𓆩❤︎𓆪

Tuesday | 10:12 AM | Raichand Global Headquarters, South Mumbai

The air conditioning on the 37th floor was always too cold.
Inaaya Raichand didn't mind it.
She preferred cold things—air, coffee, people—because warmth was expensive. You give too much of it, and people think they own you.

She glanced at the digital clock on her minimalist desk.
10:12 AM.

She'd been in the office since 8.
No makeup artist. No entourage. No driver even.
Just a blacked-out car, her noise-cancelling headphones, and a burning urge to be ahead of everyone before the world opened its eyes.

Today's outfit was deliberate.

A gunmetal grey suit, tailored so well it looked like it had been carved onto her. Broad-shouldered, tapered waist, flared pants that hid the stilettos she wasn't wearing for height—but for silence.
Underneath: a structured black corset vest, cinched just enough to look intentional, and layered gold chains—elegant, edgy, and quietly powerful.
She didn't wear gold often, but this was her quiet rebellion today.
Against who? Everyone. Maybe even herself.

Her desk was spotless except for a glass of untouched espresso, a stack of files that weren't due until next week, and her personal laptop—unlabeled, matte black, no stickers, no personality shown.

There was no perfume on her wrists. Just the faintest hint of clean soap and bergamot.
No earrings. No bangles. No family heirlooms.
She was the heirloom.

And right now, she was exhausted.

Not from work.
From performing.

Performing excellence. Performing composure.
Performing as the girl who didn't care when people called her intimidating instead of intelligent.
The girl who'd earned her seat in the room—but whose surname whispered she hadn't.

She rubbed her temples lightly, closing her eyes just long enough to inhale.

"Inaaya?"
Her assistant's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Miss Sharma is here. And... Mr. Aryan Sethi is waiting outside."

Her lids snapped open. She stared at the espresso. Still untouched.

"Send my girl in. Leave the clown outside."

Sharanya's presence always softened the edges of Inaaya's morning.
She walked in a minute later, holding a pastry box and a giant iced cold brew with the enthusiasm of someone who believed in little joys.

"Peace offering," Sharanya grinned, placing the box down like it was an offering to a goddess. "In case you've murdered anyone today."

Inaaya's lips twitched—the closest she ever got to a smile before noon.

"Only mentally. Don't jinx it."
She gestured at the seat across from her.

Sharanya flopped into the leather chair, kicking off her kitten heels.
She wore soft lavender today—always pastels, always open-hearted. She wasn't from a rich family, didn't have legacy stitched into her surname, and yet she walked beside Inaaya like she belonged there.
Because she did.

They were yin and yang. Fire and water.
Inaaya burnt things down.
Sharanya softened the ashes.

"You didn't sleep again, did you?"
Sharanya asked it gently, already knowing the answer.

Inaaya sipped her coffee without answering.

Her thumb pressed into her temple.
No, she hadn't.
Because there was a dinner last night.
Because her mother had said "there's a boy we want you to meet."
Because Vedant had thrown a smirk across the table and called it "just an idea."

And then she'd opened a file at midnight.
Worked until 4.
Got up at 6.

"My inbox is on fire," she muttered. "I'm expected in three departments this week. Papa wants to rework the campaign brief again. And Aryan's pitch deck looks like it was built by someone who just discovered PowerPoint last night."

"So, you're saying you're doing amazing, sweetie," Sharanya deadpanned, In her Kris Jenner Voice she thinks she has mastered now.

Inaaya gave her a dead-eyed stare.

"I'm going to stab you with this pastry fork."

and in that moment, Suddenly,

The door creaked open.
No knock.

Of course.

Aryan Sethi walked in like he owned the oxygen. 33. MBA from a mediocre college with a rich father.
Wore a Rolex with the tag still on it. Had never once said Inaaya's name without a smirk.

"Hope I'm not interrupting something... girly," he said, stepping in like this was his domain.

Sharanya stiffened slightly.
Inaaya didn't move.

