Devgarh

"At least let my daughter go. I swear I will tell no one. Trust me—I will leave this city, this country, and disappear forever. Seth, please, make them understand. She's just a child. You've seen her for so many days… please, have mercy. Let her go. I... I..."

A sharp slap echoed through the dimly lit, abandoned factory nestled deep within the jungle.

A middle-aged woman, battered and desperate, pleaded for her daughter's freedom, her voice raw with anguish. But the men before her were devoid of compassion. Instead, her cries were met with violence.

A man seized her by the hair, yanking her head back cruelly. "Enough!" he hissed. "Utter another word, and I'll make sure you, your so-called spy of a daughter, your husband, and your son—all meet the same fate."

Her face, streaked with grime and soot, bore the swelling imprint of brutality. Blood trickled from the corner of her lips, merging with the tears cascading down her cheeks—silent witnesses to her helplessness.

Summoning the last shreds of her strength, she crawled toward the well-dressed man standing before her and clasped his feet.

"Seth… Seth… Please, just this once. Consider it my first and last mistake. Spare us..."

But Seth merely shook her off with disdain, stepping back as if she were filth beneath his shoes.

Thrown aside, she lost her balance. Her head struck a rusted iron pillar with a sickening crack, and a crimson stream seeped from the wound—its placement cruelly fatal.

As her vision blurred, she caught one last glimpse of her daughter—no more than twelve or thirteen—kicking and thrashing in vain as four or five men dragged her away.

"D... D..."

She tried to call out, but the words never came. Her body gave out before her voice could, and her trembling fingers, which had barely lifted toward her child, fell lifelessly to the cold, unforgiving ground.

A man stepped forward, pressing two fingers to her pulse. A beat later, he straightened. "Boss, she's gone."

Seth clicked his tongue in irritation. "Tch. How pathetic. She died too quickly. I didn't even get to have my fun."

His companion chuckled, nudging his shoulder with a knowing smirk. "Oh, but you still can. The body is lifeless, not the flesh. If you have no interest, I certainly wouldn't mind taking my turn. After all, those bastards won't leave that little girl in any condition to satisfy me. Might as well make do with this one."

Seth's gaze darkened. "Absolutely not. She's mine. I'll have the first taste."

His friend didn't argue, merely stepping back with a twisted grin, watching with sick amusement.

As Seth unbuttoned his pants and moved toward the lifeless body, the land of Mahadev—Devgarh—bore witness to a crime so heinous, so vile, that even the heavens must have trembled in revulsion.

NEXT DAY

As night fell, the city of Frankfurt, Germany's financial hub, shimmered with dazzling lights. The air buzzed with excitement as the Museum Riverbank Festival was celebrated with grandeur.

Yet, amid the city's revelry, the Oberoi family remained untouched by the festivities.

Nestled deep within the Frankfurt City Forest, the Oberoi Palace stood illuminated, a breathtaking sight from the outside. However, within its grand halls, a solemn silence prevailed—a stark contrast to its exterior brilliance.

The palace, usually a symbol of power and prestige, had taken on the somber air of a hospital. Doctors in crisp white coats moved through the corridors, their hurried steps and whispered discussions filling the heavy silence.

A physician's voice broke the tension. "Mr. Oberoi, we are doing everything we can, but your granddaughter's condition is extremely critical. She has suffered a profound psychological shock. In the past six hours alone, Miss Devika has experienced over twenty manic episodes. She is battling psychosis. Recovery will not come easily—it may take a year, perhaps longer. Given the severity of her mental trauma, it is nothing short of a miracle that she is still alive. For a child of her age to endure such suffering is unimaginable."

The weight of the doctor's words struck Raghunath Singhania like a physical blow. His vision blurred, his legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the couch. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as his hands trembled.

A loyal caretaker rushed to steady him, but no comfort could quiet the storm raging in his heart.

The doctor's voice softened yet remained firm. "Mr. Oberoi, now is not the time to lose courage. Your granddaughter needs you—your strength, your presence. Try to keep her surroundings as positive as possible. If at all feasible, call her mother. A mother's presence can be a powerful balm for a wounded soul."

At the mere mention of Devika's mother, a dark shadow crossed Raghunath's face.

Though Anupoorna was his own daughter, in his eyes, she had failed in both duty and love.

A decade ago, when Devika was merely three, her parents had declared their marriage a failure and chosen divorce.

