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A palace that touched the clouds and sent echoes of power through its marble veins, Rathore Palace was more than India's crown jewel-it was living history carved in sandstone and inlaid with generations of pride.

From the outside, it rose like a desert mirage-domes glittering under the Rajasthan sun, latticed jharokhas casting lacework shadows on the courtyard, and spires so tall they seemed to pierce the morning sky. The walls, the color of burnished gold at dawn, had seen coronations, royal feasts, and whispered conspiracies for centuries. Portraits of ancestors in jewel-studded turbans stared down from high arches, their gazes following you as if to remind: You are walking through the bloodline of kings.

Inside, the air was cool, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and the metallic tang of polished silverware. Sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows in jeweled colors, painting the marble floors in shifting rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rain above, swaying gently whenever a distant door closed.

And at the center of this legacy-the royal dining hall-stood a table fit for an empire. A single slab of rosewood that could seat an army, gleaming under gold-plated cutlery and silver bowls. A long embroidered runner bore the Rathore crest-two crossed swords beneath a roaring lion-like a silent declaration of power.

But this morning, the air wasn't solemn.

The grandeur was drowned beneath the chatter of too many voices talking over each other, the clatter of spoons, and the occasional flying paratha. Servants kept their distance-because the Rathore women insisted on setting the table themselves. Not for tradition alone, but because it gave them an excuse to swat the boys with serving spoons.

“Where on earth is your favorite son, Maa?” drawled Karthik Singh Rathore, the second-born prince and resident drama king, his chair screeching against the marble as he spread his arms like a soap opera hero. Karthik could charm a room in seconds and irritate it in the next; it was a talent he polished daily.

Meera Singh Rathore, the queen of the palace and the calm eye in every storm, stirred her tea without looking up. “Probably with his first love.”

“With his laptop, obviously,” chimed in Kian Singh Rathore, the youngest Rathore boy-quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and always halfway through a meal. “He should just marry it. Compatibility score-100%.”

“Keep praising him like this and I'll make sure Bhai sa hears it,” said Riddhima Singh Rathore, the poised and sharp-minded twin sister of Karthik, who somehow managed to be both confidante and critic to everyone. She was the only one Avyansh actually listened to.

“Here comes Bhai sa's little chamchi (suck-up), claiming nobody loves her,” teased Kiara Singh Rathore, the youngest of the royal cousins-sweet-faced but lethal with her sarcasm-earning a sharp spoon tap from her mother, Radhika Singh Rathore.

Their father, Abhinav Singh Rathore, the palace's stoic warhorse and master of understated intimidation, finally lowered his newspaper.

“Where is my useless son?” he asked dryly, though the faint twitch of his mouth gave him away.

Meera shot him a look. “Don't forget he's my son too.”

Abhinav smirked. “But I did 60% of the work, remember?”

“Yeah? That's why he's 60% strict and 40% dramatic-just like you,” Meera replied, cheeks faintly pink.

The younger ones groaned and coughed loudly to interrupt the not-so-subtle parental flirting.

From the head of the table, Devendra Singh Rathore-the patriarch of the family, whose voice alone could silence a room-gave his decree.

“Meera beta, tell your darling son to come home and for once not bring work with him. If he touches his laptop during the wedding, I'll personally throw it in the pool.”

“Yes, Baba. I'll handle him,” Meera smiled, fully aware that only she could tame Avyansh Singh Rathore-the lion of the family.

Then, the morning shifted.

Someone leaned in and whispered, “So... our little princess is getting married to none other than Ayush Agnihotri.”

The laughter faltered. It was as if someone had dimmed the chandeliers.

“Riddhi, have you decided your outfits?” asked Radhika, the ever-classy second daughter-in-law, a woman of quiet authority who could command a room without raising her voice-trying to steer the mood back to safer waters.

“Not yet, Chachi. But I want everything from ADIRA & CO. As soon as Ayush lands,” Riddhima replied, munching her chapatti like royalty.

“But they don't even specialize in Indian wear. How will you manage?” Kiara asked, wide-eyed.

“Don't worry. I have my sources. Plus, I'm the fiancée of her best friend. She can't say no to me,” Riddhima flipped her hair smugly.

“She's really coming?” Dadi's voice carried a weight only the older generation understood-a blend of curiosity, hope, and unspoken memories.

