Juhu,Mumbai~
In the grand room, the woman sat with effortless elegance on the king-sized sofa, her legs crossed with a fluid grace. Her saree, a cascade of rich fabric, flowed around her like a quiet stream, every fold reflecting her impeccable taste.
The diamond mangalsutra around her neck caught the light with a subtle gleam, adding to the quiet power she exuded. Her dark hair, sleek and neatly styled, complemented the sharp sophistication in her gaze.
Her presence was commanding, yet silent-one of quiet authority that seemed to fill the room without a single word. In this space, she was both a symbol of strength and grace, a woman whose very being demanded attention and respect.
Before her stood Pratap, her most trusted and loyal aide. His expression was tense, his tone grave as he began to speak.
"Ma'am," he began, voice low, deliberate. "After all these years... it's started again."
She didn't move. Didn't react.
"The attacks are resumed.I think They've figured it out," he continued, watching for even the slightest shift in her expression.
"She visited there alone again..Our men intervened before it could escalate. She's safe."
A pause.
"For now"
Her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
"Who?"
Pratap hesitated. "We don't know."
For the first time, the air shifted. Just slightly.
Pratap continued, choosing his words carefully,
"They were just hired hands," he continued....
"paid to strike, but they had no name to give. No ties to follow. A ghost directing from the shadows." His voice dropped. "But that's not all."
Pratap took a breath, then delivered the final blow. "Their leader is dead."
A long silence stretched between them.
"Or rather..." He met her eyes. "KILLED."
Her head tilted slightly. "By whom?"
"Sir's men."
Her fingers stilled.
"They assumed the attack was meant for them, took action immediately"
The woman's expression turned thoughtful, her lips curving ever so slightly in a knowing smirk.
"Go on,"
She urged, her voice colder now, as if she already anticipated what would follow.
Pratap's voice dropped lower, tinged with frustration.
"We wanted to investigate further, gather clues, but Sir's men are ahead of us..They secured the area completely, making sure no one could enter or escape. They confiscated all evidence... wiped the scene clean."
For a moment, silence settled in the room. Then, a soft chuckle escaped her lips, her eyes gleaming with pride and amusement. Pride flickered across her face before it was swiftly replaced by steely determination.
She leaned back, her hands resting elegantly on the armrests of the chair, as if considering her next move
His jaw clenched. "He's already moving."
Her smirk was faint, but her words were sharper than ever.
"Find out everything before he does."
Pratap gave a curt nod. But he wasn't done.
"Ma'am... only two months remain."
"I'm going there today," she declared without a hint of hesitation, her tone resolute.
A beat of silence.
"Does she know?"
Her answer came without hesitation.
"No."
Pratap bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Without another word, She rose, smooth, unhurried. Exiting gracefully, she stepped into her car, the doors closing behind her with a definitive click. The engine roared to life as she drove away, leaving Pratap standing there, resolute in his mission, ready to carry out her orders.
************
[ AFTER 5 MONTHS ]
The morning sun spilled its golden warmth across the sprawling villa, painting the room in a soft, ethereal glow casting delicate shadows across the expansive, inviting space.Through the floor-to-ceiling windows ,a soft breeze carried the gentle hum of a distant lawnmower and the melodic chorus of birds singing their dawn song. The villa, a tranquil haven of peace, embraced every corner with its serene elegance.