Neither her mother nor her father had wished to keep her. Abandoned by both, the innocent child had found refuge with her grandfather and maternal uncle, Hitesh Oberoi, who had raised her as their own.

In the ten years that followed, her parents had barely spared her a thought. Visits were rare, inquiries even rarer.

Despite his misgivings, Raghunath knew that Devika's condition left him with no choice. Gathering his resolve, he dialed his daughter's number.

After a few rings, the call connected.

His voice was low, weary. "Anupoorna, Devika is unwell—critically so. Could you come today? She needs—"

Before he could finish, her voice cut in, light and indifferent. "Dad, I'm really sorry. Sara has a PTM (Parent-Teacher Meeting) tomorrow. I can't make it today. I know it's Devika's birthday, but I absolutely have to attend this meeting. You know how small children are—Sara will throw a tantrum if I don't go. I'll send Devika a gift. Please wish her for me."

Silence followed.

For a long moment, Raghunath couldn't tell if his daughter had failed to grasp the gravity of the situation or if she had simply chosen, as always, to ignore it.

A sharp cry shattered his daze.

A servant, breathless and panicked, burst into the room. "Sir! Miss Devika is not in her room!"

A chill ran through Raghunath.

At some point, the call had been disconnected. He barely registered it as his hand tightened around his phone before flinging it onto the couch in frustration.

His voice, thick with fear, boomed through the palace. "What nonsense are you talking about? If Devika isn't in her room, then where is she? I just left her there with Dr. Ram minutes ago! Search the palace—she must be somewhere inside!"

Dr. Ram, equally alarmed, turned to the staff. "Find Miss Devika immediately! In her condition, being alone is dangerous. If she has another manic episode, her hallucinations could push her into self-harm!"

The words sent a fresh wave of terror through Raghunath. The staff scoured every inch of the palace, but Devika was nowhere to be found.

Then, the CCTV footage revealed the unthinkable—Devika had run into the forest.

The guards were dispatched at once.

Raghunath's heart pounded against his ribs, a relentless drum of dread. Without wasting another second, he called his son, Hitesh Oberoi, and relayed everything.

Despite being thousands of miles away in the United States on an important business trip, Hitesh Oberoi did not hesitate. He abandoned his negotiations, booked the next available flight, and left everything behind.

Unlike Devika's parents, he understood something they never had—Devika was worth everything.

Deep within the Frankfurt City Forest, a young girl raced barefoot through the wilderness, heedless of the thorns and jagged stones slicing into her delicate feet. She ran as though the entire world was chasing her with swords drawn.

She was just a child.

Yet, her speed mirrored that of a nimble little fox.

The hush of the night and the stillness of the forest were broken only by the sound of her ragged breaths. Strands of tangled hair fell over her face, but they failed to obscure her ethereal beauty. Her skin, soft as rose petals and luminous as moonlight, bore the marks of her harrowing escape.

From behind the veil of her silken midnight locks, her white-admiral green eyes fluttered like a butterfly's fragile wings—not with innocence, but with sheer terror and unshed tears.

At last, she reached a secluded cottage, heavily guarded by men wielding rifles.

With a trembling hand, she wiped away her tears and stepped forward.

The guards glanced at her disheveled form but made no move to stop her.

Her steps faltered as she advanced, her body marred with wounds—some still bound by hastily stitched bandages. But the relentless flight had undone many, leaving fresh crimson streaks against her pale skin. Only now did the pain seep through, slow and agonizing.

A few more steps, and her strength gave way. She stumbled, crashing onto the cold floor. A cry of agony rose in her throat, but before it could escape, she clamped a hand over her mouth—as if the mere sound of her pain would cost her life.

A passing maid caught sight of her and rushed forward. "Devika, my dear! How did you fall? And these injuries—you're bleeding! Come, let me tend to your wounds. If the master sees you like this, he'll be furious."

Supported by the maid, Devika struggled to stand, but she refused to be led away.

"Aunt Clara, please… I need to see my father. There's something I must tell him. Take me to him. I can't walk on my own."

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but her breath hitched as she spoke.

Clara hesitated, wanting to treat the girl's wounds first, but one look at her trembling form convinced her otherwise.

The once-lively Devika now seemed utterly fragile—haunted, even.

Holding her gently, Clara guided her toward the living area, where her father sat, deep in conversation with his friend, Benjin, a glass of liquor in hand.

