Okay besties... we're starting this story again. 🫠🖤

But this time, things are going to be different.

I've changed a few things, added some new details, and honestly... I think this version is going to hit way harder. 👀

Chapter one is just the beginning, so don't expect me to reveal everything at once. Let the story unfold slowly... because trust me, there are secrets, obsession, power, madness, and emotions waiting underneath the surface. 🥀

So sit back, get comfortable, and enter their world with me. Because once you step into this story... there's no going back. 🖤

⚜ ─── AADHYA ─── ⚜

"If the dead could speak... Half the people at their funeral would be in prison."

Mumbai, 1:35 A.M.

Have you ever realized how terrifying silence can be?

Not the silence of an empty room... But the silence that settles inside you after losing the only person who ever made the world feel less frightening.

The hospital was unusually quiet, wrapped in the kind of silence that almost felt alive. Somewhere beyond the closed door of my cabin, monitors continued their rhythmic beeping, footsteps echoed through distant corridors, and life carried on exactly as it always had.

Funny, isn't it? The world never stops simply because yours does.

People believe grief announces itself through tears. As loud cries. As sleepless nights. Mine was different. It arrived quietly. It sat beside me through every meal. Walked with me through every hospital corridor. Waited patiently in every empty room. And no matter how busy I kept myself... It always found me.

Healing is a beautiful lie people tell the grieving. You don't heal. You simply become fluent in pretending you're okay.

I leaned back against my chair and slowly closed my eyes. The moment darkness welcomed me... A name echoed through my mind. Once. Then again. And again. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Some names don't scream. They simply learn how to live inside your head until silence itself begins to sound like them.

I opened my eyes. The ceiling. The white walls. The faint smell of antiseptic. Everything was exactly where it should have been. Except me.

The brain has an annoying habit. It keeps replaying the moments you wish had never happened... As if changing the ending is somehow still possible. Mine had been stuck on the same night... For exactly one month.

Do you know what hurts the most? It's not watching someone leave. It's realizing the only person who ever knew how to hold your broken pieces... Isn't there anymore.

Thirty days since the man who taught me that kindness could exist in a cruel world quietly walked out of mine.

Avay kapoor.

He wasn't just my grandfather. He was my safest place. He was the hand that reached for mine before I even realized I was falling. The voice that could calm every storm inside me without asking what had caused it. The one person who could look into my eyes and understand everything I had failed to say.

Some people call that love. I called him... Home. And somehow... Home no longer existed. No one ever teaches you what to do when home is no longer a place you can return to.

Maybe that's why hospitals never frightened me. I had spent years watching strangers fight death every single day. What I never learned... Was how to survive the silence that follows after losing someone you thought would always be there.

The sharp rap on my door cut through the grief like a blade. I blinked-startled out of my spiral-and called out, "Come in."

The door pushed open almost immediately.

A nurse hurried inside, stopping just a few steps away from my desk. Her breathing came in short, uneven bursts, as though she had sprinted through every corridor of the hospital. A few strands of hair had escaped her neatly tied bun, sticking to the sheen of sweat on her forehead. The sight alone told me enough.

Something was wrong. Something serious.

"Dr. Aadhya..." she managed between breaths. "An emergency patient is here. He's critical... we've already lost too much time. His condition is deteriorating every second."

Her words hit me like cold water. My brows knitted together instinctively-I hadn't expected an emergency at this hour.

"Any chance?" I asked calmly-already mentally preparing for surgery.

The nurse bit her lip and shook her head slightly-a silent 'no.' A slow breath escaped her before she spoke again.

"I think it's a police case... gunshot victim... barely breathing." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Two men came with him... they look like gangsters. They're outside the emergency ward, shouting at everyone. They've scared the nurses, threatened the security guards... no one knows what to do."

Her eyes met mine, helplessness replacing every ounce of professionalism she had been trying to hold onto. "Please... you need to come."

For a brief moment, I simply looked at her. Not because I was frightened. Because panic was contagious, and if I borrowed hers, I'd become just another person standing in that corridor instead of the doctor everyone was waiting for.

I rose from my chair without another word. The white coat hanging behind me slipped over my shoulders with familiar ease, its weight settling against me like second skin. I draped my stethoscope around my neck and headed straight for the door.

Hospitals never waited for grief. Life and death moved through these hallways every single day, never pausing for anyone. Not for heartbreak. Not for grief. Not even for those who carried both while trying to save strangers.

No matter how shattered you felt, someone somewhere always fought harder simply to take another breath. And at that moment... someone's life depended on me.

People often believed doctors fought death. They didn't. We never did. We fought time. Death only stood at the finish line... Waiting for us to lose.

The moment I stepped into the emergency ward, every sound around me seemed to fade. Not because the room was quiet. Because fear had a way of swallowing every other noise.

My eyes instinctively searched for the patient.

A patient lay motionless on a stretcher, his shirt soaked in blood that continued to drip onto the spotless floor. A doctor stood beside him, examining the wound, but his trembling hands betrayed every ounce of confidence his white coat was supposed to represent.

Two men dressed in black stood nearby, their expressions carved from stone. They didn't move. They didn't speak. They simply watched. No... They weren't the reason everyone looked terrified.

My gaze shifted. A few feet away, a man had a nurse pinned by the collar, his fingers locked tightly around the poor man's throat. The nurse clawed weakly at the hand around his neck, his face slowly turning crimson. In his other hand rested a gun, its muzzle aimed directly at the doctor trying to save the patient.

My jaw clenched. Seriously? Is he out of his damn mind? Holding a gun inside an emergency ward? Threatening the very people trying to save a life?

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Does he even realize he's wasting the very seconds his patient cannot afford to lose?

"Save him!" he thundered. "If he dies... none of you walk out of this hospital alive."

His back faced me. I couldn't see his face. Only the broad set of his shoulders... The blood staining the sleeves of his black shirt... And the terrifying ease with which he held a loaded weapon inside a hospital.

For a fleeting second, my eyes traveled across the room. Nurses stood frozen. Interns clutched patient files against their chests as if paper could protect them. Even security had stopped at the entrance, uncertain whether to step in or step back. Interesting.

A room full of medical professionals... Yet no one was treating the only person who was actually dying.

My gaze returned to the patient. His breathing had grown shallow. Blood continued to seep through the hastily wrapped dressing. Another minute. Maybe two. That was all he had left. And these idiots... Were wasting both.

Honestly... If fear had a medical side effect... Stupidity would be the first symptom. The priorities in this room were embarrassingly misplaced.

Without a hint of urgency, I walked forward. One step. Then another. The sharp click of my heels echoed through the suffocating silence. Every pair of eyes shifted toward me. Some looked confused. Others looked horrified. As though I had just volunteered to walk into my own funeral. Maybe. Or maybe... They had forgotten something. He wasn't the only one capable of making people listen.

Authority was never the loudest voice in the room. It was the one people obeyed without realizing they already had.

The nurse struggling beneath the stranger's grip suddenly looked past him. His terrified eyes landed on me.

"Do... Doctor..." he whispered, his voice barely escaping the hand crushing his throat.