“Absolutely, Dadi. She promised,” Riddhima said, her voice firm.

Meera's eyes softened. “I'm excited to meet her too. It's been five years since I last went to London. And now she's finally coming to India.”

The younger cousins leaned closer, curiosity thick in the air.

“Who is she, Dadi? And how will you even get a custom dress from ADIRA?” Kian blurted out.

Riddhima smiled, wiped her lips, and stood. “She is AK. My friend. And don't worry—you'll love her. In fact, she's your favorite already… you just don't know it yet.”

Karthik's spoon slipped into his cereal bowl with a loud clink. “Wait… you mean THE AK? The queen of the business world? The one who shut down a Paris brand just with an Instagram story?!”

Riddhima winked and sauntered away. “Maybe she's my friend… or maybe more. You'll never know.”

“This family is pure drama,” Kiara muttered, only to be lovingly scolded by her mother.

From the side, Abhiraj Singh Rathore, the younger son of Devendra and husband to Radhika, shook his head with a bemused smile, watching his children squabble like little royals in training. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a calm authority that contrasted the chaos around him, he leaned against the doorway, silently taking mental notes of who was likely to end up with a cracked rib before breakfast ended.

Behind him, Rajmata Gayatri Singh Rathore, wife of Devendra and mother to Abhinav and Abhiraj, shook her head more subtly, lips pursed in a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. Her presence alone, dignified and serene, had a way of reminding everyone that, no matter how dramatic the chatter, the roof they lived under belonged to her calm.

“Go get ready for college, all of you. And remember—you have the whole next week off. So enjoy the calm before the chaos,” Radhika called, trying—and failing—to maintain order amidst the giggles, scoffs, and rolling eyes.

And as the royal siblings dispersed, the echoes of their laughter danced through the gilded halls.

Sure, the Rathore family ruled half of Rajasthan.
But the true throne? The breakfast table—where empires fell, parathas flew, and secrets simmered like chai left just a little too long on the stove.

Abhiraj and Gayatri exchanged a look, a silent agreement passing between them: let the chaos reign, for the laughter was far better than the silence that usually followed royal decorum.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

The Rathore Empire headquarters did not merely stand in the heart of the city-it ruled it.
From street level, its black glass façade caught the morning sun and reflected it back at the world like a mirror, daring anyone to meet its glare. It wasn't just a skyscraper; it was a statement carved in steel and ambition, the crown jewel of the business district.

Inside, the lobby stretched like the entrance to a temple of power. Polished black marble floors reflected the endless shine of crystal chandeliers above, while gold-veined columns stood like sentinels on either side. The air was crisp, chilled to perfection, carrying the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and leather.

A massive Trisul of Mahadev pierced the far wall, its three gleaming prongs stretching skyward like a divine command. The shaft was etched with intricate serpents and sacred Sanskrit mantras, each curve catching the soft light and shimmering like molten silver.

Shadows from the Trisul stretched across the polished marble floor, twisting and merging like fingers of fate, while below, the words “Om Namah Shivaya” were carved deep into the stone, their solemn presence echoing through the hall like the eternal resonance of Mahadev’s power.

Employees moved quickly, silently, like parts of a well-oiled machine. Their footsteps were soft, their voices low; laughter was rare here, almost forbidden, unless it came from the top. The glass reception desk gleamed, manned by a young woman whose posture was perfect but whose eyes darted nervously toward the elevator every few seconds, as if bracing for a storm.

And then-

Click.

The sound was small, but in this temple of discipline, it cut through the air like a gunshot.

Click. Click.

Boots. Slow, measured, deliberate. Each step echoing across marble like a countdown. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Pens froze over paper. A delivery boy carrying coffee stopped so abruptly he almost spilled the tray. Heads bowed instinctively, not from tradition, but from something older-primal recognition of dominance.

The air shifted. Thickened. The temperature seemed to drop a degree, though no one dared shiver.

He appeared from the mirrored elevator doors, though appeared was too soft a word. He arrived the way a predator arrives-unhurried, but absolutely certain the space was his. His black coat moved with the kind of weightless authority that came from precision tailoring and the fact that no one in the room could afford it.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Every line of him carved from discipline. The suit beneath was as dark as midnight, the tie a precise knot that looked like it had never known imperfection. He wore ruthlessness the way others wore perfume-subtle but impossible to miss.

