Yeh safar khatam nahi, yeh shuruaat hai,

jahaan pyaar aur maut ek raah chunte hain.

Hum manzil tak pahunch gaye the shayad,

par manzil hi humse qeemat maangti hai.

✧✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧ ✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧⁠✧

This chapter contains explicit sexual content (graphic oral sex, strong language, intense intimacy between consenting adults).

Mature themes: desire, sexual tension, identity exploration.

18+ only.

If explicit scenes aren't your preference, skip ahead.

After I finished everything, I stacked the plates and cup in the sink and headed to the closet. My fingers found the black shirt I wanted, and I pulled it on. A glance at the wall clock made me frown—5:30 a.m. Time always ran faster than I could ever imagine.

I slid my Titan watch onto my left wrist, fixed my hair with sharp, precise movements, and cracked my neck again to ease the tension in my muscles. Just as I was settling, my phone buzzed.

It was Nivaan. That idiot. Already sending some Rose Day nonsense. Being siblings was a curse sometimes. I typed back quickly, letting my irritation show:

"Keep your Rose Day to yourself, idiot."

No sooner had I sent it than his reply popped up, teasing and aggravating:

"Ouch, my poor heart. Why are you like this, Janu?"

My jaw tightened. I swallowed the irritation and typed back harshly:

"Nivaan, stop this nonsense. If you’re awake, arrange the formalities. And fuck off with your Rose Day."

Send. Done.

I tossed the phone aside, grabbed my wallet and room card, trying—failing, really—to calm the surge of anger still bubbling under my skin. Frustration won over for a moment, and my fist met the wall with a sharp thud. I closed the door behind me and exhaled slowly, forcing control over the storm inside.

My day started like this, as it often did. I walked toward the elevator and pressed the downward button. The hum of the cables and the soft click of the doors closing didn’t keep my mind from drifting back to the dream. Her words echoed in my head, crystal clear even through the blurry haze of her face:

"Between life and death, your name is the only path I walk."

A shiver ran down my spine. The memory of her voice, fragile yet full of conviction, burned itself into me. I shook it off just as the elevator doors opened.

Stepping out, I walked toward the receptionist. The moment he saw me, he straightened. I didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Did anyone come in last night?” I asked.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Sir, I don’t know. It was the night shift’s duty.”

I bit my inner cheek, suppressing the irritation building in my chest. “Let me know when the night shift man is here.”

He straightened his back, trying to appear confident. “Sorry, sir, but as per our rules, we can’t disturb the duty workers. They’re human, after all.”

I could see that he thought he was clever. I knew they were human. But the attitude—that was unnecessary. My hand went to my waistband. The gun was there before he even realized it. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as I spoke, my voice cold and calm.

“This much attitude isn’t good around me. Be careful.”

His knees nearly buckled. He nodded so quickly I thought his head might fall off. Not a word escaped his lips. Relief washed over me. I slid the gun back and turned, feeling the cold steel leave my hand.

Then, as I passed by, I glanced over my shoulder. My eyes locked on him.

“Inform me when he arrives,” I said.

He stammered, voice shaking, “O-okay, s-sir.”

I walked away, stepping into the open air, leaving the fear I had instilled behind me.

I stepped out of the hotel and headed to the garage, sliding into the car and closing the door behind me. The engine roared to life as I pulled onto the road, my focus set on the hospital. Ranjit uncle was going to wake up today, and I couldn’t help the small sense of relief that spread through me—he was finally recovering.

The streets were almost empty, the night still lingering, giving me free rein to push the car forward. Minutes later, I arrived at the hospital. I drove inside, maneuvering past the fountain and parked near the waterfalls.

That’s when I saw them—Vidyut and his sister, standing close, voices raised in argument. The tension was palpable; I already knew the cause. Vidyut had killed his sister’s husband, Shaurya Roy. A Deshmukh family matter that would never be fully resolved. And why should I interfere? This was their storm to weather.

I stepped out of the car, ignoring the shouting behind me, and walked into the hospital, my mind already tuned to what really mattered.

I walked ahead and spotted the doctor who had been supervising Ranjit uncle’s case. The moment he noticed me approaching, he straightened slightly.

“Good morning, sir,” he greeted professionally.

I gave him a short nod. “Where have you shifted Ranjit uncle?”

“He’s been moved to the VIP general ward,” the doctor replied. “He is stable and recovering. However…”

He paused deliberately, as if choosing his words carefully. “There will be a permanent burn mark on his leg. And… someone attempted to stab him. Fortunately, the wound wasn’t deep enough to cause fatal damage, but there is still a visible mark on his upper chest.”

My jaw tightened instantly.

One of Shaurya Roy’s men.

I could already see the scene in my mind—the chaos, the betrayal, the attempt to silence him permanently. My hands curled into fists at my sides, but I kept my voice even.

“Thank you for the information. Can I see him?”

“Of course, sir. Please come with me.”

I followed the doctor down the corridor and toward the elevators. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, nurses moving quietly past us. The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside.

As we ascended, my reflection stared back at me in the mirrored walls—cold, controlled, but beneath it, something darker simmered.

When the doors opened, we walked toward the VIP ward. The hallway was quieter here, guarded, almost isolated from the rest of the hospital.