The man stilled. Slowly... He turned. And for the first time... I saw his face. Our gazes collided like two storms crashing into each other. Those ocean-blue eyes met mine. The world around me blurred into silence.

No. It couldn't be.

The name that had haunted every sleepless night for the past month... The name that echoed inside my head every time I closed my eyes... Now stood only a few feet away from me.

Ayansh Singh Rathore.

A wave of hatred surged inside me so violently it nearly knocked me over. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into palms. Disgust burned in my chest... rage followed right after it like wildfire. Every emotion crashed into me at once. Of all the people I had expected to meet tonight... He was the last.

His gaze remained fixed on me. Mine didn't. It slipped past him... And landed on the patient lying on the stretcher.

The moment I recognized him... Everything inside me stopped. My heartbeat. My breathing. Even the air in my lungs suddenly felt too heavy to carry. The color drained from my face. A violent shiver raced down my spine.

No... It couldn't be... I had expected another stranger fighting for his life tonight. Not... Him.

For one dangerous second, my vision blurred. I swallowed the ache before it reached my eyes. Not here. Not now. Never. I tore my gaze away and looked straight at the medical team.

"Prepare the OT. Right now."

The doctor beside the stretcher looked at me as if I had lost my mind.

"Madam... he won't make it. his chances of surviving are almost impossible. And this looks like a police case. If anything goes wrong, all of us could lose our medical licenses." His voice trembled with fear-not just of losing the patient but of what would happen if they failed in front of men like these... Men who carried guns and threatened lives without blinking.

Silence settled between us. I looked at him. Calmly. Coldly.

"So... Did I ask for your opinion?" The room fell silent. "I gave you an instruction." I took one step closer. "So follow it."

My voice remained quiet. Ayansh hadn't taken his eyes off me since he turned around. That unnerving blue gaze was still pinned to me, assessing... judging... waiting for my reaction.

"If this surgery fails... I sign every paper. If this case reaches the police... I answer every question. If anyone has to lose a license... It will be me." I held his gaze without blinking. "So unless you're planning to stand here and watch him die... Move. Prepare the OT right fucking now."

The doctor flinched at my tone. For a second, he hesitated... then nodded sharply and turned toward the nurses.

"OT team! NOW!" he barked, voice suddenly steadier despite his shaking hands.

The nurse struggled violently beneath his grip. His fingers remained clamped around the man's throat, cutting off every desperate attempt to breathe. The nurse clawed helplessly at his while the entire corridor watched in frozen horror.

He was about to say something. I caught his wrist. He turned toward me. Before a single word could leave him... I stepped forward.

CRACK.

My palm struck his face with enough force to snap his head sideways. The sound echoed through the silent ward like a gunshot.

Everything stopped. Silence. Complete. Doctors froze. Nurses forgot to breathe. Behind him, his men stared at me in utter disbelief-their hands hovering near their weapons but they didn't dare move without his order.

Fear kept people disciplined. But fear never ruled me.

Slowly, he turned his face back toward me. His jaw tightened. The veins in his neck stood out. His eyes burned with a fury so violent that it could have reduced the entire floor to ashes.

"HOW DARE YOU?!" he roared, voice shaking the walls. His right hand shot up instantly-aiming straight for my throat to strangle me on the spot.

But before his fingers could close around my neck... I slapped him again-harder this time-and glared into those icy blue eyes without an ounce of fear. His face jerked sideways again, his cheek burning red from the force.

The two men in black suits lunged forward-a split second of instinct to protect their boss. But Ayansh didn't even blink. He simply raised his hand-the one gripping the gun-and held it up sharply. A single motion. A command without words.

His men froze instantly, stopping dead in their tracks like trained soldiers obeying a general's order. Their muscles were tense... fists clenched... but they didn't take another step toward me.

His gaze returned to me. The fury vanished-replaced by something far colder. Far more terrifying. Calm. Absolute, deadly calm.

A predator who had decided to hunt slowly rather than roar violently. That quiet intensity made my skin crawl more than any scream could have.

His ocean-blue eyes darkened like storm clouds swallowing sunlight-smooth and still on the surface, yet promising annihilation beneath.

Slowly, He lifted the gun again and this time, pressed it under my chin, tilting it upward so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were glacial, dangerous, promising violence if I breathed wrong.

His voice was low, deep, laced with quiet menace as he asked, "Doctor, do you even know who you're standing in front of?"

Around us, the entire emergency ward held its breath. All eyes were on us-the gun under my chin, his chilling gaze boring into mine like he could peel back every layer of defiance and see straight to my soul.

For a heartbeat... silence.

Then-without blinking-I slowly lifted my chin higher against the gun. My lips curled into a smirk so faint it was almost imperceptible... but deliberate.

"Should I?" I replied calmly, voice icy as his own.

A challenge wrapped in indifference. Like his name meant nothing to me... like he wasn't the most dangerous man in Mumbai standing with a gun to my throat.

He stepped forward-eliminating every inch of space between us until we were barely breathing the same air. The gun never wavered under my chin.

"You think you're brave? Or just stupid?" A pause-letting the words sink like poison. "Do you have a death wish, doctor?"

He exhaled slowly-his breath warm against my face as he loomed over me.

"You don't get to slap me." A statement. Not a shout-a quiet declaration of ownership. The gun pressed harder, a silent threat of violence. "You don't get to talk back to me." Each word landed like a hammer strike. "And you definitely don't get to live if he dies."

The threat hung in the air-thick, suffocating. Not shouted. Not screamed. Just stated as a cold fact.

Then he pulled back slightly, still keeping the gun pressed to my skin and delivered his final warning with terrifying clarity.

"So... Don't fucking mess with me, Doctor." His voice was low but razor-sharp-every syllable cutting like steel. "Right now... I want that man alive. You will operate on him. And if anything happens to him? I will burn this hospital down-with every single person inside it. Do you understand?"

For a heartbeat... Everything inside me went still. Then anger exploded through my veins.

The audacity.

Burn this hospital? The hospital my grandfather built with decades of sacrifice? The place where people came to live... not die? Who the hell did he think he was? Power? Money? Guns? Did he really believe fear worked on everyone?

Wrong person. Very wrong person. He had no idea who he was talking to.

Without breaking eye contact, I caught the barrel of the gun and pushed it away from my jaw with one sharp swipe.

Then-I slapped him again. The third one. His head barely jerked from it; he was too tall for that... but his men flinched violently behind him.

Before he could react, I seized his collar and yanked him down-forcing us eye-to-eye. Our faces were inches apart now, breaths mingling with pure tension.

"Is this hospital yours? Your father's?" My voice stayed low, eerily calm but every word dripped venom.

"If you're looking for someone to intimidate, you're standing in front of the wrong woman." Then I leaned closer, "Don't you ever dare threaten me again... Do. You. Understand?"

The silence stretched-thick, suffocating. Neither of us blinked. The air between us crackled with pure hostility.

Then I shoved him backward-hard enough to make him stumble a step.

He immediately lurched forward like a predator lunging for its prey but his two men reacted instantly. One of them grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him mid-step.

