22.
"You really think I'm going there, old man?" I said, eyeing Vedansh Shekhawat with a look that hovered somewhere between disbelief and disdain.
"My responsibility was to invite you, Aarav. What you do with it is on you. But you've been declining this for years," he replied flatly, unimpressed. "You should know this is your duty too."
I snorted and flipped through the file he'd handed me. "Right. A duty. And what is this grand meeting about this time? Picking the next target? Discussing trade routes over dead bodies?"
The file was the annual dossier for the Amritnagar summit — a council of the damned, if anyone asked me. Treaties signed in blood by mafia leaders and royal families. My father had attended them. Religiously. But not a single Chauhan had shown face in the past three years.
This time, though, Vedansh Shekhawat — my charming ex father-in-law — had decided to move the event to Udaipur. How convenient.
The Bratva Act
The Blood Chain Compact
The Iron Circle - Shekhawat, Visconti and Volkov
I kept flipping pages until a familiar name stopped me cold.
The Blood Wedding.
I stared at the title, heart kicking once.
Right. That one. The treaty that bound me — by underworld law — as the spouse of Shaurya Shekhawat.
What a joke.
They didn't know it ended six years ago.
Six years and a whole divorce worth of drama later, and yet the underworld still thought we were married and thriving. Cute.
I cleared my throat. "So. How exactly do I attend this?"
"That's up to you," Vedansh said, settling deeper into the sofa. "Whether you show up as a Shekhawat or a Chauhan, it won't change the truth. You're Surya's son. The throne is waiting. You can't run from it forever."
I leaned back, closing the file with a snap. Then, a thought hit me.
"Wait. Your birthday's the day after tomorrow."
I narrowed my eyes. "So that's why you brought the whole circus to Udaipur. Just say it—you missed me."
I grinned. Mocking. But something flickered in his expression.
He shook his head and allowed himself a faint smile. "Your sister makes the cake every year," he said, softer now.
Then he looked at me. Really looked.
"Kid... you look like you're going to cry."
I hated that he was right. My throat burned. I swallowed hard, forcing the ache back down.
Aarohi.
There hadn't been a single day I didn't miss her.
My little sister.
I only ever saw her face on TV now — political interviews, award galas, photos where her eyes didn't quite shine like they used to.
And me?
I was just the brother who vanished. The brother who left.
I rubbed the back of my neck, blinking fast.
Not a single damn tear.
Not now.
-------------------------------------------
If there was ever a party where half the guests had committed war crimes in three-piece suits, it was this one.
The ballroom looked like royalty had coughed up a palace: domes glittering, chandeliers glowing like a thousand dying suns, velvet curtains billowing dramatically like they were being paid for it. But no matter how gold everything looked... the air still tasted like steel and old secrets.
The annual treaty summit—a gala where mafia dons, arms dealers, royal diplomats, and morally bankrupt aristocrats came together to shake hands and pretend the world wasn't on fire.
Organized, of course, by dear old Vedansh Shekhawat, the man who could scare a priest into committing tax fraud.
And here I was.
The Crown Prince of Amritnagar.
And, for those not reading the emotional fine print—still the spouse of Shaurya Shekhawat.
I walked in, head held high, crown invisible but firmly in place. If my life were a movie, this is where slow-motion would kick in with a dramatic violin crescendo.
Heads turned.
Some stood. Some bowed. Some offered respectful nods.
God, it was so awkward I could taste it.
"Aarav Singh Chauhan," someone murmured near the front, "The Prince himself."
A few people even did that half-curtsy-thing they do when they're not sure whether to treat you like royalty or a bomb. Honestly? Both are valid.
"Prince Aarav," one of the Sicilian dons greeted, his handshake dry and oddly reverent. "The throne missed its heir."
"I was told the throne's still breathing," I said with a polite little smile. He laughed like I had blessed him personally.
Another one—Bratva, maybe—nodded as he passed. "Still carrying both crowns, I see."
