28 February — Ireland's Eye

The sea around Howth was iron-grey that morning, restless and cold, waves gnashing their teeth against rock as if trying to chew the island whole. Gulls circled above like patient scavengers.

From the harbour, it was only a fifteen- or twenty-minute run — a trivial distance for the free. But for the forgotten, it was an eternity.

One year. Five months. Eleven days.

Five hundred and thirty sunrises she had not seen.

The manor crouched on the island like a rotting crown, its stone walls slick with salt and secrets. Beneath it — deeper than roots, deeper than mercy — lay the vault.

Her vault.

The chamber was not built for living things. It was a square coffin of stone, every wall threaded with live current. A faint blue hum trembled constantly in the air — a warning, a promise. Touch the wall, and your flesh would blister before your scream finished forming. The floor smelled of damp iron and old blood. The only light came from a narrow slit near the ceiling where the sky showed itself like a wound that would not close.

Soumya lay sprawled on the freezing floor. Six and a half years old. Her ribs pressed sharply against her skin. Her lips were split, pale.

Behind her half-lidded eyes, her mind worked. She counted footsteps. Measured pauses between guard changes. Memorized the vibration of each gate above. She had traced the architecture of the mansion in her head so many times that she could walk its corridors blind. Her body was failing. Her memory was not.

The vault door screeched open. The sound sliced through the chamber like metal dragged across bone.

She entered. Black silk clung to her tall frame like smoke given shape. The scent of expensive perfume failed to hide the sharper undertone — wine and cruelty. Her heels clicked against the stone with deliberate precision, echoing far too loudly in the confined space. Her smile. It wasn't wide. It wasn't exaggerated. It was thin. Sharp.

A blade resting against skin. "How are you?" she purred, voice smooth as poisoned honey.

For a fraction of a second, something in the woman's eyes flickered — irritation, perhaps admiration — before it curdled back into hatred. She lunged forward and seized a fistful of the child's hair. The sound of strands tearing from scalp was soft. Wet. She yanked Soumya upright as if she weighed nothing. Their faces were inches apart. The woman's breath smelled of fermented grapes and something rotten beneath.

"Ek baar mera kaam ho jaane do," she whispered through clenched teeth. "Tmhara gala main khud ghot dungi."

Her fingers tightened, pressing Soumya's skull back until it thudded lightly against the electrified wall — close enough for the hum to sting her ears.

"Mujhe tum par taras aata hai," she continued, mock sympathy coating each word. "You are paying for the sins of your mother. I don't like to torture you... but this face—" She traced a nail down Soumya's cheek, pressing hard enough to draw a thin red line. "This pretty face reminds me of her."

Her expression twisted.

"And I hate your mother."

The wine glass in her other hand shattered against the stone with a violent crack. Crimson liquid splashed across the floor like fresh blood. Jagged shards scattered.

One shard sliced across Soumya's hand. Skin parted. Blood welled. She didn't flinch. Didn't cry. Didn't blink.

The woman studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment — waiting for a whimper, a plea, something to confirm control.

Nothing came. Soumya's body trembled from weakness, yes. But her eyes — those dark, burning eyes — held something far more dangerous than rebellion.

Patience.

The sea outside roared against the cliffs of Ireland's Eye, indifferent witness to cruelty. The woman in black paused at the threshold, her silhouette cutting through the dim light like a blade through silk.

"Today," she said softly, tilting her head as though announcing a celebration, "I am happy. And when I am happy... I give presents."

Her smile widened — not with warmth, but with possession.

"Bring her in." The command echoed down the corridor. Footsteps followed. Slow. Careful.

Then Mahima Thakur entered the vault, cradling a girl in her arms as though carrying something made of porcelain and light.

The contrast was cruel. Where Soumya was bruised, this girl was untouched. She looked older — perhaps four years. Long lashes rested against her cheeks as she slept, unaware of stone walls and electric hums. Her face carried a serenity that did not belong in this underground grave.

pShe did not look like a prisoner.

She looked like a princess misplaced in a dungeon.

"The girl," the woman in black whispered, her voice dropping into something almost reverent, "is none other than the elder sister of Soumya Singh Ahlawat."

For the first time since she had begun this twisted crusade, something shifted in her eyes. Not mercy. Not kindness.

Ownership.

"She is my precious Key," she murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from the sleeping girl's face. "My queen. The one who will help me collect every tear the Oberois and Ahlawats ever forced from my eyes."

Her tone changed when she turned to Soumya. "From today onward, she lives with you. Behave nicely with her... and perhaps I will show you mercy."

