Sanika Mehra
Part 1 – The Truce Dress
The first time I saw him, he was standing at the far end of the room like a statue carved out of contempt. Arjun Singh—my husband by decree, my enemy by blood—wore a black silk sherwani that looked like it had been stitched out of shadows. His eyes didn’t flicker when I walked in, dressed in bridal red and drenched in humiliation. He didn’t reach out, didn’t smile, didn’t nod. Just watched. As if he was trying to remember who I reminded him of. Maybe a girl in a firing range. Maybe a bullet.
The chandelier above our heads glittered like it was mocking the guests, pretending to be stars. But everyone knew this wasn’t a wedding. It was a ceasefire dressed in roses. Two mafia empires. One treaty. Me.
Papa’s voice had been final when he told me. “Kiara, you will marry Arjun. The Singh cartel will no longer bleed us. And we will no longer touch theirs.” I had tried to scream. Run. Bargain. “You’re offering me like a peace offering, like a goat at Diwali!” I’d shouted. But my mother had looked away, and the guards had closed the door. In our world, women didn’t get choices. Only obligations.
Now, standing beside Arjun at the altar while a priest chanted meaningless syllables, I wondered if he felt as sick as I did. But his face was a mask. No tremor, no twitch. He recited the vows in that deep, iron voice as if he were reading out a business contract. When he touched my hand to slip the ring on, his fingers were ice. I didn’t shiver. I didn’t let him win.
The guests applauded. Cameras flashed. Somewhere in the crowd, both our fathers smiled the same bloodless smile. I caught Vikram Mehra’s nod to Rajveer Singh—two monsters congratulating each other for buying themselves time. Or maybe power. Or maybe just another day without a bullet in the head.
Later, in the suite prepared for us in the Mehra mansion, I sat on the edge of the bed with the weight of the lehenga still heavy on my body. Arjun stood by the window, unbuttoning his collar. Still silent. Still unreadable.
“You don’t have to pretend,” I said finally, unable to bear the quiet. “We both know this is a joke.”
He turned slightly, enough for me to see the sharp line of his jaw. “No pretending, Mrs. Singh. You’re not my type anyway.”
I barked out a laugh. “Good. I’d rather marry a corpse.”
He walked to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of scotch. “You didn’t have a choice. Neither did I. Let’s just get through the motions.”
I pulled out the pins in my hair with a groan. “You know, if this were a movie, one of us would try to seduce the other by now. Just for the sake of dominance.”
Arjun sipped his drink and leaned back. “Do you want to try?”
The dare in his voice wasn’t playful. It was dangerous. I stood up slowly, letting the gold veil fall behind me like an afterthought. “I’d rather choke on my sindoor.”
He gave a crooked half-smile. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
That night, we didn’t touch. He slept on the leather couch, I curled into a ball on the bed. But sleep didn’t come easy. My head buzzed with what I’d given up—my freedom, my future, the right to choose who I kiss, who I cry for, who I hate.
At 3:17 AM, the silence shattered.
A window creaked open. A footstep whispered across the floor. I froze. Arjun sat bolt upright on the couch just as the door clicked. A man in black, face masked, stepped inside with the smoothness of a shadow. And then—I saw the glint of the knife.
Arjun moved before I could scream. In two strides, he reached me and yanked me off the bed, pulling me behind him. “Don’t move,” he hissed. The assassin lunged, blade out. Arjun blocked him with the edge of a pillow and tackled him to the ground. A thud, a curse, the knife clattered. I stood frozen, watching as they rolled, fists slamming, Arjun grunting with rage.
Then the intruder ran. Slipped out the window like vapor.
The room stank of sweat and panic.
Arjun turned to me. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. My voice trembled. “Who the hell was that?”
“Not one of mine,” he said coldly. “Which means he was sent by yours.”
My jaw dropped. “My family doesn’t want me dead!”
“Then someone else does.” His eyes were sharp now, no longer cold. “And I need to find out who.”
He stepped toward the window, then paused. “You okay?”
“No,” I whispered. “I was almost murdered on my wedding night.”
He looked at me for a long beat. Then walked out without another word.
And for the first time, I realized—this marriage wasn’t going to be cold.
It was going to be war.
Part 2 – His Rules, My Cage
The next morning began with silence. Not the comforting kind. The kind that creeps into your spine and reminds you you’re in unfamiliar territory. Arjun didn’t come back to the bedroom. When I woke up, the knife on the floor was gone, the window shut, the rug stained with blood and adrenaline. My lehenga lay discarded across the armchair like the shell of a girl who had no choice.
I found him in the dining room downstairs—already dressed in another dark tailored kurta, sipping coffee like nothing happened. His left knuckle was scraped. A tiny spot of dried blood clung to the edge of his wristwatch. He looked up, nodded once.
“Good morning, wife.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I muttered, sitting across from him. “Like it’s some kind of joke.”
He placed his cup down with the soft clink of porcelain. “It isn’t. We’re married. You’re a Singh now, and that name comes with rules.”
“Oh? Enlighten me,” I said, folding my arms.
“No going out without my permission. No talking to reporters. No getting drunk at club nights or giving your father’s enemies any reason to think we’re falling apart.”
I laughed. Loud. “You think I’m some caged princess from your grandfather’s time? What happens if I break one of your precious rules?”
His eyes locked with mine. “Then I break something of yours.”
There was no venom in his voice. Just fact.
And that scared me more than any threat.
The butler came in with toast and eggs. I didn’t touch a thing. My stomach felt like it was being twisted by invisible hands. Arjun, on the other hand, ate slowly, methodically, as if he hadn’t fought off a masked killer the night before.