The doctor stopped outside a private room and gently pushed the door open.

“There,” he said softly.

Inside, Ranjit uncle lay against the white hospital sheets, machines humming steadily beside him. His face looked pale but no longer lifeless. His chest rose and fell in a stable rhythm.

Reena aunty must have gone to bring medicines and food for uncle.

I pulled the stool closer and sat beside the bed.

After a few seconds, Ranjit uncle’s eyes fluttered open and locked onto me—as if he had sensed my presence before waking. I gave him a slight nod.

The doctor checked the monitor and asked professionally, “How are you feeling, sir?”

Uncle didn’t break eye contact with me.

“Better,” he replied in a raspy yet steady voice. “You may leave. I need to speak to Riddhimaan.”

The doctor understood the tone. He nodded and quietly stepped out, closing the door behind him.

The room fell silent.

“How are you, beta?” uncle asked.

“I’m fine, uncle. I’m glad you’re recovering.”

He nodded slowly. “You disappeared suddenly two years ago.”

My throat tightened, but before I could respond, he continued.

“But I won’t bring that up. I know you had your reasons. Still… seeing you here gives me peace.”

A faint smile touched my lips.

“Uncle,” I said gently, “what exactly happened that day?”

His green eyes darkened with something between anger and guilt.

“It was my fault,” he admitted. “I should have listened to my son.”

His lashes lowered.

“I know you and Vidyut never had proper communication,” I said. “But he cares about you.”

A hollow chuckle escaped him. “He cares. And I kept pushing him away.”

I leaned forward slightly. “Tell me everything.”

He took a deep breath.

“I had to send Vidyut abroad after he did something reckless. A college boy firing a gun inside a classroom… can you imagine?”

My jaw tightened.

“His sister was being ragged. It had been getting worse day by day. She tried to reach me, but I was drowning in work. Meetings. Deals. Ego.” His voice turned bitter. “I thought I would handle it later.”

He paused, swallowing.

“One evening, Vidyut found out. He lost control. Went into full protective brother mode. He was furious—with the college, with those boys… even with us.”

I could picture it clearly.

“He went to the campus, took his sister out first. Then he entered the classroom and demanded answers. No one spoke. No one admitted anything. That silence… it triggered him.”

Uncle’s fingers tightened over the bedsheet.

“He walked out, grabbed the gun from his car… and fired inside the classroom.”

“He shot someone?” I asked coldly.

“No,” uncle replied quickly. “He fired at the wall. But the sound alone terrified everyone. The professor. The students. It was chaos.”

“And your daughter?”

“She was more shaken by her brother’s rage than by the ragging itself.” His voice softened.

“I slapped him that night. Sent him to the USA immediately. Thought distance would discipline him.”

“But it didn’t,” I said flatly.

Uncle shook his head. “No. From there, he traced his sister’s lover.”

“Shaurya Roy.”

“Yes.” His expression hardened. “From the beginning, I felt something was wrong about that boy. Too calculated. Too smooth. I couldn’t read his intentions.”

“You kept men behind him,” I said.

“I did. But I underestimated him.” Uncle’s jaw clenched. “He wasn’t after my daughter.”

Silence thickened.

“He was after the company property papers.”

My eyes turned sharp.

“He used love as a cover. Built trust. Gained access to internal movements. Slowly.”

“And that day in the company?” I asked quietly.

Uncle’s gaze darkened.

“The two men who attacked… they were his.” His breathing grew heavier. “I didn’t involve my secretary. I thought I could handle it myself. Pride.”

He gave a humorless laugh.

“They dragged the manager into the mess. Tried to kill me.”

My hands curled into fists.

“They couldn’t get the papers,” he continued. “But they took a pendrive.”

“And?”

“I had anticipated betrayal,” uncle said weakly. “The real data was never in it. I staged the files. It was a trap.”

A slow, dangerous calm settled inside me.

“I was saved by my secretary and some loyal employees,” he finished. “Otherwise… I wouldn’t be here.”

The room fell silent again.

“So this entire mess,” I said quietly, “was never about love. It was corporate warfare.”

“But uncle… let me tell you something.”

I spoke calmly, a faint smirk touching my lips.

Ranjit uncle looked at me with raised brows.

“Both Shaurya Roy and Gaurav Roy,”

I said evenly,

“are dead. By our hands.”

For a second, silence filled the room.

Then I saw it—relief. Pride. A father’s satisfaction that the threat hovering over his family had been erased.

He leaned back against the pillow and exhaled slowly. “Good,” he murmured. “Very good.”

But my next words made him lift his hand and lightly smack his own forehead in frustration.

“There’s a rift between your daughter and Vidyut.”

His expression tightened immediately.

“I know,” he said. “Only I can settle that. No one else.”

He looked older in that moment—not as a businessman, not as a powerful man—but as a father who had failed to balance his children.

“She is sensitive,” he continued quietly. “And first love…” He paused, eyes drifting somewhere distant.

“It is the hardest thing for a woman to forget. I don’t even know what she went through with that man.”

His jaw clenched.

“And I couldn’t protect her from it.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Sending her to another city might help,” I suggested. “A change of place. New surroundings. New responsibilities.”

