THE SHADOWS OF THE WRITER

The afternoon sun beat down on the chaotic, bustling streets of Kathmandu, casting long shadows across the dusty pavements of Bhrikuti Mandap. It was July 6, 2018, a sticky Friday afternoon where the air hung heavy with the promise of monsoon rain. Inside one of the exhibition halls, the atmosphere was quiet, almost stiflingly so. For Ameet Shrestha, however, this sterile quiet was deafening. Today was the culmination of months of grueling labor, sleepless nights, and gnawing self-doubt—the launch of his third book.

Ameet stood near the back of the stage, adjusting his collar, trying to calm the erratic pounding in his chest. He was no stranger to the bitter taste of failure. His first two literary ventures, romantic novels titled Not Only Me and You Are Not Mine, had sunk like stones in the quiet ponds of the Nepali literary market. They had been dismissed as amateurish, overly sentimental, and completely forgettable. The rejection had left him hollow, plunging him into weeks of dark, suffocating depression where he questioned whether he was even cut out to write a grocery list, let alone a novel.

Yet, resilience is a stubborn seed. Refusing to accept total defeat, Ameet had decided to pivot. He stripped away the flowery prose and broken hearts, replacing them with shadows, deceit, and adrenaline. His third novel, The Different Love Story, was born from that metamorphosis—a romantic thriller designed to keep readers guessing until the very last page.

The digital clock on the desk blinked 1:30 PM. The hall was sparsely populated. Ameet’s lack of literary fame meant that only a handful of curious onlookers, wandering journalists, and a scattering of friends had bothered to show up. The rows of plastic chairs gaped open like missing teeth, mocking his aspirations.

At precisely 2:00 PM, the heavy glass doors of the exhibition hall pushed open, and a man stepped inside out of the bright glare. He moved with an effortless, almost arrogant grace, clad in casual clothes that somehow screamed effortless style. His hair fell in dark, slightly unkempt waves past his collar, and he wore designer Ray-Ban sunglasses indoors, shielding his eyes from the world. He looked less like an ordinary book fair attendee and more like a film star slumming it among commoners. He walked straight to the front row, dropped heavily into a seat, and crossed his legs.

In the back row, half-hidden in the dim light, sat a young woman whose heart skipped a beat the moment the stranger walked in. Priya Sharma was a voracious reader, a devotee of ink and paper who lived for the quiet magic of storytelling. She had never heard of Ameet Shrestha or his doomed romantic novels; she had simply wandered into Bhrikuti Mandap seeking refuge from the afternoon heat. But as she watched the stranger in the Ray-Bans—who was actually Ameet, though she wouldn't realize it until he took the stage—something peculiar shifted in her chest. It was not quite logic; it was that sudden, inexplicable jolt of attraction that defies reason. She fell in love at first sight.

Up front, Sameera Adhikari, the charismatic host of the afternoon program, stepped up to the microphone, her voice echoing through the modest sound system. She welcomed the sparse audience with practiced warmth before turning her gaze to the author.

“I want to welcome you, Ameetji,” Sameera said, her smile bright. “You have already written two novels which were deeply rooted in traditional romance. But you have been teasing that this third one is vastly different. Tell us, what is The Different Love Story all about?”

Ameet stepped forward, gripping the edges of the podium. When he spoke, his voice did not match the nervous twitch in his fingers. It was a rich, resonant baritone, low and magnetic, carrying a hypnotic cadence that seemed to wrap around the room like velvet.

“My first two books were born from heartbreak and unsuccessful love stories,” Ameet answered, his eyes sweeping over the small crowd. “When they failed, I refused to accept that my career was over. I sank into a deep depression, but out of that darkness came a realization: love isn't always gentle. Sometimes, it’s dangerous. So, I decided to look at romance through a darker lens. Although this book retains the soul of a love story, it is fundamentally a psychological thriller wrapped in layers of suspense.”

Far in the back row, Priya leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat. The moment Ameet’s voice filled the room, the vague attraction she had felt doubled in intensity. It was a charming, magical voice—the kind of voice that could talk someone into stepping off a ledge. Every syllable he uttered seemed directed straight at her.