“I’ve increased security,” he said. “Two men outside the bedroom, four at the main gate. I’ve asked your father for access to your family’s staff list. One of them might’ve leaked your location.”
“You think someone inside planned this?” I asked.
“I think in our world, betrayal is as common as breakfast.”
I stared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
His hand stilled. “Enjoying what?”
“This. The control. The chaos. Being the hero last night and the dictator this morning.”
He leaned back. “You still think I saved you because I cared?”
I looked away.
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I saved you because if you died in my house, my father would hang me for it.”
The ache hit me like a slap. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even friendship. This was strategy. And I was a pawn.
I stood up. “I’m going out.”
“No,” he said, without even blinking.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do. You want to get killed again?”
“You think the whole world’s out to get me?”
“I think you’ve inherited enemies you can’t even name.”
I clenched my fists. “Then maybe I should go find out who they are.”
He stood now too, towering over me by a few inches. His voice was ice. “Kiara. Sit. Down.”
“No,” I whispered.
He stared at me for a long second, then turned away.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But take the car. And two guards.”
I didn’t thank him. I walked out of that mansion with my chin up, wearing black jeans, my wedding bangles clinking like irony around my wrists.
Outside, Mumbai was its usual self—loud, alive, indifferent. The air reeked of smoke and sweat and sugar. I told the driver to head to the sea face. I needed to breathe.
The guards kept their distance, pretending to be just two bored men in sunglasses. I ignored them. I walked to the edge of the promenade, let the wind slap my cheeks, and stared at the waves.
What the hell had I gotten into?
I used to dream of opening a café someday. Selling books and cupcakes in a quiet corner of Goa. Instead, I was now a bargaining chip between two men who spoke only in bullets and banknotes. I had no friends left—my best friend Neha was told not to contact me anymore. My phone had been “replaced for security reasons.” Even my old Instagram account had vanished. Arjun’s doing, probably.
And yet… I remembered the way he shielded me. The way his body had curled around mine like armor. The fury in his fists. The blood on his hands.
Was it possible… just possible… that under all that cold steel, there was something warmer?
I shook the thought out of my head. Dangerous. Weak. Stupid.
I turned to head back to the car.
That’s when I saw it.
A bouquet. Sitting on the front seat of the car. Wrapped in white paper, tied with black silk ribbon. And a note.
The guard opened the door for me. I stepped closer. Picked up the card.
“First night, first blood. One of you won’t survive this marriage.”
No signature.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t show fear. Just handed the card to the guard silently. He paled. His hand went to the gun at his waist.
“Who left this?” I asked, my voice even.
“No one came near the car, madam. I swear.”
I got into the car, heart hammering.
Whoever this was, they weren’t trying to kill me.
Not yet.
They were playing with me.
Back at the mansion, I handed Arjun the card. He read it slowly. Didn’t flinch.
“You have a list of suspects?” I asked.
He looked at me. “I do.”
“Care to share?”
“Only when I’m sure.”
I crossed my arms. “And until then?”
His voice was soft. “You stay alive.”
He turned away, but not before I saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes.
And that was the moment I realized something else.
Arjun Singh might not love me.
But he had just declared war on whoever threatened me.
And in our world, that was the closest thing to affection anyone ever got.
Part 3 – Cigarette Ash and Silk Lies
The house was crawling with guards now. New faces. Shuffling boots. Tense glances. Even the chef was being questioned—Arjun had ordered background checks on every staff member in the Mehra estate. The note had shaken something loose in him, something sharp and paranoid. But he didn’t show it in his voice. Not yet. That remained calm, calculated. It was in the way he smoked his cigarette that I saw the storm.
He didn’t speak to me for three days. Not directly. Our conversations were filtered through silence, through curt gestures, through glances that ended too quickly. He stayed in his study, speaking with men I didn’t recognize. And when he returned at night, he didn’t come to our bedroom. He slept in the guest room across the corridor—door shut, light off. He was hiding something. Or maybe protecting something. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
On the fourth day, I snapped.
I walked into his study without knocking.
He was seated on the leather chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, files spread across the desk like a battlefield. A half-burnt cigarette trembled between his fingers. He looked up slowly. “You don’t knock now?”
“We’re married, remember?” I said coldly. “Your territory is mine now.”
A smirk touched the corner of his mouth, then vanished. “What do you want?”
“To know what you’re not telling me.”
He leaned back, arms crossed. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You owe me the truth,” I said, stepping closer. “You’ve been shutting me out ever since that note arrived. Someone wants to kill me—or you. And you’re playing lone ranger.”
“I’m doing what I must.”
I slammed my palm on the table. “No. You’re doing what men like you always do. Brood. Hide. Pretend the world begins and ends with your fists.”
He stood now, slowly, his expression unreadable. “You think this is a game, Kiara? You think this is about control?”
“I think this is about fear,” I said. “You’re afraid. You won’t admit it. But you are.”
He stepped around the table, stopped inches away. “Of what?”
“Of me. Of this. Of the possibility that maybe you don’t hate me as much as you claim.”
The silence was thick.
And then, he exhaled, cigarette ash falling like snow between us. “You’re not the target.”
I blinked. “What?”
“That note wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for me.”
“Who—?”
“I don’t know yet. But they knew we’d both read it. That’s why the wording was so careful. One of us won’t survive. Not you won’t survive.”
“But why you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned away and walked to the window, pulling the curtain slightly. The garden below was empty. Just shadows and grass and secrets.
“I used to think I could rewrite my father’s legacy,” he said finally. “Do things differently. Smarter. Cleaner. But when you grow up in the shadow of a king, every move you make is already a threat to someone else’s throne.”
I stepped closer. “You think this is coming from within?”
“Most likely.” He paused. “There’s a mole. Somewhere between the Mehra and Singh sides. Someone who doesn’t want this alliance to last.”