Uncle hummed thoughtfully.

“Distance heals,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.

I didn’t respond immediately.

Because sometimes… distance doesn’t heal.

Sometimes it only buries things alive.

Men think removing the source of pain is enough. Change the city. Change the environment. Change the routine.

But heartbreak isn’t geographical.

It travels with you.

It waits in quiet rooms. In empty nights. In songs. In memories that refuse to fade.

No matter how much you try to silence it—

Pain has a way of resurfacing.

And when it does, it is sharper. Louder. Colder.

Uncle looked at me again. “What do you think, Riddhimaan?”

I met his gaze steadily.

“I think,” I said slowly, “you should talk to her. Not as a businessman. Not as a father controlling damage. But as a father who listens.”

The door clicked open softly.

I turned my head and saw Reena aunty stepping inside, a packet of food in one hand, medicines in the other.

The moment her eyes fell on Ranjit uncle, everything in her expression changed.

Relief.

Love.

Unspoken fear dissolving into quiet gratitude.

She walked toward him quickly, almost as if afraid he would disappear again if she didn’t reach him in time.

Uncle’s eyes softened instantly.

That hardened businessman… that stubborn father… vanished.

In his place was just a husband.

He noticed her swollen eyes—dry now, but the redness betrayed nights of crying. God knows how many prayers she must have whispered. How many times she must have sat alone in corridors waiting for the doctor to say he would survive.

For her, nothing else mattered.

Not the companies.

Not the property papers.

Not the politics between son and daughter.

He was her world.

And she was his quiet strength.

She placed the packet down on the side table and cupped his face gently, as if reassuring herself he was real.

“You scared me,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite trying to stay composed.

Uncle gave her a faint smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I looked away.

Some moments are not meant to be watched.

“Uncle,” I said calmly, stepping back. “I’m leaving. Whatever aunty feeds you, please eat.”

He nodded without taking his eyes off her.

He didn’t even look at me.

And that was fine.

Because right now, he wasn’t Ranjit Deshmukh.

He was just a man who almost lost everything that mattered.

I walked toward the door quietly and stepped outside, closing it behind me.

But peace never lasts long in family of Deshmukh.

I stepped out.

And walked straight into war.

The argument outside had exploded.

Bodyguards stood like statues—faces blank, eyes deadpan, silently screaming this is what happens when siblings grow up with too much pride and too much power.

Saranya tried to intervene again.

“Stop it! This is a hospital!”

But neither of them listened.

Vidyut and his sister were no longer arguing.

They were fighting.

Hands in each other’s hair.

Clothes wrinkled.

Breathing harsh.

Anger ugly.

In the struggle, Karishma’s saree shifted at her waist.

And I saw it.

A burn mark.

Angry. Dark.

And faint bruises trailing upward.

Possessive fingerprints left like signatures.

Torture disguised as marriage.

I immediately looked away.

Saranya noticed too.

Her jaw tightened. She turned her face aside.

Some wounds are too loud even in silence.

Before anyone could react, both siblings stumbled out toward the hospital garden, rolling over the grass like furious children who never learned how to lose.

Karishma screamed at him, voice raw.

“Tumhari wajah se meri zindagi barbaad ho gayi!”

(My life is ruined because of you!)

Vidyut barked back instantly.

“Barbaad? Main tumhe bachaya tha!”

(Ruined? I saved you!)

“Bachaya? Ya control kiya?”

(Saved? Or controlled?)

Their words were no longer sentences.

They were knives.

Hindi slangs flew through the air, harsh and unfiltered. Staff stared. Nurses whispered. Security hesitated.

This was getting out of control.

What a cursed day to walk into my life.

And then—

Me, Riddhimaan Singh Ranawat stepped in.

Calm.

Cold.

Authority wrapped in silence.

I grabbed Vidyut by the collar and yanked him backward with effortless strength.

“Bas.” My voice wasn’t loud.

But it was lethal.

I didn’t waste another second. I strode forward and grabbed Vidyut’s arm tightly.

“Vidyut! Leave your sister!”

He tried to shake free, chest heaving, but I didn’t let go.

On the other side, Saranya wasn’t any less fierce. She pulled Karishma away firmly, holding her shoulders.

“Let it go, Karishma! Stop this!”

Karishma struggled, eyes wild, hair messy, pride shattered but still screaming.

Vidyut’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

My grip tightened slightly.

“You both are embarrassing yourselves,” I said coldly. “And insulting the pain you claim to protect.”

Silence hit.

Heavy.

Breathing loud.

Grass crushed beneath them.

Karishma’s eyes filled—but no tears fell.

Vidyut looked away first.

Not because he lost.

But because he cared too much.

Karishma swallowed hard.

For a second, I thought she would say something—scream, cry, curse—

But she didn’t.

She just turned.

And walked away.

Not a single glance at anyone.

Not at her brother.

Not at Saranya.

Not at me.

Her spine straight. Her steps stiff.

The kind of walk people take when they refuse to break in public.

Saranya glared at her husband next.

That glare held disappointment, anger… and something deeper.

“You never learn,” her eyes seemed to say.

Then she turned and walked away too.