His eyes swept the room once. No words. Just a slow scan, sharp enough to slice through pretenses. The kind of gaze that didn't just look at you-it looked through you, stripping away the layers until you were nothing but truth under scrutiny.

And following behind him-exactly three paces behind-walked his patience. Not a person, but a living shadow in the form of his most trusted man. Broad-built, silent, carrying the faintest frown as if permanently assessing threats. If the man in front was the blade, this was the sheath-silent, watchful, deadly if necessary.

Every step forward was calculated. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. He didn't walk like he owned the place. He walked like the place existed because of him.

An assistant, trembling slightly, stepped forward with a file. The boots stopped. The silence was so taut it could snap. He took the file without a word, glanced at it, and handed it back. The assistant's shoulders dropped a fraction-not in relief, but because even the smallest acknowledgment from him was enough to be both terrifying and satisfying.

He moved again, cutting through the room like a black blade through still water. Employees instinctively parted, creating a clear path to the private elevator that only he and a handful of others could use. The doors slid open instantly-no waiting, no delay. The system knew better.

Inside the elevator, mirrored walls reflected his presence from every angle, a constant reminder to himself and to anyone who might be foolish enough to share the ride-this was not a man you stood beside. You followed.

When the doors opened to the executive floor, the atmosphere changed again. Here, the corridors were carpeted in deep crimson, muffling footsteps, lined with oil paintings of past Rathore rulers-not kings of thrones, but kings of empires. Every door was matte black with a gold nameplate, but one door stood taller, wider, heavier than the rest.

It opened before he even reached it.

Inside, the office was a world of its own. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, glass so clear it made the streets below seem like a map spread at his feet. The desk was massive, black oak with gold inlay, papers stacked with precision. Behind it, the Rathore crest again-larger here, as if watching over him.

No family photos cluttered the space. No sentimental clutter. Only power in its purest, most distilled form.

He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a finality that felt like a lock on a vault. His patience-still three steps behind-moved to stand at his left, silent.

There were meetings to attend, deals to seal, empires to bend-but he didn't rush. He sat, one hand resting on the desk, and for a moment, the world outside those windows seemed to hold its breath.

Because when the lion sat, the jungle waited.

The silence in his office was not empty-it was charged, like the air before a monsoon breaks.
From behind the massive black oak desk, he sat with his back straight, fingers drumming against the wood with slow, measured precision. The city sprawled beneath him in the glass reflection-his kingdom in concrete and glass.

The lion didn't need to roar for the jungle to remember who ruled it.

Avyansh Singh Rathore.

The name was a legacy and a warning.

CEO of Rathore Empire-the largest privately held conglomerate in India.
Crowned Rana sa of Rajasthan-a title inherited through blood and protected through power.

And in the shadows where law and politics bent like reeds in a storm-he was something else entirely.

The silent sovereign of an empire no government dared name, a man whose control stretched from royal courts to the darkest alleys of Mumbai's underworld.

He did not juggle these worlds; he ruled them in the same way he breathed-effortlessly.

The door to his office opened with a soft click. No knock. His personal assistant knew better than to waste time on formalities.

Aarav Malhotra, the man who had been his right hand for nearly a decade, stepped inside. Immaculate in a tailored grey suit, his eyes carried the calm efficiency of someone who knew every inch of his boss's rhythm. Aarav was the only man who could approach without triggering that razor-sharp instinct for danger.

“Sir,” Aarav said, voice low, clipped. “The board is waiting. Meeting Room One.”

Avyansh didn't answer immediately. Instead, he finished the note he was making in his leather-bound book-three precise lines in bold, angular handwriting. Then he closed it with a soft thump, slid his pen into place, and looked up.

His eyes were cold steel. Not angry. Not warm. Just an unflinching, calculated weight that could crush a man's excuses before they were even spoken.

“How long have they been waiting?” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying that dangerous calm-the kind that made you listen harder, because you knew if it rose, consequences would follow.

“Seven minutes,” Aarav replied without hesitation.

“Then they've had seven minutes to remember who they're dealing with,” Avyansh said, standing.