One leaned close to Ayansh's ear and whispered urgently, "Ayansh... she's the only surgeon who can save him." A pause as he tightened his grip on Ayansh's shoulder. "We need her right now. Revenge can wait."

The rage in Ayansh's eyes was a living storm-promising violence, promising revenge. But I ignored him entirely.

As I turned toward the operating theater, my eyes caught a flicker of movement-a thin trail of blood dripping from his forearm. Crimson droplets splattered onto the pristine white floor with quiet finality, evidence that even someone like him bled.

Without sparing him another glance, I turned to the nurse waiting outside the operating theatre.

"Dress the wound on his arm before it gets infected," I instructed, my voice calm, cold, and unquestionable.

The nurse immediately nodded. "Yes, Doctor."

Without another word, I pushed open the heavy operating theatre doors.

The sterile scent of antiseptic rushed to greet me as the doors slowly swung shut behind me.

Even then... I could still feel his stare. Heavy. Unrelenting. Burning into my spine like a silent promise.

He was probably still standing exactly where I'd left him-his bruised ego screaming louder than the slap that had landed across his face.

Maybe he was already planning my funeral.

Maybe he was imagining a hundred different ways to make me regret humiliating him.

I didn't care.

Right now... I had to save someone... Someone who had once meant the world to me.

༺❀༻

The operation took a little over three hours.

By the time I pushed the operation theatre door open, every muscle in my body screamed in exhaustion. My neck felt stiff, my fingers ached, and the faint scent of antiseptic still clung to my skin.

The corridor outside was unnaturally quiet.

My eyes found him immediately.

He sat on the metal chair opposite the OT exactly where I had left him. He hadn't moved. One of his men stood at the far end of the corridor, speaking in hushed tones over the phone, while another remained beside him like a silent shadow.

The nurse I had specifically assigned to treat his injury stood awkwardly in front of him, a stainless-steel tray balanced in her trembling hands. Cotton. Antiseptic. Fresh bandages. Untouched.

My gaze slowly drifted lower and landed on his arm. Blood had dried in uneven streaks over his skin while fresh crimson continued to seep through the torn fabric. The wound had bled long enough to stain his sleeve, yet he looked completely indifferent to it.

His other hand-still held the gun. For God's sake, Does this man sleep with that thing too?

I had just spent three hours fighting to keep one life alive, and here he was-casually bleeding into the hospital floor while gripping a weapon like it was part of his body.

An irritating man. No... An impossible one.

Frustration rose inside me before I could stop it. I turned sharply toward the nurse. "I specifically told you to dress his wound. Then why the hell are you standing here while he's still bleeding?"

The poor nurse flinched. She looked like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. Her hands tightening around the untouched tray of supplies. She swallowed hard before answering in a shaky whisper, "M-Ma'am... I tried. He doesn't let me."

Of course he doesn't. Why was I even surprised? Stubborn. Unbelievably stubborn. If arrogance had a face... it would be his.

The sound of my voice made him lift his head. Our eyes locked. His expression was stone-cold. No emotion flickering across his face at all. No relief, no worry-just blank assessment.

He looked at me for a second before asking in the calmest voice possible- "Zinda hai?"

(Is he alive?)

For a moment I simply stared at him.

Seriously? That was it? Not How is he? Not Did the surgery succeed? Not even Will he recover? Just- Is he alive? What an incredible way to ask about your patient.

This wasn't a concerned brother or friend checking on a loved one. This sounded like someone asking if a machine had stopped working.

I pressed my tongue lightly against the inside of my cheek to hide the disbelief threatening to show on my face.

"Yes," I answered evenly. "The surgery went well. He's out of-"

Before I could say another word, he rose from the chair in one smooth motion and headed straight for the OT.

Without thinking, I lunged forward and grabbed his uninjured arm as I stepped directly into his path. The sudden contact made him halt mid-stride.

"You can't meet him right now, He just came out of surgery. He needs rest." My voice was steel-no room for argument. "He's being shifted to his room first. Once he's stable, you can see him."

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt his body go still. The air between us tightened. He slowly turned his head. Those unsettling blue eyes locked onto mine first-cold and calculating, dissecting every microexpression on my face.

Then his gaze slid down, to where my hand gripped his arm like steel shackles.

A warning: Don't touch me unless you want to lose that hand.

Oh... Right. I was touching him. Wonderful. Aadhya... Brilliant.

I quickly released him, pretending the gesture had never happened. His brows lifted ever so slightly.

"When does he wake up?" His voice remained quiet. Yet there was something beneath it.

"I don't know." I answered honestly. "It depends on how his body responds to the anesthesia. It could take a little while. But he's out of danger now. For now... all you can do is wait."

Muscle ticked in his jaw, and he shifted his gun to the other hand, the movement slow, deliberate, like he was thinking something through I couldn't see.

Silence settled between us again. For the first time since we'd met... He didn't argue. He didn't threaten. He simply looked at me, as though measuring every word I'd spoken.

My eyes drifted back to the blood still running down his arm. Unbelievable. He'd rather bleed for hours than let a nurse treat a simple wound. Some people really made life difficult for absolutely no reason.

I exhaled quietly. Then I looked at the nurse. "Bring the dressing kit." She nodded immediately. I turned and started walking down the corridor.

"Come with me, Mr. Rathore." I said over my shoulder, not bothering to check if he'd listen.

The nurse hurried after me with the tray in her hands. A second later, I heard steady footsteps behind us. He followed. And, without a word, so did his men.

I pushed open the door to the empty treatment room and flicked on the overhead light. I leaned my hip against the metal examination table and folded my arms across my chest.

The nurse hurried in behind me and carefully placed the tray on the counter. The soft clink of antiseptic bottles and surgical scissors echoed through the otherwise silent room. Her hands still shook from everything that had happened outside.

He stood in the doorway like he owned the entire damn hospital, his expression unreadable, his injured arm hanging loosely at his side.

I tilted my chin toward the chair.

"Sit."

He didn't move.

Instead, One dark eyebrow lifted slowly, deliberately, as though my command amused him more than it offended him. The faintest twitch touched the corner of his mouth.

I stared straight back at him. "I said... sit."

Silence settled between us. Behind him, his men shifted uneasily. Their eyes moved from him to me and back again, as if they couldn't decide which one of us was more dangerous.

I didn't care. The moment he stepped into my treatment room, he stopped being whatever the hell he was outside these walls. Here, he was my patient. Nothing more.

After a long, unreadable stare, he finally walked toward the chair and sat down without another word.

Good.

At least he understood one language.

Authority.

I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the latex snapping softly against my wrists.

"Roll up your sleeve." He didn't move. I looked up. "The bullet only grazed your arm. It's not deep, but if you keep pretending you're made of steel, you'll end up being the next patient on my operating table."

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"And I don't repeat myself a third time, Mr. Rathore."

Behind him, his men remained at the doorway like statues carved from stone, hands resting on their holsters, eyes fixed on every movement I made. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the room in heavy silence.

