Uska chehra andhere ka devta,

(His face, god of endless dark,)

Roohon ka jung khun se bhara,

(Souls clash in blood-soaked war,)

Jal uthe, bas hum hi rahen.

(Ignite—let only we remain.)

Mature Content

This chapter contains explicit adult themes, sexual content, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

Sterling Memorial Medical Center. 3:47 PM.

I was exhausted.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

The kind that settled into your bones, into your soul, into the hollow spaces where emotions used to live.

I'd been awake for nearly thirty-six hours.

Saved a Santa Claus Mask victim.

Performed emergency surgery on a gunshot wound.

Confronted Nyra Sinha.

Been slapped by my stepmother.

Received cryptic messages from a stalker calling me Amorette.

Spiraled into questions about my parents' deaths.

And listened to Ashvin's story about obsession, harassment, and attempted murder.

I needed a break.

Not just from the hospital.

From everything.

I stood in the empty surgical lounge, staring at my reflection in the window.

Dr. Ishika Aggarwal.

Senior Cardiologist. Heart Surgeon. Life-saver.

Cold. Composed. Controlled.

That's what everyone saw.

But inside?

Inside, I was screaming.

Because the truth was—

I wasn't just tired.

I was angry.

Furious.

At the world. At the system. At the families who blamed victims. At the men who thought they owned women. At the step-family who treated me like a burden. At the universe for taking my parents and leaving me with nothing.

No love.

No warmth.

No home.

And when I got this angry—

When the rage built up so much that I couldn't breathe—

I didn't scream.

I didn't cry.

I went to the shooting range.

Fire guns.

That's what I did.

Not at people.

At statues. Targets shaped like human silhouettes.

Because sometimes—

Sometimes I wanted to destroy something.

To feel the recoil of the gun in my hands.

To watch the bullets tear through paper and wood.

To pretend—just for a moment—that I had control over something.

I wasn't innocent.

I never had been.

People thought doctors were soft. Gentle. Kind.

And maybe I was kind in the OR—stitching hearts, restarting lives, saving strangers.

But outside?

Outside, I was cold.

Because kindness without boundaries gets you destroyed.

I'd learned that young.

When I was small—six, seven, eight years old—I used to hope.

Hope that my step-parents would love me.

That Mukesh would look at me the way he looked at Anika.

That Sandhya would hug me the way she hugged her biological daughter.

That maybe—maybe—I could be wanted.

But they didn't.

They treated me like a toy.

A bundle they'd been stuck with out of obligation.

I was the assistant—the one who cleaned, who cooked, who did the dishes while Anika studied or watched TV.

And slowly—

That hope died.

Froze over.

Turned into something hard and brittle and cold.

So yes.

I stitched hearts.

But I also knew how to kill.

Not literally.

But emotionally?

I could cut someone down with words if I needed to.

I could be ruthless.

Because survival required it.

But still—

No matter how cold I became—

Emotions were still there.

Buried deep.

Locked away in a place I didn't let anyone see.

Not even myself.

I shook my head, forcing the thoughts away.

Focus.

I needed to talk to Samarth.

I needed a break.

Even if it was just for a few hours.

Samarth Jodha's Office. 4:05 PM.

I knocked.

"Come in."

I stepped inside.

Samarth sat behind his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, reading through a stack of reports.

He looked up, eyes sharp.

"Dr. Aggarwal."

I closed the door behind me.

Pulled off my white coat.

Underneath, I wore a hot pink shirt and blue jeans—casual, not my usual surgical scrubs.

I wasn't the chubby-curvy woman I used to be.

Working eighty-hour weeks and eating one meal a day had carved me down—leaner, sharper, harder.

I ran a hand through my hair, fixing the loose strands that had fallen from my bun.

"Sir, I need a break."

Samarth leaned back in his chair, studying me.

"A break."

"Yes."

"You just had surgery this morning."

"And yesterday. And the day before. And every day for the past three months."

His jaw tightened.

"Dr. Aggarwal, we're understaffed. The cardiac unit needs you."