Just as Devika neared the doorway, she heard Benjin's voice—

"Jack, did you hear what happened to Devika?"

"Yes, I did."

"And? That's all you have to say? She's your daughter! Aren't you going to see her? After everything she's been through, you're just sitting here drinking? What kind of father are you?"

"Just shut up. That filth is not my blood. Devika is not my daughter. Why should I go to her? I hold no claim over her."

"Jack, do you even realize what you're saying?"

"I know exactly what I'm saying. Devika is not my daughter. Why should I accept someone else's tainted blood? I've done more than enough for her. I'm tired of this charade, this false bond... I want no part in it anymore."

The moment Devika heard her father's words, an unbearable chill seeped into her bones.

Her tiny heart, so full of love and longing, shattered into a million irreparable shards.

The man she had idolized, her protector, her superhero—had just called her filthy blood.

For as long as she could remember, she had wondered—why did her parents never love her the way others did their children? What had she done so wrong to be met with such indifference?

But now, it all made sense.

She was never their daughter.

In their eyes, she was nothing more than tainted blood.

_____________________________

Who was the mysterious woman from Devika's past?

What horrors had she endured?

Who was her true father?

What fate awaited her?

To know…

To be continued…

The moment Devika heard her father's words, an uncontrollable tremor overtook her. Her delicate heart shattered into a thousand fragments. The man she had idolized as her superhero had just called her tainted blood.

For years, Devika had struggled to understand why her parents treated her so differently from other children. Why had they never loved her? What unforgivable mistake had she committed to deserve their indifference? But today, the truth was clear—she was tainted blood in their eyes.

Standing beside her, Clara had overheard Jacob's words. The revelation left her stunned, but more than that, it filled her with an overwhelming sense of sorrow for Devika.

Clara had watched her grow up, cared for her as a child, even changed her diapers. She had witnessed firsthand the cold detachment with which Jacob and his wife had treated their daughter.

Regardless of the truth of her lineage, Devika was still just a thirteen-year-old girl—innocent, vulnerable. To neglect her for years was cruel enough, but now, to strip her of her very identity? Clara could not abide such heartlessness.

Seeing the young girl tremble, Clara instinctively stepped forward, her voice gentle yet firm.

"Devika, sweetheart, please don't take Boss's words to heart. I truly believe this is a misunderstanding. Come with me—let me tend to your wounds first. Once you've calmed down, we can speak to him together."

Clara desperately wanted to believe that Jacob was mistaken, but at this moment, her only concern was getting Devika away from here.

But before she could reach her, Devika recoiled violently, shaking her head frantically.

"No, no! Stay away from me! Don't come near me!" Her voice cracked as she stumbled backward. "I… I am tainted blood. If you touch me, you'll be tainted too, Aunt Clara. From now on, stay away from me—far away!"

The sheer anguish in her voice sent a chill down Clara's spine.

Before she could react, Devika shoved her with such force that Clara staggered backward, colliding with an ornate porcelain vase. It crashed to the floor, shattering into countless fragments.

Yet, Clara barely noticed the destruction. Her mind reeled, not from the impact but from the depth of Devika's despair.

She had expected the girl to be hurt by Jacob's words, but she had never imagined their impact would be so devastating.

Devika was unraveling before her eyes—muttering to herself, whispering those same words again and again. Tainted blood. As if she were forcing herself to accept the most harrowing truth of her existence.

Determined, Clara took a step forward.

But Devika's response was swift—she shoved her with all her strength and fled.

Tears burned in Clara's eyes. Without a moment's hesitation, she chased after the girl.

Yet by the time she reached outside, Devika was nowhere in sight.

Frantic, she turned to the guards. "Did any of you see where Devika went?"

One of them shook his head. "No, ma'am. It's past eleven—we had all gathered in the backyard for the position change. No one was stationed here at the time. It's difficult to say where she went… Perhaps checking the CCTV footage would help?"

Clara didn't waste another second. She spun on her heel and sprinted back inside the cottage.

In the lavish living area, Jacob lounged carelessly, his legs propped up on the tea table. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, while in his other hand, he lazily swirled a glass of wine, lost in thought.

Across from him, Benzine sat in silence, his gaze fixed on his friend with quiet scrutiny.

Clara stormed into the room, urgency radiating from her every step.

"Boss, I need access to the CCTV monitoring room—immediately!"

Jacob's brows furrowed at her demand.

"Miss Clara, why this sudden request? And why do you look so unsettled? What happened?"