He finally reached for his sleeve. But instead of rolling it up properly, he dragged the rough fabric carelessly across the torn flesh. The cloth scraped directly over the wound. Fresh blood welled instantly.

Idiot. I watched him do it once. Twice. For heaven's sake... Was he trying to make my job harder?

My patience snapped. "Stop." Before he could drag the fabric across the wound a third time, I stepped forward and caught his wrist.

His hand stopped instantly. So did everything else. His skin felt warm beneath my fingers. For a brief second, neither of us moved.

His grip on the pistol loosened slightly as my fingers wrapped around his arm. Of course. Even injured, he couldn't sit in a room without carrying a weapon.

Without asking, I pulled the gun from his hand.

The door burst open. Both of his men rushed inside, guns raised directly at me. "Boss-!"

The nurse gasped and stumbled backward. I didn't even blink. Honestly... Were they always this dramatic?

Keeping my eyes on him, I pressed the magazine release. Click. The magazine dropped neatly into my palm.

I pulled the slide back, ejecting the round from the chamber, then caught it between my fingers before it hit the floor. One by one, I removed every remaining bullet from the magazine until it was completely empty.

I checked the chamber again. Nothing. No bullets. No ammunition. Only then did I place the completely unloaded gun on the examination table and slide it calmly toward him.

My gaze met his. "Now behave like a patient."

Silence stretched across the room. His men never lowered their weapons. Their eyes shifted between me and him, waiting. Waiting for a single word. A single nod. A single command that could paint these white hospital walls red.

He never looked away from me. Instead, his voice came out low. Steady. Unhurried.

"Lower. Your. Guns."

The weapons disappeared almost instantly. Interesting. So they feared him more than death itself.

I picked up a pair of sterile gloves and pulled them on before reaching for his arm again. This time, I rolled his sleeve up myself. Slowly. Carefully.

The fabric brushed against the torn skin. I paused instinctively. My eyes lifted to his face.

That should have hurt. Most patients hissed. Some cursed. Others flinched before I even touched the wound.

He did none of it. He simply sat there. Watching me. Not the tray. Not the bandages. Me. His gaze never wandered. It stayed fixed on my face with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.

A flicker of annoyance crossed my mind again. Was pain truly irrelevant to him?

For one ridiculous moment, I wondered if the pain had simply refused to reach him.

Then I almost laughed at myself.

What was I thinking? Pain? This man? The same man who had nearly crushed someone's throat without changing his expression? The same man whose men obeyed a whisper as if it were law?

No.

Men like him didn't feel pain. Or perhaps... They had lived with it for so long that they no longer acknowledged its existence.

I silently shook my head, annoyed by my own thoughts.

Why was I wasting sympathy on someone like him?

He wasn't here for comfort. He was here because his wound needed treatment. Nothing more. And that was exactly how I intended to keep it.

I started dressing his wound, carefully cleaning the blood from around the graze before pressing a fresh piece of gauze against it.

He didn't flinch. Not once. He simply watched me, his expression unreadable, his injured arm resting against the edge of the examination table.

Then his voice broke the silence.

"People lower their eyes when I walk into a room. You, on the other hand, keep giving me orders. Your courage could cost you dearly, doctor."

I kept my eyes on the wound.

"Then send me the bill when you finally figure out what my courage is worth, Mr. Rathore." I reached for another piece of gauze. "Until then, sit still. And let me do my job." I tightened the bandage with deliberate care and finally met his eyes.

His jaw shifted slightly. For someone who was supposedly impossible to intimidate, he was surprisingly easy to irritate. Good. At least something about him was human. I went back to work, refusing to acknowledge the weight of his stare.

His voice came again, quieter this time.

"Your tongue is your greatest enemy, doctor."

I paused. Then I looked at him. A smile slowly appeared on my lips. Sweet. Polite. Completely fake.

"Funny." I pressed the final edge of the dressing into place. "I was thinking the same about your ego, Mr. Rathore."

The room temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees. For a second, something unreadable flickered across his face. I ignored it. I checked the dressing one final time, making sure there was no active bleeding.

"Done."

I pulled off my gloves, dropped them into the disposal bin, and turned toward the door. One step. Two. My fingers had barely reached the handle when his voice stopped me.

"Dr. Aadhya Raichand."

I froze. My hand remained on the door handle. A strange silence settled between us. He had said my name. For the first time. Not Doctor. My name.

I didn't turn around. "What?"

His voice remained maddeningly calm.

"You've slapped me three times."

I stared at the door for a moment before answering.

"And?"

"No one has ever done that."

The nurse beside me held her breath-her wide eyes darting between us, terrified of what might happen next.

A small smile tugged at my lips. I finally glanced over my shoulder.

"There's a first time for everything, Mr. Rathore."

His eyes held mine.

"You should be more careful."

I turned around fully.

"Is that a threat?"

The faintest curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't believe in revenge." He paused. "I believe in balance." His gaze didn't waver. "I never forget debts."

I studied him silently. So that was his game. He wanted me to remember his warning. Wanted me to walk out of this room wondering when he would collect. Instead, I gave him a calm look.

"Then you're already losing."

Something flickered in his eyes. His smile deepened.

"We'll see, Doctor."

I held his gaze for another second.

"That's what people say when they don't have an answer, Mr. Rathore."

The smile on his lips disappeared for half a heartbeat. I turned toward the door before he could reply. My hand closed around the handle.

I knew almost nothing about the man sitting behind me. I didn't know how many people feared him. I didn't know what kind of power followed his name beyond these hospital walls. I didn't know how many enemies he had, how many secrets he carried, or how many people had learned to obey before he even had to ask.

But I knew something else.

I had spent years learning how to stand my ground when everything around me demanded that I step back. I wasn't about to start now. Especially not because a dangerous man with an arrogant smile had decided I should be afraid of him.

I opened the door. Then I walked out without looking back.

༺❀༻

An hour later...

"Ayansh..."

"Ayansh..."

"Ayansh..."

The name echoed through my mind, faint at first, then louder.

I opened my eyes with a sharp breath. For a few seconds, I didn't know where I was.

The dim light above me blurred into focus slowly. My neck ached from the awkward position I'd fallen asleep in, and the empty coffee cup beside me sat untouched on the desk.

I frowned and slowly sat upright.

When did I fall asleep?

I glanced at the clock. It was already early morning. A pale blue light had begun creeping through the hospital windows, replacing the darkness of the night. The corridors were quieter now, almost eerily so.

I exhaled and ran a hand through my hair. I should have gone home hours ago. I knew that. My body knew that. Every exhausted muscle in me knew that. But something had kept me there. Something I couldn't name. Or perhaps something I didn't want to name.

I walked to the coffee machine and made myself another cup. The warmth settled between my palms as I took the first sip. But even the bitterness of the coffee couldn't keep my thoughts from wandering.

Back to last night. Back to the patient.

I stared into my cup. Why am I thinking about him again? I sighed and placed it down. Maybe I simply needed to make sure everything was stable. That was all. At least, that was what I told myself.

I left the coffee behind and walked toward the ward. My footsteps slowed the closer I got. I stopped outside the glass panel and looked inside.