I didn't correct him. Didn't need to. Let them believe what they want.
If I had to start telling everyone here that Shaurya Shekhawat and I were six years out of whatever twisted love story they imagined, the evening would turn into therapy real fast. And frankly, these people need therapists more than they need treaties.
Then came that moment.
A Spanish cartel leader—loud rings, louder cologne—clapped my back and grinned.
"It's good to see you, Se?or Shekhawat. We were beginning to think you and your husband had left the board."
I gave him the kind of smile.
"He's fine," I said. Smooth. Clean. Absolute lie.
The man nodded, pleased, and moved along.
I kept walking.
For every person who bowed, there were two who didn't even blink in my direction.
Not everyone here believed in respect, or reconciliation, or... courtesy. Some had lost family in wars my ancestors had started. Some thought of me as the fake heir of the Chauhans having the filthy blood of Arnold. Some just hated the Shekhawats.
And some hated that I was ever part of them.
They looked past me like I was air. Disposable. Decorative.
I was used to that.
I made my way toward the long, ornate table at the front of the hall. Each seat carved with the crest of a bloodline. I saw familiar sigils: the Bratva star. The Sicilian serpent. The black tulip of the Velmara clan. Every chair a throne. Every throne a target.
And at the head of it all—him.
Vedansh Shekhawat.
The man sat there like he owned not just the room, but the very idea of legacy. Impeccably dressed in obsidian silk, fingers laced, expression calm but razor-sharp. There was no denying it—he didn't just run empires. He breathed them into existence.
With a faint smile and a raised hand, he stood.
"Good evening," he began, voice smooth, eloquent, expensive. "I welcome each of you to Udaipur. Some of you traveled from places. Others," he glanced at me briefly, "have returned after years."
"As always," Vedansh continued, "this isn't a place for war, but for wisdom. For centuries, our families have written the laws behind the curtains. Tonight, we continue that ink."
He sat again, gracefully. A butler appeared like smoke beside him, placing a small black folder in front of each of us.
The treaty began.
Talks of trade routes. Weaponry logistics. Silent partnerships with eastern brokers. Imports from Iceland. Crypto laundering in Singapore. Rebuilding collapsed arms networks after the Cairo incident.
All said in polished accents and crystal-clear diction, like they were discussing wine instead of blood.
I kept my face neutral, eyes skimming the documents, occasionally adding a comment when necessary. Nothing too bold. Just enough to remind them I knew this world inside out.
But underneath the polished table and vintage wine was a storm of old vendettas. I could feel it in the glances. The air was practically vibrating with the need to murder someone respectfully.
Everyone was being... civilized.
But if someone coughed wrong, someone would end up in a trunk.
This year, something had changed. The heirs had shown up.
Second-generation monsters. Daughters in silk but probably with knives in their bras, sons with guns in their belts and trust funds in their eyes. A new wave of future devils training beneath the chandeliers.
I made note of each one.
Not because I was paranoid.
Because if this world taught me anything, it's that the child who plays quiet in the corner usually grows up to burn down a continent. Yes. No other than Shaurya Shekhawat himself.
Across the table, a girl with storm-blue eyes smiled at me. I raised my glass in silent acknowledgement. The heir to the Balkan front. Smart. Deadly. Probably bored out of her mind.
The meeting rolled on. Hours passed. Deals signed. Enemies toasted. Smiles exchanged like bullets in disguise.
And all through it, I sat in silence.
And just when things were finally settling, someone, of course, had to ruin it.
"What is this rotblood doing here?" came a voice.
Oh. Perfect.
Rovan Satiseriv. The mouth that never stops, and the brain that never started.
Clown face, clown voice — if anyone needed to be muted in 4K, it was this man.
Honestly, I was surprised he still had a seat at this table.
They should thank Vedansh Shekhawat every single day for keeping their little legacy alive.
