𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Raichand Mansion:

The Raichand estate woke up like it always did—with a sort of practiced elegance that made even the sunlight feel rehearsed. Everything glittered, but nothing truly gleamed. From the marble floors to the silver serving trays, beauty was expected here, not appreciated. It simply... existed, like everything else.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Inaaya Raichand stood barefoot on the cold marble, already regretting being awake. Her room, a canvas of beige and dusky pinks, looked like something out of "Look Rich, Feel Nothing" magazine. Perfect. Sterile. Instagrammable. Just like her life.

She rolled her eyes at the swan-shaped towel on the ottoman. Who the hell folds towels into wildlife this early? Probably Rani—the one maid who still believed the Raichands smiled.

There was something sacred about mornings, even in this house of beautifully bottled dysfunction. Something untouched by her father's political posturing, or Akshara Bua's designer malice.

She reached for her silver hairbrush and dragged it through her waves like she was preparing for battle. Because that's what mornings in this house were—a warzone with croissants.

From the corridor, came the sounds of life—heels clacking (Ryesha, doing yoga like it's a full-time career), a distant yell (Akshay, obviously), and Iranya's laugh echoing like the mansion wasn't built on decades of repression.

Let them all pretend. She would watch, sip her juice, and smile just right. That was her role—not too loud, not too soft, perfectly composed and perfectly hollow.

She dressed in her ivory kurta—simple, classic, elegant. The kind that screamed, "I have taste but also unresolved trauma."

Passing the mirror, she gave herself a long, dry look.

"You again," she muttered. "Still stuck in the Raichand simulation, huh?"

A smirk tugged at her lips—part amusement, part resignation. She swiped on kajal like it was war paint, tugged a delicate anklet onto her foot, and grabbed one almond from the tray like it was a weapon.

"Time to go charm the reptiles."

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Raichands didn't eat breakfast. They performed it.

They gathered around the sprawling twelve-seater glass table like it was a press conference—choreographed and camera-ready. The silverware gleamed unnaturally under the skylight, as if even the sun bowed to the Raichands.

The staff, always invisible and always listening, glided between them like air.

Vedant Raichand sat at the head, wrapped in a pale linen kurta, a paper in one hand and a measured frown on his face. He didn't eat much—he dissected the headlines instead. Every inch of his presence still screamed power, but the kind that exhausted the room just by existing.

Aamani Raichand sat beside him, porcelain teacup poised between trembling fingers. Her saree was soft lilac, her makeup subtle. She was beautiful—but in that tragic, ghostlike way. Like a woman who'd once lived loudly and now spoke in silence.

Shaurya was next to her—back straight, shirt black, jaw locked. There was a pressure in his stillness, like he was constantly holding himself back from shattering something. Or someone.

Inaaya entered without a word. Her anklet chimed softly as she sat down beside Shaurya, across from Akshay—who was busy stabbing his avocado toast like it had personally offended him.

Iranya waltzed in, all oversized sweatshirt and wet hair, kissing Aamani's head dramatically before slumping into her seat. Ryesha followed her, phone in hand, already typing mid-walk. She barely looked up.

And then...

She entered.

Akshara Aunty.

Clad in silk. Perfumed like power. Wearing passive-aggression like it was her signature scent. Her smile stretched too wide, her bangles clinked like tiny bells of doom.

"Good morning, betiyon," she said sweetly, like she hadn't emotionally mauled half the table last night at dinner.

Inaaya didn't even blink.

Akshara sat down and took her time picking up the silver spoon, stirring her chia pudding as though the moment needed suspense. Then, with a delicate tilt of her head, she dropped the grenade.

"So... did anyone hear about Aarya Malhotra's engagement?"

Silence.

You could hear the fan in the far corner. Even the clinking of cutlery paused.

Inaaya stilled mid-sip. Akshay's hand froze. Iranya's mouth popped open, and Ryesha looked up for the first time that morning.

But Shaurya—he didn't move.

His expression didn't shift.

But Inaaya was watching. And she saw it. The tightening of his jaw. The way his knuckles went white around his glass.

"To that Singhania boy," Akshara added with a feigned smile. "What was his name... Aarav? No, no. Aryan. Aryan Singhania. The one with the family hotels in Europe. So charming, so driven. And Aarya, of course, so clever. Finally moving up in the world."

Aamani's grip on her cup trembled.

