The Masked Shepherd

The choir’s final note faded into the incense-heavy air, but Father Arjun’s heart wasn’t in the hymn. Not today.

He stood at the altar in St. Dominic’s Chapel—his collar crisp, his presence magnetic. To the congregation, he was divinity wrapped in human skin: gentle, wise, untouched by sin. But the truth pulsed under his skin like a second heartbeat.

Because under this robe wasn’t a man of God. It was Arjun Mehra—tech magnate, ghost of Mumbai's elite, and the orchestrator of an empire hidden in data and silence.

His eyes scanned the pews. And then—he saw her.

Mira Thakur. Again.

Draped in a blood-red saree with a slit that whispered scandal, she walked through the chapel like it was her courtroom. The heavy silver anklet on her right foot echoed softly with each step, announcing her presence like a queen stepping into enemy territory.

Arjun’s grip tightened around the Bible.

She didn’t bow. Didn’t pray. Just sat at the last pew, legs crossed, lips painted crimson, eyes locked on his.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

God wasn’t in this church today. But the Devil? She was sitting in the back row, watching him like a challenge.

---

After the sermon, the chapel emptied out. Arjun didn’t follow his usual path to the confession booth. Instead, he walked straight toward her.

“You keep coming here,” he said. “Looking for salvation?”

Mira tilted her head, amused. “Why do you keep pretending you can offer it?”

The tension crackled between them—holy walls couldn’t contain the heat.

“I come,” she said softly, “because here, you’re the only man who doesn’t lie to my face. You just lie to yourself.”

She rose slowly, deliberately. Her perfume—something dark and floral—brushed his senses as she passed him.

“And maybe,” she whispered, “I like watching you sin in silence.”

---

Minutes later, behind the chapel's bookshelf, Arjun scanned his fingerprint and descended the hidden staircase. Gone were the robes—replaced with a navy three-piece suit and a steel wristwatch tracking global operations.

The surveillance hub beneath the chapel buzzed with urgency. A drone screen showed Mira’s estate. Her every move, every breath, watched. He’d even tapped her private comms.

But he hadn’t planned for her to get under his skin.

“Sir,” his chief analyst Leela called. “Mira opened the journal. She’s read the last entry.”

Arjun ran a hand through his hair. So she knows her father didn’t trust the people closest to him.

Good. That’s exactly the seed he wanted to plant.

“She’s starting to suspect,” Leela added carefully. “Should we scale back?”

Arjun turned toward the glass wall behind him. The city sprawled beneath him like prey.

“She’s not the kind of woman you scale back for,” he said. “You either own her... or she owns you.”

He leaned forward.

“And I don’t get owned.”

---

Back in the Thakur mansion, Mira stood under the golden showerhead of her private bath, steam curling around her. But her thoughts weren’t on the warm water or the jasmine oil soaking into her skin. They were on a pair of dark eyes, a clenched jaw, and a priest who wasn’t what he claimed to be.

Her fingers traced the edge of her collarbone. The memory of his voice—low, velvet, almost reverent—still lingered.

“Are you looking for salvation?”

No. She was looking for something far more dangerous: the truth. And maybe, without meaning to, she was looking for him.

She stepped out of the steam, wrapping herself in a silk robe. Walked to her study. Lit a cigarillo.

Her father’s journal lay open. That cursed final line haunted her like a ghost.

Not all angels wear wings. Some wear white collars and lies.

Was it about Arjun?

If it was, why did she still crave the way he looked at her—like she wasn’t a queen, or a killer, but a question he hadn’t answered yet?

The door opened. It was Anika, barefoot and flushed.

“Mira di,” she said hesitantly, “I saw Zoya hiding something in her boot.”

Mira stiffened.

“Come again?”

“I... I was looking for my lipstick. In her room. She didn’t see me. But she had a small device... something metallic.”

Mira’s gaze darkened.

Zoya had never lied to her. Never betrayed her. But something had changed lately—her eyes, her silences, the long glances she gave Arjun whenever he was mentioned.

Her fingers crushed the cigarillo into the ashtray.

“Find the lipstick later,” Mira said coldly. “For now... stay out of Zoya’s way.”

---

That night, in a luxury penthouse far from both chapel and mansion, Arjun sat on a couch with a glass of whiskey, shirt unbuttoned, tie undone.

His phone buzzed.

Zoya’s message: “She knows.”

He smirked and typed back: “Then it’s time she sees what else I’m hiding.”

He turned toward the window where Mumbai glowed like a wildfire.

This wasn’t just revenge anymore. This was seduction. In every sense of the word.

And the Queen?

She wasn’t ready for how far he’d go to make her kneel.

---