1.

Ignore some spelling and grammar mistakes.

HAPPY READING.

🪞🕊️तुम्हारे संग हर एक लम्हा, हर एक लम्हा याद नयी मई बनूँ।🪞🕊️

₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊

PHASE I THE BLOOMING LOVE

₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊

"Mehboob yaa mohabbat?"

"Beloved or love?"

Nikhil asked softly, pouring steaming coffee into a mug as he carefully crafted a design in the foam. Once satisfied with his work, he walked over to her and snapped his fingers in front of her face. She flinched, startled by the sudden movement, then blinked up to see Nikhil standing there with a soft, knowing smile.

"My answer?" he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting beside her.

As an author and poet, she paused, deeply contemplating the weight of that two-word question. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she met his eyes.

"It's... so confusing," she admitted, her voice low.

Nikhil chuckled, setting the mug on the table in front of her. His gaze wandered across the cluttered surface — her open laptop, a scattering of books, papers, and a well-worn copy of Mirza Ghalib's poetry near her hand.

He knew her well. Her obsession with words, metaphors, and forgotten verses. She wasn't just India's leading author, known for writing heart-tugging stories that young girls found painfully relatable. She was a soul stitched together with poetry — most of which she dedicated to someone who once held her heart... someone unworthy of the purity she had offered.

She remained lost in thought, still wrestling with the question: Should she choose love or the one she loves?

Nikhil leaned closer. "Tell me, what's going on in that complicated head of yours?"

She sighed. "I'm thinking... if I find my mehboob, I could spend a lifetime just looking at him. But if his love isn't returned... what's the point of holding on to a feeling that only grows from one side?"

He nodded slowly, then asked, "And how would it feel... if he lives with you, but his heart always belongs to someone else?"

Her eyes lit up suddenly — as if clarity had finally struck. A smile tugged at her lips, soft and familiar.

"Uncle, mujhe toh mehboob ki mohabbat chahiye."
(Uncle, I want my beloved's love.)

"Woh na mila toh issi khushi mein jeewan kat lenge ki unko humse mohabbat to hai... Ahh, this feeling..."
(If I don't get that, I'll still live in the joy that at least he loves me... Ahh, this feeling...)

She placed a hand on her heart, leaning back into the chair with a dreamy sigh.

Nikhil laughed and ruffled her hair, standing up with a shake of his head. "At least you've got some sense."

"Uncle, yaar!" she whined, frowning as she tried to fix her now-ruined hairstyle. She was too lazy to comb it again — and truth be told, she often skipped her bath for two or three days.

Her grandmother always scolded her for this. Whenever she was annoyed or sulking, she would storm out and come to Nikhil's café — her escape. Her comfort. She would sit there for hours, writing chapters, reading poetry, and eating snacks between pages.

♡ She was a clumsy girl with a broken, childish heart and a mature mind.
♡ A girl who lit up everyone's world, yet quietly battled her own darkness.

She was Kaira Gupta.

Fierce about women's rights, loyal in her friends' fights, and loud when she needed to be. She spoke at double speed, often irritating people — not that she cared. If she had something to say, she'd say it. Loud and clear.

A girl who had lost her parents too young...
And had her heart shattered far too early
— for a man she once called her pasandida mard.
Her chosen one.

🧸🎀

In a sleek, black-and-grey-themed cabin, sat a woman whose presence alone could shatter any fragile man's ego. Her aura was unshakable, her confidence weaponised. She didn't need to shout to command attention—she was the room.

And of course—she was a lawyer. How could she not be brilliant with words?

With one leg crossed over the other, she scanned a case file with steady, unblinking eyes. Before her stood three men, heads slightly bowed, hands clasped respectfully behind their backs. She sat like a queen on a throne she'd built brick by brick—with blood, sweat, and the scars no one saw.

Her expression remained unreadable. Cold. Controlled.
She was a woman with nothing to lose—but an entire world left to conquer.

 She lost everything: her parents, her brother, and a part of herself she would never get back. The world didn't offer her comfort—it offered judgment, manipulation, and expectations. In that chaos, she found one anchor.

Kaira.
Her only solace. Her only family.

