- ( The song of the chapter is 'Morally Grey' by April Jai and Nation Haven.)
"Hi, you are Khushi, right? I am Lavanya, Lavanya Kashyap."
A beautiful girl with slanted jet-black eyes and sleek shiny hair greets her in the garden of the resort. She recognizes her as one of the girls sitting beside Junior Rathore earlier at lunch today. Lavanya's smile is as gorgeous as she is. The highly fashionable white saree that she's wearing compliments her entirely. There is an undeniable playfulness in her demeanour, the kind that makes it hard not to smile in her presence.
"Hi, yeah, I am Khushi."
"I absolutely love your lehenga."
"Thank you", Khushi replies with an awkward laugh.
"You know what they say about you is true."
When Khushi gives a confused look, Lavanya continues, "They say you're the most beautiful girl in the society....They are absolutely right."
Red creeps into her cheek as she offers Lavanya a small smile. "You are beautiful too."
"Oh, thank you," Lavanya responds in a gleeful voice. "Sorry to be overbearing, but I've heard so much about you that I feel like I already know you."
"I don't understand."
"Neil talks about you all the time."
"Neil? NK?"
The mention of her best friend leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She has yet to deal with the betrayal she felt by him. It still stings, an unresolved wound festering beneath the surface, twisting inside her like a knife she has yet to pull out.
"Yeah, one and only, my honey bear."
"Lavanya, Tell her the story about how you and NK eloped to Vagus to get hitched." The other girl she saw earlier with Lavanya joins them. Her almond-shaped eyes glint with mirth as she teases Lavanya. The sequins in her orange lehenga sparkle in the evening light.
"Wait.....you and NK are married."
"Yeah, we are," Lavanya replies sheepishly.
"Not only that, they've been childhood sweetheart," The other girl chimes in. "Hi, I'm Payal Roy."
"Hi, Khushi Sen Gupta. Very nice to meet you, Payal," She says, smiling at Payal. "So, Lavanya, tell me..."
"Oh, we both were born and brought up in the US. We were together in everything... elementary school, middle school..High school. After high school graduation, we went to Vegas for some fun and got so drunk that we got hitched there. That's it...Happy now, Payal?" Lavanya huffs. "What fun do you get from making me repeat this story to every new person we meet?"
"Oh, come on, Lavanya, you know I adore you two. Canât a girl live vicariously through you?" Payal teases sweetly, linking arms with Lavanya. "Hey, look! Pani puri ! Letâs go, Khushi, weâll have some."
"Do you think itâs a good idea? What if someone sees us gossiping together?" Khushi asks, glancing around.
"Come on, itâs not like weâre discussing anything top-secret. The men in our family donât share anything with us anyway." Payal says rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, like theyâre a locked ancient chest, with the key long lost," Lavanya giggles. "You, at least, can go to Arnavâs room. I tried once, just to peek inside, and he practically glared me right out of there. The only female he tolerates is you. You can even make him do things he doesnât want to do."
"Come on, Lavanya, donât be jealous. You know how it is with Arnav."
'She can go to his room!! Who is she?! It's not like I care. Whatever.' Khushi mutters in her head. She looks back at Payal. She is stunning. Something unexplainable clenches in her chest. She brushes it away. 'Exactly. Who cares anyway."
"Speaking of him, where did he disappear to after lunch?" Lavanya asks as they made their way toward the pani puri vendors set up by the Oberois. It's the sangeet this evening. There is a concert supposed to happen. And the muhrat for the pheres have been set for midnight. Then tomorrow is the reception. Not only elites all over the country but also celebrities and movie stars are crowded around the sprawling complex.
"Akash said he went to receive his date," Payal replies, gesturing to the vendor to prepare pani puri for them as Khushi quietly listens to the conversation.
"Ohh...spicy..anyone we know." Lavanya wriggles her eyebrows at Payal.
"Helena Khan," Payal drawls out secretively.
"Ah, the leading lady of this year's biggest blockbuster. Totally his type," Lavanya says, rolling her eyes before mumbling under her breath, "Fuck 'em and leave 'em."
Payal slaps Lavanya's arm lightly. "Youâd know his type well, wouldnât you? Youâve known him your whole life."
"Payal.." Lavanya whines, rubbing her arm, "Be nice." Then she looks back at Khushi. "See you're confusing our friend here."
"Actually, NK is Arnav's cousin. NK's dad was Mr.Raizadaâsâuh, I mean Arnav's father's younger brother. He lived in Chicago and worked for the 'Chicago Outfit.' You know, 'the Outfit,' right? That's where I'm from." Lavanya's voice drops conspiratorially.
Yeah, Khushi knows the Outfit. It's an organized crime group active in the US. She nods her head quietly, and Lavanya continues.
"So, Arnav's mom passed away when he was 14 and then he came to live with his uncle. That's when I met him. So yeah, Iâve known him since I was like, 6 or 7âŠand we spent pretty much every holiday together. He was super grumpy as a teenager. And itâs funnyâI never once saw him date anyone or heard about him having a girlfriend." Lavanya glances around, checking if anyone might be eavesdropping. Lowering her voice, she whispers, "Then I got all the juicy details about his one-night stands from Aman. So thatâs his type. One-night stands."
"Aman Mathur? His manager?" Khushi asks feeling slightly uncomfortable with the turn of conversation but equally intrigued.
"Yeah, theyâre best friends. Have been since high school. So much so that Arnav brought him back here to India with him." Lavanya pauses, reflecting. "Actually, now that I think about it, he didnât even have those one-night stands since he moved back. All he does is work. I donât even remember the last time he brought a date anywhere."
The vendor interrupts their conversation, handing each of them a plate of pani puri. Khushiâs lips curve into a smile at the sight of the crispy, tangy delights. She picks one up, dipping the round morsel into the spicy tamarind water, her fingertips grazing the cool, wet surface as she raises it to her mouth. She parts her lips, feeling the shell break between her teeth, a burst of flavours exploding on her tongue as her eyes flutter shut for a brief second.
The tang, the spice, it all hits her senses at once. And then she feels it. It starts from the tips of her toes and ascends, spreading up her back, snaking around her neck, caressing the ends of her hair before settling in her chest making her heart pound, each beat echoing in her ears.
Dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak
The weight of a stare presses against her skin. Until now, she hasn't realised it's possible to feel a gaze without seeing the person. And yet, every inch of her recognizes that stare. She knows exactly who it belongs to.
She doesn't look his way.
She doesn't need to.
Without opening her eyes, she lets the moment stretch, savouring not just the food but the flame skimming the surface of her skin. She rolls the remaining bite on her tongue, letting her lips close around her fingers just slightly before she pulls them away.
And then she opens her eyes.
Deliberately, slowly.
Her lashes lift and the world around her shrinks. Everything else fades away, dissolving into a soft blur, narrowing her focus to the one individual she can't seem to ignore these days.
Him.
Her hazel orbs clash directly into the dark pool of madness. It's the darkest of all chocolate-brown.
A jolt of electricity shoots through her. She is caught like a prey under the gaze of a predator, but instead of fear, flame surges through her veins.
She doesn't look away.
It's not like she can.
She can't look away.
She's pinned right in that moment.
She swipes the tip of her tongue across her lips, clearing away the last traces of tamarind water glistening on them. They're burning, the spice still tingling. She bites down gently, trying to soothe the heat. Eyes still locked, she lifts another pani puri to her lips.
His jaw tightens.
Subtle but not subtle enough to escape her eyes.
She bites down on the sphere of flavors, letting the tang of the spice sear her tongue, but it's nothing compared to the burn in her chest as she watches the storm gather in his eyes.
It's raw and primal.
It's dark and dangerous.
It's thrilling.
She brushes the back of her hand against her lips, wiping away the spicy tamarind juice that escapes the corner of her mouth as the world around her clears a little bit. The corner of his lips lifts, just slightly, and then it is gone in an instant, so quick she almost believes she has imagined it. His presence is undeniable, even in a crowd. He stands tall in his impeccable attire, but that isn't what rattles her. Itâs the woman at his side, draped over him like a piece of artâbeautiful, poised, and clinging to him as if she belongs there.
But the sweet little angel can't take her eyes off the devil.
The sangeet concert rages on in the main hall, the vibrant music and cheers filling the air. But she slips away from the lively crowd, in search of some solitude. The sounds of laughter and music fade as she steps into the cool night, walking across the lawn. She follows the silver glow of the shimmering water reflected in the moonlight and ends up in a deserted poolside.
She takes a deep breath, inhaling the cool night air that mingled with the scent of blooming jasmine. The melodies of the sangeet echo in the distance, but here, in this secluded space, it's actually pretty quiet. She sits on the cool tiles, letting her legs hang over the pool's edge, dipping her feet into the cold water.
Her mind drifts to a time earlier this evening. She closes her eyes, trying to quell the flutter in her stomach that has yet to settle.
"Get a grip, Khushi," she murmurs to herself, shaking her head as if the motion can dispel the heat coursing through her.
She watches the stars twinkle above. There are tall, meticulously manicured hedges encircle the pool, decorated with strings of fairy lights. A soft breeze brushes against her skin, and she rather focuses on a different conversation.
"Khushi", Lavanya hesitated before she started, her voice softening, "Listen, I know you felt betrayed by him....But, you need to know that you are really important to him. He sees you as his best friend. If you two never meet again, I want to apologise on his behalf."
After a while, she continued. "He wasnât spying on you, you know. The family didnât need to keep tabs on you. His father died just after high school, and his mother didnât want to be alone in the States. So we moved back here. NK just wanted to attend college but Mr.Rathore didnât. He wanted NK to go back and join the Outfit in place of his father. But NK wasnât ready to dive into that life....at least, not yet. So, Arnav made it seem like you needed to be watched, and he was the one chosen for the job... and now Iâm rambling," Lavanya said, smiling awkwardly. "So, yeah, you get what Iâm trying to say. He really is sorry. He didnât mean to hurt you."
The sound of laughter interrupts her musing, and she turns her head to see Mr.Rathore and Sheetal Kapoor approaching the poolside, with Mr.Rathore already clad in a robe, likely wearing a swimsuit underneath. Panic surges through her as she spots Mr.Raizada following closely behind them.
She looks around her. Desperate to avoid the confrontation, she turns on her heel, intending to slip away behind the hedges. However, in her haste, she misjudges the layout, only to find herself caught in a tangled maze of greenery. It's a twisted blind loop in the hedge design.
âGreat,â she mutters under her breath. Glancing back, she half-expect them to spot her in this embarrassing predicament, but it seems she is completely hidden by the hedges. If she wants to leave, sheâll have to do it in front of them, and thereâs no way in hell sheâs going to do that. Apparently, she just has to wait here until theyâre done.
Shit.
She leans against the hedge, the rough texture pressing into her back as she hopes for her early bail from this imprisonment. Through the gaps in the leaves, she can just make out the vague silhouettes of Sheetal Kapoor and Mr.Raizada sitting on opposite corners of a bench with their faces toward her. A mile between them.
"Are you sure you don't want to join me, Darling?" Mr.Rathore calls from the poolside.
"Yes, I think, I will just watch you from here, handsome."
Mr.Rathore slips into the water, effortlessly gliding through laps, while Sheetal watches him silently, a faint smile playing on her lips. Meanwhile, Mr.Raizada keeps scrolling through his phone, a champagne glass cradled in his other hand,
"What's wrong with you these days?" His deep, detached voice breaks the silence, asking the question nonchalantly, still to look up from the screen.
"Nothing," Sheetal huffs. A pause stretches between them. Then she whispers, almost as if testing the words, âI think Iâve fallen in love with him.â
"Huh", he barks a laugh, then after a pause says, "..Really?" his tone is flat, almost disinterested.
"Yes," Sheetal replies, âIs it Stockholm?â
He doesnât bother responding to her question. After a while she says, âWhat does it say about me that heâs treated me better than any man Iâve been with? And that heâs... a good lay?â
"I didnât need to know that."
"Besides," Sheetal goes on, her voice softer now, almost reflective, "I thought I was pregnant."
"You thought?"
"False alarm. It scared the shit out of me." A sigh escapes her lips. "But it made me realize I don't want to be here anymore. If I get pregnant, I'd be tied to this world forever, tied to him forever. I don't want that."
"Initially, it was fun..." Sheetal continues, her eyes downcast. â...having a powerful man like him by my side, all that power at my fingertips... and to make it even better I got a double deal....." she pauses, chuckling as if she's sharing a secret. "But it doesnât matter anymore. The money, the expensive gifts.......I just want peace and my baby boy... living a quiet life."
Khushi hears him exhale, a calculating look crosses over his face, illuminated by the mobile screen.
"Those are dangerous desires..... Give me a couple of months," his voice suddenly softer, almost negotiating.
"And then?"
âYou pick a country. Iâll take care of the rest.â
"I can do that..." Sheetal agrees before her voice shifts, becoming inquisitive. "Now you tell me, what's going on with you these days?"
Without giving much heed to his non-remark, she adds, "I've never seen you this riled up before. My God, the threats you shot toward me that day. You didn't need to do that. I am in this willingly, with my eyes wide open..... You even threatened Aarav. You love my boy."
"Arnav Singh Raizada doesn't love anyone."
"Whatever you say, but my boy certainly does," the woman goes on, her voice softening with affection. "Every time I visit, he can't stop talking about how Mr.Raizada sent him the latest Xbox...Just last month, he was thrilled that you played basketball with him. I didnât know you played basketball, Arnav."
His jaw tightens as a dark shadow falls over his features, but he remains silent, eyes glued to his phone.
"Oh, silly me," her lips curving into a playful smirk. "The golden boy Arnav, straight-A student, Harvard graduateâof course, he can play basketball as well."
"Careful, Sheetal, donât push your luck," This whole time, he's not even looking anywhere other than his phone. It seems something really interesting happening on his screen. "Why don't you join, Mr.Rathore? He looks lonely."
"Will you watch if I do?" she replies, her tone teasing, almost flirting. Mr.Raizada doesn't even twitch. "Mind if I have your drink? You aren't going to drink it anyway. You never answer my question, why you don't drink?"
He wordlessly extends the drink toward her. "...And you aren't going to answer my question....again." she quips, taking the glass from him.
There's an indefinite pause fall over over then. Only the distance music and the shushing of water created by Mr.Rathore's swimming can be heard. Sheetal has gone back to watching Mr.Rathore as she silently sips the champagne.
"You know, I've always been curious about what type of women can rattle you. I think I might have found my answer today."Â Sheetal let out a low chuckle, leaning in slightly. "By the way.....She is gor..ge..ous."
This time, Mr.Raizada looks up and fixes her with his infamous glare.
'What was the name of his date? Helena khan. Yeah, that's the name.' Khuhsi mutters to herself, remembering her name from a previous conversation.
"Seems like you don't wanna live anymore." His voice is dangerously low as he says that. But Sheetal just smiles at him broadly, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"What?!..I'm just saying." She shrugs her shoulders. "Hey, tell me,...Were you scared when I said I thought I was pregnant?"
"Why? It's not like it's mine," he retorts, annoyance lacing his voice.
"You know, if I had been pregnant... and managed to convince Mr.Rathore to marry me, I wouldâve been a mommy by now." She grins at him, her voice dripping with mirth while her eyes sparkle with hidden secrets.
Mr.Raizada narrows his eyes and says in a hard tone. "Mr.Rathore is done. It's time for you to go."
Sheetal waves dramatically at Mr.Raizada before rushing toward Mr.Rathore, throwing her arms around him in a playful hug. Their laughter echoes through the air as they retreat toward the main building, their voices fading into the distance.
"The things my high blood sugar made me do. Now I have to do exercise while I am attending a wedding. Go figure...." Mr.Rathore's booming laughter rings out one last time, leaving the poolside eerily quiet in its wake.
Khushi breathes a sigh of relief, thanking her stars that it's finally over. She steps forward, eager to escape, but the universe seems to have other plans. A sharp tug at her hair and waist stops her in her tracks. Glancing down, she realizes with horror that the fairy lights wrapped around the hedges have somehow tangled themselves into her hair and lehenga, making her look like a Christmas tree.
With a frustrated groan, she raises her arms, trying to untangle herself from the shimmering lights, only to discover a tall, dark figure standing in front of her, watching her silently with his arm crossed over her chest.
Author's Note:
Hey guys! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Khushi really can't catch a break, right? I'd love to hear your thoughts on these scenes and what you think will happen next! Drop a comment and let me know!
- ( The song of the chapter is 'Monster' by Lady Gaga)
Khushi sits silently at her desk, gently caressing the bandage on her wrist. With every blink, her eyelashes stir, each moment bringing a new flash of the same memory, vivid and unrelenting.
Rain.
Raindrops.
Raindrops clinging to long lashes.
Lashes framing beautiful brown eyes.
Fingers clutching a coat lapel,
Fingers circling a delicate wrist.
Teeth clenched around a glass piece.
Lips curled into a barely-there smirk.
Buaji's voice cuts through the trance. "Haire Nand Kishore, you're drenched! You'll catch a cold!" she fusses, rubbing a towel through Khushi's hair. Her eyes dart to Khushi's wrist, and a gasp escapes her lips. "What happened to your wrist?"
"It's just a tiny cut, Buaji. Don't worry."
"Are you feeling dizzy?"
"Why would I feel dizzy?"
"Because the sight of blood makes you dizzy, bitiya. Are you alright?"
"Oh," Khushi says, a trace of bitter amusement in her voice as she remembers the younger version of herself, the one who would faint and vomit at the mere sight of her own blood. Buaji doesn't know, that Khushi died a long time ago. The girl who once crumbled at the sight of red vanished the day she ended a man's life. Blood doesn't bother her much anymore. She's learned how to control it. Like she's learned to control the feelings coursing through her blood.... rage, fear, desire....
Except when 'he' is near.
One particular Armani-clad individual still makes her blood boil, agitating her to the point that she forgets all of her old phobias.
She can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad one.
It can't be anything but disastrous.
He is poisoning her blood.
.
.
.
When Khushi steps out of the shower, wearing her favourite pajamas with towel wrapped loosely around her hair, she sees Buaji rummaging through her cupboard, pulling out every designer outfit she owns.
"What are you doing, Buaji?"
"Didn't Mr.Jha tell you, bitiya? We are going to Gurgaon."
"For what?"
"The Oberoi's eldest son is getting married!...what you guys tell it these days..oh huh..'destination' or something. Obviously, all of Delhi's elites will be there. So, Mr.Jha is taking us with him."
"When?"
"As far as I know, we're supposed to prepare for a two-day stay there, this Saturday and Sunday."
Oh, Sucks.
This puts such a damper on her 'find-the-evidence-and-get-the-hell-out- of-here' project. Two days of mundane chatter, ridiculous cosplays and forced pleasantries. Fake smiles and empty wishes will be used left, right and centre. Weddings bore her to death. Why does she even need to attend? She doesn't know the bride or groom.
Uff..
But of course, Mr.Jha is busy trying to establish every connection he can before his election. Shakti Singh Oberoi isn't just one of the richest men in the city, Mr.Jha's real interest probably lies in the fact that the Oberoi family has a long list of people in Parliament right now. It's always about power and politics.
Buaji holds up two lehengas in front of her, waiting for Khushi to choose.
"Pick whichever you like, Buaji. I don't care."
"What will I do with her? Fine, I'm picking the red one," Buaji huffs.
Khushi rolls her eyes. Buaji can't be more predictable. "Not the red one."
"Why? Red looks good on you, bitiya."
"I'm kind of hating the red colour nowadays. What about pick the purple one."
Khushi connects her phone to the charger as buaji keeps sorting her clothes. She wraps herself in her blanket and drifts off to sleep.
But brown eyes invade her dreams.
Vivid, relentless, and inescapable.
.
.
.
It's insufferable. He is insufferable. That egoistic man is not letting her sleep at night. Khushi throws off her covers and sits up in her bed, dragging her laptop toward her. She will teach him a lesson. What leverage does he have against her again? A CCTV footage. She will hack his phone and erase that footage.
She fiddles with her phone. She has his number, right? He's sent her a text with that video. With a few taps, she searches for his contact.
What the fuck...
Of course, it's encrypted. But it's an encryption she can break.
"Game on, Mr.Raizada. Since the day we met, all you've done is threaten me and pin me against the wall. Now you've crossed your limits. You're pinning me in my dreams as well. I will show you what messing with me will cost you."
Her eyes gleam as her fingers fly across the keyboard, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. A smile stretches across her face as she cracks the code and is almost one tap away from erasing all the information from his phone when her laptop hangs. The screen scrambles with a warning about virus detection, and she curses under her breath as the laptop goes into self-preservation mode.
Frustrated, she rubs her eyes. Her phone beeps with an incoming message. An unknown number.
'Nice try, little bird.'
.
.
.
For the next few days, Khushi looks like a zombie. Not only is she plagued by the same dreams--or nightmares, as she prefers to call them--but nothing interesting is happening in her father's study either. Apparently, the wolves haven't yet discovered who killed their beloved daughter, so the serpents are safe, at least for now.
All of these make Khushi ponder a certain offer. It doesn't feel so bad sitting in her own bedroom, frustrated with empty search results and the impending mind-numbing conversations with a bunch of unknown wedding guests. An IT expert at a tech company-her classmates would salivate over a job like that straight out of college. She knows it's not her qualifications that are getting her this opportunity; it's because of something she can do for him.
Then there's what he said about providing evidence against her father. Ugh... why does she become such a fireball in his presence? He was right. She asked all the wrong questions. Instead of inquiring about the evidence he mentioned, how he got it, and how she could use it, she let his threats get to her and lost her shit entirely.
"I expected more from you, Khushi," she chides herself, banging her head against her laptop. It's a new task for her now, a new skill to learn: how to keep her cool in the presence of Mr.Arnav Singh Raizada.
But she doesn't have his number. How will she contact him? The encrypted number is a one-way street; she can't text him back.
There goes the offer. Now she has to wait for another chance meeting with him to tell him she'll work for him, but only if she can lay down some conditions of her own.
And the worst part? She has no idea when or if she'll meet him again in the near future.
The uncertainty gnaws at her, leaving her more frustrated than ever as she packs her bag for the wedding she is going to attend. The wedding is set in a luxury resort just on the outskirts of the city, no more than a two-hour drive away.
As she tosses clothes into her trolley, her mind races with scenarios, each more outrageous than the last, where she meets him again and tells him about her accepting his offer. She can already imagine the smug look on his face, that infuriating smirk that makes her want to scream, punch and wipe that smile from his face all at once.
But beneath the annoyance, there's a spark of determination. If she can just see him again, she'll find a way to turn the tables. She won't let him intimidate her or pin her down anymore.
Then her thoughts shatter as ice water of realization washes over her. What's the point of thinking about the offer or accepting it? Her father would never allow her to work, and neither would Mr.Jha. She can never do it anyway. She grits her teeth and snaps her trolley shut.
