The Portrait of Eternity

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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🙃

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