Hello Every lol ppl,

My first novel, hope you enjoy🧿.

First Person's POV:

The first thing I noticed when I entered Rana Corp. Pvt. Ltd. was how everything seemed… too perfect.

Glass walls, silent elevators, people moving with precision — it didn’t feel like a company, it felt like a kingdom.

My heart was racing so fast that even the gentle smile of the security guard couldn’t calm me down.

“First day?” he asked, scanning my ID.

I nodded quickly.

He smiled again. “Good luck, ma’am. You’ll need it here.”

I didn’t understand what he meant then.

As I walked toward the main staff area, I saw a man heading in my direction. His steps were confident, his suit neatly pressed, and his eyes carried the calm of someone in control.

“Miss Sneha, right?” he asked with a polite smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Rakesh, your floor manager. You’ll be under Miss Kavya’s supervision. She’ll guide you through the system.”

Miss Kavya appeared right behind him — graceful, poised, and sharp-eyed. She shook my hand warmly, asking about my background, my goals… and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease a little.

But before I could answer her next question, a sudden voice echoed through the hallway:

> “Attention, everyone — the CEO has arrived.”

For a second, the entire floor went silent.

The laughter, the clicking of heels, even the faint hum of computers — all gone.

Then, everyone began moving, hurried but controlled, forming a perfect line leading to the elevator. Files were hidden away, chairs straightened, and not a single person dared to whisper.

I followed them, confused but copying every move.

Everyone bowed, bending slightly — almost ninety degrees — like soldiers waiting for their commander.

And then I heard it — the soft chime of the elevator.

Something about that sound made my pulse quicken.

I didn’t even know what he looked like yet, but somehow… the air around me felt heavier.

The room was suffocating. Everyone bowed, heads nearly touching the floor, a sea of submission. My knees threatened to buckle, but I forced myself to stand straight, heart hammering in my chest.

Then he appeared. Rajveer. And the air itself seemed to shiver around him. He was colossal—6’7”, broad-shouldered, muscles subtly outlined beneath the crisp black Armani suit that seemed custom-made to worship his form. A body coat hung casually over one shoulder, effortless and dangerous.

His face… it was carved with impossible precision, sharp enough to intimidate yet impossibly mesmerizing. Perfectly arched eyebrows, chiseled jawline, eyes dark as a storm-tossed night—he looked like a god of death walking among mortals. Every step he took was measured, deliberate, like he owned not just the room but the entire world.

My breath hitched. I wanted to shrink away, to blend in with the floor like everyone else, but something inside me wouldn’t let me.

I lifted my chin and said it—the words burning on my tongue before I could second-guess them:

“Good morning, Sir.”

The world seemed to pause. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, wide and judging, before they dropped back to the floor. But his eyes… they didn’t even glance my way. He didn’t stop, didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge me. My chest tightened, a mixture of fear and… something else I couldn’t name.

His assistant, Dev, hesitated for a split second, as if weighing my audacity, then silently followed his master. The oppressive silence of the room returned.

I swallowed hard, feeling heat rush to my face. My boldness had drawn attention, yes—but not the kind I had hoped for. My pulse raced as I realized how small and powerless I truly was in his presence. And deep down, a cold knot of dread settled in my stomach.

Even as he disappeared down the corridor, I knew one thing for certain: crossing him—even with just my words—was dangerous. Yet, some foolish part of me… wanted more.

After a few minutes-

Dev appeared at the edge of my vision, his movements quiet, precise. He leaned close, whispering just enough for me to hear:

“Meet the boss in his chamber… in an hour.”

My heart raced. This was it—the chance I had been waiting for. A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. I had to make an impression, to stand out, to be seen.

I excused myself to the restroom, my mind spinning with plans. I smoothed my hair, adjusted my outfit, and transformed my appearance. The soft, understated makeup I had applied that morning now became bolder—striking eyes, a hint of sharpness to my lips. Every detail was calculated to exude confidence, authority, and a touch of mystery.

I straightened my posture, squared my shoulders, and stared at my reflection. This wasn’t about charm or beauty—it was about presence. If I wanted to capture his attention, I had to show him that I was someone who belonged in his world, someone who could meet him on equal footing.

