Viraj and Aryan entered the Goenka mansion, their laughter filling the dimly lit hall as they relived the night’s exploits. Aryan, still high on the thrill of the club, smirked as he straightened his shirt.
“Bhai, did you see how she melted? One drink, one dance, and she was all mine,” he boasted, stretching his arms lazily.
Viraj chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Tch. You need to learn some finesse, Aryan. Confidence is key. When you play it slow, they come running to you.”
Their amusement faded the moment they stepped further in. The air in the hall was thick, suffocating. Manohar sat in his armchair, one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of whiskey, the other pressed against his temple as if trying to ward off a storm inside his head. Indira, resting her head on the back of the sofa, was silent—too silent.
Raima stood near the bar, her fingers lazily tracing the rim of her wine glass, while Mathur stood near the entrance, expression unreadable but watchful. The air smelled of rich alcohol, but there was an unmistakable tension simmering beneath the surface.
Aryan and Viraj exchanged a glance, their instincts kicking in. Something had shifted. And judging by the expressions on their parents’ faces, it wasn’t in their favor.
Indira picked up a sleek black file from the table and tossed it in front of Viraj. The papers inside scattered,the bold letters on the top page stood out like a death sentence.
“Viraj Goenka – Transfer of 50% Stake to Choudhary Enterprises.”
Viraj’s smirk vanished. His eyes darted over the document, his brows furrowing in disbelief. “What the fuck is this?!” He snatched the papers, flipping through roughly. His frown deepened with every page. “Is this a joke? I never signed this shit !”
Indira folded her arms, her gaze razor-sharp. “Then explain why your signature is right there, Viraj.”
Aryan grabbed the papers, scanning them. His face paled. “Dada, this—this doesn’t make sense. There’s no way you’d do this.”
Viraj let out a sharp, humorless laugh and threw the papers back onto the table. “Of course, it doesn’t make sense! Because I didn’t fucking do it!” He turned to his mother, his voice thick with frustration. “But I swear to God, it’s actually funny how quickly you’re ready to believe I’d just bend over and hand over half our empire to those fucking vultures.”
Indira let out a slow, cold laugh. “Believe? No, Viraj. I don’t believe anything. I look at facts. And the fact is—your signature is on those papers, the transfer is in motion, and you just put this family at risk because of your recklessness.”
Viraj’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “Oh, spare me the fucking melodrama, Ma. You’re acting like I stripped naked in the boardroom and signed my own fucking downfall.”
“Enough!”
Manohar’s voice boomed through the room as he slammed his whiskey glass onto the table, the liquid splashing over the rim. His face was thunderous, his eyes burning with fury. “You reckless, entitled little shit! Do you even understand what you’ve done?!”
Viraj rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply. “Oh, here we go again. The great Manohar Goenka with his fucking lectures!!” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Save it, old man. I’m not some idiot who’d screw myself over. Someone set me up.”
Manohar’s fingers tightened into fists. “You expect me to believe that after the way you throw money around? After the way you act? You think I don’t know what kind of shit you pull?”
Viraj scoffed. “And what exactly do I pull, huh? That I enjoy my life? That I don’t sit around kissing your ass like Aryan does? Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but I’m not your puppet.”
SMACK!
The slap landed hard, cracking through the air. Viraj stumbled back, his head snapping to the side from the sheer force. A sharp sting spread across his cheek.
Silence. Thick. Unforgiving.
Viraj slowly turned his head back, his eyes dark, something venomous brewing behind them. He let out a humorless chuckle, tongue running over his bruised lip. “You actually hit me?” His voice was eerily calm, but the fury beneath it was palpable.
Manohar stepped closer, his imposing figure looming over Viraj. “You deserve a hell of a lot more, you arrogant brat.” His voice was low, simmering with rage. “I built this empire from the ground up, and you—” his eyes burned into Viraj’s “—you gamble it away like a fucking amateur.”
Viraj clenched his fists, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “You seriously think I’d be dumb enough to do this? You think I’d sabotage my own goddamn legacy?!” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Someone forged my signature, dammit!”
No one responded. The weight of accusation and disappointment hung in the air, pressing down on him.
His jaw tightened. “Fuck this.”
Without another word, Viraj turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Indira, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke. Her voice was eerily calm, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“You’re right about one thing, Viraj. Someone set you up. The real question is… who?”
Raima, lounging lazily against the bar, smirked as she swirled her wine. “Oh dear,” she drawled, tilting her head in amusement. “It seems like the golden prince isn’t as untouchable as he thought.”
Aryan shot her a glare, but she only smirked wider, watching the empire she was a part of slowly crack.
But little did they know that the pandora’s box had just opened.
………
Morning 5 AM
The faint glow of the dressing table lamp cast a warm sheen on Durga’s reflection as she fastened the last pearl earring. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those held a storm.
Tara, standing behind her, adjusted the pleats of Durga’s saree. The deep red of the silk clung to her, the soft golden border catching the dim light.
“You don’t have to do this,” Tara murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Durga met her gaze in the mirror, the corners of her lips curling ever so slightly—not in amusement, but in the quiet acceptance of her own choices. “I do.”
A sigh escaped Tara, but she said nothing more. She knew Durga well enough to understand that once her mind was set, there was no turning back.
Anirban leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp eyes taking in the sight before him. His gaze flickered from Durga’s elegantly draped saree to the way she lifted her chin just slightly—preparing herself. His jaw clenched.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Durga Di,” he said, his voice laced with something between warning and worry.
Durga turned to face him now, her expression unwavering. “I do.”
Anirban exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is dangerous, Durga Di.”
She stepped forward, pausing just a breath away from him. “So is living in fear,” she countered softly.
“Just… don’t let him get to you.”
A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes, but she simply gave him a small nod before walking past him, her heels clicking against the floor as she disappeared into the early morning darkness.
Durga stepped into the dimly lit parking lot, her heels echoing against the concrete as she walked toward her car. The early morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint traces of jasmine lingering from the garden nearby. She slid into the driver’s seat, the smooth leather cool against her skin.
Pulling out her phone, she opened the private group chat—one that included her most trusted employees. Without hesitation, she typed:
“Today’s a holiday for everyone. No exceptions. Enjoy your day.”
She hit send.
One by one, messages of acknowledgment popped up, filled with gratitude and confusion. Some wished her well, others simply responded with a thumbs-up emoji.She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel.
Tonight wasn’t about work, it was about something far more dangerous.
With one last glance in the rearview mirror, she started the engine,and then, without looking back, she drove toward the place where fate was waiting for her. But things were taking different turns elsewhere.
The grand dining hall of the Goenka mansion basked in the soft golden light of the morning sun. The scent of freshly brewed Darjeeling tea and crisp toast lingered in the air as Indira and Manohar sat at the elegantly set table, savoring their breakfast with their usual composed grace.
He flipped through the newspaper leisurely, as Indira, in an impeccably draped silk saree, delicately stirred her tea, the clinking of her spoon against fine china precise.
A sudden, heavy footstep shattered the peaceful rhythm.
Aryan stormed down the staircase, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, his frustration barely restrained. Without waiting for pleasantries, he strode toward the table, slamming his phone down.
“Where the hell is Viraj?” he demanded, cutting through the serene atmosphere.
Neither of his parents flinched.