“And they think taking you down will break it.”
He turned back to me, his eyes hard. “They’re right.”
I didn’t know what possessed me then. Maybe the heat in his voice. Maybe the helplessness he tried to hide. But I reached out, slowly, and placed my hand on his wrist. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His skin was cold. His pulse steady.
“You’re not alone,” I said softly.
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw it—real exhaustion. Not the kind that came from late nights and bullets. The kind that came from years of carrying things no one else wanted to touch.
“I don’t want to care about you,” he said quietly. “It’ll make things harder.”
“But you do?”
He didn’t answer.
That night, he returned to our room.
He didn’t say anything when he entered. Just took off his coat, poured a drink, and sat on the edge of the bed beside me. I was brushing my hair. Watching him through the mirror.
He spoke without turning. “Do you remember when you were sixteen? You threw red paint on my car.”
I smiled. “I do. You’d insulted my father at the temple gathering. Called him a glorified thug in a sherwani.”
His lips twitched. “You wore a purple salwar that day. With white sandals.”
I paused, brush halfway through my hair. “You remember what I wore?”
“I remember a lot of things.”
We didn’t speak after that. But something shifted. A thread had loosened. The distance shrank a little. Not much. But enough.
Two days later, I found the envelope.
It was slipped under my pillow while I was at breakfast. No name. Just a single photograph inside.
My mother.
Dead.
Blood around her temple. Shot.
I screamed.
Arjun came running, gun in hand. “What happened?”
I held out the photo with trembling fingers. “This… this is from the day she died. But the police told us it was a heart attack.”
Arjun took the photo, stared at it. Then cursed under his breath.
“Who would send this?” I asked. “Why now?”
He looked at me with something terrifying in his eyes.
“This changes everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother didn’t die naturally. She was silenced.”
“By who?”
He walked to the window again. His hands were shaking now. “My guess? She knew something. Something both our fathers buried. And someone’s digging it back up.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My childhood had already felt hollow. Now it felt rigged.
I stood, my voice raw. “I want to know everything. Every file, every name, every whisper. I won’t be a pawn in this. Not anymore.”
Arjun turned back slowly. “If we do this, Kiara, there’s no going back. We’re either enemies… or we’re allies.”
I walked toward him.
“Then let’s burn the board,” I said. “Together.”
Part 4 – Beneath the Carpet of Blood
The first file Arjun showed me was sealed in red wax and smelled faintly of mildew. He pulled it out from a locked drawer in his private study, the one even his most loyal men weren’t allowed into. The lights were low, the fan slow, the city outside flickering with midnight sighs. He placed the folder on the desk between us like it was a loaded gun. “My father doesn’t know I have this,” he said. “If he did, I’d be dead already.”
Inside were photographs. Old ones. A newspaper clipping from 2005. A man’s body lying on a street in Nagpada, surrounded by petals—fallen from a wedding procession that had passed minutes earlier. A woman crying beside him. I didn’t recognize her. Until Arjun pointed to the edge of the frame.
My mother. In a pale blue saree, clutching a purse too tightly.
“She was there?” I whispered.
“She was the witness,” he said. “To a murder that never made the news.”
I looked at the article headline: Local Man Dies of Cardiac Arrest in Temple Lane.
“They faked it,” I breathed. “Covered it up.”
“She tried to report it. Went to a retired IPS officer—Arvind Bhonsle. He had once helped your father during a political raid.”
“But he died too,” I said. I remembered the name. I remembered Papa attending the funeral alone, without a word to us. “Wait. Are you saying my mother was killed because—”
“She knew something your father and mine did together. Something so ugly they buried it under ten layers of silence.”
“What did they do?”
Arjun’s jaw clenched. “There was a deal. An arms shipment routed through an orphanage. Disguised as aid. Your mother discovered it while managing charity accounts.”
I stared at him, my stomach roiling. “They used children?”
Arjun nodded. “As cover. Not directly. But enough to make anyone with a soul want to scream.”
I fell back into the chair. My hands shook. My voice broke. “My mother was a good woman. She made lunch for orphans. Donated her gold once during a flood.”
“I know.”
“She wouldn’t have stayed quiet. She must’ve tried—”
“She did,” Arjun said, his voice suddenly thick. “The last call she made was to my mother.”
I looked up sharply. “What?”
“They were childhood friends. Neighbors once. My mother died three weeks after yours.”
I felt the earth under me shift. “And you’ve known this all along?”
“No. Not until recently.” His eyes were tired. Older than they should be. “I was seventeen. They told me it was cancer. Now I know she was poisoned.”
For a long time, we didn’t speak.
We just sat there, breathing each other’s pain like secondhand smoke.
Then I said, “Why are you telling me all this now?”
“Because someone doesn’t want the past to stay buried. They sent you that photo to stir the ashes. If we don’t dig it out ourselves, they’ll do it first. And on their terms.”
I nodded. “Then let’s dig.”
We spent the next four days scanning files, calling obscure names, revisiting bank records older than most of Arjun’s men. We barely slept. Barely ate. Something electric had cracked open between us—not romance, not yet, but a mutual hunger for truth. A bond carved out of mutual grief.
On the fifth day, I found a name scribbled on the back of a donation receipt: Anjali D. I blinked.
“My mother’s handwriting,” I said. “She always curled the J like that.”
“Who’s Anjali D?”
I stared at it. “I don’t know. But she donated twenty-five lakhs to the orphanage in 2004.”
Arjun frowned. “And her name never appears again.”
“Exactly.”
He took the paper and left the room. When he returned, he had an address. A rundown apartment in Byculla. No phone number. No email. Just a doorbell that barely worked.