Khushi sits stiffly at the long banquet table, flanked by her father and Mr.Jha, her hands resting on her lap beneath the lavishly decorated tablecloth. The glittering wedding hall around her feels suffocating, the loud hum of chatter and laughter grating against her nerves. Her father, seated to her right, exchanges polite conversation with the other guests, his tone authoritative, as always. To her left, Mr.Jha, the epitome of perfection, flashes his charming smile to those who pass by, looking every bit the polished, well-bred man her father adores.
But Khushi feels disconnected. She is drowning in a world of pretension and formality, a world where every word is calculated, every action rehearsed. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and freshly cut flowers, but it only reminds her how out of place she feels here.
The fabric of her lehenga digs into her skin. She wishes she could tie her hair up, but the makeup artist had styled it in loose waves cascading around her shoulders. The heavy jewellery weighs her down, making her body ache.
Her gaze flickers across the room, trying to avoid the eyes of those who expect her to smile, to play the role of the dutiful daughter and future wife. But beneath the calm exterior, her heart races. Her body is present, but her mind is far away.
She softly drums against the linen, as Her eyes drift up, almost instinctively, and there he is.
So the Eagles are here as well, huh?
He is indeed an Eagle through and through, his presence alone exudes power. Heâs draped in a deep brown suit-type sherwani, she isnât quite sure what they are called. The tailored fabric clings perfectly to his imposing frame, every seam accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the straight line of his posture. The deep, almost regal brown not only adds a richness to his look, but also brings out his eyes even more. She huffs closing her eyes.
He might be an asshole, but he's the kind you can't help but stare at. The traditional attire only adds to his appeal, making him infuriatingly hard to ignore, despite the attitude that comes with it. His presence demands attention, and no matter how arrogant he seems, there's no denying he's dangerously attractive.
His dark gaze fixed on her from across the room. His expression is unreadable, but the intensity behind his eyes is unmistakable. A shiver runs down her spine. A spark ignites in the air between them that no one else seems to notice. She quickly looks away, her pulse racing.
But the pull is undeniable. She glances back at him, catching his gaze once more. She was looking forward to this moment, the chance to meet him face-to-face once more. Her lips curve into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one she tries to suppress but can not. It doesn't escape him. One of his eyebrows lifts up.
And her breath catches. And in that split second, Khushi feels like they are the only two people in the room, locked in a battle of unspoken words and unreadable expressions. But that slight lift of his brow, that glint in his eyes-it tells her he knows. He always knows.
From the corner of her eye, she sees the wedding planner she was introduced to earlier, guiding the Eagles toward the table where she sits. Her heart skips a beat as she watches the group approach slowly. As soon as the first one arrives, the atmosphere shifts. One by one, the members of the Eagles come into view, their faces hardening the instant they spot who is already seated. It takes only a split second. A cold realization ripples through the group. This was a mistake. The wrong families had been seated together.
The wedding planner, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation, smiles brightly at all of them. She tenses, her eyes flicking toward Mr.Jha, who sits rigidly beside her. A conversation runs through her mind.
"He said he was sure about who killed his father. But how could that be? The person he's talking about was just a boy back then...what, 14 or 15?"
Her eyes snaps back to the brown one.
Oh no!
The tension becomes palpable, thick enough to choke on. Guests at the table shift uncomfortably in their seats, casting uneasy glances at one another.
Mr.Rathore exchanges a sharp glance with Mr.Raizada before his gaze slid to her father, then to Mr.Jha, his lips pressed into a thin line, the displeasure clear despite his outward calm. "Well, this is.....unexpected," Mr.Rathore muttered, his voice cold, eyes darting between the Serpents already seated at the table.
Tension spikes when one of the men beside Mr.Raizada, makes a move to grab the collar of the wedding planner, his temper threatening to erupt. But Mr.Raizada raises a hand, a silent command, and the man freezes. Without breaking his composure, Mr.Raizada pulls a chair out in a smooth motion and gestures Mr.Rathore to sit. Then, with deliberate calm, he pulls out the chair beside Mr.Rathore and sits down himself. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Forgive the wedding planner for the misunderstanding, Rakesh," he says, with his unsettlingly neutral voice with no malice, no hatred, no rage, no irritation, nothing. "After all, we are all friends here, aren't we?"
Her pulse quickens. She doesn't need to glance at her father to know his jaw is clenched, his fingers likely curled into tight fists beneath the table. And yet, mr.Raizada remains disturbingly calm, too calm. His eyes scan the faces of the serpents, not a single emotion flickering across his features. If anything, he seems amused, as if he's daring them to react, to make the first move.
Mr.Jha gives a curt nod,"Of course," he bites out, faking a smile. There aren't only the members of the Serpents and the Eagles, there are also Mr.Jha's political allies. He has to save face.
Across from her, the brown eyes briefly meet hers before he addresses everyone, "I trust we can make it through a few hours without incident," his voice low but carrying enough weight to silence the murmurs around the table.
The Eagles exchange wary glances as they hesitate for a beat before taking their seats. She watches across from her Junior Rathore quietly takes his place beside Mr.Raizada and then the two girls she saw at the restaurant earlier slide into the seats beside him. One of them, petite, with big dark eyes flashes her a small, secretive smile. The other, with glossy dark hair and a bit more confidence, sneaks a wave as though they're old friends sharing a private joke.
Strange. She frowns. Yet her lips twitch at the surrealness of the situation.
âOh, darling, youâre here! Sorry, Iâm late,â a singsong voice says as a freshly manicured finger trails across Mr.Rathoreâs shoulder. A gorgeous woman in a black saree slides into the seat beside him. Ah yes, Mr.Rathoreâs girlfriend, Sheetal Kapoor. The envy of all the men in the society.
Slowly, they begin to converse among themselves, and the atmosphere around the table settles back into a semblance of normalcy. Conversations ebb and flow as laughter punctuates the air. Khushi takes a sip of her cold drink, letting the chill pass through her, while her gaze drifts across the table.
There he is, blatantly staring at her, swirling his drink in the glass with a casual nonchalance that betrays his boredom. The corner of his lips quirks up.
She can't help but feel the heat rising in her cheeks under his unwavering gaze. It's as if he's dissecting her every move, and for a moment, she wonders if he can read her thoughts. With a quick glance, she meets his eyes, holding his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary before looking away, trying to regain her composure.
She rolls her eyes internally, refusing to let him see how flustered he makes her. "So charming," she mutters under her breath, hoping the sarcasm will help ease the tension brewing between them. But inside, she feels that familiar spark igniting again, making her pulse race.
She steals another glance, catching him smirking now, that infuriatingly confident smirk that tells her he knows exactly what effect he has on her. The table buzzes around them as the two of them are locked in a silent battle of wills.
The conversation around them shifts into the importance of female education, equality and how Mr.Jha is doing excellent job in this regards, but she has tuned it out.
She places her glass almost defiantly and crosses her arms, looking at him fully, refusing to look away. His smirk stretches further. It's smooth and teasing. He's savouring every second of their little game.
But the game is cut short when a woman, one of the wives of a business associate seated with the Serpents, turns her attention to Khushi with a warm, curious smile
"What about you, bitiya? Are you attending college?"
She blinks, breaking her staring contest, and smooths the napkin over her lap. Her composure slips back into place. She clears her throat, quickly scrambling to switch gears from their wordless duel to the polite conversation at hand.
"Oh, um..." she starts, offering the woman a polite smile. "I've graduated recently from IIT Delhi. Computer Science"
"Sheâs graduated with honours. We are very proud of her." Mr.Jha adds to their conversation.
The lady smiles radianty at her , "Oh, that's excellent. A girl in Computer Science. I'm so intrigued. Are you doing anything right now? Are you applying for higher education? Masters or PhD or anything else?"
"Umm.... I guess I'm now on a creative hiatus...exploring few..... personal interests."
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches his raised eyebrow across the table, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. Then a sinfully deep voice joins the conversation as well. "In other words, you're neither studying nor working," he comments flatly.
"There are other things I do, of course." she feels her ear pinking as she sips her drink to control the verbal lashing that begs to come tumbling toward Mr.Raizada.
"Do share," he taunts in mock fascination. "What do you do, Miss Gupta? Besides collecting degrees just to keep them gathering dust, I mean." The table falls silent, not a good kind of silence.
"Yeah, I'm sure, they will. So, tell us, Miss Gupta, what are you planning to do with that degree you get...with the money of the honourable tax payers of this country....besides indulging in hobbies and attending galas..." her eyes narrow as her fingers tightens around her glass, ".....or is it keeping the fashion industry afloat by purchasing enough clothes to dress half the country? If so, thank you in advance by the way, for investing in our business."
"I'm going to kill you, Mr.Raizada," she mutters silently clenching her teeth.
The poor lady, Mrs.Rastogi comes to damage control as she nervously adds, "The IT field has flourished in the last few years. I'm sure she'll find something to contribute to that. Bitiya, what are you planning to do next? Work, perhaps?"
Khushi hesitates, not sure how to respond to that question in front of everyone. Before she can find the right words, the infuriating man cuts through the conversation."Well, that depends, doesn't it?" His gaze flickering to her father and then Mr.Jha, before finally landing back on her. "I suppose certain permissions are required before any plans can move forward."
The words are casual, but the barb is clear. Her polite smile wavers just a fraction.
A particular clinking sound of curtilary draws her attention to Mr.Jha. His expression is calm, but his knuckles whiten around his fork. "Actually, that's not true. I'll let her to do anything she wants." Mr.Jha replies smoothly, his tone polite but edged with barely concealed irritation.
"You'll let her...." He quotes him and smirks leaning slightly forward , "...like I said, she needs your permission to do a job if she wants. Where's the equality in this again?"
"Khushi's future is important to all of us. We only want what's best for her. She has full autonomy to do whatever she wants to do." Mr.Jha says through gritted teeth.
Her eyes meeting the brown ones. His gaze is sharp, as though he's daring her to respond. But she remains silent.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs.Rastogi," Mr.Jha responds politely, meanwhile shooting daggers across the table. "Empowering women is a central theme of my campaign. After all, charity does begin at......"
"Actually, Dad," Khushi cuts in with a slightly higher tone, turning fully toward her father, "I have been thinking of sharing this with you for a couple of days. I have an offer from a tech company. Paragon Tech.....I think, I'll consider that offer. What do you think? It's a good company, right?" She asks faking a bright, enthusiastic smile. It's an opening. She had to take this chance.
"Yes, it's a good company. You can work there if you wants, sweetheart." His father says before pursing his lips. "We'll always support her." her father continues, nodding at Mrs.Rastogi while brown-eyes looks like heâs just won the argument.
Everyone returns to their starters as the conversation dies down, but an urge lingers in the air. An urge to strike back.
"You know, Mr.Raizada," Mr.Jha starts with a casual tone. "I heard a very amusing story a few days ago... one of my bodyguards just mysteriously found himself unconscious in your presence."
And that infuriating smirk is back on his face as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. "My condolences. You need better security, Mr.Jha, with better skill to remain on their feet.....and better manners."
Mr.Jhaâs jaw tightens, but before he can retort, Her father addresses the brown-eyed man across the table with a hard look. "Mr.Raizada, have you forgotten your manners at home?"
Something darker flickers in the caramel-brown orbs, "On the contrary, Mr.Gupta, I remember them quite well, much to your future disappointment."
She can feel both Mr.Jha and his father's rage toward the brown-eyes radiating off them in waves. And sheâs sitting in the centre of these three men.
The servers gathering around the table help bring the tension down a few notches. Mr. and Mrs.Rastogi attempt to extinguish the brewing disaster by shifting the conversation to lighter topics, asking Mr.Jha about his political campaign and other matters.
And all this time, his eyes have been on her. Discreet this time, not very obvious.
She feels like burning from the inside out, and all he does is watch, his expression unreadable. It drives her mad, to the point she wants to scream, but instead, her voice comes out quieter as she responds to Mrs.Rastogi's other questions.
After a while, he leans in, his lips moving silently as he whispers something to Mr.Rathore. And then he leaves the table, leaving behind a empty chair in front of her.
The chair remains vacant when their main course is served, even through dessert.
Without his brown eyes all over her, she feels strangely empty too, just like the chair does.
And itâs a dangerous feeling.
A feeling that could ruin her.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading! Iâd love your feedback. Leave a comment!
- ( The song of the chapter is " Trouble" by Camylio)
The rain pounds against the windshield, the rhythmic sound blending with the low hum of the engine as he grips the steering wheel tighter. His eyes remain fixed on the road, but his mind is far from focused on the drive. Instead, itâs tangled in thoughts of her.
Why her?
Why can't this girl stay the fuck out of his life?
And now she is living rent-free in his fucking head as well. Nonstop.
The wipers swipe furiously, clearing the glass for just a moment before the downpour obscures it again, just like his thoughts of her. No matter how many times he tries to push her out of his mind, she keeps coming back, unsettling him in ways he canât control.
It wasnât supposed to be this way.
He isnât supposed to feel anything.
Not toward her.
He has built walls around himself for a reason and has mastered the art of indifference. Nobody knows what he had to do to stand in a place where he looked at her and felt nothing.
But there she is.
Back again in his life with a bang.
The girl is a chaos. Whenever she is in his life, she brings nothing but carnage.
Khushi Sen Gupta.
The bane of his existence.
She will be the ruin of him, he can feel it in his bones.
Just like she ruined him 18 years ago.
But this time, she's back to ruin him in a different way. And heâs not sure which one is more dangerous, the little girl who shattered his world then and turned his life upside down or the woman standing before him with fire in her eyes now.
Her fiery Hazel eyes flash through his mind.
Fuck!
He bangs his hand on the steering wheel hard, triggering several sensors all at once.
Anger doesn't suit him. He has meticulously controlled it all these years, sealing the cracks, ensuring that no emotion slips through, not anger, not fear, not pain..... not anything.
Yet, she's already found a way of slipping through the cracks, getting under his skin. She is like a splinter lodged deep inside.
Irritating, persistent.
And impossible to ignore.
One moment, he convinces himself she doesnât matter, that she is just another complication he can manage. And yet, in the next breath, his mind will drift to her. Those defiant eyes, how the green around her iris seems to flare up like it's caught on fire, whenever she seethes with rage. The way her skin flushes, the way her voice quivers with anger or softens in the next moment. And then, there are her lips and the way she bites them.
Damn it. The girl is fucking haunting. She has been in his mind like a spell since the night she held a knife to his back.
He met plenty of beautiful women in his life, women with perfect bodies, perfect hair, perfect skin. Supermodels, movie stars.....yet they all seem to fade away when it comes to her.
What is it that made him so fixated on her?
It isnât like she is new to him. He's seen her before, knew what she looked like. So what has changed?
He shouldn't pretend like he doesn't know what has changed. He knows, damn it.
Then, again. Why her?
He should not fucking care. She should be just another casualty, another collateral damage. He presses harder on the gas, the car slicing through the rain-soaked streets.
Itâs not possible that he canât throw away the thought of a certain girl from his head. Arnav Singh Raizada can't be affected by anyone, especially not by her.
It is infuriating, maddening, to be so consumed by someone he wants nothing to do with. The rain falls harder, and he drives faster as if somehow, speeding through the storm will drown out the storm within him. But it doesnât. He knows it never will.
But one thing he is sure of -- Khushi Sen Gupta is the most dangerous creature he has ever encountered. A chaos wrapped in a red saree, dancing in the rain, and sheâs back again to wreak havoc once again. A storm he thought he'd survived, only to find it returning fiercer, more dangerous than ever.
And this time, she might destroy him for good.
Fuck!
He storms into his office, his secret office, where he conducts his other interests. Water drips from his soaked clothes. His hair is a chaotic mess from running his fingers through it.
He shrugs off his drenched blazer, tossing it onto the leather couch, not bothering to glance at the door as it clicks shut behind him.
Sheetal is already inside, sitting on his desk, waiting for him. She raises her eyebrow at his appearance but quickly masks it with a sultry smile. âRough day?â she purrs, leaning back slightly, her eyes roaming over his dishevelled figure.
He barely acknowledges her as he sits down behind the desk, rubbing his temple. But before he can settle into his chair, she moves swiftly, sliding off the desk and onto his lap in one fluid motion.
"Arnav, youâre soaked," she says as she places a hand on his chest, fingers trailing the wet fabric of his shirt.
"So am I." Her lips curl into a smile.
For a moment, he doesnât react, his gaze distant, staring past her as if she isnât even there as he loosens his tie. Then, slowly, his eyes lock onto hers.
"Is Mr. Rathore's dick not keeping you satisfied? If you need another one up your ass, I can arrange that. But don't play this kind of stunt on me." His voice drops down an octave. "Now. Get. Off. Me."
She pouts, sliding off his lap and settling into the chair across from him, "You are no fun."
"Why are you here?" His tone cuts through her playful act.
She bites her lip, flashing him a coy smile, the same tactics she always uses when she wants something. It might work on Mr.Rathore, but not on him.
"Umm...Listen, it's been four years. I want out. How long do I have to keep playing this part?"
"You get me what I want and you are free to go."
"Didn't I get you enough intel already? Didn't I tell you about the deal? ......and the thing with the Serpent wouldn't have been possible if it wasn't for me?"
"It's not time yet."
"I don't fucking care!!!" Her voice shakes as she clutches her head.
What the....! Why's she so dramatic today? She wants drama, he can be equally dramatic. Also today is not a good day . Not for him.
"Don't you just look pretty with all your body parts intact, Sheetal? Or what's his name again, Aarav, right?" He says turning his laptop on. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the trembling of her hands. Her eyes widen at the mention of this name. "Do you have a short-term memory? Do I need to remind you all of these... every two months? About what will happen if you don't do what I say?"
"You know that old hag loves me. I can ruin your life in a second if I just open my mouth."
He chuckles, barely glancing up from his screen, "It's funny that you think you can use this against me." He just shakes his head, typing away a pending email to one of his business partners. "By the way, I thought you already opened your mouth for him."
"You...."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk...." his voice sounds icy. "Think twice before cursing the man who holds your son's life in his hand."
Her eyes gloss over as she looks away. "I haven't seen my son properly in last four years....because you have him captive...."
"I don't have him captive. You know it very well. If you want an increase in the visiting hours. You can just say so...Stop these theatrics."
"Death would be much better than this. Why don't you just kill me?" she whispers looking out of the window.
Now, she is taking it too far. Exactly when she knows he won't kill her.
"That's, my dear, would be a waste. And, why would I do that? You've been so good to me. Besides, it'd be a shame to lose such a pretty face."
She has wasted enough of his time. She needs to go. He has other matters to take care of. "And, just so we're clear, If ..You...Ever..Open Your mouth for anything other than his dick. I won't kill you..umm..no....I will just kill your son. And...I will let you live. "
Her face pales as horror spreads across her features.
He smirks, "I am kidding,..... sort of."
"You are a monster."
"Tell me something I don't know," he sighs. "We had an agreement, Sheetal, didn't we? As long as you keep your end of the deal, I'll keep mine. So why are we here tonight, threatening each other?"
She just sits there pensively looking outside the window. "Go home before I change my mind." His tone is final.
The click of her heels fades as she leaves, the sound grating on his nerves. He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing.
Sheetal has been testing his patience far too often lately. He doesnât have the habit of repeating himself, and her constant mood swings are starting to wear him thin.
He taps his fingers against the desk, considering. Is it time to get rid of her? Not yet. No, he needs her for just a little while longer. Mr. Rathore is no fool, removing her too soon would raise suspicions and he can't afford that right now. Timing is everything.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Soon. Just a little longer, and sheâll be discarded like the pawn she always was.
He first met Sheetal at one of their fashion shows, amidst the glitz and glamour of the Fashion Line Group. A supermodel with legs that seemed to stretch on forever, a sultry smile that could weaken even the most resolute of men. She glided through the room like she owned it, a confidence so sharp that it cut through any sense of modesty. She drew attention effortlessly like a magnet, the kind of woman who didnât have to try to be noticed.
Even Mr. Rathore, known for his stoic indifference, couldn't take his eyes off her despite his age. So much so that he started pursuing her and they started seeing each other secretly.
With her natural charm, that smooth, flirtatious voice, and a manipulation technique so precise it was almost art, Sheetal knew how to make a man fall for her. She knew how to get what she wanted, and she always made sure she did. She had an insatiable desire for luxury, money, comfort and a strong will to do whatever required to achieve that.
Arnav had seen through her from the start. To others, she was a vision, a desirable conquest. To him, she was a weapon, one he could wield as he saw fit.
So, he offered her a deal, one million a year, for her to do whatever he said, and to his delight, she accepted. But there was one condition, he had to ensure her sonâs safety. So, Arnav had Aarav moved to a safe house, somewhere she could only visit with proper planning.
And thatâs when the real game began. The key lay in knowing how to place her in the right spot. With meticulous planning, he positioned her in Mr. Jhaâs orbit to see if he was taken by her beauty like others or not. Mr. Jha was, to put it more accurately, absolutely taken by her. So, Arnav ensures sheâs close enough to Mr.Jha to gain his trust, to become indispensable.
She played her part perfectly, whispering into Mr.Jha's ear about how she could work for him by warming Mr.Rathore's bed. Mr.Jha liked that idea very much, didn't he?
After that, she kept throwing her web at Mr.Rathore and he got tangled in it more and more. And soon they started living together. That part was surprisingly easy. Guess, he was lonely after his wife's death. Then again, since when had he been so faithful to his marriage?
Mr. Jha thought she was working for him, spying on Mr. Rathore from within and feeding him valuable information directly from the eagleâs den. What Mr.Jha didnât know was that the one pulling the strings all along was someone else altogether.
Sheetal wasnât anyoneâs puppet but his.
Every move she made, every bit of intel she whispered into Mr. Jhaâs ear was orchestrated by him. It was all part of the plan. His plan.
He wonders whatâs gotten into her lately. He can tell sheâs been enjoying the attention from these powerful men, relishing the control, the taste of power that came with having them in the palm of her hand. But recently for few weeks, her behavior is off... unpredictable. She's also got him in a very bad time. He needs to talk to her and figure out what's really going on.
Honestly, Sheetal has been very useful to him. Extracting words from Mr. Rathore is no simple task. The man is a fucking vault, tightly shut. Yet, somehow, she's managed to coax the secret out of him. It just took four long years.
Recently, they had a breakthrough, and she just got him the greatest intel of all. The deal Mr.Rathore made with the other families, the leverage he holds over them. The leverage he holds over him to an extent.
It's a brilliant deal, he has to admit. Ruthless, calculated, and perfectly executed, exactly the kind of move he would have made. Thatâs what he got from Mr.Rathore. No sentiment, no weakness. Just power plays and leverage. Itâs a game where only the heartless survive and Mr.Rathore understands that well.
But one thing very peculiar yet commendable about these cold-blooded gangsters is that they might kill your offsprings, but they do love their offsprings to the death. After all, family comes before everything else.
Huh! Anyway.
Armed with those intels, plans were perfectly executed. Mission was accomplished. But a little complication with her fiery hazel eyes and sassy words entered his life. And she didn't enter empty-handed, she entered with knives.
Plans had to be scrapped and remodelled. Old chess pieces had to be removed and replaced with new ones.
