My Villian In Real Life

The wrong book Avril never meant to steal anything. Not from a client; especially from a sweet old man who wore thick glasses and smelled like cookies and spice. And yet there it was. A leather bound journal. Tucked neatly in her tote bag between the copy of her schedule and her “How To Get Rich Ghostwriting Romance Novel” book she hadn't even completed reading yet. She found it two days after that one time therapy session. The old man- Khalid's grandfather rumbled about regrets and a grandson who needed therapy more than he did. She hadn't planned to go. It was to return a favor to her colleague at the community center. Avril stared at the journal, now sprawled across her tiny kitchen table, pages spilling open like a secret trying to tell itself. The first entry stopped her cold. “I've never hated anyone the way I hate myself. Except maybe her. The way she looked at me like she knew I was the villain in my own story…” She blinked. This wasn't the old man's writing. It was Sharp, Angry, Young and Masculine. Who even keeps a handwritten diary this days … Her fingers hovered over the next page. She shouldn't read it. Boundaries, Ethics and her Therapist code. But curiosity wins when you're broke, uninspired, and trying to ghostwrite a spicy billionaire romance for 100 dollars a chapter. Avril flipped to another entry. “Power feels better than love. Love slips away. Power sticks to your skin, even when you wash it off. She said I needed help, I said I needed silence.” She exhaled This is gold She could twist these raw lines into something electric. Dark. Add a tortured billionaire backstory, a morally gray ex-lover, maybe a secret deal gone wrong. Easy. She didn't need to know who wrote it. Just that it made her want to write again. Later that night she typed until 3am And when her client submission portal pinged with a message from her editor - “This is fire. Send more.” - Avril knew she'd crossed the line. She just didn't know how close she was to the man behind the words. At least not yet…. The Next day, Avril hadn’t planned to take any new clients that week. Not with deadlines piling up, caffeine withdrawal tugging at her skull, and the journal still sitting on her desk like a half-open door she wasn’t ready to close. But then the receptionist called. “Walk-in. Referred by a family member. No details, just said he’d show up.” She almost said no. Almost. Instead, she muttered something professional, grabbed her sweater, and headed down the hallway to her shared office. He arrived five minutes late. Not the careless kind of late—the calculated kind. Tall, clean-cut, dark coat. No warmth in his expression. Eyes sharp, like they were used to reading people and filing them away. “You’re Avril?” His voice matched the rest of him. Calm, confident, and just slightly bored. She nodded, gesturing to the seat across from her. “You can sit, please.” He took his time. Looked around the room. Then sat—like it was a test he was already planning to fail on purpose. “I don’t usually talk to strangers about my personal life,” he said. She offered the thinnest smile. “That’s fair. But sometimes that makes it easier.” He didn’t answer. She wrote his name in her notes: Khalid Almasi. Age: early thirties. Referred by his grandfather—though Khaid didn’t look thrilled about that part. His answers were clipped, calculated. He deflected without sounding defensive. Almost like he was letting her see just enough to make her think she was doing her job. Avril had seen this kind before. The ones who wore silence like armor. Still, there was something different about him. Not just the attitude—but the way he paused sometimes, like he was wrestling words before letting them out. Like the truth was right behind his teeth, waiting to jump or disappear. Later that evening, Avril returned to the tiny apartment she shared with Priya—a bundle of color, noise, and unsolicited opinions—who had thankfully left a sticky note that read: “Out on a date. Don’t wait up unless you’re cooking.” She smiled faintly and tossed her bag onto the couch. Sitting at her desk, she opened her laptop and tried to focus on her ghostwriting. But her thoughts wouldn’t leave Khalid alone. The way he spoke in metaphors. The way he made silence feel loud. She shoved the journal under her bed, ignoring its pull. There was nothing strange going on. Just another difficult client. Just another man trying not to c***k. She was imagining things. Probably. Khaid showed up the next week. On time. Avril pretended not to be surprised, but her eyebrows gave her away. He noticed, of course. He seemed like the kind of man who noticed everything—especially what people didn’t say out loud. “I figured I’d try this again,” he said as he sat. “That’s great,” she said lightly, scribbling something in her notebook that wasn’t even a real note. “What made you change your mind?” “My grandfather wouldn’t shut up about it.” “External pressure can get people in the room,” Avril said. “But it won’t keep them here.” Khalid looked at her, cool and unblinking. “We’ll see.” The session drifted between guarded answers and sharp silences. He didn’t volunteer much. But when she asked about control, his posture stiffened—just slightly. “I don’t like people messing with my pace,” he said. Avril tilted her head. “Do people often do that?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They try. Doesn’t end well.” She almost asked for details, but something about the way he folded his hands made her pause. He looked like a man who knew what it meant to ruin someone without raising his voice. Instead, she nodded. “I appreciate you being honest.” He looked amused. “Do you?” Avril smiled back. “More than you think.” --- Later that night, Priya burst into their tiny kitchen with two tubs of Thai food and no boundaries. “You’re quiet,” she said, mouth full of rice. “Did the grumpy billionaire finally say something interesting?” Avril blinked. “He’s not a billionaire.” Priya raised an eyebrow. “Yet. They always are in your stories.” “I’m just doing my job.” “You’re also glowing.” “I’m not glowing.” “You’re totally glowing.” Avril rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the warmth in her chest. Maybe it was the thrill of writing something good again. Or maybe it was the fact that Khaid Almasi was far more fascinating than he had any right to be. She wouldn’t admit it—not even to herself—but she was starting to look forward to their sessions. And she hadn’t opened the journal in days. That felt like progress.