6. STALKER

VYOM RAJPUT'S POV

I step on the accelerator, feeling the rush of adrenaline as my sleek, black SUV glides through the winding forest roads. Finally, the grueling shoot for my new designer collection is over. Now, I can unwind and bask in my own glory - after all, I am Vyom, the fashion icon.

As I glance in the rearview mirror, my perfectly chiseled features catch my attention. My hair, perfectly messy. My eyes, piercingly captivating. I flash a dazzling smile, admiring my reflection.

But my self-admiration is interrupted by a familiar, unsettling sight - a black Bugati bike tailing me, just like it has for the past two months. My stalker.

A shiver runs down my spine, but my confidence quickly kicks in. Who wouldn't be obsessed with me? My charm, my looks, my talent - I'm irresistible.

I focus on the road ahead, my mind racing with possibilities. Who could this be? A fan? A rival designer? Or perhaps someone who can't handle the brilliance that is Vyom?

I accelerate, taking the turns with precision, testing the stalker's skills. The bike keeps pace, its headlights gleaming in my mirror.

A thrill of excitement mixed with annoyance courses through me. This game of cat and mouse has gone on long enough. Time to take control.

I take a sharp turn, expertly maneuvering my SUV onto the main road. The bike follows, its engine roaring.

Enough.

I pull over, parking my SUV with precision. The bike stops beside me, its rider clad in black, helmet concealing their face.

My eyes lock onto the mysterious figure, a mix of irritation and fascination brewing within me.

"You're quite persistent," I say, voice low and commanding. "What do you want?"

I gaze into the biker's helmet, expecting some crazed fan or obsessive admirer. But nothing prepares me for the shock of recognition that hits me like a ton of bricks.

The helmet comes off, revealing a chiseled face with piercing eyes - Vikram Singh Rajvansh.

My mind reels as I recall that fateful night, the alleyway, the sound of a body hitting the ground. The memory I'd tried to bury surfaces, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Vikram," I whisper, my voice trembling.

Vikram's gaze locks onto mine, his expression unreadable.

Vikram dismounts his bike, his movements fluid.

"What do you want?" I press.

I get out and slam the car door shut, storming out to confront Vikram. My eyes blaze with anger and fear.

"You bloody Murderer!" I spit, my voice echoing through the deserted road.

He looks in my eyes with his so called famous sweetness he is famous for.

Hi lips curve into smirk, giving me a cold chill through my spine.

"You're a hard man to shake off, Vyom," he says, his tone low and menacing.

I take a step closer, my slender figure trembling with rage.

"What do you want from me, huh!? My life? My soul? My body?" I demand.

He gets close to my face and says.

"If I wanted to take your body, you would have spread your legs for me on this dark road. I know better than anyone else of how much of a desparate bitch you are for huge dicks."

He took his fingers and starting blowing on them, imitating me.

THE FUCKING AUDACITY.

"Listen here, Mr. Rajvansh. If you follow me again," I warn, "I'll call the police and have you arrested."

Vikram's smile grows wider.

"You don't need to worry, little prince," he says. "Even if you die trying to get me arrested, that would be of no use. nothing can put me behind bars."

His words send a chill down my spine.

Vikram's eyes seem to bore into my soul.

"I don't want your body, soul, or death, Vyom," he says.

I exhale, expecting a worse revelation.

"What do you want then?" I ask.

Vikram's smile grows wider.

"I want you whole. I want your happiness, your tears, your annoying talks about how great you are or your real identity. I want you to date me. Simple, right?"

Vikram's hand brushes against my waist, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Remove your hand," I hiss.

Vikram's eyes lock onto mine, his gaze burning.

"I can't control myself whenever I see you," he admits.

His hand lingers, fingers tracing the edge of my shirt.

" When your shirt buttons are undone, making you appear like a fucking meal ready to get eaten up." he whispers.

My face heats up.

"Yy--ouu."

Vikram's smile grows wider.

"If it happens again, you can slap me across my face. I won't mind."

My jaw drops. Shock renders me speechless.

"Have you gone insane?" I finally manage.

Vikram chuckles.

"Do you even know a shit about me?" I demand.

Vikram's eyes glint.

"Your name is Vyom Rajput, 25, fashion designer. You're a self-proclaimed fashion icon."

"Everyone knows that since you know I am quite famous." I said.

Vikram continues.

"You're a social media enthusiast, love luxury brands, and have a penchant for high-society events."

My mind reels.

"But that's not all, Vyom," Vikram says.

His voice drops to a whisper.

"You belong to royal blue blood."

My heart skips a beat.

"Wh--What are you talking about?" I stammer.

Vikram's gaze intensifies.

"Your family's legacy, Vyom. The Rajput dynasty. You're a fucking prince. Your parents disown--"

I clench my jaw.

"That's none of your business."

Vikram's smile grows wider.

"Oh, but it is. You're a treasure, hidden away."

He takes a step closer.

"And I feel it's my job to uncover every secret, every inch of you."

I stand firm.

"You have murdered someone infront of my eyes. You think you can charm me?"

Vikram chuckles.

"Charm? No, Vyom. I'm just claiming what's mine."

His hand brushes mine, sending shivers.

His huge body hovers my petite figure on my SUV, while he caress my face and says,"You didn't slap me. Should I take it as an invitation, Mr. Little prince."

.

.

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~ to be continued