Craved by the Monster (Craving You #1)

1 ~ Narcissist Kartik

I sat behind my desk, my eyes scanning the balance sheets, seasonal projections, and shipment timelines... everything laid out in front of me with absolute clarity.

The textile business demanded precision, discipline, and control. Three things I'd built my entire life on. Every order placed, every fabric selected, every deal signed...it all followed a structure. A system. Nothing random. Nothing emotional.

Exactly how things should be.

"Ayaan," I said without looking up, flipping a page, "South batch ka dispatch kal subah hojana chahiye."

(The South batch dispatch should be done by tomorrow morning.)

"Ho jayega, bhai," he replied instantly, standing beside me, watching everything like he always did.

(It'll get done, brother.)

He was my personal assistant Ayaan Taneja. Reliable unlike most people.

I moved to the next file, my focus unwavering, when my phone suddenly vibrated against the table.

The screen lit up. It was my father.

A faint irritation settled in my chest.

I already knew why he was calling me.

Same topic, argument, and waste of time.

I let it ring for a second longer before picking it up, pressing it to my ear without softening my tone.

"Yes?"

"Kartik," his voice came, firm but controlled. "Tumhare liye family company se zyada important honi chahiye."

(Your family should be more important than the company.)

I leaned back in my chair, jaw tightening slightly.

Here we went again.

"Dad, maine aapko sau baar bola hai," I said, voice flat, patience already thinning. "Mujhe shaadi mein koi interest nahi hai. Aap aur dadi kyun force kar rahe ho mujhe?"

(I've told you a hundred times that I'm not interested in marriage. Why are you and Dadi forcing me?)

There was a pause on the other end.

Then he commanded, "Ghar aao. Abhi."

(Come home. Now.)

It was a command, not a request.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, irritation evident now.

For a moment, I considered refusing but I didn't because arguments dragged over calls were pointless, and if they'd decided something...they wouldn't stop.

Without another word, I cut the call.

The silence in the office felt heavier now.

I tossed the phone on the table and glanced at Ayaan.

He was smiling, looking at his own phone. Probably texting that his girlfriend again.

"Yeh ladki na... kisi din tumhe barbaad karke chhodegi," I muttered, unimpressed.

(This girl will ruin you one day.)

He chuckled, completely unfazed.

"Bhai, aapke life mein koi ladki nahi hai isiliye aisa keh rahe ho," he shot back casually. "Aur waise bhi, Ishika bohot acchi hai. Mujhse bohot pyaar karti hai."

(You're saying that because you don't have a girl in your life. And anyway, Ishika is very nice. She loves me a lot.)

I physically cringed. My face shrank as I gasped at his words.

He grinned wider. "Everything is cringe until it's your turn," he added.

I slowly lifted my gaze at him.

A stare that usually shuts people up instantly.

It worked.

He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender.

Smart he was. Because I didn't entertain nonsense.

Love, attachment, and emotional dependency were all weaknesses. I'd seen what women did to men.

My friend Samarth became a love-sick puppy since the day he got married to his one true love Tara. She's like a sister to me.

But I can't let any woman enter my space and mind. And if any woman ever came into my life I would make sure she's disciplined, obedient, and submissive.

Women are only meant to bring comfort, not chaos. Cook, maintain the house, and warm the bed.

That's it.

I closed the laptop with a firm motion, standing up in one smooth movement.

"Main ghar jaa raha hoon," I said shortly.

(I'm going home.)

Ayaan nodded, still holding back his amusement.

I didn't bother with another word.

By the time I reached home, the sun had already started dipping, casting long shadows across the driveway.

The house stood exactly how it always did...grand and silent.

I stepped inside, removing my watch as I walked straight toward the study.

He was already there.

My father sat behind his desk, posture straight, expression serious.

I walked in without hesitation, stopping a few steps away.

"Boliye."

(Say it.)

He studied me for a moment then leaned back slightly.

"Shaadi karni hogi tumhe."

(You will have to get married.)

Straight to the point.

I let out a low, humorless chuckle.

"Again?" I tilted my head slightly, meeting his gaze directly. "Main aapko already mana kar chuka hoon."

(I already refused.)

"Tumhare mana karne se kuch nahi hota," he replied calmly.