It was time to get rid of Mr.Rathore's childhood friend slash bodyguard, Mohan Rajjani and set someone from Arnavâs arsenal in Rajjaniâs place.
About A Week Ago
He asked Rajjani to meet him in the cafeteria of Rathore Industries. It's a place devoid of CCTV, perfect for the occasion. Theyâre supposed to go over the security details for Mr. Rathore's upcoming visit to Russia. They were trying to do business with the Russian mob, the Bratva, for some time.
In the secluded corner, Arnav sat on the couch with his back against the wall, two steaming cups of coffee in front of him.
One for him, one for Rajjani.
Mr. Rajjani loved coffee.
Double espresso, extra shot, no sugar with full cream milk--hot, not streamed.
Rajjani finally arrived, a solid presence and a no-nonsense attitude that had served him well over the years. Even in his older years, thereâs an unmistakable fierceness in him. He made his way over, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. Arnav gestured for him to take a seat.
âMr.Raizada,â he greets, his tone friendly yet wary.
Arnav slide the coffee cup across the table. His eyes narrowed as he appraised the older man seated rigidly across from him.
"The coffee's for you."
"Oh, thanks."
Nodding his head, Rajjani took a careful sip from the cup.
Arnavâs eyes fixed on his own cup as he slowly tore the sachet of sugar. He picked up a spoon from the saucer in front of him and started to stir his coffee, leisurely, taking his time. His voice was dangerously calm as he asked, "Is the coffee up to your liking, Mr. Rajjani?"
"Surprisingly yes, the canteen boy finally learned."
Arnav simply nodded and leaned back, placing one ankle over his knee. He continued drinking his coffee while scrolling through his phone. He stayed silent, just sipping his coffee and watching Rajjani from the corner of his eyes. That was always his go-to move. People underestimated how powerful silence could be, especially when they couldnât stand the weight of it. Humans had a tendency to fill the gaps, and he knew how to use that against them. It was psychological torture, a game heâd mastered over the years.
The silence was thick between them. When it became unbearable Rajjani shifted, casting a glance at Arnav.
"Why don't we talk in front of Mr. Rathore? He is alone in his office."
"I just want to talk to you alone."
Rajjani hesitated for a moment and Arnav could see the wheels turning in his mind. Years in this business had sharpened Rajjani's instincts for trouble, a survival skill he had mastered. Just as he began to rise from his seat, Arnav decided to interrupt.
"I didnât give you permission to leave, Mr. Rajjani." Arnav said as he looked up.
Rajjani's eyes hardened as his suspicion was confirmed. "I donât take orders from anyone except Mr. Rathore."
Arnav pursed his lips, measuring Rajjani with his eyes."You will....from me."
Rajjani scoffed, "Do you think I give a damn, boy? I grew up with your father. I donât fear you."
Arnav paused, lowering his cup to the table. "Yet."
He looked at Rajjaniâs coffee cup. It was empty.
Indicating Rajjaniâs cup with his eyebrows, he continued, "You know the coffee you just enjoyed so much? It's poisoned. An extremely rare blend of toxin, very hard to acquire and very expensive,... but I collected it especially for occasions like this."
Rajjaniâs smirk faded as his face paled, his fingers twitching involuntarily towards the cup.
"But that's beside the point," Arnav added with a casual wave of his hand. "Just one drop or two... and Iâd give you about five....umm, no..maybe ten minutes at best.....Soon you will start to sweat and your heart will begin to race...and then itâll feel like itâs about to burst....Unless, of course, you get the antidote, which just so happens to be in my pocket."
The color drained from Rajjaniâs face.
"What is that? Am I smelling fear?" Arnavâs smile widened, as he crossed his arms, his head tilting to the side. "I just fucking love the smell of fear.... Don't you?"
Rajjani tugged on his collar, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You don't have a lot of time, Mr.Rajjani . I suggest you start to cooperate." Arnav said looking at his watch.
Rajjani exhaled sharply, "What do you want?"
"You know, this is why I like you. You really know how to value others' time." Arnav drawled out casually. "Now tell me about the girls."
"What girls? I donât know anything about any girls!" Rajjani stammered.
"You know, Mr. Rajjani, I donât like people who lie to my face." Arnav stated as he leaned forward. "Mr. Rathore has a safe house in Lucknow for all the girls, doesnât he?"
Rajjaniâs silence was answer enough.
"So you know about the girls, huh? What I want to know is..., " Arnav picked up a napkin and offered it to Rajjani. "..... about the one growing in the shade of the serpent. Who is she?"
Rajjani hesitated, before finally speaking, his voice wavered. "Sheâs the real deal, I see." Rajjani gulped then continued, "The raven. Sheâs the daughter of the raven...... you know all too well about the raven, donât you Arnav?"
Arnav could feel his face hardened, but he kept his emotions in check. "He wasnât married. Mistress?"
Rajjani smirked weakly, trying to regain some composure. "More of a lover. He was the lover boy of the group. Loved that girl probably most of his life. But couldnât marry her because of your father. Such a great friend he was."
Arnav clenched his jaw, "What happened to the mother?"
Rajjaniâs gaze dropped to the floor. "She died. I donât know how. After her death, he brought the girl to your house."
Yes, he knew all about how the girl was brought to their house. Need no reminder of that.
Rajjani's breath came in short, panicked gasps. "Iâve told you everything I know. Now give me the antidote."
"Thereâs no antidote."
The old manâs face contorted in shock and rage. "You lied! You have no ethics."
Arnav smirked, "I never said I have."
"Mr. Rathore will know about this."
Arnav unlocked his phone, typing a message to his manager, his tone is almost conversational. "Youâre dying of a heart attack, Mr. Rajjani. No one will find a trace of the poison in your body in the next fifteen minutes."
"Mr. Rathore will suspect something." A weak voice rasped out.
Arnavâs smile widened, "Really? Do you honestly think Mr. Rathore will suspect me?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Rajjaniâs eyes filled with despair as his body betrayed him. He leaned forward, clutching his chest, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. With the last of his strength, he spat out, "You will rot in hell, Arnav."
Arnav straightened and stood up, "See you there in a couple of years," he said, buttoning his coat. "Make it ready for me, and be prepared to kneel at my feet."
His tone dropped to a deadly whisper as he turned to leave, leaving Rajjani's lifeless body slumped on the table. "I was born to rule, Mr. Rajjani. I will die to rule as well."
His phone pings, bringing him back to the moment. His eyes flicker to the screen.
"ALERT: Unauthorized Access Detected!"
What the hell!!
TheSwallow?!?
"Oh, little bird," he muttered under his breath, "What have you done?"
A dangerous glint flickers in his eyes as he feels the thrill running down his body.
The beauty of a trump card is that itâs played when no one expects it. Itâs not about power, itâs about timing.
And this little bird.
She is his.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.
I got a bit lost in Arnav's POV this time. His mind is a can of worms I was hesitant to open! This chapter is pivotal, filled with crucial hints, and now Iâm scared, all you brilliant readers might figure it out too soon. Let me know your thoughts and theories in the comments!
- ( The song of this Chapter is 'Set Fire to the Rain' by Adele.)
What's one supposed to say when she is trapped in a box with her family's sworn enemy, with his thumb pressed against her pulse point as he promises to ruin her?
Probably nothing.
It would also probably be a sane move not to provoke him further.
But not today.
Today she hovers on the brink of insanity.
"Either you want to ruin me or you want to make me work for you. Choose your poison, Mr. Raizada," the words are ice chips, melting in her mouth.
She squares her shoulders. Her fingers wrap around his wrist one by one as she removes his hand from her skin. His palm glides along her neck. The roughness drags along. It burns. She grits her teeth to stop the tingling in her fingertips as they brush against his forearm when she lets his wrist go. Her red glass bangles clink softly against her quivering wrist.
"And if youâre going to ruin me, you better make it worth my while. Because I'm sure as hell not going to work for you under a threat," she lets out, emphasising the word 'threat'.
His eyes are radioactive, seeping into her bones and poisoning her core.
He leans in, bringing his lips close to her ear. She balls her fist to tame down a shiver that's threatening to run wild, as his stubble whispers against her cheek. Rose petals bloom across the skin, making her weightless.
"One day, Miss Gupta," his breath feathers over her ear. "I am going to collect that debt I owe you.'' His words are ghosts, lurking in the shadows. "....and you know what?" His voice grazes over her skin like sand against slik; coarse, raw and primal. "........ You are going to enjoy repaying me."
She can't breathe. Whatever retorts she's formed in her mind are on the floor. Warm floods her skin as a sudden rage fills every fibre of her being. Her hands tremble as she clenches them into fists, nails digging into her palms.
The nerve of him!
The words replay in her mind, burning like a wildfire she canât put out. Her fingertips burn with the desire to do something. Anything. She wants to hurt him, wants to shake that cold indifference off his face. She hates that about him the most, how he never loses control, never falters. She tries to breathe, to calm herself, but the knot in her chest only tightens.
He straightens up, holding her hazels in his caramel-browns and takes a few steps back to reach the opposite side. He dials a number and brings the phone to his ear without leaving her hazels, not even for a single second.
"We are done."
The elevator dings open, somewhere she doesn't know. She doesn't care at all. She is too busy taming the wildfire raging through her bones.
And with the ghost of a sardonic smirk, he strides down the empty hallway while she drills a hole in his back with her fiery gaze.
Oh no, we are not so done.
Why is Mr. 'we-are-done' so adamant about collecting a debt that she doesn't even consider one at all?
He is still that encrypted code she canât crack. A code she has no desire to decode.
No, that's not true. She wants to burn the code. She wants to overwrite it, hack all the data and leak all of them over the network. She wanted to erase every trace of him and let all his data dissolve into static.
She doesnât know if itâs possible to feel this level of hate that is coursing through her body.
No, no, no. They are not done.
Not yet.
When she exits the lift in the basement, she notices the crowd gathered, waiting for the elevator, and the electrician working frantically to ensure everything is alright. A restaurant executive rushes toward her, profusely apologizing for the inconvenience. She just smiles and says she's fine.
No harm done.
Not externally.
Then she realizes someone has rendered her ride back invalid. Very rudely.
She signs, attempting to call an Uber. She certainly isn't going to call Mr.Jha and explain the situation to him. She decides to wait in the lobby for her Uber.
Meanwhile, the sky keeps rumbling and the first drops of rain begin to fall, light at first, then more insistent. The soft pitter-patter turns into a steady rhythm. She watches as the rain pours down in sheets, blurring the view of the streetlights and cars, the cityscape dissolving behind a curtain of water.
Her fingers twitch slightly at her sides, wanting to reach out and touch the raindrops. The pull to step out into the rain consumes her. She envisions the water sliding down her arms, soaking her clothes until they cling to her like a second skin. The rain, pure and untamed, would wash away her chains, make her feel free.
Her phone rings. Her Uber is here.
The Uber moves slowly, cutting through the rain. The world seems distant, almost dreamlike. She leans slightly against the window, tracing the droplets that race down the glass. Her gaze flicks to the side mirror when she senses another car trailing behind, its headlights dimmed but unmistakably following her every turn. Her breath hitches as the car maintains a steady pace, neither speeding up nor lagging behind. Itâs a sleek black vehicle, but the heavy downpour prevents her from seeing the license plate or the car model.
The wipers move in a rhythmic sweep over the windshield, almost in sync with the beating of her heart. There's an eerie precision in the way it follows, unhurried but deliberate, as if its driver has all the time in the world. Her fingers tighten around her phone.
She looks down at her phone, contemplating whom to call. She spares another glance outside, but the car has vanished into the rain. She lets out a sigh of relief, the tension in her shoulders easing as she chides herself for being unnecessarily paranoid.
The Uber entered a quiet, secluded stretch of a road and suddenly, the vehicle came to an abrupt halt, jolting her in the seat.
âWhat happened?â
âThe tyre is punctured, maâam. Just give me a few minutes. Iâll change it,â the driver replies, his tone apologetic as he steps out into the rain.
She sighs. It's a long night indeed. On this side of the city, she won't even find another transport. She glances at her phone. And, oh shit, it's dead. Fantastic.
The sound of laughter filters through the closed windows, drawing her gaze outside. Little boys and girls splash joyfully in the puddles, their feet kicking up water in playful abandon while their laughter echoes in the air. Their bodies move with a freedom she can't help but envy. Her fingers twitch as she watches them. Their carefree innocence tugs at the corners of her soul, begging her to let go. And with her heart in between her palms, she gives in and steps out of the car.
The rain cascades around her like a curtain of shimmering diamonds as it seeps into her hair and clothes. She extends her hand and clutches a fistful of rain. She feels the raindrops on her fingertips. They slide in, weaving their way through her fingers, into her palm. She looks up feeling the cool droplets kissing her skin. For one infinite moment, she feels free.
Her lips stretch as a laugh bubbles up inside. With a childlike giggle, she kicks off her heels, letting them tumble to the ground, and joins the children in their rhythmless dance. The puddles became her stage and the rain an enchanting symphony, drumming against the earth. The tinkling of her glass bangles joins in, singing the melody of joy.
Her skin starts burning as she feels the weight of being watched, but she is too lost in the magic of the moment to care.
She twirls and leaps, her movements mirroring the carefree abandon of the children, their laughter harmonizing with the whispers of the rain. The raindrops fold her into their arms and smile against her skin while the cold wind wraps around, braiding a soft magic through her hair.
The world around her transforms, where the rain is her elixir, dissolving chains around her. The raindrops become her feathers, glistening as they cling to her skin. They are the air under her wings, lifting her higher and higher. With each twirl and each spin, she sheds the shackles and spreads the wings like the bird she was born to be.
Lost in the rhythm of her movements, she loses her footing and slips, but instead of falling, a strong arm wraps around her as she collides into a hard chest. An Armani-clad chest.
In Charcoal black.
The world is eerily quiet and time becomes a broken hourglass bleeding seconds through sands, slipping beyond her reach as her fingers wrap around his lapel. The warmth radiating from him contrasts with the cool rain. Her heart grows wings. Fluttering, flapping, soaring.
She looks up, swallowing the nothing in her throat, to meet the brown orbs, to see how they look soaked in the rain.Â
And they are magnificent.
His browns change colours, sometimes it's like moulted chocolate, sometimes caramel brown, sometimes caramel and chocolate mixed together.
Yet, always bottomless, like the deepest part of the ocean.
Right now, they are liquid gold, swirling with the rich hue of dark chocolate and moulted amber. The raindrops clinging to his lashes sparkle like jewels in the streetlight.
The rain continues to pour down, creating a cocoon over them. Piercing the veil comes a foreign voice.
"Sir, do you have any extra tyres to lend? Mine is jammed."
It startles both of them as they push away from each other, reacting like theyâve just touched something scorching hot. And then, she remembers, where she is, who she is and who he is, everything.
"Yes, I have one in the trunk," he replies, without abandoning her eyes. He racks his fingers through his rain-soaked hair. Her fingers ache to follow the same path.
Yet.
"No, no need," she says firmly, clenching her fingers into a tight ball and turns toward the driver. "You don't have to take me any further. I'll manage myself. Let me just get my purse."
"You have a very stubborn passenger, I see."
"Oh, thanks for the compliment,  Mr. Raizada, but I can't afford any of your debts."
She turns angrily to reach the car, but his hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist.
A thunderclap echoes, so does her scream.
The glass bangles shatter, digging into her skin, drawing blood. She clutches at her wrist, closing her eyes tightly to breathe through the sudden pain. Crimson dripping from the breech.
"Fuck," a crack in his calm, controlled demeanour appears before it vanishes in thin air. "Let me see."
A soft murmur.
But she draws her hand away.
"I said let me see," this time a little forceful.
"No thanks!!! Keep away from me," She snaps through gritted teeth, but it comes out like a broken yell. Tears of anger, pain, and frustration roll down her cheeks, intermingled with the rain. The night is just not ending anytime soon. She starts walking toward the car.
The rain has slowed down to a light drizzle. He tosses the car keys to the driver and commands, "Be quick."
Without uttering another word, he grabs her other wrist, careful of the bangles this time and all but drags her toward his car, which is parked behind the Uber. When they reach the passenger side, she jerks her wrist free.
He opens the car door, causing the interior light to illuminate the surroundings. "Don't talk to me like that".
Her eyes narrow, his unyielding.
He reaches out to grab her injured wrist, but she takes a step back. Yet he reaches out once more, grabbing her forearm and bringing her wrist under the light. She tries to snatch her wrist free.
The more he attempts to see her wound, the more she tries to break free. At the end of the tug-of-war, he growls, "Khushi." A warning.
That stops her.
Because she've never heard her first name falling from his lips before.
Nobody says her name like this.
His lips wrap around the word.
His rasp caresses every syllable.
She winces slightly as he inspects her wound, her delicate wrist imprisoned in his colossal fingers, a fragile bird caught in the grip of a storm. A broken shard of glass lies embedded in her skin. Without saying anything he lowers his head, his teeth grip the jagged piece and pull it out. Her heart races in her wrist, pulsing in her fingers.
A delicate whimper escapes her lips, as fragile as the flicker of lightning under the dark cloud above.
His eyes lock instantly onto hers as he spits the glass piece out. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips, tasting the crimson that lingers there.
Red paints her cheeks, spreading to her neck, down to her chest, as he cleans her wound and wraps it in fresh gauze from his glove box.
"We are ready to go, ma'am," the driver's voice floats from somewhere in this misty haze as he hands the keys back.
"I'll be there in a minute," her words split in half as she replies.
Her hazels bore into his browns. He crosses her arms. His face is empty except for a slight lift, resembling a smile, playing on his lips. She says nothing. With one last gaze, she walks away, telling herself not to look behind. And she succeeds.
When the Uber starts to move along the streets, she sees a familiar, sleek black car trailing her. Again. The same one that has been trailing her before. But this time it doesn't turn her blood cold. Her blood is lava, coursing through her veins.
The car follows her till she reaches her house. It doesn't come close. It stops half a mile from the main gate. Two guards manning the entrance look at her before they open the gate. The Uber rolls inside and she stares back till she can see no more.
Author's note: Another chapter down! Your thoughts mean everything to me, so feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think.
- ( The song of the chapter is "Eyes Don't Lie" by Isabel LaRosa)
The door to her walk-in closet creaks open, revealing the warm, smiling face of Buaji. She hands her the matching glass bangles she loves, along with a jewellery set to go with the saree sheâs wearing. Buaji is the most constant presence in her otherwise volatile life. Her presence as familiar as the air in the room.
She lets her eyes run through the room she has known all her life. Her room on the second floor is more than just space, it is a fortress, one that holds her in both comfort and captivity. A large bedroom, a private bath, and a walk-in closet, everything is hers, as it always has been.
Growing up, nothing was denied to her. A mere mention, and whatever she desired would arrive at her doorstep, from the latest gadgets to racks of designer dresses. Clothes would line up like soldiers awaiting her approval. For a while, she equated it to love, believing her fatherâs way of caring was through giving. Thought his love was measured in possessions, wrapped in indulgence.
But she uncovered the truth early.
Slowly, Painfully.
She isnât placed in this luxurious space to be cherished. No, she is stationed here, high above, to be observed, like a rare bird in a golden cage. Her every wish is fulfilled not out of affection but as a tether to keep her grounded in his world, so sheâd never feel the need to fly beyond it.
The gifts, so beautifully wrapped, are chains in disguise.
She stops wishing for more.
She begins to carve out her own choices as much as the invisible chains around her wrists allow. Quietly, carefully.
Each decision is a whisper of defiance in a world built to silence her.
As she stands before the mirror, draped in the saree Mr. Jha gifted her, a sinking realization washes over her.
Choice is a luxury.
She never truly possesses.
No matter how much she yearns for it.
The fabric clings to her.
Beautiful yet suffocating.
Delicate yet unyielding.
Either this or termination of her life.
She always thinks ending her life can never be any answer to anything.
She still strongly believes that.
There's hope as long as she is alive.
She breathes deeply.
She needs to come out of her melodramatic bullshit.
It's time to wear her well-crafted mask.
The soft hum of conversation swirls around her, punctuated by the clinking of cutlery against porcelain, while the city below looks both close enough to touch and miles away.
Saffron, perched atop a tall skyscraper, stands as one of the most exclusive and luxurious restaurants in the heart of Delhi. It offers a breathtaking view of the city, its glittering lights stretching endlessly beneath the night sky.
The walls are dressed in rich shades of deep navy and gold, accented by deep velvet couches in midnight blues and soft greys and rich mahogany tables with golden accents. Low-hanging chandeliers give off a gentle, amber glow, casting soft intimate shadows that make you feel both at ease and on edge, like you are a part of something important just by being there.
This is where power quietly dines.
This is where every glance feels like it carries more weight than the words exchanged.
This is where whispered secrets linger in the air like smoke, while the hum of the city below is nothing more than a distant murmur.
She casts a glance at Mr.Jha, who is sitting across from her, animatedly discussing politics with his colleagues. His passion is palpable, shining in his eyes.
She sighed.
She hates being here.
She hates the small talk.
She hates the looks the men are giving
She hates the way the city pulses with energy while she feels frozen.
She pushes her food around on the plate without really eating, offering a fake smile at the woman sitting beside her. She is well-versed in the art of mindless conversation. She can entertain anyone from world leaders to a discarded piece of tissue paper.
Her skin is humming,
It's burning,
And tingling.
She lets her eyes glance over the restaurant, taking in the well-dressed waiters and the animated crowd, to find out a possible reason.
Maybe it's the air, or the clothes, or the food.
And then.
She sits up straight.
Ice needles prick her flesh.
Akash Singh Rathore sits a few tables down with two women, one is boredly typing on her phone, while the other is giggling, hanging on his every word.
She looks away quickly, her brow knitting together. What are the probabilities of having dinner at Saffron the same night as an Eagle? But then again, it wouldn't be unusual. It's a renowned restaurant and Delhi is their turf, after all.
Her blood quickens, the image of caramel-brown eyes flooding her mind.
He can't be here.
She discreetly glances at the Eagle's table, a wave of relief washing over her when she notices that no brown-eyed man is present nearby.
Not for miles.
He is not here.
The tension in her body begins to dissipate slowly. Quietly, she excuses herself from the table, giving a nod to her companions as she rises to go to the ladies' room.
The quiet hum of the restaurant is muffled behind the closed door of the ladies' room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her reflection. She washes her hands with the cold water running from the faucet. It helps, if only slightly.
"Get it together," she whispers to herself.
On her way back, she bumps into an old friend from college. âFriendâ feels like the wrong term. They never spoke a word to each other back then. Yet here, the girl is chatting animatedly as if theyâre long-lost buddies. Perhaps itâs the effect of graduating, everyone feeling nostalgic.
Her skin is humming,
It's burning
And tingling.
Not again.
And then.
The air catches its breath.
Thunder growls in the distance, shaking the quiet night, as bolts of lightning tear through the dark clouds. The glass of the building vibrates faintly with each rumble.
He is here.
The murmur grows as everyone marvels at the spectacle unfolding in the night sky.
While she is trapped in a pair of caramel-brown orbs.