Struggling to catch her breath, Clara blurted out, "It's Devika… She was here a while ago. She overheard your conversation, and then—then she ran off, calling herself tainted blood over and over again. She's injured, Boss. I don't know where she's gone, but I'm terrified for her. Please, give me the access key—I need to find her!"

The moment Jacob heard Devika's name, his expression darkened.

Without hesitation, he shot to his feet and bolted toward the monitoring room.

Clara and Benzine hurried after him.

The CCTV footage confirmed Devika had fled toward the eastern route.

Jacob wasted no time. Grabbing his car keys, he strode outside, his movements sharp with urgency.

"Search the forest," he ordered his guards. "Find her—now."

And with that, he jumped into his car, revved the engine, and sped off into the night—chasing after the girl who had just learned the cruelest truth of her life.

On the Other Side

Amidst the desolate forest, Devika sat motionless in the middle of the road, her head buried in her knees. Her slender frame trembled violently, yet not a single sob escaped her lips.

Only her silent tears bore witness to her pain. The world around her had ceased to exist—nothing mattered anymore.

Even as the distant roar of an approaching car shattered the stillness, she remained unmoved. A white sports car, its headlights slicing through the darkness, sped towards her, its horn blaring in urgent warning. Yet, Devika did not flinch. Whether she failed to hear the sound or had simply chosen not to, was uncertain. Perhaps she longed for oblivion.

The car, tearing through the road at breakneck speed, screeched as the driver slammed the brakes. Tires burned against asphalt, leaving a sharp, winding scar on the road before the vehicle halted—just two inches from her fragile form.

The driver's door swung open, and a tall, striking man emerged, dressed impeccably in an expensive business suit.

He stood still for a moment, his sharp gaze fixed upon her before he took a cautious step forward. She remained curled within herself, as if retreating from the world.

Lowering himself onto his heels, the man spoke, his voice deep yet laced with tenderness.

"Devika."

At the sudden, achingly familiar voice, Devika lifted her head—slowly, almost reluctantly.

Before her knelt Hitesh Oberoi, her uncle.

The moment his eyes confirmed the truth, he pulled her into his arms, his grip fierce with relief.

Pressing a desperate kiss to her forehead, he murmured, "I was gone for just two days, and this is what you've done to yourself? Had I known, I would never have left you alone."

Devika said nothing.

A long silence stretched between them before she finally whispered, her voice barely audible—

"I am not filthy blood."

Hitesh's chiseled features hardened instantly.

"Who told you this nonsense?" he demanded, cupping her delicate face in his hands.

Her reply came in a broken murmur, each word laced with uncertainty.

"I'm not… right? Daddy said I am. He said I'm filthy blood." Her voice wavered. "But I'm not… am I, Uncle?"

Before Hitesh could speak, Devika's hands trembled, and suddenly, with all the strength she could muster, she shoved him away. The force sent him stumbling backward.

Rising to her feet, she whispered, as if speaking to herself—

"No. If Daddy said it, then it must be true. He never lies." She let out a brittle laugh, her eyes hollow. "Yes, I really am filthy blood. I really am."

Hitesh felt the ground shift beneath him. The girl before him—his niece—was unrecognizable. This was not Devika.

A terrifying thought gripped him. Had she lost her mind?

The very notion sent a tremor of fear through him. He had to get her home. Now.

Extending his hand with measured calm, he coaxed, "Devika, sweetheart, come here. Let's go home."

Devika's lips curved into a faint, tragic smile.

"If I step into your house, I will stain it, Uncle," she whispered.

Hitesh turned pale. But now, at least, he understood—she was far from lucid.

Carefully, he took a slow step forward, but Devika instinctively retreated.

A sharp pang of dread coiled in his chest. Just behind her lay the edge of a towering waterfall.

The water raged, its force deadly enough to tear through flesh and bone.

His heart pounded. Swiftly, he lunged forward, reaching for her hand—

But he was a second too late.

Devika turned, her lips forming a wistful smile. And then, without hesitation, she let herself fall—vanishing into the abyss below.

"Devika! No!"

Hitesh's agonized scream tore through the night, reverberating through the vast Frankfurt City Forest.

Thirteen Years Later

Delhi, India

The air in the Mehta residence was thick with tension, all because of Siya Mehta's foul mood. The cherished daughter of the family and the only child of Sanjeev Mehta, Siya was seething with rage.