Indira took a slow sip of her tea, eyes lifting lazily to her son. “Good morning to you too, Aryan,” she said, her voice smooth, unbothered.
Manohar barely spared him a glance. “Lower your voice,” he muttered, flipping the page of his newspaper.
Aryan let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to call him since last night. He’s not answering. His staff has no idea where he is. He’s not at any of the usual places.”
Indira finally set her cup down, fingers gracefully intertwined as she studied Aryan with detached amusement. “And this is our concern because…?”
Aryan’s patience snapped. “Because he’s our family! Because he’s your son, damn it! And he’s missing!”
Manohar let out a dry chuckle, still not looking up. “Viraj isn’t a child, Aryan. If he wanted to be found, he would be.”
Indira tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Perhaps he simply doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
Aryan clenched his fists. “This isn’t about space. Something is wrong.”
Indira sighed, as if indulging a restless child. “Viraj is… unpredictable. But he always finds his way back.”
Aryan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You both are unbelievable.”
He turned away, grabbing his phone again, dialing once more—knowing he wouldn’t get an answer but refusing to stop trying.
And as he left, Indira picked up her tea once more, her smirk deepening.
Raima stood at the entrance, her lips curved into a smirk, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker—triumph.“My, my, Aryan,” she drawled, “Still brooding over last night? Didn’t get much sleep, did you?”
Aryan stilled for a moment, his fingers curling into a fist before he turned to face her.
Raima tilted her head, “You really should learn to let things go. Or is it that Viraj’s absence is making you restless?” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to taunt him.
Something inside Aryan snapped.
In a blink, he closed the distance between them, his hand shooting out to grab her arm in a punishing grip. His face inches from hers, his breath warm but laced with venom.
“You should be blessed, Raima,” he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “After everything you pulled last night, I still spared you from rape.”
Raima’s smirk faltered, her body tensing. But she recovered quickly, wrenching her hand free with a sharp glare. “Spared me?” she scoffed, rubbing her wrist where his grip had left red marks. “Don’t flatter yourself, You may have your father’s arrogance, but you’ll never have his control.”
Aryan let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “And you’ll never have Viraj’s patience.” His gaze darkened, voice like steel. “So don’t test mine.”
Raima opened her mouth to retaliate, but before she could, Aryan turned on his heel, his jaw tight, his movements sharp. His entire body vibrated with barely restrained anger as he stormed away.
At the dining table, the two exchanged a glance—subtle, brief, but laced with silent understanding. No words were spoken, yet the air between them carried an unspoken acknowledgment.
As if they had expected all of this. As if it was merely another morning in the Goenka household.
The tires screeched softly against the pavement as Durga’s car pulled up in front of the grand art gallery. The structure stood tall. A stark contrast to the storm brewing within her.
Durga stepped out, adjusting the pleats of her saree with practiced ease, her face an unreadable mask of composure. The slight click of her heels against the marble entrance echoed in the quiet space, an announcement of her arrival.
The staff, already present, straightened at the sight of her, offering polite nods and hesitant smiles. She met none of their gazes, instead retrieving her phone and sending a swift message to the gallery’s internal group chat.
One by one, the employees check their phones, glancing at each other before swiftly gathering their belongings. No one dared to question her. Within minutes, the spacious hall was nearly empty.
She finally looked up, her gaze sweeping across the room, cold and detached. “I said leave.”
That was all it took. The last of them hurried out, the heavy doors shutting behind them.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the handle of her purse before she moved forward, her footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
She came to a halt in the center of the private gallery, the one on the topmost floor,her heartbeat steady.
Her voice had barely settled into the air when Viraj froze.
His fingers twitched around the paintbrush, but then, without a second thought, he dropped it. His hand darted to the wooden palette knife lying nearby—a sharp-edged tool stained with the remnants of his frustration.
With a sudden, almost primal urgency, he turned, his movements fluid yet dangerous. In a breath, he had crossed the distance between them, his grip latching onto Durga’s throat as he shoved her back against the cold brick wall.
The impact was sharp—air left her lungs in a quiet gasp, but Durga… Durga didn’t flinch.
Her back was firm against the wall, but her chin lifted, her gaze locking with Viraj’s dark, wild eyes.
His grip on her neck was strong—not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind her who had control. The palette knife in his other hand hovered just beside her cheek, its paint-stained edge skimming over her skin in an almost teasing caress.
“You have a death wish,” Viraj hissed, his voice dangerously low, his fingers flexing slightly around her throat. “Or are you just desperate for my attention?”
Durga didn’t answer immediately. Instead, a slow smirk crept onto her lips.
“If I wanted your attention, Viraj,” she murmured, her voice sultry and measured, “I wouldn’t have to risk my life for it.”
His grip tightened, the knife pressing just a little closer to her cheek, his body pinning her in place. The scent of wet paint and turpentine mixed with the heat radiating between them, a clash of violence and seduction.
Durga could feel his pulse thrumming against her skin—wild, erratic.
“You walk into my world like you belong here,” he growled, his lips barely an inch from hers. “Like you own me.”
Her smirk deepened.
“Don’t I?”
Viraj’s jaw clenched. His grip slackened for the briefest second—a flicker of hesitation, a moment of weakness.
And that’s when Durga moved.
In a swift motion, she grabbed his wrist, twisting just enough to make him drop the palette knife. It clattered to the floor as she flipped their positions, shoving him against the wall now, her hands pressing against his chest.
His breath hitched.
Durga’s lips hovered near his ear, her voice like silk laced with venom.
“You think you’re the only one who can play rough?”
She leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, her fingers trailing down his shirt, smearing wet paint over the fabric. A mark of possession. A taunt.
His eyes burned into hers. Challenging. Unrelenting.
The air between them crackled.With a force that sent them both tumbling, he flipped their positions again—this time, not with rage, but something far more dangerous as he flashed.
The first time he saw her—delicate, soft-spoken, almost untouched by the darkness of the world. She had walked into his life with timid eyes, hesitant smiles, and an innocence that made her untouchable.
Or so he had thought.
But that image—it had shattered.
Somewhere along the way, that quiet, uncertain girl had twisted into something dangerous. Unpredictable.
She had begun to push him. To challenge him. To invade his world in ways no one ever dared.
The softness turned into fire.
The hesitation into defiance.
And now, standing before him, lips curled into a knowing smirk, her body defiant under his hold, she was nothing like the woman he had first met.
“You were different,” Viraj murmured, his voice sharp, eyes scanning her face as if searching for a trace of the woman he remembered.
Durga tilted her head, amusement flickering in her gaze. “And you liked that, didn’t you?”
His grip tightened.
“You were quiet. Obedient.” His voice dropped lower, edged with something lethal. “And now? Look at you.”
She let out a soft, almost taunting laugh. “Oh, Viraj…” Her fingers trailed up his chest, slow, deliberate. “You think I just… changed?”
She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I became unpredictable?” Her lips ghosted near his ear. “What if I was never weak to begin with?”
Durga pulled back, her dark gaze locking onto his, sharp as a blade. “What if, from the very start… I did all of this to get close to you?”
Silence.
Viraj’s grip faltered—just for a second.
The weight of her words sank into his bones, twisting through every memory, every moment where she had drawn him in, pushing him, taunting him, luring him into madness.
