Hello....... this is my first story... English is not my first language.. so i hope you understand and support me....

This is YMwrites......

The Price of Protection with a rich, cinematic introduction of both Aryan and Khushi—separate POVs, showing their lives, personalities, and the dangerous contrast between their worlds.

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🖤 Chapter 1 – Introduction...

🧔‍♂ Aryan Rathore – Age 33

(POV: Third-person, deep, dark inner monologue style)

> The city didn’t breathe without his permission.

Aryan Rathore stood at the top floor of his private high-rise, one hand wrapped around a glass of blood-red wine, the other scrolling through confidential security footage from a rival gang’s hideout.

Clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, ink spiraling up one forearm like a silent warning—he didn’t look like a man who carved power out of corpses. But he was.

His light golden-brown hair was slicked back, revealing the scar above his right brow—a memory from his first kill.

There were whispers about him. That he owned half the underworld, that he turned betrayal into blood rituals, that no woman lasted more than a night in his bed.

Most were true.

What wasn’t whispered… was how cold his soul had become. Until one uneventful evening, he sat in a crowded café, waiting for a snitch.

And saw her.

Across the room. Head bent over a book, sipping from a chipped ceramic cup. Laughing softly with a friend.

Untouched. Unaware. Unbelonging to this world.

She didn’t look up. But his eyes never left her.

Something twisted in his chest—something violent and unexplainable.

He never even asked her name. He left.

But the memory stayed. Like a knife in his lungs.

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👩 Khushi Singhania – Age 18

(POV: First-person, soft and intuitive, contrasting tone)

> I always liked the café on 42nd Street. It was noisy enough to feel normal\, but quiet enough to think.

Today was my last week of freedom before college. Before responsibilities. Before more political dinners with men who looked at me like a pawn, not a person.

My father said I needed to “learn my place” as the daughter of a man who’d one day become Home Minister.

But in here, I could breathe.

“You never look up when you’re reading,” my best friend teased, nudging me.

“Because if I look up, I’ll see the world. And I don’t want to.” I smiled, sipping my chai.

I didn’t know that a pair of eyes had been watching me.

I didn’t know my smile had just become someone’s obsession.

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💀

> Somewhere across the city\, Aryan Rathore pulled up the CCTV recording from that café.

Zoomed in. Paused.

And whispered to the screen:

“I’ll find you again. And next time, I’ll never leave you unclaimed.”

This will be Dark romance.. if i say dark romance then understand that it contains dark thing...

In this story there will be no cheating or no harassing or no memory loss.. so don't worry...

I hope you all enjoy it...

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🖤 The Price of Protection

Chapter 2: The Man No One Dares to Love

(Aryan Rathore – Age 33)

POV: Third person, gritty, psychological, raw

> Blood had never disgusted Aryan.

Not when it coated his hands.

Not when it soaked through his shirt.

Not even when it poured from the mouth of the man who raised him.

In fact, he learned early:

Blood meant silence. And silence meant survival.

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🩸 The Past That Created Him

He was 13 when he watched his parents' bodies burn inside a cheap house in Bhopal—set on fire by a politician his father once worked for.

No trial. No name. No justice.

He survived by hiding in the underground sewage line for two days, rats chewing at his legs, fever crawling into his brain. But hate kept him alive.

A local arms dealer named Baba Khan found him—took him in, not out of kindness, but because “a boy with no one is easy to shape.”

By 15, Aryan was loading guns.

By 17, he shot his first man—point-blank, no hesitation. Cause he found Baba khan raping a girl,.... And he has always respected women more then anything..

 He slit Baba Khan’s throat in his sleep, took over the trade, and whispered at his grave:

> “Thanks for the training.”

That’s how it started.

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🔥 Aryan Rathore – Now, 33

He walks into a warehouse—four men are tied to chairs, blood leaking from their mouths, begging.

They betrayed his code.

They leaked intel to a rival gang.

He doesn’t flinch as he puts a bullet through the first one’s eye.

> “One betrayal is a mistake. Four? That’s strategy,”

he murmurs before shooting the second.

His men don’t react. They’ve seen worse.