Stomping her foot in frustration, she exclaimed, "Mom, I don't understand why you called that girl here! She only got the chance to leave that backward village and come to a city like Delhi because of me. And instead of being grateful, she's trying to take my place! What does she have that made the Singhania family choose her? She isn't as well-educated as I am, she lacks class, and she doesn't even come from a respectable lineage. How could the Singhanias be so blind? How can they choose an illiterate, uncultured girl for Sharvik Singhania? I won't let this happen. No matter what, I will not allow Surbhi to take what's mine. I'd rather see her dead! The only person who deserves to marry Sharvik Singhania is me!"

Mrs. Mehta, standing by with one hand on her hip, massaged her temples, exhaling slowly. She, too, was baffled by the Singhania family's decision.

She had once been a girl from a humble village, someone who had fought tooth and nail to secure a scholarship to study in Delhi. There, she had fallen in love—with a man who, though kind, lacked wealth. That love had resulted in a child—Surbhi.

But Mrs. Mehta was a woman of ambition, not sentiment. The man she had once loved was not rich enough to match her aspirations. And so, she had left him behind, choosing instead to marry Sanjeev Mehta, a wealthy businessman.

She had abandoned her illegitimate daughter in the village, leaving Surbhi to be raised by her mother. But two days ago, without explanation, she had called Surbhi to Delhi. Why now? That remained a mystery.

Then, just yesterday, an unexpected event had shaken the very foundations of the Mehta household—the arrival of the Singhania family.

While the Mehtas were a respected name in Delhi's corporate world, they were mere ants before the Singhanias, a family that wielded power like an empire.

At first, the Mehtas had been unable to comprehend why the country's most powerful family had graced their doorstep. But when Anand Singhania, the patriarch of the Singhania dynasty, revealed the reason behind their visit, the entire Mehta family was left stunned—he had come with a marriage proposal.

For a brief moment, a wave of triumph washed over them. It had to be for Siya. Perhaps, just as in the movies, Sharvik Singhania had fallen for their daughter, charmed by her beauty and intelligence.

But then, Anand Singhania spoke again—the proposal was not for Siya. It was for Surbhi.

The shock that followed was palpable.

Neither Siya nor Surbhi was of marriageable age—Siya was sixteen, Surbhi seventeen. And yet, had the proposal been for Siya, the Mehta family would have readily agreed. After all, an alliance with the Singhanias was beyond their wildest dreams.

But Surbhi? An illegitimate daughter, hidden away for years? The very thought sent ripples of disbelief through the household.

And yet, refusing the Singhanias was unthinkable. Sanjeev Mehta, despite his wealth, did not have the power to deny them. He had no choice but to agree.

And now, that decision had set Siya ablaze with fury.

Stomping her foot once more, she shouted, "Mom, why are you silent? Say something! You know how much I adore Sharvik Singhania. How can you stand by and let this happen? How can you allow that nobody to marry him? I swear, if I don't marry Sharvik Singhania, I will kill myself!"

__________________________

What happens next?

What truly happened to Devika?

Will Siya take a drastic step?

Why did Mrs. Mehta call Surbhi back after all these years?

What is her true intention?

And most importantly—why did the Singhania family arrange a marriage between Sharvik and a seventeen-year-old girl?

To know…

To be continued…

Siya stomped her foot in frustration. "Mom, why are you silent? Say something! You know I have a crush on Sharvik Singhania. How could you all do this to me? How could you arrange his marriage with that unsophisticated girl? Mom, I'm telling you—if I don't marry Sharvik Singhania, I will take my own life!"

Mrs. Mehta sighed, trying to reason with her daughter. "Siya, listen to me. Sharvik Singhania is 27, and you are just sixteen. He is eleven years older than you. It's for the best that you're not marrying him. By the time you come of age, he would already be an old man."

Siya clenched her jaw, her voice defiant. "Mom, I don't care about the age gap. He is Sharvik Singhania—the most powerful man in the world. Do you even understand what it means to be his wife? Dad's problems would vanish overnight. Our family would ascend to the ranks of the elite. Isn't that what you want?"

Mrs. Mehta hesitated. In truth, she wanted all of it. Had Siya been the one chosen for Sharvik instead of Surbhi, she would have been overjoyed.