They are trained directly on her, as he emerges from the opposite direction, clad in a charcoal black suit, walking toward the table junior Rathor occupies. A small part of her canât help but admire his lethal, powerful stride. Yet the larger part instinctively raises her defences, on high alert.
The tension in the air coils like a drawn bow.
He slides next to junior Rathore and leans back, draping his arm over the back, as if he owns this place, as if he commands every breath in this room. He probably does.
And
His eyes.
His eyes are never not on her.
She doesn't look away.
She can't look away.
She is drawn like a magnet.
Her heart pounds so loudly she is sure everyone can hear it.
And yet.
She refuses to give in.
She will not give in.
She can stare too. As hard as he can, maybe even more.
She will stare forever.
She won't even blink if it means to win this war.
Without breaking eye contact, she bids the girl she has been talking to, goodbye and starts walking back toward her table, aware of the way his eyes hold her and hers hold his with each step, with every sway of her saree.
She is aflame from head to toe.
Her blood sings in her ears, drowning the sounds of laughter and clinking of wine glasses to nothing but a distant static. She is floating underwater.
His stare is raindrops, sliding down her body.
She feels his hands around her wrists in his stare. She feels his hand sliding up her neck in his stare. She feels his body pressed tightly against her in his stare.
A silent threat wrapped in a promise.
She sits down. It is foolish of her to think she can stare forever. She answers a meaningless question asked by one of the wives, the entire time feeling the weight of caramel-brown eyes. She is not going to look back.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
Her eyes find his.
A bead of sweat trickles down the curve of her spine. Her hair ends stand on high alert, sending a shiver through her skin, something he notices from across the room.
His eyes flare up.
Her mind screams,
'stop touching me with your eyes.'
A dangerously arrogant voice whispers,
'Make me'
The caramel-brown ones look unexpectedly amused as if he hears the conversation she is having in her head. A slight lift of his lips forms a crooked smirk, marring his finely chiselled face.
His evil calculated smirk.
Oh, how she hates this man.
She hates him so freaking much.
For making her feel so powerless.
For making her sweat.
In this thoroughly air-conditioned room
Only with his eyes
Sitting across the room.
'Fuck you.' her hate whispers.
'You wish,' his voice in her head whispers back like he did a few days back.
He gives her an air toast as he lifts his glass to his lips.
The glass touches his lips.
His throat bobbed.
And, she is an avid watcher.
She averts her gaze, forcing down the knot forming rapidly in her acutely dry mouth.
Mr. Hazard is bad for her health.
And her body.
And her brain.
And her heart.
And, she hates him.
"Khushi?"
She blinks, pulled out of her thoughts as Mr.Jha calls out her name. He stands with the rest of his colleagues. She nods a distant farewell to the faces she knows she wonât remember tomorrow. But itâs that gaze,
Intense and unrelenting.
That keeps her rooted in place.
"I'm heading toward the bar. It's going to rain soon. You should go home," Mr. Jha states in a low voice. "My bodyguard will take you home."
With that, he leads them toward the bar, his bodyguards trailing after him, except for one who lingers, waiting to follow her.
That gaze is still on her.
Piercing and unwavering.
The air between them has thinned out.
She exhales slowly.
Hazel eyes meet caramel-brown ones.
Eyes cut through the dim light.
Eyes pin her in place.
Unsettling and sharp.
Without another glance, she picks up her purse and turns, heading toward the elevator, eager to escape, eager to breathe in the cool night air.
The thunder strikes again.
The elevator doors ding as they open, revealing a middle-aged man with a very homely appearance. He smiles politely at her. She smiles back as he steps aside to let her in.
The doors are about to close.
A hand shoots out.
The doors ding open.
A man in a charcoal-black suit stands before the doors.
The guard beside her springs into action and steps out, âYouâll need to wait for the next one, Sir.â he says firmly and then panics pointing a gun at him. She bets the guard never expects him to be in the vicinity of them.
He arches an eyebrow at the guard, not even glancing at the gun pointed at him. With an almost casual demeanour, he grips the guardâs wrist suddenly and in a move that nearly drops her jaw, he twists the wrist, applying pressure and bending it backwards until the guard falls to his knees with a sharp cry. The gun in the guard's grip, is now pointed back reversely, yeah... at the guard.
The tables have turned.
His eyes never sway from hers.
She clutches the fabric of her saree, while willing for her heartbeat to slow down. Her nail digs into her palm, hard enough to draw blood.
The doors ding open, stopped by his hand.
She waits raptly to see what he will do next. The soft light of the corridor casts a dark shadow over half of his face, while the light from the elevator illuminates the other half of it, making him look lethally dangerous, predatory.
He takes the gun from the guard and pulls it apart, piece by piece. With a flick of his wrist, he delivers a sharp backhand to the guard's face, sending him crumpling to the floor.
Unconscious.
The doors ding open, caught on the guard's feet this time.
Show-off, she mutters in her mind.
Then it dawns on her, how easy it must have been for him to kill her at any moment.
She gulps.
This is a knowledge she doesn't relish having, especially when she is completely and utterly armless and defenceless.
Kicking the guard's foot, that is stuck in the elevator door, he steps inside. Pulling out his phone from his slack pocket, he unfolds it to make it a tablet and swiftly types something on the screen.
The doors ding closed.
The elevator starts moving.
He leans on the wall, crossing his ankles, as if he will be in this elevator for a long time, except for a few seconds.
"Mr. Roy, is it?" his voice rough, as he asks the man beside her. He snaps his phone shut, making the poor man jump.
"...ummm..yyeess, sir."
He slides his phone back into his pocket, alongside his hands. "Your floor has arrived." The doors open two floors below. The corridor is empty.
".... but sir, I need to go to the basement."
He stares down at the poor soul. Silently.
The man gulps, "....yes, sir, my floor has arrived, " and he steps out of the elevator.
The doors ding closed.
He crosses his arms over his chest.
Eyes back on her.
Him and Her.
Trapped in a box.
She mimics him, crossing her arms, while refusing to break the silence or the eye contact.
Every interaction with him feels like a risky download.
Thrilling yet potentially hazardous.
She has no idea what he wants. Following her as he has, knocking out the bodyguard as he has, it sure as fuck wasn't just to stare at her.
The door of the elevator is not opening, not even in the basement. The elevator started to ascend.
Fuck.
"What all one has to go through just to meet you, Miss Gupta," he states quietly.
All of a sudden, fury blooms in her chest at the sound of his voice. The anger magnifies at his words but she forces herself to calm down.
"So gracious of Mr.Raizada. Why the formality, especially given the kind of liberties you take?" Her tone is cool, chilling.
"I havenât taken any liberties," he replies, arching an eyebrow, "yet."
"I should have known you would corner me in an elevator. So many walls for you to execute your special hobby," she says casually.
His lips curve up further.
One heartbeat.
Two heartbeat.
Three heartbeat.
"Have you decided yet?"
"What?'
"About my offer."
"Really?" exasperated, she rolls her eyes, while he stares, silent, waiting.
"It's not possible."
"You haven't heard the full details yet."
"I am not interested."
"Ahh..I see..so what are you interested in? Raising snake babies, perhaps?"
Condescending, Egoistic, Asshole.
She clicks her teeth together to stop herself from lashing out at him.
"Are you sure, I can't offer you a deal you can't resist?" He shrugs, tucking his hands back in his pocket.
"Huh...Really? how?" Her tone's suspicious, doubtful, challenging.
"Ever heard of Paragon Tech company? I bought it recently. You can work there as an IT expert. You will have access to whatever you need.......And your father won't know. The company isn't registered in my name." He studies her, the eyes searching for something. "You work for me. I'll provide you evidence equivalent to what you lost, maybe even more."
Her eyes shower fires at him for making such a dangerous yet irresistible offer. He has her all figured out, doesn't he? For an unknown reason that angers her even more. She isn't that easy to figure out. Damn it.
She wants to lash out and tell him he is absolutely wrong. His offer doesn't impress her at all. Instead, she bites her lower lip to keep mum.
The caramel-brown orbs glint with something, she doesn't dare to name, "I suggest you to reflect on the offer."
Is that a threat?
"Or what?" She snaps in response. His fire's burning her as well. Her eyes spark like moulted fire, barely contained. The elevator touches the basement again and starts its ascend. "Why is the elevator not stopping?"
"You always ask the wrong question. The elevator won't open until we are done here."
"I canât help but wonder,â she says, faking a smile, her body simmering with anger. âWas all of this supposed to scare me?â
He straightens and steps up toward her. She glues herself to the opposite wall as he stands in front of her. Even in her heels, she barely reaches his chin. Her head tilts back to keep their eyes locked.
Brown eyes are holding her hazels captive, "You'd be quite naive if it didn't. "
"I don't think the eagles will hurt her." her father's voice floats in his mind.
She smirks, âIâm a lot of things, Mr. Raizada, but naive isnât one of them. Thatâs precisely why I know you won't hurt me.â
The caramel-brown eyes ignite, the embers and oranges in his brown catching flame. His eyes are blazing lava, simmering beneath the surface of calm. He tilts his head to the side while he rests one of his hand on the wall beside her head.
And she steps closer, unsure where her boldness to provoke him is coming from. She doesn't care. She just needs to.
Craning her neck, she leans in until her chin nearly brushes his chest. She says softly, âDid you really believe, that whole 'I despise you' act Or this elevator fiasco would scare me? Not at all. It didnât scare me one bit. It just pissed me off.â
He doesn't say a word or move a muscle. He merely gazes at her with those eyes and her heart races.
Yet, she continues, "There are four walls right there. Why donât you just get it over with?" her gaze unwavering. "Pin me down. Invade my territory. Or if you despise me that much like you say you do, hurt me. Go ahead. What's stopping you?"
Her whole body shakes.
Her hazel burns into his brown.
Bodies nearly touching.
Her heart threatens to jump out of her rib cage. She controls her breathing to keep her chest from heaving.
Slowly, after what feels like an eternity, he lifts his other hand to slide over the back of her neck. His massive hand swallows her. His thumb glides along her jaw, the roughness of his skin contrasting with her softness.
Rough & uneven like a cracked leather.
Like he has callouses on his palm.
Like there are scars underneath.
He holds her head in place as their eyes remain locked. A shiver courses through her, involuntary and unwelcomed, his lips barely curving in a sardonic smirk.
The stubble on his jaw appears more pronounced at this distance, guarding his lips. And his eyes. They are abysses, ready to swallow her whole.
He presses his thumb against her frantic pulse. It has gone out of control. Her breath hitches.
âYour pulse is running too quick," His voice a low, dangerous whisper, brushing against her skin. The faint scent of his cologne, mingling with his own scent and something raw, invades the air around them.
Every detail imbeds in her mind.
The striking orange and green flecks in his eyes, the way his long lashes frame his piercing stare.
Everything.
His mouth's mere inches from hers, "I warned you. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you know, what I will do or won't do." he whispers.
Softly, lethally.
His thumb sinks a little deeper.
âAnd I warned you,â she whispers back, her voice low, yet feral, ânot to underestimate me.â
A cold chuckle escapes him.
"When the time comes, Miss Gupta," His Eyes are alive, a dangerous glint sparking within. ".. mark my words....I will ruin you."
A chilling promise.
Under his thumb, her pulse runs wild with the heavens that grumble outside.
And inside.
His eyes are thunders
And she is the lightning.
Author's note: Hey, lovely readers! I hope this chapter made your day a little brighter. Until next time.
- ( The song of the chapter is "Daddy Issues" by The Neighbourhood ft. Syd)
Khushi sits in front of her laptop screen, staring at the empty file that once held her escape. It feels as if the code of her life has been rewritten, lines of her plan deleted without warning.
She managed to recover some of the files from her formatted computer but the most important folder is, of course.
Empty.
Her encrypted freedom was hijacked by an unseen hacker, who tore down her firewall from the inside and rewrote her life's code with a single keystroke.
She feels the walls closing in, like the network is shrinking, suffocating. Every key she types echoes like the ticking of a countdown. Each attempt to trace the hacker, to recover even a shred of her stolen evidence, hits a dead-end. The once familiar language of numbers and commands, her shield, now betrays her, leaving her exposed in the dark web.
The trap is perfect.
She feels herself sinking into it.
The safety protocols failing one by one.
There's no backdoor, no way to break the code that now binds her, leaving her frozen in a system she thought she could outsmart.
The last few days were tough, frustration gnawing at her ever since that unexpected meeting with Mr. Raizada.
Damn it, Damn him.
She will be lying, if she says she isn't sacred of 'Mr. I-despise-you'.
Actually
He terrifies her.
The man is like an encrypted code filled with blank spaces, written in hidden algorithms that she had no idea how to decipher. So much information, so many answers encrypted within his layers. And she had no idea where to find the correct data sequence to decrypt his mysteries.
Sighing, she shakes her head, as if to remove Mr. Raizada out of her head. She leans back into her pillow, closing her eyes to escape the strain of too much screen time, replaying the events that happened last few days.
After ditching her bodyguards, again, she slipped into the city yesterday to meet one of her college professors, someone brilliant enough to maybe help her trace the hacker. After days of gruelling effort on her own, pushing her limits until her eyes stung and her hands ached, he was her last hope.
She explained the situation as vaguely as possible, hoping he'd see something she missed, some miracle solution that would break her free. But there was none. Just more dead ends.
Finally, after exhausting all options, Khushi decides to wait. Patience will have to be her strategy for now. She plans to rely on the network of resources she has meticulously planted throughout the house...hidden cameras, discreet microphones, and surveillance equipment. Each one is her carefully placed set of eyes and ears, her silent sentinels. All the while, she prays no one discovers them.
If she can't act yet, she can at least watch and listen, biding her time until the perfect moment to strike.
And meanwhile, she hopes for something significant to unfold, something she can use to her advantage, something she can leverage to turn the situation in her favour.
She hacks into the main circuits of the house's CCTV system, gaining full control. Now, every camera, every angle is at her command. She watches the feeds stream through her laptop, monitoring every movement in the house without anyone suspecting her. It's her own invisible web.
Through the CCTV feeds, Khushi scans the sprawling mansion her father built in Delhi after their move from Kolkata, a blend of traditional Indian designs and modern conveniences.
The mansion may look like a symbol of status and power from the outside, but through her feeds, she sees it for what it is.
'A gilded cage'
It is filled with secrets and shadows, a place designed to control both the outside world and the people trapped inside it.
Her father recently had the house repainted. No matter how many fresh coats are added, the crimson will always remain, splattered beneath the pristine white wall.
Unseen but never forgotten.
Nothing in the mansion screams opulence. The carefully curated simplicity is just another layer of control. The wealth is there, woven into the fabric of every room, hidden beneath a veil of restraint, much like her father's carefully maintained image.
Her father cannot openly flaunt his wealth, as any display can draw the scrutiny of the Income Tax Department or the Anti-Corruption Bureau. Though these departments are in his pocket, it's always better to be safe than sorry.
She observes the Entrance hall, with its polished marble floors gleaming under the soft lighting. Beyond the hall, a staircase rises, curving upwards like something out of an old-world palace, its handrails intricately carved from dark mahogany, leading to the upper levels of the house.
The mansion is filled with abstract artwork, some genuine, some likely smuggled. Large French windows overlook manicured lawns, but she knows every one of those windows is equipped with bulletproof glass.
Her father's study is discreetly tucked away behind a solid wooden door on the first floor. It's the heart of his operations.
It was always off-limits to her, a place of secrecy and constant mystery. Despite all her expertise, she can't infiltrate the walls with any of her surveillance tools.
No camera can penetrate those walls.
There's no CCTV as well.
It frustrates her endlessly, knowing that within those walls are the answers she sought. But she isn't entirely powerless. She has managed to plant a small microphone inside a flower vase during one of her rare visits, hoping it would give her some access to the world her father has kept hidden. Now, as she pulls up the feed, she wonders if it's still active.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard as the feed comes to life. It's still active!! Relief washes over her as she adjusts the volume. The faint crackle of static confirms the microphone is picking up sound. She connects her headphones swiftly.
Voices float in the background.
Pulse quickens.
Breathing ceases.
And she listens.
".....what should we do next, sir?" The gruff voice of Mr. Sharma filters through. He is the lifelong bodyguard/right-hand man of her father.
"I said it was a bad idea," her father snaps, his frustration palpable even through the static. "But he was so stubborn... and oh so impatient... he could wait a few days...I had it all planned."
"Mr.Jha picked someone so unprofessional for such a sensitive job," Mr.Sharma commented.
A pause....
A static....
"That lousy motherfucker Rocky botched the entire thing. Soon they will find out, we were behind it." Her father's voice drops lower, almost a growl.
"Why did Mr. Jha act without consulting us? We could have handled it on his behalf, " frustration creeps into Mr. Sharma's voice as well.
"He thought he was avenging his father," her father replies.
"If you don't mind, can I ask something, Sir?" Mr.Sharma asks. Her father might have given him the green signal because a minute later, he continues, "He said he was sure about who killed his father. But how could that be? The person he's talking about was just a boy back then...what, 14 or 15?"
A long, tense silence follows before her father responds, his voice now cold and measured. "We never truly know the monsters people carry inside them."
Mr. Sharma says cautiously, "But how does killing the Wolves' daughter fit into that revenge?"
Another pause. Her breath catches as her father's voice cuts through, sharp and suspicious. "Someone's been feeding him information. He believed he'd killed The Vulture's sister."
Her mouth hangs open, as her heartbeat picks up. Holy fucking shit!!
"But why would his sister be with The Wolves?"
"We had no idea where the girl went after her mother's death, but Mr. Rathore has a nasty habit of using daughters as bargaining chips, doesn't he?" her father's voice drops down.
There was a long pause as if her father was in deep thought. "It's entirely possible he handed the girl over to the wolves to hide her identity or.... worse.. exchanged her with a daughter of the wolves to gain leverage over someone in their family."
"Do you think she really was his sister?"
Khushi leans in closer, her heart racing as she strains to catch her father's reply.
"Let's hope she wasn't." her father responds, his voice steady yet a dark, bitter shadow overpowers his voice. "If she was, the hell will break loose."
"If we're lucky," he continues after a pause, "...no one will ever find out we're behind it. But the way it was handled... so sloppily...it's only a matter of time before the wolves figure it out. It's a direct slap to their face. And if she was indeed his sister, soon both the Eagles and the Wolves will be at our throats.. This is war. They'll demand retribution....You understand what that means, don't you?"
"Yeah," Mr.Sharma responds grimly. "We need to tighten our security. And with Mr. Jha's political campaign underway, we'll have to stay on high alert."
"I'm concerned about the Wolves' new security expert, Adam Marcus. He's a former American Navy SEAL, and people have already started calling him 'the hound dog.' They say he has a special talent for digging up dirt. Keep an eye on him."
"Sir?" Mr. Sharma asks after a brief pause, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. "Should we alert your daughter?"
"There's no need," her father replies, his tone dismissive yet sharp. "It's not her safety I'm worried about, it's ours. And our reputation is what's at risk right now."
Yes, of course. What's new?
Her father's indifference no longer surprises or bothers her.
Then his father's faint voice crackles in the faint static as if he were talking to himself, "The Eagles won't hurt her..''
"Sorry, Sir, I didnât quite catch that."
"It's nothing. Do as I say.....Tell..."
A sharp knock on her door jolts Khushi from her thoughts, sending her heart racing. Panic floods her as she hastily shoves her laptop beneath a pillow. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to smooth away her startled expression before standing up.
Mr. Jha's smiling face peeks through the ajar door,
"Khushi," he beams, his voice light, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"..umm..Hello, Mr.Jha." Khushi just gives him a tight-lipped smile.
"Khushi, Khushi, Khushi," he says with an almost playful tone as he steps into her room, a package in his hand. He sinks into the chair at her desk. "You look more beautiful than the last time I saw you."
Light filters weakly through the curtains, casting elongated shadows across the floor that seem to shift with the tension. Her room, her sanctuary amidst the chaos of her life started to feel different all of a sudden, taut, like a wire ready to snap. It feels exposed.
So does she.
She's always kept her space simple-a bed neatly tucked in one corner, a sleek desk where she often loses herself in study and a leather couch facing the TV. If she listens closely, it feels like she can hear the silent screams of her furniture.
Her bookshelf in the corner, filled with books she escapes into, stands as a silent witness, but nothing in this space feels safe now. It's as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Waiting
Just like her.
Khushi stares at Mr. Jha with a blank expression, realizing he's waiting for a response, evident from the expectant look on his face.
"Mr. Jha, you just saw me two days ago," she says dryly.
He smirks, eyes glinting. "You're a beauty I could never tire of praising..... and soon, my goddess, you'll be my wife. Drop this 'Mr. Jha' nonsense. I have a name. Call me Shyam."
Standing, he strides over to her, his fingers wrapping around her hand before she can pull it away. He places the package in her palm. "This is for you."
She resists the strong urge to yank her hand free and step back. But that would be disrespectful and her father would have her head for it. He made it perfectly clear to her.
"Thank you, Mr. Jha."
He sighs, frustration leaking into his eyes. "Come on, open it."
Reluctantly, she pulls apart the wrapping. Inside is a deep red saree with intricate borders, adorned with shimmering stones. She glances at him, confusion flickering across her face.
"We're going on a date tonight," he declares with smug satisfaction.
"Oh..." she falters, unsure of how to respond.
"We'll be joined by some of my party's politicians and their wives. They've been eager to meet you for a while."
She blinks, still processing. The last thing she feels like doing is entertaining those sleazy politicians.
"Wear the saree. You just look divine in red. " Mr.Jha's tone drops down an octave, "Red suits you, but having you all to myself suits you more." His hand lingers on her forearm, sliding up toward her shoulder, then her face. Her stomach tightens, and she bites her lip, wishing he would stop. Her throat tightened as if invisible hands were squeezing it. Every breath she took felt shallow, incomplete, like she was drowning in the very air around her. The urge to pull away, to run, to be anywhere but here, was overwhelming, yet she remained frozen, trapped in the politeness expected of her.
A sharp knock breaks the tension. Mr. Jha steps back, clearly irritated. It's Buaji.
"Mr. Jha, Mr. Gupta is waiting for you in his study."
Khushi exhales deeply, releasing a breath she doesn't realize she is holding as she grips the package with trembling hands. Mr.Jha flashes her a smile that promises this isn't over, before leaving the room with unsettling ease.
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, Khushi feels her entire body sag with relief, her shoulders falling as if unburdened by an invisible force.
The stillness that follows his departure is welcomed.
She savores the quiet.
It is all she has at this moment.
Author's note:
Hello-hi bye-bye, sweet readers âșïž
Thank you for reading! It's always exciting to share this story with you. Drop a comment if you enjoyed it, and don't forget to hit the star! Until the next chapter!
- ( The song of the Chapter is ''Bury a friend" by Billie Eilish)
"You are going to work for me."
His cold eyes fix on her scowling ones.Â
"Heâs gotta be fucking kidding me," Khushi scoffs while her brain processes his words. Itâs atrocious.
"Excuse me."
He shrugs as if it's already decided, as if it's inevitable.