"The cardiac unit will survive a few hours without me."

Silence.

Then Samarth said, voice flat and cold—

"You're becoming lazy."

I froze.

For a moment—just a moment—I felt the anger surge.

The kind of anger that made me want to slap him.

To tell him exactly what I thought of his privileged, controlling, condescending bullshit.

But I didn't.

Because I was composed.

Always composed.

Instead, I smiled.

Not a real smile.

A sarcastic, mocking smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"Lazy," I repeated slowly. "Interesting."

Samarth's eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, sir." My voice was sweet. Too sweet. "Just wondering when saving lives became synonymous with laziness."

Samarth's lips twitched.

Not quite a smile.

More like a smirk.

"Since when did doctors become so sarcastic?" he asked, voice dripping with mockery.

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze head-on, expression deadpan.

"Maybe from working under you, sir."

Silence.

Dead.

Fucking.

Silence.

And then—

Somewhere in the back of my mind—

I heard a voice.

The author.

Gasping. Laughing. Whispering—

"Wohhh girl, you nailed it!!"

I blinked.

"Am I?" I whispered back in my mind.

"Yes, you are," the author hissed like a sinner, gleeful and chaotic. "Keep going. Don't stop until he gives you permission."

I smirked to myself.

"I will."

The author winked at me from behind my own eyes.

Samarth sighed.

Long. Tired. Defeated.

He waved a hand.

"Fine. Take your break."

I turned to leave.

"Dr. Aggarwal."

I stopped, hand on the door.

"Don't forget about the case."

I grinned slightly—hidden, just a flicker at the corner of my mouth.

Then rolled my eyes where he couldn't see.

Kutta. Saala kamina. Khud ko kya samajhta hai?

(Dog. Bastard. What does he think of himself?)

Dimaag kharab hai kya? Mujhe lazy bol raha hai. Haramkhor.

(Is he out of his mind? Calling me lazy. Scoundrel.)

Aur yeh "case mat bhoolo"—arre bhai, main tumhari naukar hoon kya?

(And this "don't forget the case"—hey, am I your servant?)

Gaandu.

(Asshole.)

I walked toward the door.

And as I did—

Samarth's eyes dropped.

He didn't mean to.

Or maybe he did.

But his gaze—sharp, calculating, always controlled—slipped.

Traveled down from my face.

Past my shoulders.

To the curve of my breasts beneath the hot pink shirt.

Down further.

To my hips. My legs in fitted blue jeans.

He caught himself immediately.

Looked away.

Forced his eyes back to the papers on his desk.

Jaw tight.

Expression carefully blank.

But his eyes betrayed him.

They flicked back.

Just once.

To her legs.

To the way the denim hugged her thighs.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

Focus.

He was her employer.

Her boss.

This was inappropriate.

But the thought lingered—

Unwanted. Unwelcome.

Dangerous.

Ishika, unaware, walked out.

The door closed behind her.

And Samarth sat alone in his office, staring at the closed door, jaw clenched.

Get a grip.

He forced his attention back to his work.

But the image stayed.

Hot pink shirt. Blue jeans. Dark hair loose around her shoulders.

Dr. Ishika Aggarwal.

Brilliant. Cold. Untouchable.

And completely, utterly unaware of the effect she had.

He shook his head.

This was a problem.

Meanwhile—Ishika.

4:20 PM. Locker room.

I stripped off my stethoscope, tossing it into my locker.

Changed out of my work mindset.

Fixed my hair—pulled the bun loose, letting my dark waves fall around my shoulders.

I wasn't chubby-curvy anymore.

Working nonstop, skipping meals, running on caffeine and adrenaline had carved me down.

Leaner. Sharper.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Hot pink shirt. Blue jeans. Hair down.

I looked... normal.

Not Dr. Aggarwal.

Just Ishika.

A girl who needed a fucking break.

I grabbed my bag, my keys, my phone.

And walked out of Sterling Memorial Medical Center.

Where was I going?