When he rose to his full height, the office seemed to shrink. The black Brioni suit clung perfectly to the breadth of his shoulders, the tie a muted charcoal-every thread screaming control without flash. The faintest glint of a Patek Philippe watch peeked from his cuff, the kind of detail that spoke not of wealth, but of generations-old power.

He walked toward the door, Aarav falling into place exactly one step behind-no more, no less. The shadow to the lion.

As they stepped into the crimson-carpeted corridor, employees froze. Some pretended to type faster, some suddenly found their phones fascinating, but none dared to meet his gaze. It wasn't fear of punishment-it was instinct. Predators didn't like being stared at.

The private elevator doors opened before they reached them. The ride down was silent, save for the low hum of machinery.

When the doors slid open again, they emerged onto the executive floor-a domain of glass walls, black leather chairs, and a long conference table that gleamed under soft white light. Through the windows, Jaipur stretched endlessly, as if bowing to him in the distance.

Through the smoked glass of Meeting Room One, silhouettes shifted. Some leaned over papers, others checked their watches. The air beyond that door was already thick with anticipation.

Aarav pushed the door open.

The hum of conversation died instantly. Chairs straightened. Pens were set down. Eyes dropped.

Avyansh Singh Rathore stepped inside.

Not quickly. Not slowly. Just with that steady, lethal rhythm that said he was in control of every heartbeat in the room. The click of Italian leather boots against the marble was the only sound until he reached the head of the table.

He didn't sit. Not yet.

Instead, he let the silence stretch, pressing against the walls and seeping into the lungs of every person there. He scanned the faces-CEOs, political allies, industrial titans-each one important in their own right, yet each looking smaller under his gaze.

Only when he was certain they were exactly where he wanted them-off-balance, attentive, obedient-did he take his seat.

On the wall-sized screen behind him glowed the prize of the morning:

A $900 billion merger to fuse shipping, tech, energy, and security across Asia and Europe. It would not just shift markets-it would redraw the economic map.

A Singaporean tycoon cleared his throat. “Mr. Rathore, while the numbers are undeniably... formidable, there remains the question of-”

“Page forty-two,” Avyansh interrupted, his voice low and even. Not sharp. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.

The man flipped through his binder, read, and paled. He nodded once, setting the page down like it was burning him.

Another voice, a European banker with too much confidence, began: “What about the regulatory oversight? A transaction of this scale-”

“-will trigger political noise,” Avyansh finished, still not looking directly at him. “And I will silence it.”

The banker froze when Avyansh's eyes finally met his-cold, unblinking, patient. The kind of look that didn't warn; it promised.

Silence.

Avyansh opened the document Aarav had slid before him and uncapped his pen.

“I've made adjustments to the shipping lane clauses. My changes are final. If anyone disagrees...” he paused, pen hovering, “...you may leave now.”

No one moved.

He signed-swift, precise. One stroke that carried the weight of empires.

The folder passed around the table; signatures followed without hesitation. The deal was no longer a negotiation-it was a coronation.

When it returned to him, Avyansh closed it with a decisive thump.

“This,” he said, rising, “makes the Rathore Empire the sole controller of the eastern trade routes, the infrastructure connecting them, and the energy that powers them. We dictate the terms now-to the markets, to the governments, to the competition.”

He adjusted his cufflinks, the Patek Philippe catching the light. “Gentlemen, this isn't a business deal. This is conquest. And there is no second place in conquest.”

Turning to Aarav, he said, “Clear my afternoon. And put Delhi on the line. I'll speak to the Prime Minister in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

He walked out, boots clicking-a metronome of dominance that would echo in their minds long after.

Outside, the world carried on.
Inside, another kingdom had just been claimed.

The corridor was silent, but it wasn't empty. Every polished step of my boots against the marble echoed like a heartbeat in a cathedral. I moved at a steady pace, not rushing, not lingering. Aarav fell into place behind me as always, a shadow perfectly attuned to mine, carrying the weight of my presence without question.

The deal had closed. Nine hundred billion dollars. Signed, sealed, and already rippling through the arteries of the markets. Another empire expanded, another kingdom taken. And yet, the thrill I once expected didn't arrive. Victory had become routine. Necessary, inevitable.

