Chapter 3: A Sacred Meeting

Spicy, Twisted, Tense

The storm arrived with no warning—just thick clouds rolling across the Arabian Sea, swallowing the city in a wet, furious dusk.

St. Dominic’s Chapel stood alone against the wind, its old stones groaning under the pressure. Inside, the candles flickered violently, throwing the shadows of saints and sinners alike across the ancient walls.

Father Arjun stood in the nave, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, fixing a loose panel near the confessional. He had dismissed the staff early—the storm was excuse enough—but deep down, he wanted the silence.

He expected the devil tonight.

And she came.

The chapel door creaked open, wind curling around her silhouette like a lover’s breath. Mira stepped inside, raindrops trailing from her black leather trench coat, her dark hair wet and clinging to her cheeks.

No guards. No entourage. Just her.

Just the Queen of Mumbai, coming to pray—or to hunt.

“Bad night for penance,” Arjun said without turning.

“Depends on the sins,” Mira replied, walking down the aisle with deliberate slowness. Her stilettos clicked softly against the marble.

“You’re wet,” he said, eyes skimming her soaked blouse beneath the coat, the outline of her bra visible in flashes of candlelight.

“So are you,” she replied, glancing down at his forearms, the sleeves rolled just enough to expose the muscles beneath. “Not very priest-like.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “You didn’t come here for a sermon.”

“No,” she said. “I came for answers.”

Arjun turned to face her fully. The heat between them was like static—unseen, dangerous, electric.

“I read my father’s journal,” she said, voice like velvet pulled tight over razors. “He knew someone would betray him. A man who wore white. Who smiled while hiding knives.”

“And you think that man is me?” Arjun asked, stepping closer.

“I don’t think. I know something is wrong.” Her eyes narrowed. “I feel it every time I look at you. Like I’ve seen you before... but not as a priest.”

Arjun didn’t blink. “And what do you plan to do with that feeling, Mira?”

“Undress it,” she whispered.

The air between them snapped.

Without thinking, without speaking, Mira grabbed the crucifix necklace at his collar and yanked him forward. Their mouths hovered—so close their breath mingled—but didn’t touch.

“I could kill you right now,” she murmured. “No one would question it.”

“You won’t,” Arjun whispered back.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not afraid of blood. But you are afraid of truth.”

The fire between them was unbearable now. But neither moved.

Instead, Arjun reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small, folded photo. He handed it to her.

She unfolded it with a trembling hand.

It was her father. And beside him—young, smiling—was Arjun. In a suit. Not as a priest, but as a business partner.

The caption on the back read: Goa, 2015. — Mehra & Thakur Project Launch.

Her stomach dropped.

“You lied to me,” she said, backing away. “You knew him. You worked with him.”

“I did,” Arjun said, calm. “And I watched him die because of what he was becoming.”

Mira’s heart pounded in her chest.

“You think I killed him?” she demanded.

“I think you loved him too blindly to see who else did.”

Lightning split the sky, illuminating her face—shocked, furious, and, somewhere deep beneath it all, scared.

For the first time, Mira Thakur looked like a woman who didn’t have control.

And Arjun—damn him—saw it.

He stepped closer again, this time slower.

“You want revenge,” he said. “But for the wrong death.”

Her voice cracked. “Then who? Who killed my father?”

Arjun’s hand reached out and gently touched her cheek. Not possessive. Not threatening.

Tender.

But his eyes were cold fire.

“Your best friend,” he said. “Zoya.”

---

Back at the Thakur estate, Zoya paced her room, hand trembling as she locked her gun back into its secret compartment. Her burner phone buzzed.

Unknown number: “She knows.”

She stared at the message.

She remembered the night Mira’s father died—the sound of the bullet, the flash, the body hitting the stone floor of the chapel.

She remembered hiding.

She remembered running.

And she remembered the man who helped her cover it up—Arjun Mehra.

Now the game had twisted. Now Mira was caught between two liars. And the one she trusted most... might be the one who made her an orphan.

---

In the chapel, Mira staggered back from Arjun’s touch.

“I trusted her more than anyone,” she whispered.

“And that’s why it worked,” he said softly. “Your enemies didn’t stab you in the chest, Mira. They kissed your forehead first.”

She looked up at him, eyes shimmering—not with tears, but fury.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

Arjun stepped closer, breath warm on her skin. “Because I need you to see the real enemy before I become one.”

The candlelight danced over their faces. They stood like that—God’s house silent around them—as the storm howled outside.

And then, in a moment too charged to stop, Mira leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was war.

A warning.

And a promise.

---

End of Chapter 3

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