Page 18 of Trapped By the Maharaja
His car was waiting with the door open. Ram stepped in, water sliding off his shoes onto the pristine floor mat.
The door shut behind him with a soft thud, shutting off the heavy rain.
Inside the car, the rain was only a murmur. He leaned back against the leather seat.
His phone buzzed.
The head of his security spoke crisply through the line. “She’s home, sir. Escorted safely. The car waited until she entered the building. Her apartment lights have just turned on.”
“Good.” Ram ended the call and set the phone aside.
The city blurred past the tinted windows, the raging storm outside reflecting his emotions.
He wasn’t a man given to emotional turbulence. Rage was a weakness. Desire a distraction. But tonight, everything coursed beneath the surface like molten lava.
She had slapped him.
And yet, instead of fury, he felt a dark satisfaction. He had wanted to feel her touch. Wanted to hear her voice spit hatred at him. Wanted to see that defiance blaze in her eyes. It was the same fire that once made him fall madly in love.
She hadn’t changed much.
But he had. He was no longer foolish enough to believe in love or happy endings.
He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He felt the rage and desire that always simmered when he thought of her over the years. He felt the twisted need to have her under his control. He felt the satisfaction of pulling the strings that had brought her to him.
But most of all, he felt the thrill of inevitability.
Eight years.
It took him eight years to bring her back into his life.
This time, she wouldn't be able to escape him.
He won’t let her.
CHAPTER 8
It was past midnight when Sanjana stepped out of the shower and dressed in comfortable night clothes. She rubbed her arms as she went into the living room. Despite her clothes being warm and dry, the chill still lingered.
The quiet inside her apartment was deafening. She usually felt at peace as soon as she stepped into her home, but now, she felt anything but peace.
Her apartment was small but spotless, with everything in place, books aligned, couch cushions straight, desk stacked with case notes. It was the one part of her life she could still control.
But now even that felt like it was slipping away.
She grabbed a glass of water and drank it, then set it aside with a loud clink. Her hands trembled, and she dug her nails into her palms to steady herself.
Her sides as her eyes swept across the small space. This little apartment was her sanctuary. It didn’t look like much, but it was home.
She never dreamed of a lavish life. Her dream had always been simple: help the people regardless of who they were. And especially heal the ones who couldn’t afford or hope.
The orphanage she grew up in had taught her the true meaning of value, how a single book could be a treasure, how kindness could change the course of a life.
She had never known who funded her education. She only knew that one day, the orphanage head came to her, letting her know an anonymous patron was sponsoring her medical degree. The sponsorship came with fully funded tuition and a monthly stipend. A small, beautifully written note was also handed over. She still kept the note, although the words in it were embedded in her heart.
“Help others the way someone helped you.”
Right then, she had promised herself she would never forget where she came from. Never chase money or recognition. Never treat medicine as a business.