In the heart of the room, a young woman in her Mid-20s, her milky porcelain skin glowing with freshness, emerged from the bathroom, the remnants of a rejuvenating shower still clinging to her.The delicate folds of her pastel beige saree rustly softly as she moved.The plush, cream-colored carpet felt soft beneath her bare feet as she moved with quiet grace.Water droplets shimmered on her skin as she moved to sit before an ornate antique mirror.The air around her seemed to be infused with the sweet scent of Jasmine and vanilla, mixing with the fresh floral notes of the villa's gardens outside.Her silky, kohl-black hair cascaded down her back in a smooth, flowing wave, reaching all the way to her hips. Some of the strands tumbled over her shoulders, their damp tips gently sticking to her skin, adding an effortless yet alluring touch to her delicate frame. Her dainty nose adorned with delicate nose ring bore perfect contours that complemented her smooth, flawless skin. Her lips, the color of soft rose petals, curled into a smile that seemed to capture the essence of the universe itself. As she ran her slender, Venus-red fingertips trailed through her silken hair, the strands slipping back behind her ear, revealing the graceful curve of her swan-like neck. There, resting against her flawless skin, was a sleek, precious diamond-studded mangalsutra-its centerpiece an exquisite D-color Koh-i-Noor Diamond, one of the rarest and most coveted gems in history that sparkled with an ethereal glow, its brilliance belying the tension that lay beneath. While it symbolized her newly married bond, it carried the weight of an unspoken strain-an unsteady connection, fragile in its foundation. The diamonds, though radiant, seemed to flicker with a distant sorrow, reflecting the complexities of a relationship that had yet to find its harmony. Each subtle movement of the pendant felt like a silent reminder of the distance that lingered between her and the person she was bound to, a delicate symbol of something meant to be beautiful, yet heavy with unresolved emotions.She was a vision of pure elegance and grace, a living reflection of beauty and serenity. Her name was Rida Thakur, but now she stood before the mirror as Mrs. Rida Prakhar Singh Rathod - an embodiment of new beginnings, caught between the life she had known and the one yet to unfold.Her slender fingers instinctively reached for the mangalsutra, her touch a soft, tender caress. Her gaze then fell upon the vermilion box, its vivid red hue stark against the swirling uncertainty within her. With a delicate pinch, she scooped up a small amount of sindoor, carefully placing it in the partition of her hair. As she gazed into the mirror, uncertainty clouded her eyes. Memories of a past conversation swirled to the surface, like ripples on a serene lake. Her thoughts seemed to hang suspended, as if the weight of those words still lingered, refusing to be shaken.
After gently applying a simple moisturizer and lip balm, Rida stood still for a moment, her reflection in the mirror seeming to hold her gaze. With a soft exhale, she whispered-
"He will be back today."
Her voice trembling with a quiet uncertainty. The words felt heavy, tangled with layers of unspoken tension and complicated emotions. A mixture of anticipation and dread churned inside her, as if the return was both a relief and a looming challenge. She wasn't sure if she was ready for the storm that might follow, or if the distance between them had grown too wide to bridge.
************
A man in his early 30s sat in the private jet, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen before him. The air around him pulsed with an undeniable power and strength, as though his very presence commanded respect. At 6'2" with a physique that was a perfect blend of raw muscle and refined grace, he was the epitome of masculinity, a modern-day Samson. His hair was meticulously styled, each strand in place with a rippling quality that spoke of his supreme health and disciplined behavior. Thick, dark brows furrowed occasionally in frustration, while his sharp Nubian nose accentuated his chiseled cheekbones, giving his face a regal, commanding presence.
His grey eyes-round and intense-darted across the screen with a sharpness that mirrored the clarity of a mountain stream, revealing the vigour of youth and an intellect that never rested. His features, perfectly proportioned, gave him an almost androgynous allure, rare and striking. He radiated energy, confidence, and a dynamic force that seemed to vibrate in the very air around him.
The tailored shirt he wore fit snugly over his broad chest and sculpted biceps, a testament to his relentless dedication to the gym. The sheer size of his physique could not be ignored, but it was the ease with which he carried it-a perfect balance of power and finess-that set him apart. His deep voice, filled with authority and ambition, was a stark reflection of the businessman he had become: PRAKHAR SINGH RATHOD, a man whose name alone carried weight in boardrooms, in the streets, and wherever influence and strength were revered.
The rhythmic hum of the jet engines did little to drown out the chaos in Prakhar's mind.As Prakhar scanned through the latest batch of emails, his mind still preoccupied with matters far beyond the screen, a soft knock interrupted his concentration. Without a word, Neil Bhardwaj, his trusted personal assistant, entered moving with practiced quietness. His tone was professional, cutting through the stillness.
"Sir, we are about to land. Would you like anything before we descend?"