And she saw it.
She saw the flicker of doubt, the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled as if resisting the urge to break her or pull her closer.
Durga’s lips curled, her voice a whisper of victory.
“You were never in control, Viraj.”
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin.
“I was always leading.”
His pulse thundered.
And then—Viraj moved.
Whether it was rage or desire, vengeance or surrender, neither of them knew.
All they knew was that the storm had broken.
And there was no turning back.
Viraj’s fingers twitched against her throat, feeling the pulse beneath his grip. Fast. Unsteady. But not from fear.
Durga’s eyes burned with something else entirely.
“You think you were leading?” Viraj’s voice was low, mocking, his grip sliding from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face up. “Then tell me, Durga…”
His thumb traced her lower lip, the touch almost tender, but the way he held her captive against the wall—unyielding, possessive—told another story.
“Was it all just a game?” he whispered.
Durga exhaled, her breath fanning against his lips, and her smile—slow, sinful—sent fire through his veins.
“Aren’t all great desires a game?” she murmured, her voice dripping with something both dangerous and intoxicating.
Viraj’s grip tightened.
“You call this desire?” His lips hovered near hers, their breaths tangling, the space between them disappearing. “This madness between us?”
Durga’s fingers curled around the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
“Madness?” She let out a soft laugh, dark and knowing. “Then why haven’t you let me go?”
His jaw clenched.
“Because you don’t want to,” she whispered, her lips just a breath away from his. “Because you want to ruin me as much as I want to ruin you.”
Viraj’s eyes darkened, his hands gripping her waist now, pulling her flush against him.
“Destruction is easy,” he murmured against her skin, his lips grazing her cheek, trailing lower. “But what if I want to own you instead?”
Durga shivered. Not from fear. From something worse.
“What if I let you?” she whispered.
Viraj’s fingers dug into her waist, his control slipping for the first time.
“Don’t play with fire, Durga,” he warned, his lips barely brushing the corner of her mouth. “Because when I want something…”
He pressed dangerously close, his voice dripping with raw hunger.
“I don’t just take it.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“I devour it.”
Durga’s lips parted, but before she could say anything, Viraj pulled back, just enough to make her chase the heat.
A cruel, wicked smirk played on his lips.
“Tell me,” he taunted, voice husky. “Are you ready to be consumed?”
Viraj’s grip on her waist tightened, his breath hot against her lips. His dark eyes burned with an emotion far beyond anger—something raw, something that threatened to consume them both.
He tilted her chin up, his lips just a breath away from claiming hers, his dominance absolute.
But just as Durga felt herself sinking into the moment—into the fire, into the madness—**a name whispered through her mind.
Dev.
Her heart clenched. A wave of guilt crashed over her, cold and sharp, piercing through the intoxicating haze Viraj had wrapped around her.
“Forgive me, Dev.”
Her fingers, which had unconsciously curled into Viraj’s shirt, trembled.
“I swear, I’m doing this for you.”
The weight of her own deception suddenly felt heavier. She could almost see Dev’s face—his gentle eyes, his soft smile, the warmth that once belonged to her.
Her breath hitched.
“Give me strength.” Her plea was silent, but the desperation in it rang through her soul. “Give me the strength to go on… to finish this.”
Something in her snapped back into place.
Her body, which had momentarily melted into Viraj’s hold, turned rigid. The shift was small, barely noticeable—but Viraj felt it.
His smirk faltered.
His grip loosened.
Durga’s lashes fluttered open, her gaze colder now, calculating. She saw the way Viraj’s expression flickered—confusion, curiosity, suspicion.
She forced a smile, the kind that hid knives behind sweetness.
“You hesitate,” she whispered, her voice smooth, unreadable. “Are you afraid of what you want, Viraj?”
His jaw tensed.
And just like that, the moment broke.
Viraj took a step back, his eyes searching hers, trying to read what had just changed.
But Durga had already locked away every trace of her weakness.
She had a war to win.
And no matter how much Viraj ignited her body with fire, her heart belonged to her revenge.
Viraj’s eyes darkened, the air between them thick with unspoken want. His fingers traced the curve of Durga’s jaw, his touch both possessive and teasing, as if testing her, waiting for her to resist.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she met his gaze head-on, her lips parting just slightly, the ghost of a challenge flickering in her eyes. Something inside him snapped.
With a sharp pull, he yanked her flush against him, his body molding against hers as his hands gripped her waist. And then, he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger and fury, fire and possession, a collision of two storms refusing to be tamed. His lips moved against hers with a desperate urgency, as if he wanted to consume every breath she had left.
Durga let him take control, let him revel in the illusion that she belonged to him. But as her fingers tangled in his hair, her nails grazing his scalp, it was she who deepened the kiss. She pressed closer, molding herself against him, her body betraying the war raging inside her.
Viraj groaned against her mouth, his grip tightening, his hands roaming with reckless abandon. His fingers dug into her waist, his hold branding, as if trying to claim her in ways words never could.
But even as she let herself drown in the intoxicating heat of his touch, Durga’s mind was clear.
She wasn’t just kissing Viraj.
She was pulling him deeper into her game.
And as his lips trailed down her jaw, his breath ragged against her skin, a slow, victorious smirk ghosted over hers.
As they finally pulled apart, breathless and dazed, Viraj’s gaze flickered downward. His eyes caught the empty space on her wrist, a frown etching between his brows.
“Your kangan…” he murmured, his voice husky, still heavy with the remnants of their kiss.
Durga followed his gaze, realization dawning upon her. It must have fallen when he had pushed her against the wall.
Viraj turned away from her, stepping toward the canvas where the intense strokes of his painting remained unfinished. And there, glinting against the floor, lay the delicate kangan—an ornament so simple, yet now bearing the weight of something far more intimate.
He bent down, picking it up carefully, his fingers tracing over the metal. Something about it unsettled him. Perhaps it was the thought of it slipping away, much like the control he thought he had over her.
Durga approached him slowly, but before she could reach for it, Viraj took her wrist, his touch firm yet gentle. Their eyes locked as he slid the kangan back onto her wrist, his fingers lingering there.
Then, without a word, he lifted her hands to his lips, pressing deep, lingering kisses on both of them. His breath burned against her skin, his lips warm, almost reverent, as if in silent surrender to the pull she had over him.
Durga felt the shift—the way his control wavered, the way he was getting dragged further into her web.
And she took full advantage of it.
Before he could say anything, she surged forward, capturing his lips in a fervent kiss. Her hands tangled into his hair as she pushed him backward, forcing him against the wall. This time, it was her leading, her body pressing into his, their heat mixing, her lips demanding, teasing, owning him.
Viraj groaned against her mouth, his restraint shattering as he turned the tables in a heartbeat. His hands shot to her waist, gripping her with a raw hunger, his lips moving against hers as if he never wanted to stop.
One of his legs slipped between hers, pushing her back against the wall, trapping her completely, as if ensuring there was no space left between them. No escape.
Their bodies molded together, breaths erratic, fingers clawing, lips searching. The war between them continued—this time, not in words, but in fire.
This moment between Viraj and Durga is intense, raw, and dripping with unspoken emotions. The passion, the desperation, the hunger—it’s all consuming them.
