A Few Hours Later

The knock on the door was soft but firm.

“Rathore sahab has requested you all to come down for dinner,” the maid said, bowing low.

Ishika’s family exchanged uneasy glances. No one wanted to move, yet no one dared to refuse. Finally, Ishika stepped forward first, her mother following, Mahi gripping her hand tightly.

The wide staircase glistened under golden chandeliers as they descended. Ishika walked ahead, her nerves raw, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Halfway down, her slipper slipped against the smooth marble. A gasp tore from her throat as she stumbled forward—her body pitching toward the ground.

But before she could fall, he was there.

Abhimanyu.

He caught her swiftly, his arms strong and unyielding. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop—the feared mafia king holding her like something precious, as though a scratch on her skin would be unforgivable.

“Put me down!” Ishika hissed, thrashing lightly in his hold. Her fists pressed against his chest, her eyes burning with anger. “I said put me down!”

But Abhimanyu said nothing. His jaw was tight, his gaze unreadable as he continued forward, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.

Her father surged a step forward, fury breaking through his fear. “Enough! She said put her down!”

But before he could take another step, Ishika’s mother grabbed his arm. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, but her voice was steady. “No… don’t. Please. Don’t.”

Helplessly, her father froze, his fists shaking at his sides as he watched.

Abhimanyu didn’t spare anyone a glance. With measured steps, he reached the drawing room and carefully lowered Ishika onto the soft couch. His touch was deliberate, almost gentle, as if setting down something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

The silence was thick—until heavy footsteps echoed at the doorway.

Siddhartha entered with Abhimanyu’s men trailing behind. They filled the vast room with their presence, eyes sharp, spines straight.

And then—it happened.

Abhimanyu turned back to Ishika. Slowly, without a word, he sank down onto one knee in front of her.

Everyone froze.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, confusion and shock flooding her. Her family leaned closer in disbelief, Mahi’s lips parting soundlessly, Anya clutching her hand.

But the greater shock came when Abhimanyu’s head bent—and he touched his forehead lightly to her feet.

In that instant, Siddhartha’s eyes widened. And without hesitation, he too went down on one knee. The men behind him followed, one after another, until the entire hall was filled with bowed heads and bent knees, every gaze lowered to the ground.

The message was unmistakable.

If Abhimanyu Singh Rathore was their king, then Ishika was above even him.

The family could only stare, stunned into silence, their fear momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. And Ishika—her pulse raced wildly, her chest heaving—looked at the man before her and realized something more terrifying than his power.

Abhimanyu Singh Rathore had made her untouchable.

And in doing so, had made her his queen.

Abhimanyu lingered a moment longer, his large hand brushing against Ishika’s ankle as if to check whether she was hurt. His fingers moved lightly, tracing along the edge of her skin with unusual care. Once satisfied she was fine, he rose to his full height.

“Get up,” he commanded.

Immediately, the men who had been kneeling followed, standing tall once more.

His gaze shifted to the staircase, sharp and commanding. “Lay down carpets on every step. No one slips again. Not here.”

His men nodded, already moving to obey.

Then his eyes returned to Ishika, softer now, though his expression remained unreadable to everyone else. His voice lowered, almost intimate.

“Love… I will be here in a while,” he said, straightening his cufflinks casually, as if the entire world hadn’t just watched him bow. “Just going to change.”

Ishika stared at him, her lips parting but no words coming out. Disbelief colored every line of her face. Nothing in her wildest imagination could have prepared her for what had just happened.

Without waiting for a reply, Abhimanyu turned and walked out of the drawing room, his men trailing after him like shadows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, Siddhartha crossed the room, his steps calm, unhurried. He sat down on the opposite end of the couch where Ishika sat frozen, his presence filling the air like a storm about to break.

Mahi, still shaken, muttered under her breath, “What… what just happened?”

Siddhartha’s deep voice rolled through the silence, heavy and unrelenting. “What you just witnessed,” he said, “wasn’t weakness. It was submission.”

Everyone turned to him, eyes wide, confusion thick in the air. Anya’s gaze lingered on him longer than the others, intense, searching—but Siddhartha ignored her completely. His eyes remained on Ishika and her family.

“You see…” he began, his voice calm but carrying weight that demanded silence, “Abhimanyu Singh Rathore does not just come from wealth or power. He comes from royal blood. A heritage steeped in kingship. But more than that… he is the Mafia King.”