Club

The hospital doors hissed open like a lover finally letting me go. I stepped out into the jaipur daylight, the humid air hitting my face like a slap and a caress all at once. My white coat was slung over my arm, stethoscope stuffed in my bag like evidence I wanted to forget.

The city smelled of rain-soaked asphalt, street food grease, and the faint metallic tang of exhaust — alive, filthy, real. I closed my eyes for one second and just breathed. Deep. Greedy. Like I was trying to pull the entire fucking world into my lungs so it could push out the exhaustion.

Fresh air.

Finally.

My body felt like it had been running on adrenaline and black coffee for weeks. Heart surgeries, emergency calls, Samarth’s deadpan orders — everything had piled up until I was a live wire ready to snap. I needed release. Not the polite kind. The raw, shaking, mind-numbing kind that left me boneless and quiet for once.

I walked to my car — a sleek black sedan that looked too expensive for a surgeon who barely slept. The engine purred to life. I didn’t think. I just drove. Windows down, wind whipping my hair across my face, the city lights streaking past like neon blood.

My phone stayed silent in the passenger seat. No messages. No one checking if I was okay. That was fine. I had stopped expecting it years ago.

The club was in Bandra — dark, pulsing, the kind of place where secrets went to fuck and forget. I parked, killed the engine, and stared at the glowing sign for a long second. Vesper. Blood-red letters. Perfect.

Inside, the bass hit me like a heartbeat between my thighs. Low lights, bodies grinding, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and want. I moved through the crowd like a ghost in hot pink and blue jeans, my lean frame cutting through the heat.

I wasn’t curvy anymore — too many missed meals, too many nights spent saving hearts instead of feeding my own. But the way men looked at me still made something dark and hungry stir low in my belly.

I found a spot at the bar. Ordered a whiskey neat. The burn down my throat felt good — sharp, honest.

That’s when she appeared.

A woman slid onto the stool beside me like she belonged in my shadow. Tall. Dark hair cascading down her back.

Red lips that looked like they’d tasted sin and liked it. Foreign — maybe European, maybe something more dangerous. Her eyes were sharp, knowing, the kind that saw straight through your armor.

“You look like you’re carrying the weight of every heart you’ve ever cut open,” she said, voice low and smoky, accented just enough to make it dangerous.

I turned my head slowly. “And you look like you know exactly how to make a woman forget she has one.”

She laughed — soft, throaty, the sound sliding under my skin like silk over steel.

“Name’s Elena,” she said, offering a hand. Her grip was firm, warm, lingering a second too long. “You’re wound tighter than a virgin on her wedding night, doctor.”

I raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at my lips despite everything. “Ishika. And you’re very sure I’m a doctor.”

“Your hands.” She traced one finger lightly over my knuckles. “Steady. Precise. The kind that know exactly where to press to make a body sing… or stop.”

We talked. Stranger to stranger, but the kind of talk that felt like foreplay. She ordered another round. Told me she was in the city for “business” — the kind that left marks and took payment in secrets. I didn’t ask details. I didn’t need to. She read me too well.

“You’re single,” she said, not a question. “And starving.”

I took a slow sip, eyes locked on hers. “Starving for a lot of things.”

Elena leaned in closer. Her breath brushed my ear. “Then let me give you one thing tonight. No strings. No names after this. Just release.”

She slipped something small, sleek, and black into my palm under the bar. A vibrator. Compact. Powerful. The kind designed to ruin you in the best way.

My fingers closed around it instinctively. Heat flooded my cheeks — not shame, just raw anticipation.

“I’ve never…” I started, voice low.

She smiled, dark and knowing. “You’ve read every anatomy book. You’ve held hearts in your hands. You know the body better than most lovers ever will. But have you ever let it beg for you?”

I swallowed hard.

Elena’s voice dropped even lower, intimate, almost hypnotic. “We’re single, Ishika. The world doesn’t give us softness. So we take our pleasure where we can. Hard. Fast. Unapologetic. Let the desire out. Let it tear through you. Life is too short to stay wound up like a fucking spring. Come apart. Scream if you need to. No one here will judge you for finally feeling alive.”