As their lips collided once more, urgency laced every kiss, every touch. Viraj’s fingers threaded through Durga’s hair, pulling her closer as if he could merge her into himself. Durga clutched his face, her thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, memorizing the feel of him.
They sank to the floor, bodies tangled in the heat of their desire. Viraj’s hands roamed down her spine, pressing her closer, as if afraid she would slip away. Durga gasped into his mouth, her own hands cradling his face, grounding him, owning him.
Neither of them spoke—words would only ruin the moment. The way their lips moved against each other, the way their breath mingled, spoke of everything unspoken.
Viraj’s grip on her waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his body shielding hers. Durga melted into him, matching his hunger, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The outside world ceased to exist. Here, in this secluded art gallery, in the dim glow of scattered lights, they were just two souls caught in a storm of longing.
But even in this moment, a storm brewed in Durga’s mind. She could feel the weight of her own deception pressing against her heart. Yet, she let herself sink into his touch, let herself lose in the fire—for now.
For now, she belonged to the game.
And Viraj? He was falling deeper into the fire, unaware that he was playing right into her hands.
The heat between them only grew as Viraj continued to kiss her with growing intensity, his lips moving against hers with a fierce, desperate passion. His hands roamed down her back, pulling her closer, making sure there was no space between them. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart as if it matched his own, thundering in the same rhythm.
Without breaking the kiss, Viraj guided Durga to sit on him, her body straddling his as their mouths continued to dance in perfect sync. He felt her hands gripping his shoulders, holding herself steady as she responded to his every move. The world around them disappeared—there was only the heat, the touch, and the longing that seemed to consume both of them completely.
Durga, too, lost herself in the moment. Every kiss, every caress pulled her deeper into him, into the game she had been playing all along. She leaned into him, her body aligning perfectly with his, and in that fleeting moment, everything felt right—too right, too dangerous.
Viraj’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her down closer as he kissed her with a hunger that seemed endless. Durga’s breath quickened, the intensity of their kiss mirrored in the way their bodies moved together. She could feel the pressure of his desire, but there was something in the back of her mind—a momentary flicker of thought—but she drowned it out, lost in the feeling of him, of the kiss, of the taste that was purely him.
But even as they melted into each other, Durga’s mind was still sharp, still calculating. She had him where she wanted him—her web was tightening around him, even as he pulled her deeper into this moment.
Their breaths mingled, heavy with unspoken emotions and desire, as Durga leaned in once more, her lips capturing his in a slow, searing kiss. Viraj’s hands moved with deliberate patience, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her back before gently slipping the blouse down her shoulders. The silk slid away, revealing the delicate lace of her bra, the contrast between the fabric and her warm skin making his jaw tighten.
Durga didn’t falter—she knew exactly what she was doing. Her fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt, but they were already undone, the fabric hanging loosely off his frame. Still, she took her time, savoring the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch. As she pushed the shirt off completely, her nails grazed his skin, drawing a sharp inhale from him.
Viraj’s hands found her waist, gripping her as if grounding himself, as if making sure she was real. His lips ghosted over her collarbone, planting soft, teasing kisses, while his fingers mapped the newly exposed skin, memorizing the heat, the way she arched ever so slightly under his touch.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured against her skin, his voice thick, his control hanging by a thread.
Durga smirked, her fingers trailing down his chest. “Then burn for me.”
But just as she leaned in, about to claim his lips again, something unexpected happened. A sharp sound—metal clattering against the floor. Durga stiffened. Viraj’s grip on her tightened as his gaze flickered toward the source of the noise.
A brush had fallen from the table, knocked over in the heat of their movements. The realization of their surroundings hit them both at the same time—the unfinished canvas, the scattered paint supplies, the walls that had witnessed too much.
For a fleeting moment, Durga saw something shift in Viraj’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper than desire—something raw, something dangerous. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
She swallowed, her heart hammering in her chest. This wasn’t just passion. This was a game of control, of power. And she couldn’t afford to lose.
“Viraj,” she whispered, tilting his chin back toward her, bringing his focus back to her. “Stay with me.”
His eyes darkened, his hands sliding up her spine. “I never left.”
And just like that, the moment reignited, but this time, with something even stronger—an edge of something neither of them wanted to name.
As Durga and Viraj remained tangled in their heated embrace, their lips refusing to part, elsewhere in the grand Goenka mansion, an entirely different storm was brewing.
Indira and Manohar sat in their private study, the morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows over their faces. A thick envelope lay between them, its contents scattered across the mahogany desk—newspaper clippings, a faded photograph, and a letter written in shaky handwriting—all pointing toward a past they had buried deep.
Indira’s manicured fingers tightened around the edge of a document, her composed mask slipping for just a fraction of a second. Manohar, usually unshaken, exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.
“This shouldn’t exist,” Indira whispered, her voice colder than ice.
Manohar’s eyes darkened as he read the letter again. It was a warning. Someone knew. Someone had uncovered the truth about what they had done—the heinous crime that had once threatened to ruin them.
He picked up the photograph—the image of a young man, his face strikingly familiar yet long gone. His death had been the key to their empire, the foundation of their power.
A silence stretched between them, heavier than ever before. And then, Indira slowly met Manohar’s gaze, a silent agreement passing between them.
“Who sent this?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.
Indira’s lips curled into the barest hint of a smile, but it held no amusement. “That,” she said, tapping the letter, “is what we need to find out… before they make their next move.”
As the walls of the past began to crack around them, in another corner of the city, Durga tightened her grip around Viraj, pressing herself closer. Unknown to the Goenkas, the force unraveling their darkest secrets had already made her move.
Just as Indira and Manohar’s conversation reached a tense silence, a figure lingered outside the heavy wooden doors of the study. Hidden in the dimly lit corridor, a man stood still, listening intently to every word exchanged inside.
His fingers hovered over the keypad of his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face in the darkness. His expression remained unreadable as he quickly typed out a message.
“The work is done. They took the bait.”
He hit send.
A moment later, the message was received by its intended recipient—Durga.
Back in the city, as Viraj’s arms remained wrapped around her, his touch still lingering on her skin, Durga’s phone vibrated beside them. A small, knowing smile ghosted over her lips.
Everything was falling into place.
The aftermath of their passion lingered in the air, thick with heat and unspoken emotions. The studio was a chaotic masterpiece—splashes of color streaked across the floor, their clothes, and even their skin. The canvas lay abandoned on the ground, its surface bearing the wild strokes of their fevered energy, a silent witness to the intensity that had unfolded moments before.
Durga sat nestled against Viraj, her back resting against his chest, her legs stretched forward, while his wrapped loosely around hers in a possessive hold. His bare arms, still smeared with shades of deep crimson and indigo, guided her delicate fingers over the canvas, dragging lines of color in slow, deliberate strokes.
The rhythmic motion of their hands moving together over the paint felt hypnotic, almost intimate in its own way. Viraj’s lips hovered near her temple, his breath warm as he whispered, “You’ve turned my world into a mess, Durga.”
Durga smirked, tilting her head slightly to glance at him. “A beautiful mess,” she corrected, her voice laced with something unreadable.
His fingers tightened ever so slightly over hers, the paint staining their intertwined hands like a silent promise, an unspoken truth neither dared to voice just yet.
In that moment, with the chaos of the studio around them, nothing else existed—just them, tangled in colors, in desire, in something far more dangerous than either was ready to admit.