Khushi lets out a sarcastic laugh. "Wow, didnât realize I was in the market for a new boss. Thanks for the offer though, but my calendar is pretty full."
Unbothered, he just stares at her with his arm crossed across his chest. âIf he led you to me, he can lead others to me as well. I donât want my name dragged somewhere it shouldnât be. I want you to find him for me, " he states as if he were talking to a child.
"Why me? Don't you have an entire IT Department at your disposal?"
âI donât want Mr. Rathore finding out before I know exactly what Iâm dealing with. An attack on me is an attack on him as well."
âAnd you canât buy one competent IT employee to keep his mouth shut?â
âWhy would I when I can get it done for free?â
âDidnât know the great ASR was such a cheapo,â she snaps back immediately.
A ghost of a smirk threatens to curve in the corner of his lips, the tiniest of smirks, "I am actually doing you a favour, giving you a chance to find him yourself. "
"You know Mr.Raizada, your egoâs so massive, Iâm surprised it doesnât have its own zip code or a country, maybe even a national anthem." She looks at him so matter-of-factly that it almost feels like sheâs stating the obvious.
Truth be told, his faint, teasing, barely-there smirk irritates the hell out of her. She wants to wipe that off his face. "And why would I need your 'favour' to find him?" she says, making air quotes around the word 'favour'. "I can find him myself."
"Hmm, Sure you can. I assume you have access to a highly protected network, plenty of cutting-edge encrypted gadgets and a satellite feed, right?" he says, raising a finger for each. His phone beeps in his pocket, momentarily diverting his attention.
What is it about Khushi that makes a guy two times hotter to her when he talks tech?
No, Khushi. Focus.
He is a trouble,
No matter how much tech heâs talking, No matter how cool his tech is.
Her internal monologue is interrupted by a small voice in the back.
"But Khushi, he said he can give you access to a satellite."
Every neuron of her brain, every single one of them, jumps at the idea and for a brief second, every one of them just... swoons. Her inner coder is tempted to reroute the current conversation to a different stream entirely. But no, that would be reckless.
"Engrave this in your mind, Khushi. Iâm only saying it once. Mr.Raizada is like a Trojan horse, an unpredictable bug. If he crashes your Central Processing Unit, no amount of trouble-shooting would help you. Remember that," she scolds herself in silence.
Mr. Raizada, oblivious to her internal struggle, remains focused on his phone, the glow illuminating his features with an aura of confidence that only heightens her frustration. Shaking her head, she contemplates her next move for a couple of minutes, torn between her better judgment and the thrill of his cool tech gadgets.
âMiss Gupta, we need to wrap this up real quick. I have a meeting to catch," he states absentmindedly while typing on his phone.
"What if I say no?"
This time, her phone beeps with an incoming message. He glances at her, arching an eyebrow as if inviting her to check it. She unlocks the screen. It's a CCTV video of her, pinned against the wall by him in his room. Her voice says, coming from the screen, "The information the bastard of a hacker stole from me. It contains various pieces of evidence against the crimes Mr. Jha and the Serpents committed. I know he sold them to you. I want them back. I worked day and night to collect all of them." Her face is clear, as is her voice.
"Eww, do the girls you take to your room know about that?"
The moment that line leaves her mouth, regret floods in. Why, brain? Why is that the first thing you choose to process about this video? It is totally beyond her comprehension. Her brain does crazy shit like that sometimes.
Something akin to amusement flashes through his eyes for a split second. If she werenât watching so intently, she might have missed it.
"You are the only lucky girl who'd the privilege. "
Huh.
She blinks.
"Oh, please." She doesnât hold back the eye roll this time. A wave of heat rushes to her face. She bites her lips, feeling the heat spreading up her neck. She gives herself a mental shake. The last thing she wants to speculate is what Mr. Raizada does or doesnât do in that room, preferably nothing involving the opposite sex........Shit.
No, nothing involving sex either.
Damn it.
"Khushi, enough with the mental gymnastics," she mutters to herself. And, then... "Wait a second, how did you get my number?"
He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather some patience, then rubs the side of his temple with his thumb. Mr.Raizada has a scar under his right eyebrow, complete with stitch marks and all. It is old, almost easy to miss. It makes him seem darker, more dangerous. It adds just the right amount of menace to his otherwise polished, meticulously crafted exterior.
"You have no idea who you're talking to, do you?"
She stares at him, unblinking.
"Itâs not exactly rocket science to find a phone number these days."
"How?"
He sighs, "Mr. Mathur found it out for me. And it doesnât hurt that I own the network company youâre using."
Of course. There are hardly any big companies in this city where Rathore Industries didnât have a stake. Fantastic.
Khushi can tell this is somehow important to Mr. Raizada. He wouldnât be wasting so much energy on her if it werenât. Maybe she can spin this to her advantage.
"What do I get in return? The most that video can do is get me killed. I don't fear death."
He lets out a short chuckle, "Liar."
She glares at him and in response, he just challenges her with that condescending look on his face.
"You find him, and I'll kill him for you."
She scoffs, "I can do it myself."
"Really? How many people have you
killed?"
The "bang" of the gunshot still echoes in her head, the memory vivid. Why is everything today dragging her back to that moment? She clenches her teeth nearly grinding them down. At this rate, she might not have any left by the end of this meeting. Arnav Singh Raizade sure knows how to pull her strings. Her next words come out laced with fury,
"I can fill today's quota with you."
"Sure, be my guest.
Exasperated by his antics, she spins on her heel and begins walking, desperate to leave the scene as quickly as possible. But once again, she finds herself flat against another surface, this time, his chest. His grip is firm, bending her arms behind her back as their chests are pressed tightly together.
"When Iâm talking, donât you dare turn your back on me," he growls as his hard eyes bore into hers.
"You can't make me work for you. I don't owe you shit, Mr. Raizada. Get your hands off me."
His grip tightens. "I donât want to touch you any more than you want to be touched."
"Really?!" she rolled her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her words. "The two times weâve met, itâs clear how much you hate touching me. You are particularly allergic."
She wiggles. He doesn't flinch.
She squirms. He doesn't flinch.
She twists. He doesn't flinch.
Not even a damn inch.
After cursing him for a thousand deaths in her head, she lets out through her struggle, âIs pinning people to flat surfaces your favourite hobby? If it is, itâs despicable.â
He towers over her, not moving, not speaking, not even blinking. His jaw set like stone.
"Youâre nothing like the women I enjoy pinning. I certainly donât hate them."
"Well, newsflash, Sherlock, I hate you too," she fires back instantly.
"Hate is too weak a word to describe the disdain I have for you." he grits out, his lips curling into a low, feral snarl. "I despise you, "
The sheer venom in his tone makes her flinch. She blinks in disbelief, taken aback by the utter hatred in his eyes. She had expected some level of animosity, given their families' rivalry. But this is different. It feels personal.
Her glare sharpens. "Why? Just because our families are enemies? That doesnât give you the right to misbehave with me like that.â
His arms tighten around her, drawing them even closer together. Her heart pounds as panic sets in. His eyes lock onto hers. It's dark, darker than ever, mixed with a wild unexplained hunger, that sends shivers down her spine. Itâs the most untamed reaction she has ever seen on his face since their paths crossed.
He leans closer, lips almost at her ear. His voice is a rough whisper brushing against her skin. âI havenât even begun to misbehave yet, Miss Gupta."
She gulps but refuses to let him intimidate her. After a few moments of heart-pounding silence and a stare-down battle, he lets her go and steps back, the cold mask slipping back into place as if it has never faltered, as if he hasnât just pinned her against him, as if he isnât the asshole he is. His eyes grew harder with each passing second as she watched him take a deep, steadying breath.
She stands on shaky legs, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes shoot daggers at him while her fists tighten. Her body trembles with barely suppressed rage. The impulse to find the magazine to load her gun and shoot him is so profound, it nearly brings her to her knees. Shaking her head, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin defiantly as their eyes lock.
"Youâre a jerk. Stay the fuck away from me. I donât give a damn why the hell he tried to frame you. Both of you can rot in hell for all I care."
This time, when she spins around toward the street, he doesnât stop her. She slips into her car and shifts into reverse, about to pull out onto the road. She doesn't realize he has come out of the building as well. In the rearview mirror, she catches a glimpse of him, standing there with both hands tucked into his pants pockets. A picture of calm and collected. Unbothered and unfazed.
Through the glass,
His eyes lock onto hers.
His brown to her hazel.
Fire meets fire.
She sees something flicker in his dark, cold orbs while nothing crosses his face. It vanishes like a mirage in the desert, like it was never there.
She drives away. She doesnât let herself focus on anything but the way her fingers grip the steering wheel. She doesn't let herself feel anything but the blood pounding in her ears.
And, most importantly, she doesn't let herself look back in the rearview mirror.
Not at all.
Not even a single time.
Authorâs Note: Thank you for reading! Iâd love to hear your thoughts and predictions for what comes next.
- ( The song of the chapter is ''Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics)
Everyone needs to learn from Khushi Sen Gupta how to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It's practically her speciality now-a-days.
It's like she has a knack for getting caught up in situations she shouldn't be anywhere near.
If she ever writes a book about her life, she would name it "Idiot's Handbook of How to Be in the Wrong Places Willingly." She's certain people would line up to read it. After all, how many mob daughters have the audacity to expose their chaotic lives for public consumption? It could even top the charts, if she manages to live long enough to put it on paper. But right now, survival feels like a long shot. With the way things are spiralling, she's not even sure she'll make it out of this evening alive, let alone back home in one piece.
Her gut twists into a tight knot as each unsteady step brings her closer to the deserted construction site, likely once intended for a farmhouse. Her footsteps echo eerily in the silence.
The grim-looking, dilapidated, half-built structure and its rusting steel beams loomed on the outskirts of the shady neighborhood. It only has roofs and pillars, with no walls around it. The ground is uneven, littered with debris, discarded materials and overgrown weeds.
She prides herself on her intelligence, but right now, all she can think about is how unbelievably stupid she is. A world-class idiot. The type who, despite her intelligence, follows the instructions of a stranger on the other end of the line without thinking twice.
''How did I let myself get dragged into something so reckless?"
In her defense though, she was trying to believe in humanity. Damn it.
Maybe she's just overthinking it. Who would even bother to set a trap for her? She's a nobody. If they were to kidnap her, then they might secure a hefty amount of ransom from her father, but that would clearly be a death sentence for them. Nothing is more valuable to his father than his reputation, not even his own daughter.
For her father, it's less about her safety and more about his obsession with control, over his men, over her, over her actions, over the leverage against her.
She has long since stopped feeling disappointed. It leaves her in a space that hovers between fearless and reckless.
Just like how she told her father she was heading to the shopping mall. Then She slipped away before his goons could catch up. She did this enough times to earn nothing but disapproving glances from him.
Shaking off the distracting thoughts, she squares her shoulders and moves toward the half-built structure as quietly as possible. The gravel crunches beneath her shoes. The site is spine-chillingly quiet, save for the occasional groan of shifting metal or the distant hum of the city, muffled and distant.
As she makes her way through the debris and broken equipment, her heart pounds, her hands feel clammy. The air is heavy with the smell of dust and decay, so is her breathing. Her chest feels tight, weighed down by the unnerving vibe of her circumstances.
Once inside, she takes shelter behind a pillar. Pressing her back against it, she hides while sharply scanning the area, her eyes darting for any sign of movement.
Khushi opted for a bold red shirt today, feeling unusually daring. The vibrant hue gave her an unexpected surge of confidence. She paired it with a high-waisted, faded jeans and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. A pair of oversized sunglasses sit on her face, an attempt to hide her identity just a little. Her favourite sneakers are on, ready in case she needs to make a quick escape.
She takes her sunglasses off, slipping them into her jeans pocket. The thought that this might all be a trap refuses to leave her mind, making it nearly impossible to focus. It's like gnawing at her.
Before, she never had to worry about someone trying to trap her. But now? Didn't she just unintentionally make an enemy? Yeah, she made an enemy out of an enemy. Brilliant.
Do the Eagles really care enough to lay a trap for her? Just last week, she walked right into the den of the Eagles, had a face-off against the notorious Vulture and came out intact. She knows they have no interest in igniting a mob war. If they did, Arnav Singh Raizada would have exposed her little stunt that very night. But he didn't. He let her go.
But what if he changed his mind?
Shit, why didn't she think of that sooner?
It still stuns her that she was at the mercy of Arnav Singh Raizada.
The Arnav Singh Raizada.
He had her pinned against the wall, her own knives at her throat. And yet, he let her go. In fact, he even arranged for his manager to drive her back to her dorm.
Unnoticed, unharmed.
The walk from his door, down the stairs, and toward the front gate felt endless. With every step, she heard her heart pounding in her ears.
What did he say?
That he owned her.
That he'd collect his debt.
Fuck.
How could she possibly repay someone like Arnav Singh Raizada?
At the gate, two guards blocked her path but immediately stepped aside when a shadow from the first floor loomed over them. She glanced back. There he was, standing in front of a glass window, one hand in his pocket, and with a flick of his fingers, he motioned for the guards to let her pass. His eyes were never not on her.
A surge of overwhelming rage pushed aside her irritation, embarrassment, and mortification.
A man came out from the bungalow beside the main building, dishevelled, as though he had haphazardly thrown his clothes on.
"Hello, Miss Gupta, I am Aman Mathur. I'll be your driver today," he greeted her politely, a little breathless. He had an unexplainable calming aura about him.
Khushi couldn't help but offer him a small smile. "It's okay, you don't have to. I can manage."
"Oh, trust me, Miss Gupta, both of our lives would be a little easier this way." At the implication in his voice, her eyes snapped to the figure still watching them like a hawk. She felt her lips set in a hard line as his twisted just a little at the corners. And it's gone as soon as it appeared. Her fist clenched mirroring the anger in her eyes.
"After you," Mr. Mathur led her toward a car and, like a true gentleman, opened the door for her. Taking a deep breath, she went in after sparing a last glance at the first-floor window.
The entire ride had been a blur of disbelief. Disbelief at her own audacity. Disbelief at her failed attempt. Disbelief at how close she'd come. And most of all, disbelief at Arnav Singh Raizada.
A cool breeze brushes against Khushi's skin bringing her back to the deserted farmhouse, sending a faint tremor down her arms, goosebumps prickling her flesh in response. Yet, it's not the chill that unnerves her, it's the unsettling stillness like the air itself is holding its breath.
The sun hovers low, on the verge of slipping beneath the horizon, casting just enough light to stretch the outlines of the building into dark, haunting shadows across the ground. The fading light appears to play tricks on her eyes, making the shadows shift and twist as if they possess a life of their own.
She looks down at her watch.
5:38 PM
It's way past the scheduled time set by the informer. Her hand hovers over the Glock 43 in her pocket. It's a gift from her father on her twentieth birthday. She's never had to use it before. But never say never, right? That seems to be the ongoing theme anyway.
She's a minute away from walking away from all these shenanigans. The urge to run, to abandon it all, tugs at her stronger with every passing second.
The crunch of gravel beneath someone's shoes sends her nerves into overdrive. Her hand tightens around the gun. Just then, her phone buzzes in her pocket.
She soundlessly puts the phone in her ear.
"Are you here, Miss Gupta?"
"Yes."
"Where are you? I don't see you. Did you come alone? Did you bring the money?"
She feels a pulse of anxiety at his questions. "You'll only get the money after you tell me what you know."
"Miss Gupta, you can come out now."
"I'm not moving a damn inch until you explain why you brought me here," she demands firmly, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach.
He pauses, the silence stretching between them. "I'm unarmed. Please come out so we can be done with this."
His tone is almost pleading and she can hear the underlying desperation. The shadows around her feel alive and she knows she has to tread carefully.
She peeks around the corner of the pillar to see a young man with his hands raised above his head, a gesture of harmlessness. Maintaining her grip on the gun still in her pocket, she steps out.
As soon as she comes face to face with the guy, his eyes widen. His face twists into horror as if he has just seen death in front of him. However, his gaze is focused on something or someone, behind her.
Everything happens in a blur.
She feels a rush of air brush past her hair. The warmth still lingers in the air. And the man drops to the ground with a gaping hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes are still open.
"There you are, Bitterheart."
Her breath hitches.
He is here.
With his fucking deep and deliciously husky voice, that has whispered the dark secrets of murder to her, not too long ago.
The voice, dipped in poison and sin.
It has entwined itself around her thoughts and refused to let go since their last meeting.
"Sorry, I am late. I have been looking for you everywhere. " The barrel of a gun presses against her forehead as his breath trickles her ear. "Really, Miss Gupta, A red shirt. You look like a target even from a mile away. You should have just worn black."
She spins suddenly pressing her gun at the level of his heart as she comes face to face to face with the vulture.
Molted chocolate meets her hazel brown.
"And you should have stayed out of my business."
His eyes narrow slightly, though his face remains stoic. For a few tense moments, they stand in complete silence, just guns aimed at each other, eyes having conversation in secret codes.
He smirks without any amusement reaching his cold orbs. Before she can react he presses a certain point in her gun and the magazine just falls down.
She huffs. Great. There's no way she's getting on her knees in front of him to pick it up.
"You have a unique way to say hello." He cocks an eyebrow at her.
"We both know you're not sending me to heaven anytime soon like you did with this poor soul, Mr. Raizada. So, could we stop pointing weapons at each other every time we talk?" she suggests, pulling back her magazine-less gun.
"The taste of your own medicine is pretty bitter, isn't it? Make sure next time, to toss in a sprinkle of humility. Might help it go down a little easier."
He steps into her space, invading it completely. She feels the urge to take a step back but holds her ground. He trails the barrel of the gun down her cheek, then her neck and presses it in between her breasts. The material is cold against her heated skin.
The scent of his cologne, mingled with his sweat, is intoxicating. It wraps around her like a dark cloud. His face is close, so close that she can feel the heat radiating off his skin. His breath against her skin is warm as well, a stark contrast to the chilly wind swirling around them. Even in the dim light, the sharp flecks of orange and green in his chocolate brown eyes seem to ignite, burning through the darkness.
"There are places on your body I know better than you do, Miss Gupta," he says as his free hand slides around the back of her neck, forcing her to tilt her head upward, his grip strong. "Places you've never even heard of. Places that need only one touch from me." The gun rests heavily against her racing heart. "To send you straight to heaven or hell."
She holds her head still, refusing to break eye contact. His hand cradles the back of her neck while he towers over hers. His voice drops dangerously low. "Not everyone who dies goes to heaven, Miss. Gupta."
Duh, doesn't she know that? It's just a common phrase people use.
The grip tightens ever so slightly around her neck, a silent threat in the way his fingers flex against her skin. "Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you know me," he murmurs. "It might be your last."
"Is that a threat?" her eyes narrow.
"Does it sound like a compliment? "
What the fuck does he think he is?
Years of enmity boil in her blood, intertwining with the unsettling realization that this man not only possesses the fruits of her hard work but also has the audacity to manhandle her. He's the one who has shot her informer as well.
Her heart hammers in her chest, like a hummingbird. She grits her teeth, fighting the urge to snap at the sheer arrogance rolling off the man in waves. Her breathing speeds up as her lungs struggle to keep pace with the adrenaline surging through her. How is it that every man she meets seems determined to prove they're the biggest jerk in the room?
She steps into his personal space this time, pressing her hands against his solid chest. Her fingers splay wide as she solves him with all her strength, forcing him to stumble backwards.
Triumph flares within her as she catches the fleeting surprise on his face. In a split second, he steadies his stance, moving with a grace that might have impressed her, if he were anyone else. But she isn't finished yet. She charges at him again, only for him to catch her wrists, guns and all, in both hands. In one swift motion, he presses her against the nearby pillar, pinning her hands above her head.
Irritation, frustration, and a wave of overwhelming rage surge through her as she finds herself right back in the same infuriating position.
She tries to knee him between the legs, but he senses her move, swiftly blocking her leg and locking it in place with his.
She seethes at him, eyes blazing with fury. Her voice drops to an icy growl as she spits out her words through gritted teeth, "Never make the mistake of thinking you scare me. It might be your last as well."
His jaw tenses. The air between them crackles. The tension is so thick as if the atoms have come alive. He remains cold and unyielding, while an unexplained fiery heat surges through her veins setting her skin on fire.
"Believe me, Miss Gupta, the urge to kill you is fucking killing me right now. But you are more useful to me alive than dead. And I promise you, when your purpose is served, the last face you'll see before you die will be mine. "
He releases her wrists and steps back, sliding his gun into the waistband of his dark jeans. Meanwhile, she messages her sore wrists, shooting daggers at him.
Khushi's mind erupts with a whirlwind of curses, each one sharper than the last. She bites her tongue, barely holding back the barrage of insults ready to spill from her lips. She has a whole dictionary of words she could use right now.
Arrogant prick, Cold-blooded Bastard, jackass, douchbag, Evil Monster, Son of a ---no, too mild.
You fucking piece of shit, self-obsessed, vile, three-named motherfucking rakhsas. Fuck you and fuck your twisted God complex and your smug little threats, you egoistical Asshole.
The flood of fury pulses through her veins. She mentally cycles through every foul word she's ever known in any language. The urge to unleash those curses claws at her throat, each one begging to be set free.
Despite the seething rage that fuels her every thought, she feels an involuntary tug of curiosity pulling her gaze toward him.
And against her better judgment, She lets her eyes wander slowly, tracing the sure, steady fingers up to his forearms, exposed beneath the rolled sleeves of his black shirt, each one roped with muscle. A tattoo on his left forearm, she couldn't make out that night is now visible, peeking through the fabric.
A burning rose.
She shifts her gaze from his broad shoulders to his face. The stubble lining his sharp jaw defines his jawlines even more. It casts a shadow over his high cheekbones that models around the world would weep for.
It's infuriating to think that a man who looks like he steps off the cover of a GQ magazine can be such a colossal asshole. Such a waste!
Growing impatient, she scans the area, noting the absence of any other living souls nearby. Great. Here she is, at an abandoned construction site, with a notorious asshole from a rival mob family, who has lured her out here for a reason.
"Why am I here, Mr. Raizada?" she demands, frustration lacing her voice as she grapples with the chaos of the situation, desperate for clarity. "Why did you bring me here? And why did you kill your fucking pawn?"
He crosses his arms over his chest. "I didn't set him up, but he played his part brilliantly. He came here to tell you that NK is one of the Eagles and that he's underground now."
Her mouth falls open in disbelief.
"Why did you kill him then, if you were just going to give me the information yourself?" she exclaims, arms thrown up in frustration.
"He was breaking the rules."
"And you aren't?"
"I am the rule, Miss Gupta. No one dares to cross me."
She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at him. Best not to push her luck too far today.
"I wanted to meet you without setting off any alarms," he says after a moment. "That's why I let him lure you out here instead of killing him somewhere else."
"How considerate!" She taps her feet on the ground, turning her head to look at anything but him. "Why do you want to meet me?"
"To talk about the hacker you mentioned."
"What about him?"
"You are under the impression that I've brought something from him." He met her gaze evenly, or at least as evenly as possible with those eyes that always seemed to be dissecting her every move.