Today, she was Ira Malhotra—the country's most feared and respected lawyer. Winner of high-profile cases, with deep connections in the richest and most dangerous circles. Men envied her. Women admired her. And weak minds? They simply couldn't handle her.

Because men like that don't know what to do with a woman who doesn't need saving.

"Get Rachit Sharma here," she ordered sharply, her eyes still glued to the file.

"Y-Yes, ma'am," one of them stammered before all three exited quickly.

Ira leaned back in her chair, tension slowly uncoiling from her shoulders. She closed her eyes for a second, whispering under her breath,

"Kitni cruel hai yeh duniya, Papa..."
(How cruel this world is, Papa...)

The memories hit her like a tide—her father's comforting touch, her mother's warm lap, petty fights with her younger brother. She would give anything for just one more moment with them.

♡ She broke herself only to rebuild from the ashes—sharper, stronger, different.
♡ A woman who carved her destiny with ink, grit... and blood.

She was Ira Malhotra.

But destiny wasn't done testing her.

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of the spiral. The caller ID flashed Kay—Kaira's pen name.

"Hello..." she answered softly, eyes still closed.

"Bhai, come on! I'm outside your office. Let's have dinner, darling!" Kaira's voice sparkled with excitement.

A small smile tugged at Ira's lips. She stood up, called her team, and instructed them to take Rachit to her favourite place—the one she referred to as the pleasurable hell.

Outside, she spotted Kaira glued to her phone.

"Kay," Ira called.

Kaira looked up with a grin, skipping toward her. "Let's go, babygirl."

"I'll bring the car," Ira said, heading to her sleek black Lamborghini—one of many things the two shared: a love for fast, luxurious black beasts.

"I'm driving!" Kaira declared, only to find Ira already in the driver's seat.

"Chup chap baith ja," Ira smirked.

Kaira pouted but slid in, buckling up like a grumbling child.

As the car glided through the streets, Kaira casually scrolled through her phone. Then, as if struck by sudden poetry, she asked,

"Iru, choose one—mehboob or mohabbat?"
(Lover or love?)

"Huh?"

"Just choose."

Ira didn't even blink.
"Badlaa."
(Revenge.)

Her voice was calm, but her eyes? They burned. Burned for the man who'd torn her world apart.

"Ugh, you're so unromantic," Kaira sighed dramatically.

They reached the restaurant and headed to their pre-booked table. After ordering a lavish spread of Indian dishes, Kaira leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Bhai, I think that guy behind you is checking you out."

Ira barely turned before Kaira shouted dramatically,
"BHHHHAAAAIIII, look how white this tissue is!"

Startled, Ira shot her an unimpressed glare.

"Tu pagal hai kya? At least let me see who the pig is."

Kaira burst into laughter.

Their food arrived, and they began eating.

"Mmm, this is amazing," Kaira moaned after her first bite—loud enough to draw a few amused glances.

Ira looked at her, clearly judging.

Kaira caught the stare and narrowed her eyes.
"Why are you taring—I mean staring—at me with those beautiful eyes? Don't tell me you're secretly my lesbian lover."

Ira gave her a deadpan stare. Classic WTF.

"Even if I were, trust me—I'd have better taste."

Kaira gasped theatrically.
"You traitor! We were supposed to be soulmates!"

Ira rolled her eyes and continued eating, a faint smirk dancing on her lips.

ᥫ᭡

"Where is he?"

A cold, commanding voice shattered the silence of the room like glass. The tension was immediate, thick, and unforgiving.

The aura he carried—no one else had it.

The mafia king.

A man the world feared but admired from afar. The richest figure in the underground, cloaked in power and surrounded by danger. By daylight, he was the CEO of a billion-dollar empire—a legacy passed down from his father. But behind the facade, he ruled the shadows: arms trafficking, black market deals, and businesses no law dared touch.

A man carved from ice and rage, with a face so calm it masked the violence he was capable of. The kind of man who looked like a hero... until the bodies began to fall.

He had lost his mother when he was just a boy—an ache no power could soothe. And his father? Twelve years in a coma. A lifeless body trapped between existence and nothingness. People say coma is like death without closure, and for Daivik, it was the same.

He learned to bury every emotion—except one: rage.

♡︎ He could break any rule... if it served his purpose.
♡︎ A charming face hiding a brutal, calculating mind.