Time crawled as I waited, every tick of the clock echoing in my ears. I felt the weight of the coming encounter pressing down on me, and yet, somewhere beneath the nerves, a flicker of determination burned. I would walk into that chamber and make him notice me—not as a subordinate, but as someone impossible to ignore.

Meanwhile on the other side of the building -

The corridors of the building were empty, eerily silent, lit only by faint strips of light that cast long, sharp shadows. Rajveer entered the hidden room first, his presence commanding even before he crossed the threshold. The door closed behind him with a muted click, sealing the space in darkness.

The room smelled faintly of damp wood and cold metal. Dust particles floated in the dim light, illuminated only by a single overhead lamp that swung slightly, casting the tied man in a wavering glow. Madrid sat in the center, bound to a heavy wooden chair, his posture slumped but tense, gagged with a strip of black cloth that muffled his panicked breaths. His eyes darted around the room, wide and desperate, sweat streaking down his face in rivulets.

Rajveer’s steps were silent, deliberate. At 6’7”, broad-shouldered, every movement precise, he cut through the shadows like a predator. His crisp black Armani suit clung perfectly to his muscular frame, and the body coat draped casually over one shoulder gave him the air of a god who had stepped into the mortal world to deliver judgment. His face—chiseled, perfectly symmetrical, and terrifyingly still—was carved in the image of death itself. His eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Madrid with an intensity that made the man flinch despite being tied.

Dev followed, calm and exact, gloved hands carrying a pair of white gloves that gleamed faintly in the dim light. He glanced briefly at Rajveer, then at Madrid, before speaking:

“Why did you leave him?” Dev’s voice was cold but measured, slicing through the silence. “Why did you leave Vijay Sataya Partap Singh Rana in the forest?”

Madrid’s eyes widened in terror. His throat moved, muffled by the gag, but his hands fumbled uselessly against the ropes. Panic rippled through him as memories he had buried for years surged forward—the hunt in the forest, the crackling of leaves underfoot, the sudden ambush, the fear that had gripped him.

He remembered Vijay, Rajveer’s father, struggling while the attackers closed in. And he remembered himself running, abandoning the elder boss, terrified, unable to face what was coming. He had given away the location to Rajveer’s enemies, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this—it hadn’t been planned to hurt him.

“I… I didn’t mean to! I—I just…” His eyes pleaded, terrified, realizing the inevitability of retribution. “I just told them the location! I didn’t… I didn’t know what would happen!”

Rajveer remained motionless, a shadow in the dimly lit room. Not a word left his lips, not a muscle betrayed emotion. His silence was heavier than any accusation, a living judgment that pressed down on Madrid’s chest. Every instinct told the man that Rajveer’s gaze alone could kill, even without a single word.

Dev’s gloved hands remained steady, his voice again cutting into the tension:

“You left him… while he was being attacked. Why?”

The air grew thicker. Madrid’s mind raced, trapped in the nightmare of his own making. The forest attack, the betrayal, and now the presence of the son of the man he had abandoned—it all collided into a suffocating terror. The room felt smaller, shadows deeper, and the two men before him—one silent and godlike, the other cold and accusing—were the executioners of the reckoning he had long feared but never imagined.

A/N-thats all for now prtty ppl.. Do like it and comment too plz🙏.

Hello pretty lol ppl.

Enjoy 🧿🎶🎶.

Author's POV:

Madrid’s chest heaved as the memories came flooding back — the crackle of gunfire, the smell of blood, and the forest that had swallowed his cries whole. He had left Vijay Sataya Partap Singh Rana there… alone, wounded, surrounded. His palms shook against the rough ropes that bound him to the chair.

Rajveer stood only a few feet away, motionless. The dim light from above framed him like a silhouette carved out of shadow. His eyes — black yet flickering with something deeper, something ancient — locked onto Madrid with unblinking precision.

Each step Rajveer took was deliberate, quiet, but every footfall felt like the earth itself reacting to his presence. The air grew heavier, denser, as though the walls of the hidden room could sense the storm brewing within him. Dev stood silently near the door, his gloved hands clasped, face composed but eyes wary.

Rajveer stopped beside the chair. His towering frame loomed over Madrid, the faint light outlining the sharp edges of his face. Then, without warning, he leaned closer — so close that Madrid could feel the weight of his breath.