We drove there the same night. Me, Arjun, and one silent guard.
The building was rotting. Damp walls, flickering tube lights. On the third floor, a door opened before we knocked. A woman in her fifties looked up at us, eyes widening.
“I knew you’d come,” she said. “I saw the photo in the news. Your wedding.”
She looked at me.
“You’re Naina’s daughter.”
“My mother was Kiara,” I said.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. Kiara. But she used to use Naina as a code name when she filed anonymous tips.”
“Who are you?” Arjun asked.
“Anjali Desai,” she said. “I was your mother’s accountant. And her best friend.”
She led us in. The apartment smelled of incense and medicine. On the wall was a faded photo of my mother, smiling.
Anjali spoke for an hour.
She told us how my mother had uncovered financial links between the Singh family’s export business and black market arms trade. How she had begged my father to pull out. How he had laughed. How she had then gone to Anjali with everything—and how they’d created a coded ledger to protect the truth. “It’s here,” Anjali said finally, walking to the cupboard.
She pulled out a thick brown diary. Cloth-bound. Worn. Pages full of numbers, maps, initials.
Arjun took it like it was holy. His hands trembled. “This… this is the core. This is what they killed her for.”
“You have to be careful,” Anjali said. “If anyone finds out you have this, you’re dead.”
On the way back, Arjun didn’t speak. He kept staring at the diary like it would dissolve if he blinked.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “But for the first time in years, I’m clear.”
“About what?”
“About what I have to do.”
I knew then what he meant.
He wasn’t going to keep the peace anymore.
He was going to burn the kingdom down.
Part 5 – The Safehouse
We didn’t go back to the Mehra mansion that night. Not after what Anjali gave us. Arjun made the call while I watched from the car. His voice was quiet but sharp. The kind of voice that didn’t invite questions. “Initiate fallback. Red protocol. Move her and the files. Use Safehouse Three.”
I looked at him. “What’s Safehouse Three?”
He glanced at me. “A place nobody knows about.”
I leaned back against the leather seat, heart still pounding. The air inside the car smelled of sweat and secrets. My mother’s code name. The ledger. Anjali’s shaking hands. It all looped in my head like a fever dream.
We drove for two hours. Past the city lights. Past the toll booths and abandoned warehouses. The roads narrowed. Trees whispered in the dark. Finally, a rusty iron gate appeared ahead, hidden behind a curtain of vines. It creaked open at our approach, like it remembered who we were.
The building behind it wasn’t impressive. Two stories. Brick. One broken bulb above the door.
But inside, it was silent. Safe. Sterile.
Arjun motioned to the guard. “No one in or out. Burn the wheels if you see unfamiliar taillights.”
I followed him into the main room. Wooden floors. An old fireplace. A long table with dust on it.
“I thought mafia heirs had luxury hideouts with infinity pools,” I muttered, trying to shake off the chill.
“This one’s not for luxury,” Arjun said. “This one’s for survival.”
He tossed his coat aside and unwrapped the cloth ledger from under his arm like it was something alive. He placed it on the table with reverence, then sat down, flipping through it again.
I stood near the window, arms crossed. “How long are we staying here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“To do what?”
“To make the first move.”
I turned. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just kept scanning the pages. I walked closer. “You’re not going to give this to the police.”
“No.”
“You’re not going to tell your father either.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He looked up, eyes like gunmetal. “I’m going to leak it to someone who will bury both our families. Someone outside the chain.”
“That could get you killed.”
He smirked. “You say that like it’s not already on the menu.”
I didn’t know whether to slap him or kiss him.
Instead, I said, “You need to sleep.”
He gave a short laugh. “You think I can, after this?”
“You won’t survive if you burn out before the war begins.”
He looked at me. Then, slowly, shut the ledger. Stood up. Walked toward me.
The room dimmed.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he said quietly.
I raised an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”
“No,” he said. “Scared.”
I blinked. “Of me?”
He stepped closer. “Of how easy it’s become to trust you.”
My breath caught. There was no hate in his voice now. Just something quiet and raw and very, very real.
“You saved my life,” I said. “More than once.”
“I ruined it first.”
“I’ll take both if it means we survive this.”
He looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. His fingers brushed my hair back slowly. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air between us shimmered.
“I won’t promise safety,” he whispered. “But I’ll promise war. For you.”
I didn’t reply.
I just kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was fire meeting fire, colliding in a room filled with ghosts and old ledgers and shattered loyalties. His mouth on mine felt like a scream finally released. His hands on my back, my neck, my waist—possessive, but not cruel. I kissed him back with everything I’d buried—grief, rage, longing. Our breaths tangled, our teeth clashed. The kiss was a promise, a threat, a warning, all in one.
When we broke apart, he didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
But something had shifted.
We were no longer pretending.
We were no longer strangers.
We were a storm now. And we were about to rain hell.
Later that night, I found him asleep on the sofa, the ledger still on his chest. I covered him with a shawl and sat beside him, staring into the fireplace. My mind couldn’t rest.
The phone on the table buzzed.
One new message. No name. Just a number.
“Did you find the truth, Kiara? Be careful. Dead women can’t love back.”
I didn’t wake Arjun.
I just stared at the message until the fire turned to embers.
Somewhere out there, someone was watching.
Someone who knew the game we were playing.
And I had a feeling—
The real war hadn’t even begun.
Part 6 – Ghosts Don’t Knock
The message on my phone didn’t let me sleep. I sat beside Arjun all night, legs pulled to my chest, staring at the flickering fireplace as the shadows crept along the walls. His breathing was slow, steady. He looked younger in sleep. Less carved from rage, more human. A boy caught in his father’s war. A boy who kissed me like we were the last two people left in a burning world.