Ryesha glanced at Shaurya and then at Inaaya—searching for something in their silence. Akshay muttered a curse under his breath. Iranya just blinked, stunned, too young to remember how deep this cut used to go.

Akshara's eyes gleamed. "I always said she was too... delicate for our Shaurya. So emotional, that one. But perhaps that's what the Singhanias like. Feeling things."

The glass in Shaurya's hand cracked.

It didn't shatter. It just split—like his control.

"Excuse me," he said, voice cold as polished steel. Then stood.

Aamani reached out with a soft, trembling "Shaurya—" but he was already walking away, his chair half-spun and abandoned behind him.

He didn't look at Akshara.
Didn't look at Inaaya.
But just before turning the corridor...
His eyes flicked.

To the newspaper beside Vedant's hand.
To the wedding card tucked underneath it.
To the name scribbled in fine calligraphy—

Ishra Rathore.

And in that half-second glance... there was no rage.

Only something worse.

Guilt.

The air didn't breathe after that.

Akshara, unbothered, scooped another spoon of her pudding. "Touchy," she whispered to no one in particular. "Can't even congratulate an old friend."

Inaaya didn't speak. Her face remained still. But inside? Her blood was ice. Akshara hadn't mentioned Aarya's name out of politeness. This was a surgical strike. On purpose. She knew what she was doing. She always did.

Ryesha finally looked across the table and whispered to Inaaya, "You think he's still in love with her?"

Inaaya's voice was low, steady. "No."

"Then what was that?"

Inaaya stared at her plate, as if it held answers. "That wasn't heartbreak," she said. "That was history."

And then, softer. More to herself than anyone else:

"History always makes a mess."

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Shaurya's POV:

He didn't know where his feet were taking him.

All he knew was that if he stayed at that table one second longer, he would've broken more than just a glass.

The door slammed behind him, a sharp echo down the corridor.

Shaurya Raichand, firstborn of the Raichand Empire. The reliable one. The heir. The lion in a suit. The son who never made mistakes in public.

He clenched his jaw, walking faster, like distance could silence the scream building in his ribs.

Her name. Fucking her name.

Aarya.

He hadn't said it aloud in years. Had trained his tongue to reject it like poison. But the moment Akshara Bua had smiled—that smile—and dropped it in the middle of breakfast like a taunt wrapped in sugar, something had cracked.

He found himself in the study, slamming the door behind him, his breathing sharp. Angry. Ugly.

He ripped the buttons of his cuff open, shoved his sleeves up, like he was drowning in his own skin.

She's engaged.

He laughed—once. Bitter and dry.

So she did it. The good little daughter. Found someone appropriate. Someone with a lineage. Someone whose love wouldn't have to be hidden in parking lots and under staircases.

Someone who wouldn't leave her behind.

Shaurya closed his eyes.

But the memory opened.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Flashback – Six Years Ago

It was raining hard.

Not the poetic kind — the violent, cruel kind. The kind that made your bones cold, even under layers.
The kind that matched the storm inside Shaurya Raichand.

He waited outside the old Malhotra estate gates, headlights casting jagged shadows.
Jaw tight. Hands clenched. Heart pacing too fast inside a man trained to feel nothing.

Then she came.

Aarya Malhotra.
Soaked. Shivering. Wrapped in that ridiculous mustard kurta she loved so much — sunshine, she'd called it.

But tonight, she looked like a dying star.

"Aarya—" his voice cracked. He took a step forward.

"Don't."
One word. One tremble. It cut him open.

"What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "You won't take my calls. You lied to Ryesha about coming tonight. You—what is this?"

She looked up.

Her eyes were red. Lashes clumped with tears. Her lower lip was bitten raw.
And still—still—she managed a smile.

God. That smile.

"I wanted to say goodbye in person," she said softly.

His world shifted. "What?"

"I can't do this anymore, Shaurya."

"No," he snapped, instantly. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to disappear. What the fuck is this—where is this coming from?!"

"I'm tired," she said. "I'm tired of waiting. Of hiding. Of pretending I don't see what's coming."

Shaurya grabbed her wrist — gently, but firmly. "You promised, Aarya."

"And you promised to marry me," she said quietly, "three months ago."

He froze.

Silence. Except the rain between them.

"I meant it," he said. "You know I meant it."

"I believe you," she whispered.

"Then what the hell is going on?!"

Aarya looked away.

And that's when he saw it.

The smallest flinch. The quietest crack.
Like she was trying to lie. But couldn't.