As their fingers danced over the canvas, blending colors into something neither of them fully understood, Durga let out a soft sigh, leaning her head against Viraj’s shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, a dangerous comfort she knew she had to weaponize.
Viraj watched her intently, his grip on her hand loosening for a fraction of a second. “You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice laced with curiosity.
Durga turned her head slightly, letting her lips brush the line of his jaw, a featherlight touch that made him stiffen. “I’m just thinking,” she whispered, dragging her fingers through the paint once more. “About how much you’ve changed me… how much I feel for you.”
Viraj’s breath hitched. His hands tightened around her waist instinctively, his need for control warring with the sudden vulnerability she had thrust upon him. “Durga…” he began, searching her face for something real, something untainted by the madness that often swirled between them.
She met his gaze, her eyes soft yet filled with an intensity that made him restless. “You don’t understand, Viraj,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never felt this way before. You consume me. It’s terrifying… and yet, I don’t want to escape.”
Viraj cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek, smearing a streak of paint in the process. His expression was unreadable, torn between disbelief and the overwhelming need to believe her. “More than anyone?” he asked, his voice lower, rougher.
Durga didn’t hesitate, her fingers threading into his hair as she pulled him closer. “More than anyone,” she breathed against his lips. “More than I even thought possible.”
That was all it took. The final push.
Something in Viraj unraveled as he crashed his lips onto hers, a possessive, almost desperate kiss that spoke of everything he could never say out loud. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her into his lap as if he could mold her into him, as if she belonged to him in ways he hadn’t even begun to comprehend.
And as Durga kissed him back, her hands sliding over his bare shoulders, she knew—she had him exactly where she wanted.
As Viraj pulled her even closer, his lips moved with urgency, a desperate need to claim, to own, to believe. But just as the kiss deepened, he suddenly slowed, his grip on her waist firm yet gentle.
He pulled away slightly, his breath warm against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers for something—assurance, sincerity, maybe even love. Then, without a word, he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips resting there for a moment longer than necessary.
Durga closed her eyes, letting the moment sink in, knowing this was more than just desire—this was trust. And trust was the deadliest weapon she could wield against him.
The afternoon sun blazed overhead, casting sharp shadows on the pavement. It was almost 2 PM, but Aryan’s world felt darker than ever.
With a guttural roar, he swung the metal rod again, smashing it against the windshield of his car. Glass shards flew, the sharp sound slicing through the tense air. His friends, who had been standing nearby, instinctively stepped back, exchanging wary glances. They had seen Aryan angry before, but this—this was something else.
His breath was ragged, his knuckles white as he gripped the rod. The frustration, the helplessness—it was all consuming him, and he needed an outlet. Needed something to break, to destroy.
One of his friends hesitantly took a step forward. “Aryan, yaar—”
“Don’t,” Aryan snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through steel. His jaw tightened as he tossed the rod aside, the clatter echoing against the concrete.
Without another word, he turned and stormed off, leaving behind the wreckage—of the car, of his control, and perhaps, of himself.
Aryan’s breath was ragged, his knuckles white from gripping the metal rod. The shards of glass glistened under the afternoon sun, reflecting his fury. His so-called friends had stepped back, unsure, hesitant—no one dared to come close.
Until her voice cut through the chaos.
“Enough, Aryan.”
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a reprimand. It was a command—calm, unwavering, and laced with something he couldn’t quite place.
His entire body stilled as he turned. And there she stood—Durga, draped in a deep blue saree, the color rich and striking against her skin. The breeze lifted the loose strands of her hair, making her seem almost ethereal. But it wasn’t her beauty that had his breath hitching.
It was the way she looked at him.
No fear. No hesitation. Just control.
For the first time in his life, someone had silenced his rage without lifting a hand. Without flinching. Without backing away.
The rod slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud.
His friends exchanged uncertain glances, but Aryan didn’t care. His world had just shifted—because Durga had commanded him. And he had obeyed.
Aryan’s steps were slow, deliberate, as he closed the distance between them. His chest heaved, his jaw clenched, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something even he couldn’t understand.
Durga stood firm, her blue saree swaying slightly with the wind, her gaze locked onto his. Just as he neared, she spoke, her voice smooth, calculated.
“I know you’re worried for Viraj, but—”
“Shut up!” Aryan’s voice thundered through the air, making the bystanders flinch. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he took another step closer, towering over her. “I am not worried for him! I’m worried for you! For what you’re doing to me!”
Durga’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of her lips, as if she had expected this, as if she had wanted this.
She tilted her head slightly, her kohl-lined eyes peering into his with something dangerously close to amusement. “I am doing something to you?” she mused, her tone laced with subtle provocation. “Aryan, don’t you think you’re giving me too much power?”
His breathing was heavy, his fury palpable. But she could see it—the turmoil beneath, the storm raging within him. And that was exactly what she wanted.
Durga took a step closer, her fingers barely grazing his wrist before retreating. “Or maybe,” she continued, her voice softer now, almost hypnotic, “you’re just afraid of what you’re feeling.”
Aryan swallowed hard, his fists trembling. She was playing with him—again. And the worst part? He was letting her.
Aryan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions. “Afraid? Me?” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. He took another step toward her, closing the distance until they were almost chest to chest.
“After all I did for you?” he seethed, his jaw tightening. “Even after all these days we spent in love?”
Durga didn’t move, didn’t flinch. She merely looked up at him, her expression unreadable. But there was something in her gaze—something that sent a shiver through Aryan, something that made his anger war with the ache in his chest.
She inhaled softly, tilting her head as if studying him. “Love,” she repeated, her voice a whisper against the charged air. “Is that what you think this is?”
Her words hit him like a blow, but he refused to step back. “Don’t do that, Durga.” His voice dropped lower, dangerously low. “Don’t stand here and act like it means nothing. I know you felt it too.”
Durga’s lips curled slightly—not in a smile, but in something more enigmatic, something unreadable. “And what if I did?” she mused, her fingers lightly grazing the edge of his sleeve before retreating just as fast. “What if I still do?”
For the first time, Aryan faltered. Because in that moment, he didn’t know if she was telling the truth—or if this was just another one of her games.
Aryan’s voice cracked, raw with something he couldn’t name. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he took another step closer, his breath ragged.
“If you did… then why did you ever share the bed with someone else?”
His words hung in the air like a dagger between them.
Durga didn’t flinch. She merely looked at him, her expression unreadable, her blue saree shifting slightly with the breeze. For a moment, there was silence—so thick, so suffocating that it felt like the walls around them were closing in.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she exhaled. “Aryan,” she murmured, reaching out as if to touch him but stopping just short, her fingertips hovering over his wrist. “You misunderstand me.”*
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Misunderstand?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Then make me understand, Durga. Tell me how a woman who claims to love me could—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching. “Could give herself to someone else.”*
Durga’s eyes softened, but whether it was genuine or just another trick, Aryan couldn’t tell. “You think love is so simple?” she whispered. “Does it follow rules?”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Love doesn’t. But loyalty does.”*
A flicker of something passed through her eyes—guilt, pain, or something even more dangerous. But just as quickly, she masked it, stepping even closer, until there was barely any space between them.