She clicked her pen shut. Calmly placed it down.
Then she stood up.

The office seemed to fall a few degrees colder.

"You mean like the campaign that pulled in ₹40 crore last quarter? Or the strategy you'll be presenting this afternoon—my strategy—because you forgot the deadline?"

Aryan's smirk faltered.
He looked at Sharanya, then back at Inaaya.

"Just thought I'd run the new visuals by you. Unless this is a... personal hour."

That did it.

Inaaya walked around her desk slowly, heels silent, spine straight.

"Aryan," she said softly. "You walked into my office without knocking. You've been late to two reviews. And your creative pitch looks like it was made by a drunk intern."

"I—"

"No. You don't get to speak yet."

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't have to.
She looked at him like he was glass already cracked.

"Every time you speak to me like this, you mistake my silence for weakness. But here's the truth — if I started talking the way you do, half this building would combust under the weight of their fragile egos."

"I didn't mean—"

"You did. You always do. But I've learned that people like you—men who were never the best in the room—grow addicted to belittling the woman who is."

"Look, I'm just—"

"You're just dismissed."

Silence.

Aryan turned on his heel, humiliated, and walked out.
The door shut quietly behind him.

Sharanya blinked.

"You just verbally decapitated him."

Inaaya sank back into her chair.

"He'll forget by lunch. Men like him always do."

"You okay?"

This time, she didn't deflect.

"No," she said quietly. "But I'll fake it till I die."

Sharanya didn't laugh. She just pushed the cold brew across the desk.

"I put extra vanilla. In case your soul needed a sugar IV."

Inaaya took the cup. Sipped.
It was stupidly sweet. But comforting.

"Thanks," she murmured, eyes still on the door.

At 24, she wasn't CEO. That was Vedant Raichand, cold-blooded and strategic.
The second seat belonged to Shaurya Raichand—her brother. Everything God tier. The true Heir.

The Third belonged to Akshay Raichand - Reserved and Observant
Inaaya didn't need a title. She had brains, beauty, and brutal tongue—and that was enough.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Rathore Headquarters — 37th Floor
Time: 11:17 AM
Setting: Stillness cloaked in expensive silence

The marble is cold under his bare feet.
The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect a storm that hasn't started yet.
He stands in his office, all black lines and silver edges — just like him.

The blinds are half drawn. The sky outside looks like it's holding its breath.
So is he.

Aarav Rathore, 33. CEO.
Untouched by scandal, untouched by affection.

His jaw ticks once as he skims the email on his phone.
It's not urgent — nothing ever is anymore — but he reads everything. Twice.

His desk is spotless. No framed memories, no coffee cups, no paper clutter.
Just the smooth weight of a MacBook, a pen that costs more than a car, and a thick file Devyaan left for him this morning — confidential acquisitions in the south zone.

He hasn't touched it yet.
His mind is elsewhere, but he doesn't know where.

"The new CFO is late."
Devyaan speaks first. He's seated on the black leather couch, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to be casual—but not soft.

Aarav doesn't look at him.
His eyes are on the skyline, where the clouds hover like a warning.

"I want him gone by the end of the day."
His voice is quiet. Deadly.

Devyaan just smiles.

"Consider it done."

Behind the glass, their empire stretches across Mumbai — Rathore Group, the family dynasty. Construction. Pharmaceuticals. Finance. Crime.

They own everything.

And they earned it with silence and fear.

Aarav rolls the tension in his neck, methodical. Controlled.
He hasn't slept. Not really. He hasn't dreamed in years.
He doesn't believe in softness, or soulmates, or fate.

He believes in instinct. And something has been wrong for days.

The door clicked.

"Bhool gaye ho tum log ki ghar bhi hota hai?"

The voice floated in before she did — soft, sweet, and drenched in drama.

Amaira Rathore.

Third-year student, full-time menace, and the only creature on Earth who dared enter Aarav Rathore's office without knocking like it was a damn living room.