At dawn, I finally drifted into sleep on the opposite sofa. I must have closed my eyes for ten minutes—no more. But when I opened them again, the blanket over me had shifted. Someone had covered me.
Arjun.
He was gone now—probably pacing outside with his guards, already making his next move.
I walked into the small kitchen, started the coffee machine, and took a shaky breath. My hands were trembling. The weight of the night, the kiss, the message… all of it sat heavy on my chest. I needed answers. I needed control.
I needed to feel like Kiara again.
That’s when the knock came.
Three taps.
Sharp. Controlled.
Too calm for someone in trouble.
I froze.
We weren’t expecting anyone.
I stepped out slowly, barefoot, my heart beginning to drum. The front door had a peephole, but whoever was on the other side had taped over it with a piece of chewing gum.
Shit.
I backed away.
Arjun’s guard—a man named Faheem—stormed in from the rear door, gun drawn. “Did someone knock?” he hissed.
“Yes,” I said. “They blocked the peephole.”
Faheem approached the door with silent precision, nodded once, then yanked it open, gun first.
There was no one.
Only a package.
A small square box. Wrapped in white cloth. No address. No tag.
Faheem picked it up with gloves and handed it to me. “It’s light,” he said. “No ticking. No electronics.”
“Open it,” I said.
Inside was a single object.
A mangalsutra.
Not mine.
And a note:
“Tell Arjun she never wore it again after that night. Ask him why.”
My skin went cold.
“Who dropped this?” I asked.
“No one saw anyone,” Faheem said. “There’s no vehicle, no footprints.”
I rushed back inside, the chain swinging in my hand like a question.
Arjun was already inside the study, shirt off, wrapping a bandage around his ribs. I’d forgotten—he’d bruised himself last week during the skirmish on the highway. His skin was littered with scars. Some fresh. Some old. All silent stories.
He looked up. Saw my face.
And stilled.
“What’s that?”
I held it up. “Does this belong to your mother?”
His eyes froze.
Then closed.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“The note said she never wore it again. After ‘that night.’ What night, Arjun?”
He sat down heavily on the sofa, his chest rising and falling like something inside was breaking loose. “The night she told my father she wanted to leave him.”
“What?”
“She found out what he did. With your father. The shipment. The cover-up. The bribes. She threatened to go to the press.”
My breath caught. “But she didn’t.”
“She died two days later,” he said. “In her sleep. No autopsy. Just ashes.”
I sat beside him, hand still gripping the mangalsutra like it might bite.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“Because I wanted to believe he didn’t kill her. That maybe she really was sick. That maybe I imagined it all.”
He looked up at me then, eyes rimmed with something almost like tears.
“But now, with this…” he gestured at the chain, “I know someone else saw it. Someone else was there.”
“And they want you to remember.”
“They want me to crack.”
A silence stretched between us. Not cold. Just… full.
“You still want revenge?” I asked softly.
He gave a hollow laugh. “That’s the only thing keeping me breathing.”
I looked at him for a long moment. “Then let’s stop waiting.”
He turned to me. “What do you mean?”
“We go back. To the city. We confront your father. Mine. Show them the ledger. Let them know we’re not afraid.”
“They’ll kill us before we finish the first sentence.”
“Not if we have leverage,” I said. “Not if we take this public first.”
He tilted his head. “You want to leak it?”
I nodded. “To the right journalist. The kind who doesn’t flinch.”
He stood, thinking. Pacing. His mind was fast—strategic. But I saw the fire now. It wasn’t revenge anymore. It was legacy. It was closure.
He turned back. “I know someone. But we can’t use phones. We go in person. Tonight.”
“Then let’s move.”
That evening, we dressed in plain clothes—me in a hoodie and jeans, him in a black jacket and jeans, gun tucked at his hip. We left the ledger inside a digital locker, encrypted. Just in case.
We drove silently to an old bungalow near Worli. There, a woman named Meher Qureshi met us in the shadows of her garden.
“I should run,” she said. “But this is the juiciest thing I’ve seen since the Lokhandwala tapes.”
Meher was sharp, brave, and had once exposed a state minister for sex trafficking. Arjun trusted her. That was enough.
He handed her a copy of the ledger.
She flipped through it, whistled low. “This… is a suicide note for two empires.”
“That’s the idea,” Arjun said.
“And you’re sure about this?”
He looked at me.
Then back at her.
“We’re already dead to them.”
Meher nodded. “Give me forty-eight hours. You’ll hear the city screaming.”
As we left her house and slipped into the shadows again, Arjun reached for my hand in the dark.
No words.
Just skin on skin.
A promise.
Of war.
Of survival.
Of us.
Part 7 – The Price of Truth
The city didn’t scream in forty-eight hours.
It howled.
It bled headlines.
By the third morning after we handed the ledger to Meher Qureshi, the front pages of every major newspaper were on fire. “Underworld Arms Pipeline Linked to NGO Chain”, “Two Mafia Dynasties Named in Leaked Documents”, “Sources Point to Cover-Up in 2005 Deaths.”
There were no names mentioned officially, but the photos told their own stories. A grainy image of my father at an “orphanage opening.” An old quote from Rajveer Singh about “serving the nation’s security through exports.” Someone had leaked more than just the documents. Someone knew exactly where to twist the blade.
Arjun stood on the terrace of the safehouse, watching the smoke rise from the mainland across the sea. The phone in his hand hadn’t stopped buzzing—calls from unknown numbers, burner messages, encrypted texts from allies-turned-strangers.
“They’re circling,” he muttered.
“Us?” I asked from behind him.
“No. Each other. They don’t know who leaked it. They think the other did it.”
I walked to his side, my hoodie pulled tight over my head. “And what happens when they find out it was us?”