Vidyut scoffed lightly, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt as if none of this mattered. He adjusted his collar, fixed his cuffs, composure snapping back into place like nothing had happened.

That’s the thing about powerful men.

They can switch emotions like changing suits.

Within a minute, his tone flipped completely.

Professional.

Cold.

Controlled.

“Alright,” he said casually, as if we hadn’t just witnessed chaos, “you’ll get the papers today. Come to my office on time.”

I rolled my eyes slightly.

“Alright. Your dad is awake. I met him.”

For a split second, something shifted in his expression.

Relief.

Gone before it could fully form.

Without another word, he turned and rushed inside the hospital.

What a man.

Explosive one second. Corporate the next. Son underneath it all.

I exhaled slowly.

What a day.

Love in one room.

War in the garden.

Power in the corridor.

And I was stuck somewhere between all of it.

Shaking my head, I walked toward my car and drove back to the hotel.

Because in this family—

Peace never lasts longer than a breath.

I stepped inside and saw Dad sitting in the living room, calm as ever — but the silence around him felt heavy. A question was already hanging in the air.

He stopped scrolling his phone the moment he noticed me.

I gulped.

“Dad… I went to my friend’s house. She called me,” I said softly.

Dad — Sarvajit Mathur — studied me for a second.

“Oh, okay,” he replied evenly. “But why are you shaking? And you’re sweating.”

My heart pounded in my chest like a drum about to burst.

“Um… Dad… actually I’m feeling hot, that’s why. But anyway… what are you doing here?” I tried to sound casual.

He sighed, locking his phone.

“Well, when your mom and I arrived, the house was empty. She was anxious about Sara, Arijit, and you. Both of them informed us they had important work.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

“But you didn’t. And you didn’t take the bodyguards with you, princess.”

That word.

Princess.

It felt like chains sometimes.

“You’re still young for us,” he continued firmly.

“From next time, I suggest you take the bodyguards. It’s not a request. It’s for your safety.”

I gulped.

Rage slowly burned inside my chest.

I’m not a child anymore. I don’t need protection every single second. I feel awkward when people stare at me like I’m some fragile glass doll surrounded by guards.

But I didn’t argue.

I just nodded.

He exhaled in relief and stood up from the couch, about to leave.

Then his gaze fell on my hand.

The red cloth wrapped around my knuckles.

His expression changed instantly.

“What happened here?” he asked sharply.

My fingers instinctively tightened.

“Nothing… I just got hurt a little bit,” I answered softly.

His eyes lingered on it for a moment — calculating, analyzing — as if he knew there was more behind that “little bit.”

“Be careful, princess,” he said finally.

And then he walked away.

The moment he disappeared down the hallway, I let out the breath I had been holding.

My shoulders slumped.

I walked toward my room, closing the door behind me.

I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts refusing to quiet down.

At the beginning, Dad was so sweet… so loving. His voice used to carry warmth, not warnings. His touch used to comfort, not control.

What changed so suddenly?

Why did his behavior turn sharp… overprotective… almost suffocating?

It feels different now. Distant. Guarded.

Maybe politics is doing this to him. The pressure, the enemies, the constant fear of losing something precious. Maybe power is slowly carving the softness out of him. Maybe he’s just overwhelmed.

I sighed softly.

I should stop thinking about it.

My mind shifted to something far darker — the mysterious stalker. The man who might have killed those men.

A shiver ran down my spine.

Who is he?

Why is he watching?

And why does it feel like he’s always two steps ahead of everyone?

The thought unsettled me.

But then… my mind drifted somewhere else.

To him.

To Riddhimaan.

The time I spent with him felt like stepping into another universe — a magical one. Safe. Intense. Alive. When I’m with him, the world fades. The fear fades. Even the shadows seem less frightening.

A soft smile touched my lips.

He is my breath in this chaotic world. The only place where my heart feels steady.

And I will wait.

I will wait for the day he remembers me.

For the day his eyes look at me with recognition.

For the day fate decides to be kind.

Because I love him.

With that thought wrapped around my heart, I closed my eyes.

And slowly… I drifted into sleep.

Sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains like liquid gold, painting thin, warm stripes across my bare skin. My eyes fluttered open at the first teasing ray, lashes heavy with sleep. I reached for my phone on the nightstand—5:49 a.m. Too early for the world, but my body was already awake in ways my mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

I stretched languidly, arms rising above my head, back arching off the mattress. The soft cotton sheet slid down my breasts, nipples tightening instantly at the cool morning air and the delicious drag of fabric. A quiet sigh escaped me—half contentment, half hunger.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom, the cool tiles sending a shiver up my calves. Without hesitation, I peeled the thin silk nightdress over my head. It whispered down my arms and pooled at my feet, leaving me completely bare. My reflection in the mirror caught the soft morning glow: flushed cheeks, parted lips, the faint sheen already gathering between my thighs.

I stepped into the shower stall and twisted the knob. Hot water cascaded immediately, steam rising in lazy curls that kissed my skin before the first drops even touched me. I tilted my head back, letting the spray soak my hair, rivulets racing down my neck, over the swell of my breasts, tracing the dip of my waist, slipping between my legs like impatient fingers.

And then I felt him.