He was Daivik Khanna.
The ruler of the dark world.

"The fuck are you all doing? Useless bastards," he snapped, his tone laced with venom.

His words sent a visible flinch through the room. The men before him—brilliant minds who handled everything from commerce and AI intelligence to accounts and espionage—stood frozen. Yet, none dared to speak.

Because Daivik didn't lead through speeches. He led through fear.

He had only three people he truly trusted in this empire of blood and shadows.

Ryan—his childhood friend, his shield, his sanity.

Vidyut—a renowned surgeon, whose hands could either heal or destroy depending on Daivik's orders.

And Azar Volkov—his fiercely loyal assistant, a man who understood Daivik's silence better than most understood words.

But none of them were here. And that annoyed him more than the delay itself.

He slid a hand into the pocket of his tailored black Armani suit and pulled out his phone. With a swipe, he called Azar.

The line clicked on the second ring.

"Boss, I'm on the way. Vid—"

Daivik ended the call before he could finish. He didn't care what came after that name. His patience had already run thin.

He cast one final glare at the men before him, then turned and walked out.

Through the long corridor leading to his private chambers, his thoughts raced—not about business, not about power—but about the one person who had destroyed everything. The one who had taken his parents from him. The one he still hadn't forgiven.

He had siblings—a brother and a sister. An uncle and aunt. But parents... no one replaces them. Not really.

He carried the weight alone, but in that chaos, he found true loyalty.

Ryan. The only one who saw the real Daivik—the broken, bleeding version of him that the world never would.

Vidyut stayed close, as time allowed. His hands were mostly busy in operating rooms now, but the bond remained.

Still, it was Ryan who had stood beside him from the nursery classroom to the bloodstained battlefield.

Daivik never showed his real side to the world. To his empire, he was wrath incarnate. To his siblings, a protective shadow. But when his temper flared—even they knew to stay out of his way.

Because Daivik Khanna was not just feared...

He was untouchable.

.☘︎ ܁˖

A BMW cruised down the rain-kissed streets of France at 70 km/hr, gliding through soft city light like a predator in silence. The man behind the wheel had sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, revealing veins and strength carved through hours in the gym. Dressed in charcoal grey trousers and a crisp black shirt, he looked like sin in human form—calm, composed, calculated.

The kind of man girls wrote fantasies about but never dared approach.

But this wasn't just a handsome face behind luxury leather seats.
He is —the brain Daivik Khanna trusted when machines had to be tamed and systems had to be broken.

He was a ghost in the cyber world.
A hacker so precise, the entire dark web whispered his name with caution.

The only reason no one dared to mess with Daivik using AI. Because if you did... Ryan would already be in your servers, reading your messages, and locking your lungs through your smart pacemaker.

He was that good.

And right now, he was behind the wheel with two of Daivik's closest allies in the car—Azar Volkov and  Vidyut.

"Boss, why did you close my mouth?" Azar asked from the back seat, shooting a glare toward the front.

Vidyut, ever the troublemaker, smirked and turned in his seat to face Azar.
"So... you wanna open your mouth for me now? Planning to give me a blowjo—"

"Shut up, fucker," Ryan cut in before the sentence could stain the air any further.

Azar rolled his eyes dramatically, ignoring Vidyut's smug grin. "You got the record, right, boss?" he asked, still hopeful, eyes now fixed on Ryan.

"Don't stare at me," Ryan muttered without so much as glancing back. One hand on the steering wheel, the other casually shifting gears—unbothered, unreadable.

"At least answer him," Vidyut added lazily, reclining in his seat like he had all the time in the world.

Ryan exhaled through his nose, his voice calm and clipped.
"I'll tell you once we reach."

♡︎ He hacked the entire dark world with just his fingers.♡︎
♡︎ A devil in the mafia—but a genius every empire secretly desired.♡︎

He was Ryan kapoor.

A man of few words.
And a thousand firewalls.

🤍ྀི

They arrived at Daivik's grand, secluded mansion, hidden deep within a dense, dark forest. Privacy was his way of life—he didn't trust the world, and the world didn't deserve his trust. Ryan parked the car and headed straight into the main hall, followed by Vidyut and Azar. As soon as they entered, Vidyut dropped himself dramatically onto the largest sofa, arms spread like he owned the place.