Prakhar's gaze flickered briefly to Neil, cold and unreadable. He didn't bother responding. His silence alone carried enough weight to dismiss the question.
Neil hesitated before speaking again, quieter this time.
"Sir, is everything alright? You've seemed... distracted throughout the flight."
Prakhar's jaw clenched, his fingers tapping once against the armrest before stilling.
"I don't need to be checked on, Neil. You may leave."
His tone was sharp, controlled, leaving no room for further conversation.
Neil inclined his head slightly, sensing the underlying tension, and exited without another word.
The soft click of the laptop closing echoed in the private cabin. Prakhar exhaled, tilting his head slightly, his gaze shifting to the window. The sky stretched endlessly before him-a vast, indifferent expanse.
Yet, it was not the horizon that haunted him.
It was the scent.
Jasmine.
The scent lingered in his mind, unshakable. A fragrance once tied to a woman he had vowed to loathe. His wife. The wife he despised, the one who had been a chain around his neck-a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had never wanted.
And yet... jasmine had also been there that day. The day someone had pulled him back from the edge, saving him when he hadn't asked to be saved.
A cruel coincidence.
His fingers curled into a fist, his expression darkening.
His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his mind lost in the the comtemplation.His mind flashed back, pulling him into the depths of a memory or reality he couldn't escape.
Flashback Begins
The memory of that night was not one I cherished but one that lingered like a bitter aftertaste. The sprawling lawn, dressed to impress under the silvery moonlight, seemed less like a venue and more like a carefully staged illusion. The mandap stood at its heart, a masterpiece of intricate roses, fragrant jasmine, and lights that shimmered like false promises. It was a scene of grandeur that held no meaning for me.Everything was perfect, a spectacle for the masses, but none of it could disguise the truth-I didn't want to be there.
It was an opulent prison, built to ensnare me under the guise of tradition and duty.
The shehnai wailed in the background, its notes grating on my nerves, while the dhol's relentless rhythm felt like a drumbeat to my frustration. The silken drapes swaying gently in the cool night breeze did little to ease the knot in my chest.The fragrances-roses, sandalwood, and a medley of rich festive dishes-felt suffocating, like a velvet glove concealing the iron grip of this so-called celebration.
My gaze swept over the crowd around me-laughing, chatting, celebrating-they were oblivious to the storm brewing beneath my calm exterior.Anger simmered beneath the surface, a dangerous heat I struggled to contain. I wasn't the groom tonight-I was a pawn -A Powerful Man forced into a Powerless Role.
I sat there cloaked in a sherwani that screamed elegance but felt like a
straitjacket cloaked in an air of indifference, waiting for my bride-or, more accurately, my forced bride. I had made my stance crystal clear to her - marriage wasn't in my plans, not with her..not with anyone..Yet she didn't waver and neither had my mother,ever the strategist, played her cards skillfully, weaving guilt and emotional obligations into a net I couldn't escape. Reluctantly, I agreed to this farce of a union, but only on my terms..No one would interfere or dictate the dynamics of the relationship that would bind us.Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed the rituals unfolding until my friend-Rishab Parmar, seated beside me nudged me sharply in my ribs pulling me back to the present. His smirk carried a teasing edge, but I couldn't muster the patience to respond. Instead, I shot him a cold glance, one that clearly warned him to back off.
"Dekh teri dulhan aa gyi ," he teased,his voice laced with amusement.
Reluctantly, my gaze drifted toward her. She entered through the path that had been meticulously adorned just for her.The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as she entered, drawing the attention of everyone around. Her beauty was undeniable, almost otherworldly, in a way that caught me off guard.The overhead lights from the panels above caught her in a soft, almost divine glow, as though she were a vision-like a goddess descending from another realm. Her presence alone seemed to command the space, filling it with an unspoken aura that shifted the air around me.
She moved gracefully, her red lehenga clinging to her figure in all the right places, accentuating every curve with a precision that was impossible to ignore. The fabric seemed to flow effortlessly, catching the light with every step,as if the air itself bent to her will. I couldn't help but notice how perfectly the dress fit her, highlighting her beauty in a way that felt almost deliberate. And for a moment, I found myself captivated, even if I didn't want to be.
