I’m currently seated in my office on the 40th floor of the Shikhar Group Corporation. Our company is multifaceted—we're not only builders but have our own hospitals, schools, colleges, restaurants, airlines, and orphanages. I built this empire single-handedly, though circumstances often pushed me into the shadowy world of mafias and the underworld.

Yet, I hold no regret as long as I’ve never harmed the innocent.

My thoughts are disrupted by the ringing of my phone. I picked it up. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end responds, "Raja sa, the gown is ready."

I hum in acknowledgment and end the call.

Yes, I had given orders some days ago to work on a gown for their Rani sa. Fifty artisans labored over it, and India's top stylist was in charge. I instructed them to use only authentic Indian elements.

I don’t know why I did it—perhaps it was just arrogance. I wanted to prove to my deceased grandmother that I am more than capable. The cunning woman who brought only pain into our lives. I recall the times when my mother used to cry before her, pouring out the anguish caused by my father’s transgressions, only to be told by that woman that my mother wasn’t fulfilling her duties as a wife.

I turn to the glass wall, looking out at the city below—a perfect mess of life.

Because of this fabricated love story, I have to act all enamored with Kritika before the world. It irks me. For the first time, my own callousness is more painful to me than to others.

I glance at my watch—it’s already 6 pm. Time to leave.
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I was called to the other room to get ready for tonight. This is my first appearance before the media.

Upon entering, my expression falters.

What is this? I’ve never worn such a gown before.

The only time I ever wore something Western resulted in... marriage.

The people around the gown were smiling. I managed to smile back at them. But do I really have a choice?
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I’m finally dressed, and God, it’s heavy. I glance at myself in the mirror. This light pink color suits me. My wavy hair is styled half-open, with a delicate side braid. The light pink choker around my neck enhances the gown's grandeur.

The artisans told me fifty people worked on this gown and that real diamonds, arranged in intricate Indian beadwork, adorn it. But what stunned me most was that the order came from Abhijeet.

Descending the stairs, my heels give me cause for concern—what if I stumble?

The question gnaws at me, but somehow, I reach the living room, where I see my mother and Abhinav waiting.

“Kitni sundar lag rahi hai hamari bachi,” my mother murmurs softly, caressing my cheeks.

“Gosh, Bhabhisa, you look like a fairy. Bhaisa will faint when he sees you!”

I force a smile at the mention of his name.

“Jao, beta, Abhi is waiting outside,” my mother says, making my nerves twist in knots.

I nod and step outside, where I see him leaning against his car, engrossed in his phone. He looks dashing in a black tuxedo.

I take a few steps forward, my anklets chiming softly. His gaze lifts, meeting mine for a fleeting moment. There’s a momentary silence—just us. The guards stand at a distance, eyes cast down.

He looks at me, then strides forward, opening the passenger door—he’s going to drive tonight.

I walk toward the car, and he holds the door open for me as I settle in.
...
It’s been an hour since he’s been driving, and not a word has been spoken. The silence is suffocating.

Then, in a warning tone, he finally speaks, “There will be a lot of media, so just smile or ignore them. Never let them catch a glimpse of what’s truly happening inside.”

I nod in response.

“Words,” he insists.

“Alright,” I mutter softly.

Just then, I notice the crowds and the flashing lights pouring into the car’s interior.

He parks the car, steps out, and comes to my side, opening the door.

He extends his hand. I take it, needing the support—I can barely move in this cumbersome gown.

Shouts and yells greet us as the media swarms, cameras flashing incessantly. Guards surround us, ensuring no one gets too close.

Abhijeet lets go of my hand, only to slide his arm around my waist as we walk.

One question from the crowd reaches my ears, sending a sharp pang through my chest.

“Did you marry Raja sa for money? This love story seems fabricated after the scandal.”

I glance at Abhijeet, who glares menacingly at the journalist.

Just then, I feel a slight push from a guard amidst the chaos. My balance wavers, but Abhijeet tightens his grip on my arm, speaking in a low, caring tone, “Be careful.”

I nod, feeling suffocated by the world’s gaze.

Finally, we step into the hall, his hold on my waist easing.

I glance around, noticing the opulent men and women in their gowns and tuxedos.

The moment we enter, all eyes turn toward us. People approach, engaging with Abhijeet.

It’s been an hour now. My feet are throbbing in these cursed heels. Countless people have come up, speaking with Abhijeet, women included—each looking more opulent and confident than the last.

I don’t belong in this world. I’m not even a fraction of his social circle.

A foreign woman approaches us, extending her hand for a handshake. Abhijeet, however, joins his palms in a namaste instead. I notice he hasn’t shaken hands with any woman, only men.

The woman breaks my thoughts, her gaze curious, “What’s that on your forehead?”

She’s referring to the tiny black dot I always place there—a kohl dot.

I’m about to explain, but Abhijeet interjects, “In India, when someone is exceptionally beautiful, they put this black mark to ward off the evil eye.”

My heart races at his words. Did he just call me beautiful? A blush creeps up my face, but then reality crashes in—it’s all a show. A façade for the public. He doesn’t mean a word.

If he keeps this up, things will spiral out of control, and I’ll be the one left hurt in the end.

Before I can dwell further, the man accompanying the woman speaks up, and his words leave me rooted to the ground.

"Your wife is truly stunning, Your Majesty. It appears you’re exceptionally fortunate to be surrounded by such exquisite women in your family. I've heard a great deal about the late princess. Such a tragedy that she succumbed to a heart attack; otherwise, she would have had many suitors vying for her favor," he remarked with a malicious grin.