My office doors slid open before I even reached them. Aarav had anticipated it, of course. He had always anticipated. I stepped inside, and the familiar silence of my domain greeted me: black oak, leather, floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting Jaipur's skyline like a map of my conquests. The city below bent to my vision. Or perhaps it was only in my mind that it obeyed.

Aarav placed a steaming Americano at the corner of my desk. No words. No hesitation. Just the way I liked it.

“Schedule cleared for the next two hours,” he said finally. “Shall I have the press team draft the statement?”

I didn't turn. “Brief. Numbers first. Flattery later.”

He inclined his head and left. The click of the door closing was the only sound, swallowed quickly by the vastness of the room.

I picked up the coffee and walked to the window. The city stretched endlessly, a concrete maze of ambition and greed. I saw every street as I had always seen it - lines of opportunity, threats, and pawns moving in the wrong direction. Power changes perception. Life, I realized, had hardened me. It had taught me to see people as obstacles or advantages. Trust as currency. Affection as weakness.

And yet... there was a fragment of something stubborn in me. Unspoken. Unacknowledged. Buried under layers of control and dominance. A shadow of desire, a faint echo of a life I had once allowed myself to feel. Someone I missed more than I would ever admit.

I didn't turn toward the memory. I didn't chase it. I never chase. Kings don't chase.

The office door banged open without warning.

“Tum dono ka koi office hai ya sirf mujhe irritate karna hai?”
(Do you two have an office or just exist to irritate me?)

Ishaan flopped onto the couch, arms splayed like he owned it. “Hum bas yaad dilane aate hain ke tu abhi bhi insaan hai.”
(We just come to remind you that you're still mortal.)

Siddharth didn't look up, fingers moving furiously over his phone.

Then came the inevitable-Vedika's message.

“Siddhhhhh! Ice cream nahi aaya na, toh ek mahina guest room mein so rahe ho!”
(If my ice cream doesn't arrive, you're sleeping in the guest room for a month!)

Her voice was absurd, exaggerated, poetic even in its panic.

“Bhai, kuch toh dignity rakh.” I muttered.
(At least keep a shred of dignity, man.)

Siddharth only shrugged. ”Teri shaadi hone toh de pehle.”
(Let you get married first.)

I scoffed. “Shaadi aur main? Kabhi nahi.”
(Marriage and me? Never.)

Silence returned. Even the walls seemed to smirk at us.

Ishaan tapped his phone, sat upright, and announced, “Bro, headlines aagayi.”
(Bro, the headlines are in.)

He began reading:

“The Agnihotri brothers are returning to India after 6 years.”
“The AK is arriving. Flights booked under private alias confirmed for Mumbai landing.”
“CEO of Adira & Co. to launch Project Sringar in Jaipur-a fashion-meets-culture revolution.”
“Adira's entry into Indian luxury market expected to disrupt traditional labels.”
“AK: Mystery face, ruthless mind, global dominance.”
“Will the Rathore princess marry billionaire Ayush Agnihotri?”
“Avyansh Singh Rathore signs a 900 crore global expansion deal-Rajasthan's legacy rises.”

Project Sringar.

The name cut through my calm like a knife. Adira & Co. wasn't just a brand-it was a fortress of strategy, elegance, and power. My mother wore it. My sister swore by it. My staff treated it like reverence. And the woman behind it... invisible, untouchable, unstoppable.

Now, she was entering Jaipur.

Ishaan leaned forward, curiosity in his eyes. “Kya lagta hai tujhko? AK asli mein kaisi hai?”
(What do you think AK is really like?)

Siddharth didn't even glance up. “Jaise bhi ho, tujhe to bas competition se jalan hai.”
(Whoever she is, you're just jealous of competition.)

I let a small smirk curl. “Competition unse hoti hai jo peechhe ho. Mujhe sirf interference se problem hai.”
(You compete with people behind you. I only have problems with interference.)

Ishaan laughed. “Still, she's built different. Billion-dollar empire, anonymous face, ruthless moves?”

I sipped my Americano, the heat sharp in my palm. “Jo rules todta hai, woh ya toh genius hota hai... ya monster.”
(Those who break the rules are either geniuses... or monsters.)

Siddharth looked up. “Aur tu kaunsa hai?”
(And which one are you?)

I met his gaze, unflinching. “Main? Dono.”
(Me? Both.)

