9: The Storm That Wasn’t Tamed

4 August 2000

The city was still waking up, but Celina was already at war.

Her alarm hadn’t buzzed — she’d beaten it. The moment her eyes opened, she knew: today was the day she’d take something back.

She padded barefoot across the cool wooden floor of the guesthouse room, drawing open the curtains with one hard jerk. Pale light bled in through the glass, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Calcutta was still damp from the night’s rain — the air thick, the walls humming.

She stood for a long time, just breathing. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Then she turned.

Her outfit was already laid out — meticulously arranged across the chair like armor before battle. Black denim cut-offs. Thigh-high boots. Sleeveless crop top with frayed edges. A leather jacket, stolen years ago from an ex she barely remembered, its scent still carrying traces of bad choices.

Celina stripped out of her sleep clothes and stepped under the shower. The water hit her skin like a slap — cold, clean, waking her down to the bones.

As she scrubbed shampoo into her scalp, she thought of Anya Das.

Perfect, effortless Anya. Hair always done. Voice always measured. Lips like poetry and eyes that sparkled. The kind of girl who never had to scream to be heard. The kind of girl who’d never been forgotten in a stairwell after a party.

Celina’s fingers clenched harder than necessary. Her scalp stung.

Let her be the face of the brand, she thought bitterly. Let them put her on the banners and magazine covers. But today — in the raw lens of the camera — I will be the one they can’t stop looking at.

She rinsed off, stepped out, and wiped the fog from the mirror.

There she was.

Five feet six inches of unfiltered promise.

Her skin glowed, kissed bronze by the sun. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath — proud, perfect, heavy in a way that had bought her opportunities and cost her self-respect. She twisted slightly, examining her ass in the mirror — full, tight, the kind that photographers said “popped”. Toned. Perfect.

But none of it felt like enough.

She leaned closer to the mirror.

“Today, Anya Das. You are going down,” she whispered.

And her reflection nodded back.

She applied her kohl with slow, deliberate strokes. Thick enough to intimidate. Precise enough to seduce.

A streak of silver paint followed — not part of the makeup plan, just something she added instinctively — drawn along the curve of her jaw like warpaint.

The messy bun came next — hair twisted and stabbed through with a matte black hair stick. She pinned it so tight her scalp tingled, but she liked the tension. It reminded her to stay upright.

No jewelry. No perfume. Just the scent of her skin and the hunger she wore like a second mouth.

She pulled on the black top, tying the knot just under her bust. Her stomach, flat and honed, flexed slightly as she did. The boots took effort — always did — but once zipped, she felt taller, firmer, ready to break necks.

The leather jacket went on last.

She let it hang off one shoulder.

Let them think she didn’t care.

Let them underestimate her.

They always did — until it was too late.

By the time she made her way down the narrow stairs of the guesthouse, the morning air was thick and electric. The city buzzed beneath the surface — vendors shouting, rickshaw bells clanging, a dog barking somewhere behind a shuttered shop.

Her phone buzzed.

1 new message — Chachu.

Celina paused on the landing, thumb hovering over the dialpad.

U sho dem hoo u r, pari. I luv u!

Her throat closed. It wasn’t a long message, probably typed drunk. But it mattered. More than she would let anyone know. She pressed the phone to her chest for a moment — just one heartbeat’s worth of stillness — and whispered, “I will chachu. I will”

Outside, the driver was already waiting, engine humming with impatience. She slid into the back without speaking, knees bouncing, eyes locked ahead, ignoring the not-so-subtle gasp and leer of the driver when he saw her.

The roads blurred past — temples, billboards, sleeping dogs, men brushing teeth on the roadside. It was all background noise. Her mind had tunnel vision now.

She wasn’t here to cooperate. She was here to conquer.

She imagined the studio lights. The cameras. The set.

And Anya.

She pictured her standing there in some faux-silk goddess outfit, sipping tea like she wasn’t terrified of being eclipsed.

Let her laugh with the stylists. Let her flirt with the interns.

Celina would steal her aura frame by frame.