Not really there, of course—but those electric blue eyes were so vivid in my mind they might as well have been burning holes through the steam. I could see them clearly: sharp, unblinking, devouring me from across the room. Possessive. Hungry. The same eyes that had pinned me in place last night, promising things his mouth hadn’t yet said.

A soft gasp slipped from me as the fantasy sharpened.

I imagined him stepping closer, fully clothed while I stood naked and dripping. His large hand would cup the back of my neck, thumb pressing just under my jaw to tilt my face up. Then his mouth—hot, deliberate—would find my earlobe. He’d suck it slowly, teeth grazing the sensitive edge before tugging gently. The wet pull sent a jolt straight to my core.

My hand moved almost without thought. Palm flat against my stomach first, fingers splaying wide, feeling the rapid flutter beneath my skin. I slid lower, teasing the soft mound, letting the heel of my hand press against my clit while two fingers parted my folds. I was already slick— embarrassingly so—from nothing more than the memory of his gaze.

“Oh…” The word dissolved into steam as I circled my clit once, slow and firm.

In my mind, his lips left my ear and trailed down the column of my throat. I could feel the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath as he growled low against my pulse. “You’re so fucking wet for me already,” that imaginary voice rasped, rough and reverent.

I bit my lower lip hard enough to sting, mimicking the way he would claim it if he were here—sucking it into his mouth, tongue flicking over the plump flesh before biting down just enough to make me whimper.

My fingers dipped inside me now—two at once—curling upward in that perfect, practiced hook that made my knees tremble. The water pounded against my back like applause, urging me on. I rocked my hips forward, grinding my swollen clit against the heel of my palm while my fingers thrust in shallow, needy strokes.

His blue eyes flashed behind my closed lids—darkened with lust, pupils blown wide. I pictured him dropping to his knees in front of me, hands gripping my thighs, spreading me open so he could watch every slide of my fingers. “Show me,” he’d command, voice gravel-rough. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me.”

A broken moan tore from my throat. My free hand flew to my breast, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger—hard—twisting just enough to send sparks racing down my spine. The dual sensation—fingers plunging deep inside, thumb rubbing frantic circles over my clit, nipple aching under my own cruel pinch—built fast, coiling tighter and tighter.

Water streamed over my face, into my open mouth. I tasted salt and heat and imagined it was his skin, his sweat, his come.

“Fuck—yes—” I whispered to the empty shower, voice cracking.

The fantasy crested: his mouth replacing my hand, tongue lashing my clit in ruthless strokes while those blue eyes never left mine. Watching. Owning. Demanding I shatter for him.

My inner walls clenched hard around my fingers. Thighs shaking, back bowing, I came with a choked cry—sharp, shuddering, endless. Pleasure ripped through me in white-hot waves, pulsing around my fingers, dripping down my wrist, mixing with the shower water until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

I slumped against the tiled wall, chest heaving, water still pounding over me like it wanted to wash away the evidence of how thoroughly he’d ruined me without even being in the room.

But he was there—in every racing heartbeat, every aftershock tremor, every slick slide of my thighs as I finally turned off the shower.

Those blue eyes weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was the ache he’d left behind.

I bit my lower lip, the memory still lingering in my mind like a forbidden melody.

A sudden shyness washed over me — ridiculous, considering I was alone.

Slowly, I withdrew my fingers, a soft whimper escaping before I could stop it. My breath left me in a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling unevenly. My thighs trembled slightly, the intensity not fully faded yet.

“Control yourself, Krishti…” I murmured under my breath.

The water continued to stream down, helping me regain composure. I tilted my head back and let it wash everything away — the heat, the longing, the ache.

But not him.

Never him.

After a few minutes, I turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel securely around my body. The mirror reflected flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. I avoided my own gaze, pretending nothing had happened.

I walked toward the walk-in closet, the cool marble floor steadying my senses. Pulling open the wardrobe, I scanned through neatly arranged outfits before selecting something elegant yet subtle for university.

Today, I needed to look composed.

Untouchable.

Like nothing could shake me.

Even if inside… I was still burning.

This was not the first time Krishti had touched herself.

In these two hollow years, when Riddhimaan’s soul did not come to her in dreams or in whispers, she had learned to survive the ache alone. To quiet the storm alone. To hold her own trembling body when no arms were there to cage her.

Loneliness does strange things to a woman who loves too deeply.

And as for Riddhimaan…

No one could truly measure how wild he would be with her once memory returned fully. Once the fog lifted. Once the void that swallowed two years of his life cracked open.

One thing was certain—

If he remembered her completely, he would not waste a single second.

Because that woman had pulled him back from nothingness. From a darkness so suffocating it nearly erased him. She had sacrificed pieces of herself silently, endured what life carved into her skin and soul… and still chose him.

But that—

That belongs to the past.

And the past will unfold in flashbacks when the time is right.

No spoilers.

For now, something far more dangerous is happening.

Riddhimaan is growing reckless.

Krishti is growing reckless.

Two flames burning separately, yet leaning toward the same destruction.

They crave each other’s embrace like oxygen.

And when fire finally meets fire—

It will not be gentle.

It will be inevitable.

And then there is Sarvajit.