(Your refusal doesn't change anything.)

My jaw tightened.

"I didn't need a wife," I stated firmly. "Mujhe kisi ki zarurat nahi hai."

(I don't need a wife. I don't need anyone.)

"Tumhe zarurat hai," he countered immediately. "Aur humein bhi."

(You need one. And so do we.)

There was a pause.

"Athais ke hone wale ho tum."

(You're turning twenty-eight.)

My father's tone didn't rise, didn't sharpen yet it carried weight, authority, and expectation.

"Hamare business aur legacy ko ek heir ki zaroorat hai," he continued, his eyes locking with mine. "Tum shaadi nahi karoge toh hamara vansh aage kaise badega? You are the only son I have."

(Our business and legacy need an heir. If you don't marry, how will our lineage continue?)

A slow breath left me.

Not out of weakness but of irritation.

Legacy, heir, and lineage... Words men like him held onto as if the world revolved around them.

I straightened, rolling my shoulders slightly, my jaw tightening.

"So this was about an heir?" I asked, my tone lower now. "Not about marriage."

Of course. It always came down to that.

A woman was not needed as a partner or as an equal but as a necessity to carry forward a name, to produce an heir.

I let out a quiet scoff, shaking my head slightly.

"Baccha hi chahiye na aapko, wo to IVF se bhi ho sakta hai."

(If you just want a child, that can happen through IVF too.)

The words left my mouth calmly. Logically. As if I'd just presented a perfectly reasonable solution.

"We just needed to inject my sperm. That's it. Problem solved," I added, completely unfazed. "Uske liye shaadi karne ki kya zaroorat hai?"

(Why is marriage even needed for that?)

As soon as these words left my mouth his expression almost made me scoff.

Father was staring at me like I'd lost my mind.

And behind me, Dadi gasped.

"Beta..." she said slowly coming inside the study.

I stood up and went to her, made her sit next to me on the chair.

"Ye jo sab log shaadi karte hain... kya wo pagal hain?"

(All these people who get married... are they mad?)

I leaned back slightly, unimpressed. "Emotionally weak hain," I muttered under my breath.

(They're emotionally weak.)

But she ignored that.

"Aur sirf baccha zaroori nahi hota," she continued, "Tumhari khushi ka kya? Tumhari zarooraton ka kya? Wo aayegi toh tumhe khana bana ke khilayegi... jo tum chahte ho wo sab karegi."

(It's not just about having a child. What about your happiness? Your needs? She'll cook for you... She'll do everything you want.)

I let out a short breath, already annoyed.

"Khana banane ke liye main chef hire kar loonga, Dadi," I replied flatly. "Aur main jo chahta hoon... wo sab mere paas already hai."

(I can hire a chef for cooking. And everything I want... I already have it.)

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Chef?" she repeated.

Then, without missing a beat.

"Chef ke saath soyega tu? Tujhe sirf khane ki hi bhook hai?"

(Will you sleep with the chef? Are you only hungry for food?)

My expression hardened instantly.

A faint heat rose to my face. "Dadi... yeh sab kya bol rahi ho aap?"

(What are you even saying?)

But she didn't stop, she never did.

"Sach sach batao, Kartik," she said, peering at me suspiciously. "Kahin tumhe ladko mein toh nahi...?"

(Tell me honestly... are you into men?)

"Chee, Dadi," I snapped immediately, disgust clear in my tone. "Nahi. Aisa kuch nahi hai. I'm straight."

(No. Nothing like that. I'm straight.)

She studied me for a moment. Still unconvinced.

"Mujhe toh tujhpe aur Samarth pe pura doubt tha," she muttered. "Ab dekho, usne bhi Tara se shaadi kar li. Kitna khush hai wo. Tu kyun nahi kar raha hai?"

(I always doubted you and Samarth. Now look, even he got married to Tara. He's so happy. Why aren't you doing it?)

My jaw tightened.

Of course.

Samarth. My best friend.

Ever since he got married. This has become worse.

Constant comparisons, pressure, and expectations.

"Khush hai?" I repeated quietly, almost mocking the word.

(He is happy?)

Happiness. Another illusion people chased when they didn't have control.

I straightened, my voice turning colder.

"Uski life uski choice hai," I said firmly. "Meri life... meri."