She stepped out of the car with the poise of someone who knew the world owed her something.

The studio was tucked behind a crumbling textile mill — vintage chic, someone would call it. She called it convenient neglect. But the moment she walked in — the moment the cold blast of air conditioning and murmured production chatter hit her — her spine straightened.

This was her coliseum. And today, she wasn’t a model. She was a weapon.

She strode past the production assistants like thunder in boots. The noise dulled behind her. The scent of hairspray, powder, coffee, sweat — it all fused into a battlefield bouquet.

Celina caught her reflection again in a dusty hallway mirror.

She didn’t smile. She just winked.

Game on. She came to burn.

She could already see the ripple — stylists whispering, assistants glancing up from clipboards. Perfect. She made her way to the dressing area, nodding vaguely at familiar faces. But her eyes were already hunting.

Where was she?

And then, like a devotional painting come to life she just appeared. Anya, in a white cotton robe, sipping green tea, laughing with a makeup artist. She hadn’t even put on a costume yet. And still, people gravitated to her like moths to divinity.

Typical.

Celina narrowed her eyes. But it wasn’t Anya who made her do a double take. It was the boy next to her.

She froze. The new face. Who was he? Why did he look so familiar?

Tall. Bronze-skinned. Body like sculpture. Face like carved dusk and quiet fury. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t even posing. He was just there. Arms crossed. Body relaxed. Eyes locked on Anya like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

The director was briefing him, and Bharath nodded silently — not impatient, not eager, just ... steady. A man who listened without needing to prove that he’d heard.

Celina’s stomach twisted.

She now recognized him.

Not from the papers. Not from modeling circles. From somewhere deeper. Dream-deep.

The silver storm ... kneeling before the mountain. Her mountain.

She swallowed, heat rising in her. Her pulse throbbed somewhere between her ribs and her thighs. And it wasn’t just recognition. It was hunger. Unwelcome. Confusing. Thick.

Her eyes roved over him involuntarily — the slope of his shoulders, the veins along his arms, the way his shirt clung to his chest like it wanted to stay there forever. She wasn’t just staring at a man.

She was objectifying him.

Her. Celina. The one who always got stared at. The one who mocked girls for drooling over abs and biceps like puppies. Now she was the one biting her lip, staring like she’d forgotten her place in the world. She was the goddess that men and women chased after. She was the one who was lusted after - not the other way around!

But it wasn’t just his body — as amazing as it was. It was the aura. Something centered. Unshakable. Like if the building collapsed, he’d just stand there, unharmed, arms open, waiting.

It made her dizzy. She felt her thighs tense. Her mouth went dry.

She couldn’t remember if she had ever felt this — not even when Shah Rukh Khan or Arjun Rampal had posed with her for an ad. Not this helpless. Men either groveled at her feet or postured themselves into caricatures. Even the women who had flirted with her couldn’t hide the tremble in their hands.

No one — no one — had ever affected her this way! She hadn’t even spoken to him or made eye contact yet. How was he affecting her so badly? Time to rectify the true order of this world. One glimpse of her should put the world back in order. He would take one look at her and join the parade of men who were instantly captivated.

She braced herself. Pulled her shoulders back and walked past him deliberately, adding a dangerous sway to her hips that could not be ignored — close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Close enough to bump him and make the script binder on the table topple to the floor.

But to her shock he didn’t even look at her first! He just bent down, helped the assistant gather the binder and apologised to her.

He didn’t even follow her as she walked away. Didn’t register her at all.

Celina froze.

She didn’t know whether to scream or collapse. She ... she wasn’t invisible. Every man’s gaze other than his seemed to be glued to her.

And yet — to him — she was.

Not even a flicker of interest. Not even a curious side-eye. Nothing. She may as well have been an extra to him.

She gripped the edge of a makeup station, her nails biting into the wood. Her heart pounded. Her breath came shallow.

How? How was he resisting her?

She had watched men cancel flights to follow her home. She had seen two women fight over her number in a bar. She had made casting directors stammer, stylists blush, and once, a married producer cry.