His protectiveness is not control. It is fear.

Fear of losing the child who was never born from Niharika’s womb—but was born into their destiny.

Years ago, on an isolated roadside near Maa Durga’s temple, Sarvajit and Niharika found a baby girl lying in a small crib. Her clothes stained faintly with blood. Abandoned. Silent. Fragile.

Niharika did not hesitate.

She lifted the child into her arms—and something shifted in the universe.

They named her Krishti. A sacred name in their home. A name that carried devotion.

After her arrival, everything changed.

Before her, their marriage had seen struggles. Delays. Losses. Uncertainty in career and reputation.

After her—

Success flowed. Opportunities opened. Fortune favored them.

From that day, Krishti was not just their daughter.

She was the Lakshmi of their house.

And that is why Sarvajit watches too closely. That is why his voice sharpens. That is why fear hides behind his authority.

Because he did not just raise her.

He believes she was sent to them by destiny itself.

And destiny, once lost, does not return twice.

And now Krishti is not just their daughter.

She is their heartbeat.

Sarvajit and Niharika did not merely adopt her—they built their entire world around her tiny fingers. They fed her when she cried at midnight. They stayed awake when fever burned her small body. They taught her how to walk, holding both her hands as she took uncertain steps across the marble floors of their home.

They watched her first smile.

Heard her first word.

Clapped when she ran toward them without falling.

Every success they achieved after her arrival only deepened their belief—

She was sent to them.

Not found.

Sent.

And now, the thought of losing her is not just frightening.

It is unbearable.

Sarvajit’s sharp tone, his overprotective rules, the silent security surrounding her life—none of it comes from control. It comes from terror. A terror only a father understands when he knows how close he once was to never having a child at all.

Niharika’s soft glances, the way she still adjusts Krishti’s hair absentmindedly, the way her eyes search for her daughter in every room—those are not habits.

They are instinct.

Because they raised her.

Loved her.

Grew with her.

And now—

Anyone who dares to come near her with harm in their intentions…

Any enemy who even thinks of taking her away…

Will not just face power.

They will face parents who have nothing to lose.

And parents who once found their miracle on a lonely roadside will burn the world before letting it be taken from them.

For now, Krishti stood in front of the mirror, dressed in a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into her blue jeans. The simplicity of it made her look even more striking—clean, confident, composed.

She ran her fingers through her hair, adjusting the soft waves until they fell perfectly over her shoulders. A small amount of cream brushed over her face, blending smoothly into her skin. No heavy makeup. She didn’t need it.

She reached for her vanilla perfume and sprayed a soft mist along her neck and just above her waist. The warm, sweet scent wrapped around her like a quiet signature—subtle, but unforgettable.

She closed the bottle, slipped it back into place, and grabbed her tote bag from the dresser.

A quick glance at the clock.

Late.

Of course.

She exhaled sharply. Being a university professor demanded punctuality, and she had already wasted enough time in her own thoughts.

Locking her bedroom door behind her, she walked down the hallway with steady steps. The softness from earlier was gone.

Now she was Professor Krishti.

Composed. Intelligent. Untouchable.

But somewhere beneath that calm exterior, her heart still carried his name and always.

At Arijit’s penthouse, timing had officially declared open war on Karthik.

It was one of those emergencies. The kind that overrides decorum, knocks, and common sense. Arijit had made it crystal clear: Ryker and Karthik were not leaving until the forensic report on the mangalsutra chain came back. No exceptions. The lab was dragging its feet, so the three of them were locked in this glass-and-steel cage together.

Ryker—ever the survivor—had claimed the guest suite at the absolute farthest corner of the penthouse the moment they arrived. He’d already taken one “accidental” elbow to the ribs during a tense briefing; he wasn’t volunteering to be collateral damage in whatever powder keg was brewing between Arijit and Karthik. Distance was smart. Distance was breathing room.

Karthik had no such luxury.

He crashed through the bathroom door like a man on fire, dignity long gone.

And froze mid-step.

Steam rolled thick across the marble, turning everything hazy and intimate. Hot water hammered down in relentless sheets, carving glistening paths over broad shoulders, down the deep channel of a muscled back, over the firm curve of an ass that looked carved for sin. Arijit stood under the wide showerhead like he owned gravity itself—completely naked, completely at ease, and the second the door banged open, completely aware.

He turned just enough. Dark eyes sliced through the mist and pinned Karthik where he stood.

One heartbeat. Two.

Karthik’s face burned in humiliating stages: faint pink → scarlet → a violent flush that sank beneath his collar and refused to stop. His gaze—fucking traitor—dropped before he could chain it.

He saw it all.

The thick, heavy cock hanging between Arijit’s powerful thighs—easily nine inches soft, veined, dark, and already stirring slightly under the hot spray like it knew it was being watched. Water traced obscene lines along its length, dripping from the blunt head in slow, deliberate beads.

Karthik’s throat seized. His mouth flooded with saliva he couldn’t swallow.

The slap of shame hit half a second later.

He spun violently, slamming his palm against the doorframe to steady himself.

“Couldn’t you—couldn’t you fucking wrap a towel around that thing, you shameless prick?” His voice cracked high on the last word, betraying him completely.

