Next Day

The tall windows of the office were shut tight, just like the night before. But this time, silence didn’t feel still. It thrummed with tension.

Siddhartha stood before the mahogany desk, files clutched in his hand, throat dry. He had spent the entire night pulling strings—calling in favors, bribing officers, hacking into private records, even threatening an informant. All for one purpose.

To find everything about the girl who had dared to carve a space in Abhimanyu Singh Rathore’s world.

And now… here he was.

Abhimanyu sat behind the desk. The files on Ishika Sharma lay neatly stacked before him, but his eyes weren’t on them. They were fixed on a book lying half-open nearby. Though Siddhartha doubted he was reading.

Finally, Siddhartha cleared his throat.

“I found her.”

That made Abhimanyu look up. His gaze sharpened instantly. “Speak.”

Siddhartha opened the file. “Her name is Ishika Sharma. Twenty-seven. Lives with her parents in Old Delhi. Works as a chef in their family restaurant. No criminal record. Just... a simple life.”

Abhimanyu’s eyes dropped to her photograph. He didn’t blink.

Siddhartha continued, a strange unease in his chest. “Her parents manage the restaurant. It's actually quite popular. Ishika runs the kitchen with one other chef. She has a younger sister, Mahi, nineteen, second-year college student—bright, ambitious. And one close friend since school, Anya Agarwal. A psychiatrist. She owns a clinic. The same girl we saw with her yesterday. That’s it. No hidden history. No drama. No enemies. No lovers. Just... a simple, grounded girl.”

He waited—almost hoping Abhimanyu would scoff, dismiss her as unworthy, say it was a moment’s curiosity and let it go.

But instead, Abhimanyu’s lips curved. Not with mockery.

With something far more dangerous—satisfaction.

“A chef,” he murmured, as though savoring the word. “Simple. Fierce.”

His jaw tightened, and something unreadable darkened his gaze.

“Perfect.”

Siddhartha’s stomach dropped.

“Perfect? Abhi, did you hear what I said? She’s ordinary. Normal. She’s not from our world. She—”

“—belongs to me,” Abhimanyu finished coldly, his voice like steel. “She doesn’t know it yet. But she does.”

Siddhartha's chest tightened. He had seen Abhimanyu obsessed—with power, with revenge, with control. But this? This was different.

This was dangerous.

Abhimanyu stood, and the room seemed to shrink around him.

“Prepare everyone,” he said. “We’re going to ask for her hand in marriage.”

Afternoon

The Bloom – Family Restaurant

The cozy restaurant smelled of warm spices and comfort. Ishika stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, focused as she prepared lunch orders. Her laughter rang out when her mother scolded her for skipping breakfast.

The dining room buzzed with voices and the clatter of cutlery—normal, alive.

Until the door opened.

The air shifted.

Chatter died mid-sentence. A fork clattered to the ground. The waiter froze.

Because stepping inside, dressed in a sharp black three-piece suit, exuding an aura like a coming storm, was Abhimanyu Singh Rathore.

Behind him came Siddhartha, face stiff with tension. And following them—a dozen men in dark coats, eyes alert, weapons hidden but presence unmistakable.

The restaurant went dead silent.

Ishika looked up, her brows knitting at the strange hush. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped out from behind the counter—only to be stopped short by her father, who quickly placed himself in front of her protectively.

Peeking around him, her breath caught.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one she had confronted. The one whose cold grey eyes had haunted her thoughts last night.

He walked forward slowly, each step deliberate. Every customer, every staff member, held their breath.

When he stopped in front of her father, the world seemed to tilt.

Without a word, he looked at his men—and they dragged her father aside, despite his protests.

“Stop!” Ishika cried, stepping forward. Her voice was fierce. Her glare, unflinching. “Who the hell are you? And leave my father alone.”

Abhimanyu turned to her, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Your future husband, love.”

Gasps rippled through the restaurant.

She blinked once, disbelieving, then gave a short, incredulous laugh.

“Excuse me?”

Abhimanyu’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I am Abhimanyu Singh Rathore. I don’t repeat myself. I came with a proposal. Marriage.”

Her parents froze, faces pale. Siddhartha silently cursed under his breath. This wasn’t a proposal, but more like a threat.

But Ishika?

She laughed again, sharper this time.

“Marriage? With you? You’ve lost your damn mind.”

The room tensed, bracing for an explosion.