If it were up to Shaurya, the Satiserivs would've been nothing more than a footnote in a history book by now.
The room went quiet.
I took a sip of my rum. Because drama, my dear, was on the menu.
Rovan walked forward, chest puffed like he was about to win an Oscar. "I'm seriously impressed, Aarav," he said, with that mocking slow clap. "Still proud of your fake name?"
My bodyguards shifted. I didn't.
"Your whole family's a circus," he continued with a chuckle. "And look at you, returning after three years. As if nothing happened."
He turned towards Vedansh now. "And your so-called son-in-law didn't even have the guts to show up. That Shekhawat coward keeps killing people in the shadows but can't even show his face here. This council won't tolerate that forever, Vedansh."
My eyes narrowed slightly, but I said nothing yet. Let the fool dig his own grave.
"And let's not forget, Aarav shouldn't even be at this table," Rovan sneered. "He hasn't contributed anything. Not to trade, not to expansion. He's just scared of losing his royal land and crawling back here for favors. Cowards, all of them."
He was waiting for a reaction.
I took my time.
I leaned forward, placed my glass down gently, and adjusted my cuffs like I had all the time in the world.
Then I stood up, not bothering to hide the smirk curling at my lips.
"Well, sorry for interrupting your little... tantrum," I said casually. "You were doing so well. Did you rehearse that in front of a mirror? Or is that just natural talent?"
Rovan stiffened. The others chuckled lightly — some trying to hide it. Others didn't bother.
"But since you're so curious," I went on, "let me ask you something. Where's your heir, Rovan? Or are you still trying to figure out which one of your sons to bring — afraid the others will cry to their mothers again?"
His expression twisted.
Direct hit.
"Tell you what, next time you want to lecture me on legacy or loyalty, try building one first. I might take you seriously."
I stepped back into my seat, calm as ever.
The Bratva heir sitting across from me raised a brow and mouthed, "Brutal."
I winked at him.
Vedansh finally spoke — sharp, cold. "Unless you've got a treaty to present, Rovan, keep your mouth shut. Or leave."
Rovan looked around. No one backed him.
And just when I thought Rovan had exhausted his last remaining brain cell, he decided to go even lower.
"This entire farce is a joke, Vedansh Shekhawat," he spat, voice rising now. "I wonder you suck the dicks of every dons here just like your son."
Something snapped in me. The next thing I knew, my chair scraped back violently, and I was up.
Gun drawn. Pressed firmly against Rovan's temple.
My other arm locked tightly around his neck.
The entire hall froze.
"You want to repeat that?" I hissed in his ear.
His breath hitched for a second. Just for a second.
I tightened my arm around his throat, just enough to make it hard to swallow.
No one moved.
Vedansh didn't even raise his voice. "Aarav."
I didn't flinch.
"Let him go," he said again. Calm. Steady. Like this wasn't the most natural reaction to someone threatening him.
But I wasn't ready. Not yet.
Rovan's breath came in short bursts now, but that smugness was still etched across his face. Like he thought I wouldn't do it. Like I was still the same soft-hearted boy from six years ago.
Vedansh's voice cut through again. Firmer this time.
"Aarav. Leave him."
My jaw clenched. But I slowly loosened my grip. Still glaring at the bastard as I shoved him back into his seat.
Rovan coughed, straightened himself—and laughed.
"That's it?" he smirked. "Still no blood on your hands, Prince Aarav? Still just your daddy's name and your husband's shadow? You've got rage, sure—but your hands are still too soft to do what matters. Such a fag behavior. You're so weak, you rotten blood."
I raised the gun again. Just once. But didn't shoot.
Because Vedansh had already snapped his fingers.
"Take him out," he told the guards calmly.
Two guards grabbed Rovan by the arms.
"You'll regret this," Rovan spat, struggling as they dragged him toward the exit. "Your family will perish soon, Vedansh Shekhawat. All of this will end with you headless under my foot. And Shaurya Shekhawat will beg for mercy. And I'll make sure to humiliate him in every possible way."