Mercy. The word sounded like a joke in that chamber. "Leave both my Keys here," she ordered the guards. "And make sure they receive proper nutrition."

Then she left — the door sealing behind her with a metallic groan. Silence returned.

Mahima gently laid the sleeping girl — Anjali — on the narrow cot beside Soumya. She signaled the servants for food and knelt beside the younger child.

In the entire mansion, thick with cruelty and ambition, Mahima Thakur was the only soul who still remembered what it meant to feel. She wiped the dried blood from Soumya's hand. Cleaned the cuts. Applied cream to the fresh burns. Her fingers trembled every time they brushed against bruised skin.

"I can't withstand against her," she whispered, voice breaking. "But behind her back... I will help you as much as I can."

The food arrived. Soumya ate slowly, mechanically, as though reminding her body how to survive.

"Why are you so stubborn?" Mahima's tears finally fell. "Why can't you just do as Majesty wants? I don't like when she beats you..."

"I can't," Soumya replied. Her gaze shifted to the sleeping girl. There was something about her. Something that made the air feel different. Mahima followed her stare.

"I don't know why Majesty brought her here," she admitted honestly. "But she is the most important person to her." Soumya nodded faintly.

Speaking cost too much energy. Mahima helped her lie down, tucking the thin blanket around her fragile frame. She bent and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I promise," she whispered, "one day I will free you from this cage." The electric hum answered in the background.

On that cursed Island of Pain—a place where suffering was routine and even breathing felt like a burden—Mahima stood as the only fragile thread keeping Soumya alive, the only light that refused to be swallowed by the endless darkness. Even Mahima could not fully understand what Soumya had become to her. It was not just duty, not merely responsibility—it was something deeper, something that had quietly taken root in her soul. She, who had always been the most disciplined and unyielding subordinate of the Veiled Syndicate, who had never once dared to break a rule, found herself willing to defy the entire world for this one small girl. Soumya was no longer just someone she had to protect; she had become her child, her reason, the silent answer to a thousand unspoken prayers.

In that living nightmare, Soumya's survival was not luck—it was Mahima. Every pain that was meant for Soumya met Mahima first. Every cruelty was softened, absorbed, or redirected before it could reach her. Mahima held her close in the quiet moments, gently brushing her hair as if trying to stitch together a sense of safety in a place that had none. She made sure Soumya never felt alone, not even in the deepest hours of despair. Where the island was cold and merciless, Mahima was warmth; where it was dark, she was light. In the presence of Her Majesty, Mahima became silent and still, hiding everything behind a mask of obedience. But the moment that suffocating gaze disappeared, she transformed—into a shield, a protector, a teacher. She taught Soumya how to endure, how to fight, how to survive in a world designed to break her.

Mahima knew the truth Soumya was too young to understand—that she could not escape yet. But she also knew that one day, she would. And when that day came, the island would not remain standing; it would burn, crumble, and turn to ashes beneath the weight of everything it had done. Mahima was preparing her for that future, shaping her quietly, patiently, through every stolen moment. She bore punishments in her place, carried wounds without a sound, and even stained Soumya with fake blood just to convince others that she had obeyed orders—when in reality, she had protected Soumya from every blade meant to cut her.

In just a year and a half, something extraordinary had formed between them. Mahima was no longer just a guardian; she had become Soumya's home—the one place where fear could rest, even if only for a moment.

Mahima ke liye Soumya —
"Uski har adhuri dua ka poora jawab thi..."

["The answer to every unfinished prayer she ever whispered..."]

Aur Soumya ke liye Mahima —
"Uski kismat mein likhi hui rehmat..."

["A blessing written into her fate..."]

Present Days 

Memories of those days still had the power to shake even the Psycho Queen of the Hawk Kingdom. The mere thought of them sent a faint tremor through her otherwise composed demeanor, as if somewhere beneath her strength lay echoes she could never fully silence. The atmosphere around her carried a quiet intensity, heavy with unspoken emotions and a past that refused to fade.

The woman draped in maroon stood with quiet elegance, her presence commanding yet graceful. Slowly, she lifted her veil, revealing a face that carried both authority and deep, unyielding devotion. 

The woman standing before Soumya was none other than Mahima Thakur—the most trusted subordinate of the Veiled Syndicate. 

Known for her loyalty and unmatched capability, Mahima was someone who would go to any extent for the syndicate... and yet, when it came to Soumya, her allegiance shifted into something far more personal. She was a woman who could betray everything she stood for, without hesitation, if it meant choosing Soumya.