She sauntered in, hair in a slightly messed-up braid, a cold coffee in one hand, phone in the other, tote bag slung like a war medal over her shoulder.

Her boots clicked against the glossy black marble as she dropped herself — not sat, dropped herself — onto the armrest of Devyaan's couch like she was the CEO.

"Third lecture bunk karke aa rahi ho, aur attitude laayi ho saath mein?"
Devyaan didn't look up from the report he was reading.

His voice was flat, but the vein in his temple had twitched.

"Boring tha. Tum dono toh aur bhi zyada boring ho."
She shrugged, unapologetic. "Besides, mujhe yahaan ka view zyada pasand hai."

Aarav finally looked at her, his jaw tightening by a degree.

"Yeh office hai, Amaira. Tera hostel common room nahi. Aur lectures mat bunk karna."

"University ki building Rathore Group ki hai."
She took a slow sip of her iced coffee, making eye contact with Aarav like she was poking a lion with a mascara wand.
"Technically, I'm still attending."

Devyaan snorted. That was rare.
He looked up at her, finally.

"Technically agar gir gayi na tum isi attitude ke saath, toh main Aarav bhaiya se pehle maarunga."

Amaira made a face, then kicked her legs up dramatically across the couch.

"Tum dono ko mujhe maarne se fursat mile, usse pehle toh main mar hi jaungi boredom se."

Aarav's eyes didn't blink, but they sharpened.

"Tumhare college ke Dean ka naam kya hai?"
His tone was dangerous in that signature soft way.

Amaira paused.

"Woh—kyun?"

"Usse replace karna hai. Tumhe roka nhi jaa raha hai usse, clearly."

Devyaan added, dry as hell:

"Aur ek kaam aur. Us campus mein mirror banwa dete hain har wall pe. Taaki madam ko har angle se view mile."

Amaira gasped dramatically.

"Uff... toxic brothers ka world tour kab launch ho raha hai?"

Aarav didn't smile. Didn't even blink.

But Devyaan grinned under his breath.
And somewhere beneath Aarav's marble-stone stillness — there was a flicker of annoyed fondness.

Because Amaira Rathore was chaos in eyeliner and boots —
But she was their chaos.

The screen on Aarav's desk lit up.

Ishra.

He tapped accept. No change in his face — just that slight stillness.

"Bhai... aap abhi tak check-up ke liye aaye nahi."
(Bhai... you still haven't come in for your check-up.)

Her voice was soft — not scolding, not angry — just worried.
The kind of voice that folded around you like a blanket.

"Zarurat nahi hai."
(It's not necessary.)

"Aapko lagta hai har cheez pe control hai... par aap insaan ho, bhai. Machine nahi."
You think you can control everything... but you're human, bhai. Not a machine.

She hesitated, gently.

"Kal ki report aayi hai. Blood pressure fir se high tha."
(Yesterday's report came. Your blood pressure is high again.)

"Busy hoon."
(I'm busy.)

And with that, he ended the call.

No guilt. No explanation. No warmth.

Just—click.

Amaira, from the couch, raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee.

"Waah. Emotional damage speedrun."

Devyaan sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Itni pyaari awaaz thi uski... tujhe guilt feel bhi hota hai ya woh bhi schedule mein add karna padta hai?"
(Her voice was so soft... do you even feel guilt or do you need to schedule that too?)

Aarav didn't respond.

But he looked at the screen.

Just for a second.

Long enough to say he heard her.
Short enough to act like he didn't care.

Ishra Rathore.
Neurosurgeon. The calm in their chaos.
Second youngest — but the one with the biggest heart.
She didn't argue, didn't raise her voice.

She just said:

"Bhai..."
Bhai...

And somehow, it always hit harder than a scream.

Even Aarav — Aarav Rathore — blinked twice after cutting her call.

The tension in the room had just begun to settle.
Aarav had gone quiet again, back to reading through his files.
Devyaan leaned back, closing his eyes.
Amaira had pulled out her phone, ready to scroll through memes in peace—

—and then the door flew open.