“Aryan,” she said his name like a secret, her voice laced with something almost hypnotic. “If I ever shared my bed with another man, then tell me…” She lifted a hand, tracing her fingers lightly along his jaw. “Why is it that it’s only your name that still lingers on my lips?”
Her touch sent a shudder through him, but he didn’t move. Didn’t break. Not this time.
“You don’t get to do that,” he whispered, gripping her wrist now, stopping her. “You don’t get to make me question myself, question everything, just because you know exactly how to play me.”*
Durga smiled then—a slow, knowing smile. “But Aryan,” she murmured, “if I didn’t play you…” She leaned in, her breath ghosting over his skin. “Would you still be standing here, this close to me?”
And damn it, she was right.
Aryan’s words were sharp, venomous, fueled by something he couldn’t control—anger, jealousy, or something far more dangerous. His hands trembled as he stared at her, his eyes dark with rage.
“You told me you were in a relationship before,” he spat, his voice dripping with bitterness. “I bet that man was out of his fucking mind. And seeing the way you behave—” He let out a cruel laugh. “You would’ve fucking let him wipe your—”
Before he could finish, a sharp slap echoed through the air.
Durga’s palm stung from the impact, but her gaze remained steady, unwavering.
“Enough.” Her voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was enough to make Aryan’s breath hitch.
For a moment, he just stood there, his jaw clenched, his cheek burning from the force of her hand. Then, a slow smirk curled on his lips, as if daring her to hit him again.
But Durga didn’t. Instead, she took a step closer, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. “A hickey, Aryan?” she murmured, her voice like silk laced with steel. “That’s what you’re so worked up over?”
She let out a soft chuckle, tracing her own fingers over the mark on her neck. “It’s just a simple burn,” she said, her tone mocking. “But tell me… why does it bother you so much?”
Aryan’s fingers twitched, his breathing uneven. “Because you—”
“Because you can’t stand the thought of someone else touching me?” She finished for him, stepping even closer, their bodies almost brushing. “Because it drives you insane that you’re not the only one who’s ever had me?”
His chest heaved, his eyes searching hers, but Durga only smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a chill down his spine.
“Careful, Aryan,” she whispered, brushing past him. “Your obsession is starting to show.”*
Aryan barely had a second to react before another sharp slap landed across his face, the sting burning hotter than the first. His head snapped to the side, and before he could process it, Durga grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward with a force that sent his breath hitching.
“Where the hell were you when I was struggling?!” she shouted, her voice laced with fury and something deeper—betrayal, hurt. The fire in her eyes made him freeze, made his heart pound in a way he couldn’t understand.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time, she had rendered him speechless.
“You think you have the right to question me? To hold me accountable?” she spat, tightening her grip on his collar. “All you’ve ever done is spend your daddy’s money, Aryan. Do you even have anything of your own? A single thing you’ve earned by yourself?”
His fingers twitched at his sides, his pride battling with the truth in her words.
“You think I owe you explanations? For what?” she continued, her tone dripping with disdain. “You flirt with girls, you drink, you share the same bed with them, but have I ever held you accountable?”
His throat dried. He wanted to argue, to throw something back at her, but the weight of her words hung heavy between them, suffocating.
Durga shoved him back, her eyes boring into him, daring him to speak. Say something, they seemed to challenge. Defend yourself, if you can.
But he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew—she was right.
Durga took a step closer, her eyes burning with intensity as she continued, her voice unwavering.
“Yes, Aryan, I did love you. Yes, I agreed to go on dates with you. But I left because you don’t even know what you’re doing with your life!” She let out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening into fists.
“You have no stand of your own. No purpose. You don’t even know where your life is heading!” Her words struck deep, cutting through the arrogance and privilege that had always surrounded him.
Aryan’s jaw clenched, but before he could snap back, she drove the dagger in deeper.
“What happens when your dad retires, huh? Have you ever thought about that? That goddamn legacy of yours is going to crumble, and you’ll be left with nothing but your name!”
His nostrils flared, and a muscle ticked in his jaw, but Durga wasn’t done yet.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice turning taunting, condescending. “You know what? Viraj is so much better than you.”
Aryan’s breath hitched.
“At least he knows what he’s doing. At least he has control over his life, over himself. He doesn’t have to depend on his father’s power to get things done. Viraj is sharp, decisive, ruthless when he needs to be. He doesn’t waste time throwing tantrums or smashing car windows like some spoiled brat!”
The moment his brother’s name left her lips, something dark and violent flashed across Aryan’s face. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. Jealousy burned through him like wildfire, threatening to consume every last shred of reason he had left.
“Shut up,” he growled, but she only smirked.
“Did I strike a nerve, Aryan?” she taunted, stepping even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Does it hurt to know that no matter how hard you try, you’ll always be living in Viraj’s shadow?”
That was it. The final blow.
Aryan snapped.
Durga watched the flicker of rage in Aryan’s eyes, the way his breathing grew heavier, his fingers twitching at his sides. She knew she had him right where she wanted.
“You hate it, don’t you?” she whispered, circling him slowly, her blue saree brushing against him just enough to tease. “No matter what you do, Viraj will always be better than you. He has the power, the control, the respect—you?” She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re just the reckless little brother, living under his shadow.”
Aryan’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening to the point of pain. “Don’t compare me to him.”
“Why not?” Durga tilted her head, her gaze burning into his. “It’s the truth, Aryan. You lash out like a child, smashing things, throwing tantrums—but does that change anything? Does that make you stronger than him? No. You’re still just the second choice, the one no one takes seriously.”
He took a threatening step forward, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked, leaning in close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin.
“If you want to prove me wrong, then do something about it.” Her voice was softer now, but the challenge in her eyes was unmistakable. “Either get a job, stand on your own two feet, or walk away from me. Because I won’t waste my time on a man who has no future.”
Aryan’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling with restrained fury.
“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” His voice was low, dangerous.
Durga met his gaze, unwavering. “I’m giving you a choice.”
The air between them crackled with intensity. Aryan’s mind raced—anger, jealousy, desperation all mixing into something volatile. His whole life, he had been told he was second best, that he could never measure up to Viraj. But hearing it from Durga? That cut deeper than anything else ever had.
He wanted to yell, to break something, to pull her close and make her take it all back. But instead, he just stood there, seething, while Durga smiled.
She had planted the seed. Now, all she had to do was wait for it to grow into destruction.
Aryan’s face was set in a hard scowl as he turned on his heel, his fists still clenched at his sides. Without another word, he stormed off, his breath ragged with fury. His friends, hesitant but unwilling to leave him alone in this state, hurried after him, casting wary glances back at Durga.
She stood rooted to the spot, arms crossed over her chest, watching him go with a knowing smirk playing on her lips. The fire she had lit inside him was burning wildly now—exactly as she had intended.
The wind rustled through the trees, the loose end of her saree fluttering as she let out a slow breath. Good. Let him stew in it. Let him be consumed by it.
This was only the beginning.
The grand doors of the Goenka mansion swung open as Viraj stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate, yet carrying the remnants of something unspoken. His shirt was still slightly wrinkled, a faint smear of paint near the cuff, a silent testament to the hours spent elsewhere.
Before he could fully register his surroundings, Indira strode toward him, her expression unreadable, her sari draped in impeccable folds as always. And then, without a word, she embraced him.