Daivik glared at him, expression unreadable, then turned to Ryan.

"The data is here," Ryan said, holding up a sleek pen drive. He walked over, plugged it into his laptop, and a video began to play.

The screen flickered to life—showing a man locked in an intimate moment with a woman.

Ryan's eyes widened. He immediately closed the laptop.

Poor Azar was still craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what he missed.

Vidyut, meanwhile, remained glued to his phone. Ryan cleared his throat and said, a little awkwardly, "He's... spending some time with his wife right now."

Azar chuckled under his breath.

Daivik glanced at him briefly and let out a soft hum before turning his sharp gaze on Vidyut.

"Don't you have operations to attend to?"

Vidyut looked up and replied with a grin, mimicking a Pooh Bear-like voice, "Mind your own vaypaar (business), fucker..."

In truth, he was on a much-needed one-week vacation—something only he knew had cost him blood, sweat, and sanity. Being a doctor in Daivik's world wasn't easy. Breaks were luxuries.

"Never mind..." Azar finally asked, after holding the question in for what felt like forever. "Boss, why do you want access to someone's house CCTV footage?"

Daivik was silent for a few moments. Then he stood up, adjusted his cufflinks, and replied coolly, "He is my profit."

And without another word, he walked away to his room.

"Profit?" Azar muttered, scratching his head, genuinely confused.

Ryan gave a faint, knowing smile at Azar's puzzled expression. "You still have a lot to learn," he said quietly, and turned to head to bed.

"bechara bacha..." Vidyut mumbled without looking up.

Azar was indeed the youngest of them—just twenty-four, and already trapped in the underworld. But he had a story of his own, one that hadn't been told yet.

Meanwhile, in Daivik's room, he lay across the bed—legs dangling off the edge, his body half-leaning into the grey-themed space. The room was minimal: black, grey, and white tones—like the life he lived. Bare. Controlled.

He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply.

His mind swirled around the same two questions that had haunted him for twelve years.

Who killed his mother?
Who left his father in a coma?

And then... her eyes.

He inhaled again, trying to stabilise the chaos in his chest by focusing on the only thing that had ever calmed him: her eyes.

He had seen them just once.
But they lived in him like a sacred memory—untouchable, unforgettable.

He didn't understand what had happened that day. Why, after twelve years, he was still waiting. No woman had ever caught his attention since. Only those eyes. The memory of them softened his heart whenever it tried to harden. Whenever he felt the storm rising inside, he closed his eyes and imagined them.

And like magic, they calmed him. Every single time.

He remembered the day vividly.

He was moving quickly through a crowded street when his gaze landed on her. She wore a mask, revealing only her eyes—but they were enough to stop his world.
Fifteen minutes of silent connection. She looked at him. He looked at her.
And something... shifted.

He whispered now, eyes still closed, voice broken from the weight of longing:

"Your eyes soothe my wounds, Nain..."
"Where are you?"
"Why don't you come to me...?"

A soft whisper, like a prayer. His chest ached from the pain of an unfulfilled, untouchable love.

Rain began to fall outside. The soft tapping on the window glass filled the silence in the room. He shifted to his right, slowly opening his eyes to the sight of raindrops sliding down the pane. It wasn't a heavy downpour, but the chill it brought seeped into the air.

He continued to stare out the window—lost in the ghost of memories.
Eventually, without moving from that spot, he drifted into sleep.

In another room, Ryan's phone buzzed. He checked the screen and smiled softly before answering.

"Bhai, come na... It's been almost four years since you left us," his sister said, her voice a mix of affection and complaint.

He chuckled, already picturing the pout on her face. "I'll come soon, bacha."

He connected his AirPods, multitasking while she continued.

"Bhai, give me a date!" she snapped playfully, frustration clear in her tone.

Ryan rolled up his sleeves, sighing. "You know I can't..."

Silence.

Ahvi didn't say another word. A few seconds later, she ended the call.

He smiled, already knowing she was fuming. So he called her back.

She picked up. "What is it now?"

"Seems like someone doesn't want to talk anymore..." he said dramatically, trying to reel her in.

Ahvi shot back, "Seems like someone doesn't want to meet his family anymore."

He chuckled again. "I'm coming before your birthday."

