Riddimaan Singh Ranawat

32 years old

Riddimaan Singh Ranawat was the kind of man the world noticed in self-defence.

Standing 6'6", he carried height like a verdict-broad shoulders, long, unhurried strides, a quiet authority that made strangers stand straighter without knowing why. His presence was never loud; it was the kind of still, contained danger that made a room instinctively lower its voice. A man designed to disappear into shadows, yet somehow the only silhouette anyone remembered.

His hair was dark as a moonless night - short, pushed back with the kind of effortless control that suggested he never needed to try. A few strands broke free across his forehead, the only disorder he ever allowed himself. His face looked hand-crafted by a ruthless sculptor, razor-edged jaw dusted with controlled stubble, high cheekbones that carved an almost regal severity into his expression, a straight, uncompromising nose that made his profile brutally clean. His mouth was firm, disciplined, built for orders not apologies; the rare flicker of a smile felt less like warmth and more like a warning. And then there were his blue-hazel eyes-steady, unblinking, quietly predatory. He didn't just look at people, he measured them, weighed them, decided. Most blinked and looked away first. He never did.

Strength sat on his body like a well-kept secret. A solid chest under crisp shirts, strong arms and veined forearms that spoke of control rather than gym vanity, long legs that turned every walk into a slow, inevitable approach. Nothing about him was exaggerated; everything was precisely enough to draw attention and hold it, the way a loaded gun on a table never needs to move to own the room.

"You're not just mine, Krishti. You're the only thing in this world I haven't destroyed yet. Don't make me start."

He dressed like power with no interest in applause-dark, tailored suits, open collars hinting at the strength underneath, sleeves rolled to reveal those forearms and a single leather strap or bead bracelet at his wrist. No flashy logos, no unnecessary colour. His style didn't beg to be seen; it simply stated, in clean lines and muted tones, that he answered to no one.

But it was his stillness that people remembered. Riddimaan was a man of few words, and every silence felt deliberate, like he was giving others enough space to expose themselves. Calm-too calm. Reserved, never timid. Watchful in a way that made it impossible to lie without feeling caught. He didn't rush, didn't fidget, didn't break eye contact. He had turned restraint into an art form and intensity into a second skin.

Publicly, he was all sharp intelligence, impeccable professionalism, and an almost unnerving composure-a man respected easily, feared quietly, understood by absolutely no one. Whatever truly built him-the storms, the sins, the secrets -stays buried for now, humming beneath his skin. Readers know only this: Riddimaan Singh Ranawat is not just dangerous to cross. He is dangerous to want.

Krishti Mathur

26 year old

She looks like a soft daydream in an oversized sweater-and carries herself like a woman born to rule something bigger than a classroom.

Standing 5'10", Prof. Dr. Krishti Mathur has the kind of height that makes even simple clothes look intentional, long, easy lines, sleeves swallowing her hands, hair spilling down her back like dark ink. Her profile is deceptively gentle-almond eyes that always seem half-lost in some secret chapter, a straight nose, and a soft, full mouth that prefers quiet half-smiles to loud laughter. From the side, though, there's a clean cut to her jaw and a subtle lift of her chin that turns "carefree girl by the lake" into the silhouette of a queen who misplaced her crown, not her power.

On paper she's terrifyingly brilliant: Assistant Professor in Computer Applications, Associate Professor in English Literature, and financial analytics consultant, gliding through SICA's corridors with a coffee in one hand and a marked-up paperback in the other. In class she moves from code to poetry to profit models like it's one long story only she knows the ending of, leaving students accidentally obsessed-with the subject and with her. She's approachable, warm, the mentor who remembers your favourite author and your biggest fear, yet there's an unspoken line no one crosses; when she says, "You're capable of more. Fix it," even the cockiest student listens.

"They call me soft. They've never seen what I become when someone threatens what's mine."

Outside lectures, Krishti lives in fictional worlds and dangerously written men-obsessive, unhinged bookish heroes who would burn down empires for their girls. She believes in love with sincerity, but most of that faith is spent safely on pages, where betrayal can be closed with a cover. Friends tease her for being "delulu" about book boyfriends; she only smiles, because it's easier to ache for ink than to hand her real, breakable heart to someone who might walk away.

Beneath the degrees, awards, and soft knits lies an origin wrapped in secrets. Krishti was adopted as a baby-rescued, placed, rewritten into a new life by a family that loves her like a chosen princess and answers hard questions with gentle half-truths. She has learned not to press; loyalty, gratitude, and a buried fear keep her from tugging too hard at the loose threads of her past. Somewhere beyond Suryakshetra City, her biological parents are not a tragedy buried in the ground but a mystery still moving in the dark, waiting for the right chapter to collide with her.

Until that day, Prof. Dr. Krishti Mathur rules what she can, lecture halls, library aisles, late-night coffee sessions, and the fictional men who only belong to her. To the casual eye she's just a dreamy, cardigan-wrapped professor; to anyone really paying attention, she's a silk-skinned, steel-spined queen who hasn't yet realised her story is only pretending to start in a classroom.

Riddimaan X Krishti

Side Characters

The Ranawat Family

Jashwanth Singh Ranawat

77 years old

Riddimaan's grandfather

Ritika Singh Ranawat

67 years old

Riddimaan's grandmother

Yashveer Singh Ranawat

54 years old

Riddimaan's father

Gaurika Singh Ranawat

47 years old

Riddimaan's Mother

Nivaan Singh Ranawat

29 years old

Riddimaan's young brother

Varshika Singh Ranawat

24 years old

Riddimaan's youngest daughter

Manveer Singh Ranawat

51 years old

Riddiman's chacha ( chacha means = uncle)

Harshika Singh Ranawat

32 years old

Riddimaan's chachi (chachi means = Aunty)

Arshan Singh Ranawat

28 years old

Riddimaan's eldest cousin brother

Paridhi Singh Ranawat

23 years old

Riddimaan's younger cousin sister

Manvik Singh Ranawat

27 years old

Riddimaan's youngest cousin brother

Adopted Family: Mathur

Real Bloodline Krishti : Shekhawati

Sarvajit Mathur

50 years old

Krishti's adopted Father

Niharika Mathur

44 years old

Krishti's adopted Mother

Arijit Mathur

32 years old

Krishti's adopted Brother

Sara Mathur

22 years old

Krishti's adopted sister

{Important: Krishti was adopted and raised as a Mathur, but she was born into the Shekhawati bloodline — a hidden heiress from history. The truth has been sealed in silence…and will only be revealed when the story turns darker.}

The Shekhawati Royal Bloodline {Biological Family of Krishti}

Chandradev Shekhawati

72 years old

Krishti's Grandfather

Jayshree Shekhawati

66 years old

Krishti's Grandmother

Devendranath Shekhawati

54 years old

Krishti's father

Divyanshi Shekhawati

50 years old

Krishti's mother

Athvik Shekhawati

26 year old

Krishti's younger brother

Anavit Shekhawati

26 year old

Krishti's youngest brother

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All photos, edits, and aesthetic images shown here are taken from Pinterest.I do not own them - full credit and respect belong to the original owners and creators. They are used only to create mood, inspiration, and connection with my story for you, my dear Darklings.