He lay beneath the white sheets, surrounded by quiet machines and monitoring equipment. His face looked peaceful now, almost unfamiliar without the urgency and chaos of the night surrounding him.

My eyes stayed on him. Something tightened inside my chest. I pressed my fingers lightly against the glass.

Why? The question came without warning. My brows drew together. Why do I always end up saving people who aren't there when I need someone to save me?

My fingers curled slowly at my sides.

Why do I keep giving pieces of myself to people who would never give me anything back?

I swallowed. A bitter breath escaped my lips. I looked at him again. Still unconscious. Still silent. Still completely unaware of the storm he had somehow stirred inside me.

Why does someone's pain make my heart ache when I have spent years convincing myself that I don't care anymore?

I hated him. I was sure of that. So Why did my heart react to his pain when every rational part of me wanted him to suffer?

My jaw tightened. Maybe that was the cruelest thing about me. I could hate someone. I could resent them. I could remember every wound they had left behind.

And yet, the moment I saw someone hurt, some stubborn part of me still wanted to save them. Even when my heart begged me not to. Even when my mind screamed that I should walk away.

Maybe I wasn't angry because I hated people. Maybe I was angry because I cared too much.

My gaze lowered. Because caring had always been my weakness. People had taken it. Used it. Broken it. And every time I'd promised myself I would become colder.

I still found myself standing outside a patient's room before sunrise, checking whether he was breathing properly.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

What is wrong with me?

I looked away. Maybe morality is just a luxury for people who've never had to choose between two kinds of wrong.

"You're just a patient," I whispered to myself. But even as I said it... I didn't believe my own words.

I felt a presence behind me. I turned.

Ayansh stood there, leaning casually against the wall, as if he had been there longer than I'd noticed.

He had changed his clothes. The black shirt from the night was gone, replaced by black trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The bandage around his arm looked almost out of place against his otherwise immaculate appearance.

My eyes met his. He was already looking at me. He wasn't staring. He was studying. Like he'd noticed something that didn't make sense to him. Like he was trying to understand me.

How unfortunate.

I'd spent years making sure no one could. People usually mistook silence for permission to understand you. But the truth... Silence was safer than lies. Letting people fill the blanks kept them guessing... kept them at arm's length.

They saw what I allowed them to see and assumed they understood the rest.

They never did.

And Ayansh... He looked like the kind of man who hated unsolved things.

I held his gaze for a moment. His eyes remained fixed on mine, almost unnervingly calm, as though he were trying to peel away every layer I'd carefully built around myself.

Good luck.

I took a slow breath. Then, without giving him another second of my attention, I walked past him. No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing. Because some people didn't deserve answers. They deserved questions.

Some people spent their lives trying to understand others. I'd learned something much more useful-

The easiest way to control a person is to let them believe they've figured you out.

༺❀༻

A nurse came rushing toward me, a small smile already tugging at her lips. "Doctor, the patient regained consciousness."

For a second, I just stood there. Then I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I had been holding and buried my face in my palms.

"Thank you, Mahadev." The words escaped me in a whisper. My shoulders loosened, and for one dangerously emotional second, my eyes burned.

I was going to cry. Not because I was sad. Because after everything, the damn man had finally decided to wake up.

I blinked rapidly and pulled myself together. Not here. I had a reputation to maintain.

I straightened my coat, took one more deep breath, and followed the nurse toward the ward. The moment I reached the corridor, I spotted Ayansh. Of course. He had already entered the patient's room.

I stopped for a second and stared at the closed door. I shook my head. Patience clearly wasn't his strongest quality.

I walked toward the room and slowly pushed the door open. The scene inside made me pause. Ayansh stood beside the patient's bed, his attention fixed on the man who had only just regained consciousness. The patient looked exhausted and confused.

Then both men noticed me. The patient's eyes widened. His brows knitted together as his gaze moved from me to Ayansh and back again. He slowly turned his head toward Ayansh.

"Where am I?"

I pressed my lips together. Oh, this was going to be good.

Ayansh stared at him for a long, silent second. Then his eyes shifted toward me. His expression turned unexpectedly serious. He walked toward me.

"Doctor."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I know the injury was to his head, but..." He glanced back at the patient. Then at me again. His face remained completely straight. "Does he have a problem with his eyes too?"

I froze. The nurse behind me made a strangled sound. I looked at Ayansh. Then at the patient. Then back at Ayansh. And completely lost it.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I covered my mouth, but it was already too late. The nurse turned away, pressing her hand over her mouth as her shoulders shook.

I wiped the corner of my eye. "No." I looked at the patient. "His eyes are perfectly fine." Then I looked back at Ayansh. "Apparently, his common sense is the one that needs urgent treatment."

The patient's face immediately twisted in offense. "Excuse me?"

I bit the inside of my cheek. Ayansh's jaw clenched harder. He turned back toward the bed and folded his arms.

"What do you think this is? Your honeymoon suite?" He stared at him flatly. "We're in a fucking hospital," he finally snapped, gesturing around them. "What do you mean, 'where am I,' you idiot?"

At his raised voice, the two men from the corridor stepped in, their hands still hovering near their waists.

Their gaze immediately landed on Ayansh, and judging by the look on his face, his patience had already been tested enough for one morning.

I pressed my lips together hard to keep from cackling, already wondering silently if these were actually the most feared gangsters in the city or just a pair of overgrown kids having a bad day.

Rajveer shifted his glare toward me, then back to Ayansh, his voice rough.

"What is she doing here?"

Ayansh shot him an unimpressed look-one that practically screamed, Are you serious right now? like he had just said the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

Then he snapped back, "You idiot, if there's no doctor in a hospital, are you going to be the one stitching wounds? So unless you've suddenly developed a medical degree overnight, get out."

I pressed my lips together again. No. Absolutely not. I was not going to laugh. Not again.

These people were supposed to be terrifying. Why did they sound like brothers fighting over the television remote?

Before the argument could escalate, another man stepped forward. He had been with Ayansh since morning, though I hadn't seen him the previous night.

He placed a hand on Ayansh's shoulder and gave him a calming pat. "Calm down, bhai."

He glanced toward Rajveer with an almost sympathetic expression.

"Rajveer bhai has suffered a very severe head injury... that's probably why he's talking like this." He paused. "Maybe he needs to rest right now."

The room went silent. Rajveer slowly turned his head toward him. His eyes narrowed into a warning. "Ayan."

The man's hand immediately disappeared from Ayansh's shoulder.

I looked at Ayansh. He was rubbing his temple now, his expression saying he had officially reached the limit of his patience.

For the first time, I wondered-

Were they really the ruthless, terrifying kingpins the whole city whispered about?

Or were they just three bickering brothers who were very good at looking dangerous, when all they really were right now was a pair of overgrown idiots?

Ayansh lifted his head then and caught me staring. His blue eyes glinted with a faint, knowing amusement he didn't bother to hide.

Rajveer looked at me again, his expression slowly changing as recognition settled in. Then he turned his head toward Ayansh.

"You brought me to the AK hospital?"