"Okay," she said quickly—and then realisation hit.

"Seriously?! PAPA, BHAI IS COMING!" she screamed into the phone, forgetting he was still on the call. His eardrum nearly gave out.

"Ahvi, don't shout," he said with a wince.

Their father's voice came in the background. "Finally! Lord Ram returns from exile. Light the diyas!" he joked loudly, making both Ahvi and Ryan burst out laughing.

They spoke a few minutes more. Every call from Ahvi was a request to return home—one he always ignored.

But this time... he had decided. He would go.
For her.

Later that night, Ryan took a long shower, letting the steam wash the tension from his muscles. He changed into a loose white shirt and track pants, grabbed a small snack, checked something quickly on his laptop, and finally headed to bed.

🧸ིྀ

"I'm going to France," Ira said suddenly, her voice calm as she focused on the road ahead.

Kaira, half-asleep in the passenger seat, one earbud still in, turned her head lazily toward her.

"Take me with you, yaar..." she mumbled, stretching in her seat.

"Weren't you supposed to attend that wedding?" Ira asked, keeping her eyes on the road.

Kaira scoffed. "France and that idiot's wedding? No comparison."

Ira chuckled softly. "But you just went to France last year..."

"Let me go again... this time, I'll actually see the Eiffel Tower properly," Kaira replied, still sounding half-asleep.

Ira laughed, the memory hitting her like a flashback.

"Remember? You made me wear men's clothes and told me to propose to you in front of the Eiffel Tower?"

Kaira grinned, eyes still closed.
"And everyone thought we were lesbian lovers..."

Ira smiled at the wheel, the road blurring past them.

"And they were cheering for us too..." she said, and both of them broke into laughter, remembering the ridiculous, unforgettable moment.

Fifteen minutes later, they reached home—still giggling under their breaths—and collapsed into sleep.

🦢🎀

The soft glow of the morning sun poured into the room, casting golden streaks across the floor. Ira shifted under the blanket, her face scrunching slightly as the alarm rang. She reached out lazily and turned it off without opening her eyes.

Her room, painted in calming off-white shades, radiated warmth and elegance. The minimal decor, paired with the cozy lighting, made it feel like a peaceful retreat.

With a small yawn, Ira sat up on the bed, stretching her arms overhead like a sleepy cat. Today wasn't just any day-she had a flight to catch. Her private flight.

She dragged herself into the washroom, freshened up, and stepped out in a soft white bathrobe. Her hair was damp, and her skin glowed as she began her quick three-step skincare routine-moisturizer, serum, and sunscreen.

Next, she walked over to her wardrobe with a casual grace. She pulled out a sleek black high-neck crop top, paired it with tailored grey pants, and layered a short matching coat that kissed her waist. She added delicate golden earrings, grabbed her Louis Vuitton purse, and completed the look with signature red-bottom Christian Louboutin heels.

Don't scream, bbg.

Feeling fly, she headed toward Kaira's room. As expected, Kaira was sprawled across her bed, tangled in blankets like a sleepy sloth. Ira stood beside her and began gently shaking her.

"Abe bhag ja... sone de mujhe..." Kaira grumbled, swatting at Ira's hand like an annoyed toddler.

("Get lost... let me sleep...")

"France nahi jana hai?" Ira shouted suddenly, checking the time with wide eyes.

("Don't you want to go to France?")

The moment France was mentioned, Kaira's eyes snapped open. In one dramatic swoop, she shot up from the bed, gave Ira a gleaming smile, and sprinted to the washroom without another word.

A few minutes later, Kaira stepped out-fresh and glowing. Ira had already gone down for breakfast, so Kaira quickly changed into denim jeans, a white top, and threw on a sky-blue oversized shirt with the buttons open. She slipped into her favorite white sneakers, ruffled her hair a bit, and headed downstairs.

The dining room was alive with clinking spoons and warm conversation. Deepika jee, their ever-stylish and sharp-tongued Dadu, was seated at the table. Their grandfather was out of town. Krish, their cousin, was hungrily gobbling down poha, clearly in a rush for his morning lecture.

"Thik se khao, Krish..." Deepika jee said sternly, narrowing her eyes at his messy plate.

("Eat properly, Krish...")