"YAAR, TUM LOGON NE TOH PURA MUMBAI AATANKIT KAR RAKHA HAI!"
(Dude, you guys have terrorized all of Mumbai!)
Ayaan Rathore had entered.

Loud. Annoyed. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. Lipstick stain clear as day on his collar.

Amaira looked up, blinked twice, then pointed.

"Bhai... collar. Third time this week."
(Bro... your collar. This is the third time this week.)

"Shut up, Amaira!"
Ayaan snapped, brushing past Devyaan like a hurricane.
"Main toh keh raha hoon is ladki ka phone confiscate karo. Classroom bunk karke yahan aayi hai!"
(I'm telling you, someone needs to confiscate her phone. She skipped class to be here!)

"Tumhe toh kissi ne bunk karne nahi diya clearly,"
(Clearly, no one let you bunk anything, huh?)
Amaira muttered with a smirk, eyeing the lipstick stain.

Devyaan choked on his own breath.

"OH MY GOD—Bhai dekh rahe ho yeh kya circus ban gaya hai yeh office?!"
(Oh my God—Bhai, are you seeing this circus your office has turned into?!)
Ayaan turned to Aarav dramatically.

Aarav didn't even look up.

"Darwaza band karo."
(Close the door.)

That was it.

Just three words.

Ayaan obeyed. Immediately.

Amaira looked around with fake innocence.

"Main toh bas chai peene aayi thi."
(I just came for tea.)

"Tu rehne de. Tera chai aur notes dono bunk ho chuke hain."
(Please. You've already bunked both tea and your notes.)
Ayaan shot back, flopping onto the opposite couch.

"Tumhara collar bhi, bhai."
(Your collar too, bhai.)
Devyaan deadpanned.

Silence.

Ayaan paused. Looked down. Saw it.

"SHIT."
(Shit.)

"Language."
Aarav finally spoke. One word. Ice-cold.

"SORRY, bhai."
Ayaan muttered instantly, pulling his jacket over his collar like a child caught in class.

Amaira giggled into her cup.

"Main sabko screenshot bhej rahi hoon."
(I'm sending screenshots to everyone.)

"Dare you."
Ayaan Barked

"Dare accepted."
Amaira said, eyeing him mischievously with a smirk.

Devyaan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeh boardroom hai ya Bigg Boss ka confession room?"
(Is this a boardroom or Bigg Boss confession room?)

Aarav didn't speak again. He didn't need to.
Because the second he stood up from his chair, all three siblings instantly shut up.

Amaira looked at Ayaan.

"Boss mode activate ho gaya. Bhaag."
(Boss mode has activated. Run.)

"Main toh keh raha hoon tu bhaag. Tera attendance 23% hai."
(I'm saying you should run. Your attendance is 23%.)

"Mera bloodline 100% hai. Handle kar lungi."
(My bloodline's 100%. I'll handle it.)

And like that — the bickering resumed.
Unfiltered. Loud. Messy.

Exactly how Rathores loved each other.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

INAAYA'S POV
11:03 PM
Raichand Mansion — Back Lawn of the Mansion

The thunder cracked like a warning in the distance, but Inaaya didn't flinch. Her bare feet thudded lightly against the marble as she ran — down the staircase, past the silent hallways, her breath catching in childlike glee.

Rain. Finally.

She pushed open the glass doors at the back of the mansion, the weight of them groaning in protest as the wind slipped inside. But she didn't care.

The rain was calling her.

And she answered like she always had — wild and wordless.

She stepped into the storm barefoot, wearing only an oversized black sweatshirt and cotton shorts — Raichand silk bedsheets still half-clinging to her sleep-warm skin.

It was freezing.
And it felt perfect.

The water drenched her in seconds, flattening her long hair to her back, making her mascara blur like shadows under her eyes. But she smiled. A full-bodied, head-thrown-back smile that cracked something open inside her.

Not elegant. Not rehearsed. Just her.

Her arms lifted. Her body spun.

