#virajdobriyalff

The gala shimmered—light spilling from chandeliers, music flowing like silk, glasses clinking in rhythm with soft laughter. You stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching your drink a little too tightly, hoping to remain unnoticed among the swirl of gowns and tuxedos.

And then his eyes found you.

Viraj Dobriyal moved through the crowd like the room belonged to him. People parted instinctively as he passed, his aura commanding, his presence undeniable. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, a dangerous kind of amusement. When he reached you, he didn’t waste words. He simply extended his hand, palm open, gaze steady.

“Dance with me,” he said. His tone was low, smooth, yet laced with something closer to an order than a request.

Your pulse leapt. Against every warning you’d heard, against your own better judgment, you placed your hand in his.

The music wrapped around you as he guided you onto the floor. His grip was firm but careful, his other hand settling at your waist—lingering just a second too long. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. Each step felt purposeful, practiced, as though he had planned this moment long before you ever arrived.

You tried to focus on the rhythm, on the steps, but it was impossible beneath the weight of his gaze. He looked at you like you were the only person in the room, as if the gala, the music, even the world itself had fallen away. The polished floor gleamed under the chandelier’s light, but you could see nothing except the sharp, magnetic intensity of his eyes.

“Relax,” he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. The word was gentle, but his hold was not—it was steady, claiming, unwilling to let you slip away. His thumb pressed lightly against your waist, a subtle reminder of his control. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with perfume and champagne in the air, wrapping around you almost as tightly as his arms.

Your heart thundered, each beat echoing in your ears louder than the orchestra’s strings. Was this charm? The smooth charisma that everyone warned you about? Or was there something deeper, something dangerous, in the way he refused to let go, in the way he drew you imperceptibly closer with every turn?

The song stretched on, a slow waltz that demanded closeness, and you found yourself caught in his orbit. He guided you effortlessly, his steps confident, his touch both protective and possessive. You were aware of every brush of fabric, every shift in breath, every second that he held you just a little tighter than the dance required.

When the music finally dwindled to its last note, applause rose around the room. But you barely heard it. His hand remained at your waist, fingers flexing slightly as though reluctant to release you, his eyes lingering on yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

And in that moment, you realized: cruelty you could prepare for. Sharp words, cold dismissals, you could survive those. But Viraj Dobriyal’s fleeting kindness, his quiet possession disguised as charm—those were the weapons that cut deepest.

Because charm fades, cruelty can be endured, but this subtle, intoxicating gentleness was the peril you never expected to crave.

You first noticed it walking home late from work—the feeling of being followed. Footsteps that matched your pace. Shadows that stretched too long. Every night it grew worse, until paranoia became your constant companion. The streetlights offered no comfort; each flickering bulb only deepened the unease. You started carrying your keys between your fingers, rehearsing excuses, escape plans, prayers.

When you told Viraj Dobriyal, his expression sharpened instantly. “You should have told me earlier,” he said, voice calm but edged with steel. His eyes lingered on yours, unblinking, as though he already knew more than you’d said. “From now on, you’re not walking anywhere alone.”

And just like that, he appointed himself your protector. He drove you to work, lingered outside your apartment, even insisted on waiting in the café across the street when you met a friend. His presence was steady, his gaze scanning every passerby as if calculating threats. He never seemed distracted; it was as though guarding you had become his sole occupation.

At first, it was a relief. “Thank you, Viraj,” you told him once, gripping your coffee cup a little too tightly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His lips curved in something between a smile and a smirk. “You won’t have to find out.”

But the longer it went on, the more the edges blurred. He always seemed to appear before you called. He knew your schedule without you telling him. You spotted him outside your office lobby before dawn, claiming he couldn’t sleep. Another night, your curtains shifted—and across the street, a figure stood motionless. When you looked again, Viraj was suddenly at your door, insisting he had been “passing by.” His gaze lingered too intently, not protective, but possessive.

One evening, you tried to challenge him.

“You don’t have to watch me all the time.”

He said nothing.

“It feels like I’ve traded one stalker for another.”

Viraj’s expression didn’t change. “Do you really want me gone?” His voice was low, measured, almost dangerous. “If I leave, who’s going to protect you? Do you think whoever’s following you will simply stop?”

You faltered, unable to answer. His intensity pinned you in place until he finally leaned back, exhaling softly. “That’s what I thought.”

That night, a note slid under your door: You looked beautiful today.

Your hands trembled as you reread the words. You had seen no one. You had told no one where you’d be.

Except Viraj.

Sleep evaded you. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind through the window felt like proof someone was near. At 3 a.m., your phone buzzed against the nightstand, the screen’s glow slicing through the dark. Your stomach dropped. A text: Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. No name. No number you recognized. The vibration still echoed in your bones long after it stopped.

The next morning, he was already waiting, leaning casually against his car, arms folded. “Rough night?” he asked, eyes flicking to the dark circles under yours. When you didn’t reply, he added smoothly, “You’ll be safe with me.”

“Viraj…” your voice cracked. “What if—it was you all along?”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between you. Then his gaze softened—too much, too suddenly—and he opened the car door for you. “If I were your stalker,” he said, voice silky, “you’d already know. Get in.”

You hesitated, scanning his face for cracks, for truth. His eyes gave nothing away, only that unnerving calm that left you doubting your instincts. Around you, the street was empty, the world holding its breath.

And you did get in, because being near him felt like the only defense you had. The leather seat was cool beneath your hands, but the air seemed heavy, suffocating, with his presence filling the space. His fingers brushed yours as he shifted gears, deliberate, steady.