"Dadu, I'm getting late!" Krish said through a mouthful, stuffing in one last bite. He stood up, grabbed his bag, and as he passed Kaira, he gave her a completely unnecessary tapli on her head.
("Grandma, I'm getting late!")

"Kutteee!" Kaira yelled after him, rubbing her head, but he was already out the door-laughing.

"Dadu, me and Kaira are going to France..." Ira informed as she casually sipped her green tea.

Deepika jee raised a brow, her expression curious. She took a bite of her toast and asked,
"But why?"

"Ah, I have some work... aur Kaira also wants to travel," Ira replied, glancing at her phone.

"Okay, but be safe..." Deepika jee said with a slight frown, clearly worried.

("Okay, but be safe...")

"Dadu chill maro... humse jo takrayega woh chur chur ho jayega..." Kaira said with a mischievous smirk, holding up a toast slice like a mic drop.

("Grandma, chill... whoever crosses us will be shattered!")

"Pagal ladki... fridge mein baith jau main? Chill marne ko?" Deepika jee responded sarcastically, rolling her eyes dramatically.

("Crazy girl... should I go sit inside the fridge to chill out?")

Kaira burst out laughing and leaned back in her chair, flipping her hair in mock seduction.
"Mohatarma, aap fridge mein bhi baith jayein, tab bhi hot lagengi..."

("Madam, even if you sit in the fridge, you'll still look hot...")

Ira burst into laughter, nearly choking on her tea. Deepika jee shook her head, trying to hide her smile while pretending to blush.

And just like that, their morning filled with jokes, laughter, and warm chaos-the perfect send-off before a new adventure.

🎀⋆ ...

"Get the guns," Ryan ordered, his voice low and cold—slicing through the stillness like a blade.

Azar didn't speak. He simply nodded and slipped into the back room. Moments later, he returned with three rifles—one each for himself, Ryan, and Daivik. His hands moved fast, practiced. The air had shifted—heavier now, like the calm before a thunderstorm.

Ryan gripped the weapon. Without a moment's hesitation, he raised a boot and kicked the door open—a loud, jarring crash echoed through the house as it slammed against the wall. They stepped inside like shadows—silent, steady, lethal.

Daivik entered behind them, his face carved from stone. His gaze scanned the room until it landed on movement—a woman, frozen mid-step, her eyes wide with terror. His gun immediately pointed at her, finger resting on the trigger.

But then—hesitation.

A flicker of clarity.

She was no threat.

His hand lowered, but not his presence. His eyes narrowed, and with a single motion—one finger pressed to his lips—he commanded her to stay silent. She nodded in panic, too afraid to breathe.

Ryan was already moving. His boots hit the floor with dull thuds as he made his way to the bedroom. Azar followed, alert and precise, sweeping every corner. In the hallway, Daivik dropped onto the edge of a sofa, elbows on his knees, still as a wolf watching prey—resting, but never unarmed.

Ryan's eyes scanned the dark room ahead. He wasn't here for blood. Not yet.

He was here for Dharamveer.

The traitor.

The coward who had dared betray Daivik's empire—leaking fragments of a master plan to seize control of northern France's criminal power lines. Worse, Dharamveer had aligned himself with enemies, attempting to collapse their world from within.

But fate—fate had turned.

And today, Dharamveer was no longer the predator. He was the hunted.

They found him crouched behind the curtains near the window, hands trembling, eyes wide with fear. Azar moved first, fast and brutal—a hand over the mouth, another yanking him to his feet. Ryan didn't waste words. They dragged him out.

Straight to Daivik.

He didn't struggle long. He knew better.

They shoved him into the back of the car—his wife already seated inside, her face pale and wet with tears. Her hands shook in her lap, silent as a ghost. No words were spoken as the car sped into the night, leaving behind the shattered silence of a once-safe home.

Later.

A single, flickering bulb swung from the ceiling, casting grotesque shadows across cracked walls. Dharamveer sat bound to a steel chair. His lip was split. A thin trail of blood crept from the corner of his mouth. The ropes around his wrists cut into skin. His head was bowed—defeated, but not broken.

The door creaked.

Daivik entered like a shadow dressed in flesh—silent, slow, steady. He crouched before Dharamveer, his eyes calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made men fear death less than the silence before it.

