The underground auction pulsed with tension, a palpable hum beneath the opulent facade. Crystal chandeliers, heavy with centuries of dust and illicit glamour, flickered erratically, casting dancing shadows on masked faces. Diamonds, sharp and cold, glinted on manicured wrists, each sparkle a silent testament to stolen fortunes and dangerous desires. Every whisper, every rustle of silk, was soaked in danger, a hushed prelude to the dark dealings about to unfold. The air itself felt thick, a heady mix of expensive perfume, stale cigar smoke, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation.
Aarya Thakur stepped into the room, her presence a ripple through the stagnant air. Her heels, sharp as daggers, clicked a staccato rhythm on the polished marble, each step a declaration. A black silk gown, the color of midnight and secrets, hugged her frame like sin, its clean lines belying the storm within. Her dark eyes, fathomless pools of intelligence and resolve, swept the crowd — predators, all of them, circling their prey in the dim light. She was the only queen here, and they knew it, their collective awareness a silent acknowledgment of her power.
But then her gaze froze, a sudden, stark halt to her calculated survey.
Across the room, amidst the swirling figures, a man turned his head with an almost predatory slowness. Tall, broad-shouldered, he was dressed in sharp black, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room, yet he blended in perfectly with its inherent darkness. A smirk, slow and deliberate, curved his lips — lips she knew too well, lips that had once promised devotion and delivered betrayal.
Samrat Rathore.
She felt her pulse stutter, a frantic bird caught in a cage. Her meticulously constructed composure threatened to crack. What was he doing here? The question screamed in her mind, a discordant note in the silent symphony of the auction hall. His presence was an unexpected variable, a dangerous anomaly in a night she had intended to control.
Aarya’s jaw tightened.
She hadn’t seen him in fifteen years — not since the night her parents died in a fiery wreck and his family disappeared from her world.
He should’ve been dead.
Instead, here he was, alive, older, colder.
Their eyes locked.
Samrat lifted his glass lazily, smirking.
“Aarya.”
Her heart punched against her ribs.
“Stay away from me, Samrat.”
He walked forward, slow, deliberate, like a predator circling prey.
“Oh, but you misunderstand, princess. I’m not here to chase you.”
He leaned in, his voice a dark whisper against her ear.
“I’m here to claim you.”
Aarya’s fists clenched.
“Dream on.”
But before she could step away, a cold hand clamped around her wrist.
She spun — one of the council elders, face pale, lips thin.
“Miss Thakur. A word.”
Aarya yanked free, but Samrat’s hand landed on her waist, steady, firm.
“Careful, darling,” he murmured.
“They don’t like when you disobey.”
Her blood ran cold.
.....................
...****************...
...Flashback — Age 5...
...****************...
Her mother’s hands shaking as she tied a tiny red thread bracelet around Aarya’s wrist.
“This will keep you safe, my love.”
Her father’s last words before he left the house:
“Remember, baby — you were born promised. Never forget.”
......................
...****************...
...🌒 Back to Present...
...****************...
Aarya yanked away from Samrat, shoving him back.
“You’re nothing to me.”
But Samrat’s eyes glittered, a dangerous fire beneath.
“That’s where you’re wrong, princess.”
He stepped closer, his breath warm against her skin.
“We were promised to each other since the day you were born. A blood oath. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
Aarya’s voice cracked.
“No…”
He held up a small, crumpled document — yellowed, blood-stamped, deadly.
“Happy birthday, wife.”
Her knees almost buckled.
The council elder’s voice sliced through the tension.
“Miss Thakur, it’s legal. You’re bound.”
Aarya’s fists shook.
Her lips curled into a snarl.
“I’d rather burn in hell.”
Samrat’s grin sharpened.
“Good thing I own the fires.”
He grabbed her arm, yanking her against him, his mouth crushing down on hers — hard, brutal, claiming.
She bit his lip, tasting blood, but he only groaned darkly, holding her tighter.
“This isn’t love, Samrat,” she hissed when they broke apart.
“It’s war.”
He smiled.
“Good. I like my women bloody.”
...TO BE CONTINUE...
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...****************...
...☠ DISCLAIMER ☠...
...****************...
...This is a work of fiction....
...It’s dark. It’s violent. It’s cruel....
...It will break you, twist you, and leave you raw....
...Fall for the characters?...
...That’s your mistake....
...They don’t care....
...They will burn you, betray you, destroy you —...
...and they’re not even real....
...The blood, the heartbreak, the madness?...
...It’s all just ink and words....
...But it will scar if you let it....
...If you can’t handle brutality, crime, or the blackest parts of the human soul —...
...walk away now....
...This story takes no prisoners....
...You’ve been warned....
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