With every step she took, the rose petals scattered across the aisle seemed to come alive beneath her, as though nature itself was celebrating her presence.
Her eyes deep and hypnotic, held a deep, unspoken mystery. They seemed to look straight through me, yet behind them lay something fragile, something untold. Her lips, soft and full, curved into a smile-one that was both captivating and distant, as if she were lost in her own thoughts.
Her face, with its perfect balance of innocence and power, looked almost too flawless, like something carved by an artist.
As she walked toward me, my breath caught in my chest, warmth spreading unexpectedly through me.I shifted my gaze toward the fire in the mandap, its flames crackling though her image still lingered, impossible to forget-captivating, unreachable, like a dream I couldn't shake.
After she settled next to me, my gaze lingered on her for a moment, just enough to catch a fleeting glance before I turned my attention back to the fire. I could feel how she slighted glanced me.The air between us seemed thick with unspoken words.The priest's voice broke the silence as he guided us through the traditional ceremonies. We began with the Ganesh Puja, invoking blessings from the remover of obstacles. The rhythmic chanting filled the space, grounding us, reminding us of the weight of the moment.
Then came the Kanyadaan-the sacred where the bride's father symbolically handed his daughter over to the groom, entrusting him with her care and well-being.The significance of the gesture wasn't lost on me; it was more than just a ritual. It was a sacred responsibility-one I didn't take lightly.
"Aham, Pandit Chatrik, Eeshwar ki kripa aur divya aashirvaad ke saath, iss pavitra Kanyadaan vidhi ko sampann karte hue, Swargiya Shri Vikram Thakur aur Swargiya Shrimati Vridhi Thakur, jo Kumari Rida Thakur ke jaayik mata-pita hain, ke nimitt swikaar karta hoon."
"Unka aashirvaad sadaiv iss pavitra sambandh par bana rahe, aur yeh vivaahik bandhan dharm, prem aur samriddhi ka aadhar bane. Eeshwar inka mangal kare."
"Shri Arjun Thakur aur Shrimati Meera Thakur, jinhone Kanya Rida Thakur ka sanrakshan aur poshan kartavya ke roop mein nibhaya, ab yeh Kanyadaan ki pavitra vidhi ko sampann karenge. Yeh vidhi vadhu Rida Thakur aur var Prakhar Singh Rathod ke jeevan ke shubh aur pavitra vivahik sambandh ka prateek hai."
"Eeshwar se prarthana karta hoon ki yeh nav dampati hamesha sukh, samriddhi aur prem ke sutra mein bandhe rahein aur unka jeevan mangalmay ho."
As the priest's words settled into the silence, a cold shock rippled through me, then flared into something hotter-sharper. Anger. It surged through my veins, sudden and unrelenting, burning away the last remnants of ignorance I had clung to.
I turned to my mother, my gaze colliding with hers, and in that instant, something flickered in her eyes. Guilt? Uncertainty perhaps, or some shadow of an emotion I couldn't name. But she didn't know. She couldn't. And yet, the truth had unraveled before me, stark and undeniable.
A torrent of anger washed over me, fierce and untamed, as the truth of her lineage revealed itself. My mind reeled, piecing together the fragments of a past that had never truly belonged to me. The weight of it pressed down, suffocating, inescapable. My hand tightened around hers not in a loving gesture but as if to ground myself..To remind myself of the unspoken rules of this moment...Of this life I had been forced into.
She flinched, her eyes widening in surprise, but I didn't care. My mind was too clouded with the sting of everything that had been stolen from me, the trust that had been shattered. I refused to meet her eyes again. Instead, I turned my focus to the flames, their wild dance mirroring the chaos within me, as I fought to keep my composure.
My fist clenched under the heavy fabric of my sherwani as the rituals dragged on, each one tightening the noose around my neck.
The fire's warmth was nothing compared to the inferno raging within me. Its gentle crackle was a stark contrast to the turmoil that roared through my mind, a cacophony of emotions that threatened to consume me whole.