Ayan's lips curved into a soft smile. "See that? Our Rajveer bhai is fully back. One look at the doctor and he even remembers which hospital we brought him to."

I pulled myself together and walked toward the bed. The moment I came closer, everyone slowly moved away from Rajveer's bedside.

Everyone except Ayansh. He remained where he was, watching me.

I stopped beside the bed. Rajveer looked up at me. For the first time since he had opened his eyes, the arrogance had disappeared from his face.

There was something else there. Guilt. He knew exactly who I was. And he knew exactly what he had done.

I smiled faintly. It wasn't a kind smile.

"So, Rajveer Shekhawat..."

His eyes dropped. That alone told me enough.

"Look at me."

His gaze slowly returned to mine.

I tilted my head.

"Funny, isn't it?"

He said nothing.

"Your life keeps finding its way into my hands."

His jaw tightened.

"Every damn time you need saving, somehow, I'm the one standing there." I paused. "You should be grateful."

His eyes flickered with guilt.

"I am."

The answer came quietly.

I almost laughed.

"You are?"

He swallowed.

"Yes."

He looked away.

"I never forgot."

"No?"

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"Then why did you make me feel like I meant nothing?"

"I never wanted to hurt you, Aadhya." he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

His gaze dropped again. I watched him for a moment. The guilt on his face should have satisfied something inside me.

It didn't.

It only reminded me how much I had once expected from him. How much I had trusted him. How much easier it would have been if he had simply hated me. Hatred was clean. Betrayal wasn't.

"You know what your problem is, Rajveer?"

He didn't answer. I answered for him.

"You think saying sorry after breaking someone gives you the right to feel better." His eyes flickered. "It doesn't."

"Aadhya-"

I folded my arms.

"You don't get forgiveness just because guilt finally became heavy enough for you to feel it."

He looked at me again.

"I know."

"You don't get to regret something after breaking someone and call that repentance."

His throat bobbed.

"I know."

"And you certainly don't get to call yourself my brother when you couldn't even act like one when I needed you."

That one hit him. His eyes dropped again. The silence stretched between us. I watched him sit there with his guilt, and for the first time, I realized something.

He wasn't trying to defend himself. He wasn't making excuses. He wasn't even asking me to forgive him. He simply sat there and took every word. Somehow, that made it harder.

I hated that. I hated that a part of me still recognized the boy behind the man sitting in front of me. The boy who had once been my brother. The man who had later become my enemy.

I gave him a small, merciless smile.

"Don't ever confuse my kindness with weakness again, Mr. Shekhawat."

And for the first time since I had entered that room, Rajveer looked like a man who finally understood the damage he had caused. I wished I could say I felt sorry for him. I didn't.

Because some wounds didn't need healing.

Some wounds deserved to remain as reminders.

I turned and walked away from his bedside. I didn't look back. I didn't need to.

I could feel Ayansh's gaze on me, heavy and unreadable, burning into the back of my neck the whole way.

My hand wrapped around the door handle, and I paused for half a second, not turning around, the bitter taste of old grief still sharp on my tongue. No one said a word. I pushed the door open and stepped out into the quiet corridor, the click of it clicking shut behind me cutting me off from everything inside.

⚜ ─── AYANSH ─── ⚜

"Har ajnabi waqai ajnabi nahi hota."

(Not every stranger is truly a stranger.)

Something in her eyes locked onto my chest the second I looked at her, and it never let go. I could not scrape the image out of my skull, no matter how much whiskey I poured down my throat, no matter how many men I made disappear to burn off the restlessness.

Something familiar niggled at the back of my skull. I knew it, but I just couldn't place it. Or maybe I didn't want to.

Her eyes weren't ordinary. They had something inside them. Something wounded. Something furious. Something that looked like it had survived hell and decided it would rather burn than kneel. I understood that kind of fire. Maybe that was why I couldn't look away.

I did not take disrespect. I did not let anyone talk to me like I was not the one holding all the guns, all the power, all the lives in this city. But her. That cold defiance. That unquenchable fire. It burned through every wall I built years ago, burned through every rule I ever lived by.

I was not supposed to want this. I was not supposed to want her. 'For fuck's sake, Ayansh, shut the hell up and stop thinking about her.' I repeated the order to myself, over and over, but it did not work.

I still saw her. I still wanted her. I killed men for looking at me the wrong way back then. I would have killed every last motherfucker in this city just to get her to look at me again.

It had been a full week since that chaotic night in the hospital. We all sat stunned around Rajveer's hospital bed when the truth finally came out-she was his sister. The sister he'd hidden from every dirty part of our lives for years, and none of us had ever even known she existed.

I asked Rajveer straight: You mind if I break her fucking wrist for slapping me? My own best friend just stared at me and said if I touch her, he'll personally dig my grave before I can breathe.

I rolled my eyes. Of course I couldn't break her hand-Rajveer would've gutted me before I even lifted a finger. But that didn't mean I was gonna let her walk away after getting under my skin like this. She owed me. And I always collect what I'm owed.

I dragged the cigar smoke deep into my lungs, held it there until my chest burned, and exhaled it slow toward the half-finished canvas propped on the easel.

I hadn't stepped foot in this room in more than eleven years. Not since the day I locked the door and swore I'd never paint anything again. For a week now, I'd done nothing but chase those smoky black-grey eyes across the linen. I'd started this to scrape her image out of my skull, to get her out of my system once and for all. But it didn't work.

Every brush stroke only pulled the memory closer, sharp and raw, the thing I'd spent years trying to bury digging its way back out. Those eyes. They didn't just remind me of her. They were the spitting image of the eyes that haunted my worst nightmares, the eyes I'd failed to protect years ago. She was the ghost I'd never managed to bury. And now she was standing right in front of me, breathing, alive, and I didn't know if I wanted to save her or lock her away forever so I never failed again.

That girl fogged up every corner of my head. For a whole week, I couldn't think about anything else. One meeting. One fucking meeting, and she already had me questioning everything I had ever believed-my rules, my control, every fucking line I had drawn to keep myself from breaking.

No woman had ever dared lay a hand on me. But her? She slapped me. She commanded me like I was just another intern who fucked up. And I just... let her.

If anyone else had tried that, they would've been six feet under before the echo of their mistake even faded.

I still couldn't stop replaying it: the way she stepped right up, ripped the gun out of my hand like she'd done it a hundred times, emptied the chamber in one smooth, sharp move because the nurse was too scared to breathe, then slid it right back across the table to me like it was nothing.

She wasn't shaking. She wasn't even nervous. That wasn't the first time she'd held a gun. I knew it the second she wrapped her fingers around the grip. Of course she isn't normal. She's Rajveer Shekhawat's sister.

There's a bite to her I haven't found in anyone else. I can't figure out what it is about her that won't let me scrape her out of my skull. I've never given anyone this much space in my head before. Every fucking second of every day, it's just her. I don't fucking understand why I'm craving to know every single broken part of her. I don't fucking understand why I want to fucking understand. I just know I can't stop until I do.