Her love for Soumya was not something that could ever be fully expressed in words. It was intense, unwavering, and deeply rooted within her soul—something that defined her very existence. Every action, every decision she made seemed to circle back to Soumya in some way, as if her world began and ended with her.

"How are you my Queen of Hawk kingdom ."

Mahima's voice flowed gently, carrying warmth and familiarity as it reached Soumya. But before the moment could settle, Soumya interrupted her, her voice soft yet edged with a subtle complaint.

" Aai Maa itni prayi ho gayii hoon main aapke liye.."

There was a fragile undertone in her words, a quiet accusation hidden beneath the simplicity of the sentence. It reflected a longing—an unspoken desire to be seen not just as a queen, but as someone close, someone personal.

"Tum meri dhadkan ho..aakhir main apni dhadkan ko praya kaise kar skti hoon..Aur tumhein tmhare naam se jyda iss pehchan se pukarana accha lgta hai.."she whispered to her.

Mahima's response was soft, almost reverent. Her words carried an emotional depth that went beyond affection—it was devotion. To her, Soumya was not separate from her life; she was a part of her, inseparable and essential. The title she used was not out of formality, but out of admiration, as if Soumya truly embodied something greater than herself.

Uff!!! Baat toh aapki sahi hai..Ab main itni acchi hoon..upr se meri pehchaan bhi mere hi jitni acchi hai...infact this world doen't deserve me ..."

The shift in Soumya's tone was immediate. Her velvety voice carried a playful arrogance, effortlessly turning the emotional moment into one centered around her own self-admiration. There was a charm in the way she spoke, but also an undeniable exaggeration of her own worth, as if she truly believed herself to be beyond ordinary existence.

Mahima rolled her eyes slightly, a silent reaction that spoke more than words ever could. She loved Soumya deeply—perhaps more than she should—but this particular habit of hers often tested her patience. It wasn't just confidence; it was an overwhelming sense of self-importance that could easily become exhausting for those around her.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to the past, to the time when Soumya was in Ireland Eye's. Back then, her behavior had been no different—if anything, even more intense. She would playfully, yet mercilessly, torture the guards by forcing them to compliment her, as though their sole purpose was to feed her endless need for admiration.

There was no denying Soumya's beauty. She was striking, captivating, and undeniably different from others her age. But in her own mind, she wasn't just unique—she was something extraordinary, almost unreal, as though her very presence was a blessing upon the world.

Mahima slowly came out of her thoughts, her gaze returning to the present. Soumya, however, remained completely absorbed in herself, still lost in her own admiration, unaffected by anything else around her.

"Iska kuch nahi ho skta hai..." Mahima said shaking her head.

Mahima's expression shifted, her earlier warmth dissolving into sharp curiosity. The atmosphere between them grew heavier, as if the air itself anticipated what was to come. Pulling herself away from Soumya's endless self-admiration, she steadied her voice, turning the conversation toward something far more urgent—something that carried danger beneath its surface.

"Tell me why you called me ..even forced me to come India knowing the dangerous we could face..why you forced me to wear this maroon dress which look alike like the dress of lady of veiled syndicate.."

Her words were no longer casual; they were precise, probing. Mahima wasn't just asking—she was demanding clarity. Every detail felt intentional, and she knew Soumya well enough to understand that nothing she did was ever without purpose.

Soumya's demeanor shifted almost instantly. The playful arrogance faded, replaced by something colder, more composed. Her gaze held a quiet intensity as she answered, her tone steady, almost detached.

"This time I didn't called you..Lady of veiled Syndicate called you herself."

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Then it hit.

A chill slithered down Mahima's spine, slow and unmistakable. The name alone carried weight—the kind that spoke of long-laid plans, of schemes that took years, even decades, to weave. This wasn't sudden. This was inevitable.

"It means she is ready to claim "

Mahima's words trailed off mid-sentence, as realization began to form—but before she could complete it, Soumya interrupted her, her voice cutting through with calm certainty.

" Do you think she needs to claim something that already belongs to her."

There was something in her tone—firm, unwavering—that made the statement feel less like a question and more like an undeniable truth. Ownership, power, destiny... all of it seemed already decided.

Soumya's expression darkened slightly, her voice lowering as she continued, the past bleeding into her words.

"She was ready from the day that visicious women decided to snatch her love from her..the day she forcefully tries to open the chamber ."

Pain lingered beneath her calm exterior, subtle yet powerful. It was the kind of pain that didn't fade with time—it settled, rooted deep within, shaping every decision that followed. Decades may have passed, but for Soumya, that moment still lived on, raw and unresolved.