The priest's voice droned on, guiding us through the sacred vows-one for this life, six for the ones that would follow. Seven lifetimes. Seven lifetimes of this binding, this punishment wrapped in the pretense of tradition.
With every vow, the weight on my chest grew heavier..
I did not want to be here. Not today. Not for a single moment. Not in this life, and certainly not for the ones that lay beyond-7 lifetimes that the ritual demanded.Yet here I was, walking this path, shackled by rituals I never chose, trapped in a fate I had no hand in writing.
This union..This binding felt like a prison sentence I never asked for. How could anyone expect me to accept this when every fiber of my being screamed in resistance?But Here I was, bound by these rituals, marrying a woman whose family had torn apart my everything. Her parents had taken my happiness, shattered my world, and now, the very priest was binding me to her for seven lifetimes, as if it were a blessing.I despise betrayers. I always have. Yet here I was, tied to the daughter of one. Each step felt like a betrayal in itself. How could I bind myself to someone whose existence was the product of the betrayal that had destroyed me? How could I be bound to her for seven lifetimes, knowing she was the legacy of a man who destroyed our family.
I felt the weight of her presence beside me, and all I could think was that I'd rather be anywhere else but here,locked in this ceremony, bound by chains I never wanted.The weight of the ritual felt like an unbearable mockery. Here I was, about to bind her to me but my mind was consumed by a dark Vow of revenge - If she ever dared to destroy me as her family had or turn it into a another battlefield of deceit.I would make sure she regretted it every single day. The chain she would wore will symbolize not love, but a noose I would tighten around her with every lie, every manipulation.And in the end, it wouldn't be just my torment; it would be hers too.
The priest handed me the Mangal Sutra, its weight far heavier than the diamond it was crafted from. My fingers curled around it, tightening involuntarily, as if resisting the finality of this moment. The sacred thread, meant to signify devotion and unity, felt like the tightening of shackles around my soul. My hands trembled-not with reverence, but with a fury so sharp it cut through me like a blade.
As I lifted it, the crowd watched in silent reverence, oblivious to the storm raging within me. I turned to her, my gaze locking onto hers, and for the first time, I saw the uncertainty flicker in her stormy amber eyes. Did she sense it? The venom lacing my every movement, the unspoken oath of retribution threading itself into this so-called sacred bond?
I placed the Mangal Sutra around her neck with slow, deliberate precision. My fingers brushed against her skin, but there was no warmth in my touch-only the cold, unyielding finality of my decision. Her breath hitched, her pulse quickened beneath my fingertips,her gaze drifting from me to the priest .The moment stretched, the silence between us thick with words neither of us dared to speak.I turned my gaze back to the flames.She glanced at me in confusion.She had no idea what was running through my mind. I wasn't giving her my heart, I was condemning her to a future tied to a man whose soul had been destroyed by the very blood that ran in her veins.
The chain that now adorned her was not a symbol of love, but a noose of my making. If she ever dared to deceive me, to weave the same betrayal her bloodline had once sown, I would not just break her-I would make her regret every breath she took in my name. This wasn't a promise of protection; it was a warning, a sentence carried out beneath the watchful eyes of tradition.
The priest's voice droned on, but I barely heard him. All I could feel was the suffocating weight of what I had just done. The final act to seal our fate lay before me, and with a steady, merciless hand, I reached for the vermilion, the red dust of finality. When I filled her hairline, marking her as mine in the eyes of the world, the words that followed struck like an executioner's decree.
"Aaj se ye aapki ardhangini huyi, aur aap inke ardhaang..."
(From this day, she is your better half, and you hers.)
The words rang in my ears like an insult, a cruel irony. I closed my eyes, swallowing the bitter rage that burned in my chest.
Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, but I couldn't afford to care. I was already lost in my own storm, drowning in a sea of resentment and regret. As the priest completed the ceremony. The anger, the hurt, the disbelief-it all churned inside me.The only thing that kept me tethered to this moment was the rage, the seething fury that pushed me forward, step by step, through this unholy farce.
I couldn't help but feel suffocated, detached.Every fiber of my being screamed against it, yet I remained still.