But deep down, the question gnawed at you louder than ever: was he protecting you from the stalker—or had you stepped willingly into the stalker’s arms?

And worse still…

The training room was hushed, mats cool beneath your bare feet. You shifted uneasily, tugging at the hem of your shirt as you waited.

Viraj Dobriyal stepped forward, his presence commanding the space. Dressed in black, he looked like control personified—measured movements, sharp eyes that missed nothing. He gestured for you to stand before him.

“Show me your stance,” he said, voice low and unyielding.

You positioned your feet as best you remembered, hands raised in a hesitant guard. His gaze swept over you, unreadable, before he closed the distance.

“No.” His grip adjusted your shoulders, firm but not rough. “Too open here.” He tapped lightly against your side, the touch brief yet searing. He crouched slightly, nudging your elbow higher. “Keep this up. Protect your face. Always.”

Your breath caught at his nearness, at the way his scent—spice and something darker—wrapped around you. He stepped behind, guiding your wrist into place. Each correction was precise, efficient, yet his touch lingered just long enough to blur the line between lesson and something more.

“Better,” he murmured near your ear, his breath raising goosebumps along your skin.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus, but the closeness made it impossible. His chest brushed your back as he adjusted your footing, his palm briefly steadying your hip.

“Now,” Viraj said, stepping back though his gaze stayed sharp, “again.”

You exhaled slowly, fists raised. But as you shifted forward, he cut in.

“Too stiff.” His hand caught your wrist. “Not a dance. A fight. Loosen.”

“I’m trying,” you muttered, frustration edging your voice.

He smirked faintly. “Trying won’t save you. Again.”

You reset. This time he circled you, predator-like, watching every movement. When you faltered, he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. “Lower. You’ll lose balance if you’re too upright.”

The sting jolted through you. You adjusted quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed—but his smirk told you otherwise.

“Good,” he said at last, stepping in front. “Now throw a punch.”

You hesitated. “At you?”

“Of course.” His chin tilted in challenge. “Unless you’re afraid to touch me.”

Your cheeks burned. Determined, you snapped your fist forward. He caught it easily, his grip strong, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Better. But don’t telegraph it—you let me see it coming.”

He twisted gently, pulling you off-balance before steadying you with a firm hand at your waist. “Plant your feet. I won’t always be this generous.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—made your pulse skip. His gaze lingered before he let go.

“Again,” he ordered.

You struck quicker this time. He dodged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Improvement.”

You tried once more, grazing his shoulder. His brows lifted before his hand shot out, seizing your wrist and pulling you against his chest. His breath ghosted your temple as he murmured, “Now you’re learning.”

Your heart thundered, every nerve alight. His hold loosened, but he didn’t step back right away. The silence stretched, heavy with something unspoken.

Finally, he released you. “That’s enough for today,” he said, though his eyes lingered, dark and unreadable.

“Next time… you won’t get off so easily.”

Your first day at the office is filled with whispers. Everyone says the same thing: Viraj Dobriyal doesn’t keep assistants for long.

You straighten your shoulders, clutching your notepad like armor. It’s just a job. You’ve dealt with difficult bosses before. You’ll survive this one too.

Then the elevator doors open, and there he is.

Viraj Dobriyal. Charismatic, magnetic, dangerous. His shirt is, as always, half-buttoned—revealing more confidence than modesty. His eyes skim over you once, sharp as a blade, and your heart stutters. Without a word, he strides past, leaving a silence heavy enough to choke on.

The rest of the day is a blur of clipped commands and icy glares. His voice is low, measured, each word an order disguised as a request. You scribble notes as fast as you can, terrified of missing something important.

Still, beneath the weight of his reputation, you catch flashes of something else—his attention to detail, his uncanny ability to anticipate the next step before anyone else does. He’s a storm contained in human skin, and somehow you’ve been tasked with navigating it.

Hours later, after navigating his endless demands and curt replies, you sink into your chair. Exhaustion presses into your bones. You glance at the stack of paperwork—impossible to finish tonight. A sigh escapes before you can catch it.

And that’s when you see it.

A paper cup of coffee, still warm, steam curling with the faint richness of roasted beans. A small packet of your favorite biscuits beside it, the buttery scent rising as you open it. No note. No explanation. Just there, waiting for you like a secret someone wanted you to find. Your gaze flicks toward his closed office door. Did he…? No. Impossible. You shake your head and convince yourself it was one of the others—except no one else knows you well enough to pick these exact things.

The next morning, you arrive earlier than usual, determined to get ahead. On your desk, tucked beneath a neat pile of files, is a chocolate bar—smooth and dark, the wrapper cool to the touch. Later, after a long meeting that leaves your throat dry and patience worn thin, you return to find a chilled bottle of water waiting, condensation dripping onto your notes. It happens again and again, quietly, secretly—until the warnings you heard don’t match the man you’re beginning to know.

One evening, as the office empties out, you catch him in the reflection of the glass. He pauses at your desk for the briefest moment, setting down a packet of almonds before retreating into shadow. You pretend not to notice, but your heart betrays you, thrumming fast and loud.

Behind closed doors, he doesn’t sneer. He doesn’t threaten. He remembers the little things, the quiet preferences you never voiced aloud. He notices when you frown at bitter coffee and switches it to sweet, when you rub your temples after a meeting and finds a way to ease the pain. He notices, always.

And noticing is far more dangerous than cruelty.