The screen of Avni Mehta's phone lit up, an unknown international number flashing boldly across it. She was deep in reviewing the Mumbai portfolio, her brows furrowed in thought, when the sudden vibration startled her.
Unknown number. But it could be an investor.
As the CEO of Mehta Corporations, she was used to being contacted at odd hours by venture capitalists, media houses, or board members. Still, something about this call made her spine tingle. She picked up.
"Hello?" she said in her professional tone, her voice calm.
Nothing.
Just when she was about to hang up, a deep, male voice slid through the speaker. Smooth. Sinister. And foreign.
"Ti sto guardando da lontano, sei mia. Sono persino geloso dell'aria che respiri." (I'm watching you from afar, you're mine. I'm even jealous of the air you breathe.)
Her grip on the phone tightened. The voice was laced with hunger, obsession, and something else—danger. But she didn't understand a word.
"Must be a wrong number," she muttered and hung up.
In another part of the world, a glass shattered against the marble wall.
"Che cazzo!" (What the fuck!) Abhimanyu Singh Rathore's snarl echoed through his penthouse.
She had cut the call.
His fingers trembled, not from weakness—but fury. How dare she? How dare his princess ignore his voice, his presence, his obsession?
"I'll let it go for now," he muttered, voice low, lethal. "But you'll be punished, principessa... soon."
He turned to the man standing silently behind him.
"Il piano?" (The plan?)
Matteo Ricci, dressed in black and shrouded in silence, gave a slight nod.
"It's well taken care of," Matteo replied, voice cool. "Phase one has begun. No trails. No mercy."
Abhimanyu's lips curled into a smirk. Good. His princess would never see him coming.
Earlier that night...
Avni sat curled on her couch, blanket over her legs, wine untouched. Her room glowed in warm gold, scented candles flickering by the side table. She stared at her phone.
Her best friend had replied to her text: Creepy call? Girl, maybe it's a ghost admirer.
Avni laughed softly, shaking her head.
Ghost or not, the voice had lingered.
Her phone buzzed again—this time, a name flashed across it. Her boyfriend. Her secret.
She smiled and answered, "Hey... I missed you."
Their conversation was light, filled with warmth, teasing, comfort.
Avni leaned back, closing her eyes. For now, the day was done. Tomorrow would bring meetings, deals, competition. But tonight? Tonight was hers.
Meanwhile, in Milan...
The club pulsed with music and sin. Red lights shimmered like danger, and bodies moved with practiced lust. Abhimanyu entered like a storm—dark suit, darker eyes, and a face that spelled destruction.
He needed to forget her. Just for a few hours.
A woman approached him—short dress, long legs, desperation clinging to her like perfume.
He didn't ask her name. Didn't want her story.
In the VIP lounge, the music dimmed, and clothes disappeared. He shoved her against the wall, raw and furious. His grip was brutal, his thrusts punishing.
She moaned, trying to kiss him.
"No," he growled. "You don't touch me."
He didn't kiss her. Didn't look into her eyes. This wasn't about her. This was about her.
Avni.
"Stronza inutile..." (Useless slut...) he muttered under his breath, eyes closed, imagining someone else. Not this woman. Never this woman.
When it was over, he left without a glance back.
His mind was still filled with Avni.
She had cut his call.
She didn't even know him yet.
But she would.
He'd make sure of it.
And the game had just begun.