The Dollhouse

The room smelled of lavender and something older—like trapped years.

Myra hadn't moved much. Her red bridal lehenga trailed around her like spilled wine—regal, radiant, yet so achingly out of place in the dim, eerie light of the room. The gold embroidery shimmered faintly under the chandelier, the only brightness in a space that felt like a silent scream.

She hadn't changed.

She wouldn't.

The blouse clung to her skin, the dupatta still pleated over her shoulder, the heavy skirt gathered around her crossed legs.

Because she refused to let this—him—strip away even one piece of her identity.

She sat near the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the door.

Then—soft steps. A click.

Aditya entered.

She didn't flinch.

But her fingers curled tightly into the fabric resting on her lap.

His gaze landed on her. And for a second, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hunger, longing, obsession—too potent to be mistaken for care.

"You look like a dream," he said, stepping inside. "I always knew red would suit you. Like fire and fate."

She said nothing.

He circled her slowly, like a lion deciding whether to devour or worship.

"You didn't even change," he whispered from behind. "Is that for me?"

"It's because I didn't want to wear anything you touched," she said coldly.

He smirked. "Fiery. Just like I remember."

She finally stood up, red fabric whispering around her ankles. "You keep saying you know me. But I don't know you. Not then. Not now."

Aditya's smile faded slightly. "You will."

"I don't want to."

He stepped closer.

She took a step back, but the bed was behind her. Nowhere to go.

"I've waited too long, Myra," he said, voice soft like silk—but sharp as broken glass. "To see you like this… in red… mine. This moment was stolen from me. And I'm just taking it back."

"You mean… from Ranvijay?" she snapped.

His eyes darkened instantly. "Don't say his name here. He doesn't exist in this world."

"Then neither do I," she said defiantly.

He chuckled, low and dangerous. "Not true. You're more alive now than you've ever been."

He walked to a small table and picked up something—a half-burnt photo. Myra could just barely make out her younger self in the image, with someone's hand covering her shoulder. The rest of the figure was torn away.

"I was there. Always behind the curtain. Always watching you grow. I saw the moment he saw you. And I knew—he would try to make you his."

"But I'm not anyone's!" she shouted, her voice shaking the silence.

Aditya paused.

Then stepped closer again.

This time, slower.

"If that were true… why did you wear this?" he whispered, his fingers brushing her dupatta—but she instantly slapped his hand away.

His jaw ticked.

"You'll come to understand," he said after a moment. "You always belonged here."

"Ranvijay will come for me," she said, her voice steady even as her hands trembled. "He always finds me."

Aditya leaned in, eyes dangerous. "And what if… I make it so that he never finds what's left of you?"

She gasped.

He instantly pulled back, chuckling softly. "Relax, Myra. I told you. I'll never hurt you."

He walked to the door and opened it. Before leaving, he turned back once more.

"Sleep well, dulhan," he said with a crooked grin. "You look just like I imagined. I hope he saw you like this—before I erase his memory from you completely."

And then he was gone.

Leaving Myra alone in the red lehenga… no longer just a bride, but a blazing flame waiting to rise from ashes.

She hadn't planned it—she didn't have time to. But when the maid entered with her meal and forgot to lock the door behind her, Myra's heart began to race like it sensed destiny cracking open. She waited. Counted to ten. Then slipped silently out, barefoot and trembling, holding her breath as she passed down the dim hallway lined with memories she didn't want. A single wrong step and it could all be over—but something inside her, fierce and trembling, whispered louder than fear: run. She pushed open the creaking side door, the wind slicing into her skin like ice, and without looking back, she bolted into the woods, darkness swallowing her like the unknown—but it was freedom. And it was hers—if she could survive.

The silence felt wrong.

Aditya stepped into the room expecting stillness—the kind he had carefully curated around her. But what greeted him was emptiness. The bed—untouched. The silk ties—loose. The glass of water—spilled. And on the table… the note he had written.

Still there.

But she wasn't.

A slow, simmering stillness fell over his face.

Then his eyes narrowed.

He turned to the maid standing at the threshold, trembling.

"She's gone," he said, softly—too softly.

The girl dropped to her knees, sobbing apologies.

Aditya didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His jaw ticked once. His fingers curled slowly into fists.

"She ran from me?" he whispered. Then laughed—low, humorless. "Myra…"

He picked up the red thread from the table, now slightly crumpled.

"Run all you want," he murmured, threading it through his fingers like a vow. "But even if God himself guards you—I will find you."

He turned sharply, voice rising like thunder, "Seal every road. She's barefoot, injured, and terrified. You think she'll get far?"

And then, like a predator unleashed, he stormed into the night.