Siya was, after all, her mirror image, and Mrs. Mehta adored her. Eleven years was a trivial difference when weighed against Sharvik Singhania's wealth, influence, and prestige—things both she and Siya valued above all else.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Siya, I understand. I know you care about our family, but the Singhanias have chosen Surbhi. She is Anand Singhania's preference. We cannot interfere. If we try anything reckless, the Singhanias will ruin us. You must understand that."

Tears welled in Siya's eyes. From the moment she had seen Sharvik Singhania's photograph in a magazine, she had been infatuated with him. And now, he was to marry her elder sister.

Seeing her daughter's distress, Mrs. Mehta pulled her into an embrace. Just then, the faint sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the room.

Both turned towards the staircase, where a slender, graceful figure descended slowly.

Hatred flickered in Siya's eyes, her expression darkening. Clenching her teeth, she glared at her elder sister, Surbhi, who was dressed in a crisp Delhi Public School uniform.

A staircase that usually took a minute to descend took Surbhi a full five minutes.

When she finally reached the bottom, she lifted her downcast lashes, revealing admiral-green eyes tinged with red, as if she hadn't slept all night.

Mrs. Mehta's voice was sharp. "Surbhi, what happened to your eyes? Why are they so red? Did you stay up all night again?"

Surbhi responded with a single word—"Yes."

Siya smirked, her tone mocking. "Mom, seriously? What kind of question is that? Surbhi Di finally got her first smartphone. Of course, she spent the whole night using it instead of sleeping."

Mrs. Mehta's anger flared even more at Siya's remark.

She knew all too well that Siya was belittling Surbhi, yet instead of reprimanding her, Mrs. Mehta turned her ire towards Surbhi instead.

Siya watched with quiet amusement as her sister stood there, unmoved, like a lifeless doll.

It was as if she heard every word but was unaffected by them.

Surbhi stood there lazily, eyes lowered. A backpack hung carelessly off one shoulder, while her school uniform jacket draped over the other. Despite her delicate features, there was an air of rebellion about her, a quiet defiance that set her apart.

After scolding Surbhi to her satisfaction, Mrs. Mehta left for the kitchen.

Siya, too, turned to head toward her room to get ready for school. But before she could take a step, Surbhi extended her foot in her path, stopping her.

Siya spun around, furious. "How dare you?"

Surbhi remained silent. Instead, she reached into her backpack, pulled out a long, thin rope, and held it out to Siya.

Siya's brows furrowed. "What is this?"

Surbhi's voice was calm. "For when you decide to take your own life."

Siya's face burned with anger. But instead of responding, she turned on her heels, tears streaming down her face, and rushed straight to her father, Sanjeev Mehta's study, where he was immersed in his office work.

Surbhi stepped out of the house with slow, measured strides. Her beautiful face remained devoid of expression, as if untouched by emotion.

Mehta Nivas was not far from Delhi Public School—just a ten-minute drive or a leisurely twenty-five-minute walk.

Despite Mr. Sanjeev's offer of a car, Surbhi had politely declined. She preferred walking.

Moving at her usual unhurried pace, she made her way toward school. Along the route, she stopped at a pharmacy where an elderly chemist sat, his golden-framed glasses resting low on his nose.

The moment he saw Surbhi, he frowned. "I gave you sleeping pills just yesterday. Why do your eyes still look so red? Didn't you take them?"

Surbhi didn't bother answering. Instead, she said flatly, "I need more."

The old man narrowed his eyes.

"More? I gave you ten yesterday. Have you already finished them?"

"Yes. I need a hundred this time."

His expression hardened. "What? You took ten pills in one day? Listen, sleeping pills aren't candies that you can consume at will. They are a controlled drug. If you keep taking them like this, you'll develop an addiction. It's dangerous."

He was trying to reason with her, but Surbhi remained indifferent.

She pulled out her phone, typed a message, and turned the screen toward him.

The old chemist squinted at the text—it was from the pharmacy owner.

The moment he finished reading, his jaw tightened. Not only was this girl illegally obtaining sleeping pills without a prescription, but now she was using the owner's authority to pressure him.

Annoyed, he packed a hundred pills and handed them over. Surbhi took the packet but didn't leave immediately. Instead, she emptied its contents onto the counter and, one by one, began counting them.

Irritated, the old man turned his gaze away, his displeasure evident.

Once she was satisfied, Surbhi returned the pills to the packet and walked out. She didn't pay, and the chemist didn't ask.

Watching her retreating figure, he muttered under his breath, "Rude girl. If I have to attend your death anniversary next year, I won't. You're too stubborn for your own good."

