Chapter 4: Plot Twists and Possession

Since that night, I seemed to have found a way to save the autistic male lead.

The next morning, something felt different. Kabir looked at me with less suspicion, maybe even a little curiosity. I told myself—maybe, just maybe, I could save him. Like all those old Hindi movie heroines who heal broken men with stubborn love and a pinch of madness.

Kabir often refused to eat. I’d slide my hand under his shirt.

He’d sit at the dining table, staring at his food as if it was poison. I’d walk over, fingers slipping under his kurta, tracing his abs like checking the ripeness of mangoes in the bazaar. It always got a reaction.

"Kabir, let me check if your abs have disappeared. Oh, speaking of muscles, your..."

I’d whisper, “Let me check—have your abs disappeared? Aree, speaking of muscles, your…” Sometimes he’d shudder, sometimes blush, always refusing to look me in the eye. Still, I persisted.

As I said it, Kabir’s body trembled. I teased him shamelessly.

He’d tremble at my touch, but I just grinned wider. In any other setting, this would’ve been a full-blown scandal. Here, it was my best medicine.

"Want something to eat?"

I would coax, “Kuch khana hai? Hungry?” Making my tone soft, as if tempting a child, though my eyes never left his face.

Kabir was not just autistic, but stubborn.

His response was always the same, stubborn as a buffalo: “No.” Not a flicker of interest, not a smile, nothing. Only the determination of a man refusing to give an inch.

"No."

I straddled him. "I’m hungry. If you won’t eat, then I’ll eat."

I’d climb onto his lap, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Fine, I’m hungry. If you won’t eat, then I’ll eat you!” The words made him stiffen, but I could see the flicker of something in his eyes—fear, desire, maybe both.

Kabir’s pupils dilated a bit, but he looked down. "No."

Still, Kabir would only look away, muttering, “No,” voice barely above a whisper. But his body betrayed him.

"You know, when a man says no, he really means yes. If you’re not eating, you’re just playing hard to get."

I laughed, shaking my head. “In this house, when a man says no, he really means yes. You’re just playing hard to get, na?” My voice was light, but inside I felt a strange ache—was I really pushing too far?

Kabir couldn’t believe my shamelessness. Blushing, he repeated, "No."

He looked at me, half-blushing, half-incredulous. “No.” But his ears were burning red. If only Amma could see her favourite beta now—she’d scold me for sure.

I ignored his protest and had my way with him.

I didn’t stop, letting my actions do all the talking. The world outside could gossip all it wanted, but inside, I was queen.

That day, for the first time, Kabir ate two extra rotis.

Afterwards, he sat at the table, eating quietly, almost sheepishly taking two extra rotis. For a moment, I almost teared up—progress, one paratha at a time.

He also started spending late nights brooding over a diary. I knew it was his secret crush diary for the heroine. But he was never destined to get her. So I snatched the diary.

He started scribbling in an old diary, sitting under the tube light till late. I knew, from the system’s whispers, it was a crush diary—some tragic love story where he pined for the so-called heroine. But I couldn’t help myself. One night, I snatched it away, holding it just out of his reach.

Kabir reached to grab it back, a flash of anger in his narrow eyes.

He lunged for it, eyes flashing with anger—the first real emotion I’d seen in ages. For a moment, it felt like fighting with a teenage cousin over the TV remote.

"Aww, what sweet love! The air is full of pink bubbles."

I teased, “Wah, kya pyaar hai! Pink bubbles everywhere, so romantic.” He glared, but I could see his resolve crumbling.

"Oh, speaking of pink, Kabir, yours is pretty pink too."

Before he could grab it back, I winked, whispering, “Speaking of pink, Kabir, yours is very pink too.” The double meaning made him freeze, embarrassment making him wilt instantly.

I grabbed his most sensitive spot, and he wilted with a groan. After that, he never took out the diary again.

I reached over and squeezed him lightly, watching as he groaned, face crumpling. After that day, he never touched the diary again. Maybe my method was unorthodox, but results spoke for themselves.

From then on, I only doubled down on forcing him into bed. My classic line:

Every day became a new episode of my own daily soap—me, forceful; Kabir, helpless but secretly loving it. My signature line became legendary:

"Kabir, I can listen to all your family drama, but you know what I’m going to do next."

Kabir would sigh, knowing what was coming. “You can share all your family’s drama, but after that, you know what I’ll do next…” I’d wink, making him blush every single time. This was our new normal—strange, hilarious, but ours.

But as the pressure cooker whistled again, I realized—no one escapes the villain’s story, not even me.