And the wind — the wind clung to her like it was in love with her.

She danced on the slick grass behind the mansion, where no one ever came this late. Where the Raichands' secrets never reached. Where no eyes judged and no voices chased her with expectations.

Just the sound of thunder.
The scent of wet earth.
The taste of rain between her teeth.

Kuchh Aur Nahi aata mujhko
Tu Jaan Meri Tu Dil Hai
Saanson Ke Bina Toh Jee Lenge
Par Tere Bina Mushkil Hai

Kismatein Teri Meri Judi Hai
Mere Hathon Mein Rab Ne Likhi Hai

Teri Galliyan Galiyan Teri Galiyan
Mujhko Bhavein Galiyan Teri Galiyan
Teri Galiyan Galiyan Galiyan Galiyan
Yoon Hi Tadpavein Galiyan Teri Galiyan

Tu Aisi Baazi Hai Oh Yaara
Jeeta Bhi Jisko Main Haara Bhi

Tu Aisi Baazi Hai Oh Yaara
Jeeta Bhi Jisko Main Haara Bhi
Tu Meri Galti Hai Toh Sunn Le
Yeh Galti Hogi Dobara Bhi

Jaunga Main Yahan Se Kahan
Mere Paon Se Lipti Hai

Teri Galliyan Galiyan Teri Galiyan
Mujhko Bhavein Galiyan Teri Galiyan

She didn't know what song played in her mind.

But she danced like she'd waited lifetimes for this rain.

Letting herself fall back once, palms to the sky, laughing breathlessly as her hair soaked and clung to her skin.

The black sweatshirt stuck to her frame, her gold anklet gleaming faintly with each turn, each barefoot step.

Unwatched. Unseen.
Unrestrained.

Or so she thought.

She didn't see them.
Didn't feel it.

The pair of Grey, Gunmetal eyes. Somewhere beyond the treeline. Past the marble arches. Between shadow and storm.

Watching.

Silent.

Still.

As if time had stopped for them.

And as the lightning lit the sky above her, as she turned again mid-spin — smiling, breathless, alive —
the air shifted.

Something had just begun.

And she'd never even noticed.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

There was something about that evening.

Maybe it was the scent of petrichor curling into the sky like incense,
or maybe it was just the weight in Aarav's chest—restless, suffocating, like a hunger that didn't know its name.

Even for a man who had seen too much, done too much, and walked through blood to build what he had, something felt... off.

He'd ended the day like always—papers signed, voices silenced, decisions made that others would never recover from. But beneath the cold, perfect suit and the Rolex, behind that ice-cut jaw and immovable calm...

he felt it.

Something coming.
Something closing in.
And he wasn't sure if it was a storm—or him.

The mansion had already welcomed the rest of them hours ago.

Amaira had barged in with her usual loudness, trailing campus gossip and stolen laughter in her wake, dropping her shoes wherever they landed. She'd left a lipstick mark on a glass she didn't finish.
Ishra had come in after a 12-hour shift, her scrubs wrinkled, hair in a messy bun, and soft voice tired but firm—her eyes scanning them all like she was checking vitals.
Ayaan, of course, had swaggered in with a grin too wide, collar stained with the kind of lipstick shade no decent girl wore in daylight. He'd earned an eye roll from Ishra, a sharp word from Amaira, and silence from Aarav.

But now, the night belonged to the men still driving home.

Aarav had left alone in his matte black Maybach, the kind that turned heads but left no sound behind.
Devyaan, minutes behind, was in his midnight grey Bentley—custom, of course—music humming low, probably humming along to something classical, moody.

They had planned to take the express route back, but traffic had other plans. Aarav, never one to waste time, rerouted instinctively, a sharp turn through an older lane—a narrower road that sliced behind the city's most ancient elite estates.

It wasn't meant to lead him to her.

But fate didn't ask.

It placed her exactly where his eyes would land, like she was painted into the night just for him.

And time—
Time forgot how to move.