"You will follow my commands," he said.

It wasn't a threat.

It was an instruction.

Dharamveer tried to lift his head, his voice shaking but laced with defiance. "You're... an emotionless monster. I don't want to be part of your damn empire. Even if you kill me..."

Daivik gave a slow, chilling chuckle—like a blade being unsheathed. "So," he said, "you don't value your life."

Dharamveer stared at him, pain in his eyes—but something else too. Pride. Until Daivik leaned in closer. His voice dipped to a whisper.

"But maybe... you value your wife's life?"

That landed like a bullet. Dharamveer froze. His eyes widened. Panic bloomed like a bruise across his face.

"No... please..." His voice cracked. "Don't involve her. She's innocent. She has nothing to do with this."

Daivik tilted his head. "Then let me use you, instead. For my profit."

That was the breaking point. Dharamveer's head dropped again, his breathing ragged. The fight bled out of him.

"Okay..." he whispered. "I... I'll do whatever you say..."

Daivik stood.

"Good," he said coldly. "Get the signed papers from Gabriel—the ones that secure the northern territory."

Dharamveer's head snapped up. "Those papers? That's suicide... he'd never—"

"Make him trust you," Daivik said, already turning for the door. "The way you made me trust you. I don't care how you do it. I want that paper."

He paused at the threshold. His voice, when it came again, was low. Final.

"Because you know me... I don't just kill people. I make them beg for death."

And then he disappeared into the dark—leaving behind nothing but silence, blood, and the stench of dread.

🤎🧸🍂

Ira's flight landed in France under a moody afternoon sky, the clouds casting soft shadows over the city. By the time she and Kaira reached the hotel, the long journey had settled into their bones. After check-in, they freshened up in the plush, minimalist suite—warm beige walls, muted gold lamps, and a stunning view of the Seine from the window.

Both changed into shorts and oversized tees. Kaira sprawled on the bed, lost in music, earphones plugged in, her fingers twitching occasionally as she imagined scenes for her next book. Ira sat by the desk, focused, her eyes darting across her laptop screen as she checked emails.

Then—buzz.

Her phone lit up with a single notification.

Rachit committed suicide.

A slow smirk unfurled on Ira's lips. Cold, satisfied. She locked her phone and returned to her work like nothing happened.

Two hours passed.

Ira finally shut her laptop and stretched, her muscles sore from sitting too long. She looked over. Kaira was now fast asleep, clinging to a pillow like it was her long-lost lover. Shaking her head fondly, Ira walked over and tapped her shoulder.

"Uth, behen."

("Get up, sister.")

Kaira mumbled, not even opening her eyes.
"Uthi hui hoon... bas aankhein band hain."

("I'm awake... just keeping my eyes closed.")

Ira raised a brow. "Okay fine, I'll eat pizza alone..."

As expected, that line worked like magic.

"Kahan jaana hai? Jaldi chalo! Chal behen!"

("Where are we going? Let's go! Hurry up, sis!")

Ira smiled. "Let's change."

They slipped into their chic night-out fits, grabbed a quick bite of pizza in the hotel restaurant, and headed toward the most hyped club in the area.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, the atmosphere was the opposite of relaxed.

Ryan's fingers danced across his laptop keyboard, the screen filled with lines of code and location grids. Daivik sat beside him, scanning through files. Azar was absorbed in decoding a satellite feed. And Vidyut... was bored out of his mind.

He jingled car keys in his hand.
"Let's go to a club."

"No," Daivik said without even looking up.

"Abe chal na! Tujhe mujra nahi karna hai, bas daaru pii kar aa jana."

("Come on! You don't have to do a strip show, just drink and come back.")

Vidyut turned to Ryan.
"Aur tu toh daaru nahi peeta, cocktail pi lena, chal!"

("And you don't even drink, just have a cocktail, come on!")

Then to Azar, he smirked.
"Aur chhotu, tujhe toh jaana hi padega. Tere bosses jo ja rahe hain."

("And kiddo, you have to come. Your bosses are going.")

Azar chuckled.

Thirty minutes of convincing later, the four men were headed to the club.

The club pulsed with energy. Lights flickered like fireworks, music boomed through the speakers, and the crowd swayed with reckless joy. Every corner buzzed with movement—people dancing, laughing, drinking, or lost in their own chaos.