Viraj stiffened for a fraction of a second before allowing himself to sink into her touch. His mother rarely displayed affection this openly—her love was like silk wrapped around steel, always precise, always calculated.
Yet, at this moment, she held him with a quiet desperation, her hand lingering on the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re home,” she murmured, as if grounding herself in that very truth.
Viraj smirked slightly, his voice casual, yet his eyes sharp. “I always come back, don’t I?”
Indira pulled back, her gaze sweeping over his face, searching. And then, as if sensing something deeper beneath his usual charm, she cupped his cheek. “You smell of paint.”
Viraj chuckled, stepping back, a flicker of something darker flashing in his eyes. “Must be the artist in me, Ma.”
Indira studied him for another moment before letting out a quiet hum. “Good. Because you must learn to paint over the past, Viraj. Some stains… aren’t meant to be seen.”
Her words, as always, carried layers of meaning. But Viraj, ever the master of deflection, simply smiled. “And some are too deep to be erased.”
Indira didn’t argue. Instead, she simply linked her arm with his and led him inside. “Come. We need to talk.”
“Viraj,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to examine his face. Her sharp eyes took in the faint bruise forming on his cheek, the tension lining his jaw. “What happened? Where were you?”
Manohar, standing a few feet away, observed his son with an unreadable expression. His earlier fury had simmered into something far more controlled, but the weight of disappointment still loomed between them. “Sit,” he instructed, gesturing towards the couch.
Viraj ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I was out handling the mess, just like always.” His voice held an edge, but exhaustion dulled its bite. He sat down, leaning back with one arm draped over the sofa, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the leather.
Manohar took a deep breath, his tone measured. “Tell us everything. From the beginning.”
Before Viraj could respond, a slow, deliberate clap echoed through the hall.
Raima.
Lounging casually near the bar, she smirked, her wine glass swirling in slow circles. “Oh, how touching,” she drawled, her voice dripping with amusement. “The prodigal son returns, bruised but not broken. Tell me, Viraj, does betrayal taste different when it’s your own doing?”
Viraj’s fingers twitched, his patience wearing thin. “Shut the fuck up, Raima.”
Raima merely chuckled, unfazed. “Oh, dear, temper, temper. You should save that rage for the real enemy.” She took a sip of her wine, her gaze flickering between Manohar and Indira. “Unless, of course, the real enemy was in your own reflection all along.”
Manohar, who had been silent, finally turned to her. His voice, though calm, carried an undeniable authority. “Enough, Raima.”
The room stilled.
Raima blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Manohar rarely intervened in their verbal battles. But tonight, his patience had thinned beyond measure.
“You will not interfere in matters that don’t concern you,” he stated firmly, his eyes locking onto hers. “If you have nothing useful to contribute, leave.”
A flicker of something—annoyance, intrigue, or perhaps amusement—crossed Raima’s face. She exhaled dramatically, setting her glass down on the table. “Fine,” she said smoothly, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and sauntered away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
The moment she disappeared, Indira refocused on Viraj. “Now, tell us exactly what happened.”
Viraj leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Someone forged my fucking signature,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “They’re trying to take me down, and if we don’t move fast, they’ll succeed.”
Indira’s eyes darkened, her mind already working through possibilities. “And who do you suspect?”
Viraj met her gaze, his voice unwavering.
“I have my suspicions. But I need more time to be sure.”
Manohar exchanged a glance with Indira. They had built their empire on power, strategy, and ruthlessness. And now, it seemed, someone was playing the same game against them.
But the Goenkas never lost.
And they wouldn’t start now.
As Viraj stepped inside, Indira wasted no time. She pulled him into a firm embrace, her hands smoothing over his back as if reassuring herself that he was truly there. “You’re home,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual.
Manohar, though not as expressive, placed a firm hand on Viraj’s shoulder, giving it a brief but solid pat. A silent acknowledgement. A silent support.
Meanwhile, at the entrance—
Aryan reached the main doors just as Raima stepped out, her phone in one hand, her wine glass now abandoned. She wasn’t watching where she was going and collided straight into him.
“Watch it,” Aryan muttered, steadying himself.
Raima arched a brow, a slow smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Well, if it isn’t the younger Goenka,” she mused, stepping back smoothly.
Aryan didn’t entertain her game. “Did Viraj arrive?” he asked, glancing past her toward the hall.
Raima, however, seized the moment. Her eyes gleamed with something mischievous as she adjusted the bracelet on her wrist. “Two brothers,” she sighed dramatically. “Always tangled in the same mess. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it?”
Aryan frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Raima exhaled as if bored, then let her gaze drift lazily back to him. “It’s amusing, really. Watching two brothers dance around the same fire, unaware of who’s going to burn first.”
Aryan’s expression darkened. “Raima,” he warned.
She chuckled, stepping past him. “Relax, Aryan. I’m just enjoying the show.”
As she walked away, she casually pulled out her phone and sent a message.
“The tea is spilling. Wish I could have more.”
And with that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Aryan standing there, his jaw tight with brewing frustration.
He didn’t wait a second longer.
Turning sharply, he strode inside—anger burning in his eyes, his patience already at its limit.
Tonight, the storm inside the Goenka mansion had only just begun.
As Aryan stepped inside, his eyes immediately landed on Viraj—his elder brother, their so-called golden prince—being pampered like a wounded hero. Indira’s soft voice carried a warmth she rarely displayed, her hands still resting on Viraj’s shoulders, while Manohar stood close, his silent approval evident in the way he lingered near.
Viraj, basking in the attention, looked up just in time to see Aryan enter. His lips curved into a half-smirk, still bruised from their earlier argument. “Ah, finally,” he drawled, stretching out his arms. “Come here, little brother. Missed me?”
But Aryan wasn’t in the mood for games. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, dark with fury, flickered between Viraj and their parents, resentment boiling inside him.
And before Viraj could react—
CRACK!
Aryan’s fist collided straight with Viraj’s jaw, sending his head snapping to the side. A stunned silence fell over the room. Indira gasped, taking a step back, while Manohar’s eyes widened in brief shock.
Viraj stumbled slightly but caught himself, a sharp exhale leaving his lips. He slowly turned his head back, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek where he’d just been hit. He tasted blood.
For a second, the two brothers just stared at each other.
Then, Viraj let out a slow, humorless chuckle, his head tilting slightly. “Well, well,” he murmured, wiping the corner of his mouth. “That’s how we’re greeting each other now?”
Aryan’s chest heaved. “Don’t act like you don’t deserve it.” His voice was low, lethal.
Indira stepped forward, grabbing Aryan’s arm. “Aryan, have you lost your mind?” she snapped.
But Aryan shrugged her off, his glare never leaving Viraj. “No, Ma. I think I’ve just come to my senses.”
Viraj raised a brow, his amusement not quite masking the irritation bubbling underneath. “Oh? And what realization have you had, little brother?”
Aryan took another step forward, his voice dropping dangerously. “That you’re a selfish, reckless bastard who only cares about himself.”
Viraj’s smirk faltered slightly.
Aryan continued, his voice rising. “I’ve spent my whole life standing behind you, covering up your messes, listening to people call you the ‘heir’ while I’m just the ‘spare’! And look at you now—sitting here, getting pampered after fucking up—again!”