And yet this man — this goddamn statue of sex and stillness — didn’t even blink.

The insult pierced deeper than ego. It wasn’t rejection. It was absence. And that terrified her. But also — infuriated her. Turned her on. Made her skin burn and her legs tremble.

And then — as if fate wasn’t done with her — Anya turned.

Their eyes met.

Even in her robe, Anya looked effortless. Composed. Lethal. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. She just tilted her head, like she knew.

Celina looked away quickly. Except she didn’t want to. Her gaze returned, helpless.

Anya’s lips — soft, full, curved like they were made to silence. The way they wrapped around the rim of her teacup. The shimmer of her lashes. The clean elegance of her posture.

Goddamn it.

Now she was staring at her. Her rival. Her target. Her fantasy?

No. No, no, no.

She wasn’t supposed to want her.

Anya was everything she hated — clean, perfect, adored. The darling of the room. The chosen one. And yet— Celina suddenly couldn’t shake the thought of what Anya’s fingers would feel like tangled in her hair. Or her voice — low and velvet — whispering filth while pinning her down.

Celina’s breath came short. Her spine tingled.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She stumbled into the dressing room and shut the door behind her with a hard thud, gripping the handle until her knuckles whitened. Heat flared across her skin — fury, lust, shame, confusion — tangled like a lit match in an oil slick.

She had fantasized about being dominated before. But not like this.

Not by her!

She pressed a cool water bottle to her forehead, trying to breathe. It wasn’t supposed to feel this real. This urgent. And worst of all, it wasn’t just her body.

It was as if her soul had stirred. As if it knew them. As if it had waited.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils. Wild eyes. She was gorgeous. An apsara.

She whispered through gritted teeth, “I will not fall for this”.

But the woman in the mirror didn’t flinch. She smirked.

Too late!

Celina felt it like a slap.

She had been watching. Lurking at the periphery of the set, pretending to review her call sheet, while her eyes traced the lines of Bharath’s arms. Every movement was a sculptor’s dream — a man made not just of muscle but of purpose. Steady. Lethal in his calm. She had spent the last twenty minutes trying to get his attention — little glances, slow stretches, perfectly timed flicks of her hair. She was getting plenty of attention - from everyone other than him. It was as if she were invisible to him!

And now this.

A girl had walked onto the set. Glasses. Braid. A kurti that might as well have been a curtain. Someone who looked like she had wandered in from a postgraduate seminar on soil science.

And he smiled. At her!

Not a polite, background smile. A real one. Warm. Open. Like a secret he wanted to share only with this frumpy girl.

Celina’s jaw tightened. Her heart was no longer seductive—it was jealous. Violent. She didn’t even know why. She didn’t compete for a man’s attention. She never chased. But this?

This was ridiculous.

She narrowed her eyes, watching the way he rubbed the back of his neck while talking to the girl—Kim, apparently. The awkward charm, the casual humor. The softness. She could see it in his shoulders, in the way he leaned in slightly, genuinely trying to connect.

Celina scoffed under her breath.

Was he serious?

Kim was sweet, sure. And soft-in a way some men found safe. But Celina was sex in motion. She was the kind of woman men broke rules for. Burned careers for. She could ruin a marriage with a look. And here she was, being ignored for a glorified librarian.

She needed to reset the moment.

She stepped forward, hips swaying with the lazy rhythm of a practiced seductress. Deliberate. Controlled. Powerful.

She timed it perfectly — just as Bharath turned slightly away from Kim, mid-laugh. Celina reached for a makeup brush on the table near him, leaning over more than necessary. Her crop top rode up just enough to expose the curve of her waist, the underband of her sports bra peeking. She let her arm brush against his chest — not accidental.

He stepped back. Politely.

Just enough to let her pass.

No comment. No eye linger. No pause.

Her stomach dropped.

She turned, lips parting slightly in a smile that had gotten her out of parking tickets and into film auditions she didn’t deserve. “Hey,” she said, voice light. “I didn’t get a chance to say hi earlier.”