Mahima noticed it immediately—the faint tremble in Soumya's hand, the crack beneath her composure. Without hesitation, she reached out, placing her hand gently over Soumya's, grounding her.

"She is our lady ..all the subordinates of Veiled Syndicate are waiting for her from 2 decades..Tell me what she wants."

Her voice softened, but there was strength in it. Loyalty. Faith. For Mahima, there was no question of doubt—the Lady was not just a leader; she was something far greater, someone worth waiting decades for.

Soumya's gaze slowly hardened, growing dense, intense. The pain that once filled her expression began to fade, replaced by something far more dangerous. A faint, venomous smile curved along her lips, subtle yet chilling.

Without a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out a map, unfolding it with deliberate care. The shift in the atmosphere was immediate—this was no longer about emotions. This was strategy.

"Devansh Singh Oberoi is going to talk with Jade empire so that the route that connect Jade empire with Ireland Island got opened. "

Her explanation was calm, calculated. Every word carried significance, every detail a piece of a much larger game.

Mahima's brows furrowed as she processed the information. On the surface, it sounded like progress—something that should have been welcomed.

"But isn't that a good news that the route that was sealed 2 decades ago will be opened..it will reveal all the deeds of Majesty ."

Her voice carried confusion, but also urgency. Her eyes searched Soumya's face, trying to find the missing piece—the reason why something seemingly beneficial felt so wrong.

Soumya, however, remained composed. Too composed.

"No this will risk our plan which we were planning for a decade. If this route will be opened that fucking visicious women will get alert ... "

Her voice was calm, almost eerily so, but the underlying tension was undeniable. This wasn't just a setback—it was a threat. A single move that could unravel years of preparation.

The room fell into a heavy silence once again, the weight of the situation settling in.

Mahima straightened slightly, her expression firming as she accepted the gravity of it all. Whatever came next, she was ready.

"What are the orders from our lady ."

Soumya's gaze remained fixed on the map for a moment longer, as if the lines and markings held fragments of the past she couldn't escape. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but her mind was far from the present—it wandered through memories that still lingered like shadows.

"You need to pretend to be lady of veiled syndicate. After 3 months there will be a meet of Masked Council ...Where King of Blackthrone Reyan Grey will pass the propasal to change the protector of veiled syndicate."

The words were clear, precise, yet they carried the weight of something far more dangerous than they appeared. This was not just a task—it was a role that could shift the balance of power itself. As Soumya spoke, flashes of the past filled her thoughts, each memory tightening her resolve while deepening the storm within her.

Mahima's expression hardened instantly. The gravity of the situation reflected in her eyes, though her voice remained controlled, unwavering.

"but oberoi's were the one who protect veiled syndicate from the last 2 decades... Shreya singh Ahlawat herself declared them as the protector of veiled syndicate in front of masked council before the broke out of second deadliest war.'"

Her words weren't just facts—they were reminders of history, of decisions that had shaped the present. The Oberois were not just protectors by title; they had earned their place through time, loyalty, and bloodshed. Changing that would not be simple—it would ignite consequences.

Soumya slowly lifted her gaze, her expression tightening as she prepared to say what came next. There was a slight crack in her voice, almost unnoticeable, but enough to reveal the emotions she kept buried.

" Now king of blackthrone - who is son of Vandhana Singh Ahlawat the former lady of Veiled syndicate...claims that as the syndicate once belong to his mother now the responsibility of protection of that syndicate belongs to him as her son." Soumya said her voice cracked, on the mention of it.

The mention of that name carried a sharp edge, as if it stirred something unresolved within her. The past and present collided in that moment, and for a brief second, the composed strategist faltered.

Mahima watched her carefully, sensing the unspoken layers beneath her words. Yet she didn't press on them. Instead, she focused on what mattered—the path ahead.

" So what's the next move "

Her voice was calm, but beneath it lay a storm of unanswered questions. Doubts, possibilities, risks—each one lingered, waiting to be addressed. But she trusted Soumya enough to wait for direction, no matter how uncertain the path seemed.

Time slipped by unnoticed as their conversation continued. Strategies were formed, possibilities dissected, and risks weighed with careful precision. The intensity of their discussion blurred the passage of hours, until the golden hues of daylight quietly surrendered to the deep stillness of night.

By the time silence finally settled between them, the world outside had changed.

Their conversation came to an end not with resolution, but with understanding. There were still uncertainties, still dangers lurking ahead—but their roles were clear. Without another word, they parted ways, each stepping into their own path, carrying the weight of what was to come.