After a brief, engaging conversation between Sameera and the author, the floor was opened to the audience. “We have time for just a few questions due to our tight schedule,” Sameera announced. “Following the Q&A, we will transition directly to the book signing.”

A hand shot up from the front row. It was Priya. She stood up, her cheeks slightly flushed, and locked eyes with Ameet.

“Hello, I am Priya Sharma,” she said, her voice clear and steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. “My question is simple: what specifically inspired you to make such a sharp pivot into writing a suspense story?”

Ameet smiled, visibly relaxing at the question. “Sidney Sheldon has always been one of my absolute favorite writers,” he replied. “I wanted to write with that same relentless pacing and unpredictability. In the beginning, I tried to imitate his style and failed miserably. But after my romantic novels flopped, I went back to the drawing board and poured those thriller elements into The Different Love Story.”

The Q&A wrapped up quickly, and the event transitioned into the signing session. Ameet sat at a long wooden table outside the main hall, a stack of freshly printed books before him. As the line dwindled, Priya stepped up to the table. Ameet looked up, flashing a warm smile as he flipped open the title page of her copy.

As his pen scratched his signature across the paper, Priya took a breath and asked, “Can I get your email address? I'd love to share my thoughts on the book once I finish it.”

Ameet, flattered and energized by the unexpected attention from such an attentive reader, didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” he said, scribbling his personal email address on a loose scrap of paper and handing it to her.

Exactly one week later, sitting in his cluttered study surrounded by half-empty coffee mugs, Ameet checked his inbox. Amidst the digital clutter of spam and promotional newsletters, a single notification caught his eye. It was from Priya. He clicked it open:

Dear Ameetji, Hello. I am Priya Sharma. I attended your book launch at Bhrikuti Mandap. I was genuinely glad to meet you and learn about your creative journey. Although I consider myself a lifelong lover of literature, I had surprisingly never heard of your name or your previous books. Perhaps it was simply due to my specific reading habits. To be honest, I felt a strange sense of guilt after finishing 'The Different Love Story.' I kept asking myself why I hadn't discovered your writing sooner. You write with such hypnotic skill. Without finishing your book, I couldn't sleep; your pacing held me captive right until the very last page. I am officially your newest huge fan. I sincerely hope you continue writing books of this caliber. I wish you all the success in the world. Sending you my warmest best wishes, Your Reader, Priya Sharma

Ameet stared at the screen, a genuine, pleased smile spreading across his face. Authors received fan mail, of course, but this was different. It felt intimate, almost electric. Because the message resonated so deeply, he took the time to craft a personal reply:

Dear Reader Priyaji, Thank you so much for your kind email. I am thrilled that you loved the book and deeply grateful for your sweet words. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on whatever I write next. Warmly, Your Writer, Ameet Shrestha

As if the universe itself had decided to reward his perseverance, The Different Love Story began to catch fire. Word of mouth spread like wildfire among urban youth in Kathmandu. Within weeks, the novel surged up the bestseller lists, transforming from an obscure indie release into a commercial phenomenon. Suddenly, Ameet was everywhere. His face was featured in cultural magazines, and his social media notifications exploded with friend requests and adoring messages from fans. The intoxicating rush of sudden success fueled his ambition, convincing him that he was invincible—and that he needed to write another book immediately.

Months later, Ameet sat at his desk, staring intently at the glowing screen of his laptop, desperately hunting for a spark of inspiration for his next psychological thriller. The house was dead silent, save for the hum of the CPU fan.

Suddenly, his mobile phone chimed shrilly on the wooden desk. Without looking at the caller ID, annoyed by the interruption, he snatched up the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Hello,” Ameet snapped, his tone clipped.

“Hello,” a soft, feminine voice replied from the other end.

“Can I know who is speaking?” Ameet demanded, his eyes still glued to his open document.

“Ameet, don’t joke around like that,” the woman said, a hint of playful hurt in her voice. “Have you really stopped recognizing my voice?”