Gasps erupted. Her mother clutched her chest. Her father stiffened, disbelief painted across his face. They had always known he was powerful—untouchably so—but mafia? The word itself shattered their understanding of him.

Siddhartha continued, his tone unwavering. “In the mafia world, marriage means little. Many leaders marry, many keep women—but those women hold no real place. No right. No power. Because men like them never bow.”

His gaze flickered toward Ishika, sharp and deliberate. “Submission is everything. And only when a leader bows before a woman—publicly, before his men—does she become untouchable. Higher even than him.”

The family sat frozen, every word sinking in like knives.

“What Abhimanyu just did,” Siddhartha said slowly, “was not for show. It was a declaration. To us. To everyone.”

His voice dropped, darker, final. “It means that before we follow his order, we follow hers. She is his queen. His men now bow to her before him. That is the law of the underworld.”

Anya’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, unable to look away from him. Mahi’s hands shook as she gripped the couch, her whisper trembling. “So… Didi… she’s…”

Siddhartha finished the thought. “She holds the place above him.”

The room chilled at his words.

But then, his eyes hardened, his tone cutting like a blade. “But don’t mistake this for freedom. In one matter, she can never command us. If anyone—anyone—tries to separate them, to take her away from him… we cannot obey her. And those who try…” he paused, his gaze like steel, “…Abhimanyu will kill them himself.”

The weight of his words sank heavy. Ishika’s mother sobbed quietly. Her father stared into nothing, broken. Anya bit her lip until it bled. And Ishika—her heart pounded in her chest, chains tightening with every beat—looked around the room and realized the terrifying truth.

Her world wasn’t just stolen.

It was sealed.

Dinner was laid out like a feast, every dish carefully chosen. Spiced curries, warm breads, delicate sweets—and every single one was Ishika’s favorite.

Everyone noticed. No one dared to comment.

Ishika’s eyes darted between the plates and then at Abhimanyu, sitting at the head of the table. So this is what being ‘queen’ means, huh? My menu, my way? If I’m already trapped in this mafia circus, I might as well enjoy the perks.

Just then, Siddhartha leaned forward with his usual calm grin. His deep voice carried across the room. “Bhabhi… may I call you that? If not, ‘Ma’am’… or maybe ‘Your Highness’ will do.”

The atmosphere cracked. Forks froze mid-air. Mahi almost dropped her spoon. Anya’s jaw went slack.

Ishika’s lips curved into the sweetest, fakest smile she could muster. Why waste this golden chance? “Don’t worry, Siddhartha,” she said, her voice honey-sweet. “Just call me Bhabhi.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And then—Siddhartha laughed. A full, rich, unbothered laugh that filled the hall, echoing like someone had just told him the best joke of his life. He leaned back casually, eyes glinting. “Bhabhi it is then,” he said boldly, as if daring the universe to challenge him.

The tension around the table loosened. Ishika’s family exchanged hesitant glances. Even Mahi muttered under her breath, “What the hell is happening?” trying to stifle a giggle.

For the first time that night, dinner felt less like a battlefield.

Everyone except Abhimanyu.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his gaze—dark, sharp, unblinking—was locked on Ishika. His jaw flexed once, the muscle ticking with restrained force.

Not because Siddhartha had called her Bhabhi. That was theirs—it always had been.

No, what made his blood heat was Ishika herself. The same Ishika who had hurled insults at him, slapped him, fought him every step of the way… was now smiling sweetly. Speaking softly. Showing warmth.

But not to him. To Siddhartha.

The storm in his eyes wasn’t over a title. It was over the fact that she gave Siddhartha what she had never once given him.

Siddhartha, of course, noticed. And he leaned right into it, utterly unafraid of Abhimanyu’s glare. He knew the risk. But he also knew one thing: Ishika might be Abhimanyu’s queen, but to him, she was like his sister, an innocent soul trapped in this empire, he must protect.

So if playing the bold little brother meant poking the lion? Well… Siddhartha smirked to himself. Let him burn.

Meanwhile, Ishika, still holding her fake smile, thought, If looks could kill, Siddhartha would’ve been roasted alive by now. But hey—at least the food’s good. And maybe, just maybe, dessert will come without more mafia drama.