Chains of Obsession - Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2: Watching from the Shadows

It started with a photograph.

The next day, Aditi sat cross-legged on her bed, her small apartment dimly lit by the soft glow of her laptop screen. On it, a news article: “Aditya Rathore closes billion-dollar merger deal with Belgian tech giant.” A clean-cut photo of him stared back—sharp suit, sharper eyes.

She had already memorized everything publicly available about him—his birthdate, alma mater, the names of his board members, the cars he owned, the scent of cologne he preferred.

But now… it became more personal.

More real.

That fleeting moment in the rain had awakened something inside her. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It was a craving. A gnawing need.

She didn’t want to know about him. She wanted to know him—where he went, what he ate, how he lived, what made him laugh—if he ever did.

So she created a map.

A digital grid of his movements. Each pin a location from the past two months: events, launches, interviews. Then she began cross-referencing them with minor media appearances, fan sightings, CCTV footages on forums.

And finally—his schedule.

She found it in pieces. Clues buried in business magazines, charity websites, and influencer pages. With time, patience, and obsessive precision, she pieced it all together.

Every Tuesday: Blue Lemon Café, 8 AM.
Every Thursday: The private gym at The Ark, floor 17.
Every second Sunday: his mother’s grave, near Malabar Hills.

She started showing up. Never too close. Never obvious. A background blur in his world.

She watched him sip his coffee, earphones in. She memorized how he stirred it three times, clockwise. How he never looked at the waiter when ordering. How he rarely smiled.

She stood behind tinted glass at the gym’s reception, eyes fixed on the way his body moved—controlled, brutal, powerful.

She knelt two rows behind him at the graveyard, pretending to mourn. But she wasn’t praying.

She was worshiping.

Aditya Rathore didn’t know it yet, but he had become her religion.

---

One evening, she walked past him at his hotel. Accidentally dropped her keys. He glanced, briefly.

That single glance gave her sleepless nights.

She left a handwritten note at his penthouse door.

“You looked tired. Please sleep well tonight. —A”

The next day, there was a security camera installed on that floor.

She smiled.

He noticed.

That was enough to feed her obsession for days.

---

But slowly, hunger returned. Deeper. Uglier.

He didn’t speak to her. Didn’t acknowledge her presence. And the silence… it was unbearable.

She dreamed of him—sometimes lovingly, other times violently. She saw herself pressed against his chest, his hands rough and possessive. She woke with her sheets soaked in sweat and desire.

If only he would speak to her. Just once. Say her name.

But he didn’t.

And so, the innocent fantasy began to mutate.

It was no longer about love.

It was about attention.

And if he wouldn’t give it willingly…

Then she’d take it.