All Chapters of Until I Wrote Him : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Chapter 42 India's POV The first thing I notice when I wake up isn’t the sound of the city, it’s the stillness. For a few rare seconds, Manhattan feels muted. The skyline outside my window glows faintly gold, like the world’s taken a deep breath and decided not to exhale yet. I stretch out on the cool sheets, one arm sprawled over the empty space beside me, and the memory hits, that voice, those eyes, that impossible smirk that India Seethal gives when she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t want to stab me or kiss me. It’s been only two days since the casino. Two days, and I still haven’t shaken off the way she looked at me after I whispered Friday, eight p.m. That look, equal parts rage, disbelief, and something dangerously close to curiosity has been haunting me since. It shouldn’t, but it does. I’ve spent my entire adult life building empires from dust and bloodless negotiations. I know power. I know control. But India… She’s chaos wrapped in silk. And God help me,

Chapter 44 India's POV The air outside La Fiore D’Italia smelled faintly of roasted garlic and regret. I hadn’t been here in years, yet the place looked exactly as I remembered, the same amber lights dangling low like tired stars, the same soft jazz humming from within, the same gold-lettered sign that mocked me with a sense of nostalgia I never asked for. 8:27 p.m. Of course, I was late. I stood by the arched doorway longer than I should have, my fingers tracing the clutch I carried as though its cold edges could ground me. My reflection flickered faintly against the glass, elegant blue dress, the one I almost didn’t wear. A high slit teased the upper curve of my thigh, my hair swept into a loose updo that framed my neck and bare shoulders. To anyone else, I probably looked like a woman going on a date. But I wasn’t here for romance. I was here for closure. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. The waiter by the entrance gave me a polite smile, his Italian

Chapter 46 Roman's POV The city looked like it was holding its breath.Even through the tinted glass, I could see the moon misting against the neon-lit avenues, the kind that made everything look a little too cinematic, too staged, too much like the prelude to something bad. Maybe that’s what paranoia does, it turns a harmless car ride into a scene from a thriller.I didn’t even know where Roman was taking me. That was the problem.He hadn’t said much since I got into the car. Just one look, one subtle nod toward the passenger seat, and that was enough to make my legs move before my brain could stage a protest. The car, some black, sleek, unapologetically expensive machine that smelled of leather and power, purred down the street like it owned the night. He didn’t drive fast, which somehow made it worse. He was calm, calculated, and maddeningly unreadable.My pulse wasn’t so composed. It was jumping jacks in my throat.What if he’

Chapter 48 India's POV “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Roman Alkali in the flesh, with a subtle beauty in his arms.” The voice came from the shadows behind us, smooth, deep, and dipped in mockery. It wasn’t loud, but it carried, cutting through the wind that had been whispering between the cliffs a moment ago. My heart seized. I turned sharply, the cold air catching in my lungs. Roman’s arm instinctively moved in front of me, a subtle yet unmistakable barrier. His stance changed in an instant, shoulders squared, chin tilted slightly down, a predator ready to measure danger before it pounced. The man stepped out from the dark. The first thing I noticed was the confidence, an effortless kind, like he owned whatever ground he stood on. His hair was the kind of disheveled that was too perfect to be accidental, and his smirk carried the glint of someone used to being both loved and punched in equal measure. Roman exhaled sharply. “Jesus Christ, Fabiano.” The stranger, Fabia

Chapter 50 India's POV The deck feels quieter than before.It’s strange, the sea still murmurs below, the yacht still rocks gently under the pull of the tide, and yet something in the air has shifted.Like a storm that’s passed but left its unease behind.When I step back outside, the cool wind greets me first. It lifts the ends of my hair, tugs at the hem of my dress, and carries with it the faint scent of salt and smoke. The laughter that filled the air minutes ago has gone missing, replaced by something else, a silence taut enough to hum.Fabiano and Roman stand near the railing, faces turned slightly away from me. From this distance, I can only catch the outline of their profiles, Fabiano’s playful ease gone sharp, and Roman’s posture drawn tight like a wire pulled too far.I slow my steps instinctively. My heels click once, twice, and then stop.Something’s wrong. I can feel it in the way Fabiano’s fingers grip the edge of