“Who is this?” Irritation flared in his chest as he remained transfixed by his laptop.

“You haven’t recognized me yet? How strange is that?”

“Who is this? Is this some kind of stupid joke? What number did you even dial?” He stood up abruptly from his chair, pacing the small room.

“You’ll spend all day wondering who I am,” the voice whispered softly. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Ameet.”

The line went dead with a sharp click.

Ameet stared at the phone screen, frowning. He assumed it was some prank call from an overzealous fan or a wrong number. Shrugging it off, he tossed the phone onto the bed and sat back down to work.

The next evening, right around dusk, the phone rang again. Once more, too absorbed in his writing to check the screen, Ameet swiped to answer.

“Hello,” he barked.

“Hello,” the same female voice greeted him, smooth and chillingly calm.

“Who is this speaking?” he demanded, his patience wearing thin.

“Today you didn’t recognize my voice either. Did you really forget me so easily?”

Ameet’s blood ran hot. He despised games. “Listen to me carefully,” he snapped, gripping the edge of the desk. “Tell me your name right now, and state the purpose of these calls, or I’ll block this number permanently.”

“So quick to anger, aren’t you?” she murmured softly.

“How do you even know about my temper?”

“Because you are no stranger to me, Ameet. You are my heartbeat.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Until you finally recognize me, Ameet... I will keep calling.”

The call disconnected. Ameet stood frozen, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. His mind raced, refusing to connect the mysterious, haunting voice to anyone he knew. He unlocked his phone and checked the recent logs; the number was entirely unsaved, completely anonymous. Who was she? And why was she targeting him?

Over the next few days, the calls became a relentless ritual. Every single day, at unpredictable hours, her voice would whisper through the receiver, taunting him, knowing intimate details about his mood and habits. He considered going to the police to file a harassment complaint, but each time he picked up the phone to dial authorities, he hesitated, convincing himself she would eventually get bored and stop.

A few weeks later, the afternoon air in Kirtipur was crisp as Ameet sat across from Priya at the popular Kashi Café. The rustic wooden tables and the aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans usually brought him peace, but today he looked tense, distracted. He stared absently out the window at the passing pedestrians while Priya watched him intently over the rim of her coffee cup.

Setting her mug down with a soft clink, Priya tilted her head. “What’s wrong, Ameet? You look completely different today. Very serious, almost haunted.”

Ameet sighed, running a hand through his hair, and decided to confide in her. He told her everything about the persistent, anonymous phone calls that had been plaguing him.

Priya listened closely, her expression shifting from curiosity to genuine concern. When he finished, she offered a practical solution. “That’s genuinely creepy,” she said. “Why don’t you run an inquiry through Nepal Telecom? They can trace the registration details.”

Ameet blinked, a wave of realization hitting him. “Yes! Why didn’t that obvious idea cross my mind before?”

The very next morning, Ameet called Nepal Telecom’s customer service line. After navigating a maze of automated menus and verifying his identity, the representative pulled up the records for the harassing number. It was registered under a single name: Nisha.

Armed with the name, Ameet immediately dialed the number, eager for a confrontation. But the automated carrier voice greeted him with a flat, lifeless declaration: “The number you are trying to reach is currently switched off.”

Frustrated, he assumed Nisha was simply a ghost—perhaps a fake registration or a discarded SIM card used by a prankster. Deciding it wasn't worth sinking any more energy into, he pushed the incident to the back of his mind.

Another calm afternoon passed while Ameet worked in his study. A soft chime broke his concentration, signaling an incoming email. Opening his mail client, he saw a message from an unfamiliar address—an email devoid of a proper name or standard header. Frowning, he began to read:

Dear Ameetji, You were looking exceptionally handsome on Saturday at the café. You always look so striking when you wear blue. You promised yourself that you would quit smoking, yet here you are, still burning through cigarettes behind closed doors. Not only that, you’ve ramped up your coffee intake. You really struggle to live up to your own promises, don't you? You tried so hard to track me down and uncover my number through the telecom office, but it’s not nearly that easy to catch a ghost. Your love.

