The blackout devoured the gala in a single breath.
Moments of laughter dissolved into gasps and anxious whispers. Chandeliers blinked out, swallowed by darkness. Avni's fingers fumbled for her phone—until a hand seized her wrist.
Strong. Warm. Possessive.
Before her mind could even scream, her world tilted.
He swept her into his arms—one beneath her thighs, the other commanding the space around them like he owned it.
"What the hell—put me down!" she gasped, fists colliding with a solid chest.
His response was a whisper, dangerous and calm against her ear.
"If you make another sound, I'll spank you right here in front of your glittering audience, principessa."
She froze.
Not from fear. From audacity.
From the sheer dominance curled in that voice like smoke and sin.
He moved with precision. Not a stumble. Not a flicker of hesitation. As if he'd rehearsed this moment in dreams. The world behind them faded. He kicked open a heavy door and stepped inside. The lock clicked softly behind them.
The room was a private washroom—dimly lit, bathed in the soft gold of a single chandelier. Gilded mirrors. Cold marble. Silence thick as velvet.
Avni struggled, but it was useless. He placed her on the counter—firm, yet careful. As though she were both breakable and already his.
"You're insane," she hissed, shoving at his chest.
"I warned you not to speak."
His eyes burned. "But you never listen, do you?"
She tried to slide off the counter, but his hands caged her in—one on her thigh, the other tilting her chin, tracing her jaw as if memorizing every curve.
"You walked in wearing this dress. Looking like that."
His voice was velvet and thunder.
"Every man in that room stared like they had the right. Like they could touch you."
His thumb brushed her bottom lip.
"That made me want to tear the world apart."
She stilled.
The intensity in his tone wasn't flirtation.
It was claim.
"You don't get to do that," she whispered. "Say things like that. Touch me—"
"I do," he said simply. "Because from the moment I saw you, you belonged to me."
He dipped his head, pressing his mouth to her collarbone—hot, purposeful. A kiss that scorched. A bite that lingered.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he murmured against her neck. "I know how your breath catches when I'm close. I know you're trying not to melt."
He pulled back just enough to study her. His pupils were blown wide, eyes shadowed with obsession and something else—yearning.
"You feel it too. Don't lie."
"Go to hell," she breathed.
"Darling," he said softly, smiling, "I've lived there. I'm just dragging you in with me."
He leaned in close, voice a rough caress.
"You shouldn't have ignored my call. And you shouldn't have worn this dress."
She flinched. The call. That voice. And now, it all made electric, terrifying sense.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
His lips brushed her ear.
"We've met before," he said. "You just don't remember. But you will."
And then—he was gone.
The door opened, then shut again.
Silence wrapped around her like smoke.
Avni sat there, trembling, skin burning, the ghost of his touch trailing across her collarbone like fire.
"Ugh!" she muttered, breathless.
Outside, the cool night air hit her like a wave, but it didn't soothe her racing heart.
She had escaped. Yet it felt like she hadn't escaped at all.
Her heels clicked against the pavement as she made her way to the car. City lights flickered. Her mind was elsewhere—caught in the echo of his voice, his touch.
TIME SKIP
Avni's mansion stood quiet, moonlight spilling through tall windows. The only place in the world that had ever felt like hers—yet now, it felt foreign.
She walked through the marble hallways, each step echoing like a ghost. The memory of the gala, the darkness, him, clung to her like perfume she couldn't wash off.
She stepped into the bathroom. Stared at her reflection.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Skin flushed.
Who was this woman?
She looked calm. Controlled. But inside, a storm raged. His kiss still burned on her collarbone—light, teasing, unforgettable.
She splashed her face with cold water. Again. And again.
Took a towel and wiped furiously at her skin.
But it was no use. She couldn't erase him. Couldn't unfeel him.
With a sigh, she dropped the towel.
The bedroom was quieter, cooler. She slid beneath the sheets—but the comfort she once found there had vanished.
The exhaustion of the day finally began to take hold. Her body ached. Her thoughts scattered like leaves in wind.
"I'll think about it tomorrow," she whispered to herself.
And with that, her eyes fluttered shut.
Sleep took her.
But peace did not.
Abhimanyu's POV — Continued:
I walked out of the washroom with the scent of her still clinging to my skin.
My pulse was calm. Steady. My mind anything but.
She had looked at me with fire in her eyes. That resistance—God, I wanted to cage it, tame it, own it. Her skin still tasted like heaven wrapped in sin, and yet every second I spent not watching her, not touching her, felt like a slow kind of death.
The ballroom was still chaos. Dim lights flickering back to life. The crowd murmuring and moving like ants, aimless and rattled.
I moved through them like a ghost. No one dared to stop me. They never did.
"Thought you might come out covered in blood," Matteo said, stepping up beside me like he'd never moved. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. Unshakable.
I let out a low chuckle, still tasting her name. "Almost did."
Matteo handed me a glass of water. "You good?"
I took it. Sipped once. "I touched her."
He didn't need to ask who.
"I kissed her," I added, almost to myself. "Right here." I touched my collarbone. "She'll feel it for days."
Matteo raised a brow. "She hit you?"
"She tried," I smirked. "She's fire. I expected nothing less."
Matteo grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "So what now?"
I turned my head slowly, voice dipping into ice. "Kill every man in this ballroom."
He didn't flinch. Not even a blink.
"I don't want their filthy eyes remembering her dress, her skin, the way she stood like she owned the goddamn room. They don't deserve the memory."
Matteo blew out a breath. "That's… a lot of bodies, Bhai."
"They looked at her like she was an object." My voice was calm, final. "They die. And their families get one million dollars each. Tell them it's… compensation for losing a man who forgot his place."
Matteo sighed, adjusting his cuff. "You're getting soft, paying blood money."
I let out a quiet laugh. "You're the only one I let call me soft and live."
He smirked. "I know."
We stood in silence for a moment. Old friends, forged in fire and war. He knew everything.
Matteo let a sigh. Then he turned. "I'll start the clean-up."
Later That Night:
Matteo was halfway down the hall when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
No name. I picked up the call cause it can be related to my underworld mafia business.
"She isn't yours."
I answered, more curious than concerned. "Speak."
A voice—distorted, low—slithered through the speaker like smoke.
"Your little principessa has a boyfriend. You didn't know, did you?"
A pause.
"Tomorrow's her boyfriend's birthday."
My entire body went still.
The line went dead before I could respond.
No name. No trace.
Just silence. And a slow, rising burn in my chest.
Boyfriend?
I turned to Matteo, my voice calm. Too calm.