Behind him, Arijit let out a low, dark chuckle that rolled through the steam like smoke and sank straight into Karthik’s bones.

“I don’t shower in towels, Casanova.” The words came out lazy, almost tender, wrapped in that deep gravel voice that always seemed to stroke something inside him. “But if it bothers you that much… you’re welcome to come over here and fix it yourself.”

Casanova.

The nickname landed like a brand.

Heat exploded low in Karthik’s gut—sharp, confusing, undeniable. His cock twitched hard against the front of his sweatpants, thickening in seconds, pressing painfully against the soft fabric. He hated how fast it happened. Hated how badly he wanted to turn back around. Hated that his heart was hammering so loud he was sure Arijit could hear it over the water.

He should storm out. He should curse louder. He should do anything except stand here trembling with his back to the man who’d just offered him an invitation wrapped in mockery.

Arijit shut off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening—only the soft patter of leftover water and Karthik’s ragged breathing.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Bare feet on wet marble.

Karthik felt the heat of Arijit’s body before he heard the next words, spoken inches from the back of his neck.

“Still running, Casanova?” Arijit murmured, voice low and dangerous. “Or are you finally going to admit why you keep bursting in here without knocking?”

Karthik’s breath hitched.

A large, wet hand landed lightly on his hip—fingers splayed, thumb brushing the sharp jut of bone through thin cotton. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just… there. Warm. Heavy. Promising.

Karthik’s cock jerked again, a bead of pre-cum soaking through the fabric. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

Arijit leaned in closer, lips almost grazing the shell of Karthik’s ear.

“Turn around,” he said softly. “Look at me. Really look.”

Karthik’s hand shook on the doorframe.

He didn’t move.

But he didn’t run, either.

And in the loaded silence that followed, the only sound was the slow, unsteady drip of water… and the thunder of two hearts racing toward something neither of them could name yet.

Karthik didn’t turn.

Not yet.

But he also didn’t bolt.

His palm stayed flattened against the doorframe, knuckles white, every muscle locked in indecision. The heat from Arijit’s body pressed closer—close enough that Karthik could feel the damp warmth radiating off wet skin, the faint scent of cedarwood shower gel and something darker, more primal.

Arijit didn’t force him. Didn’t grab. Didn’t push.

He simply waited, patient as a predator who already knew the prey wasn’t going anywhere.

The hand on Karthik’s hip tightened—just a fraction. Thumb dragged once, slow and deliberate, along the sharp line of hipbone through the thin cotton of his sweatpants. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a violent shiver racing up Karthik’s spine and straight to his cock.

He was fully hard now—achingly so. The fabric tented obscenely, the wet spot of pre-cum spreading wider with every heartbeat. Every shallow breath made the head of his dick drag against the soft inside of his waistband, a torturous friction that only made it worse.

Arijit’s lips brushed the shell of Karthik’s ear—barely a touch, more breath than contact.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice so low it vibrated against Karthik’s skin. “Not from fear.”

Karthik sucked in a ragged breath. “Shut up.”

A soft huff of amusement against his neck. “Make me.”

The challenge hung there, thick and electric.

Karthik’s free hand curled into a fist at his side. He could feel Arijit’s chest rising and falling against his back—steady, controlled, while Karthik was unraveling thread by thread.

Then Arijit’s other hand moved.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Fingers skimmed up Karthik’s side, under the hem of his t-shirt, tracing the taut line of his oblique muscle. Skin on skin. Warm, calloused fingertips against fever-hot flesh.

Karthik’s head dropped forward, forehead thunking against the wood. A broken sound escaped him—half groan, half curse.

Arijit’s hand paused, palm flat against Karthik’s stomach, feeling the rapid flutter there.

“Still think you hate me?” Arijit whispered.

Karthik’s laugh was shaky, bitter, wrecked. “I think… I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

“Good.”

Arijit’s fingers dipped lower—just under the elastic of the sweatpants. Not inside. Not yet. Just hovering at the edge, teasing the sensitive skin below his navel. The promise of it made Karthik’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, chasing contact that wasn’t there.

Arijit pressed closer, chest flush to Karthik’s back now. The thick length of him—still damp from the shower, rapidly hardening—settled hot and heavy against the cleft of Karthik’s ass through two thin layers of fabric.

Karthik’s breath punched out of him.

“Oh fuck—”

Arijit’s mouth found the side of his throat. Not a kiss. A graze of lips. Then teeth—light, testing. A gentle scrape that made Karthik’s knees buckle.

“Turn around,” Arijit said again. This time it wasn’t a request. It was velvet command wrapped in hunger. “Let me see what that pretty flush looks like when you’re this hard for me.”

Karthik’s hand slid down the doorframe. Trembling.

He still didn’t turn.

But his hips rocked back—tiny, helpless motion—grinding once against the hard heat behind him.

Arijit groaned—low, guttural, the first crack in his iron control.

“That’s it,” he rasped against Karthik’s neck. “Just like that.”

Karthik’s eyes squeezed shut.

One more second.

One more breath.

Then—he moved.

Slow.

Torturously slow.

He turned.

Their eyes locked through the lingering steam.