His foot eased off the accelerator on its own.
His breath caught. Not in awe—no, not that fragile thing. In something darker.

Because there she was.

At the back of a mansion he didn't recognize in that moment—didn't care to—
Dancing in the rain like she hadn't known pain.

She wore no armor. No caution.
Just reckless joy, like the world was too far beneath her bare feet to matter.

Her dark, long hair spilled over her back, soaked, clinging to her like silk on sculpture.
Her body—God. A living, moving sin.

It was her eyes.

Closed.
Smiling.

And her lips—soft, parted—singing something to the sky, swaying with thunder like she belonged to it.

He didn't blink. He couldn't.

This girl... no, this apparition... had no idea what she was doing to the night. To him.

She was dancing like nothing had ever broken her.
Like her world had never tasted blood.
Like she wasn't real—just rainlight and madness.

Some things weren't just seen.
They were to be worshipped.
Possessed.

The first layer of obsession didn't scream. It whispered.

Kuch aur nahi aata mujhko... tu jaan meri... tu hi...Dil Hai...

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

That's when he noticed—Devyaan's car had passed him minutes ago. But it turned.
Circling back. Slowly.
Pulling up beside him.

The passenger window of the Bentley rolled down, revealing Devyaan's sharp, calm face.
But he didn't say anything immediately.

Just stared. At Aarav.

At how still he'd gone.
How his jaw was clenched, how his knuckles were bone-white, how his pupils were not moving from the girl dancing in the rain.

A silence passed.
Heavy. Knowing.

Devyaan followed his gaze—casual at first.
Then, saw her.

And just for a second—just one—his expression shifted.
Almost imperceptibly.

But Aarav didn't look at him.
Didn't need to.

He was still staring at her.

Finally, Devyaan spoke.

"Aage chalein, bhai?"
(Shall we move on, brother?)

No response.

Aarav's voice came seconds later, low and unreadable.

"Tum jao."
(You go.)

Devyaan nodded once.
But didn't drive off.

He didn't ask who she was.
Didn't ask what Aarav saw.

Because he knew.

He knew that look.

The same one Aarav wore before he made a decision.
A decision that no one could undo.

So Devyaan said nothing.
Just rolled his window up—slowly—and drove ahead again.

But even then, Aarav didn't move.

His eyes were still chained to the girl who had no idea the night had swallowed her whole.

She kept dancing.

Unaware that the devil had just seen his first light—and it had a waist, a mouth, and eyes that didn't belong in this world.

He said nothing else.
Just watched her like a man starved.

But in his mind, something locked.

A promise.
A vow.

"Aap jaise roshniyon ko, andhera chhupakar rakhta hai..."
(Light like you... darkness doesn't destroy it. It hides it. Keeps it.)

And now...
he would keep her.

Little did he know, that this girl - would be his Ruin.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Aarav's POV — 

He got back in the car like a man possessed.

Got in before he pulls a stupid stunt like barging inside that mansion and taking her away.
Door shut. Engine silent. Rain screaming on the roof.

But inside him?

A storm without mercy.

His chest felt... caged. No, worse. Like something ancient had cracked open and crawled out.
He leaned back, head falling against the leather, and closed his eyes.

But she was there.
Still there.

Every blink was her—
Soaked hair like silk shadows.
Rain on her lips.
That waist. Those fucking eyes.

Her laugh—he hadn't even heard it properly, yet it echoed like a lullaby inside his skull.
And her mouth, God, her mouth—

He slammed his fist against the dashboard.
Hard. Once. Then again. Until the skin split.

"What the fuck was that..."

He didn't know her name.
Didn't know where she lived.
Didn't know what her voice sounded like up close.

But he knew this:
She was his.
Because how could something so haunting... not belong to darkness?

His darkness?

"Fuck..."
He whispered again, forehead pressed to the wheel, like that one word might anchor him.

But it didn't.

Because now?

He wanted to see her again.
No—he needed to.

Not just see.
Study.
Understand.
Possess.
Protect.
Own.