The night swallowed their presence, leaving behind only the echoes of a plan that had just begun to unfold.

Oberoi Mansion

The night stretched endlessly over the mansion, dark and heavy, as though it carried secrets too burdensome to release. The moon hung quietly in the sky, surrounded by scattered stars that tried to soften the darkness, yet an unexplainable loneliness lingered in the vast expanse above. The stillness of the night felt almost suffocating, as if even the wind had chosen silence over disturbance.

Anjali Ray stood alone on her balcony, her figure still against the cold railing. Her eyes remained fixed on the sky, searching... not for stars, not for the moon—but for something far beyond them. Something lost. Something that refused to return.

"Aapne kaha tha , aap waha chle jaayenge jaha se koi ni aata..aapne mjak mein kaha tha ..magar hmari kismat ne aapka yeh mjak sanjidigi se le liya."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried a depth of pain that echoed in the silence around her. The words weren't just memories—they were wounds that time had failed to heal. The night seemed to listen, holding onto every fragment of her sorrow.

" Aapne kaha tha agar ham kho gaye toh aap hame dundh lnge...aap kyun nahi dundh paaye hame abhi tak "

Her grip tightened around the railing, her knuckles turning pale as her emotions surged beneath the surface. There was a quiet desperation in her voice, as if she expected the sky itself to answer her. As if somewhere, somehow... he could still hear her.

"Kitni baar hamne kosis ki aapki yaadon se khud ko azzad kr de..kitni baar dil ko smjhaya ki aap nahi aayenge ham dundhte hue..."

Her voice trembled, fragile and breaking under the weight of memories she had tried so hard to bury. Her mind betrayed her once again, dragging her back into moments she wished to forget—blurred faces, distant screams, and the haunting echo of a night that never truly ended. No matter how far she tried to run from it, it followed her... relentlessly.

"Na jaane Kyun hmare kismat ne aapko hamse cheen liya..Na jaane kyun hmare kismat ne devansh ko laake hmare smne khada kr diya hai..."

Her voice cracked, the pain now impossible to contain. The mention of Devansh stirred something complicated within her—a confusion of emotions she couldn't name, couldn't understand. Images of her marriage surfaced unwillingly, clashing against memories of a past she still clung to.

"Na jaane devansh aapke tarah kyun lgte h..Kuch na keh ki bhi voh hame aapki yaad dilate hai..."

Her breath grew shallow, uneven, as if even breathing had become difficult under the weight of her thoughts. The resemblance wasn't just physical—it was something deeper, something that unsettled her in ways she couldn't explain.

Kyun ..aakhir kyunn...

The question slipped from her lips again and again, each repetition more broken than the last. It wasn't just a question anymore—it was a plea, a cry for answers that never came.

"Kuch na krke bhi voh aapki yaadein jo hmare wajood mei dafan thi unhe tazza kar diya hai..."

Desperation seeped through her words, trembling uncontrollably. It felt unfair—cruel, even—that without doing anything, Devansh had awakened everything she had fought so hard to suppress. Memories she had buried within her very existence now stood alive, refusing to fade.

"Jabse unse mile hai ...bas aap yaad aate hai...aakhir kyun..hamhi har baar kyun .."

Her voice turned pleading, raw with years of silent suffering. The pain she had carried for so long finally began to surface, breaking through the walls she had built around herself. She had endured it quietly for years—but tonight, the silence broke.

"10 saal pure 10 saal hone jaa rhe h..hame alg hue ..aapko aapki bharya ki yaad ni aati ."

Anjali stood frozen, her eyes still fixed on the sky, yet her mind had drifted far into the past. Ten years... an entire decade had passed, yet time had failed to erase what she had lost.

She tried to remember.

She tried to see his face.

But no matter how hard she forced her mind to recall, the memory remained blurred—like a fading shadow she could never fully grasp. Only the feelings remained... strong, unyielding, and painfully alive.

Tormented by the storm of her own memories, Anjali finally turned away from the balcony. The night outside remained silent, but within her, everything felt unbearably loud. Each thought weighed her down, each memory pulling her deeper into exhaustion. Dragging her steps, she walked back into her room, her body heavy with both emotional and physical fatigue.

She had barely settled onto the bed when a sharp pain twisted through her stomach. A faint groan escaped her lips as she clutched her side, frustration immediately replacing her earlier sorrow. Of all things, this was something she could never escape.