She fixes him with a piercing glare, her eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't just have the impression. I know you have. I hacked his server. It all leads back to you."
"Except I didn't even know who he was until you so kindly enlightened me."
"Right. And I'm supposed to just believe that?"
"Yeah."
"And why's that?"
"Because I haven't killed you yet." His eyes are hard and dangerous.
"Yet? What's stopping you from doing it right now?"
"Well, as much as I'd love to, I don't feel like starting a war today. Despite our families' little blood feud, the truth is, neither of us can afford a war right now, especially with the CBI continuously after our tails."
She doesn't want to believe him, not for a second. But then, why would he go to such lengths to meet her here? The gears in her mind start turning.
"You don't have the evidence?" she asks eyeing him suspiciously.
"No."
"So you're saying someone went to the trouble of elaborately framing you, even down to forging transaction details, knowing full well anyone could trace it back?"
"Something like that."
"And why would he bother doing that?"
"I'd love to know that too," he states shrugging his should, eyes still locked on hers.
Frustrated, she crosses her arms over her chest, watching as Mr. Raizada's eyes flicker at the action before landing on hers once again. "So now what?"
She wants to snap at him and instil some manners in him. Staring at a woman like that is very rude, Mr. Raizada. Instead, she just stares right back at him. Hard. Two can play the same game.
"You're going to work for me."
Author's note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Things are really starting to heat up, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts on what's going to happen next! Any guesses on what's in store for our love birds?
Oneshot inspired by this word prompt by @arshifiesta
The night of awaitingÂ
_________
The streetlight burned as dusk coiled around the city of Lucknow. Like a bunch of princes to their favourite courtesan, a flutter of moths were drawn to the light.
Khushi stifled a smile at the impish comparison, as she hurried along the narrow roads of Lakshmi Nagar.Â
âââ
âAmma, I am homeâ , she said with flourish, dropping her handbag onto the chair and her jootis kicked off elegantly over the mat.
âHmmâ, came the buzz of mild acknowledgment from Garima Gupta.
Khushi huffed out a breath in mock exasperation.Â
âWhat is there in this god forsaken serial that I canât get you to give your eyes a break for a second? The same old rich man- poor girl nonsense!â
âHush Khushi!â
She tied her hair into a quick knot, and left for her evening bath, leaving her mother with her precious LED box.
âââ
âYou just have to cook the chapatis baccha, I have made the curryâ Garima smiled fondly as Khushi stood bent over the stove.
âHe was rich in his heart! Joke all you want, but one day youâll realise what I am talking about Khushi. So many proposals have come your way, but I have rejected them for I know that you deserve to marry for loveâ
âWhat rubbish! Iâll marry someone who mints money!â
âWeâll seeâ
And with that Garima was off to the living room again.
If she had paused, she would have seen the tell tale signs of a lie on her daughterâs face. The flushing of cheeks, the biting of lip and the nervous gesture of hands.
Khushi Kumari Gupta was in love.
ââââ
She laid the fresh bed sheet over her mattress, humming an old Bollywood tune. Her room was set in muted tones of pink. She was a magpie in all essence. Her naniâs jewellery, her papaâs books and all the gifts she had ever received, were all stored beautifully in this room.
Her parents had worked hard over the years to buy this flat in the heart of Lucknow. Her papaâs death in that fatal car accident years ago didnât dim her motherâs will to work. And so Khushi grew up with her mother as the headmaster of a government school, with ambitions of being a teacher herself.
She placed the test papers she had taken pains to correct in a file, and pushed them away on her desk with a sigh of relief.
âSemester exams done!â She said out loud to herself.
Switching off the lamp, she stood up and plunged the room into dimness.
With the strategy of a woman in love, she grabbed a book from her bedside table and walked with measured leisure to the ornate window.
The moon hid behind the clouds as she searched for him. Her fingers flipped the pages, hoping its flutter would bring him to his window. The window framing the wall neighbouring hers.
And then like the bride waiting for the moon on her first fasting, she was assuaged as the clouds cleared and the moon lit up his handsome face, shining the harsh lines of him into light.
âArnavâ, she breathed out as if parched from his thirst. Thirst of the man who had stolen her dreams, her heart and her peace.
âHow were the semester papers? By your expression I can guess you are glad to be rid of themâ, he smirked wickedly.
âLaugh all you want, but at least I donât sit hunched over a computer all day!â, she said tongue in cheek.
He smiled, hands lifted up in defeat.
âI am a verified corporate slaveâ
He took a sip from his cup, his eyes holding her captive.
âBeautiful nightâ
She shook her head, âYou say that every nightâ
âAnd I mean it every nightâ, he insisted, his voice ringing against the dark.
She cleared her throat, âSo the heroine and hero got stuck in a lift todayâ
He chuckled, âI am amused how Garima aunty suffers this everydayâ
âTell that to her,â she grinned.
âThat her favourite show lacks originality? No way!â
âItâs cliche! But it worksâŠâ
Arnav set his cup aside, resting his forearm on the ledge, leaning over.
âThey sell dreams donât they? We wait all our lives. Some live and lose. But they sell our dreams to us..â
Khushi sighed, âMaking the wait bearable?â
âAgonisingâ his whisper lit up her night.
âââââ
The staff room was not unaffected by the lazy afternoon. The fan whirred in the corner as the two friends sat hunched together.
âHer wedding was simply stunning! Her dad spent so much.â
She looked on, bored as Payal recounted their colleagueâs wedding last week. She had missed it due to her cousinâs wedding the same day.
âPayal! What about the groom? Does he suit Sheetal?â
âWellâŠ.he is balding. And he has a paunch. But that wonât matter in America would it?â
âSheetal had a poster of Salman on her wallâ, Khushi mumbled.
âSo what Khushi? Life is not a movie. No one is going to get a Salman or Shah rukh. We are going to get nice men with heavy pocketsâ
âAkash is certainly not just a nice manâ she smirked.
Payal playfully smacked her hand, before settling down despondently.
âHis mother doesnât approve.â
âDoes that matter? He is willing to fight anyone for you. He got that apartment near the junction-â
âYes! But I didnât want him to give up his family. I want him to have everything he wantsâ
Khushi closed her hand over Payalâs fist.
âHe loves you. And if a few sacrifices are what life demands from him, thatâs okay. Because how happy heâll be with you matters the most!â
She smiled, her eyes filled with unshed tears.
âThank you Khushâ, she choked out.
ââââ-
She stood by her window, gazing out at his closed one, her hand drying her waist length hair gently.
 Payal had texted her this morning, asking her to be one of the witnesses for their registered marriage.Â
It was happening. After all the hardships, Akash was finally marrying Payal. She couldnât be more happier for the two of them.
Raizadas were going to lose another son, she thought. Arnav had left the grandiose of Sheesh Mahal two years ago, to live in this humble settlement.
âJust exhausted, Khushi. They wanted to control everything. My life, my soul, my very breathâ
She recalled his words with a pang. He had to suffer so much, before he could finally break free.
And now AkashâŠ..
Walking over to her almirah, she looked for her favourite Anarkali.Â
White. For purity. For innocence. For new beginnings.Â
For Akash and Payal.
She was happy for them. Why wouldnât she be? She had been a Cupid to their story, nonetheless.
But when her gaze settled on the neighbouring window, she felt a twinge of anxiety. She hadnât revealed her own heart to Arnav, let alone expect him to return her love.Â
She had her share of sleepless nights, worrying that any day now, he will bring home a woman. Her heart will break. And all those unplayed heartbreak CDs in her possession will finally get a chance to echo in her room.
Slipping on a pair of jhumkas, Khushi draped a dupatta over her and walked out to say goodbye to her mother.
âââ-
âArnav!â
She couldnât believe her eyes. Empty tea cups rested on the coffee table. Her mother greeted her with a soft, serene smile.
âAmma-â
âIsnât it time? Payal will be waitingâ , her mother interrupted.
âBut-â , she frowned.
âAfter all, you'll be late when you reach thereâ, she turned back to Arnav, âI think you should stay there tonight betaâ
âThe register office is fifteen minutes from here!â
âWe are going to Agra. Did you think the Raizadas would let Akash get married here?â
She stared at him. Unsure of the change in plans, of this tea with her mother, unsure of him and the way he was looking at her.
âItâs a four hour car ride Khushi, you better leave now!â Her mother was now on her feet, almost pushing her daughter out of the door.
âShall we?âÂ
Her hand slid into his.
Agra it is.
ââââ
âPlease sign hereâ the grumpy man mumbled.
She looked on as Akashâs two colleagues signed the paper.
âKhushiâ, Arnav placed a hand on her waist, pushing her forward.
She took the pen in her hand, muttering a prayer under her breath before noting down her signature.
Joy and claps filled the air as the couple was pronounced husband and wife.
Khushi looked on with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, as Akash kissed Payal softly, ignoring the registrarâs gasp of outrage.
Love had won again.
ââââ-
She was a romantic. She had always been. Even when she had first visited the Taj Mahal with her mother at the young age of ten, she had found her heart aching at the majestic symbol of love. Shah Jahanâs number of wives or his harem didnât matter. There was love that thrived beyond graves, and thatâs all that mattered.
Khushi soaked in the beauty the monument was, under the cover of the night. Wrapping her dupatta, firmly around her shoulders, she walked beside Arnav, who seemed so deep in thought, she almost felt jealous.
âI never thought it could be more beautifulâ, she broke through the silence.
âYou love the nights, not surprisingâ, Arnav smiled.
Rows of trees lined their path, the distant lights illuminated their footsteps, as the breeze swayed.
âShab-e-intezaarâ, he said out loud.
âShab-e-intezaar? What are you waiting for?â, she asked, puzzled.
He smiled in that mysterious way of his.
Her breath left her as he caught her wrist and pulled her against him. Wide eyed, she looked up at him, pure shock and pleasure running through her whole being.
âThisâ, he whispered, before his mouth came down on hers.Â
His lips were unbearably soft. The slight way he moved against her was driving her crazy. Something primitive rose within her, as her hand clutched his shirt, pressing herself against him firmly.
He was quick to know her. Entangling her within his arms, he tightened his hold.
Breathless she broke away, resting her head against his. She felt his warmth on her nose, before her head was tilted up.
âI love you Khushiâ, he kissed her again.
Khushiâs hand tightened on his wrist.
âI love you tooâ, she whispered back.
Arnav broke into a delicious smile. Holding her hand he stepped away.
Ignoring the sudden bout of shyness flooding her, she held his eyes as if her life depended on it.
He bent down on one knee.
âHappiness found me, while I was leaning against my bedroom window one night. I still thank whatever gods are up there, who brought me to you, Khushi. I am in love with you. With your spirit, your heart, your eyes. I am just a man in love with youâ, his voice wavered at the end.
She swallowed thickly, her vision blurring with emotion.
âWith the blessings of Garima auntyâ, he cracked a wry grin, âI would like to ask you if you want to be my wife? Spend the rest of our lives, no longer separated by walls and windows?â
âI willâ, she let out a sob.
She crashed into him, arms entwining around him as he almost tumbled onto the ground.
His laughter filled her ears, and she glanced up at the beautiful Taj Mahal, framed by their night.
Love had found them. After a long shab-e-intezaar.
----------
Hope you liked this story! Dedicated to all those beautiful nights ~ I urge you to look out your window tonight and wish something special for yourself ;)
Let me know what you think of the story! All constructive criticisms welcome â€ïž
- ( The song of the Chapter is "Lovely" by Billie Eilish and Khalid)
Ever heard of Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
The Godfathers of the Triad took that idea too literally and took it a notch higher. They believe one whisper from a beautiful siren can do the same, that Helen did to Troy, unravel alliances and raze the underworld to ashes.
So they made rules to protect their 'Parises' from the devastating allure of the beauty of the 'Helens.'
Never touch another brother's woman,
Don't marry outside the society,
Don't break marriage alliances
And keep the heir's betrothed chaste and untouched until her wedding day.
The heir.
In this world, the title is more than just a wordâitâs a legacy. The heir is someone who would one day wield all the power, control the empire, and lead the familyâs dark dynasty. Itâs a birthright, an unbreakable bond tied to blood. Only a blood relative can claim it. No outsider, no matter their loyalty or prowess, can ever rise to that level. This is the unspoken rule, the law carved into the very foundation of the mafia family.
And the heir needs to be legitimate. Thatâs why extensive measures are taken to keep the bloodline pure, untainted by scandal or deceit. Arranged marriages, strict alliances, and constant surveillanceâeverything is orchestrated to maintain the familyâs control over their lineage.
And, of course, all the responsibility falls on the shoulders of the women. Khushi rolls her eyes thinking about that.
And the only responsibility for the heir is 'fuck anyone you like but don't fall in love.' It doesn't exactly say that, but it doesn't say any less. Love is a weakness, a dangerous indulgence that can bring even the strongest of man to his knees. Love can reduce anyone to anything. It makes men do crazy shit, they say.
So clearly one can see how extremely terrific of a life a female in the mafia world led!! Mind-blowingly terrific.
Within the society, if a woman isn't romantically linked to someone, she is vulnerable, a fair game. Anyone within the mafia's territory can kidnap her, claiming her as his wife or mistress with the boss's permission. Protection is a privilege that only comes with a strategic connection.
Outside the society, marriage, children, none of it mattered if a powerful man set his sights on a beautiful woman. Her beauty becomes her greatest enemy, a curse that makes her a target in a world where desire outweighs morality and power silences justice.
'If you can break them, you can keep them.'
And broken as they become, their cage feels like heaven to them. With their wings clipped off and their spirit shattered, freedom becomes a distant memory. They forget what it means to fly, to live beyond the bars. The cage, once their prison, now feels like home.
Wasn't it the root of the conflict between The Serpents and The Eagles? Senior Jha's younger brother was supposed to marry Senior Rathore's younger sister, a union meant to solidify their familiesâ power. However, the brother fell in love with someone else, and since Senior Jha loved his brother so much, he, with the help of Khushi's father, helped him escape on the wedding day.
It was a complete violation of the rules, but no one could outright prove that Senior Jha and her father were directly involved.
Only that the groom had vanished.
And the bride had committed suicide.
Too bad the Godfathers didn't make any rules to protect their 'Helens.'
Oops, she forgets, in their eyes, women are only good for fucking, breeding, and rearing children.
Khushi doesn't feel so bad about Miss Rathore. Shouldn't she be happy that she got away from the clutches of a heinous man? Despite cheering for her freedom, she decided to end her life.
But she would never be free, right? Handed from one heinous hand to another in the name of alliances and power.
And there was another who was kidnapped and raped, and by the end of the day had taken her own life after her captor's demise.
The famous Ratna Singh Raizada.
What's in The Eagles' water that their women are so prone to suicide? And from where do they find this amount of love for these hideous men? Khushi sighed.
Ratna Malik was not part of the society. Blessed with incredible beauty, which Khushi can attest to by looking at her son, she had been working as a dance teacher for small children. One day, Senior Raizada saw her outside her dance school and decided to take her home to make beautiful babies. How romantic!
Senior Raizada had two children with her. A boy and a girl. Some say she was pregnant with their third child when she died.
Weren't her children enough for her? Why did she decide to end her life leaving her children alone in the world?
Senior Raizada married her instead of keeping her as his mistress, integrating her into the mafia society. As a consigliere, not directly challenging the heir's position, he was exempt from the strict rule against marrying outsiders. This rule was more rigorously enforced for the heir, designed to protect the purity of the bloodline and maintain the family's power.
As soon as a girl is born high up in the society, the Godfathers will decide which one will be the princess to kiss their frog prince and is marked as the heir's bride. They will also give her a chastity belt and lock up her panties to ensure that the next heir's bloodline is not questioned. If anyone doesnât get it, it is metaphorical. Khushi sometimes hates her mind for drawing all kinds of metaphorical analogies to situations.
So, yeah, even if a girl is born high up in the hirchiary, she is only good for forming an alliance and breeding of pureblooded heir, by remaining a virgin till the date of her marriage.
Khushi loathes that rule with the power of a thousand suns. The amount of heartbreak and trauma she had to endure because of it was insurmountable.
Khushi never liked talking about her mother, mainly because her mother despised her. As a young child, she could never seem to do anything right. Even her appearance, and how she wasnât as beautiful as her mother, began to irritate Mrs. Gupta. Finally, when Khushi was just ten, her mother decided to leave her and her father behind. And as her father loved her mother so much, he let her go. To this day, her father blamed Khushi for her motherâs departure.
If only she could blame anyone.
Despite all of these, despite his hate toward her, despite his absentee-father-attitude, her father provided her with a fairly sheltered life. She had the liberty to do almost anything as long as she stayed out of his hair. A freedom with conditions. A freedom, except the freedom to love.
She was sixteen when she had her first crush. Such a beautiful and gentle human being. He was in her chemistry class. They used to sneak out to the back of their school to steal kisses. Until one day, he broke her heart. She was informed that he moved to another city with his family. He just cut all ties with her. No phone calls, no emails and his Facebook account was deactivated as well. She thought they were in love. Too bad, he wasnât as in love as she was.
She was very depressed for a long time, but she wasnât someone to drown in self-pity. So, when she was eighteen, she tried to move on from him with the hottest guy in her class.
And he knew how to make her feel tingles with his smile, teenage hormones and all. It was mostly hot kissing and heavy groping in between classes with him. But before she could let him under her clothes, her father gifted her a picture of his head. His severely decapitated head.
And that was also the day she learned who she was. She was the heir's bride.
She hasnât, even to this day, fully processed whether to mourn the lives that had been cut short because of her or to grieve over her future, bound to a sleazy man like Shyam Manohar Jha, with no choice of her own.
And he is a sleazy man, alright. He is eight years older than her and has been managing The Serpent after his father's death since he was just twelve, with the help of her father. She met him only on a couple of occasions and didn't give much thought to his creepy, unsettling stares. But when they were officially introduced as each other's betrothed, he revealed his true nature.
That man groped her under the dining table in front of his father, who merely averted his eyes. Mr. Jha was so obsessed with her untouched self that he kept murmuring in her ear that whole night about how excited he was to be inside her one day and make her bleed. She felt nauseated and excused herself from the dining room. Enraged, she rebelled in the only way she could.
She bought a dildo from the black market and did the honour herself to claim her virginity.
Go fuck yourself, Mr. Jha!!
She didn't regret it at all. Her only regret was that she didn't prepare herself or use any lubrication for the process. She was too angry to think about any formalities. The device actually traumatized her. She couldnât bring herself to use it a second time. Perhaps if she could, she might have alleviated some of the rage and the humiliation of defeat that lingered in her after that horrible encounter with Mr. Raizada Seven days ago.
Seven days of seething in rage and drowning in self-pity. Now that she has nowhere to go, nothing to do.
Ugh, it's hopeless.
What frustrated Khushi the most about this life is not the mafia way of living. No, she has been living this lifestyle since birth. It's not having the freedom to choose whom to love.
Despite being born into a heartless, hard life, she remains a hopeless romantic at heart. When life becomes unbearable, she usually loses herself in the solace of her fantasy books. Sometimes, she still dares to hope for someone to love, someone who can make living this perilous life a little more bearable. It's the only way she can keep going.
So many beautiful and brilliant minds captivated her attention in college, minds that made them instantly attractive to her physically as well. Yet, she is shackled by these god-awful traditions and rules where no one cares about her intellect, her skills, or how brilliant she is with computers. No one will celebrate when she cracks an incredible code and dances with joy. All they see, is the benefit her fatherâs alliance may bring them, her seemingly untouched body and the likelihood of her producing a firstborn male heir.
The wall of her heart are painted with nightmare and yet she believes in fairytale.
She did actually try to flee the country once when she was in her Second year at University. Aside from her father, very few in The Serpents are aware of it. Using her hacking skills, she faked a passport and a plane ticket. But her father caught her at the airport, immediately brought her home, and locked her in a room for a week. He even threatened to marry her off as soon as possible, sealing her fate before she could break free.
She grovelled and cried, begging him to wait until her graduation, but there was no budging from her father. In the end, with a promise of never to try to escape again, he agreed to let her complete her degree.
A promise she made the hard way and paid for in blood. Literal blood. A life was sacrificed in exchange for two lives and her education.
Does that mean her certificates are written in blood as well? Aren't they?
2 years ago
"Khushi, come on, it's almost noon. Don't punish yourself. Eat something," Madhumati Ji, whom she called Buaji, urged. Buaji had been her caretaker since childhood. She opened the curtains of Khushi's room, flooding it with sunlight. Khushi had been sulking in her room ever since her father had brought her home from the airport a few days ago and made a deal with her. She had refused to eat anything since. At least her father got everything he wanted.
"Mr. Gupta asked you to see him in his study. He asked you to get ready. He wants to take you somewhere," Buaji said solemnly, sympathy shining in her black eyes.
Panic and irritation bubbled up in her chest. 'Please God don't let him bring me to meet Mr. Jha. I am not in the mood to tolerate his crap today.'
''It will be alright, bitiya."
After her mother had left her, Buaji made Khushi her only priority. Khushi wasnât the easiest person to be around. Some days were harder than others, but Buaji remained patient, holding her through the unbearable pain that consumed both her body and soul. Buaji had become the closest thing to a mother she had, and for that, she was deeply grateful.
The wrinkles around Buajiâs eyes seemed deeper today, and Khushi's heart twisted with guilt. She could see the fatigue weighing on her, the tension and anxiety she was causing slowly wearing her down.
She decided to take a bath before going to meet her father. In the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the warmth of the shower. As she shaved her legs, the impending meeting with her father lingered in her thoughts. What more could he possibly want from me? she wondered. Call it intuition or gut feeling, something about the meeting filled her with unease.
A sharp sting pulled her out of her thoughts. She glanced down to see blood trickling from her leg, painting the water in thin red streams as it swirled around the shower drain. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat loud in her ears as her breath caught. Grabbing the slick tile wall with trembling hands, Khushi fought to steady herself before her knees gave out.
At twenty, anyone would assume her fear of blood would have faded, but it only seemed to worsen with time. The edges of her vision darkened, threatening to pull her under. Panic rose, and in a shaky voice, she called for the one person who could help.
âBuajiâŠâ
Within seconds, the glass shower door slid open, and Buaji appeared, her face tight with worry as she took in the sight before her. The cut on Khushiâs leg was still bleeding.
âYou cut yourself, Nandkishore,â Buaji sighed, quickly shutting off the water.
âI wasnât paying attention,â Khushi managed a weak laugh. If anyone else had seen her like this, she wouldâve been mortified, but with Buaji, it felt natural. "Itâs stupid. I should have learned to overcome my fear of blood by now. You can't take care of me forever," she whispered brokenly.
Buaji cleaned and bandaged the wound with practised care. Then, wrapping Khushi in a soft towel, she cupped her face gently. Tears shimmered in both of their eyes as she whispered, âIf I donât take care of you, who will?â
Uneasiness formed in the pit of her stomach as she came face to face with her father. His expression was cold and calculated today, though it wasnât much different from his usual demeanor. He was never loving toward her. No, never, she couldnât remember a time when he had been. Buaji always said his affection was shown in his strictness. Bullshit.