Karthik’s face was wrecked—cheeks blazing, pupils blown, lips parted on shallow pants. His erection strained shamelessly against his sweatpants, the dark wet spot unmistakable.

Arijit’s gaze dropped to it. Then back up. Dark. Ravenous.

He lifted one wet hand, cupped Karthik’s jaw—thumb dragging across his bottom lip, parting it further.

Neither spoke.

The air between them crackled.

And then Arijit leaned in—

The bathroom door at the far end of the hallway creaked open.

Ryker’s sleepy, irritated voice floated down the corridor.

“Oi! Some of us are trying to sleep. If you two are going to fuck, at least do it quietly—or better yet, lock the damn door next time!”

Silence.

Absolute, mortified silence.

Karthik’s eyes widened in horror.

Arijit’s lips curved into the slowest, most dangerous smile Karthik had ever seen.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead he leaned closer, voice a dark whisper meant only for Karthik.

“Looks like we’ve been caught.”

Karthik’s mortification hit nuclear levels.

But under it—deep, undeniable—something hotter flared.

Because Arijit still hadn’t let go.

And Karthik still hadn’t stepped back.

Arijit’s smile sharpened at Ryker’s distant shout—dark, unrepentant, utterly unbothered.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t even glance toward the hallway.

Instead he leaned in until his forehead rested lightly against Karthik’s, breath mingling in the charged space between them.

“Let him yell,” Arijit murmured, lips brushing Karthik’s as he spoke. “He’ll survive. You, on the other hand…”

One hand slid firmly to the small of Karthik’s back, pulling their hips flush. The thick ridge of Arijit’s cock pressed insistently against Karthik’s through damp skin and thin fabric—hot, heavy, demanding.

Karthik’s gasp was involuntary, broken.

Arijit swallowed the sound with a slow, claiming kiss—deep, filthy, tongue stroking in without preamble. Karthik’s hands flew up instinctively, fisting in wet hair, tugging hard as if to anchor himself or pull Arijit closer—he wasn’t sure which.

The kiss broke wetly. Arijit’s eyes were black with hunger.

“On your back,” he rasped. “Or against the wall. Your choice. But I’m done waiting.”

Karthik’s legs were already trembling. He managed one shaky step backward—until his shoulders hit the cool marble wall beside the door.

Good enough.

Arijit dropped to his knees in one fluid motion.

No hesitation. No teasing preamble.

He hooked fingers into the waistband of Karthik’s sweatpants and yanked them down in a single rough pull. Karthik’s cock sprang free—hard, flushed dark, leaking steadily at the tip. The sudden exposure made Karthik hiss through his teeth.

Arijit looked up at him through damp lashes, expression feral.

“Beautiful,” he said, voice wrecked. Then he leaned in and took Karthik into his mouth in one long, greedy slide.

No gentle licks. No slow build.

He sucked hard—hollowed cheeks, tight seal of lips, tongue curling ruthlessly under the head on every upstroke. One big hand wrapped around the base, stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach while the other gripped Karthik’s hip, pinning him in place.

Karthik’s head cracked back against the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck—fuck—Arijit—”

The wet, obscene sounds filled the bathroom: slick suction, low growls vibrating around his length, the occasional choked noise when Arijit took him deeper, throat relaxing to swallow around the head. Saliva dripped down Karthik’s shaft, over Arijit’s fist, onto the marble below.

Karthik’s hands scrabbled in Arijit’s wet hair, pulling, guiding, shaking so badly he could barely hold on. Every drag of that hot, velvet mouth sent lightning racing up his spine. Every time Arijit’s tongue flicked mercilessly against the slit, pre-cum flooding his mouth, Karthik’s hips jerked forward on instinct—fucking shallowly into wet heat.

Arijit hummed approval around him, the vibration ripping a raw moan from Karthik’s throat.

He pulled off just long enough to speak—lips swollen, glistening, voice gravel-rough.

“Come in my mouth,” he ordered. “I want to taste how badly you’ve wanted this.”

Then he dove back down—deeper this time, nose brushing Karthik’s pelvis, throat working in rhythmic swallows.

Karthik broke.

His vision whited out. Pleasure coiled so tight it hurt—then snapped.

He came with a strangled cry, hips snapping forward, spilling pulse after hot pulse down Arijit’s throat. Arijit didn’t pull away. He took it all—sucking through every shudder, milking him dry until Karthik was trembling, oversensitive, legs threatening to give out.

Only then did Arijit ease off slowly, tongue laving gently over the head one last time, cleaning him with filthy tenderness.

He rose to his feet in a slow glide, caging Karthik against the wall with both arms. His own cock was still rock-hard, flushed dark, smearing pre-cum against Karthik’s thigh.

Arijit kissed him again—slow this time. Karthik could taste himself on Arijit’s tongue, salty and intimate.

When they parted, Arijit’s voice was low, wrecked, promising.

“That was just the beginning, Casanova.”

Karthik’s laugh came out shaky, breathless, dazed.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Arijit’s thumb traced Karthik’s swollen bottom lip.

“Only if you let me stop.”

Down the hall, Ryker’s door slammed shut with exaggerated force.

Neither of them cared.

The forensic report could wait another day.

They had far more urgent things to finish.