The image of her dancing, smiling, unaware—it burned in his mind like a brand.

How dare she look so untouched in a world like this?
Didn't she know what it meant to be watched by someone like him?

He'd destroy her.
But only after keeping her safe from every other monster.

He didn't know how long he sat there.
Minutes? An hour?

All he knew was this:
He wasn't going home the same man.
Something had been stolen from him in the rain.

And it wore her smile.

Devyaan's POV — 

He was already home.

The chandelier lights. Amaira's yelling somewhere in the house. Ishra's voice calmly asking Ayaan to wash the lipstick off his collar.
But Devyaan wasn't listening.

He stood by the massive floor-length window in the hallway, overlooking the driveway.

One minute passed.
Then another.

Then—

The black Maybach pulled in.

Silent.
Heavy.
Like a hearse carrying a secret no one should touch.

Devyaan's eyes narrowed.

He knew that car like his own heartbeat.
But more than that, he knew Aarav.

Knew that look in his brother's eyes when he walked in twenty minutes later.
Wet hair. Hands stained with his own blood. Jacket in his grip like it didn't matter anymore.

And the silence?

It screamed.

Devyaan didn't speak.
Just watched from the top of the stairs as Aarav walked in, eyes glazed, chest rising slowly like every breath was measured... forced.

There was something off in his gait.
Like he was floating.
Or falling.

Like he'd just seen heaven, and was about to burn it down for stepping into his line of sight.

Devyaan's stomach twisted.

He didn't need to ask what Aarav had seen.

He already knew.

He'd seen her too.

"Inaaya Raichand"
Only for a second.

But that second was enough to know what his brother had just lost himself to.

He leaned against the railing, eyes still on him.

Aarav didn't look back.

Didn't eat dinner.
Didn't speak a word.

Just disappeared into his room like a man chasing a ghost.

And in the silence that followed, Devyaan whispered to no one—

"It's Begun..."

𓆩❤︎𓆪

11:48 PM | Rathore Estate, Third Floor — Master Bedroom

The AC hissed in the corner, cool air pumping into the dimly lit room.

But Aarav Rathore?
He was drenched in sweat.

His charcoal shirt clung to his body—buttons ripped open down to the waist, baring a torso carved from stone and sin.
The sharp dips of his abdomen flexed with every shallow breath.
Veins snaked over his forearms, bloody, furious.

And across his broad back, stretched from shoulder to hip—a massive black ink tattoo of a wolf, snarling, mid-howl.
Its eyes mirrored his own.
Wild. Possessive. Starving.

Aarav stood in front of the cracked mirror, towering, dishevelled, dripping masculinity like a curse.

His hair—messy, sweat-damp—fell over his forehead, curls clinging to his temple.
His jaw was locked, muscles ticking, blood still trailing down his bruised knuckles.
On his right ear: a small gold hoop, glinting darkly beneath the low light.

He looked like he'd just walked out of war.
And won.
But barely.

Not because he was weak.
Because he'd glimpsed something stronger than destruction—

Her.

He hadn't even touched her, and yet every part of him screamed for her.

His biceps bulged as he grabbed the edge of the sink, head bowed. The mirror reflected the sheen of sweat across his chest, the rise and fall of his breath, the rage trembling through every inch of his tall, brutal frame.

6'6 of obsessive hunger, barely contained in human form.

His lips curled slightly.

"My Ruin."

He should've walked away.

He should've driven past.

But he saw her.
And now his blood had been replaced by her name.

He let out a hoarse, guttural sound—half laugh, half groan—and slammed his fist again into the wall.

Crack.
Another dent.
More blood.

But he didn't care.

All he saw was the curve of her waist, the way her drenched hair clung to her back, the innocence in her smile that mocked the sickness he lived in.

He turned slowly, stepping over shattered glass, like a beast pacing the cage of his own mind.

His eyes—dark, sunken, shadowed with madness—held no mercy.

Only promise.

A terrifying, beautiful promise.