My hand twitched at the holster again—but Vedansh didn't react.
He just calmly picked up his glass of water, took a sip, and continued flipping the treaty document in front of him.
And yet—I saw it.
A slight smirk at the corner of his mouth.
And that told me everything I needed to know.
This wasn't over.
--------------------------------------------------------
The meeting had ended like every other—some in tight-lipped silence, others pretending everything was fine, as if a public death threat hadn't just been issued over wine and imported cigars.
Now it was night. The halls of the royal ballroom in Udaipur were glowing in golden hues. Chandeliers sparkled like they were paid extra to shine, violins played something classy in the background, and mafia dons in tuxedos pretended to know how to waltz.
Welcome to the chaos in designer clothes.
I adjusted my cufflinks, downed another glass of champagne, and stood by the edge of the dance floor—trying not to look too bothered. Which, of course, is when trouble found me again.
"Your Highness," came a cheerful voice behind me.
I turned and instantly regretted every sarcastic comment I've ever made about diplomats.
Princess Estella of Spain—fifth in line to her throne, second in line to drink too much wine, and absolutely first in line to never shut up—was smiling at me like we were best friends from college.
"You look old," she grinned, already taking my hand.
"You look like a walking candy wrapper," I shot back.
She gasped, then laughed—spinning me toward the floor. "And still as grumpy as ever."
"Why are you like this?" I muttered, but followed her lead.
We danced. The room buzzed with movement—gloved hands, subtle smiles, whispers in different languages. Some heirs danced like they had sticks up their spines, others danced like they were planning political marriages mid-spin.
And for a moment, it was just another gala. Just another night full of overdressed criminals and velvet secrets.
Until the music stopped.
Guards entered.
Everything stilled.
Everyone turned toward the main door where five men stood, dressed in all black. I didn't even need a full second.
Ravi.
Of course it was Ravi.
His eyes scanned the room once, and then he made his way toward the dais with a box carried carefully in front of him by two guards.
I don't know why—but I instantly knew.
This had Shaurya written all over it.
Estella stopped beside me, trying to whisper something, but her voice faded out as my focus locked on the damn box.
Ravi bent down and whispered something to Vedansh.
I watched Vedansh's face. Blank.
Then Ravi turned and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Since it is Vedansh Shekhawat's birthday tomorrow," he said, calm as a bomb about to go off, "Shaurya Shekhawat has sent an early gift for his father."
A murmur swept the hall.
I turned to Vedansh. He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn't just been promised war during a council meeting a few hours ago.
The guards slowly placed the box on the table at the center of the ballroom.
Ravi stepped forward.
His gloved hand undid the clasps one by one. Clean. Measured. Like this was a gift basket of Belgian chocolates.
Then the lid opened.
I blinked.
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
My stomach flipped.
There, nestled in red silk, was a head.
Rovan's.
Eyes open. Mouth slightly parted. Neck severed clean.
Dead.
Just like that.
Displayed like a damn trophy.
The gasps started. Someone dropped a glass. Others whispered curses in different dialects.
The ballroom wasn't dancing anymore.
Ravi stepped back. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
I couldn't even move. Couldn't stop looking.
He really did it.
Shaurya killed Rovan.
Not just killed him—delivered him.
To a council meeting.
The message was clear. This wasn't a statement. This was war protocol.
My fingers curled.
I wasn't scared of the head. That part? I could handle. I'd seen worse.
What scared me was Shaurya.
Because I knew how this ends. Not in fireworks and power—but in guilt, in silence, in him sitting alone in the dark, washing blood off his hands that never come clean.
Everyone else looked shaken.
Me?
I looked at Ravi.
He didn't meet my eyes. Just stared down. Sighed.
Yeah.
This wasn't just a warning.
It was a spiral.
And Shaurya had jumped headfirst.
Shaurya surely isn't fine.....