Ameet sat frozen, the blood draining from his face. The words felt like physical blows. How on earth could anyone know what he wore on Saturday? How could a stranger know about his private vices—his secret cigarettes, his excessive coffee consumption? Only one person in his current life knew those specific intimate details. Only Anjali had ever chided him about his smoking, begged him to cut down on caffeine, and admired him in blue. But Anjali was dead. She had been dead for years.

Panic surged through his veins, accompanied by a dizzying wave of confusion and terror. The ghost of his past was reaching out from the grave.

To understand the nightmare gripping Ameet’s present, one had to cast the clock back to October 2015, during the suffocating economic blockade in Kathmandu. The streets were paralyzed, fuel was scarce, and daily life had slowed to a crawl.

It was 9:30 AM, and a relentless downpour was lashing the pavement. Anjali stood shivering under the tin awning of a bus stop, waiting desperately for a vehicle that wasn’t coming. The city was paralyzed, but ordinary citizens had adapted, helping strangers by offering rides on motorcycles.

Amidst the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, a motorcycle pulled up to the curb. The rider cut the engine, lifted his visor, and revealed a reassuring smile.

“Hello. Can I help you?” the rider asked. It was Ameet.

Anjali hesitated, looking around awkwardly. Seeing no alternative in the pouring rain, she nodded gratefully and stepped forward, accepting his offer of a lift.

“Where should I drop you?” Ameet asked as she settled onto the pillion seat.

“MetLife Insurance, in Lalitpur,” she replied above the roar of the engine.

The ride was quiet, cocooned in the steady rhythm of the rain. When they reached the office building, Anjali thanked him profusely before stepping off into the drizzle.

Fate, it seemed, was determined to weave their paths together. The very next morning at 9:30 AM, Ameet happened to cross paths with Anjali near New Baneswor. What started as a chance encounter quickly morphed into a steady habit. Day after day, ride after ride, a quiet affection blossomed between them.

By November, the crisp autumn air matched the warmth growing in their chests. They sat across from each other in a cozy Baneswor restaurant, sharing their first official date. Though they had been meeting for a month, the butterflies were brand new, rendering them both delightfully shy.

Ameet broke the comfortable silence, offering a gentle smile. “You look exceptionally nice today.”

“Thank you,” Anjali replied, her cheeks flushing. “You look very handsome today, too.”

The conversation flowed naturally from there, wandering into the landscape of their ambitions. Ameet explained that he worked day-to-day at a commercial bank, but his true soul burned with the ambition to become a published author. He wanted to write a great novel, though he was desperately searching for the right spark of inspiration. Anjali, in turn, shared her own dreams of success, cheering him on and assuring him that he would one day make his mark as a writer.

By December, the relationship had deepened past casual dating. They began spending their nights together in quiet hotels away from prying eyes. One evening, lying side-by-side in the dim warmth of a hotel room, Anjali turned to him with deep earnestness in her eyes.

“Ameet, let’s finally get married,” she whispered. “How much longer are we going to keep hiding in the shadows? Let’s make our relationship public.”

Ameet exhaled a thick cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Anjali, watching him closely, reached out and gently plucked the cigarette from his lips, extinguishing it in the nearby ashtray.

Ameet blinked, surprised. “Hey, why did you do that?”

“Why won’t you ever take my words seriously?” she asked, a mix of frustration and heartbreak tightening her voice. “Why do you always brush off the idea of marriage? Are you ashamed of me?”

“It’s not about shame, Anjali,” he replied defensively, avoiding her gaze. “Let’s not rush into marriage just yet. Give it some time. Just wait three months.”

“Why three months?” she pressed.

“Because I’m up for a major promotion at the bank,” he lied smoothly, flashing a reassuring grin. “Once I secure it, I’ll take things to the next level. After three months, I’ll visit your family home with my parents and officially ask for your hand.”

Anjali’s face lit up, all her doubts melting away under the warmth of his promise. “Are you serious?” she asked breathlessly.

“Dead serious,” he smiled.

“And when,” she added with a playful pout, “will you finally quit smoking for good?”