"...Aarya," his voice dropped, "what happened?"

She hesitated.

Then:
"Your father came to my house yesterday."

The world stopped breathing.

Shaurya felt his blood run cold. "What?"

"He came when you were in Delhi for that investor meeting. Said he wanted to speak privately. He told my parents he knew about us."

Her voice trembled now.

"He said if I didn't end things with you—if I didn't disappear—he would ruin my father. Destroy our company. Our name. Every contract, every tie we've worked twenty-five years to build... gone. He said we weren't even worth fighting over."

Shaurya staggered back like he'd been slapped.

"He threatened you?"

"No."
She shook her head, tears falling fast now.

"He threatened you."

She stepped closer, put a trembling hand on his chest.

"I know you, Shaurya. I know you'd burn everything for me if you found out. You'd walk out on them. You'd throw your name into flames."

"You think I wouldn't?" he growled. "You think I'd choose them over you?"

"I think you shouldn't have to choose at all."

He didn't know he was crying until she touched his cheek.

"I love you," she whispered, "so much it makes me sick. But if staying with me means you'll be left standing alone in the ashes... then no. No, Shaurya."

"Let me fight—"

"No."
Her voice broke.

"You'll fight. And I'll lose you. Either to them. Or to yourself."

And then, slowly...

She took off the gold bracelet he gave her — thin, imperfect, hers — and pressed it into his palm.

"I want you to become the man you're meant to be," she said, weeping now. "Not the man who spent his whole life apologising for loving me."

He was breathing hard, shaking. Eyes red. Hands clutching that damn bracelet like it was the last piece of her he'd ever hold.

"I hate you for this," he whispered.

She smiled again. Shattered.

"I hope you do."

And then Aarya Malhotra turned her back to the only man she ever loved—
and walked into the storm, alone.

He didn't stop her.
Because if he did—his world would burn.

And for the rest of his life...

Shaurya would never forgive himself
for letting her carry the cost
of protecting them both.

Shaurya opened his eyes, something cold and savage blooming in his chest. A self-hate so sharp it nearly tasted like blood.

He hadn't cried when she left. Hadn't screamed. Hadn't collapsed.

No. He'd done what he was raised to do.

He'd buried her beneath boardroom meetings and duty-bound dinners.
He'd nodded when his father told him love was a weakness.
He'd let go of the one girl who ever made him feel like he could just... breathe.

And now?

She was someone else's fiancée.

"Good for her," he whispered to no one.

But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

He paced the study like a lion in a cage. Every step heavy. Every breath filled with ghosts.

Because the truth—the one no one saw—was that Shaurya Raichand didn't leave Aarya Malhotra.

He just never fought for her.

And that, in all his silences, in all his stoic glory, would always be his biggest failure.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Aamani's POV:

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the Raichand mansion, for all its polished perfection and cold grandeur, held onto tension like perfume in silk. It lingered. Clung to the walls. And Aamani Raichand had learned, long ago, that the worst pain made no noise.

She walked slowly down the corridor, sari whispering with each step. Her tea had long gone cold in her hands. She hadn't taken a sip since breakfast.

Since Akshara opened that venomous mouth.

Since her son's silence had shattered a glass.

She didn't know why her feet brought her here. Maybe habit. Maybe instinct. Maybe something deeper.

Shaurya's door was half-closed.

A crack of space. A small mercy.

Aamani paused just outside it, heart pinched between her ribs. She didn't call for him. Didn't announce herself. She stood in the shadows... and watched.

He was sitting on the floor.

Back against the bed, shirt sleeves still rolled, hair a mess now, jaw tight with unsaid words. One hand clenched into his thigh, the other...

The other gripped a bracelet.

Gold. Slim. Delicate.

A woman's.

His thumb moved over it like it was sacred.

He wasn't crying. Not really. But his eyes were red. Too still. Too dry. The kind of dryness that came after the storm. When the soul had already drowned, and the body refused to grieve any more.

Aamani's breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was eighteen again.

Standing outside a door just like this one.
Her fingers clutching a letter she never sent.
A name she wasn't allowed to say.
A man whose arms she'd never see again.

A love that was hers.
Once.
Before Vedant Raichand bought her name like property.

Before she became someone's wife instead of someone's girl.

She saw the anger in her son's shoulders. The heartbreak in his silence. The quiet way he seemed to shrink inside himself, trying not to feel, trying not to remember—but still doing both.