He whispered something.

The words were low, almost inaudible, but they sliced through the silence like a blade. Whatever Rajveer said made Madrid’s eyes widen with pure horror. His body froze, then began to tremble violently. Sweat poured down his temples, his throat convulsing as he tried to speak, but the gag muffled everything except a broken whimper.

Rajveer straightened, his face unreadable. For a moment, the room was utterly still. Only the ticking of the clock on the far wall dared to break the silence.

Dev glanced at Rajveer — just once. That was all it took. No nod, no words — just the faintest shift of Rajveer’s gaze, and Dev understood. He had served long enough to recognize that look: the calm before a storm no one should witness.

He adjusted his gloves slowly, his composure unwavering, and turned toward the door.

As he stepped out, the heavy steel door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the faint light from the corridor. The hallway outside was silent, but a faint vibration — almost imperceptible — thrummed through the air. Dev didn’t look back. He knew better.

Inside that sealed room, darkness reigned. And somewhere in that darkness, a man’s silent pleas met the eyes of another who had already chosen the path of retribution.

Inside the closed room, silence pressed against the walls like a living thing. The faint hum of the overhead light buzzed softly, illuminating only fragments of Rajveer’s figure — the sharp line of his jaw, the glint in his black eyes.

He moved toward the metal table at the corner, his expression steady, unreadable. From the tray beside it, he picked up a surgical knife. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming cold and silver — precise, clinical, almost elegant.

Rajveer turned it in his hand once, testing the balance, the edge, his eyes reflecting the faint shimmer. Then he walked back toward Madrid, his movements measured, deliberate, controlled — as if each step was part of a ritual only he understood.

The air grew colder, thicker, the sound of Madrid’s restrained breathing echoing against the metal walls. Rajveer stopped in front of him, the blade poised lightly in his grip, his voice low — a whisper that felt like a verdict.

“Every action has its consequence.”

And then, Rajveer placed the surgical knife on Madrid's neck but he would not have found any pleasure in killing him directly, so Rajveer said, "I will not let you die so easily, even if I give me death for cheating the Rana family, it is less." As soon as he says this, he thrusts the surgical knife straight into his knee and Madrid screams loudly, but because of his shouting, Now even God cannot save him because he also knows that he has taken a wrong decision and decisions cannot be changed, right?

Rajveer takes out that knife and now cuts it directly on his eyes as if he wants to take out those eyes, as if he wants to carve those eyes like a jeweler.

After that Rajveer gets up and picks up a small hammer kept on the table and hits Madrid's other knee. But he strikes like a craftsman hammering on hot iron. Madrid was about to die when Rajveer said, "Now even God will not let you atone for your sins" and at the last moment he cuts his throat, causing a few drops of blood to fall on his face.

After sometimes -

The heavy steel door creaked open, and Rajveer stepped out into the dim corridor. His white gloves, now stained deep crimson, glistened faintly under the flickering light. His expression hadn’t changed — calm, composed, distant — as if the red on his hands was nothing more than dust he’d brushed aside.

Dev was waiting outside, posture straight, eyes down. He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t need to. Instead, in a quiet voice, he said,

“Sir, that girl… the one who greeted you this morning — she’s waiting in your chamber.”

Rajveer didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted briefly, unreadable, and then he began to walk — long, steady strides echoing through the corridor. Dev followed for a few steps, then stopped, watching his master disappear around the corner.

The air around the chamber was heavy with a faint scent of perfume and nervous anticipation.

Inside, Sneha waited. She sat on the edge of the couch, heart racing. Her reflection in the glass wall looked confident — bold makeup, loosened hair, the top buttons of her shirt undone just enough to draw the eye — but inside, she was trembling. Every tick of the clock made her pulse quicken.

She told herself this was her chance — to rise, to be noticed, to become something more than just another face in the corporate crowd. To stand beside him. The name itself carried a weight that thrilled and frightened her: Rajveer Vijay Pratap Singh Rana.

When the door finally opened, her breath caught.

He stood there — tall, poised, silent. The air seemed to bend around him, the energy in the room shifting instantly. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. His suit was perfect, his stance regal… but her gaze fell to his hands.

