The Scars We Hide

(One year After Everything Began)

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful.

It was heavy.

It pressed into the walls, seeped into the furniture, settled into the corners like something alive. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that soothed. It was the kind that waited. That held its breath. That dared someone to break it.

Kavya stood in the center of her bedroom, barefoot on the cold ceramic floor, staring at nothing.

She looked around the four walls that used to be her sanctuary, her private universe. Now, the room felt tainted, as if his presence had seeped into the paint and poisoned the air. It was no longer a place of rest; it was a cage with a different set of bars.

The curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room away from the afternoon sun. No light. No warmth. Just shadows and the dull hum of the ceiling fan cutting through the stillness.

In her right hand, she gripped the handle of the sharpest kitchen knife she could find.

She had checked.

Twice.

The stainless steel felt unnaturally cold against her damp palm, slick with sweat. The contrast was jarring against the inferno burning inside her chest.

Shame. Fear. Exhaustion.

Six months of it, coiled tight in her chest until even breathing felt like punishment.

Her eyes drifted to the corkboard above her study desk. The edges of the polaroids were curling. There was Kabir, laughing at a joke she couldn’t remember. There was Meera, their heads leaned together. And her mother—always her mother—smiling with that exhausted radiance. She had loved these people so loudly once.

Now she couldn’t remember what her own laugh sounded like.

A phantom weight settled on her chest. They would mourn a girl who had already been dead for months; her body was just finally catching up to the corpse.

She had reached the end of her endurance.

There was no dramatic breakdown. No tears. Just a bone-deep fatigue that made standing feel like a chore and living feel like punishment.

Her mother was at work.

Kavya knew all of her shift schedules by heart. Double duties. Emergency wards. ICU. She wouldn’t be home for another five hours.

Plenty of time.

Her thoughts drifted to her mother despite herself. To the way she hummed while chopping vegetables. To her warm smile that always appeared even when she was exhausted. To those gentle, calloused hands that had wiped Kavya’s tears more times than she could count.

Guilt struck her chest, sharp and breath-stealing.

How would she survive this?

Opening this door.

Finding her only daughter collapsed on the floor.

Blood spilling on the ceramic floor she’d cleaned that very morning.

For a fleeting moment, Kavya’s grip on the knife loosened.

But the guilt wasn’t enough.

It never was.

It was too late for guilt.

She looked at her small overflowing bookshelf. The spines of her favorite novels mocked her — or maybe that was just what six months of him had taught her to believe. That she had wanted this. That she had written the ending herself, somewhere between the dog-eared pages of fictional monsters.

That was a lie he had told her so many times she’d started to think it was her own thought.

Then she looked at her bed. The pale blue duvet where she used to curl up and read for hours was the same place he had unmade her. He had taken those fictional fantasies and turned them into something brutal. Real. He didn't burn the world for her; he used her as the fuel. The bed wasn't a place of dreams anymore—it was the altar where he had sacrificed the girl she used to be.

She thought of her father. Of the way his voice always sounded steadier than he felt. She thought of Kabir, her older brother, so far away in America, chasing his dreams while she quietly drowned.

Would they fly back?

Would they stand over her body and wonder where they went wrong?

And when the truth inevitably surfaced—when they realized who had driven her here—

What would they do to Amaan?

The answer came instantly, chilling in its clarity.

Nothing.

They couldn’t do anything.

He was untouchable.

He owned this city.

He owned influence.

He owned power.

And he owned her.

Amaan.

The name tasted like ash.

The boy who had ruined her.

The boy who claimed to love her with a devotion so violent it had stripped her bare, peeled her down to something raw and shaking and exposed.

The boy who had turned affection into a cage.

He was the reason she was standing here.

The architect of this nightmare.

She looked down at her wrist. The Cartier Love bracelet glinted under the dim glow of the ceiling fan. It was a solid, 18k gold band that Amaan had screwed onto her arm months ago—a "gift" that required a golden screwdriver. It was a permanent brand of ownership.

“This is it,” Kavya whispered into the darkness.

Her voice sounded foreign in the small room. Thin. Final.

“This is the only door he cannot lock.”

Her hand didn’t tremble.

That was the strangest part.