He didn't know she was there.

He didn't know she'd seen this pain before.

He didn't know that his father—her husband—had once done the same thing to her.

Torn love apart like it was business.

Aamani swallowed the lump in her throat.

She had never told him.

Never told anyone.

Because what use was a woman's pain in a house like this?

She could still hear her mother's words—"Cry in private, Aamani. Smile in public. Always."

But now...

Watching her son hold a memory that wouldn't let him go...

She felt something wound itself deeper inside her. Something ancient. Something cruel.

Maybe it was regret.
Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe it was the ghost of the girl she used to be, reaching for the son who wore the same scars she did—only newer.

She reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the doorframe. She wanted to walk in. To hold him. To say—

"I know."

"I've been there."

"He did this to me too."

But she didn't.

Because there were no words that could undo what was already broken.

And Shaurya Raichand was no longer a boy who cried in his mother's lap. He was a man now. A man in mourning. For a love that was still alive, but lost. For a girl who'd once been his world. For a version of himself he might never get back.

So instead, Aamani turned quietly. Walked away.

But not before she whispered, so softly it couldn't be heard—

"Forgive her."

She didn't say it for him.

She said it for herself.

Because no one had said it for her.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Rathore Mansion:

The Rathore mansion didn't wake — it stirred, like a beast rising in velvet shadows.

Far from the Raichand estate's cold polish, this house bore its power like a crown of thorns. Dark wood. Heavy silence. Chandeliers dimmed just enough to remind everyone that nothing here gleamed without reason.

But behind the stone walls and hushed loyalty, there were traces of something human.

In the master bedroom, soft morning light filtered through silk curtains and landed on two figures—Ishita Rathore, regal in a faded crimson shawl, sitting by the bay window with a steaming cup of coffee, and Rudra Rathore, ghostly yet warm, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"You'll spoil him," Ishita murmured with a dry smile as she heard footsteps echo down the marble corridor.

"He's thirty-three," Rudra muttered, sipping his tea. "Too old to be spoiled. Too young to be broken."

But even as he said it, there was a heaviness behind his words. One only a father who'd watched his son die and be reborn in silence could carry.

Down the corridor, the doors to Aarav Rathore's room opened.

Not thrown open, not with anger — but with the heavy quiet of someone who hadn't really slept.

Aarav stood shirtless in low-slung sweatpants, his body a canvas of strength and old scars, most invisible to the eye. His jaw was rough with stubble, his dark hair tousled and wild like it hadn't known peace in weeks.

But the thing about Aarav was—he carried his darkness like perfume. It clung, subtle but suffocating.

He walked to the mirror slowly, brushing his teeth in silence. Then his hand paused.

A flicker in the mirror. Not his face. Her's.

The memory stabbed before it whispered.

A smile.

A voice saying, "I'll never leave you."

And then—blood. Paperwork. Lies. Silence.

He shut his eyes. His knuckles white on the basin.

He never spoke about her. The one who swore loyalty and sold him for survival.He didn't know yet...It wasn't destiny.It was designed.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Downstairs, the Rathore household was... alive.

Not chaotic, but deeply, deeply bonded. There was no pretending here — only unspoken loyalty that ran in blood and bruises.

Devyaan Rathore was already awake, sleeves rolled, black coffee in hand, reading the day's intel like he was born in war.
Ayaan leaned against the kitchen counter, munching cereal, teasing Amaira, who threw a spoon at him.
Ishra sat cross-legged on the floor by the garden, her eyes closed in meditation — or maybe withdrawal.
Rudra, still regal in his softness, ruffled Ayaan's hair, getting swatted away instantly.
Even Amaira, bratty and sharp, giggled at his dad jokes.

It was real.

"Someone go wake your brother," Ishita said with her usual ice. "We have meetings by noon."

"He's probably interrogating his sleep," Devyaan smirked. "Or fighting demons again."

"Or plotting someone's death," Ayaan added cheerfully.

Ishra rolled her eyes. "You say that like it's a hobby."

Amaira grinned. "For Bhai, it kind of is."

But the warmth in their teasing wasn't mockery. It was reverence. Because even broken and brutal, Aarav was their protector. Their weapon. Their wolf.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Back upstairs, Aarav finally emerged from the shadows of his room.

Dressed in a black Armani suit, tailored to perfection around his broad, carved frame — he looked like sin dressed for vengeance. His shoulders cut through the morning stillness, his dark eyes unreadable. A single ring glinted in his right ear, catching the light just enough to be noticed — just enough to warn.