The gloves — white, once immaculate — were red.

Her smile faltered. The confidence she had painted across her face began to crack. A flicker of something primitive, instinctive, ran through her veins — fear. Her throat tightened, and before she could stop it, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

But she forced herself to recover. Maybe it was something else, she told herself. Maybe she was imagining it. He was powerful — power always came with shadows.

She rose, steadying her breath, and stepped forward. Each movement felt rehearsed yet fragile.

“Sir…” she whispered, her voice softer now.

Rajveer’s eyes found hers. They were dark — too dark — carrying the kind of calm that shouldn’t exist in a living man.

He removed the gloves slowly, one finger at a time, revealing clean, strong hands beneath. The crimson fabric fell into the bin near the door with a dull thud. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial.

When her trembling hand reached out and brushed against his arm, his body stiffened instantly — not in surprise, but in resistance. A flicker of something sharp crossed his face — irritation, memory, pain — before it was buried again under the cold mask he wore so well.

For a brief moment, the air between them felt like it could ignite — her longing clashing with his control, her ambition meeting his restraint.

But then he spoke, his voice low and quiet, like distant thunder.

“Don’t touch what you don’t understand.”

Sneha froze. The words weren’t loud, yet they struck harder than any shout could.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Rajveer stepped past her, toward the window, his back turned, his reflection in the glass a shadow of power and something far darker beneath it.

Sneha stood still — heart pounding, realization slowly dawning — she hadn’t entered the world of a man she wanted. She had stepped into the world of something she could never control.

Then suddenly Rajveer grabs Sneha's hand very hard, due to which black and purple colored fingerprints are formed on Sneha's hand, Sneha feels severe pain but she ignores it, then Rajveer drags her to his private bedroom and throws her on the bed.

Rajveer picks up a silk cloth kept on the nearby table and gives it to Sneha but he does not say anything. Sneha understands just like that and ties her eyes with that cloth, then it seems that Rajveer will do with her what she was thinking but little did she know that something else was waiting for her.

A/N- hey lovelies hope you enjoyed do like and comment 🧿🧿🧿.

Author loves you all.

For now b-bye.

Hello, my pretty little babyies,

Lets start🧿🧿💅

The silk cloth pressed softly against her eyelids, blinding her from the dim light of the room.

She could hear footsteps — slow, heavy, deliberate.

Her heart beat faster, almost loud enough to drown the silence between those steps.

A nervous smile crept across her lips.

She thought this was it — the moment she had waited for.

The powerful Rajveer Vijay Pratap Singh Rana, walking toward her.

She had imagined it a thousand times — how his touch would feel, how his breath would sound against her ear.

Her breath hitched as she felt the warmth of his presence close to her face.

The air shifted. His scent — rich, strong, dangerously unfamiliar — wrapped around her.

Then came the whisper.

> “Kya hua, Vidyuti ji… aapka sapna hamare bistar tak pahunchne ka pura ho gaya.”

What happened, Ms. Vidyuti… your dream of reaching my bed has finally come true, hasn’t it?

Her smile froze.

The words were sharp — not teasing, not romantic — they dripped with venom.

Her throat went dry. Beneath the silk, her eyes widened in confusion.

> “R-Rudra?” she managed to say, her voice trembling.

R-Rudra?

There was silence… followed by a low, cold chuckle.

Not warm. Not amused.

It was the sound of something broken — a laugh from the ruins of a man.

> “Haan, Rudra. Vahi Rudra… jo ab Rajveer Vijay Pratap Singh Rana ban kar laut aaya hai.”

Yes, Rudra. The same Rudra who has now returned as Rajveer Vijay Pratap Singh Rana.

Sneha’s body stiffened. The name — Rudra — echoed in her mind like a curse she had buried long ago.

Her pulse hammered against her veins. Sweat began to form on her skin, not from desire, but from fear.

It couldn’t be him. Not after all these years. Not after what they had done.

> “Please… mujhe jaane dijiye.”

Please… let me go.

Her words broke into a scream as a sharp pain shot through her left foot.

Rajveer’s hand had grabbed her ankle, his fingers pressing down mercilessly.

