They say I play god in boardrooms.
That I can raise or raze fortunes with the flick of a pen.
But today, I wasn't in the mood to play god.
Today, I was wrath.
And wrath doesn't ask for forgiveness.
The man's name was Rishabh Malhotra.
CEO of a rival tech conglomerate.
Known for dirty acquisitions and dirtier whispers.
A man with a silver tongue and a black heart.
A man whose gaze moved like a scalpel—cutting through ethics, carving out advantage.
And two days ago, he looked at Meher like she was something to be bought.
Not with reverence.
Not with awe.
But with calculation.
Like she was a number on his sheet.
A clause in his contract.
He didn't know she was fire.
That I would burn cities for the way he let his gaze linger.
So I did.
୨ৎ
I walked into his headquarters without warning.
No press.
No notice.
Just an army of silence behind me and the weight of my name announcing every step.
The receptionist choked on her greeting.
"Mr. Rathore—this is a surprise—"
"Is he in?"
"Y-Yes, but—"
I didn't wait.
I didn't need to.
My security swept ahead.
His team scrambled.
And I walked straight into his boardroom as if I owned it.
Because by the time I was done, I would.
"Aaryan," he said, standing up, fake smile painted over nervous eyes.
"Sit down."
I didn't yell.
Didn't raise a brow.
But the room dropped ten degrees.
He sat.
I threw a folder on the table.
"That's your acquisition history from the past six years. Every illegal clause. Every under-the-table deal. Every intern NDA violation you paid to bury."
He paled.
"You've had eyes on me—"
"No. You caught my attention two days ago. When you looked at her."
He blinked.
"Her?"
I smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"The woman you stared at like you wanted to auction her. Like you were calculating the cost of her skin."
His eyes widened.
Not out of guilt.
But fear.
That he'd finally been seen.
He opened his mouth.
I raised a finger.
"I warned you once. Indirectly. That was mercy. This is consequence."
I opened the next folder.
My team distributed copies.
Hostile takeovers.
Intellectual theft accusations.
Pending audits.
Rescinded patents.
Frozen shares.
Legal actions triggered like dominos.
His hands shook as he reached for the papers.
"You—you can't destroy me over a look—"
I leaned forward.
"You don't understand yet, do you? She is not mine to own. I am hers to serve. I am her worshipper."
I stood slowly.
"And you disrespected her."
The tension in my chest hadn't eased since that night.
I remembered the exact moment—her in emerald green, sipping champagne, unaware that his gaze slithered over her back like oil.
I remembered the flare of discomfort in her eyes when she caught him staring, her spine straightening like instinct.
I remembered the burn in my throat.
There are men who flirt.
There are men who desire.
And then there are men who calculate.
Who reduce women to potential conquests, investments, assets.
He was the latter.
And he made that mistake in front of me.
And I was the kind of man who doesn't believe in warnings twice.
I walked out as he scrambled to call his lawyers. By the time the news hit the media three hours later, his shares had collapsed 47%.
I made sure every screen on Dalal Street reflected his downfall.
But that was only the beginning.
I contacted every legal team, activated buried lawsuits, bought out two of his board members, and sent a message to every associate that Rishabh Malhotra was no longer protected.
That looking at Meher the wrong way was not just disrespect.
It was professional suicide.
And I did it all silently.
No press.
No leaks from my end.
Because real power doesn't roar.
It tightens like a noose.
And I had him by the throat.
୨ৎ
The next day, I met with his investors.
Off the record.
Neutral territory.
I wore no tie.
Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled, shadows stitched into every fold.
I laid out numbers, charts, and facts that showed his company was bleeding money—slowly and then all at once.
And then I slid a photograph across the table.
Rishabh, years ago.
In a private club.
His hand around a girl's throat, grainy and shadowed.
His grin obvious.
"This won't go public," I said. "Unless he refuses to resign."
They didn't argue.
They knew the game.
Knew what I could do.
He was ousted by the end of the week.
And the girl in the photo? Already paid. Protected.
Escorted safely out of the country.
I ruined him—financially, publicly, and in every quiet corridor that once whispered his name with respect.
Because he looked at her.
Because his eyes held greed.
And because I made a vow the day I kissed her ankle on marble:
no one touches a god's altar without losing their hands.
୨ৎ
I didn't feel triumph.
Only calm.
Like a storm that had finally exhausted itself.
I drove home alone.
Every red light felt too long.
I wasn't impatient.
Just... haunted.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face the moment she felt his stare.
Meher doesn't need to tell me when she's uncomfortable.
I know her.
The slight tilt of her jaw.
The stiffness in her spine.
The way her eyes narrow just a fraction.
And I hate when I'm not fast enough to shield her from that.
So I destroy what I miss.
I silence the echoes before they ever reach her ears.
I walked into our apartment without a word.
The city buzzed behind me, a muted thrum against the quiet safety of her presence.
୨ৎ
She was curled on the couch, legs folded beneath her, reading.
Soft sweater.
No makeup.
Hair messy.
The embodiment of peace I didn't know I'd craved.
She looked up as I entered, eyes calm.
Like she already knew.
"You did it, didn't you?"
I didn't speak.
I just walked to her.
Sat on the floor.
Placed my head in her lap.
She ran her fingers through my hair.
Not shocked.
Not questioning.
Just knowing.
"Tell me."
"He looked at you."
She sighed.
Not with exasperation.
But with knowing.
"Aaryan..."
"He calculated your worth."
"And you destroyed him?"
I looked up.
"I erased him."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then leaned down.
"You'll ruin the world one day."
"If it ever touches you, yes."
Her thumb brushed my cheek.
"You're mad."
"I warned you."
"And you still kneel for me."
"Only for you. Always for you."
She bent lower.
Her lips brushed my forehead.
And I exhaled for the first time that day.
Because the world may call me cold.
But in her lap, I melt.
And in the silence between her fingers and my breath, I remembered who I was:
A man born to ruin.
A man reborn to worship.
And I would rather be a sinner at her feet than a king at anyone else's throne.
୨ৎ
I’d seen Aaryan ruthless before.
In boardrooms, with enemies, with anyone foolish enough to test his power.
But never like this.
When they came for me—when they thought they could touch what was his—he unraveled. Deals collapsed under his hands. Men who had stood at the top of their empires were suddenly crawling, their legacies burning in the wake of his rage. He wasn’t negotiating anymore. He was destroying.
And all of it… for me.
I thought I was just his obsession. His game. His fire to control, to bend, to keep caged. But no—watching him fight like a man with nothing left to lose, I understood.
I wasn’t his possession.
I was his weakness.
Later, when the dust settled, I found myself curled in the dark, tears spilling quietly—because no one had ever chosen me with that kind of madness. With that kind of devastation.
The door clicked open, his shadow filling the space.
Aaryan didn’t speak. He just walked to me, slow, relentless, until he sank down on his knees before me.
And then—he lowered his forehead to my stomach. A gesture that wasn’t Aaryan Veer Rajwansha. A man who never bowed, never bent, never broke—kneeling at my feet, trembling as if he’d been the one to bleed.
His voice was raw, breaking.
“I’ll burn the world for you,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. “Don’t ever cry without me. Don’t you dare.”
My hands shook as I buried them in his hair, torn between pulling him up and keeping him there, because for the first time… Aaryan wasn’t the monster they feared.
He was mine.
Entirely, fatally mine.
Write a comment ...