He looked at me. “We’ll already be gone.”
“Where?”
“I have a boat arranged for tonight. To Alibaug. From there, a plane to Istanbul. Just until the dust settles.”
I shook my head. “No.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“I’m not running,” I said. “This isn’t just some scandal. This is our mothers. This is every lie they fed us. I won’t hide while they spin this into their redemption.”
“You’ll be hunted,” he said.
“I already am.”
He looked like he wanted to argue more. But then the phone rang again. This time, he picked it up.
It was his father.
Rajveer Singh.
I heard only Arjun’s side of the call.
“What do you want?”
…
“I haven’t touched your men. Yet.”
…
“I didn’t leak anything. You trained me better than that. I left no signature.”
…
“You taught me silence. Now you’ll learn what it costs.”
…
“I’ll come when I’m ready. Not before.”
He hung up. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding behind it.
“What did he say?”
Arjun didn’t answer.
He walked back inside.
And punched the wall.
Hard.
“Arjun—”
“He threatened you.”
I froze. “Me?”
“He said if I don’t return in two days, you’ll disappear like your mother.”
The words hit harder than the wall had.
He turned to face me, blood dripping from his knuckles. “We leave tonight. That’s final.”
“No,” I said again. “We fight.”
He stared at me, and in that moment, I saw the split in him. The killer. The lover. The heir. The boy.
He dropped to the couch, breathing hard. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”
“Then show me,” I said. “Train me. Make me capable too.”
He looked up, eyes wild. “You want to become like us?”
“No,” I whispered. “I want to survive us.”
A pause. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Fine.”
That night, he taught me how to disassemble a gun. How to breathe before pulling a trigger. How to spot the tail car from the rearview. We trained in the living room, lights dimmed, the hum of danger vibrating through the walls like a second heartbeat.
At midnight, Faheem burst into the safehouse, his face white.
“There’s a breach,” he said.
“What?”
“One of our men. Sameer. He was a plant. Singh family. Just tried to sabotage the car wiring.”
Arjun was already moving. “Where is he now?”
“Tied up in the basement.”
We ran down together. The air was damp, cold. Sameer—one of the quiet ones who always held the car door open for me—was now bound to a pipe, blood crusted around his mouth. He smiled when he saw Arjun.
“I should’ve killed you the night of your wedding,” he rasped.
“That was you?” I asked, stepping back.
Arjun raised his gun slowly.
“Wait,” I said. “Let him talk.”
Sameer grinned. “She’s sharper than you.”
“What were your orders?” I asked.
“To deliver her,” he said. “Alive. To your father.”
Arjun tensed. “My father sent you?”
“Not exactly.” His head lolled. “He’s not the only Singh anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
Sameer chuckled. “He’s not the king. Not anymore. The next lion’s already born.”
Arjun’s hand trembled.
“Who?” he demanded.
But Sameer didn’t answer.
He bit down on something inside his cheek.
Cyanide.
He was dead in seconds.
Arjun stood still.
Like something inside him had just collapsed.
“What did he mean?” I asked.
His voice was faint.
“My father… has another son.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Half-brother. Illegitimate. Rumored. Hidden away. But if Sameer spoke true…”
“Then someone else wants the throne,” I said quietly.
“And he doesn’t want peace,” Arjun finished.
We stood in the basement, the corpse between us, the past unraveling like a noose.
There was no safehouse left.
There was no island to run to.
Only fire now.
And blood.
And the final round of a war we hadn’t even started yet.
Part 8 – The Lion in the Dark
The name came to us like smoke under a door—quiet, slow, but impossible to ignore.
Devansh Singh.
Arjun hadn’t heard that name since he was ten, when a drunken uncle had whispered it at a family funeral and been slapped silent. The boy who never lived at home. The boy whose mother worked as a personal assistant in the Singh export office for six years and disappeared after a sudden “relocation.”
Now it made sense.
Sameer hadn’t been loyal to Rajveer Singh. He was loyal to someone younger. Hungrier. Someone with less to lose and everything to prove.
Arjun didn’t speak much after Sameer’s death. He moved like a ghost around the safehouse, sleeping in two-hour intervals, eating without tasting, watching the doors like they would breathe. I tried talking to him. He nodded, he listened. But I could feel the crack widening behind his calm.
The next afternoon, Faheem brought news.
“A small estate in Alibaug. Registered under a shell company—DS Holdings. Guess what DS stands for?”
“Devansh Singh,” I whispered.
Arjun looked up from the floor. “He’s claiming territory.”
Faheem nodded. “And he’s inviting men. Not from your father’s circle. From yours, Kiara. The old Mehra men your father let go. The ones who never forgave him.”
“He’s building a new alliance,” Arjun said slowly. “From our dead ends.”
Faheem hesitated. “And… there’s more. A name appeared on his guest list. Vikram Mehra.”
My heart dropped.
“What?”
“He’s been summoned. Not threatened. Invited. Tonight.”
Arjun stood up slowly. “My father never invited anyone.”
“Because he didn’t need to,” I said. “Devansh does.”
We didn’t wait for night.
By dusk, we were on the road, Arjun driving, me beside him, the gun in my lap feeling heavier than my heartbeat. The car was unmarked, the route a zigzag through fields, highways, and two fake checkpoints we crossed without pause. Arjun’s hands were steady on the wheel, but I could see the storm inside his silence.
“Do you think he wants to kill your father?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “He wants to replace him.”
“And us?”
“We’re collateral.”
We reached the estate just after 9 PM. It looked nothing like the Singh mansion. Sleeker. Newer. Less royal, more strategic. Guard towers without ornament. Dogs that didn’t bark. Lights that moved.
“Stay close,” Arjun muttered.