> “Isi pair se aapne meri ardhangni ka haath kuchla tha na?”

It was this same foot you used to crush my wife’s hand, wasn’t it?

She screamed, begging him to stop, her voice breaking — but the room was soundproof.

No one could hear her. No one ever did.

Rajveer’s eyes glowed — not with fire, but with the frozen rage of a man who had already crossed the line between humanity and vengeance.

> “Aaj… hisaab pura hoga.”

Today… the debt will be settled.

When he finally released her, she fell limp, trembling, gasping for air.

She wanted to believe it was over — that maybe he’d leave.

But when he lifted the silk from her eyes, what she saw froze her to her soul.

The man standing before her was not Rajveer, the charming CEO.

It was Rudra — the man they left to die.

The man they betrayed.

The ghost who came back with blood in his eyes and silence in his heart.

He leaned closer, his shadow covering her completely.

And in a voice cold enough to cut through bone, he whispered:

> “Main wahi insaan hoon jisko tum marne ke liye chhod gaye the…

Jo tum logon ne zinda maanne se pehle hi maar diya tha.”

I am the same man you left to die… the one you had buried alive before the world could call him dead.

Her tears stopped. There was no strength left in her to speak.

She just stared — at the man she had misjudged,

and at the fate that was now staring back at her.

Sneha’s body trembled as she fell to her knees.

Her voice was hoarse, broken by tears.

> “Please… Rajveer, mujhe maaf kar do. I made a mistake… please.”

He stared at her, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips — not of joy, not of anger — but of judgment.

His eyes, pitch black, carried the calm of a man who had already decided the end long before this night began.

> “Rehem?” he murmured softly.

Mercy?

He took one step closer. The dim light cast a sharp line across his face — half angel, half executioner.

> “Ek aisa insaan jo manushya ke roop mein paida hota hai, Sho… karodon mein ek baar.”

A person like that is born in human form only once in a million.

He paused, his voice falling into a whisper — steady, merciless, almost sacred.

> “Aur tumhe to do mauke mile the… par dono barbaad kar diye.”

And you were given two chances… both wasted.

He turned slightly, his gaze falling away as if speaking to some unseen higher force.

> “Shayad Bhagwan bhi chahte the ke tum apne paapon ka prāyaśchit karo.

Agli baar bhi janam logi…”

He leaned closer, his breath cold against the silence.

> “…to mere haathon hi marna, Vidyuti ji.”

…then die by my hands again, Ms. Vidyuti.

The room fell quiet.

The storm inside Rajveer stilled — as though vengeance had finally taken its final breath.

After the silence, Rajveer finally stepped back.

The tension in the room was thick, almost tangible, as though the shadows themselves were holding their breath.

He moved with the precision of a predator, every step deliberate.

His eyes didn’t flicker, his expression remained unreadable — the storm had passed, but the calm afterward was far more terrifying.

Sneha slumped on the bed, her chest heaving, the silk cloth still in her hands. Fear, exhaustion, and disbelief painted her face.

Rajveer didn’t speak.

He simply turned toward the small side table, where a neatly folded outfit lay. With one motion, he stripped off his gloves, revealing hands that had delivered justice tonight.

> “Ab kaam khatam… ab sirf safai ka waqt hai.”

The work is done… now only cleanup remains.

He moved toward the bathroom, shedding the clothes he wore moments ago.

Water cascaded over him, washing off the weight of the night, but not the purpose. Each droplet seemed to wash away the physical evidence while leaving the intensity of his resolve intact.

When he returned, he was clad in a crisp black suit, tailored to perfection.

The old clothes he had worn — blood-stained, soaked in the memory of vengeance — were thrown into the dustbin and immediately set ablaze, leaving only smoke to mark the past.

Rajveer walked over to his desk, the leather chair creaking softly under him as he began clearing files — meticulous, precise, detached.

Every motion screamed control, focus, the kind of discipline that only a man like him could maintain.

Then, the phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the quiet of the office.

He paused, hand hovering above the receiver. No words were spoken.

> “Yeh call… usse hi aaya hai.” Dev’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

This call… it’s from him.

Rajveer stood, the files still scattered on the desk, and left the cabin without a word. Dev understood immediately — when Rajveer came out of his office, it meant he had somewhere urgent to go.