They chuckled, exchanging glances before leaving.

Alone again. The silence pressed closer this time, heavier than before.

AK. Project Sringar. Jaipur.

A storm was coming. One that would not bend. One that would not bow.

And for the first time in years, I felt that faint stir in my chest-the part I buried beneath steel and strategy. It recognized her. Remembered. Longed.

Not aloud. Not now. But in the quiet moments between deals and dominions, the part of me that had once dared to hope for warmth still existed.

I took another sip of the bitter coffee. My reflection in the glass looked like a king, a conqueror.
But somewhere behind that mask, a fragment of a man remembered what it was to feel, to want, to ache.

The world saw ruthlessness. They would never understand the calculation. The patience. The quiet yearning.

I would not chase. I would not reveal. I would not kneel.

But my heart...
My heart already knew her name.

And this storm?
It wore heels, silk, and blood-red ambition.

The night air was thick with rot and silence. Every inhale carried the tang of iron and decay, a suffocating reminder that this place was not made for comfort-or mercy. The warehouse loomed like a monument to neglect, its broken windows reflecting shards of moonlight, casting fragmented shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Rust crawled along the gates, paint peeling like old skin, and the faintest breeze carried the stench of oil, damp wood, and something far darker.

A convoy of black SUVs rolled to a deliberate stop outside. The engines cut one by one, leaving only the faint hum of the night and the creak of the gates. Guards stiffened immediately, muscles taut, eyes wide. They were trained, yes, but even seasoned men could not unlearn instinct. They weren't waiting for a visitor-they were waiting for judgment.

A single foot hit the ground. Polished leather, black as midnight, and every detail-every crease in the jacket, every cuff buttoned-was precise, deliberate. He emerged, tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly composed. The air seemed to bend around him. The very shadows retreated.

Avyansh Singh Rathore.

No words. No nods. No gestures. Just the presence of a man whose reputation preceded him like a blade. The underworld whispered his name; governments respected him in silence; even life seemed to hesitate.

He didn't hurry. He didn't need to. Predators move with inevitability, and he was nothing if not precise.

The warehouse door groaned as it opened, revealing the room inside. The smell hit him first: blood, sweat, fear. A man sat in a rusted chair, wrists tied behind his back, body battered, bruised, half his dignity already stolen. His lips trembled, one eye swollen shut. But it was the other eye, the one that could still see, that made Avyansh pause-not out of pity, but in recognition.

Regret. Recognition. Mortal fear.

He didn't speak. He never needed to.

He walked, each step measured, deliberate. The sound of his boots against the concrete echoed through the vast emptiness like a death knell. The man shrank further, trying to disappear into himself, as if hiding could erase the storm approaching.

Avyansh stopped just short of the table. He didn't sit. He leaned forward, placing his palms lightly on the scarred surface, letting the silence press into the man's chest, into the bones, into the very air.

“ Where should I begin? ” His voice was low, calm, and clinical, slicing through the thick tension like a scalpel.

“P-please... have mercy...” the man stammered, blood pooling at the corners of his mouth.

A slow, deliberate smile curved across Avyansh's face. Predatory. Calculated. Merciless.

“You should have begged before you touched what belonged to me.”

No heat. No rage. Only inevitability.

He circled the chair, eyes scanning every inch of the man's body. Each bruise, each cut, each involuntary twitch of fear was cataloged in his mind. He was meticulous, precise. No emotion. Only results.

“Thought I wouldn't notice the CCTV loop?”
“Thought I wouldn't trace every untraceable number you hid behind?”
“I built an empire tearing masks like yours.”

His hand moved with surgical precision. The screwdriver gleamed under the harsh light as he pressed it against the man's temple, then-without hesitation-drove it into his left eye.

The scream tore through the night, jagged and animalistic. The sound echoed off the metal walls, bouncing back like a warning to anyone foolish enough to cross him. Guards outside flinched but did not intervene. They knew better. With Avyansh Singh Rathore, there is always worse.

Blood dripped like blackened jewels. The man convulsed, limbs jerking against the restraints. And still, Avyansh remained calm. Controlled. Efficient.

He wiped the screwdriver on the man's shirt and drew his pistol.

BANG. Knee.
BANG. Shoulder.

Stillness. Obedience. Fear.