“The day I leave you, I’ll quit,” he joked smoothly, pulling her close. Anjali playfully wrinkled her nose, believing every single word.

Three months slipped by like sand through fingers.

The promised milestone arrived, but the reality was a nightmare. Anjali tried calling Ameet day after day, but his phone remained stubbornly switched off. Panic clawed at her chest. She had no personal address for him, no knowledge of his family, nothing beyond his professional life. Desperate and terrified, she decided to visit his workplace.

At 1:30 PM, heart pounding with anxiety, she walked through the polished glass doors of the bank. She was terrified that showing up unannounced would anger him, but love and panic drove her forward. She approached the front reception desk and offered a trembling smile.

“Hello. My name is Anjali Sharma,” she said politely. “I’m a close friend of Ameet Shrestha. I haven’t been able to reach him all week. Could I please see him?”

The receptionist looked up, blinking in confusion. She typed a few keys into her terminal, frowned, and looked back at Anjali. “I’m sorry, but nobody by the name of Ameet Shrestha works here.”

Anjali’s breath hitched. “That’s... that’s impossible. My friend Ameet gave me this exact address. Could you please check again?”

The receptionist performed a second search, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, miss. There is no record of an employee named Ameet Shrestha in our entire directory. This bank has never employed anyone by that name.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath Anjali’s feet. She turned away in a daze, stumbling out into the blinding afternoon glare. Her mind screamed with betrayal. He hadn’t just ignored her; he had constructed an entire illusion.

When she finally reached her family home, she locked herself in her bedroom and wept for hours, the emotional pain tearing her apart from the inside out. But the heartbreak was only the beginning of her nightmare. Days later, a terrifying physical reality set in: she was pregnant with Ameet’s child.

Panic morphed into profound shame. What would conservative society say? How could she face her traditional parents with a child out of wedlock, abandoned by a phantom lover who had vanished into thin air? The weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders with suffocating force.

For an entire month, she retreated completely from the world, refusing to leave her room. Her parents knocked on her door daily, watching helplessly as her physical appearance withered away and her abdomen began to gently swell with the secret she carried. But Anjali refused to speak of her pain. Trapped in a corner with no hope left, swallowed by an unbearable tide of despair, she made a fatal decision.

One quiet afternoon, alone in her bathroom, she took a razor blade to her wrists.

When her parents finally broke the door down, it was far too late. Anjali was gone, leaving behind a cold room and a silent, devastating void.

Back in the present, Ameet sat in his study, staring blankly at his laptop screen. He opened his email inbox once more, his hand trembling as he clicked on a new message—another note from the ghost of Anjali.

This time, the email contained chilling attachments: high-resolution digital photographs and intimate video recordings of Anjali and Ameet together from their months in hiding.

Ameet recoiled as if struck by lightning. How? How on earth could Anjali—dead and buried for years—possibly send digital files from her own grave? Who was orchestrating this sadistic sick joke?

The very next day, the nightmare escalated. A new email arrived in his inbox, this time containing intimate photos and video footage of Mamata and himself.

Stunned, furious, and utterly unsettled, Ameet grabbed his car keys and drove straight to a specialized computer workshop in the city, demanding that the technicians trace the origin of the incoming messages. After running deep digital diagnostics, the technicians delivered a stunning verdict: the emails were being routed through IP addresses and cached tokens originating directly from the personal laptops of Anjali and Mamata.

Ameet’s blood ran ice cold. Both women were dead. Their laptops had either been buried with them or locked away in their families' homes years ago. How could dead hands type emails? How could deceased ghosts operate digital devices?

Driven by a desperate need for answers, Ameet embarked on a morbid investigation. He visited the neighborhoods of both women, spoke quietly with neighbors, dug into local gossip, and slowly untangled the horrifying puzzle. Piece by piece, the identity of the person behind the haunting calls, the cryptic emails, and the physical notes snapped into sharp focus.

The revelation hit him like a physical blow. He stared into the abyss of his own creation, finally understanding the monster playing games with his mind.

Late that afternoon, Ameet drove his car out to the quiet suburbs, parking directly outside Priya’s home. He walked up to the front door and pressed the doorbell.