Damn it ! There is nothing that can hurt Anjali more than her periods but she can't escape her periods.. Nor being a doctor she can cure menstrual cramps.

The irony of it stung her pride more than the pain itself. A doctor who could treat others, yet completely helpless when it came to her own suffering. 

She shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position, when a faint sound brushed against the silence of the room. It was soft, almost unnoticeable—but enough to alert her instantly. Her body tensed, all traces of fatigue vanishing as her instincts kicked in.

Her eyes darted toward the window.

Without wasting a second, she grabbed the nearest thing she could find—a broom—holding it firmly as she prepared herself. Her gaze sharpened, fixed on the source of the disturbance.

And then, in the very next moment, she saw him.

Devansh.

He stepped into her room through the balcony window as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The sight froze her for a second—not out of fear, but pure disbelief. Her mind struggled to process what she was seeing.

"Pichle janam mei chorr the kya..? aur aise hmare kamre aa rhe the sukr mnae abhi tak hamne jaadu uthaya tha bas..rakh ke do chaar de dete aap toh tay bol jaate...bhari jawani mein ham vidhwa ho jaate...Shii karti hai somi aapke saath "

The words spilled out of her without pause, her tone a mix of irritation, shock, and dramatic exaggeration. She didn't even stop to breathe, let alone think. It was as if her mouth had decided to run on its own.

Meanwhile, Devansh stood there, completely stunned.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his phoenix-like  grey eyes reflecting both confusion and disbelief. He tried—genuinely tried—to process what she had just said, but the effort seemed almost pointless.

"kaisi biwi hai meri ..phele bhi jaadu se maarti thi ..aaj bhi jhaadu se maarti hai..upar se confidence toh dekho ...soch bhi li ki main jhaadu se mar jaaunga."

The thought crossed his mind involuntarily, leaving him both amused and slightly offended. There was something undeniably absurd about the situation, yet strangely... familiar.

He finally spoke, his tone laced with a faint teasing warmth.

" Itni parwaha hai aapko meri "

Anjali paused.

For a brief second, she said nothing. Instead, her eyes scanned him from head to toe, carefully, almost suspiciously. Then, without warning, she stepped closer.

Devansh instinctively leaned back slightly, caught off guard by her sudden approach. Before he could react, she leaned even closer—too close—and began sniffing him like a detective searching for evidence.

Her expression turned serious, almost analytical.

"Aapne daaru toh nahi pii hai...koi sasta nasha karte hai kya.."

Devansh stood there, utterly speechless, his thoughts momentarily blank at the words of his dearest wife. For someone who could handle the most complex situations with ease, Anjali remained the one mystery he could never quite solve.

Anjali, however, seemed entirely unbothered by his silence. Ignoring his reaction completely, she looked at him with mild irritation and questioned his presence.

" Why are you here at.."

Before she could even complete her sentence, Devansh interrupted her, his voice suddenly serious, his gaze sharp and observant.

" Are you hurt?"

The question caught her off guard.

"No"

Her reply was quick, almost instinctive. But Devansh didn't look convinced. His expression remained unchanged, his senses clearly picking up something she hadn't intended to reveal.

"I can smell the scent of blood ."

For a moment, Anjali didn't know what to say. Her mind paused, then immediately jumped to disbelief.

Is this man taking training from zooby ?

She scoffed internally, trying to brush off the strange accuracy of his observation. It felt absurd... and yet, unsettlingly precise.

Sensing her suspicion, Devansh spoke again, his tone casual, as if explaining something ordinary.

"I'm used to the smell of blood."

His words were simple, but they carried a depth she didn't question further. Perhaps she didn't want to.

Letting go of her act, Anjali finally dropped the pretense. The exhaustion she had been holding back surfaced clearly on her face as she spoke, her voice quieter now, drained of energy.

" My periods are going on ..now for god sake can you just leave.."

There was no irritation left in her tone—only fatigue and discomfort.

Devansh responded almost immediately.

"Hmm.."

It was a simple answer, yet something about it felt... off.

Too easy.

Anjali frowned slightly, a strange sense of disappointment creeping in. As much as she knew him, one thing was certain—Devansh Singh Oberoi agreeing so easily to anything was nearly impossible. If anything, he was the kind of man who did exactly what he wanted, regardless of what others said.

Which meant...

Something was coming.

A few seconds of silence passed before his low, deep voice broke through again.

"I 'll go and get you something to eat."

Anjali blinked, completely caught off guard.

For a moment, she didn't respond. She was already feeling weak, her body heavy with discomfort, her mind clouded with exhaustion. The last thing she had the energy for was arguing with him.