I finished the canvas with a tiny mole tucked into the corner of her left eye, barely big enough to see, the kind of detail most people would miss even if they stood an arm's length away. I set my brush down on the paint-stained wooden table, the old wood creaking soft under my hand, and stepped back to stare at the full portrait I'd stretched across the linen.

My heart hammered against my ribs before I even registered it, fast and hard, just like it had the first time our eyes locked in that emergency ward. It was the first time I'd felt my own heartbeat in years. Not since the day I locked this room and buried every soft thing I ever had. Fuck. I'm really fucked.

I crushed the half-burned cigar into the crystal ashtray hard, tobacco crumbing under my fingers, and let my gaze drift back to those painted smoky eyes staring back at me. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"Kambakht, kya nasha hai in aankhon mein... hosh mein rehna bhi mushkil hai."

(Damn, what kind of intoxication lies in those eyes... it's becoming impossible to stay sane around them.)

The painted eyes stared back, unblinking, just like she had that night in the treatment room when she'd leaned in to clean my graze, her fingers brushing my arm and making every nerve in my body light up.

"Kya raaz chhupa rakha hai in aankhon mein?" I stepped closer to the canvas, my fingers hovering an inch from the painted corner of her eye, not daring to touch it yet. "Koi baat nahi, doctor shahiba... mujhe raaz benaqaab karne ka shauq hai."

(What secret are you hiding behind those eyes? It's alright, Doctor Shahiba... I have a habit of uncovering secrets.)

I'd never wanted anything this bad in my whole life. Not the crown, not revenge, not anything. And I always get what I want.

I wanted to be the reason she couldn't hide anything from me. I wanted to know every version of her. The girl she showed the world. The girl she buried. The girl she became when nobody was watching.

A rough, breathless laugh tore out of my throat, low and wild, the confession slipping out before I could clamp down on it.

"Lagta hai in aankhon ne faisla kar liya hai... mujhe barbaad karne ka."

(Seems like those eyes have already decided... to be the death of me.)

I didn't look away from the canvas. This was the first thing that had felt like living in years. If she wanted to reduce me to ash, I'd hold the match for her myself.

I stared at the painted eyes for another long minute, the paint still tacky in the air, and the question bubbled out of me, rough and raw, spoken only to the quiet room and the ghost of her I had dragged into it.

"Who the hell are you?" I muttered, rubbing the back of my paint-stained hand across my jaw, the smirk long gone, replaced by a raw, hungry confusion I hadn't felt in half my life. "Who the fuck are you, that you've turned me into this fucking rabid dog who can't think about anything but you? Now all I do is breathe and think and crave you. You walked into this fucking city one night and you've already unspooled every single rule I've lived by for years. Who the hell are you to drive me this crazy after one single meeting? What the fuck am I supposed to do with you now?"

I didn't need to wait for an answer. I was going to find it myself. I was going to pull every secret out of her, one by one, until she was just as crazy for me as I was for her.

The sharp, staccato ring of my phone cut through the thick, cigar-smoke fog that hung in the locked painting room, yanking me harshly out of the daze I had fallen into while staring at the portrait.

I dragged my gaze away from those smoky painted eyes, picked up the phone lying on the table, and pressed it to my ear, my voice still rough and quiet from being alone with my thoughts.

"Yeah, Anshuman." He was a year older than me, the only man I trusted with every part of my life-never just a hired guard, but more like an older brother who had my back since we were kids running through the back alleys of Mumbai, even though he still refused to acknowledge that bond and insisted on keeping things formal.

"Boss, your grandfather is here, waiting at the main house." I huffed a quiet breath through my nose at the title he refused to drop, but didn't scold him for it.

"Okay. Tell him to make himself comfortable in the study. I'll be there in five minutes." I drew a long, slow breath that smelled of turpentine and cigar smoke, and flicked one last lingering glance at the tiny painted mole in the corner of her left eye.

I needed to scrub the streaks of black and silver paint off my hands before I went to meet Dadu. I didn't need him picking up on the new, burning thing that had already wrapped itself around every corner of my life before I was ready to name it myself.

I scrubbed the paint off my hands, changed into a clean black button-down, and walked down the wide stairs to the ground-floor study. Dadu was already settled in the leather armchair by the fireplace, waiting, one gnarled hand resting on the armrest.

I sank into the armchair across the oak desk from him. Every conversation we ever had stuck strictly to business-deals, territory lines, problems that needed sorting. Nothing personal ever crossed this desk. I tilted my head, my voice cool and edged with faint curiosity. "What do I owe this unexpected visit to, Mr. Rathore?"

He leaned forward slightly, his lined face set in that grave, unyielding expression I knew well. "There's something important I need to talk to you about."

I nodded, flicking a stray ash off my shirt cuff. "Go ahead. What's it about?"

"It's about your marriage."

I stared at him for a long, unblinking moment, convinced the old man had finally lost his damn mind. A rough, biting laugh burst out of me, shaking my shoulders as I leaned back against the leather.

"I think I must have misheard. Say that again."

He didn't blink or soften. His voice was steady, final-the same tone he used to give orders for executions.

"You heard me right. I'm here to talk about your marriage."

Hot anger bubbled up through my chest, slow and burning, this stubborn old man really testing the very last thread of my patience that day. I leaned forward, my palms flat against the desk, my voice low and dangerous, enough to make any other man reach for his gun.

"Marriage? Mine? Have you completely lost your mind? Are you even in your right senses sitting here saying this to me?"

He sat up straighter, his jaw set just as hard as mine, no give at all-the same unyielding Rathore stubbornness that ran in our blood.

"I am completely in my right senses, and my mind is sharper than yours right now. How long do you plan to keep living alone like this, rotting away in this big empty house all by yourself? You won't even stay under the same roof as the rest of the family. Your grandmother worries about you constantly, but she can't get through that thick skull of yours. So we've made the final call-you're getting married. You're thirty three years old. It's long past time you settled down."

I stared him down, my lip curling into a sharp, mocking smirk, the anger in my chest coiling tight enough to snap.

"Age? Mine? You're the one creeping up on eighty, old man. I think you've got so little time left you're trying to map out every last inch of my life before you six feet under. That's why you're sitting here spouting all this nonsense at me."

He didn't rise to the bait, just kept that hard, unyielding gaze fixed on me, no give at all.

"Let's cut the crap. I'm not here to joke. You're marrying this girl, one way or another. Either you walk down the aisle willingly, or I'll drag you there by the scruff of your neck."

I barked out a harsh, bitter laugh, leaned back against the leather, and tapped my fingers slowly and steadily against the armrest.

"You forget who you're talking to, don't you? You're throwing orders around to Ayansh Singh Rathore."

He leaned forward, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrest, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous growl that used to make me freeze when I was a boy.

"If you're Ayansh Singh Rathore, then I'm still your grandfather. I built this empire from nothing before you even drew your first breath."

I set my jaw, my voice flat and final, leaving no room to negotiate.

"I don't want this marriage. I don't want any marriage."

He paused, held my gaze for a long, heavy beat, then dropped the question that cut through every line I'd drawn, simple and brutal.