Tears welled up in my eyes as Abhijeet’s grip on my waist tightened.

"Indeed, I consider myself extraordinarily blessed to have her by my side for eternity. And as for my sister, I suggest you refrain from mentioning her again. That was an unforgivable transgression, Mr. Rodrigo," he retorted, his voice laced with an undercurrent of menace, sending my heart into a frenzied rhythm.

At that moment, the woman standing beside Mr. Rodrigo stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with intent. "I could be much more pleasing if you’d allow me the opportunity tonight," she purred, audaciously winking before sauntering away.

I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me, leaving me deeply unsettled and utterly appalled.

But with an icy calm, he speaks, “Rakshith, take Rani sa back to the palace.”

I turn to him, bewildered. “Why? Wh-what?”

He meets my gaze, expression steady. “I have work tonight. I’ll come later.”

My heart wrenches painfully at his cold words.

I look at him one last time before walking away with Rakshith.

I sit in the car, partitioning myself from the driver. I no longer feel safe around any man except him and his family.

Tears spill freely. I know he won’t let any man touch me, not because of love, but because of his pride.

But he can easily go to another woman.

Why would he stay loyal to me?

What do we even share? We’re just a spectacle for the world’s entertainment.

I feel like a queen on a chessboard—expendable, replaceable, a pawn in his game.

Tears stream down. I will never be enough for anyone.

She looks so breathtaking, like a queen descended straight from the heavens. The emotions stirring within me are unlike anything. It’s agonizingly hard to maintain my control when I have such an exquisitely beautiful wife.

But what if it’s all a façade? What if she deceives me? What if she’s a planted mole from our rivals?

My reverie is abruptly shattered by the man’s audacy. The sheer rage I felt was enough to bury him alive right then and there, but I restrained myself—for her sake. I instructed Rakshith to take her back, knowing well she would be overthinking the situation.

Turning to Rodrigo, I calmly addressed him, “Mr. Rodrigo, I suggest you leave India as quickly as possible because your death is imminent."

I gave him a condescending pat on the shoulder.
“Run, Rodrigo, before I kill you in front of everyone. It would be a disgrace to your family that a great mafia boss from Portugal was killed in such a manner,” I added, my tone laced with mockery.

Rodrigo took a step back, and the feared man left the venue trembling.

I glanced at Dhruv and the other men standing there, all alerted by Rakshith.
“Dhruv, stop his car near the forest. I’m on my way,” I ordered.

I left through the back of the hall, where a car was already waiting.
I stopped my car in the middle of the dense forest and saw Rodrigo on his knees, restrained by Rakshith.

Raising an eyebrow, I asked with deadly calm, “So, Rodrigo, you seem to have taken an interest in the women of my family, haven’t you?” My voice dropped a notch lower, a deadly undertone slicing through the still night air.

He nodded, a lecherous grin stretching across his face.

Just then, Dhruv silently handed me a gun. Rodrigo’s expression morphed into one of terror. Without a second’s hesitation, I pulled the trigger, shattering both his kneecaps. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.

“How dare you even look at her with your filthy eyes? And how dare you speak about my sister like that?” I growled, my jaw clenched with restrained fury.

He frantically shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. I aimed and fired again, this time silencing him forever with a bullet through his mouth.

“Bastard thought he could have my woman,” I spat watching his blood splatter across my shoes.

“Clean up this mess,” I ordered Dhruv coldly. “Make sure it’s discreet.”

Dhruv nodded sharply. A new recruit, Uday Chauhan, was visibly trembling nearby, shaken to his core.

“You’ll never survive here if you keep shaking like a leaf,” I remarked, walking away, leaving him to process his fear alone.

I got into my car, choosing to drive by myself while the rest of my convoy trailed behind. The fact that I ended a man’s life for her... It unsettled me. She’s already creeping under my skin, possessing me. She’s mine, and no one else has the right to even glance at her. Only I have the right to look at her, hurt her, make her cry, enrage her, or touch her. She belongs solely to me—to love or to hate.

The moment I reached the palace, a fresh wave of anger washed over me. Everything tonight—every drop of blood spilled—was because of her.

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Ignoring everyone else present in the living room, I strode straight to my bedroom and locked the door behind me. That’s when my gaze landed on the small, fragile figure curled up on the couch. Her face glowed softly in the moonlight streaming in through the open balcony.

I walked over, drawing the curtains shut, and turned my attention back to her. The dried tear stains on her cheeks were painfully visible. My fury ebbed away, replaced by an inexplicable guilt. My anger dissipated as I took in her serene face, a mask that concealed a tempest underneath.

Leaning closer, I whispered, almost to myself, “I could never cheat on you. I can’t promise you love, but I’ll remain loyal to you for this lifetime.”

Should I try? Could I perhaps give this marriage a chance? I need to move on from my past—those were adolescent years. Now, I’m letting my past destroy the present and ruin the possibility of a future with her.

I stared at her for a few more moments before turning away and heading into the bathroom.

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I opened my eyes the moment I heard him enter the bathroom. More tears slipped unbidden down my cheeks. I didn’t catch what he murmured earlier, but I’m sure he’s returning from another woman. The thought of him being with someone else tore at my heart with brutal force.

He’s starting to affect me in the worst way possible.

I can’t afford to have feelings for a man like him. He’s a monster, a ruthless and dangerous man

But why, then, do I keep yearning for something more? Why does his mere presence make my heart ache and flutter all at once?

No, I need to guard myself. I have to remember- no good can come from falling for a man like him.