Her words hit deep. She was right. I had spent years stitching other people’s hearts while mine stayed frozen. I had fired guns at statues just to feel control. I had saved lives and still felt empty.

Maybe it was time to let the emptiness fill with something filthy and beautiful.

I slipped the vibrator into my bag, fingers trembling just a little.

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice rough.

Elena’s red lips curved. “Use it tonight. Think of me if you want. Or don’t. Just come undone, doctor. You’ve earned it.”

She slid off the stool like smoke and disappeared into the crowd.

I finished my drink in one burning swallow.

The drive home was a blur of heat and anticipation.

The apartment was pitch black except for the thin of the day sunlight cutting across my bed like a scalpel. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want romance. I didn’t want gentle. I wanted to be ruined.

I kicked the bedroom door shut, heart hammering against my ribs. My clothes came off in a frantic rush — hot pink shirt flung across the room, blue jeans shoved down my lean thighs, panties already soaked and sticking to my skin.

The cool air kissed my bare pussy and made me shiver. I was dripping. Aching. Empty in a way that felt criminal.

I climbed onto the bed, legs falling open shamelessly wide. The black silicone vibrator felt heavy and wicked in my palm — thick, curved, with that wicked little nub designed to destroy me. My fingers trembled as I clicked it on.

The low, powerful buzz filled the silence like a threat.

I pressed the vibrating tip straight to my swollen clit.

“Fuck—!”

The first jolt was electric. Sharp tingles exploded outward, shooting straight up my spine and down my thighs. My hips jerked hard. My toes curled into the sheets.

My pussy clenched around nothing, folds already slick and puffy, begging. I rubbed it in tight, desperate circles, the vibrations dragging over that hypersensitive bundle of nerves until my breath came in short, broken gasps.

The tingles turned vicious. Hot. Insistent. Crawling through every nerve ending like liquid fire. My inner thighs trembled. My belly tightened. I could feel my walls fluttering, dripping fresh wetness down to my ass.

I couldn’t wait anymore.

I slid the thick silicone head down my soaked folds and pushed it inside me in one slow, deep thrust.

“Oh my fucking god—”

The stretch was brutal and perfect. My back arched violently off the bed, a raw cry tearing from my throat. The vibrator filled me completely, thick and unyielding, the curved tip pressing right against that spongy spot deep inside.

The external nub buzzed relentlessly against my clit at the same time — double assault, double heaven.

I started thrusting.

Hard.

Fast.

Obscene wet sounds filled the room as I fucked myself with the toy — pulling it almost all the way out, then slamming it back in, hips rolling up to meet every brutal stroke. My pussy clenched greedily around the silicon, sucking it deeper, coating it with hot, slick arousal.

Every thrust dragged against my g-spot, sending shockwaves of raw, tingling pleasure through my entire body.

My free hand flew to my breast, pinching my nipple hard. The sharp sting mixed with the overwhelming fullness and made me moan like a whore.

“Ahh— shit— so deep—”

The pressure built like a storm I couldn’t outrun. My thighs shook violently. My pussy fluttered and spasmed around the thrusting toy, gushing more wetness with every stroke.

Tingles turned into fire. Fire turned into something feral and unstoppable. My clit throbbed under the constant buzz. My walls squeezed the silicon so tight it felt like it was trying to pull it deeper.

I fucked myself faster. Harder. The bed creaked. My hips bucked wildly.

“I’m— I’m gonna— fuck—!”

My back arched so hard I almost lifted off the mattress. A broken, guttural cry ripped out of me — loud, shameless, animalistic.

“I’m coming— oh god— I’m coming so hard—!”

The orgasm slammed into me like a freight train.

My pussy convulsed violently around the thrusting silicon, milking it in powerful, rhythmic spasms. At the same moment, a hot, sudden gush of liquid squirted out around the toy, soaking my thighs, the sheets, my trembling hand.

I kept thrusting through it, riding every brutal wave, the vibrator hammering my g-spot while the nub destroyed my clit.

I screamed.

Back arched to the breaking point.