Surbhi didn't respond.

After walking for about ten minutes, she suddenly stopped. The street was deserted.

Her tired eyes settled on an old car parked across the road, its indicator light blinking intermittently.

She observed it in silence for a few moments before crossing the street and stepping inside.

From the outside, the car appeared outdated and unremarkable, but the interior was nothing short of opulent—more extravagant than even a seven-star hotel.

The driver's impeccably tailored suit alone was worth enough to buy a luxury car.

Surbhi set her backpack on her lap, rolled up her sleeve, and extended her arm toward the man seated beside her—a distinguished figure in a deep maroon suit.

He opened a sleek, high-end suitcase, revealing an array of medical instruments.

Retrieving a syringe, he carefully injected it into her arm. "Your blood is invaluable. But with every test, I notice subtle changes in your DNA structure. That's why I need a sample every month. This isn't intentional—I know how vital your blood is to you."

Surbhi remained silent, her gaze drifting toward a small kitten playing by the roadside.

The man continued his examination, checking her vitals, while she remained lost in thought, her eyes fixed on the carefree movements of the little creature.

As he packed away his equipment, he remarked, "Your sugar levels are stable, but your blood pressure is slightly elevated. The Mehta family doesn't seem to suit you, does it?"

For the first time, Surbhi turned to look at him. He was strikingly handsome, likely in his late twenties.

Adjusting her sleeve, she asked, "Steven, how is he? When will he wake up?"

Steven's expression remained neutral. "His condition is stable, but I can't predict when he'll regain consciousness."

Surbhi didn't press further.

She reached for the car door, preparing to leave, when Steven's voice dropped to a quiet murmur. "Are you really going to marry Sharvik Singhania?"

"No." Her response was simple, final.

Without another word, she shut the door behind her and walked away.

Mumbai,

Outside the city's most exclusive resort, a throng of journalists had gathered.

Today marked the grandest business exhibition of the year, featuring legendary businessmen and high-profile politicians from across the nation and beyond.

Priceless cars arrived one after another at the venue, their occupants the subjects of eager photographers, as desperate to capture their images as devotees are to glimpse their deity.

Just a minute before the exhibition was set to begin, the unmistakable roar of helicopters echoed across the area. It was as though a king himself had summoned a procession of drums and cymbals for his grand entrance.

The journalists quickly instructed their cameramen, ensuring they were prepared to capture the arrival of the VIP from every possible angle.

Within moments, three sleek, ink-black helicopters descended and landed in the designated area.

From two of the helicopters, an army of bodyguards disembarked, swiftly securing the perimeter and forcing the cameras to lower, blocking all attempts to capture their images.

After an extensive twenty-minute security check, the door of the third helicopter opened.

A tall figure stepped out, adjusting his overcoat as he landed in polished leather shoes. His presence exuded a charisma so profound it was almost tangible.

As his feet touched the ground, he surveyed the surroundings with an intense gaze, his dark eyes seemingly able to command the world with a mere glance.

Even the most daring journalists, accustomed to speaking their minds without hesitation, now faltered under his unspoken power.

The man shifted his gaze, hands slipping into his pockets as he moved forward with deliberate elegance. Each step he took radiated sophistication.

Surrounding him were heavily armed guards, not merely shielding him, but rather serving as a protective barrier from the chilling intensity of his gaze.

Upon entering the venue, the man removed his overcoat, handing it to his assistant. But before the assistant, Kapil, could take it, a beautiful woman stepped forward and took the coat from him.

The man cast a brief glance at her—dressed in a classic black gown, the eyes of everyone around were fixed on him, yet none dared to approach.

In a voice as delicate as silk, the woman spoke, "Sharvik Bhai, you have no idea what has transpired here while you were abroad. Grandpa has arranged your marriage."

Sharvik, unruffled, showed no surprise. His grandfather had often insisted on such matters. However, there was one thing Sharvik was eager to learn—why had his younger sister, Rim, come from Delhi to deliver this news?

Rim continued, "I know you likely don't find anything unusual about this, but there's more to it. Grandpa has chosen a girl for you—she's a senior in high school, just seventeen years old. And her family background… well, it's nothing extraordinary."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

What will happen next?

How will Sharvik react?

Who is Steven?

Why does Surbhi's blood structure change with every test?

What is Surbhi's truth?

Whose awakening is Surbhi referring to?

To know…

To be continued...