His hair was still slightly tousled, jaw sharp with fresh stubble, muscles flexing beneath the dark silk as he adjusted his cuffs with deadly calm.
At 6'6, Aarav Rathore didn't walk into a room.

He claimed it.

He was the kind of man even silence stood back for.

Downstairs, the chatter dulled. His siblings straightened instinctively. Even Ishita, poised and controlled, watched him like she was looking at a storm that had chosen — just for now — to stay in human form.

But inside Aarav... something simmered. Something roared.

A quiet ache that didn't feel like heartbreak — it felt like being hunted.

He didn't know it yet.
Didn't know the why behind the betrayal.
Didn't know that somewhere, men in power played gods with paper and ink.

Because while he had been training for war, others had already penned the ending.

In a locked office.
In an old manor under oath-bound silence.
On a piece of parchment older than even his rage...

One name had been sealed beside his.
Written in gold leaf. Underlined with blood. Meant to be kept hidden until the time came to unleash fate.

Inaaya Raichand.

Not a girl.
Not a bride.
But a design. A fated match. A pawn laced in silk and sorrow.

His promised queen.

The future Lady Rathore.
The girl destined to either break him — or make him unstoppable.

And none of them — not Aarav, not Inaaya — knew that from the moment she was born, the world had already bowed in silence and whispered:

"She is his. And when he finds her... nothing will survive."

Not peace.
Not mercy.
Not the ones who planned it all.

Because this wasn't coincidence.
It wasn't even destiny.

This was unfinished love.
This was revenge bred over generations.
This was the revenant storm of unclaimed deaths, unrequited obsessions, and royal promises soaked in lies.

And Aarav Rathore?

He was walking straight into it, unknowingly wearing the crown they'd forged for him...

The crown of a king with no forgiveness left in his soul.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

⚜️ AUTHOR'S NOTE FROM THE DESK OF: ISHANI — THE DRAMA QUEEN YOU CAN'T UNFOLLOW ⚜️

HELLOOOO YOU BEAUTIFUL CHAOTIC DEMONS 😈🖤

Yes, yes — it is I, Ishani, the author who has:

No sleep 😵

No peace 🫠

73 open tabs 🧠📚

And a doctorate in writing men with violent tendencies and god complexes 😩👑🔪

If you've survived this chapter, CONGRATS — you officially qualify for ✨emotional compensation✨ and possibly a therapist on speed dial. 📞🧃💊

I MEAN. WE WENT FROM:
🥄 "Please pass the toast"
TO
🩸 "The blood of your ancestors signed your marriage contract, surprise bitch!"
...IN ONE CHAPTER.

Like babes, WHAT IS THIS? Game of Thrones meets Manish Malhotra couture?! YES. YES IT IS. 👑💍🔥

Aarav Rathore just pulled up in a black Armani suit, standing 6'6 like the final boss of your trauma, with muscles flexing and a cold smile that screams:
"🌧 I don't do love, I inflict it."
LIKE SIR??? PLEASE.

And don't even get me started on Shaurya's heartbreak scene—bro said "I'm fine" and then shattered a glass with more emotional weight than my GPA 🥲🍷💔

Meanwhile, Aamani Raichand is just trying to parent her children while grieving her stolen youth and sipping her fifth cup of regret chai™ ☕💅

BUT HOLD UP—LET'S TALK ABOUT ME FOR A SEC 💁‍♀️📣

Currently, I am:
🫠 drowning in assignments
📚 mentally living in 1837 for a history paper
😭 eating Maggi for the 4th time today
🔥 and STILL cooking this story like a Michelin-starred masochist

So if you love me? If you love this beautifully deranged plot?
🗣 VOTE. VOTE LIKE YOU'RE BEING PAID IN AARAV'S STOLEN GLANCES AND SHAURYA'S JAW CLENCHES.

Coming Up Next...
Bloodlines. Betrayals. A love story written in ash and vengeance.
Revenge has a heartbeat. And it's getting louder. 💀🖤

So buckle up, babes. We're just getting started.

— With murderous love and unbothered eyeliner,
Ishani 🕷💋🖤🗡

Now go.
Hydrate.
Cry.
Vote.
And don't fall for emotionally unavailable men in suits.
(Unless I wrote them. Then go feral. It's fine.) 😘💣🕯️