She expected fear. Panic. Hesitation.

There was none.

She pressed the cold steel to her skin, right at the edge of the gold band.

She thought, strangely, of the girl she was at fifteen. The one who used to fall asleep with a book on her chest, convinced the world was full of stories waiting for her.

I’m sorry, she told that girl. I tried.

She pulled.

The blade scraped against the gold with a high-pitched metallic screech — the sound of his wealth unsuccessfully trying to protect its property.

Pain exploded. White-hot. Searing. Electric.

It shot up her arm and crashed through her system like lightning. Her breath hitched, Her fingers went numb, her body reacting before her mind could.

But she didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She welcomed it.

She had been tolerating pain for months.

His bites.

His grip.

The bruises that bloomed where no one could see.

The constant ache of being watched, controlled, violated.

Compared to the agony of continuing to exist, this was nothing.

This was mercy.

This was release.

She closed her eyes and exhaled shakily.

It’s done.

She could sleep now.

No more mirrors on the ceiling.

No more black silk sheets.

No more flinching at footsteps.

No more waiting for the next way he would hurt her.

Warmth spread before she fully registered it.

Thick. Heavy.

Her life poured out of her wrist, thick and absolute. The blood was warm, painting his expensive gold cage a stark, violent red before slipping from her trembling fingertips. Drop by heavy drop, it hit the floor, expanding into a dark, quiet stain of defiance.

The silence finally broke.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound was obscene in its rhythm.

And then—

The front door didn’t knock. It didn’t creak. It simply ceased to exist — torn open with the kind of force that didn’t ask permission.

The sound was distant, muffled, like it was happening underwater.

She heard his footsteps before she heard anything else. Not running. Worse. Purposeful.

The bedroom door flew open, hitting the wall with a violence that shook the room like a gunshot.

Kavya’s eyes snapped open.

Cold panic speared through her chest, sharp enough to momentarily overpower the numbness.

Amaan stood in the doorway, chest heaving, phone still glowing in his fist with her name on it. He didn’t say her name like a question. He said it like a command he already knew wasn’t going to be obeyed.

“Kavya.”

He looked unhinged.

His school shirt was clinging to him with sweat, his copper hair wild and disordered as if he’d run his hand through it without stopping. His eyes—those piercing ocean-blue eyes—were frantic, darting around the room, already sensing something wrong.

Instinct took over.

Kavya shoved her bleeding wrist behind her back, pressing it hard into the fabric of her black t-shirt, the solid metal of the gold bracelet pinching her back.

He can’t see it.

Not yet.

Not until it’s too late.

“What are you doing?” Amaan demanded.

His voice was wrong.

The arrogance was gone.

The control was gone.

In its place was terror. Raw. Vibrating.

He took a step forward, blue eyes narrowing as he scanned her face, the room, the air itself.

“What are you doing, Kavya?” he asked again, his voice cracking. “Why are you standing like this? What are you holding?”

His gaze flicked to her hands hidden behind her back.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” His voice dropped, urgent. “I called you ten times.“

Kavya didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

She just looked at him.

The fear was gone from her eyes.

The anger was gone.

Even the hatred had gone quiet.

There was only emptiness.

A still, glassy nothingness that told him something he wasn’t ready to understand.

She was already leaving.

Blood loss hit her fast.

Her knees weakened, muscles turning to water. The edges of her vision blurred, static creeping in. The room tilted, spinning lazily.

Amaan was moving—saying something—but his words were swallowed by the ringing in her ears.

She swayed.

Fell forward.

She braced for the floor.

It never came.

Amaan caught her.

His arms wrapped around her, strong and desperate, pulling her against his chest. The same arms that had trapped her now held her as if letting go would destroy him.

“Kavya?” His voice broke. “Kavya, look at me. What happened?”

He shifted his grip to keep her upright.

His hand brushed her wrist.

He froze.

Wet.

Warm.

Sticky.

His hand came back red.

He stared at it.

His gaze dropped to the deep gash on her wrist, under the solid gold, the blood soaking into his pristine white school shirt, staining him.

The knife lay beside her.

For a moment — just one — he looked like he was going to do what he always did. Take control. Fix it. Command the situation back into order.