(His life is his choice. My life... mine.)

I leaned closer, placing my hands on the table.

"Aur mujhe kisi aurat ki zarurat nahi hai jo meri life mein interfere kare," I said, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "Mujhe koi nahi chahiye jo mujhe control karne ki koshish kare."

(I don't need a woman who interferes in my life. I don't want anyone trying to control me.)

"Control tumhare haath mein hi rahega," Dad said simply.

(Control will remain in your hands.)

That made me pause just for a second because that was the only acceptable condition.

A wife who knew her place.

Who didn't question!

Who didn't challenge!

Who fit into my life without trying to change it.

My eyes narrowed slightly.

"Kaun hai?" I asked.

(Who is she?)

Father signaled someone, and within seconds, a photograph was placed in front of me.

I picked it up lazily and glanced at it.

"Mukti Rathore," he said. " She's twenty-four. Traditional family. Well-mannered."

My eyes scanned the picture.

She was...beautiful, traditional attire, and homely, exactly what they described.

Suddenly something flashed in front of me that reckless girl in the club...in that short maroon dress. She was exactly the opposite of what I was seeing right now. She was loud, rebellious, and problematic. Chasing trouble wherever she went.

I jerked that thought.

My grip on the photograph remained loose and uninterested.

"This is the girl we are going to see tomorrow," he said. "They came from a reputed family. The girl was beautiful, Educated, homely, and obedient. Exactly the kind of woman who suits you."

Each word landed deliberately.

As if he knew exactly what would make me pause.

I nodded once absentmindedly. "Theek hai. I'll see her," I said, tone flat.

Dadi immediately brightened, as if a war had been won.

In my head this was, already over. I'd go there and meet her then I'd simply say no and walk away and everything would go back to how it was.

I stood up and came back to my room.

I stripped out of my shirt and entered the bathroom.

The cool water helped me relax and when I was finally satisfied, I stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The mirror reflected eyes that never seemed to soften.

Monster they call me...I don't know why? Only if they had seen my monster side.

I wiped my hair back, removed a pair of trousers from the cupboard, and put them on.

The silence in my room was different from the chaos outside.

My eyes drifted to the far corner of the room.

Her photograph.

It had been there for years. Just like the memory of her. I walked toward it, my steps slower than usual.

My fingers brushed against the frame.

"Maa..."

The word left my lips before I could stop it.

For a moment, the man I was...the one people feared, obeyed and bowed ceased to exist and now I was just...a son.

She looked the same in the picture. Soft smile, gentle eyes and warmth that no one else in this house ever had.

She died when I was young. Too young to understand death but old enough to feel the emptiness it left behind.

Illness, they said.

Something that took her away piece by piece while I stood there, helpless.

I still remembered the hospital smell. The way her fingers felt in mine...weak, but still trying to hold on.

And then... nothing.

I inhaled sharply and straightened.

Father never remarried, not because he couldn't but because he didn't want me to grow up under someone else's authority.

He didn't want me to deal with a stepmother or another woman in a place that still belonged to Maa.

He never said it out loud but I knew.

That was his way of loving.

After her... it was just him. And Dadi.

Dadi raised me in ways my father never could.

She was strict, but... she cared and I...I could never say no to her.

I looked back at Maa's picture again then stepped back, adjusting the frame slightly, making sure it was perfectly straight.

Just the way everything in my life had to be.

Everything in this room had its place. Every book aligned perfectly. Every pen capped and set at an angle. Even the sheet on my bed was spotless, uncreased, perfectly pulled tight at every corner.

I hated mess.

My room was white... walls, curtains, bedsheets with just a hint of grey on the furniture.

No color, no chaos.

White meant purity, control and discipline.

That was me... clean, calculated, and detached.

Vibrant colors were for people who needed attention. I didn't. I preferred silence, order, and stillness. I even fixed my hair before sleeping because I hated waking up looking like I'd lost control over anything, even my reflection.

I looked around one last time, eyes tracing the symmetry of my space. Everything was as it should be.

Except the world outside this room... that was a mess and soon, I'd have to meet the girl who'd try to fit herself into a life that didn't have space for her.

I shut the lights off, lay down on the perfectly made bed, and stared at the ceiling... white and spotless.

The way life should be.

The way I liked it.