His POV – Unnamed
I don't need to see her every day.
Possession isn't about proximity — it's about access.
I watched her leave the clinic last night.
The exact moment her heels clicked against the marble floor.
The exact second she paused to lock her office door.
The way her shoulders dropped ever so slightly when she believed she was alone.
She isn't aware yet.
But she is never alone.
I don't like interfering with her weekdays.
She is in work-mode. Clinical. Composed.
Beautiful in a cold, distant way.
But weekends?
Weekends are pure.
Weekends show the real version of people the version without the mask.
Friday night is when she tries to disconnect from the world.
And Saturday is when she pretends she isn't running from anything.
Most people spend weekends trying to escape their reality.
Raina spends weekends trying to control it.
She thinks Beverly Hills protects her.
That her luxury apartment, her Mercedes S-Class, her top reputation as "the best psychiatrist in Beverly Hills" gives her immunity.
She truly believes order is safety.
She has no idea how easy it is to watch someone who lives in glass.
I don't stand too close.
I don't loiter.
I don't behave like men in cheap thrillers.
I stay invisible.
I watch patterns.
I watch behavior.
I watch her.
She has a habit of opening the blinds halfway.
Not fully she hates exposing the entire room to the world but halfway enough to let night lights slip into her living room.
Half-open blinds are a dream for someone like me ,it means she wants light but refuses vulnerability.
She changes into soft cotton loungewear at night, muted tones ,not silk, not lace something grounding.
She keeps her hair tied loosely, not in her professional ponytail.
Sometimes she stands still near the glass staring at the city like she's trying to convince herself that she belongs in this world again.
Her posture says something her mouth will never admit:
She is still afraid.
Fear is honesty.
I don't need to break into her place to know her fear — her fear breathes through her silence.
She checks her door lock twice before sleeping.
She touches the latch, the handle, the deadbolt, then checks again, as if the metal can betray her memory.
She's done that since the age of twenty-four.
She thinks she healed that habit.
She didn't.
People don't heal trauma.
They adapt around it.
She has adapted beautifully.
But the cracks show when she's alone.
She keeps three cameras in the apartment — stupidly hidden, but I know where they are.
The camera angles are predictable — one near the bookshelf, one behind that frame near her hall, one in her study.
She thinks hidden cameras give her a sense of control.
They don't.
Control is an illusion gifted to the weak so they don't self-destruct.
She always sleeps on her right side, not her left because she can see the bedroom door from the right-angle view.
It's a subconscious survival instinct.
Trauma teaches better than any therapist.
She is both doctor and patient — and she doesn't realize it.
Raina Mehta is brilliant.
And broken.
And mine.
The weekend will be interesting.
Saturday evening — she'll probably decide to "treat herself" in a basic routine — maybe candles, maybe a glass of wine at most.
Nothing drastic.
She thinks normalcy is a shield.
But normal routines are the easiest to map.
She doesn't know I've been watching her longer than she imagines.
Not because I want to hurt her.
But because I want to witness the exact moment she stops running from what she truly is.
Fear is the first stage.
Acceptance is next.
I can wait.
I always wait.
Possession without patience is meaningless.
She is a long-term project.
And I have no intention of letting her go again.
Whatever she was trying to find that night I finally revealed myself it's obvious she wanted to dig back into the past.
She has no idea what is waiting for her there.
Surprise or shock both give me an advantage.
I raise the whiskey glass to my lips, but I pause because I can still smell her scent in my memory.
Roses.
She used to wear chocolate-based fragrances… but that changed in these two years.
Funny how fast people evolve when they are running from something.
I close my eyes for a moment and the flashbacks come without effort.
Those fearful eyes.
Those tight fists.
Still trying to act strong.
I love that about her the way she tries to become the unbreakable one… when in reality she is the fragile one.
Her father's precious little princess — never built for real war.
I smirk.
Papa can only save you to a certain extent, Rai.
She changed everything except her name and it makes sense.
Degrees, certificates, professional identity the name "Raina" is her legal anchor.
She couldn't erase that.
Not without erasing her entire existence.
I sigh thinking of the twenty-four-year-old version of her…
and then looking at the woman she has become now twenty-six, almost twenty-seven — refined, elegant, composed.
Not a girl anymore.
Calling her that would be an insult.
My name?
I'm Ethan Hale.
Billionaire, tech and AI empire — Bel-Air main estate.
And she has no idea that every step she takes… I already traced years ago.