tightened. “She has a boyfriend.”
Dante’s smirk didn’t fade. He took a slow sip of whiskey before setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Not for long.”
Cole sighed. “What are you planning?”
Dante didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his phone, dialing a number.
“Make it look like an accident.”
---
Ariana lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. The apartment was silent except for the rhythmic sound of Rehaan’s breathing beside her. She should have felt safe in his arms, but something gnawed at her—a feeling she couldn’t shake.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Frowning, she reached for it. Unknown Number.
She hesitated before answering. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then, a deep, velvety voice. “You have a beautiful voice, Ariana.”
A chill ran down her spine.
“Who is this?” she whispered.
Silence.
Her heart pounded. The air in the room suddenly felt suffocating.
Then, a soft chuckle. Low. Amused. Possessive.
“I’ll see you soon.”
The line went dead.
Ariana sat up, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the screen.
Who the hell was that?
Beside her, Rehaan stirred. “What’s wrong?”
Ariana quickly locked her phone. “Nothing… just a wrong number.”
But even as she said it, she knew she was lying.
---
The next morning, Ariana woke to the sound of her phone buzzing again. This time, it wasn’t an unknown number. It was her best friend, Mira.
“Hey,” Ariana answered groggily.
“Ari, turn on the news.”
Ariana frowned. “What? Why?”
“Just do it.”
Ariana sat up, grabbed the remote, and flipped on the tiny television across the room. The moment the screen flickered to life, her blood ran cold.
“Breaking News: Tragic Car Accident in Brooklyn—Musician Rehaan Kapoor in Critical Condition.”
The words blurred in front of her eyes.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, no, no…”
Her hands trembled as she grabbed her coat and bolted out the door, ignoring Mira’s voice calling her name through the phone.
---
At the hospital, everything was a blur. The antiseptic scent. The beeping machines. The murmurs of nurses passing by.
Rehaan lay unconscious on the hospital bed, his face bruised, a bandage wrapped around his forehead.
Ariana collapsed into a chair beside him, gripping his hand.
Tears burned her eyes. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “You have to be okay.”
She barely noticed when the doctor entered. “Are you family?”
Ariana nodded quickly. “I’m his girlfriend.”
The doctor sighed, glancing at the chart. “He’s lucky. The impact was severe, but he survived. It’ll be a long recovery, though.”
Ariana exhaled shakily. “What happened?”
“A hit-and-run. The driver was never found.”
Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t an accident.
She just didn’t know who to blame.
---
That night, Ariana sat alone in her apartment, her mind racing.
The call. The accident. The way that man at the club had looked at her.
It wasn’t just paranoia.
Her phone vibrated. Unknown Number.
She swallowed hard. Not again.
She let it ring. Let it go to voicemail.
A moment later, a message popped up. One new voicemail.
With shaking hands, she pressed play.
A deep voice filled the silence. Slow. Amused. Dangerous.
“I warned you, Ariana.”
Her breath hitched.
“You’re mine.”
The message ended.
Ariana’s hands went cold.
Whoever he was—he wasn’t just watching her.
He was already in control.
- Writer
