One Hellish Revenge (Billionaires Love #5)

PROLOGUE

Wadhwa Mansion - Mumbai

It had been over an hour since Mishti sat on the edge of the grand four-poster bed, her crimson bridal lehenga fanning out around her. The heavy dupatta, the glittering jewels, the bangles that chimed with every nervous twitch of her fingers, exhausted not just her body, but her spirit, too.

Her heart had been at war for weeks, but today she had finally lost that battle.

She had lost to that one name.

Karan Wadhwa.

The man everyone in Mumbai’s elite circles called ruthless.

The man who built empires out of ruins, who thrived on the collapse of others.

Karan Wadhwa, the CEO of ‘KW Capital Ventures’, was the investment shark who turned failing companies into gold mines or crushed them to dust.

He was the kind of man who owned half of Mumbai’s skyline. Ruthless in boardrooms, feared by competitors, respected even by those who secretly prayed for his downfall.

Mishti had read about him weeks before the wedding.

Every article painted him in shades of black and grey.

His company’s takeovers, mergers and market manipulation were all out in the media.

“Cold” and “merciless” were the exact words almost every article called him, and the words had repeated so often they had begun to scare her.

And now that man was her husband.

It was their wedding night at Wadhwa Mansion.

Mishti sat still with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every few seconds, her eyes flickered to the door, expecting it to open. But it didn’t.

She recalled the chaos, the glare of cameras, the murmurs of disbelief when the news broke that the cold, untouchable Karan Wadhwa was finally getting married. And the way people had started looking at her ever since then made her wonder if she was even a match for him.

Mishti was barely twenty-four. He was twenty-nine. The age gap wasn’t the problem; it was the worlds between them. Yes, she came from a rich family too. But his was a world of power, domination, and darkness. Hers was of trust, softness, and fragile hope.

She wanted to believe she could bridge that distance. But deep down, whatever she had heard about Karan, she feared she was only walking into a storm that would swallow her whole.

She shut her eyes tight, trying to silence that storm inside her. And that’s when her late mother’s voice echoed faintly in her head, the advice she had given to her, to a wide-eyed girl who believed in fairy tales.

“A wife has to accept her husband’s goodness and his evil together, Mishti. Only then can she live happily with him.”

Mishti didn’t know if that even mattered anymore.

Because, in between the love and acceptance, how would she spot the blurry lines between what was right and wrong?

Ever since their marriage had been arranged, Karan hadn’t made a single effort to meet her.

No calls. No messages. No private conversations.

Nothing. In fact, she had seen him for the first time up close only today, on their wedding day.

And nothing could have prepared her for it.

Karan Wadhwa was every inch the man people whispered about…strong, impossibly handsome, and carrying an air of authority that made everyone else fade into the background. He didn’t just control the room, he controlled the world, as if it would move only when he willed it to.

Even when he sat beside her during the wedding rituals, his presence burned against her skin like a live flame. His aura was the kind that could destroy the weak, and Mishti wondered if she could sustain that kind of dominance around her.

Tears welled up before she could stop them. If only her mother were alive, she would have never let her marry a man like Karan. She would have fought for her, protected her, saved her from the choices that she had no control over.

A soft knock at the door startled her. Was it him?

But when the door opened, it wasn’t her husband.

It was Maria, a woman in her early 50’s, whom she had been earlier introduced as the caretaker of this house. She walked in, head bowed, carrying a silver tray with a glass of milk and a crystal tumbler of fruit pieces.

“Madam,” she said softly, setting it on the side table. “This is for you.”

Mishti blinked, confused. “Where is… he?”

Maria hesitated for a moment before answering, “Sir just left in his car, ma’am.”

“Left?” Mishti’s voice cracked. “Now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The caretaker didn’t meet her eyes as she left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He left. On their wedding night. Where?

Her mind couldn’t grasp it.

She walked slowly to the door and locked it from inside as a hollow ache grew in her chest. Leaning against the door for a second, she tried to calm her racing thoughts, but they kept coming again in the form of images, moments, flashes of the day she would never forget.

She remembered the priest’s voice.

“Ab aap pati-patni hue. Yeh vivaah sampann hua.” (Now you are husband and wife. The marriage is complete.)

The way Karan had looked at her, devoid of any warmth or affection, as he had made her wear the Sindoor and mangalsutra.

And then, after the rituals, he had grabbed her wrist, almost dragging her toward his car as she tearfully hugged her family and friends goodbye. He hadn’t waited for anyone. He hadn’t smiled once.

He had driven to the mansion like a man possessed. Every turn, every sharp brake had made her flinch, but he never glanced her way.

When they reached, she thought maybe things would soften. Maybe the traditions would ease some of the tension. But he had cut them all off.

No griha pravesh, no welcoming rituals, no post-wedding games. When the caretaker, Maria, had approached with a kalash of rice and kumkum, he had snapped at her, too.

“It’s not needed, Maria. Just take her upstairs.”

His phone had buzzed that very moment with the caller id ‘Kanika’, and without even bothering to make his wife comfortable in his home, their home, he had turned away like she wasn’t even there.

Like he had to be somewhere else at this moment.

Like, attending that call was more important to him than welcoming her.

Who was Kanika?

Her mind tried to piece it together, but failed.

Mishti walked to the mirror, staring back at her reflection of a bride in red, with sindoor on her forehead, shimmering bangles, mangalsutra and the worry on her face of where her new life would lead her.

For a moment, she didn’t recognise herself.

This wasn’t the girl who used to laugh easily, who believed in dreams. This was someone else.

She began removing her jewellery one by one. When she opened the closet to put them away, she froze again.

Every inch of space was already taken. The closet was filled with neatly arranged suits, crisp shirts, polished shoes, and expensive watches lined in rows.

She looked around for a space to keep her belongings but found none. The closet, much like the man, had no room for anyone else.

Maybe that said everything.

With a weary sigh, Mishti walked back to the bed, and turning off the lights, she sat down, fingers brushing the mangalsutra as if to remind herself that this was real. That no matter what, she was his wife now.

Her gaze lingered on the door again.

Maybe he wouldn’t come home tonight.

Maybe that’s what she should expect from a man like him.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer she wasn’t sure would ever reach the heavens, and slowly lay down, still holding the Mangalsutra between her fingers.

It was a symbol of their marriage. Of unity. Of a bond she was yet to understand.

But she didn’t know when Karan would return.

She didn’t know what the morning would bring.

And most importantly, she had no idea that the man she had married didn’t come into her life to love her.

He came to destroy her.