"Aap meri hain. Aap meri rahengi. Chahe duniya jale."
(You are mine. You will remain mine. Even if the world burns.)

And just like that, in the cool night air, as his blood dripped and his chest heaved, Aarav Rathore smiled.

His Ruin had entered the world.
And nothing would ever be safe again.

Not even her.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

DEVYAAN'S POV
12:31 AM | Rathore Estate, Terrace

The city stretched below him—blurred lights smeared across the wet blackness of monsoon night.
Rain hadn't stopped, the air hung thick, smoky, dangerous.

Soaking him.

Devyaan Rathore sat on the wrought iron lounge chair, legs spread lazily, spine slouched back like a king who knew the war hadn't even started yet.
A half-burnt cigarette dangled between two fingers, ash curling in the wind.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms—forearms that didn't just look like they could break men; they had.
Hair damp, jaw sharp under the moonlight, the unbothered smirk playing on his lips didn't match the storm in his eyes.

He took a long drag.
Exhaled slow.
Watched the smoke twist into the shape of something he didn't want to name.

His mind kept returning to that moment.
To Aarav. Rooted. Frozen. Obsessed.

And her.
Dancing like nothing could ever touch her.

A collision course.
And only he had seen the first crack in the sky.

Devyaan didn't speak of it.

Didn't need to.

He tapped the ash off the edge, watching it fall into the rain-slick darkness below.

"Hmm," he murmured to no one, jaw tightening just slightly.
"Ab shuru hoga asli khel..."
(Now the real game begins...)

He didn't say whose ruin it would be.

Maybe hers.

Maybe Aarav's.

Maybe his,

Could Be the Rathore's,

or Maybe of all the families, too.

Maybe the whole damn city's.

But one thing was clear as the smoke curling around his wrist:

Something dangerous had been set in motion.
And he was one of those who saw the whole board.

He brought the cigarette to his lips again, eyes sharp beneath heavy lashes.

And he knew he couldn't stop it.

Not anymore.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Author's Note

by Ishani — CEO of Tears, Trauma, and Toxic Men™ 😌🖤

Soooo...
HOW DID THAT FEEL??
Like, genuinely.
Did your heart skip a beat or did you accidentally sell your soul to Aarav Rathore under the midnight rain? ☔😵‍💫

Because I, your humble author, was writing that scene at 2:47 AM, hair looking like I was struck by lightning ⚡, laptop overheating 🔥, brain cells on strike 🧠🚫, and still giving you poetic obsession served dark, deadly, and delicious 🥀.

Meanwhile, guess who's being hunted by a monster scarier than Aarav?
ME.
By the fkn EDUCATION SYSTEM. 🎓🔪

Can someone please summon Devyaan and tell him to file a PIL against this abusive relationship I have with exams?
Like hello??
Why are my assignments breeding like horny rabbits?! 🐇📚

"Tu jaan meri tu hi..."
No bitch, that's my coffee mug speaking to me at 3 AM while I cry into my notes 😭☕💔

Back to business 💅

If you came here for butterflies and emotionally available men?
LMAOOOOOOOOOO.
You're in the wrong story, baby 💀🧚‍♀️

Here we serve:
🚩 Red flags? Gift-wrapped.
🩸 Obsession? Served raw.
🖤 Romance? So dark it needs therapy.

So if this kind of love story offends your peace?
Kindly use the exit on your left.
No shade. No hate. Just not your fate 💅🚪✨

But if you're still here?
Welcome to the circus 🎪
We got toxic men, powerful women, moonlight breakdowns, and secrets soaked in blood and perfume 🔥👠🌙

Stay dramatic,
Stay delulu (but hot),
And for the love of Aarav's sanity (which is currently on life support),
PLEASE PRAY FOR ME.

Or better: send snacks 🍕
Or Devyaan with a bat 🦇
Or a time machine to cancel my final year 📅💔

Love, madness, and caffeine,
— Ishani 💋🖤
(currently writing chapter 5 while flunking life) 😭📉

𓆩❤︎𓆪