Inside, the air smelled of cigar smoke and glass-clean wealth. No portraits on the walls. No history. Just power.
A man stood at the top of the staircase.
Mid-thirties. Fairer than Arjun. Leaner. Clean-shaven. Smiling like he already owned the place.
“Hello, bhaiya,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I was wondering when you’d come.”
Arjun’s body stiffened. But he didn’t move.
Devansh walked down the steps slowly. His eyes flicked to me. “And this must be the girl they wrapped in diamonds and fire. Kiara Mehra. I expected someone… colder.”
“I’m warm enough,” I said. “If you get close.”
He laughed. “I like her.”
Arjun’s voice was quiet. “What do you want, Devansh?”
“To finish what your father started,” he replied. “And what you’re too sentimental to continue.”
“I’m not sentimental.”
“Oh? You leaked the ledger, didn’t you? Thought you’d burn down the kingdom for truth?” He stepped closer. “Let me tell you what truth buys in our world, Arjun. Graves. Small ones.”
“You think aligning with Mehra loyalists makes you king?” Arjun asked.
“No,” Devansh said. “It makes me the only man with both stories. Yours and hers. And guess what? I don’t care about mothers or morals. I care about succession.”
My voice came out before I could stop it. “Then why invite my father?”
“Because he’s predictable,” Devansh said, eyes never leaving mine. “Unlike you.”
Just then, another figure entered the room.
My father.
Vikram Mehra.
He didn’t look surprised to see me.
He didn’t look at me at all.
His gaze locked with Devansh’s. “I heard you’re offering partnership.”
“Not offering,” Devansh said. “Announcing. The Mehra-Singh legacy needs a new generation. One not built on compromise or guilt.”
“And the old ones?” Arjun asked.
Devansh smiled. “They step aside.”
Or die.
It wasn’t said, but it hung in the room like perfume.
My father walked past us without a word. I turned to follow, but Arjun grabbed my hand.
“Not here,” he said under his breath.
Devansh saw it. “Ah. The lovebirds. Still alive.”
Arjun’s voice was ice. “Touch her, and I’ll carve your smile into your throat.”
Devansh laughed. “There’s the Singh I was waiting for.”
We left soon after. No threats, no guns, no blood. But something had changed.
The line had been drawn.
Back at the safehouse, Arjun finally spoke.
“He’ll go after your father first. Blame him for the scandal. Then use him to bait you.”
“And you?”
“I’m already a ghost in their eyes.”
“What do we do now?”
He looked at me.
“Now we fight dirty.”
He handed me a burner phone.
One contact saved.
“Who is this?” I asked.
He didn’t answer directly.
Just said, “We’re not the only ones with blood to spill. And some ghosts… want revenge.”
Part 9 – The Ghost Network
I stared at the phone Arjun handed me. The contact saved was simply named: “Z.”
I didn’t ask who they were.
I just understood from his silence that whoever “Z” was, they weren’t a friend. They were something older. Deadlier. A name Arjun had buried but never deleted.
“We need leverage,” he said quietly. “Devansh is building a kingdom from our ashes. If we don’t move first, we’ll be the pillars they hang from.”
“And this person,” I said slowly, “can help?”
“Z doesn’t work for favors,” Arjun said. “They work for chaos.”
We burned the burner phone after one call.
The response was short. “24 hours. Stay where you are.”
No name. No voice. Just expectation.
Arjun didn’t sleep that night. Neither did I. We took turns watching the gates of the safehouse, which suddenly felt more like a grave waiting for an occupant. Faheem was posted on the roof with night-vision scope. The only sound was the forest around us—crickets, dry leaves, distant water.
At 3:42 AM, a single headlight cut through the trees.
One bike.
One rider.
They didn’t stop at the gate. It opened by itself, as if the forest recognized them.
Arjun met them at the porch. I stood behind the doorframe, heart pounding.
The rider took off the helmet.
A woman.
Sharp, almost feline features. Short black hair. No expression.
“Z,” Arjun said softly.
She nodded once.
Then turned to me. “So, you’re the girl.”
“You expected someone else?” I asked.
“I expected someone dead.”
Charming.
She walked in without invitation. Moved like she belonged there. Dropped a small pouch on the table.
Inside—five pen drives.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Footage,” she said. “CCTV, drone intercepts, burner calls. All tied to Devansh. Including his meetings with Vikram Mehra.”
Arjun’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been watching him?”
“I watch everyone,” she replied. “But I didn’t know he had plans for you.”
“Why help us?” I asked.
Z turned to Arjun. “Because you left the game clean. And I hate wasted exits.”
That was all the explanation we got.
For the next six hours, she sat with us, mapping out Devansh’s network. Thirty-seven known operatives. Four corrupt DCPs. Two lawyers. Three politicians with pending cases. And one hidden warehouse near Vasai, full of contraband arms.
“Strike the warehouse,” Z said. “Before he moves the weapons.”
“Won’t that start a war?” I asked.
She looked at me. “You’re in one.”
By sundown, Arjun had called in three of his most trusted allies—men who once swore fealty to his mother’s side of the family and left after her death. Now they returned like moths drawn back to the flame.
We were a team now. Small. Focused. With one target.
Devansh Singh.
But there was one card left unplayed.
My father.
“Let me go to him,” I said.
Arjun froze. “No.”
“He’s vulnerable. Devansh doesn’t trust him. He’s using him.”
“He’s also dangerous,” Arjun said. “He might hand you over to save his own skin.”
“Then I’ll know where I stand.”
Arjun gritted his teeth. “You’re not bait.”
I walked toward him, hands trembling but voice steady. “This started with our parents. Let it end with their children. But we can’t move without clarity. Let me speak to him. Alone.”
Silence.