But Abhimanyu only smiled wider.

“Bold,” he said softly. “I like it.”

She took a step closer, unafraid.

“I don’t care what you like. Now get out.”

Abhimanyu tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure, love?” he asked, voice calm—too calm. “Because I’m certain what I do next… you’re not going to like it.”

Ishika’s brows furrowed, the first flicker of unease creeping into her expression.

“What are you—”

Before she could finish, his men moved.

Like shadows breaking formation, they slipped through the crowd. Guns drawn in silence, masked in coats, they moved with precision. Two held her father and mother in place, the cold steel of pistols pressing into their temples.

Ishika’s heart dropped.

“Papa!” she cried, and lunged forward. but she hadn’t taken two steps when Abhimanyu’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Careful, love.” His tone was casual, almost amused. “One more impulsive step… and your impatience might just kill them.”

She froze. Breath heaving, hands clenched at her sides, she looked at him, really looked at him.

His eyes were unreadable. Grey, sharp, merciless.

She turned slowly, and saw the panic in her mother’s eyes, her father’s struggle against the iron grip of the guards. Her stomach churned.

And then—

“Siddhartha,” Abhimanyu said smoothly, still looking in her deep brown eyes.

Without showing the obvious reluctance, Siddhartha stepped forward and held up a tablet.

Ishika’s blood ran cold.

On the screen: live footage.

Her sister, Mahi, laughing with friends outside her college gates, unaware of the black SUV crawling behind her like a predator.

Then, a split screen.

Her best friend, Anya, in her clinic. Surrounded by three men in suits. One of them, gun drawn, pressed under her chin as she sat frozen in fear.

A soft gasp escaped Ishika’s lips.

She looked at Abhimanyu again, her expression now twisted with pure, helpless rage. “You psychopath,” she whispered.

But he only smiled. And then, reached into his coat.

From inside, he pulled out a slim, cream-colored folder. A marriage certificate. Signed by the registrar. Her name already typed neatly beside his.

He laid it down on a nearby table, smoothing the edges with all the care of a man laying a crown.

“Now,” he said softly, stepping closer, his shadow falling over her, “what do you think, love? Still don’t want to marry me?”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, not from fear, but from fury. Her body trembled with it.

But her parents.

Her sister.

Anya.

They were everything.

And he knew it.

The silence stretched, as the guests sat still frozen in fear.

Ishika stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with fury.

Abhimanyu extended the pen toward her again, ever so calm, his voice like silk and steel. “Just sign it, love.”

Her hand twitched.

Then, without warning—

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the air.

Abhimanyu’s head jerked slightly to the side.

Gasps erupted from every corner of the restaurant. Someone dropped a glass. A child whimpered. Siddhartha nearly dropped the tablet in shock.

Her breathing ragged, Ishika glared up at him, her palm still tingling, her body trembling with rage.

“You think you can threaten me into marriage? You think this is love?” she spat, voice shaking. “You're nothing but a monster.”

The guards raised their guns instantly, trained on her with terrifying precision.

“Ishuuu!” her mother screamed.

“NO!” her father cried out, trying to break free of the men holding him.

Siddhartha stepped forward in alarm, opening his mouth to intervene—

But Abhimanyu raised one hand.

Everything stopped.

Every guard froze—hands still on triggers, but not daring to move.

And then… he turned his head back toward her, slowly, like the slap had only stirred something deeper within him.

A thin trail of blood touched the corner of his lip from where her ring had grazed him.

He looked down at it... then smiled.

Not with fury. Not with revenge.

But with adoration.

“If even a scar appears on her,” he said quietly, eyes still locked on her face,

“I will kill every single one of you myself.”

The men lowered their guns, immediately.

Everyone looked at him like he had lost his mind.

And maybe, he had.

Because then Abhimanyu looked at Ishika again, with the dazed expression of a man completely, utterly obsessed.

He gently touched his cheek where her hand had struck. And then, with a soft chuckle, said, “Your hands are so soft.”

The entire restaurant stared.

Siddhartha nearly choked.

"He's lost it," he muttered under his breath.

Abhimanyu, however, was unfazed. He leaned closer to Ishika, eyes gleaming with that maddening mix of affection and madness. “I knew you’d be fierce,” he whispered, as if they were the only two people in the room. “But this… this is better than I imagined.”

She looked up at him, trembling with fury, with fear, with fire.