A few moments later, the door swung open. Priya stood in the doorway, her face lighting up with a warm, genuine smile when she saw him. “Ameet! What a surprise. Come on in.”

Ameet stepped across the threshold, his expression entirely unreadable. He walked into the living room and lowered himself onto the sofa. Priya bustled into the kitchen, returning moments later with two steaming cups of freshly brewed coffee, setting one before him before taking a seat opposite him.

Sipping her coffee nervously, Priya looked across the coffee table. “You came by so suddenly today, Ameet. Is everything alright? Do you need something?”

“Yes,” Ameet replied softly, his voice dangerously even. “I do have some business with you, Priya. In fact... I need you to come over to my house tonight.”

Priya felt a cold knot twist in her stomach. His tone wasn’t romantic; it was clinical, predatory. Suspicion flared, but curiosity and a desperate need to face whatever was coming drove her forward. She swallowed hard and forced a nod. “Alright. I’ll come. What time?”

“Be at my place by 7:30 PM sharp.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

After finishing his coffee in suffocating silence, Ameet stood up and walked out without another word. Priya sat frozen on her sofa, her hands trembling around her mug. A heavy, suffocating dread settled over her shoulders. She suspected that the game was up—that Ameet had finally discovered the truth about who she really was.

At precisely 7:30 PM, Priya’s car pulled up outside Ameet’s sprawling residence. The house loomed large and imposing against the darkening evening sky, looking more like a fortress than a home. The front door stood slightly ajar. Pushing it open, she stepped inside into a dimly lit foyer.

The interior walls were lined with large, framed photographs of Ameet—dozens of them, staring down at her from every angle like silent judges.

As she stood frozen in the hallway, footfalls echoed from the staircase above. Ameet descended slowly into the foyer. He wasn't smiling. To her absolute horror, he was wearing thick black leather gloves.

Priya took an involuntary step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You... you’re welcome in my home,” Ameet said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

“What’s going on, Ameet?” she choked out, terror gripping her throat.

“I have a special surprise for you tonight,” he smiled, stepping closer.

“What kind of surprise?”

“Come upstairs with me.”

Before she could turn to run, Ameet closed the distance with terrifying speed. He grabbed her arm and dragged her up the stairs, ignoring her frantic struggles, and shoved her into a pitch-black, windowless back room. Two chairs sat in the center of the room like instruments of interrogation.

“Have a seat,” Ameet instructed smoothly. “Why are you hesitating?”

Paralyzed by fear, Priya backed up until the back of her legs hit a chair, and she collapsed into it. Before she could catch her breath, Ameet produced a length of thick rope from his jacket and lashed her torso and arms tightly to the wooden frame, binding her fast.

Priya thrashed against the ropes, gasping for air. “What the hell are you doing? Let me go!”

Ameet calmly pulled up the second chair, sat down directly across from her, and folded his hands over his knees. He studied her face with clinical fascination, watching the naked terror gleaming in her eyes.

“You already know why you’re here, don’t you?” Ameet asked quietly. “Aren't you the one behind all those harassing phone calls, the anonymous emails, and the notes left in my house? I know you orchestrated the whole thing. But I want to hear it from your own lips.”

Priya stopped struggling, her chest heaving as tears of fury spilled down her cheeks. She glared at him with pure venom.

“Yes!” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “Yes, I was behind every single call, every email, every note! I came closer to you at your book launch, I became your friend, and I played my part so I could trap you! Mamata was my best friend—we were childhood friends. She told me everything about you, and she showed me your photograph. And when she did, I recognized your face instantly... because my own sister, Anjali, had shown me your picture years ago.”

Ameet tilted his head, genuinely surprised. “Anjali was your sister?”

“She was!” Priya screamed, tears blinding her. “She was my blood! I knew you'd eventually track down my home, so I hid every single family photograph before you ever visited, just so you wouldn't connect the dots!”