Bharath glanced at her. Eyes clear. Respectful.

“Hi,” he said with a small nod. “Celina, right?”

He knew her name. She tried not to let that thrill show. “Yeah. You’re good. Most people forget unless you’re trending or constantly in the public eye.”

“You made an impression,” he replied. Not flirtatious. Not cold. Just ... kind.

Celina tilted her head, leaning forward slightly. “Did I?” she asked, voice dropping just a little. “Impression enough to be worth watching?”

She was testing him now. Her tone dipped into the territory where men usually flushed. Fumbled. Flirted back.

But Bharath didn’t fumble. He didn’t flirt.

He just smiled — distant, polite. “You were strong in rehearsal. Good lines.”

Good lines?

What was this, a fashion show critique?

Celina laughed lightly, but it came out too sharp. “I’m told I have other strong assets too. But hey — form matters.”

It was blatant now. Shameless. Still — nothing. His gaze didn’t trail. His breath didn’t catch.

And yet — she knew he wasn’t blind. She saw the flicker when she moved. The split-second where his eyes darted down before snapping back to hers. He wanted her.

But he wouldn’t act on it.

Why?

Why wasn’t he taking the invitation she had extended with her body, her eyes, her very presence?

Was it Anya?

She glanced toward the far end of the set — and just then, Anya slid behind Bharath like a shadow with lips. She wrapped her arms around his waist. Rested her chin on his shoulder.

Celina felt her skin go cold.

Anya had him. And now — now she was playing games. How did she know? How did this witch get her claws into Bharath already? He was supposed to be hers! She had chosen him from the hundreds of suitors she had deemed unworthy. This man was her chosen one. She needed to know more. How serious were they?

Celina stepped behind one of the curtain dividers near the wardrobe section when she heard voices — hushed, conspiratorial. Her ears sharpened automatically.

Kim.

And ... Anya?

The two of them were tucked into the alcove near the vanity lights, voices low but not low enough.

Celina paused, one boot half-unzipped, pretending to check her phone.

“Are you serious?” Kim’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a breathy edge — like she’d just confessed to stealing something holy.

Anya chuckled softly. “Completely serious. You cried out his name. Twice. I was there, remember?”

A pause. A rustle. Kim let out a strangled sound — somewhere between a protest and a moan.

“I didn’t think you’d ... remember that much,” Kim murmured.

“I remember everything,” Anya said, lower now. Almost reverent. “The way your legs shook. The way you begged when he—well, when we—”

Celina’s brain short-circuited.

We?

Her fingers tightened on the rack. She took several, silent steps closer, straining to hear.

Kim was saying something too quiet to catch, but her tone was unmistakably flushed — embarrassed, aroused, undone.

And Anya — goody-goody Anya — the girl who drank green tea instead of vodka, who barely swore, who walked around in normal clothes when she wasn’t modeling lingerie — was talking about threesome-sex? Even she had not had more than one partner at a time and here was the princess talking about group sex!

Was it with Bharath?

The image slammed into Celina like a blow to the stomach. She couldn’t help it. Her mind painted it instantly:

Kim on her knees. Anya behind her, whispering filth. Bharath watching, stroking himself. Then joining them.

Celina’s thighs clenched. She cursed under her breath. The whole idea was absurd.

Kim was cute, sure — soft face, giant eyes, breasts that were shockingly full for someone so demure. But she was mousy. Shy. Academic. The kind of girl who got 90% in her exams and wore too much oil in her hair.

And Anya?

Anya was the ice princess. Controlled. Smiling for the cameras and bowing to sponsors. Not someone who moaned in dreams and kissed girls in the dark.

And yet...

Here they were. Whispering. Remembering. Getting wet over a shared fantasy that Celina hadn’t been invited into. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her hip. This wasn’t fair.

She wanted to scoff. To walk out, flip her hair, and make a snide comment about sexually frustrated interns with overactive imaginations.

But she couldn’t move.

Because a new image had taken root in her mind: herself — pressed between them. Anya’s mouth on her neck. Bharath’s hands gripping her thighs. Kim whispering beside her, breasts heaving, lips parted.