Body shaking uncontrollably.

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes as the pleasure tore through me — raw, overwhelming, almost too much.

My pussy kept squirting in messy, pulsing bursts, each one timed with the deep thrusts and the vicious contractions.

The tingles were everywhere — exploding in my clit, deep in my core, racing up my spine, making my toes curl so tight they cramped.

I couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

I fucked myself through the orgasm, through the aftershocks, through the second, smaller wave that made me whimper and sob with relief.

Finally, my body collapsed back onto the soaked sheets, legs twitching, chest heaving, the vibrator still buried deep inside me, humming gently against my fluttering walls.

I lay there, thighs spread wide, pussy still pulsing and dripping, tears drying on my cheeks.

For the first time in years, the cold, empty ache inside my chest felt… quieter.

Filled.

Ruined in the most beautiful way.

They nodded once. No hesitation. No questions. They knew better.

I turned and walked out without looking back.

The elevator ride down was quiet. Mumbai’s humid night air hit me the moment the doors opened. I stepped onto the pavement, the same ground I had walked since I was a boy running these streets with nothing but rage and ambition. I stopped, knelt, and pressed my blood-stained palm flat against the concrete.

Touching the feet of India.

Touching the feet of Mumbai.

This soil had raised me. Fed me. Tried to break me. I owed it respect before I left, due to childhood incident.

The city lights glittered like diamonds on black water. I whispered a silent prayer in my mother tongue — the old Rajasthani dialect my father had taught me before the world taught me something darker.

Then I stood, wiped my hand on my trousers, and walked toward the black SUV waiting at the curb.

“Jaisalmer,” I told the driver as I slid into the back seat. “Inform my parents I’m coming home. Tell them their son is coming to touch their feet and breathe the desert air for a few days. No one else needs to know.”

The driver nodded and made the call.

I leaned back, eyes closed, the taste of Vijay’s blood still faint on my tongue even though I had washed my hands in the penthouse sink before leaving. The car moved through Mumbai’s night traffic like a shark through water. My mind was already shifting gears — from the kill to the empire.

Because that was what a man did.

He balanced the blood with the business.

He kept one foot in the shadows and the other in the light.

And my light — the one the world saw — was the car empire.

We drove straight to the hidden container yard in the industrial zone near the docks. No signs. No lights. Just a chain-link fence and armed guards who knew my face and opened the gates without a word.

I stepped out alone.

The massive shipping container loomed in front of me — rusted on the outside, innocent, forgettable. But inside was my cleanest empire. The one that kept the mafia money looking legitimate. The one that paid taxes, employed thousands, and made the government turn a blind eye to everything else.

I entered the override code.

The heavy door rolled open with a metallic groan.

Inside, under harsh white lights, row after row of old cars waited like sleeping beasts.

Classic Mercedes from the 60s. Vintage Ferraris with peeling paint. Forgotten Lamborghinis from the 80s. Rusty Porsches that once ruled the streets of Europe. Each one looked like scrap to anyone who didn’t know better.

But my team knew better.

These were not junk.

These were gold.

My men moved like ghosts around them — welding, polishing, installing custom engines, carbon-fiber panels, bulletproof glass, hidden compartments for the kind of clients who needed more than speed. Old cars restored and reborn as modern supercars. Untraceable. Unstoppable. Sold to billionaires, royals, and discreet collectors who wanted something no one else on the planet owned.

This was my legitimate empire.

Sale. Supply. Earn.

No blood on the invoices.

No bodies in the trunk.

Just money — clean, taxable, endless.

I walked down the central aisle, running my hand over the hood of a 1967 Mustang that was currently being fitted with a 900-horsepower engine and adaptive suspension. Tomorrow it would be a ghost on the highways — faster than anything legal, sold for eight figures to a client in Dubai who thought he was buying “vintage restoration.”

That was the beauty of it.

The world saw luxury cars.

I saw power.