She glared at him, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief. “Both Anjali and Mamata loved you with all their hearts. They gave themselves to you entirely. And what did you do? You manipulated them, abandoned them, and drove them both to commit suicide! You murdered their love, and you murdered their unborn babies! How many innocent girls have you destroyed besides my sister and my best friend?”

Ameet didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, horrifying smile spread across his face.

“Yes,” he admitted softly, his voice devoid of a shred of remorse. “I forced them to break. And not just them—there were others before them, too. Many others who couldn't handle the pressure. When my first two romantic novels failed miserably, I realized I needed real, authentic pain to fuel my writing. I needed genuine psychological devastation. So I used these women as raw material. My third book became a national bestseller because the emotion in it was authentic. And this fourth novel I’m writing right now? It’s about Anjali, Mamata, and you, Priya. Nobody will ever trace their deaths back to me. And now, you get to complete the trilogy.”

Priya stared at him in sheer disbelief, the monsters of urban legends pale compared to the man sitting in front of her. “Before you kill me,” she whispered, her voice shaking violently, “answer me one last thing. Did you actually work at those banks, or was that just another lie? Where did you disappear to when you abandoned them? And why... why did you record videos of them?”

Ameet chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Simple questions deserve honest answers. Yes, I worked at those banks, but I deliberately gave Anjali and Mamata false addresses to keep my real life insulated. I used this very house as my sanctuary—nobody in my professional life ever knew this address existed. As for the video recordings? They were my insurance policy. Blackmail is a powerful tool to keep women compliant. It’s what pushed them over the edge when I vanished.”

He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the dark. “Mamata and Anjali were foolish; they didn’t use protection, and they got pregnant. You’re probably wondering how I knew. Simple—I kept tabs on them. I followed them to the medical clinics, saw their appointments, and knew they were carrying my children. That was my cue to vanish, change my phone number, and transfer to a new branch.”

Priya stared at him with burning hatred. “You think you’re invincible? You will rot in hell for this. You’ll be caught!”

Ameet smiled warmly. “And who, exactly, is going to report my crimes?”

“I will,” she spat.

“I appreciate your optimism,” Ameet replied smoothly. “I know you recorded our entire conversation on your hidden phone. But unfortunately for you... you’re going to be completely unconscious in about thirty seconds.”

Priya’s eyes widened in horror. “What... what did you do?”

“I know you’re shocked,” Ameet said, standing up and towering over her. “Earlier, when you asked for a glass of water while we were talking downstairs... I slipped a heavy dose of medical sedative into the cup. It’s kicking in right now.”

As if on cue, Priya’s eyelids fluttered. The fight drained from her limbs as a heavy, crushing wave of fatigue pulled her under. Within seconds, her head slumped forward, and she lost consciousness entirely.

Ameet stepped forward, taking out a sharp hunting knife from his belt.

Several months later, Kathmandu’s literary circles were abuzz with unprecedented excitement. Ameet Shrestha’s fourth psychological thriller had officially hit the shelves, dominating bookstore windows across the country.

The title of the novel was simple, haunting, and unforgettable: Priya.

The book was a masterclass in psychological suspense, detailing the interwoven, tragic fates of three women named Anjali, Mamata, and Priya. Critics hailed it as a literary masterpiece, praising the chilling realism of the characters' despair and the shocking authenticity of the villain's depravity. The novel shattered sales records, catapulting Ameet to unprecedented heights of literary fame and adulation.

On the other side of the city, however, police files remained hopelessly stalled. Detectives searching for the missing woman named Priya found no trace, no clues, and no bodies. Her aging parents sat by their window day after day, staring down the empty street, clinging to the desperate hope that their daughter would someday walk through the front door. They had no way of knowing that her final resting place was scattered across the silent foundations of a dark, forgotten room.

And so, Ameet Shrestha walked the streets of Kathmandu as a literary god. He was celebrated, adored, and worshiped by thousands of young readers who lined up for hours just to catch a glimpse of his face. His name was everywhere, whispered in university hallways, debated in coffee shops, and printed in bold letters across national broadsheets. He had achieved everything he ever wanted, secure in the knowledge that his sins were buried too deep for the world ever to find.