Viraj’s jaw tightened.
Manohar finally intervened, his voice firm. “Enough, Aryan.”
But Aryan ignored him. His hands were still trembling, his breathing ragged with anger. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? Or do you just expect everyone to clean up after you while you go back to drinking and fucking around like always?”
Viraj’s expression turned cold. His smirk was gone.
For the first time in a long time, Aryan had struck a nerve.
The storm between them had only just begun.
Aryan wasn’t done. His rage had cracked through years of restraint, and now, there was no stopping the fire. He lunged again, fist raised, ready to strike Viraj a second time.
But this time, Viraj was prepared.
He caught Aryan’s wrist mid-air, his grip tightening like a vice. Their eyes locked—Aryan’s burning with unfiltered fury, Viraj’s darkening with something colder, more dangerous.
“That’s enough, Aryan,” Viraj growled, his voice low, warning.
But Aryan only sneered, yanking his hand free. “Enough?” He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get to decide when it’s enough, dada. Not after everything you’ve done.”
Viraj’s jaw ticked. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Aryan stepped closer, shoulders squared. “You’ll beat the shit out of me the way you did to that girl?”
A thick silence crashed over the room.
Viraj stilled. His entire body went rigid, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
Indira sucked in a sharp breath. “Aryan!” she snapped, but it was already too late.
Viraj’s eyes darkened, a dangerous glint flashing through them. “You really want to go there?” he muttered.
Aryan didn’t back down. “I should’ve gone there a long time ago.” His voice was ice, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You talk about family honor, about power, but you’re nothing more than a rapist hiding behind the Goenka name.”
Viraj snapped.
With a snarl, he shoved Aryan back, sending him stumbling into a side table, knocking over a crystal vase that shattered on the floor.
But Aryan recovered fast. He surged forward, slamming into Viraj with full force, tackling him onto the floor.
And then, all hell broke loose.
Fists flew. Punches landed. Grunts and curses echoed through the grand hall as the two brothers wrestled, their pent-up hatred exploding into raw violence.
Viraj drove a punch into Aryan’s ribs, but Aryan retaliated with a brutal hit to Viraj’s jaw. Blood smeared across Viraj’s lip, but he barely flinched. He grabbed Aryan by the collar, flipping them over, pinning his younger brother beneath him.
“You think you’re better than me?” Viraj snarled, his breath ragged. “You think you can judge me?”
Aryan spat blood, glaring up at him. “I don’t think, Viraj,” he hissed. “I know I’m better than you.”
With a surge of strength, Aryan kneed Viraj in the stomach, sending him rolling off. Both of them scrambled back to their feet, panting, rage clouding their minds.
“Enough!”
Indira’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip.
She stood between them now, her face stone-cold, eyes blazing with fury. “Both of you—stop this madness right now!”
Manohar stepped forward as well, his expression unreadable, but the weight of his authority pressed over them. “Is this what you’ve become?” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Brothers, tearing each other apart like rabid dogs?”
Neither Viraj nor Aryan spoke. Their chests heaved, their fists still clenched, but the fight had been broken—for now.
Indira’s gaze flickered between them, her expression unreadable. But then, slowly, dangerously, her lips curled into a smirk.
“Interesting,” she murmured.
And that was when Aryan realized—this wasn’t just a fight.
It was entertainment to her.
Manohar rubbed his temples, his fury barely contained as he turned to them. “Have you both lost your minds?! Fighting like animals in this house—our house—do you even realize what you’re doing to this family?”
Indira’s voice was colder, sharper. “We are the Goenkas. We don’t engage in street fights like common thugs.” She turned to Aryan, her tone laced with disappointment. “And you, Aryan—raising your hand against your own brother? Is this what I’ve taught you?”
Aryan wiped the sweat off his forehead, his chest still heaving as he spat out, “No, Mother. But maybe if you had taught him some damn decency, this wouldn’t have happened.” His jaw clenched as he glared at Viraj. “Ask him—ask him about the girl he ruined. Ask him about the crime he committed and walk away like it meant nothing!”
Viraj’s face darkened, his fingers curling into fists. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Aryan. Stop running your mouth before I—”
“Before you what?” Aryan stepped closer, his tone mocking. “Before you destroy another life? Before you ruin another girl?”
Indira’s sharp voice cut through their argument. “Enough!”
Her presence was commanding, but even as she reprimanded them, her voice remained eerily calm, carrying an underlying warning. “Goenkas don’t crumble under emotions. We rise above them. You both are my sons, the heirs of this family, yet look at you—pathetic.” She turned toward Manohar, shaking her head. “We built an empire, and these two—these two fools—are tearing it down with their childish fights.”
Viraj scoffed, wiping the blood from his lip. “Then maybe you should stop expecting perfection, Mother. Because I am not your puppet.”
Aryan let out a humorless laugh. “No, but you’re a fucking disgrace.”
Meanwhile…
Somewhere far from the suffocating walls of Goenka Mansion, under the open sky, sat Durga.
A soft breeze brushed past her as she leaned back in her chair, her fingers wrapped around her phone. The screen glowed in the dim light, live-streaming every moment inside the Goenka home.
Her lips curled into a cruel smile as she watched Indira, so high and mighty, struggling to keep her kingdom from crumbling.
Her voice was low, a whisper laced with venom.
“Indira Goenka speaks of family, of power, of legacy. But she forgets—every kingdom built on sin is bound to fall.”
She glanced at the screen, her eyes locked onto Aryan’s rage, Viraj’s frustration, Indira’s desperate control—every fracture in the empire she was breaking.
“And when it does, there will be no forgiveness… only judgment.”
The camera feed flickered slightly, and Durga’s fingers tightened around the phone.
Her voice took on an almost divine calmness, chilling in its certainty.
“Just as every Daitya was crushed under the wrath of Devi Maa, every sin in this house will be paid for in blood.”
The screen captured the chaos—Indira’s chilling stare, Aryan’s shaking hands, Viraj’s burning anger.
And then, the feed went black.
Durga leaned back, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup.
“Let the punishment begin.”
The afternoon sun blazed high in the sky, its golden rays spilling over the grand Thakur residence. The air was thick with heat and tension, but Durga paid no mind as she stepped off the lawn, her eyes fixed ahead.
Inside, the house stood still, heavy with unspoken words and lingering ghosts of the past. At the foot of the staircase, Tara and Anirban waited, their expressions knowing yet unreadable. They had been expecting this.
Durga didn’t slow her steps. Without a word, she moved past them, her silence speaking louder than any command. The soft click of her heels echoed through the corridors, past the imposing portraits of the Thakur lineage—men who once stood tall, now mere shadows of history.
The private study lay ahead. Durga reached for the door and pushed it open, stepping inside with purpose. The midday sun filtered through the large windows, casting sharp streaks of light that danced against the walls.
She locked the door behind them with a quiet finality.
At the center of the room stood the display board—her battlefield of truth. Pinned photographs, torn reports, bloodied remnants of a shattered past. At the very core, two faces stared back—Aryan and Viraj Goenka. The men responsible.
Durga leaned against the table, her fingers curling against the polished wood as her eyes traced the pieces of her vengeance, each thread leading to the same inevitable end.
“It’s time.”
Tara stepped forward, her voice steady. “Tell us what to do.”