Then he whispered, “If you don’t come back in 60 minutes, I burn the city down.”
That night, I entered the Mehra mansion alone.
No guards stopped me. No one dared.
My father sat in his study, glass of whiskey untouched, files scattered around him like regrets.
He looked older.
Sadder.
Like a man watching the tide take his sandcastle.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “Isn’t this the house you built on dead mothers?”
He winced. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough. I know about the orphanage. The ledger. The arms. The woman you married and then erased.”
He stood slowly. “Everything I did was to survive. To protect you.”
“Liar,” I said. “You used me as a bargaining chip. And now you’re siding with Devansh.”
“He offers stability,” he said. “A new era.”
“He offers blood.”
He walked toward me, eyes tired. “Kiara… I never wanted this for you.”
“Then tell me where the final file is,” I whispered. “The one mother hid.”
His eyes flickered.
“Anjali told me,” I added. “There’s a safe deposit box. Under your name.”
He turned away.
“That file,” I said, “can end Devansh.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
He walked to the wall behind his desk. Pressed a panel. A hidden locker clicked open.
A black envelope. Sealed.
He handed it to me.
Then said, “I won’t be alive after tonight.”
“What?”
“He knows I’m too old to obey.”
Tears welled in my throat. “Come with me. We’ll protect you.”
“No,” he said. “But you’ll avenge me.”
I left without another word.
Arjun was waiting outside, engine running.
“You okay?”
“No,” I said. “But we have everything we need now.”
He took the envelope and drove.
Fast.
Silent.
Furious.
And beside him, I sat with my hand in his.
Prepared.
To end everything.
Part 10 – The House Always Burns
The final file was heavier than it looked. A single black envelope, but inside it—the truth. Photos, payment records, medical reports, witness statements. The smoking gun. Not just of the 2005 cover-up, but of a silent war that began before we were even born.
Arjun read the pages in silence as we drove toward the Vasai warehouse. His face was stone. The only sign of emotion was the tightening of his jaw every time my father’s name appeared beside Devansh’s. I watched the side of his face, knowing that whatever happened tonight, we wouldn’t come out the same.
Z had already gone ahead with Faheem and the others, setting charges, mapping out the exits. Her voice came through the encrypted line as we neared the perimeter.
“Target inside. With ten men. No hostages. No escape routes.”
Arjun clicked off the comm.
“Let me go in first,” I said.
He looked at me like I was insane. “Absolutely not.”
“He won’t expect me.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not going.”
I touched his arm. “You said it yourself—we’re already dead to them. Let me do something with what’s left of me.”
Arjun pulled the car to a stop in the shadows. The warehouse loomed ahead like a sleeping beast, metal ribs glowing under dim floodlights.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then he reached into the glove box, pulled out a small pendant. A tiny silver trident—his mother’s.
“Wear this,” he said. “If I lose you tonight, I’ll need something left to bury.”
I put it on.
“I’m coming in after six minutes,” he added. “With fire.”
I slipped out, heart pounding, file clutched in one hand, the other grazing the pistol at my waist.
Inside the warehouse, Devansh sat at a table surrounded by crates marked as fertilizer.
He looked up when I entered.
“Well,” he said. “The bride returns.”
“I’ve come with a gift,” I replied, placing the envelope on the table.
He opened it slowly. His eyes scanned the contents. For once, he didn’t smirk. He didn’t speak.
He just looked up. And said, “How much?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Everything has a price. Even loyalty. Even mothers.”
My voice came out like broken glass. “You think this is about money?”
“No,” he said. “It’s about power. And you’ve just handed me more of it.”
I took a step back. “That file will destroy you.”
“No,” he said calmly. “It destroys Rajveer Singh. Your father. Maybe me, later. But tonight? It makes me king.”
He snapped his fingers.
Two men grabbed me.
One ripped the pendant from my neck.
Arjun was already running toward the warehouse.
From inside, I heard Devansh’s voice: “You came too far, Kiara. You should’ve stayed a pawn.”
That’s when the first blast hit.
A corner of the warehouse blew open in a fireball. Chaos exploded. Men screamed. Gunfire tore the silence. In the middle of it all, Arjun burst in—eyes wild, blood on his fists, a storm in human form.
He shot the first man in the leg. Tackled the second. Screamed my name.
I kicked the third one in the groin, grabbed a gun from the floor.
We fought like animals. Like people who had nothing to lose.
Devansh tried to run.
Arjun caught him.
Threw him against a wall. “You wanted my life?” he growled. “Take it from my hands.”
Devansh reached for his gun.
Arjun fired first.
One bullet.
Through the chest.
Devansh slid down, eyes wide, mouth still moving—but no sound came out.
When the last man fell, and the smoke cleared, Arjun stood in the center of the wreckage, breathing like he’d been underwater for years.
I walked to him.
We said nothing.
He just dropped to his knees and pulled me into his arms.
We didn’t cry.
There was nothing left in us that hadn’t already burned.
Later that night, we watched the Singh mansion catch fire on the news.
Rajveer Singh was found dead in his study—an apparent suicide.
Vikram Mehra was missing.
The official story? Internal feud. Power struggle. Sons taking up arms.
No mention of us.
No mention of love.
Z disappeared after that. Like smoke. Faheem stayed, quietly managing whatever loose ends we didn’t have time to tie.
We left Mumbai three days later.
New passports.
New names.
New lives.
But the scars remained.
So did the fire.
Sometimes Arjun wakes up in the middle of the night, hands shaking, whispering his mother’s name.
Sometimes I walk past mirrors and expect to see the girl in bridal red.
We don’t talk about the war.
We just live in its aftermath.
Loving each other the only way we know how—
With quiet touches.
And loaded silence.
THE END