“You don't get to touch what's mine and survive to regret it. You die regretting it.”

Two final shots. Precise. Efficient. Merciless.

The body slumped forward. Silence returned, heavy and charged. Avyansh stood. Finished. The predator relaxed, but the weight of his presence lingered like smoke.

“Dismember the body. Feed the pieces to the strays outside. Make sure the animals choke on it.”

Then he turned. His walk back was slow, deliberate, predatory-but now measured, almost meditative. Every step counted, every shadow and crack in the concrete floor observed, cataloged. The night outside felt smaller. The city beyond, distant. This was his world, and the world knew it.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

Back at the palace, the grandeur of his heritage met him, but it did nothing to temper him. Chandeliers reflected centuries of wealth, marble floors gleamed, and the scent of sandalwood lingered in the halls. Yet here, he was not a killer. He was a son.

Past guards, past silent servants, past eyes that dared not meet his-he moved with the same deliberate rhythm. Only one presence mattered.

His mother. Curled on a velvet couch, her expression serene, patient. The small glow of a lamp painted her face in golden warmth.

Maa... abhi tak jaagi ho?” he asked, voice soft, almost hesitant.
(

You're still awake?)

She patted the space beside her. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then slowly, silently, lowered his head into her lap. The world outside-the blood, the empire, the underworld-slipped away. In her touch, he was not Avyansh Singh Rathore, CEO, or king of shadows. He was simply a boy seeking comfort.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, gentle and familiar. A softness no one else ever glimpsed.

“You look tired,” she whispered.

“Not tired. Just... finished something,” he replied.

Her hand stilled, understanding passing between them in silence. No questions asked. No need. She had always known. She had always seen.

“Cancel all your meetings next week. I want you at Riddhima's wedding. No excuses.”

He nodded, the hardness of his expression softening ever so slightly.

“And invite the Rajvanshs and Raichands. We're hosting at the ancestral palace.”

He swallowed. There were names that stirred old grudges, echoes of debts unpaid, alliances forged in blood. He masked the flicker of discomfort expertly.

“Maa... who's coming from the groom's side?”

“The Agnihotris. And the Rai Singhanias.”

Her words were calm, almost mundane-but the poison was in their history, the tension that lay between lines unspoken. Something ancient and unresolved coiled in his chest. But he buried it deep.

He rose toward his room. She watched him go, worry faintly etched across her face. She had always known: the darkness that lived inside him, the hunger that never truly slept, the predator that no one could contain.

But here, in her presence, even that predator softened. Here, he allowed himself to be human. And she knew: whoever ever challenged him, whoever dared touch what was his-or hers-would never walk away.

For Avyansh Singh Rathore, there was only one law: protect what he loved, crush what he hated, and leave nothing standing in between.

And tonight, he had fed that law again, in blood and silence.

And maybe, somewhere deep beneath the empire, the rage, the violence, and the cold calculation... a part of him waited. A part of him wondered if someone could meet him, unflinching, and not fall. Someone whose ambition and fire could ignite what even the empire could not reach.

But for now... the night had fed him, and he had walked away.

And the palace, vast and gleaming, felt the shadow of its king, the predator who ruled both throne and street, the son who would kneel for only one-and destroy for all the rest.

|ᴛ ᴏ ʙ ᴇ ᴄ ᴏ ɴ ᴛ ɪ ɴ ᴜ ᴇ ᴅ|

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You know, while writing this chapter, I was thinking of only one thing: to make this story feel like home to you all.

A home you could live in—where every word, every emotion feels real. Where the love is written in a way no one else has written it before. So real, so beautiful, that one can’t help but crave it.

I don’t know whether this story will reach one million hearts or two million eyes, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that it deserves to exist. And I’m happy—really happy—with this small happiness. Because this story feels like home. A home without walls, yet full of love.

I don’t know whether it will become popular or not. But even if it doesn’t, even if there are just 2,000 readers, they are everything to me.

Your immense love for this story is nothing short of a blessing.

Akshita and Avyansh are not just characters—they are the living imagination of mine. The devotion Akshita has for Avyansh, and the respect Avyansh holds for her, are things words cannot capture.

I hope you all will be with me till the very end, through every high and low.

Love you all, from the bottom of my heart.❣️

—Your author❤️