Celina’s breath hitched.

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.

Why was she reacting like this?

She didn’t do group sex. She didn’t even like being kissed too long unless she was in control.

But the idea of being taken — of being shared, used, worshipped by that god of a man while two beautiful women adored her alongside him—

It was making her shake.

She backed away from the curtain quietly, heart pounding, face burning.

What the fuck was this?

She had come here to dominate. To seduce. To win.

Instead, she was the one pressed up against a wall by her own traitorous imagination.

And the worst part? She wanted it. More than anything. And she didn’t even understand why.

By the time the shoot began, Celina was vibrating.

Not just with adrenaline or nerves — but with something far more primal. She was slick already, aching, her body still haunted by the overheard whispers between Kim and Anya. The image of the two girls, sharing Bharath in dreams while she was left outside the door, lit something dangerous in her blood.

The Warrior shoot was a battlefield. Lighting rigs like battlements. Seamless white backdrops stretched like banners of conquest. Athleisure redesigned as armor. And Celina — poised like a queen in exile — ready to take her crown back.

She knew this rhythm: test shots, reset makeup, block the scene, hit the pose. Do it again. And again. But what she hadn’t prepared for was him.

Bharath was a natural on set. He moved with the ease of a man who didn’t need to prove he was powerful — he just was. His quiet command of the space made the others orbit around him without realizing they were doing it.

And when they were paired together, Celina could feel it.

The first contact was incidental. His hand grazing her shoulder to align her stance for the duo walk. His fingers brushed her skin, and her breath hitched like she’d been shocked. Not because of what he did — but because of what he didn’t.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let his gaze drop.

But she saw it. The small flex in his jaw. The slight pause in his movement. He wasn’t unaffected.

Good. Because she was burning.

Each new pose only stoked the fire. His hand on her waist as they turned face-to-face. His palm pressed flat against her belly to create symmetry. Once, he adjusted her stance by gripping her thigh just above the knee — fingers strong and impersonal — and she nearly choked on a gasp.

How the hell was he touching her like this ... and staying composed?

Did he not want her?

No. That wasn’t it. She’d seen the flickers — the slight dilation in his pupils, the micro-hesitations.

He wanted her.

But he wasn’t taking.

And that — more than anything — was what undid her.

The restraint.

The unbearable discipline.

She wanted him to break it. To grab her. Push her into a wall. Growl into her ear that he’d been holding back too long. She kept giving him chances — arching her back just slightly more during a pose, leaning closer than necessary, whispering a breathy “Is this good?” when their bodies aligned.

Nothing.

He stayed exactly within the frame of the director’s commands.

But his hands. God, his hands. Every time they touched her — another degree of madness curled through her spine.

During the mirrored catwalk sequence, when they were standing at opposite ends waiting for the take, he looked at her. Just once. Fully. Quietly.

And in that moment, she saw it. He knew what she wanted. He just wasn’t giving it.

The take began. They walked toward each other — slow, powerful, dripping intention.

When they met at the center, they paused for the final frame.

His hand slid to her lower back. Firm. Centered. Claiming.

Her breath caught.

She could feel her core tightening, the heat building unbearably. Every nerve in her skin crackled. Her nipples hardened beneath the tight fabric. Her thighs clenched with pressure.

Then— He pulled his hand away.

Nothing else. No whisper. No wink. He just walked off as the photographer yelled, “Cut!”

Celina stood frozen, panting.

She turned away, back straight, smile tight, face composed.

But inside?

She was shaking.

And then — in the next sequence — it happened.

They were filming a slow-motion combat walk, all three of them lined shoulder-to-shoulder in a triangle formation. The camera was on a slider, tracking their approach.

Bharath stepped behind her to adjust their spacing.

He reached around her, resting his palm on her hip to guide her step.

And his thumb — just barely — stroked the curve above her waistband.

Not teasing.

Not even intentional.

But her body exploded.

The orgasm hit without warning — sudden, sharp, overwhelming.