I saw supply chains that moved from Mumbai ports to Europe, from Rajasthan deserts to the Middle East. I saw factories in Pune that employed 2,000 people who thought they were building “classic restorations.” I saw bank accounts in Switzerland and Singapore that funneled clean profits back into the empire — hospitals, schools, even a few temples my mother liked to visit.

This was what a man built when he refused to be only a monster.

I stopped in front of a half-finished Bugatti Veyron shell that had been rescued from a junkyard in Germany. My head mechanic, Rajesh, looked up from the engine bay, grease on his face, respect in his eyes.

“Sir. The new batch is ready for shipment next week. Five units. All registered clean. Buyers in Riyadh and Abu Dhabi are already wired the money.”

I nodded. “Double the security on the containers. No delays. No leaks. These cars pay for the schools in Jaisalmer. They pay for the hospitals in Mumbai. They keep the legitimate face of this empire alive.”

Rajesh grinned. “Understood, sir. The boys are calling this one ‘The Ghost of Rajasthan.’ Zero to 400 in under eight seconds once we’re done.”

I allowed myself a small, cold smile.

That was what a man did.

He turned rust into rockets.

He turned old metal into empires.

He kept the blood separate from the balance sheets.

I walked deeper into the container, the smell of oil, metal, and fresh leather filling my lungs. This was my therapy after a kill. After opening Vijay’s throat, after watching Starlet and Scar tear Arjun apart, after every red-flag moment that reminded the underworld who I was — I came here.

To remember I could also build.

To remember I was more than the Deathrider.

My phone vibrated.

Devansh.

I answered without greeting.

“Jaisalmer confirmed. Your parents are preparing the haveli. Your mother already asked if you’re eating properly.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“Tell her I’ll touch her feet the moment I arrive. And tell the pilot to have the jet ready at dawn. I want to be in the desert by noon.”

I ended the call and kept walking.

A 1972 Jaguar E-Type sat half-restored in the corner. Its curves were pure sin. My team had already installed a modern V12 and hidden armor plating. Tomorrow it would be sold to a Saudi prince who thought he was buying “vintage elegance.”

He had no idea the car could outrun anything on the road and take a bullet without flinching.

That was the game.

Sale.

Supply.

Earn.

Clean money for clean causes.

Blood money for the shadows.

I stopped at the far end, where the newest project waited — a fully restored 1965 Rolls-Royce Phantom that looked like it had rolled straight out of a museum. Inside, it was a fortress on wheels: encrypted comms, hidden weapons compartments, enough horsepower to leave supercars choking on dust.

I ran my hand over the hood.

This one was for me.

For the drive to Jaisalmer tomorrow.

For the man who had just killed his cousin’s friend without blinking.

For the son who still knew how to touch his mother’s feet and mean it.

I turned and walked back toward the entrance, the weight of the night settling on my shoulders like a familiar cloak.

Vijay was dead.

My properties would be rebuilt stronger.

My business would keep turning rust into gold.

And tomorrow I would go home to the desert — to the haveli where my parents still believed their son was a respectable businessman who dabbled in cars and charity.

They had no idea how much blood it took to keep that illusion alive.

But that was what a man did.

He protected the lie.

He protected the family.

He protected the empire — both the one that bled and the one that shone.

I stepped out of the container into the Mumbai night.

The air smelled of salt and possibility.

My phone buzzed again.

Sahar this time.

“Vijay’s cleanup is complete. Aakash has been told. He’s grieving. Quietly.”

Good.

I slid into the waiting SUV.

“Take me to the jet,” I said.

The driver nodded.

As we pulled away from the container yard, I looked back once at the rusted metal box that hid my cleanest empire.

Sale.

Supply.

Earn.

That was what a man built when the world tried to break him.

That was what a man protected when the shadows called his name.

And tomorrow, in the golden sands of Jaisalmer, I would touch my mother’s feet, eat her food, and pretend the blood on my hands had never existed.

For a few days, at least.

Until the next enemy dared to look at what was mine.

Then the monster would rise again.

And the cars would keep turning rust into rockets.

The money would keep flowing.

The empire would keep growing.

Because that was what a man did.

He never stopped.

Not even when the desert called him home.