Chapter 4:

30 May, Thursday, 2024

3:55 p.m.

Arnav's POV

Taking the final sip from my coffee cup, I placed it gently back onto its saucer. The bitter warmth lingered on my tongue, blending with the faint aftertaste of cocoa. Today had been nothing short of exhausting.

The morning began with a formal invitation I couldn’t refuse — a speech at one of Jaipur’s most prestigious law colleges, where I had been invited as the special guest. Standing before a sea of eager young faces, I had delivered a long, uncompromising address on justice, power, and the realities the textbooks didn’t dare teach. Applause had filled the auditorium, but it was the silent awe in their eyes that told me I had left my mark.

From there, my day had moved swiftly into a high-stakes meeting. Now, at last, I was free.

Free — and at peace, at least for now. These past few weeks had been uncharacteristically light on tension. The reason for my ease was simple: after signing a dark alliance agreement with Mr. Mehta, one of the most influential political leaders in the region, my profits had surged to unprecedented levels.

Mr. Mehta was a man with ambition that reeked of decay. He had killed his own brother — not merely for property, though that was part of it, but because he harboured a sick obsession with his brother’s wife. Being a public figure meant he needed spotless hands, at least in the eyes of the masses. And when the blood wouldn’t wash off, he came running to me.

My price was simple: silence. In exchange, he opened doors into realms of politics that most could only dream of touching. His dirty secret bought me a clean path for my underground business.

I had kept my end of the bargain. And the profits had been sweet.

A low chuckle escaped me as I thought about the irony of people’s sins — their hunger, their greed, the way they’d pay any price to bury the truth while clutching the illusion of innocence.

But none of this — not Mehta, not the power, not even the money — was what truly pleased me today.

My real anticipation rested elsewhere.

With someone else.

Tonight, I had a date. Not just any date — dinner with one of Paris’s top models, Ms. Anika Roy Chowdhury. My soon-to-be wife.

A slow smirk spread across my lips.

Anika was… dangerous. She carried the beauty of a goddess sculpted from fire and stone, the allure of a siren, and the storm of thunder in her presence. She moved like temptation itself, and the aura she exuded could make even the most disciplined man falter.

And yet, I hated her.

Not for the simple fact that she existed, but for the fact that she existed in my life. That she was, by fate or design, tied to me.

She had no idea who she was dealing with. She had no clue that she had stepped into the path of the game setter of hell. And for the sin she had committed, I would be her judge, jury, and executioner.

I would take her breath in every sense of the word — again and again — until she understood the full weight of what she had done. I would dismantle her piece by piece, until my demons were finally quiet.

My thirst for revenge had begun the very first day I heard her name.

Flashback

Two months ago…

18 March, Monday, 2024 — 9:30 a.m.

The steady clatter of my fingers against the laptop keys was interrupted by the sharp buzz of my phone. I removed my glasses, reaching for it on the sofa beside me.

The screen lit up with a familiar name: Ren.

I answered without ceremony. “What happened?”

“We know who your brother’s girlfriend was,” Ren said, his tone heavy with significance.

The words hit me like a stone thrown into deep water — sinking fast, disturbing everything they touched. A flood of emotions surged through me: guilt, anger, hatred, and a pain so sharp it lodged beneath my ribs. My brother… the same brother who had been lying in a hospital bed for the past four years, trapped in a coma, breathing but gone.

My jaw tightened until I could feel the tension in my teeth. “Who’s that?”

“Do you know Anika Roy Chowdhury?”

I frowned. “Who’s she? I’ve only heard the name in passing.”

“She’s one of the top models in the world. Owns a fashion brand — The Red Sapphire,” Ren replied in his steady, measured tone.

Ren — Rehan Malhotra — was more than my best friend; he was the CEO of Luxe Security Group, a multinational security empire worth billions. For four long years, the two of us had been piecing together the mystery of who had destroyed my brother’s life. We had come close to losing him entirely, but fate had spared his life, though not his mind.

I missed him. I missed the man he was. And the sight of him — motionless, unreachable — had stoked my rage into a wildfire that could only be quenched by the suffering of the one responsible.

“Is she the one?” I asked, my voice lowering, my rage building like a wave about to break.

Ren’s confirmation was a simple, steady hum.

“She lives in Paris. But listen to me — don’t let your anger run wild. You know what happens when you lose control, Arnav. You are the storm, but storms that burn everything in their path can destroy more than just the target. This is just the start. We move with a plan.”

That was Ren — calm where I was fire, the steady hand that had kept me from crossing lines too soon.

“Send me her details. And pictures,” I said finally.

“Okay,” he replied, and the line went dead.

That was the day the game began. The game she had unknowingly started. Now I would play — and finish it on my terms.

I smirked.

Flashback Ends

Finding her had been harder than expected. For years, we searched, but it was as though she had been erased. No trace, no footprint — an absence carefully maintained. She came from wealth, from power, yet her life had been wrapped in shadows.

And then I saw her.

She was every whispered rumour brought to life — elegant, breathtaking. A devil cloaked in the silk of a goddess. Men would have knelt before her beauty, but they would never have seen the rot beneath the shine.

What made the situation almost poetic was the fact that her uncle had signed a deal with me four years ago — to bury a scandal. Without realising, he had made my work easier.

I still tasted the bitterness of guilt when I thought about how I had unknowingly protected the woman who destroyed my brother. But now, that guilt had transformed into an advantage. I would have every shred of control over her. The arrogance she carried like a crown would shatter in her own hands.

Tonight, we had a date — one arranged by my mother. Perfect. I wanted to see the innocence in her eyes one last time before I started tearing it apart.

She would give herself to me willingly, thinking it love. And I would make sure that what she lost would be something she could never recover.

She belonged to me. To The Arnav Rai Mehrotra.

A glance at my watch: 4:25 p.m. I had been lost in my thoughts long enough.

I rose, taking my grey coat in hand. My waistcoat and matching trousers were already in place. I was ready — almost.

Leaving the coat draped over the chair, I stepped into the adjoining bedroom. In front of the mirror, I combed my hair back, fixing the strands into place with a touch of gel before tying my mullets. A few sprays of Gucci cologne settled into my skin, a final layer of armour.

When I stepped out, my secretary was waiting.

“Sir, heading out already?” he asked, bowing slightly.

I nodded. “Yes. There’s work to handle on the way. Manage things here.”

As I walked through the office, silence fell. Heads bowed. Spines straightened. I relished the balance of fear and respect I commanded. Justice, or something like it, ruled within these walls.

Outside, I slid into my black Mercedes-Maybach S650. My convoy moved in formation — a black G-Wagon ahead, two cars on each side, another trailing behind. Power looked like this.

I opened my phone and pulled up Ren’s file on her.

An orphan. Parents dead — four years ago. On the same date as my brother’s accident. My eyes narrowed. Was there more to this than I knew? Perhaps. But her family was not my concern. She was.

Her uncle and aunt. Her grandparents. Three cousins. An elder sister. And pages of data — from the schools she attended to her likes and dislikes. No mention of weaknesses. That would be my discovery.

The final image in the file was her in a red saree, the deep neckline of her blouse framing skin like porcelain. Her hair was loose, her smile bright.

I stared at the picture, and my smirk returned.

“Gather all the happiness you can, wifey,” I murmured. “It won’t last.”