"Do you want the empire or not?"

My jaw clenched so tight I could hear my molars grind, and I curled my fist on the polished mahogany desk until my knuckles turned white.

"The empire is already mine. I rule it every single day, old man. Don't you ever forget that."

He smirked, slow and knowing, the exact same cold smirk I'd seen in my own reflection a hundred times after I'd put a bullet in a traitor.

"Not legally, boy. Don't you forget that small detail. I'm still the one who holds the official title right now. I can hand it over to anyone I want if you refuse to do what I tell you."

I pushed up from my chair so fast the leather scraped loudly against the wood, and slammed my open palm down on the desk hard enough to make everything on it rattle.

"Do you even hear yourself right now? Do you realize what you're saying? Do you have any idea what I've poured into this fucking empire? My blood, my sleepless nights, every fucking part of me-just to hold this crown together when your own sons were too busy drinking and whoring to lift a finger. And you're sitting here telling me you'll hand it over to some useless clown? Which one of your sons or grandsons even deserves it? None of them have ever built a single fucking thing in their lives, they just feed off your money. Do you actually want to watch your whole empire turn to dust just to force me into a marriage I don't want?"

I stared at him, my chest heaving slightly with the force of my anger, waiting for him to back down like he always did when we fought. But he didn't blink or flinch, just sat there straight-backed and immovable, his voice flat and final, like he'd already signed the papers.

"You don't need to worry about who I give it to or how they'll handle it. That's my problem, not yours. You only have two options. Marry the girl your grandmother and I picked out for you, and you get the crown, legally, the day after your wedding. Or you keep digging your stubborn heels in, and you can forget the crown entirely. It's that simple."

I went still, the anger seeping out of my bones just enough to let the cold truth settle in-he wasn't bluffing. He never bluffed. I'd poured every drop of my blood, every year of my adult life, every sleepless night into this empire, building it back from the brink when the old rivals had tried to tear it down after his health failed. I couldn't just walk away and hand it to one of those useless clowns who'd never even pulled a trigger, never dirtied their hands to keep the thing standing. That crown was mine. It had always been mine. If they gave it to someone else, I'd burn the whole fucking compound to the ground before I let them keep it. But I still needed it. I needed it badly, no matter what price they put on it.

I leaned on the desk, my voice rough and raw, the anger mixing with confusion now.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me? Why force this marriage now, when I've already given you everything you ever asked for?"

He leaned back against the leather, steepling his own gnarled fingers on the desk, and his expression softened just a fraction-the first crack in his hard facade all conversation.

"I gave my word to my best friend. I can't go back on it now. You have to marry his granddaughter."

The name settled heavy in my chest before I even said it. Avay Kapoor. Everything I knew about this world, about holding a gun, about keeping my head when everything fell apart-he taught me more of that than my own grandfather did. He helped make me the man I was today. I frowned, my brain racing through what I knew of his family.

"His granddaughter? His granddaughter died years ago, right? Monalisa, engaged to Akshay?"

Akshay had been my best friend, my other half. Not being able to save him from that crash was the biggest loss of my life, a scar I still carried every single day. He wasn't here anymore, no matter how much I still waited for his call some nights.

Dadu shook his head, slow. "No, not her. The girl I'm talking about doesn't have any blood relation to the Kapoor family, but... Avay Kapoor said she's his pride, She's everything he ever cared about."

My heart kicked hard against my ribs, sudden and sharp, and I leaned forward again.

"Who is she?"

He held my gaze, steady, and dropped the name like a stone into still water.

"Dr. Aadhya Raichand. You have to marry her. She will be the queen to your empire."

My breath hitched so hard it caught in my throat, the name landing like a bullet I didn't see coming. Dr. Aadhya Raichand. Of all the women in the entire city, they picked her. I'd spent seven straight days fighting to scrape her smoky eyes out of my head, locking myself away just to paint her into a portrait I couldn't finish, and now fate shoved her straight into my path. The harder I tried to push her away, the closer she kept stepping into my life.

I leaned back again, a wild, disbelieving smirk tugging at my mouth, because this was the kind of fucked up coincidence no writer would ever believe.

"Fine. I'll agree to the marriage. But you actually think she's gonna say yes to me, old man? Even if I agree, that girl hates me. She'd rather put a bullet through her own stethoscope than marry me."

Dadu smirked back, slow and triumphant, the corner of his mouth crinkling like he'd already won the entire war before the first shot was fired.

"She already said yes to this marriage."

The smirk dropped clean off my face, my brain short-circuiting for a full beat, I couldn't believe what I'd just heard.

"What? But she never-"

Dadu cut me off before I could spit the question out, leaning forward and holding out his gnarled, calloused hand for me to shake.

"Congratulations, young man. All the best for what comes next."

My voice sharp enough to cut glass, raw with the hot anger coiling tight in my chest.

"If you already decided every last detail before you even walked through that door, why the fuck bother asking me for my opinion? Just spit out the wedding date right now and get it over with."

He leaned back in his leather armchair, calm as a summer storm that hadn't broken yet, completely unfazed by my rage.

"The pandit will come tomorrow. Both families will gather at the main Rathore mansion, and we'll lock the date in then."

I leaned forward, grinding the words out between clenched teeth.

"I want those legal papers transferred to my name the day after the wedding. No delays, no loopholes. Don't try to fuck me over on this. Got it, old man?"

He leaned back, unbothered.

"Of course. I always keep my word-just like you do, isn't that right?"

I watched him rise from his chair and head toward the door, his footsteps steady against the quiet of the study. Just as his hand reached for the brass knob, I called out to him.

"I'm going to ruin that girl, Dadu. From the second she steps into my life, everything that happens after that-you're responsible for it. Not me."

He paused, his hand still resting on the handle, and slowly turned back to look at me.

"We'll see, Ayansh. We'll just see... who ruins who."

He pulled the heavy study door shut behind him, and I was left alone in the thick, cigar-smoke-scented silence. I grabbed the full glass of aged whiskey off the mahogany desk, tilted my head back, and drained the whole thing in one rough, burning gulp. The alcohol seared my throat, but it did nothing to dull the roaring, hungry want for her that was already singing through every nerve ending in my body.

I leaned back against the desk, my chest heaving, and I still couldn't believe it. My own marriage was happening. To her. The same girl who had slapped my hand hard in front of my men in that hospital corridor, who had stared me down like I wasn't the most dangerous man in the city. She'd walked into my life out of nowhere, and already she'd turned every single thing I'd planned upside down, flipped my whole world inside out before I even saw it coming.

I hurled the empty whiskey glass at the stone wall across the room, and it shattered into a hundred sharp, glittering pieces that skittered across the wooden floor. I roared the question into the empty silence, my voice raw and feral, every tangled part of me screaming it out:

"Who the fuck are you, Aadhya Raichand?"

The echo bounced off the high study walls, and the silence closed back in, thick and heavy, no answer coming but the quiet thud of my own heartbeat against my ribs, faster than it had ever beaten for anyone or anything in my whole thirty-three years of life.

⚜ ─── TO BE CONTINUED ─── ⚜