Aryan runs his empire like a silent god.

No shouting. No chaos. Just results.

He doesn’t drink much.

Doesn’t trust anyone.

He has scars—not just the one slicing through his eyebrow, but the internal kind.

The kind that made him swear:

> “No one gets close. No one leaves alive.”

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👑 How People Speak of Him

“If Aryan Rathore looks at you twice, either you're dead… or you’re doomed.”

“He has no emotions.”

“He doesn’t fall in love. He devours.”

“The police don’t chase him. They work for him.”

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💭 His Mind

> "Empathy? Weakness.

Kindness? Slows the kill.

Love? A myth that gets men buried.”

He trusted power, not people.

He gave protection, but it came with a price.

He built his empire like a chessboard. Every man a pawn.

Every threat silenced.

He believed no softness could survive in a man like him.

Until, one day, in a coffee shop filled with too much light—

he saw her.

And something broke.

Or maybe something woke.

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🖤

“I’ve killed for less than a glance,”

he whispered to himself, eyes locked on the CCTV still of her laughing over a cup of tea.

“But you… You smiled, and I forgot how to breathe.”

And that was the most dangerous thing that had ever happened to Aryan Rathore.

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🕊 The Price of Protection

Chapter 3 – The Girl Who Was Never Allowed to Be Free

(Khushi Singhania – Age 18)

POV: Third person, gentle, emotional, a touch poetic

> Khushi had learned to smile on cue by the time she was eight.

Learned to sit still in long speeches by ten.

Learned to hide her fear by twelve.

And by eighteen, she had mastered the art of appearing perfect.

Because when your father is Devraj Singhania—a Cabinet Minister with eyes on a Chief Minister’s seat—your life isn’t your own.

It’s a performance.

A tightly-wound script.

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🌸 About Her

Age: 18

Nature: Soft-spoken. Intelligent. Obedient on the outside. Curious and rebellious within.

Looks: Shiny black hair to her waist, almond-shaped eyes, fair skin, naturally graceful, beautiful and full curvy waist, a little belly pouch, hips wide, and perfect.. 

She was perfect but her mother always said her that she was too fat and made her very insecure about her body...

Secret habits: Reads romance novels hidden under political science books. Draws in the margins of official files. Escapes to a café her father doesn’t know about every Sunday.

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> Khushi wasn’t weak.

She was contained.

Like fire inside a glass lantern—glowing, but trapped.

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💼 Her Family Life

Her father loved her—but the way kings love their crowns.

She was valuable. Delicate. Political gold.

> “You will marry who I say,”

Devraj had told her once, after she refused a match with a business tycoon’s son.

“Not because I don’t love you… but because your last name is Singhania. That comes with a cost.”

Her mother—once vibrant, now dimmed—rarely spoke up.

She simply laid out Khushi’s sarees, taught her how to walk like a future minister’s wife, and reminded her to smile.

Always smile.

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🕊 Inside Her Head

> Sometimes, Khushi wondered if she’d ever been truly free.

Not “supervised but safe.”

Not “protected and privileged.”

Just… free.

Free to be angry.

To shout.

To wear ripped jeans.

To love someone not picked by her father’s secretary.

She wanted to dance in the rain without a thousand security guards.

She wanted to kiss someone just because her heart told her to.

She wanted… more.

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🍵 What She Didn’t Know

Every Sunday, she’d sneak out to a quiet café on 42nd Street.

She’d order masala chai, open her tattered romance book, and let herself dream.

She never noticed the man who saw her once and never forgot her.

> The man who had buried more than hundred bodies

…but still remembered her smile.

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> Khushi Singhania didn’t know she was already living in a hell.

She didn’t know the life was yet to come—

Wrapped in a man’s arms.

Cloaked in obsession.

Disguised as protection.

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 🖤

LOVE YOU ALL..  PLEASE SUPPORT ME..

This is a story of every  girl who is seeking happiness in life.. All she ever want is to be happy.. she wants to have a love.. she wants someone who would love her like his world.. Yehhh some people would call it made but it is true and it's totally okay... never be ashamed of telling what you like or not.. we may not say it loud but we have always wanted it...