Vidyut slipped into the rhythm like it belonged to him. His moves were loose, fluid, confident.

At the bar, Daivik sat silently with a glass in hand, something chilled and expensive. Ryan and Azar stood beside him, clinking drinks and chuckling over something stupid.

After a few songs, Vidyut took a break and headed toward the bar for water or maybe whiskey.

Then he heard it.

A low, arrogant male voice behind him.

"What is your favourite position? We can try it..."

Vidyut froze. His jaw clenched. He turned slightly—just in time to see the girl.

Not like the others.

There was a sharpness to her, an unapologetic kind of presence. Her body language didn't scream for attention—it commanded it. And Indian, unmistakably.

Before he could react, she turned to the guy and delivered a blow far stronger than any slap.

"My favourite position is country's best author... aur unfortunately, I own it. So we can't try."

("...and unfortunately, I own it. So we can't try.")

Silence. The guy stood, dumbfounded. Then he scoffed and walked away.

Vidyut blinked—impressed.

"You slay," he said, stepping beside her.

She shrugged coolly. "I know."

She smiled then, playful.
"Makki ki roti."

("Maize bread.")

He caught on instantly.
"Sarson da saag."

("Mustard greens.")

"Rajma chawal."

"Chole bhature."

"Gol gappe."

"Chaat."

"Akkar bakkar."

"Bambey boo."

"Aashi nabey."

"Pure saooo."

They laughed harder with each round, the childlike game melting away all unfamiliarity.

Vidyut extended a hand. "Vidyut."

She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes.
"Electricity."

"Huh?"

She laughed. "Arey Vidyut ka matlab hi hota hai electricity... urja."

("Hey, Vidyut means electricity... energy.")

He chuckled. "I know! Just didn't expect a science class at the bar."

"Vidyut Singh Rathore," he added, more sincerely.

She made a dramatic O face and shook his hand.

"Aapki tarif?" he asked.

("Your good name?")

She smirked with mock pride.
"Jitni karo utni kam hai."

("No matter how much you praise me, it's never enough.")

He laughed out loud. "Behen, naam pooch raha hoon."

("Sis, I asked your name.")

"I know bhai... myself, Kaira Gupta."

"So what do you do for a living?" he asked.

She gave a dramatic sigh.
"Filhal toh saans le rahi hoon... aur dil bhi dhadak raha hai, zinda rehne ko. Aap batao?"

("Right now, I'm just breathing... and my heart's still beating—to stay alive. What about you?")

He cracked up. "Gajab... well, I'm a surgeon."

"I'm an author."

He blinked. "India's leading author?"

She nodded, this time without the sass—just soft, earned pride.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, then silenced it.

"Can I call you bhaiya?" she asked sincerely.

He looked surprised, then smiled. "Yes yes, of course. But why ask?"

She pouted slightly.
"Bhai, aaj kal ladke offend ho jaate hain 'bhaiya' bolne se."

("Bhai, these days boys get offended if you call them brother.")

He placed a hand on his chest.
"Main nahi hounga behen."

("I won't be, sister.")

"Okay then, give me your number," she grinned. "You're the first Indian I've met in France."

They exchanged numbers like it was meant to be.

At the bar, Daivik sat untouched by the lights, the noise, the world.

Music thundered. People screamed with laughter. Bodies swayed in chaos. But he didn't move. Didn't even look up. His drink sat in his hand, untouched. His eyes were on his phone—deals, emails, files.

Then—he shifted.

Just a small turn of the head.

A stretch of the neck.

And in that single second...

Everything changed.

His eyes locked on something across the club. His breath caught. The beat around him faded, lights blurred, and all background chatter dissolved into silence.

For the first time that night...

Daivik wasn't thinking about power, or business, or revenge.

He wasn't thinking at all.

He was simply... looking.

And whatever he saw—froze him.

.‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

so kaisa laga comment me batana and don't forget to click on the vote button..kya lagta hai daivik ne kya dekh liya jisse uske totey ur gye...?? leave your thought on comment..

milte hai agle update ke sath...

tab tak savdhan rahe satark rhe ho padhate rhe DAIRA THE CRIMSON SECRETS..

dhanewaad.

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