Her knees nearly buckled.

She clenched her fists to hide the tremor. Her breath hitched too fast. Her lips parted with a silent gasp.

Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second as the wave crested and crashed — flooding heat through her pelvis and up her spine. Her whole body went electric.

He stepped away.

Said nothing.

Did he notice?

She couldn’t tell.

Her skin was still buzzing as the director shouted new instructions. Her mind was melting. Her underwear was damp. Her pride was ruined.

And he ... hadn’t touched her again.

Why?

Why didn’t he take what she was giving?

Did he think she wasn’t serious? Did he want her to beg?

Or worse — did he already know how broken she was underneath all the attitude?

That thought landed like a punch.

But the need didn’t go away. If anything, it got worse.

She wanted to scream. Rip his shirt off. Bite his mouth and ride him until he admitted what he was doing to her.

She wanted to own him.

But standing there, thighs trembling, heart racing, she realized something terrifying: She didn’t own anything.

Not yet. And it was killing her.

The last setup of the day was meant to be the climax — the final shot, the trio pose that would go on the banners, the magazine spreads, the campaign launch. Warrior. Triumvirate. Power incarnate.

Bharath in the center.

Celina to his left.

Anya to his right.

The lights were punishing. The studio air hot and dense. Celina could feel sweat gathering at the small of her back, but it wasn’t just the heat — it was him. The steady rise and fall of his chest beside hers. The faint scent of sandalwood and sweat. The quiet stillness of his body, vibrating with restrained power.

The director barked orders. Poses. Angles. Postures.

Celina obeyed them like a machine.

Until Anya moved.

She leaned into Bharath like she belonged there — one hand resting flat on his chest, her body tilted toward his with lazy, intimate certainty. It wasn’t just a pose.

It was a claim.

And Bharath — without flinching — wrapped his arm around her waist.

Effortlessly. Naturally.

His body turned toward hers like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Celina watched it happen.

Watched the space between them vanish. Watched their eyes meet. Watched the tenderness bloom in real time.

She snapped.

The rage and the arousal exploded at once. Something inside her gave way.

Before she could think, she lunged.

Not subtly. Not elegantly.

Her hand grabbed his arm — not his wrist this time, but his bicep. She turned into him, angling her body flush against his, her breasts pressed to his chest, her breath hot against his neck. Her hands slid up his ribs, slow, urgent, searching for something solid to hold onto.

He stiffened.

His hands rose — gently, deliberately — to her elbows. Not to pull her closer.

To hold her back.

“Celina,” he said, low. “Stop.”

She didn’t.

She rose onto her toes, her lips brushing his cheek, dangerously close to his mouth. “You want me,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I felt it. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” he said evenly. “But this isn’t the way.”

Her hands moved again — sliding behind his neck, trying to pull his face toward hers.

He didn’t budge.

Her chest heaved. Her thighs pressed to his. Her entire body was lit with lust — frantic, raw, humiliating. Her core throbbed with need. She was ready to grind against him right there, to drag him down to the floor, to claw her way into his focus.

But he was calm.

Steady. Unmoved.

He didn’t even look afraid. Just ... sad. Like he saw through her.

Like he understood what was breaking inside her — and wouldn’t take advantage of it.

That devastated her more than any rejection.

With a snarl of frustration, she shoved him away — hard enough to draw gasps from the nearby crew.

And then, loud enough for everyone to hear: “What the fuck, Bharath? You think you can just grab me in front of everyone? Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you’re someone’s boy-toy, you think you can grope people on set?”

Silence.

Even the fans stopped.

Bharath’s arms fell to his sides. He didn’t protest. Didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at her, heartbreakingly calm.

“You’re twisting this,” he said softly.

“Oh, am I?” Celina snapped, turning in a slow circle so the whole crew could see her flushed face, her shaking body. “Are you all seeing this? He just tried to—what—what was that? Some stunt for the camera? Some power play?”

The assistants froze. Stylists exchanged wide-eyed glances. The director was mid-sentence and forgot how to finish it.