"Good morning, Khushi," he said, his voice as emotionless as ever.
'Whatâs the need for this small talk?' Her uneasiness morphed into irritation as she met his cold gaze. She hated the empty pleasantries, knowing they always preceded something far worse.
But she didnât voice that. Instead, she mustered the most neutral expression she could manage and replied, ''Good morning, baba."
"Go sit in the car. I'll join you in a few minutes."
She decided to wear a simple pair of jeans and a yellow top. Yellow was her favorite color, and she hoped it might brighten her mood a little.
The drive to wherever he intended to take her was quiet, the tension between them thickening with each passing minute. Khushi sat stiffly, her fingers nervously gripping the edge of her seat as the silence pressed down on her.
She cast a fleeting glance at her father. His stern face was unreadable. His gaze was fixed ahead. Khushi swallowed the lump forming in her throat and turned her gaze out of the window. She longed for him to show some interest, some sign that he still cared, but the distance between them had grown wider than ever.
It was almost evening when they arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned dockyard. Some of his men stepped forward to greet him.
"What are we doing here?" she couldn't hold back her curiosity any longer.
When no answer came, thatâs when she heard it, a muffled sound coming from somewhere deeper within the dockyard, faint but unmistakable, like someone struggling to speak.
Her heart sank.
âWhoâs there?â she whispered, her voice trembling.
"You will see in a minutes.."
His calm demeanor only fueled her fear
making her skin crawl. When his hand
tightened around her elbow, pulling her further, she knew escape was not an option.
The muffled sounds grew louder as they approached. She saw a man tied to a chair with ropes, his mouth gagged with a piece of dirty cloth, his muffled cries barely audible, a desperate sound that pierced the eerie silence.
Disgust surged through her as she struggled against his hold. "Why do I have to watch you kill him?" she spat.
An amused chuckle escaped his lips. "So much sympathy for someone you don't even know. Besides I'm not killing him".
Relief washed over her and she took deep breath until the next two words hit her like a blow.
"You are".
A wave of nausea swept over her and her mouth went dry. She backed away. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. "What?? How?? Why?? I'm not. I won't."
She turned to run, but three men blocked her way. The first tear fell from her eye.
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "This is for your own good, Khushi. You need to complete your studies, donât you? And I want my insurance that you wonât pull any stupid stunts ever again," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
He wanted to shatter her, her morals, her heart, her dreams, everything, she held dear.
She fought to steady her breathing and faced him. "I am glad that Ma had left you, you are such a piece of shit. You didn't even spare your own daughter,'' she seethed through gritted teeth.
The sting of her words was met with the sharp slap of his hand across her cheek sending her sprawling to the ground. Groaning, she pressed her palm against her cheek to relieve the pain in her face. The metallic taste of blood coated her tongue, a sign that her lip had split open.
A gun was placed on the ground beside her by one of his goons.
"Pick it up," he commanded.
When she didnât show any intention of moving, he tried another tactic.
âPick it up or Madhumati will pay the price.â
The weight of his threat settled heavily on her, pressing down like a leaden burden.
"Or what's his name, oh.. right...NK." A surprised expression crossed her face. "What, did you really think I don't know about this best buddy of yours?"
Khushi felt like picking up the gun and shooting herself in the head. But she was a coward. Taking a shaky breath, she picked up the gun.
A life for a life, right?
A life for two lives.
Her legs trembled as she fought to stay upright. The resentment she felt for her father grew sharper with each step, and the small remnants of love she had left for him seemed to wither away.
The sight of the tied man in front of her made her stomach churn. His forehead was slick with sweat, and his eyes were rimmed with red from crying. She couldnât bear to look at him directly as she pointed the gun at him with shaking hands.
âLook at him, Khushi, don't be a coward,â her fatherâs voice cut through the air.
Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as she forced herself to look at the man again. She noticed that the front of his pants was stained dark, a sign that he had lost control. Catching his fearful gaze, she whispered, "Iâm sorry."
Her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out his pitiful groans as she pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Someone from behind her took the gun from her trembling hands before it slipped on the ground. The ringing in her ears numbed her senses.
The manâs body slumped forward, blood collecting in a pool around him.
She looked down at herself. Nothing had changed. Her yellow top was flawless, not a single spot of crimson in it.
But her hands are tinted in vivid crimson.
The nausea rolling in her stomach finally surged to the surface and she lurched forward, retching.
âTsk, tsk, tsk, Khushi, you were doing so well,â her father's disappointment was clear in his voice. âIâve videotaped the whole thing. If you try any funny stunts ever again, that video will reach the CBI, Interpol, everywhere. Theyâll hunt you down to the farthest corners of the world. And you know why? "
"Because you just killed the Additional DCP of Delhi," he added casually.
"I should thank you for eliminating my enemy for me, Khushi. That bastard was a pain in my ass, " he snickered at the body lying at their feet.
Present Day
Her heart pounds in her chest as the memory resurfaces, her breath suspended between disbelief and dread. She can still feel the weight of
the gun in her hand, the echo of the shot ringing in her ears. It wasn't supposed to go this way. She had a plan,
meticulously crafted to free herself from the chains of her father's empire. Yet, here she stands, with blood on her hands. She took a man's life at her father's command, further entangling herself in the never-ending web.
That's why she planned to take down her father first before trying to escape again. Everything was going so well this time too until all her efforts were wasted by a certain Mr. Raizada forcefully thrusting himself into her life.
'Of all the things you could buy with your millions, why did you have to buy my freedom, Mr. Raizada?' Khushi clutches her hair, feeling the onset of a headache.
The ringing of her phone pulls her out of her thoughts. An unknown number flashes on the screen.
She swipes to answer, "Hello?"
"Is this Khushi Sen Gupta?" a hushed voice responds from the other side.
"Yes, who is this?"
"You donât know me, but I have the information you need."
Her brow furrows. "What information?"
"Youâve been asking around campus about NK. Do you still want to know about him?"
"Yes."
"Then meet me at the location I text you. And, Miss Gupta, bring 50 thousand in cash." The line abruptly cuts off.
What the hell?!
Khushi stares at the phone, her mind spinning. Fifty thousand? For information on NK? Her heart pounds as anxiety creeps into her chest. What is this? A scam? A trap?
She clenches the phone tighter in her fist, a bitter taste forming in her mouth. Whoever this is, they clearly know she is desperate.
Her mind races as she paces the room, her thoughts colliding with each other. Should she even go? Can she trust this faceless voice?
The anger that has been simmering beneath the surface boils over. She isnât going to be played like this. But at the same time, she needs answers. What if NK isnât an Eagle spy, as she suspected earlier? What if he is in trouble because of his association with her or worse, what if his life is in danger? This might be her only opportunity to uncover the truth and potentially save him.
Khushi tosses the phone onto the bed and runs her fingers through her hair in frustration. She is caught between fear and determination, but one thing is clear. She isnât going to sit idle.
The message comes through a few moments later, a location in a part of town she barely knows. Her stomach twists, but she has already made up her mind.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you found this story enjoyable. Share your thoughts in the comments. Was the trigger too much?
- ( The song of the Chapter is "Toxic" by Britney Spears x 2WEI cover)
Khushi discreetly observes Arnav Singh Raizada, her gaze flickering toward him every so often, waiting for him to do something, anything, besides idly chatting with people with that perpetual air of disinterest clinging to him. Every so often, she glances around the room, scanning the partygoers to ensure no one has suspected her. Finally, after staying close to Senior Rathore's side with a dark, brooding expression on his handsome face, he finally separates himself.
Khushi watches him glide through the crowd, his every movement smooth and deliberate, as if the very air parted to make way for him. She notices the way the women steal glances, their eyes trailing him with a mix of awe and desire. The subtle power in his stride and the cool, detached glint in his eyes seem to stir something deep within them, drawing them in like moths to a flame.
Khushi sighs, half in annoyance and half in frustration.
Arnav Singh Raizada is a sexy motherfucker. And he knows it. The slight tilt of the corner of his lips reveals his secret.
He is a force impossible to resist when it comes to the opposite sex and Khushi is far too warm-blooded to pretend otherwise. There is an undeniable charisma about him, a quiet yet devastating allure that can make hearts skip a beat and breaths falter. But not hers. Her heart is made of steel.
She weighs her options, either approach him in the open or wait until she can catch him alone. The decision comes in a heartbeat and she chooses the latter. Confronting him in public is too risky. It means not only her death sentence but also a war between the two families.
A vicious, never-ending and bloody mob war.
To avoid that from happening, she has done meticulous research and careful stalking since the beginning. To avoid getting caught, she secured a fake invitation to the party. She convinced her father and her bodyguards that she was in her dorm, spending one last night with her friends. And then She slipped past her security personnel standing guard outside her dorm and made her way to the event unnoticed.
All for this man.
Thinking of how Mr. Raizada has orchestrated everything with Theshadowmonster makes her blood boil. Oh yes, removing his existence from this earth won't be a problem. The urge grows stronger each time she thinks of that vile bastard of a hacker and his associates.
She has basic self-defence training and knows how to handle a knife. So, even if Mr. Raizada manages to overpower her, she is confident that she can at least put up a decent fight.
She spots him heading toward the parking lot. Mr. Raizada, surprisingly, has no bodyguard or driver and always drives his car himself. It is quite gutsy of him, actually.
Lucky for her, a man stops him in his tracks, giving her a few precious moments to catch up unnoticed.
It's showtime.
Oh God, oh God, it's happening.
Khushi takes a few rapid breaths through her mouth to calm herself.
Come on, Khushi. You can do this. You can do this. YOU HAVE TO DO THIS.
She puts her glass down on a nearby table and quietly makes her way toward the parking lot as well. Her dark dress ensures she won't stand out. As she steps further down the path, the sounds of the party fade behind her, casting the surroundings into an eerie silence. The isolation grows with each step, swallowing her into the night. She looks around the parking lot, trying to spot his car.
A sleek black Mercedes-Benz GLE.
DL. 04. EF. 1001
That's his car.
Khushi retrieves a bobby pin from her hair to open the trunk, taking care not to set off the alarm, and quietly slips inside.
The duration of the car ride from the party to his house is excruciating. Her heart beats so fast that she fears he might actually hear it. After what seems like eons, though it's probably just a few minutes, the car finally stops, and she hears the beeping of his security system. And then, total silence.
She carefully slips out of the trunk and finds herself in a garage. Moving toward the security device, she attaches it to her phone to crack the code. The system unlocks with surprising ease, planting a seed of doubt in her mind, but she quickly brushes it aside.
She peeks inside the house, quietly shutting the door behind her. It's a stylish two-story house and she doesn't even know where in Delhi it is.
Oh God, am I going to die here? He wouldn't even have to try hard to hide my body!
"Think positive, Khushi, think positive." she chides herself.
A staircase to her left ascends to the first floor of the house. The entire space is shrouded in darkness, save for the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the tall glass windows. She spots the faint shadow of Mr. Raizada's tall, broad figure moving leisurely up the stairs. He appears engrossed in his thoughts, his steps slow and heavy, as if his legs were weighed down with lead.
She quietly slips off her heels, picking them up to avoid making any noise. Damn, wearing heels was a mistake, but the dress would have looked awful with her sneakers.
Swallowing hard, she climbs up. Her heart pounds heavily in her chest.
Upon reaching the first floor, she notices a door with a faint stream of light spilling out from underneath. Tiptoeing toward the door, she pulls a knife from its hidden place. She reaches for the doorknob, twisting it quietly, and looks around the semi-dark room.
It is huge and surprisingly empty. A small bedside lamp casts a dim glow over the room.
With a puzzled expression, she steps inside. Before she has a chance to survey the room, a door on the opposite side suddenly swings open. Dropping her heels in a corner, she quickly hides behind a large plant near the door. She watches as Mr. Raizada emerges, casually tossing his suit jacket onto the bed.
She glimpses how the black shirt stretches taut across the broad expanse of his chest. A very muscular chest. She bets on her MacBook Pro that he has abs, too.
Her breath catches in her chest as she watches him fold the sleeves up his forearms.
Holy fucking shit.
His forearm veins.
A tattoo peeking underneath his sleeves.
How many tattoos does this guy have?
She hates herself for admiring him, but like before she can't deny that Mr. Raizada is a very, very attractive man. Too bad he's an asshole and a bastard.
There's a sage green chaise in the center of the room. He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins scrolling through the screen. As he sits on the chaise with his back to her, his focus is completely invested in whatever he is looking at. She slowly comes out from her hiding spot. It's now or never.
Her hand trembles slightly as she grips the knife with all her strength, her knuckles turning white under the pressure. She creeps forward, barely daring to breathe for fear of alerting him. Just two steps away, she presses the blade to his back, right above where his heart should be, and speaks in the coldest, meanest voice she can summon.
"Don't move or I'll kill you."
She notices the muscles in his back tense gradually, one by one, even before she speaks.
"Interesting," he states evenly, as if his life weren't just mere inches away in her trembling hands. She steadies her grip. "A knife? Really? Are you flirting with me?"
"Put your hands up where I can see them," She gulps, gliding her tongue over her dry lips. She is scared shitless but managed to keep the tremble in her voice at bay.
"Since I'm not dead yet, I assume you want something," he responds in a surprisingly calm voice. His impassive demeanor does nothing to ease her nerves. Why isn't he bothered even a little bit? What is she missing?
Sweat breaks out on the back of her neck, sliding down along her spine. Pulling the second knife from her other thigh, she presses it against his side, aiming at his spleen this time. Yes, she has learned all about vital body parts.
"What do you want?" he asks nonchalantly in his unwavering tone.
"The information you bought from TheShadowMonster."
"Shadow who?"
Khushi presses her blades a little deeper in warning. "Don't play dumb, Mr. Raizada. I know all about your dealings with TheShadowMonster." She swallows hard. "Now, where have you stored the information?"
"My jacket. Inner pocket. There's a pendrive."
Her eyebrows scrunch in surprise and confusion. She didn't expect him to yield so readily. Perhaps the rumors about him are just rumors, excessively exaggerated shit.
She glances at his black jacket, and in that split second of distraction, everything is changed.
Her back slams into the wall nearby. Her right hand is pinned above her head, restrained by a powerful grip, as the knife slips away from her grasp. Her left hand, still holding her knife, is pressed against her own throat, controlled by a much stronger, much angrier opponent. She feels his muscular body pressed against hers, his warm chest flush with her heaving breasts. The woody scent of his cologne invades her senses as his legs restrain hers from both sides, rendering her completely immobile. It might have fascinated her if she weren't so terrified.
Damn it, she is so not ready to die yet. She is not ready for this. No, not at all. She is completely and utterly unprepared. Feeling her heart in her throat, she inhales sharply.
Her eyes catch his Adam's apple.
Huh, that's one very nice and very sexy Adam's apple.
She squeezes her eyes shut, instantly regretting her train of thought.
You little slut, stop gushing over his Adam's apple. You are minutes away from dying.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't a little snake."
His voice washes over her, disrupting her internal monologue. It is pure sin. Poison and sin mixed together. It glides over her skin, seeping into her pores.
Her nipples harden under the dress. She is not wearing a bra, as the dress doesn't allow for one. She hopes against all hope that he doesn't feel them. Damn him for having this kind of effect on her. Damn her for reacting to him like this.
"Cat got your tongue, Miss Gupta. Isn't The Viper keeping you satisfied that you had to come to me?"
She snaps her eyes open, coming to look at his very pissed-off dark eyes. He taunts her by raising a daunting eyebrow.
'Fuck, he recognized me.' Khushi curses internally, then curses again as she realizes that she has said it out loud.
"Did you really think a flimsy mask like that would hide your identity from me, little snake?"
He drags the tip of the knife along her cheek and swiftly cuts one of the strings holding the mask in place. The mask falls from her face, leaving her bare before him. Her stomach flutters, doing somersaults inside her.
Despite that, she straightens her spine. If she has to die, she isn't going to do so like a coward, especially not at the hands of an enemy.
"I am not a snake," she sneers at him.
Khushi wishes she hadn't watched in rapt attention as his lips stretched into a mocking smirk. But alas! she did! Unabashedly. Like the brazen woman she has turned into today.
Did I leave my brain at home?
His smirk stretches further. He wears that smirk like a loaded gun.
Halfway a smile, halfway a threat.
"Sweetheart, Aren't you the viper's fiancee? Since when humans are marrying snakes?"
Her blood boils with maddening rage. She looks at him with all the hatred and contempt she can muster in her eyes.
"I am not your sweetheart!"
"Would you like it if I call you 'Bitterheart' then? You are a snake, after all."
How can a person be so infuriating!!
She feels like her skin is set on fire from the rage, irritation, and vitriol of hate she is experiencing.
"Stop calling me stupid names!!"
His voice grows increasingly menacing with every word he utters, as he speaks through his teeth. "In my house, in my territory, I'll call you whatever I want. If you have any preferences, ask nicely, preferably on your knees."
"Fuck you!!"
"You wish."
Whoever said that The Vulture didn't play with its prey was a liar. He is enjoying it a little too much.
He leans in, his face mere inches from hers. His eyes are cold and his voice carries a calm ruthlessness. Her breath catches in her throat.
"This spot, right here," he says quietly, pressing the tip of the knife just under her jaw. "A small cut and you'll be dead before you even blink."
Her stomach churns, but she grits her teeth, determined not to show her fear as she listens silently. He moves the knife near the center of her neck. ''And this spot...You'll die but it will be messy."
Her heart pounds, her palms sweating under his intense gaze. He shifts the knife to her fluttering pulse. ''And this...Do you know what will happen if I cut you here?"
Khushi stays silent, her eyes locked on him. His voice is taunting, almost sensual, with the promise of death, "You'll experience intense pain," he continues. "You'll bleed out, feeling every single drop of blood leaving your body.''
His voice slides over her skin, causing goosebumps to erupt all over her body. "Death will come, but only after a long, excruciating wait."
He holds the knife steady and asks in his chilling tone. "Now, if you don't want that to be your fate, tell me why are you here?"
"I already told you why I'm here. I need that information back," she replies wetting her lips.
"What information?"
Her eyes don't miss how his gaze zones in on her lips as she speaks.
"The information the bastard of a hacker stole from me. It contains various pieces of evidence against the crimes Mr. Jha and the Serpents committed. I know he sold them to you. I want them back. I worked day and night to collect all of them."
She opens her mouth to ask him to move the knife when there is a knock on the door. Khushi yelps in surprise. He releases her hand from above her head, swiftly covering her mouth with his now-free hand.
Seriously? What did he think I would do? Scream for help?
"Sir? I just wanted to check on you. Someone hacked our security system. Are you okay?"
He had guards outside? I didn't see any.
He narrows her eyes at her. One of his eyebrows rises as he responds, "I am fine."
They hear the footsteps fading away, and after a few seconds, he removes his hand from her mouth, but his body doesn't budge.
"Would you mind removing the knife?" she asks quietly.
His raised eyebrow arches even higher as he leans closer once more, the knife never shifting from its position. "You should have known better than to enter the house of your enemy alone and unprotected."
Khushi clenches her jaw, "I want the information back."
He remains silent for a moment, then steps back, releasing her, but taking the knife from her grip. "Coming here was not a wise decision, Miss Gupta," he says as if nothing happened, while examining the knife. "Had my people found you first, you'd be dead by now. If your people find out later, the outcome will still be the same. Do you have a death wish or do you want to start a war?"
"Aren't you a hypocrite, Mr. Raizada? Did you not consider the possibility of a war when you bought the information that belonged to me?"
She takes a deep breath, trying to reason with him. "Look, just give me the information and I'll be on my way. Nobody needs to know."
A heavy silence hangs in the air, stretching on as his eyes assess her, making her squirm under his scrutiny. After what feels like an eternity, he finally opens his mouth, extending the knife toward her, "Get out of here before I call someone to escort you out. I'm having a quiet night after months, and the last thing I want is to clean up your blood."
She sighs as she takes the knife from him. She is not above begging at this point. She was ready to end a life, requesting for the information seems like much less of an evil."Please."
For the first time, she sees something else flickered in his icy cold, caramel-brown orbs. He crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head to look at her. "My manager will drive you home."
Nodding, she accepts the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth. Slipping on her heels, she heads toward the door. She feels his eyes on her back the entire time.
"Miss Gupta?"
She turns her head to look back at him. Her heart skips a beat as she sees the glimmer in his eyes.
"So much for having a steel heart", she berated herself.
He holds her with a piercing gaze for a long moment before speaking."You owe me."
"Excuse me?"
"You owe me," he repeats patiently.
"What the hell for?"
"For your life," he replies, completely unfazed and unbothered, as his steady, unnerving gaze remains fixed on her, making her fidgety with each passing second. "Anyone else but me and you would be dead by now."
Khushi blinks, trying hard not to let her confusion show on her face, as she notices the twitch of his lips despite the intensity of his gaze. A look beyond her understanding descends into his dark eyes.
"I'm no gentleman to give you a free pass," he adds quietly. "You are in my debt, Miss Gupta."
He takes a slow, deliberate step toward her. Her hand grips the door knob tightly, ready to bolt at any second, but she can't move, trapped in place as his eyes bore into her. Her back presses flat against the door. He places one hand beside her head and leans in. His breath dances over her face, taking control over her senses.
Mint and wine.
Intoxicating and unsettling.
A prey is ensnared in the wave of a predator, with nowhere left to escape.
And he murmurs, "And I will collect it one day."
Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Your support means the world, drop a comment and let me know what you think. More excitement coming soon!
P.S. Khushi's inner voice was expressed like this. Hi, I am Khushi.
And the conversations were expressed like this. "You are my little snake, Khushi," he said looking deep into my eyes. đ€Łđ€Ł
Thought I would clear that so there won't be any confusion.
As the train approached Gandhinagar, Khushi adjusted her uniform with meticulous care, though her thoughts were far from the mission. The cold metal of her badges reflected in the window, but the woman in the glass felt distantâmore a symbol of duty than the girl who had once dreamed beneath a sky full of stars. She touched the corner of her beret, but her fingers trembled ever so slightly. It was not fear that gripped her, but a weight, a familiar ache that she carried like an old scar.
His memories stirred something deep inside her, something she thought she had buried long ago. He had once been the light that lifted her above the mundanity of her world, the one person who had seen her as more than a daughter, more than a girl meant to follow the well-trodden path laid out for her by her parents. Their conversations had felt like an escape, a flight to a place where expectations didnât weigh so heavily. But that chapter had endedâabruptly, painfullyâand the memories of it now lingered in her soul like an unhealed wound.
Beside her, six year old, Zoya, the young daughter of a fellow traveler, sat, her wide-eyed fascination lingering on the medals pinned to Khushi's chest. The girlâs tiny fingers brushed over the metal with awe, as if they held secrets to a world she could only imagine. Zoya had been asking questions since they boarded the train, her innocent curiosity a welcome distraction from Khushiâs restless thoughts. But as the questions continued, Khushi began to feel the weight of them, as if Zoyaâs words were drawing her back to parts of herself she had tried to bury.