> “Car tayaar karo.”

Prepare the car.

One of the guards nodded, heading to ready the sleek black Rolls-Royce Ghost parked in the underground garage.

> “Kahan jaana hai, sir?”

Where to, sir?

Rajveer’s reply was low, calm, and carrying that edge of darkness that never left him:

> “City Hospital.”

The doors of the car closed, the engine purred softly.

As the black Ghost rolled out of the Rana Corp. building, the night city lights reflected off its polished surface.

Inside, Rajveer sat silently, his mind as sharp and controlled as always, moving toward the place where another chapter of duty, loyalty, and family awaited.

After sometimes-

Rajveer walked into the ICU like a shadow slipping between beds. The fluorescent lights hummed; the smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air. Machines beeped in the slow, steady rhythm of lives being argued back into balance.

At the end of the row, beneath a slanted lamp, a familiar face lay half-hidden by tubes and bandages. Vijay Satya Pratap Singh Rana — diminished, fragile, but undeniably him. Rajveer stopped at the foot of the bed and let the moment stretch, looking at the man who had once ruled with the same cold certainty Rajveer now wore like armor.

A doctor hovered nearby, checking a monitor. He looked up when Rajveer approached, brief and professional. “He’s out of immediate danger now,” the doctor said. “Stable for the moment.”

Rajveer’s voice was calm, a low command that made the air around it fall silent. “Leave us,” he said. “Leave my father and me alone.”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. The nursing staff filed out with discreet efficiency. The corridor doors whispered closed until only the low beeping of machines and the two men remained.

Rajveer moved to the bedside and, as if reclaiming ground, pulled up the chair. He leaned over, studying his father’s weathered face — the stubborn set of his jaw, the lines that had once held power and now held pain. For a long moment he said nothing.

Vijay’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, focused on the silhouette at his bedside, then curved his lips into a weak, amused smile. “Rajveer,” he said, voice rough but steady. “How are you?”

Rajveer’s smile was a slow thing, distant and unreadable. “I’m… managing,” he answered. He watched his father for a second longer, then let his tone turn to something sharper, almost casual. “You’ll be fine.”

Vijay’s smile deepened, the kind that had steadied men and shaken enemies. He took a shallow breath and said, half-joking, half-serious, “I’ll be fine. Going to God doesn’t happen without God’s say-so — and I refuse to be in any hurry. Besides, I haven’t even seen my daughter-in-law yet. If God wants me, He’ll have to wait; I have more to settle here first.”

The sentence landed oddly between them — an understatement, a boast, and a provocation all at once. Rajveer allowed himself the faintest of smirks, the ghost of something older and immeasurably colder flickering across his features. The two men，father and son，sat in that brittle quiet, the machines marking time, each thinking of debts unpaid and the long work of settling them.

The ICU door opened gently, and a figure appeared in the doorway. Shaisha Vijay Pratap Singh Rana, Rajveer’s mother, draped in dark green royal silk, walked in with an aura that demanded attention. The soft rustle of her saree announced her presence before her voice did.

Her eyes immediately found the two men — father and son — sitting side by side. Her gaze hardened, the motherly storm building inside her.

> “Rajveer! Kitne patle ho gaye ho… chaar saal se ek bhi baar ghar nahi aaye ho! Hamesha penthouse mein padhe rehte ho, khana bhi nahi khate kya?”

Rajveer! You’ve grown so thin… you haven’t come home even once in four years! Always holed up in your penthouse, don’t you even eat?

Her voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the quiet of the room.

Rajveer lifted a hand slightly, tilting his head in a gesture meant to calm her.

> “Maa… shant ho jaiye. Sab theek hai.”

Mother… calm down. Everything is fine.

But mothers are mothers, Sho — they never settle that easily. Shaisha’s eyes softened for a heartbeat when they lingered on her husband, then hardened again as she glanced at her son.

Suddenly, a melodic voice floated in from behind:

> “यह बंधन तो प्यार का बंधन है, जानमों का संगम है…”

This bond is a bond of love, a union of souls…

Rajveer turned his head, curiosity and recognition crossing his features. There, standing just a few steps away, were his younger brothers, Shashank and Mihir, singing softly, their voices weaving through the room. Beside them was the youngest sister, Prisha, her eyes sparkling as she added her part to the song.