Then his face broke.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. It cracked the way expensive things crack — quietly, and then completely.

“No,” he said. Once. Almost calm.

Then again. “No.”

The color drained from his face. Horror shattered through him, raw and absolute.

“No—no—no—no—no.”

Then the scream came — animal, unrestrained, the sound of something that had never been afraid of anything suddenly terrified of everything.

The monster was terrified.

And through the haze, through the pain and fading consciousness—

Satisfaction bloomed.

She had won.

This was the last thing she would ever take from him.

“Kavya—stay with me—just—just stay—” He tried to press his palm over the wound to stop the flow, but the Cartier bracelet was the obstacle.

His fingers slipped on the blood-slicked gold.

The bracelet.

His eyes locked onto it.

“Take it off—”

He twisted it. Pulled at it. His hands shook violently, slick with her blood.

It didn’t move.

“Why isn’t it coming off?”

His breath came sharp, uneven. “Why won’t it come off?”

He tried to force his fingers under the metal, trying to reach the wound, to press it—stop it—something—

But the gold band sat there. Solid. Unmoving.

In the way.

Always in the way.

“What have you done? Oh God—Kavya, what have you done?”

Kavya looked up at him through the gathering haze. She saw the "war paint" of her own blood splattered across his white shirt. She saw the monster reduced to a begging, weeping boy.

She leaned her head back against his arm, her lips brushing his ear.

She gathered the last remnants of her strength.

She needed him to hear this.

She leaned into him, her lips brushing his ear.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

It wasn’t anger.

It was a curse.

It was goodbye.

Darkness wrapped around her, gentle and final. The pain faded. The fear dissolved.

Amaan’s broken face was the last thing she saw.

Her head lolled back against his arm. The chest that had been heaving with shallow breaths went still.

The room went silent.

Amaan sat there, covered in her blood, holding the girl he had broken, the girl who had used her last breath to curse him.

He was the King of the city. He had money, power, influence.

And he was holding a corpse.

"Wake up," he whispered, shaking her limp body.

"Kavya, stop it. Wake up."

Nothing.

"WAKE UP!"

He threw his head back and screamed.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

He roared into the empty apartment, his voice cracking, echoing off the walls that had witnessed all his sins.

"PLEASE! SHE'S NOT BREATHING! AMBULANCE! I NEED AN AMBULANCE!"

He rocked her body back and forth, wailing like a wounded animal, begging a God he didn't believe in to bring her back.

But the apartment just stared back at him. Silent.

Cold. And empty.

And for the first time in months… Kavya was out of his reach.

⚠️ AUTHOR'S NOTE & CONTENT WARNING ⚠️

Please read before proceeding. The Scars We Hide is a pitch-black dark romance and psychological thriller. This is not a traditional love story. It explores the terrifying depths of a sociopathic obsession, trauma bonding, and severe psychological manipulation.

Amaan Malik is a villain. He is not a morally grey hero with a heart of gold; he is a high-functioning, possessive apex predator who does not take "no" for an answer. The relationship depicted in this book is extremely toxic, unequal, and dangerous. Please do not romanticize his actions in the real world.

If you are sensitive to dark themes, please protect your mental health and do not read this book. This story contains explicit and graphic depictions of:

• Non-Consensual / Dubious Consent (Non-con/Dub-con): Explicit scenes of sexual assault, forced sexual acts, and manipulated consent.

• Extreme Stalking & Obsession: Digital surveillance, breaking and entering, and total invasion of privacy.

• Psychological & Emotional Abuse: Severe gaslighting, forced isolation, degradation, and the active cultivation of a trauma bond.

• Physical Violence: Bruising, biting, and rough, punishing physical dominance.

• Somnophilia / Vulnerable states: Taking advantage of the main character when she is asleep, exhausted, or physically vulnerable.

• Self-Harm / Suicide Attempt: Graphic depiction of a suicide attempt driven by psychological despair.

• Unequal Power Dynamics: Extreme financial and social blackmail (billionaire heir vs. scholarship student).

• Explicit Sexual Content & Humiliation: Graphic sexual scenes involving intense degradation, bodily fluids, and vocal humiliation.

You have been warned.

For those of you brave enough to step into the dark... welcome to St. Xavier’s.