âDidi, do you ever get scared?â Zoyaâs innocent question sliced through Khushiâs reverie.
The words echoed in her mind, bouncing between the girl she had been and the woman she had become. Scared? Terrifiedânot of the missions or the dangers that lay ahead, but of the parts of her she could never truly escape. The ache she felt when she thought of Amma, the silences that still hung between them, heavy with disappointment and unmet expectations. The unresolved heartache that always reawakened when she thought of him.
Khushi forced a gentle smile, though it didnât quite reach her eyes. âWe all get scared sometimes, Zoya.â
Zoya, wide-eyed and curious, tilted her head. âBut you look like nothing can hurt you.â
That was when it struck her: Zoya, with her childlike wonder, saw Khushi the way Khushi wished she could see herselfâstrong, unbreakable, untouched by the past. Khushiâs chest tightened. If only the uniform could protect her from the things that had already hurt herâfrom the unsaid words with Amma, from the conversations with Appa that were always about what she should be, from the memories of a love that had felt like freedom but had ended in silence. She had learned to appear brave, to wear her strength like the medals pinned to her chest, but inside, the war was far more personal.
Zoya's innocence, her relentless curiosity, was like a mirror reflecting back the cracks in Khushiâs armor. She wanted to be brave for Zoya, to be the image of strength the little girl saw in her. But inside, the restless ache gnawed at her, the one that came from memories of home.
Home. The thought of it made Khushiâs chest feel heavy. Amma had never been one to show affection openly. Their relationship had always been strained, fraught with unspoken burdens. Khushi couldnât help but wonder if in some twisted way, every step she took away from home seemed to lead her back to it.
Zoya interrupted her thoughts again, her voice sweet but persistent. âDid your Amma teach you to be brave?â
Khushiâs throat tightened, and she hesitated before answering. âShe taught me many things.â
It wasnât a lie. Amma had taught her strength, but it was the kind that came from surviving, from enduring the things you couldnât control. But bravery? That was something Khushi had learned on her ownâby walking away, by choosing a life that Appa had wanted for her.
âDo you miss her?â Zoyaâs innocent question landed like a stone in Khushiâs chest.
Miss her? Khushi wasnât sure if that was the right word. She missed the idea of her motherâthe one who might have offered warmth, a hand to hold when things got difficult. But the reality was different. Their conversations, when they happened, were strained, like two people talking across an unbridgeable chasm.Â
Still, Zoyaâs wide, expectant eyes waited for an answer. Khushi exhaled, forcing her voice to stay steady. âSometimes.â
The little girl seemed satisfied with that, though Khushi felt a wave of something dark and unnameable roll over her. She turned her gaze back to the window, watching as the landscape blurred past, the colors of the desert slowly waking with the dawn.
In the quiet moments between Zoyaâs chatter, Khushi felt the familiar restlessness stir in her chest. The trainâs slow rhythm was like a heartbeat, steady but heavy. It mirrored the weight of the past she carriedâof the loss she didnât speak of and the connection with Amma that had always felt just out of reach.
She felt caught between worlds, much like the landscape outsideâbetween the beauty of the desert sunrise and the harshness of the barren earth below. Between the duty she had sworn to uphold and the quiet longing she carried inside her, a longing that seemed to have no home.
Zoyaâs voice brought her back once more. âDidi, will you come back after your mission? Will you see your Amma again?â
Khushi paused, the question lingering like a challenge. Would she? She had spent so much time runningâfrom home, from the obligations that felt like chains, from the unspoken words between her and Amma. But there was always a pull, a thread she couldnât sever, no matter how far she went.
âI donât know,â Khushi said finally, her voice soft. âMaybe.â
Zoya, with her childlike wisdom, nodded as if that answer made perfect sense. She snuggled into her seat, content for the moment, leaving Khushi alone with her thoughts once more.
As the train slowed, signaling their arrival at Gandhinagar, Khushi steeled herself for the day ahead. The mission was straightforward, but the emotions swirling inside her were anything but. The uniform, the dutiesâit all felt distant, as if she were playing a role that didnât quite fit anymore.
But as she sighed, Khushi caught Zoyaâs gaze once more. The little girl smiled at her, full of admiration and innocence. And for a brief moment, Khushi allowed herself to smile back, a soft, fleeting smile that held the weight of everything she couldnât say.
Khushi realized that Zoyaâs presence wasnât just a distraction. It was a reminder. A reminder of the innocence she had lost, and the bravery she had learned, not from being fearless, but from facing the fears that still lingered in her heart.
She stared blankly at the screen, her thoughts still lingering on the conversation at home. Why canât it ever be simple? She sighed, rubbing her temples. Chikkamma didnât like her muchâKhushi knew that. Yet, somehow, there was always a plate of neer dosa waiting for her. It was Chikkammaâs way of trying, even if her words were sharp. The thought of it made Khushi smile, despite the exhaustion weighing on her heart. She hadnât wanted today to be another one of those days. But it was.
As she leaned forward to rest her chin on her hands, the ICQ beeped, breaking the silence of her thoughts. A message flashed across the screen from her mysterious online friend.
Skybound: Uh-oh, has my Cinderella fallen asleep on me again? Do I need to kiss the screen to wake you up?
Khushiâs lips twitched into a smile, her fingers hovering over the keyboard before she started typing.
OceanBreeze: No need for the kiss, but I may have lost my glass slipper somewhere between the neer dosas and Chikkammaâs lectures.
The banter between them had always been easy, like the wind tugging at a kite, pulling her away from her world for a few moments. Even though theyâd never met in person, this connection felt like the light she needed on her darkest days. He sometimes called her Cinderellaâa nickname that seemed to fit more than she wanted to admit.
Skybound: Neer dosa AND lectures? Wow, living the high life, arenât you? Is Chikkamma secretly a fairy godmother in disguise?
Khushi let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes at the screen.
OceanBreeze: If she is, I want a refund. All sheâs given me is extra chores and the âbe more like your motherâ speech.
Her smile faded slightly as she typed the last part. She paused for a second, staring at the blinking cursor before Skyboundâs reply popped up.
Skybound: Ah, the infamous âbe like your motherâ spell. One of the most dangerous in the book. Lucky for you, Iâm a certified spell-breaker. Iâll send my magic broomstick over if you need rescuing.
Khushi couldnât help but laugh out loud this time. She loved how he made her feel light, even when the world seemed so heavy. She typed quickly, her fingers flying over the keys as if eager to continue this little escape.
OceanBreeze: Broomstick? Please, Iâm more of a pumpkin carriage kind of girl. Donât downgrade me.
His reply was instant.
Skybound: Pumpkin carriages are overrated. Broomsticks are faster. Plus, I figure with all the neer dosa youâve been eating, youâll need the extra speed.
OceanBreeze: Excuse me, neer dosa is a delicacy. Iâm practically weightless.
Skybound: Sure, sure. I suppose youâre going to tell me youâre an actual princess now too?
She grinned, feeling the tension slip away even more as she leaned back in her chair. The knots in her chest loosened with each reply, and for the first time that day, the shadows that had lingered over her heart began to recede.
OceanBreeze: Obviously. Didnât you get the memo? Princess by day, neer dosa connoisseur by night.
Skybound: I knew it! I should get your autograph when we meet. Do you make royal visits, or is that too much to ask?
Khushiâs fingers hesitated over the keyboard as she read the words. When we meet. The thought tugged at her, stirring something deeper inside herâa mix of anticipation and nervousness. They had been chatting for months now, and yet, there had been no talk of meeting in real life. Part of her liked the mystery, the distance. But another partâŠanother part wondered what it would be like to see him, to hear his voice. Would he be as charming as he seemed online? Would she laugh this easily in person?
Would he like the real her?
She shook her head, pushing the thought away. This was enough. This was safe.
OceanBreeze: Only for special occasions. Youâve been mostly tolerable, so I might make an exception.
Skybound: Tolerable? Iâve been downright charming. Admit it, Iâm the best thing to happen to you since neer dosa.
Khushi smirked at the screen, shaking her head. He was right, of courseâthese chats were the highlight of her week, even if she wouldnât admit it.
OceanBreeze: Hmm, you might be right. But the juryâs still out.
Skybound: Victory! Now, back to the important stuff. Whatâs your plan for tonight? More lectures from the royal council?
OceanBreeze: Iâm free for now. Thanks to you. Who knew a pumpkin carriage could be so useful?
Skybound: Youâre welcome, Princess. Anytime you need rescuing, just say the word. Iâll be there with my broomstick.
Khushi closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply as her heart lightened. The day had been long, and her thoughts still swirled with the weight of her family, but for now, in this little corner of the world, she was laughing. She was free.
OceanBreeze: Deal. Just promise not to turn me into a pumpkin at midnight.
Skybound: No promises. But Iâll do my best.
With a sigh of contentment, Khushi leaned back in her chair, smiling as their conversation continued. In this chatroom, with her Skybound, she wasnât the girl caught between Ammaâs grief and Chikkammaâs subtle disapproval. She was just a girl, laughing, joking, and escaping into a world where anythingâpumpkin carriages, broomsticks, and magicâfelt possible.
She drummed her fingers on the desk, glancing at the timer on the computer screenâ50 minutes left of her prepaid hour. Anytime now, she thought, the minutes ticking louder in her mind.Â
She leaned forward in her chair, squinting at the glowing screen. They had a rhythm, she and Skybound. He always showed up five minutes after her, like clockwork. And today, just as expected there it wasâthe familiar sound she had been waiting for, the uh-oh of ICQ, signaling a new message. The chat room opened, and a message blinked at her from an anonymous familiar visitor. No names exchanged.. Just conversation. A secret she indulged in every week.
She smiled. This stranger was becoming her favorite part of the week.
Skybound: Back again, I see. Couldnât resist the allure of my charming personality, could you?
Khushi bit back a smile, fingers flying across the keyboard.
OceanBreeze:Oh, donât flatter yourself. I just needed a distraction from my boring life. Figured I can use a laugh.
There was a pause, the cursor blinking as she waited for his reply. All she knew was that he was from somewhere up north, but beyond that, he was a mystery. And it didnât matterâthis was the one place where she didnât need to explain herself or carry the weight of everything happening in the real world.
Skybound: A laugh? Iâm always here to serve. Need me to trip over something?
OceanBreeze: Three sisters? Youâre living in a circus, not a house!
Skybound: You have no idea. They run my life. I just exist in their kingdom, like a court jester trying not to get fired.
OceanBreeze: Well, for what itâs worth, I think youâre holding your own pretty well. three sisters and a sense of humor? You must be some kind of superhero.
Skybound: Iâll take that as a compliment. But you â appears no siblings at all? Seems a bit too quiet. Doesnât it get lonely? You can certainly have some of mine, free trial.
Khushi paused for a moment, the cursor blinking at her. Lonely. It wasnât something she thought about often, but there was a truth in the word that made her pause. She brushed it off, typing quickly before the feeling settled in.
OceanBreeze: Sounds like a good trade to me! How about you take my Chikkamma for a week, and Iâll take your sisters?
Skybound: Deal! But I warn you, they might try to turn you into their personal doll. Are you ready for glitter and fashion critiques?
OceanBreeze: As long as I get out of the cooking lectures, Iâm game!
Skybound: Just remember, once you step into their world, thereâs no escape. I might be the handsome prince, but Iâm still trapped in their castle!
Khushi laughed, shaking her head. She could almost picture him nowâsome guy with an easy grin, confident in a way that wasnât obnoxious but just enough to make her wonder.
OceanBreeze: And here I thought you were living the glamorous life.
Skybound: Glamorous? Me? Ha. My lifeâs a mix of tea breaks and avoiding household chores. But hey, itâs a peaceful existence.
OceanBreeze: Tea and avoiding chores sounds a lot like heaven to me right now.
Skybound: Oh yeah? Whatâs got you running from home today?
OceanBreeze: Same old. Amma wants me to be more responsible, Appa wants me to study harder..
The cursor blinked as she pressed send. Skybound's reply came swiftly.
Skybound: Ah, the classic. Well, if it makes you feel any better, Iâm supposed to be peeling vegetables right now.
Khushi could imagine it nowâthis mysterious boy somewhere in a bustling household, juggling demands from three sisters while plotting his own small rebellions. It felt surreal, talking to someone sheâd never seen but could picture so clearly in her mind.
OceanBreeze: I knew it! The glamorous life. Next thing youâll tell me is youâre also a master chef.
Skybound: Nope. But I can manage pretty decent pakoras without setting the kitchen on fire. Does that count?
OceanBreeze: Impressive. A man of many talents.
Skybound: What can I say? I aim to surprise. But what about you? Any secret talents?
OceanBreeze: Hah. I wish. Mostly Iâm just trying to survive the week without upsetting Amma and Chikkama.
Skybound: Well, you made it here. Thatâs gotta count for something. Plus, youâve got me for company. Thatâs a win, right?
Khushiâs smile softened. His words wrapped around her like a warm blanket, easing the tension in her shoulders. He had no idea how much she needed this, this simple escape into lighthearted banter, a world where she didnât have to carry the weight of her familyâs expectations.
OceanBreeze: Yeah. I guess thatâs something. Your simple life sounds like the kind of escape I need.
Skybound: Who knew avoiding chores could be so inspiring? You should try it sometime.
OceanBreeze: Maybe I will. But for now, Iâll just live vicariously through your peaceful existence.
Skybound: My peaceful existence is here for your entertainment, any time.
She laughed again, the sound softer this time. There was something about himâhis mix of devilish charm and simplicityâthat made her feel lighter, like the weight she carried wasnât so heavy when they talked.
OceanBreeze: Thanks for that. You have no idea how much I needed this tonight.
Skybound: Youâre welcome. Anytime you need a break from your perfect-daughter-niece duties, you know where to find me.
OceanBreeze: Iâll hold you to that.
There was a comfort in their banter, a lightness that made Khushi forget the weight of the day. She didnât know his name, or anything about him beyond these fragments, but it didnât matter. In this space, she didnât need to. It was like slipping into another world, where nothing mattered except the words on the screen and the connection they formed.
Skybound:Well, stranger, until next time, then?
Khushi smiled, her fingers tapping lightly on the keys as she sent her final message.
OceanBreeze: Until next time.
Khushi smiled, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Talking to Skybound felt like slipping into a different world, one where she didnât have to pretend, didnât have to hold back. Maybe thatâs why, after all these months, she hadnât asked for his name or shared hers. It was safer this wayâletting him remain a mystery, just like she was to him. And yet, week after week, she returned. She couldnât quite explain why, but something about him made her feel understood in a way that no one else did.
The restlessness had woven itself into the fabric of Khushiâs life, as natural as the air she breathed, though far heavier. It tethered her to a past she couldn't abandon, a place she couldnât leave even if she wanted to. There was something about the acheâit was more than pain now, it was a kind of melody, bittersweet but familiar, the only song she had left that reminded her of the one she had lost. Some wounds stayed open, unhealed, not out of cruelty but out of necessity. They kept you connected, even as they tore you apart. Perhaps that was the nature of grief, an endless, spiraling labyrinth where she chose to dwell.
Outside the window, the desert of Kutch stretched, endless, vast, and shifting. The first light of dawn played tricks on the sands, turning them into a living tapestry of golds and oranges, shadows dancing as if in some private symphony. The world felt alive in its quiet, a pulse beneath the stillness. And yet, inside her, there was no such harmony. The air was thick, humid, pressing against her skin, as if the desert held its breath, waiting for something to change.
The trainâs slow, rhythmic hum was a kind of lullaby, pulling her away from her thoughts, but only slightly. She sat up in her berth, brushing the remnants of a restless night from her eyes, when a small voice, full of youthful enthusiasm, broke the silence.
âJiji, youâre awake? Would you like some tea?â
Khushi turned, her gaze falling on the small boy standing by her seat, his face eager and bright against the muted colors of the dawn. He looked out of place in his oversized brown shirt, but there was something in his wide eyes, an innocence, a confidence that made her pause. There he stood, balancing metal cans full of tea on his thin waist as though he were carrying the finest treasures.
She blinked away her thoughts, offering a faint smile that barely reached her eyes. âTea?â
The boy nodded, his dimples deepening, his excitement contagious. âYes, Jiji! The best tea from Bengal. Spices so good, youâll never forget it. Youâll dream of it for the rest of your life.â
Her smile tugged a little more at the edges this time. âIs that so? And whatâs your name, young tea master?â
âBabu!â he announced with pride, puffing up his small chest. âAnd todayâs tea is special. My grandmother put her magic in it. She said whoever drinks it will have a very lucky day.â
Khushiâs eyes softened, a flicker of warmth easing the tension in her chest. Magic. It seemed almost absurd in the heavy air of this waking desert, yet here was this child, full of certainty that something as simple as tea could transform the world. She envied him, that belief.
âWhat kind of magic does your grandmother put in this tea, Babu?â she asked, her tone light but curious.
Babu leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. âIt makes your wishes come true. But only if you wish with all your heart. Greedy hearts get nothing.â
For a moment, Khushi let herself be carried by his imagination. âThatâs a lot of power for one cup of tea,â she said, her voice carrying a soft edge of amusement. âWhat if I wish for too much?â
Babu shook his head solemnly, as if this were the most important lesson. âYou canât, Jiji. You can only wish for whatâs true. The tea knows.â
Khushi chuckled softly, more to herself than to him. âThen Iâll have to be very careful.â
She handed him a few coins, and in return, Babu poured her a cup of the magic tea with a flourish. The aroma of cinnamon and cardamom curled through the air, a familiar warmth against the coolness of the morning. She wrapped her hands around the cup, feeling the heat seep into her fingers, into her bones. As she took her first sip, something inside her eased, though she knew it wasnât the tea itselfâit was the purity of this moment, the innocence of this exchange.
âThank you, Babu,â she said softly, watching him grin before darting down the aisle, his cans clinking together like a melody of their own.
Alone again, Khushi held the cup close, staring out at the expanse of desert beyond the window. Babuâs words echoed in her mind. Wishes could come true, but only if your heart was in the right place. But what if your heart was too heavy, too tangled in the past to even know what it truly wanted?
The tea was warm, but it wasnât enough to melt the cold that had settled around her heart. She took another sip, letting the bitterness mix with the spices, and allowed herself to drift back to the voice she could never fully escapeâher Appaâs voice, distant but ever-present, a shadow that lingered just on the edge of her thoughts.
âKhushi, this... this is what you were meant for. Youâve always been the one to carry what couldn't be.â
The words had come like a chain, wrapping around her heart, pulling her into a life she hadnât chosen but couldnât deny. Even now, years later, they still held her, anchored to expectations she could never fully meet, but could never abandon. In the quiet moments like this, when dawn was just beginning and the world felt on the edge of something new, Khushi would feel the pull of that burden more sharply. It was an unspoken weight, a constant companion to her restlessness.
She closed her eyes, the trainâs gentle rocking lulling her, the sound of the wheels against the tracks an endless repetition of all the thoughts she couldnât silence. She had done what was expected of her, always. And yet, what had it cost her? The ache she carried now, the longing that never seemed to leaveâit was all bound up in that duty, in the sacrifice she had made without ever being asked.
But Babuâs innocent promise lingered. It makes your wishes come true. Could there be room for her own wishes in this world of duty and expectation? Could she even name a wish if she tried?
Khushi sighed, sinking back into her seat. The sun was higher now, casting long, golden shadows across the sands. The world outside was waking, the hawkers' voices beginning to echo through the compartment, yet the stillness inside her remained. She took one last sip of the tea, its warmth a fleeting comfort against the deeper cold.
Perhaps Babuâs grandmother had indeed put magic in the tea. But Khushi knew better than to believe in magic. Wishes, after all, werenât for people like her.
Miles of dark pathways stretched endlessly, the rhythmic hum of the Karnavati Express merging with the quiet murmurs of the night. Even the cattle resting on the fields seemed undisturbed, lulled by the gentle rumble passing through the dusk. Khushi lay on her berth, her gaze drifting out the small train window. It was a cloudy night, but she searched for her starâthe one she always looked for, the one that never let the darkness swallow it whole.
Yet tonight, the sky held no answers. No familiar flicker greeted her. Perhaps her star, always bright in the southern skies of Karnataka, was hidden here in the northern peninsula. There was an eerie quietness outside, the kind that pressed into her thoughts, forcing her to listen. The air was thick with humidity, a dampness that clung to her skin, soothing the dryness she had felt traveling through the arid lands of Kutch. It was a strange comfort, one she hadnât expected.
But still, her star eluded her.
The stillness of the night became a soundboard for the thoughts that drifted in uninvited, stirring beneath her calm exterior. Her heart felt heavier than usual tonight, weighed down by an invisible burden she couldnât quite name. Maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was something moreâa longing, a quiet ache, the kind that only surfaces when the world around you slows down enough to let you feel it.
She let out a soft breath, her fingers tracing the cool metal edge of the window. Perhaps the quiet was welcome after all, a gentle reminder that even in the midst of motion, there are moments where everything stops. Just for a while.
She didnât know when she slipped into the quiet depths of sleep, the gentle sway of the train rocking her into oblivion. But tonight, in the shadows of her dreams, a familiar baritone whispered in her ear, soft yet aching: âPlease donât do this, Kishmish. I wonât be able to live.â
The words hit her like a wave, and suddenly, the ache she thought had dulled over time surged violently, flooding her soul. It pulled her into its depths, dragging her down, deeper and deeper. She knew she was dreamingâshe had to be. That voice had been lost to her long ago. Her conscious mind recognized the loss, tried to remind her that this was only a fragment, a ghost of the past. But even knowing it was a dream couldnât protect her from the agony that now consumed her.
The dream wrapped its hands around her heart, tightening with every passing second. She could feel itâthe suffocating weight pressing on her chest, the air growing thicker, her lungs gasping for breath that wouldnât come. Panic clawed at her throat, and no matter how hard she tried to pull herself free, her body remained paralyzed, trapped beneath the crushing force of that old pain.
The voiceâthe pleading, desperate voiceâplayed on an endless loop in her mind, reverberating with the power of memories long buried but never forgotten. The words were like shackles, binding her to the past, to the grief she thought she had left behind.
She silently called out to her star, the one that had always guided her through the darkness. Even now, in this dreamscape, she reached for it, her heart yearning for its familiar light. And just when she thought she would drown beneath the weight of her suffering, a glimmer of strength broke through.
The star.
It was faint, a distant spark, but it was enough. She felt its presence in the blackness of her mind, a guiding force that reminded her there was still air to breathe, still life beyond the pain. Slowly, painfully, she clawed her way out of the shadows, breaking through the clutches of her agony. Her lungs filled with breath, her mind shaking free from the suffocating fog.
The whisper faded, its echo dissolving into the darkness, and with it, the crushing weight of the dream began to lift. Yet, somethingâgentle and unseenâheld her just above the abyss, like a fragile tether. Was it her love? The quiet spirit that always lingered within her? Or perhaps her guiding star, faint but unwavering? She didnât know. But whatever it was, it kept her from slipping away. Slowly, her eyes opened to the stillness of the train, her heart still racing, though the ache had receded into the corners of her soul, a distant shadow.