Knock * Knock
Flashback Ends.
Prakhar's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp knock on the cabin door. His PA- Neil, stepped in with a polite but urgent expression.
"Sir, The car is waiting outside"
Prakhar didn't respond,his cold gaze locked on the window. The tension around him thickened, his presence almost suffocating.
As Neil exited,Prakhar stood straightned his suit & made his way to the door, the familiar weight of the day's events settling on him. He was heading home, but the peace he hoped for seemed far out of reach.Prakhar emerged, stepping onto the tarmac with an air of unspoken authority. Clad in a custom Brioni Vanquish II suit, a Stefano Ricci shirt, and John Lobb Bespoke shoes, he exuded silent dominance. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime 6300A gleamed-a statement of untouchable power.
He moved with the grace and power of a predator, his every step radiating a latent, leonine strength. The world seemed to bow to him, or perhaps, he simply made it feel that way.
A phalanx of intimidating figures, their towering frames and bulging biceps a testament to their physical prowess, surrounded the plane. Their poker faces betrayed no emotion, but their eyes followed every movement, every gesture with cold precision. In unison, they greeted Prakhar with the same stoic professionalism that had been honed through years of unwavering loyalty.
As he made his way toward the awaiting vehicle, a blacked-out Rolls-Royce Phantom Series II ($600K+) glided to a stop, its imposing grille and hand-polished exterior exuding quiet dominance. A convoy of Mercedes-Maybach S680 Guard models followed, their bulletproof presence an unspoken warning. His men, clad in handmade Brioni suits and Patek Philippe complications, stood motionless-silent sentinels of a kingdom ruled with precision and power.More imposing figures, draped in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses, stood at attention. Their cropped haircuts and stone-cold expressions spoke volumes about their readiness and discipline.
The guards swiftly moved into position, one of them stepped forward, pulling open the door with practiced precision.He slid into the luxurious interior, leaving behind the subtle trail of his signature cologne-the faint scent of Italian leather and rare oud as the door shut behind him with a soft, decisive click-sealing the world outsidea mark of his presence, even in his absence. The driver eased the car into motion, and the convoy followed in perfect synchrony, gliding through the Mumbai streets like a well-oiled machine. The symphony of steel, power, and silent authority resonated through the lanes, a clear reminder that Prakhar was not just a man-he was an empire in motion.
As he entered the mansion, a surge of devotion washed over him when he saw her standing in the doorway..His Mom.. She's the most precious person in his life.She's his guiding light,his shelter from the storm, and the pillar of his strength. He would go to any lengths to ensure her happiness, her safety-whatever it took.his Anyone foolish enough to harm her would have to face his unyielding wrath. In that moment, the depth of his love and loyalty for her became clear once more. He enveloped her in a warm embrace.She wards off evil eyes from him. She kissed his temples, and he reciprocated, hugging her tightly and planting a tender kiss on her forehead.
Next, he bent down to seek the blessings of his grandmother-Nayan Singh Rathod.
She kissed his cheeks, her eyes welling up with tears as she whispered -"Mera bachha."
He wiped away her tears guiding her to the sofa, where they sat together.
His mother's eyes sparkled with concern as she asked- "It's been four and a half months since you left for Bangkok. Don't you miss me?"
He met her gaze, his grip firm yet gentle as he took her hand.
"I do, Mom." His voice was low, steady.
"Had to be there. The deal was important. You know that"
His mother nodded, a blend of pride and concern in her eyes.q
"I know you've worked tirelessly. Now that you're back, I'll take special care of you and your health. You've lost so much weight, and your cheeks look sunken."
He nodded, smiling wearily. "Don't worry, Mom. I'm all good."
With that, he excused himself, heading straight to his room to freshen up.His gaze lingered across the hallway, as if anticipating someone's presence-even though he was convinced that he didn't really care,his sharp gaze flickered-searching. Expecting.But just as quickly, his expression hardened. It didn't matter. At least, that's what he told himself.
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Thank you so much for giving your precious time to read the Chapter 1, beautiful souls!
Your support means the world to me and keeps my fictional universe alive.
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