So, she said nothing.

Time passed—she didn't know how much. The room grew quiet again, her body slowly sinking into the mattress as fatigue took over.

And then—A familiar scent reached her.

Her eyes fluttered open, her voice soft, almost automatic "Aap phir aagye oberoi ji.."

There was no surprise in her tone this time. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, she had expected him to return.

Devansh didn't respond immediately. Instead, he moved closer quietly, his actions calm and deliberate. Gently, he placed a warm hot bag against her abdomen.

" Be good "

His voice was low, firm yet unexpectedly gentle.

Anjali didn't resist.

She didn't have the strength to—and perhaps, for once, she didn't want to.

Without another word, Devansh reached for the cup he had brought along. The faint sweetness of brown sugar lingered in the air as he carefully helped her sit just enough to drink.

He held the cup steady, making her drink it slowly, ensuring she didn't rush.

A sudden crack of thunder tore through the silence of the night, sharp and unforgiving. Within moments, the sky broke open, and heavy rain began to pour relentlessly, each drop striking against the windows like echoes of something long buried. The calm that had settled in the room was shattered, replaced by an unsettling intensity.

Anjali's gaze instinctively shifted toward the window. The sight of the storm froze her in place. The rain... the thunder... it wasn't just weather to her.

It was a memory.

A night she could neither fully remember nor truly forget.

The flashes of lightning illuminated fragments in her mind—broken, incomplete, yet powerful enough to shake her from within. That night... a thunderstorm just like this one. Since then, rain had never been just rain for her. It carried fear, pain, and something far deeper that she had never been able to confront.

Her breathing began to falter.

Every time something like this happened, Soumya was there. Always there—standing between her and the storm, shielding her from whatever haunted her past.

But tonight... Soumya wasn't there.

Beads of sweat formed across her forehead despite the cool air in the room. Her fingers trembled, slowly losing strength as numbness crept in. Her body reacted before her mind could process it, slipping into a panic she couldn't control.

Devansh noticed instantly.

His gaze sharpened, concern replacing his earlier calm. He stepped closer, his voice tense, laced with urgency.

"Kya hua jaana ."

But before he could say anything more, Anjali moved.

Without warning, she threw herself into his arms, clinging to him tightly, as if letting go would mean falling into something she could never escape. The suddenness of it made Devansh stiffen, completely caught off guard. He hadn't expected this—not from her.

Her grip tightened, desperate and unsteady. He could feel her trembling against him, her breaths uneven, shallow. Warm tears soaked through his shirt, the silent evidence of a fear she couldn't put into words.

"Please stay with me..Don't leave me .."

Her voice broke as she spoke, reduced to a fragile plea. There was no pride, no resistance—just raw vulnerability. She wasn't asking anymore. She was begging.

For a moment, Devansh didn't move. His mind filled with voices from the past, sharp and unrelenting.

"Stay away from my daughter " ~ Ishani Ray 

"If you dare to hurt my sister ..I will not hesistate to use my gun for you.." ~ Ankush Moore

"You married my sister and now your brother will get married to his worst nightmare ." ~ His Kaali Naagin. 

Each word echoed, clashing against the present, reminding him of boundaries, warnings, consequences. But none of it mattered in that moment. Because right now, Anjali wasn't the strong, sharp-tongued woman who could fight the world.

She was someone breaking. Slowly, silently... in his arms.

Devansh closed his eyes for a brief second, as if shutting out every voice, every thought that tried to pull him away. And then, without hesitation, he made his choice.

"okay "

Devansh gently guided Anjali back onto the bed, his movements careful, almost instinctively protective. She didn't resist—her strength had already given way to exhaustion, both physical and emotional. As she lay down, he remained beside her, close enough for her to feel his presence, yet quiet enough not to disturb her fragile state.

Gradually, a strange calmness began to settle within her. The storm outside still raged, thunder echoing through the night, rain striking relentlessly against the windows—but inside, something had shifted. The fear hadn't disappeared completely; it still lingered in the corners of her mind. Yet, it no longer consumed her the way it had moments ago.

Devansh's presence... it grounded her.

She didn't understand it. She didn't question it either.

Pulling the covers up to her neck, as if shielding herself from both the cold and her thoughts, Anjali turned her gaze toward him. Her eyes, though still carrying traces of fear, now held a quiet steadiness.

"Aapko insomnia hai n..hame dadi sa ne btaya tha ...toh aap sona mt ..thk h?" Her voice was soft. 