The music wrapped around the space like a warm ribbon, contrasting with the tense, stormy energy his mother had brought in. Rajveer’s jaw tightened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but he didn’t speak. He simply watched — the fragile, unspoken bond of family, layered over years of distance, betrayal, and love.

Rajveer’s mother and siblings lingered in the ICU, continuing their chatter, concern, and motherly nagging.

> “Rajveer, ab 32 ka ho gaya hai… kab shaadi karega?”

Rajveer, you’re 32 now… when will you get married?

> “Beta, humne tumhara bachpan hi toh poora sambhala hai… ab apni zindagi ka khayal rakho.”

Son, we’ve taken care of your childhood… now think of your own life.

Rajveer’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He let the words wash over him, but he didn’t answer. The noise, the emotions, the constant pull of family — it all felt like a weight he didn’t want to carry tonight.

With quiet decisiveness, he excused himself. Without another word, he stepped out of the hospital, leaving behind the conversation, the concern, and the persistent questioning.

The black Rolls-Royce Ghost awaited him, silent and patient, like always. As it glided through the city streets, Rajveer’s mind was already elsewhere — away from the trivialities of the living, toward something far more personal, far more sacred.

Once he reached his penthouse, he moved through the familiar corridors like a shadow. In the bedroom, he approached a hidden section — a secret chamber he had carved out of the penthouse long ago.

There, concealed behind a false wall panel, hung an ancient painting. Rajveer removed it with reverence.

The moment his eyes fell upon the painting, something inside him softened. His shoulders, so often rigid, relaxed. His breath slowed. Peace — pure, calming, almost holy — settled over him.

It was as though the painting itself had absorbed centuries of love, devotion, and serenity. Only in front of this artwork did Rajveer allow himself to bend — physically, mentally, emotionally. The cold, unyielding man the world knew would kneel, if only here, in private.

And yet, the identity of the figure in the painting made his heart ache — not Rajveer, but Samyukta Rudra Pratap Singh Rana, his Dharma-pati from a previous life. A soul he had loved, lost, and somehow rediscovered through this silent, painted presence.

Rajveer’s fingers traced the edges of the frame. His lips barely moved as he whispered to the figure in front of him:

> “Only you… only before you do I bend.”

Sirf tumhare saamne hi main jhukta hoon.

The penthouse around him, with all its luxury, power, and cold sterility, seemed to melt away. Here, in this chamber, Rajveer was not the ruthless son, the feared CEO, the unstoppable force. Here, he was simply a man — softened by memory, love, and devotion, kneeling before a painting that reminded him of a life beyond vengeance.

The room bathed in amber silence, faint light from the chandelier kissed the dust that swirled in the air like forgotten memories. Rajveer stood still, his eyes fixed on the ancient painting before him. The moment he pulled away the silk drape covering it, the world around him seemed to halt — time itself bowed in reverence.

There she was — the woman whose gaze could tame the storm inside him, whose grace was poetry even gods envied. Draped in deep crimson and gold, her beauty held not arrogance but divinity. Her eyes, though painted centuries ago, shimmered with life — eyes that spoke of love unbroken by death, loyalty unshaken by time.

Her lips were carved into the faintest smile, one that whispered secrets of a bond beyond mortal bounds. Every brushstroke of that painting bled devotion, every hue told the story of fire and fate. Rajveer’s hand trembled as he traced the edge of the frame, his heartbeat syncing with memories that weren’t supposed to exist — yet they did, buried in the ashes of another life.

A strange calm washed over him — a calm only her presence could summon. For beneath his darkness, his rage, his unyielding silence — lay a soul that still belonged to her.

He took a slow breath and whispered under his breath,

"Tum meri saza bhi thi… aur meri mukti bhi."

(You were both my punishment… and my salvation.)

And as his voice faded into the air, the truth shimmered in the dim light —

she was none other than Samyukta Rudra Pratap Singh Rana

the one and only love, life, and eternal devotion of the late Rudra Pratap Singh Rana.

That's all for noww.. Loveliess.

Bye bye sweethearts, do comment and like🙃