Devansh looked at her for a moment before responding, a faint smirk touching his lips, his tone carrying a familiar hint of sarcasm.

"Okay , I will not ..Believe me even I have the ability to made your night sleepless too ."

There was a teasing edge in his voice, an attempt—perhaps—to lighten the heaviness that still lingered between them.

Anjali frowned slightly, unimpressed.

"Hame sone dijiye..khud toh bimar hai..hame bhi bimari transfer kar rahe hai.."

Her words carried a tired irritation, but there was no real resistance behind them anymore. It was softer now, almost habitual.

Without waiting for his reply, she closed her eyes.

The tension in her body slowly began to ease, her breathing growing steadier with each passing moment. Though the storm continued outside, its hold over her weakened, fading away with the night..

A few minutes passed, and the room grew quieter with each breath Anjali took. The storm still roared outside, but inside, a fragile peace had settled. Devansh remained still beside her, his gaze occasionally drifting toward her face—soft now, free from the fear that had consumed her earlier.

Carefully, he tried to pull back, creating a little distance between them.

But the moment he moved, he froze.

In her sleep, Anjali instinctively shifted closer, her hand finding its way to his chest, gripping his shirt lightly as if anchoring herself. Before he could react further, she rested her head against his bicep, completely unaware of what she was doing.

Devansh went completely still.

"Subha subha iski behan mere bolti she hates physical touches..yeh do trfa ni lgta kya..Meri biwi mera soshan kar rahi hai.."

He muttered under his breath, his voice low, filled with disbelief. His eyes dropped to her face, then to her hand resting against him. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. The same woman who claimed to hate physical closeness was now clinging to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And him?

He didn't know what to do.

His body stiffened slightly as awareness crept in. It had been a decade... ten long years since he had been this close to any woman. The warmth of her presence, the softness of her touch—it all felt unfamiliar, almost overwhelming.

"For Devil Sake , I never thought she will torture me like this. "

He let out a quiet, frustrated breath, his voice barely audible. Just as he tried to steady himself, Anjali shifted again.

This time, she moved even closer.

Her upper body rested against his chest, her head settling comfortably as if she had found the perfect place to sleep. Her breathing remained soft and steady, completely at peace—unaware of the chaos she had created within him.

Devansh closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to regain control over his thoughts.

Before he could react, she had already shifted, placing her other hand against his hardness. The unexpected contact made him go rigid, a sharp pang of discomfort and desire coursing through his body.

Her fingers brushed his lower region, taking his breath away.

"Somi aur Ika, aaj hum tumhein kheera cheel ke dikhaenge,"

She murmured softly in her sleep, her words random, almost childish, as if her mind had drifted into some distant, harmless memory. The innocence of it clashed so sharply with his current state that for a moment, Devansh didn't know whether to be frustrated... or just defeated.

He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself, trying to regain control over both his thoughts and the situation.

"This woman is going to be the end of me..."

Devansh was already on edge, his entire body tense from the unexpected closeness. A thin layer of sweat formed on his forehead as he struggled to steady his breathing, the intensity of the moment catching him completely off guard. Clenching his jaw, he carefully reached down and removed her fingers, as gently as possible, trying not to disturb her sleep.

For a brief second, he thought he had succeeded. But Anjali, still lost in her dreams, shifted again.

She moved closer.

Instinctively, she nuzzled against him, seeking warmth, comfort—something familiar. Her face brushed against his neck, her breath soft and uneven against his skin. The light contact alone was enough to send a wave of tension through him. Before he could react, she shifted again, her nose grazing along his neck, her lips brushing faintly against it.

Devansh froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. And then— Her lips brushed against his earlobe.

That was it.

The last thread of his patience snapped.

His eyes shut tightly as he took a sharp breath, as if trying to regain control before he completely lost it. This situation had gone far beyond what he could handle calmly.

"Biwi ji..Stop it ..."

He muttered under his breath, his voice strained.

Determined to escape before things got any worse, he carefully tried to move away, slowly lifting himself off the bed, making sure not to wake her.

But fate, clearly, had other plans. The moment he shifted—

Thud.

Anjali, still asleep, kicked out unconsciously, her leg hitting him with enough force to completely throw him off balance. Before he could recover, he fell straight off the bed, landing hard on the floor.

Devansh lay there, staring at the ceiling, his expression blank, as if his soul had momentarily left his body.

Meanwhile, on the bed— Anjali didn't move. Didn't even realize what she had just done.

She simply adjusted slightly, pulling the covers closer, and continued sleeping peacefully... as if nothing had happened.