chapter 18
Ishni pov
After our overly romantic, buttered-toast-with-extra-flirting breakfast, Rudra disappeared into the room to get ready for work — aka his CEO-slash-Mafia-don duties.
And me?
I was standing by the door like a hopeless, lovesick idiot.
Just watching him.
He stood by the mirror, rolling his sleeves up, buttoning his crisp black shirt, his silver watch sliding into place, that deadly cologne lingering in the air like sin and cinnamon.
God.
How can someone look so powerful… and so painfully beautiful?
My husband. My Mr. India. Mr. Mafia.
Mine.
He turned slightly, catching my reflection in the mirror — eyes locking on me like he could read every silent swoon.
“aap kab se ghoor rahi ho?” he asked, smirking.
I blinked. “Main— main toh… bas... light off karne aayi thi.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Oh? Aur yeh puppy eyes? Light off karte waqt nikal jaati hai kya?”
I pouted. “Mujhe acha lagta hai tumhe dekhna jab tum serious hote ho. You look… powerful.”
He walked over slowly, buttoning the last of his shirt as he reached me.
“aapko sirf powerful dikhta hoon?” he asked, voice deep, teasing. “Sexy nahi?”
I blushed. Loudly.
“Rudraaa!”
He chuckled, then tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes — serious now, intense.
“Mujhe chhodke jaana roz ek jang hoti hai, jaan. Par har baar jaate waqt main yeh hi sochta hoon… ki har kaam jaldi nipta doon, kyunki mere ghar mein meri jaan mera intezaar kar rahi hoti hai.”
My breath caught.
He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
“aap meri har subah ho, har raat ho, har wajah ho. Ab bas dua karo… duniya mujhe zyada der na roke tumse door.”
He stepped back, grabbed his phone, and turned once more at the door.
“Mujhe dekhti rehna. Kyunki aapki nazar mein jeetne ka mazaa… duniya ke taaj se zyada hai.”
And then, with one last wink, he walked out.
Leaving me standing there… utterly ruined, smiling like a lunatic, and already counting minutes till he came back.
Author pov
The glass doors slid open.
And just like that — the air shifted.
Every eye in the lobby turned.
Rudra singh rajput had arrived.
Tailored black suit hugging his frame like it was stitched by the gods themselves, silver rings on his fingers, watch gleaming like power on his wrist. No tie. Just a few buttons undone — enough to remind the world he followed his own rules.
And that walk?
Slow. Confident. Deadly.
His aura wasn’t just powerful — it was lethal.
A storm dressed in Armani.
“Good morning, sir,” the receptionist stammered, standing up so fast her chair nearly fell.
He didn’t reply. Just nodded — the kind of nod that could silence armies.
As he stepped into the elevator, his men flanked him silently — trained, loyal, and very aware that when Rudra was this quiet… someone, somewhere, was about to regret their existence.
On the 52nd floor, his personal assistant was already waiting with files and updates.
But Rudra’s eyes weren’t on the papers.
They were on the skyline — the city that bowed beneath his feet.
Vipul, Rudra’s most trusted right-hand man, stepped in — his face grim, urgency in his every step.
“Boss,” he said, handing over a folder. “As you suspected… Swetha is planning something. Something big.”
Rudra looked up slowly, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
Vipul continued, “She’s been in contact with someone—k and few high level people,We couldn’t identify them. They’re careful. Too careful.”
Silence.
The room grew colder by the second.
Rudra closed the folder, stood up, and walked to the window overlooking the city.
He didn’t speak for a few seconds.
Then—
His voice came out like ice laced with fire.
"Then find out!!! I want to know who is this bloody K"
Rudra turned sharply, eyes blazing.
"If Ishni gets even a scratch because of any of them… main sab zinda jala doonga. Swetha ho ya koi aur, agar meri biwi ki taraf aankh uthayi na—main woh aankhein chaba jaunga.”
Vipul flinched at the tone.
“No one touches her. Not even fate. Samjhe?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rudra’s jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair.
Rudra stood with his back to the desk, one hand in his pocket, the other lightly tapping the edge of the glass window. His eyes scanned the city like a king deciding which piece of the chessboard to flip.
Vipul, standing respectfully a few feet away, gave his report.
“And the media, boss… the scandal about madam—handled.”
“Gone?” Rudra asked, his tone sharp, not looking at him.
“Yes, sir. We scrubbed every trace. Journalists were paid. Threats were implied where needed. Mam’s name is clean"
A silent nod from Rudra.
But then… a pause.
His gaze darkened.
“Vipul…”
“Yes, boss?”
“Do saal pehle…Karan kept a party few days back before dieing"
Vipul’s brow furrowed slightly. “The one at deewanas Villa?”
“Haan,” Rudra said slowly, voice low. “That wasn’t just a party. It was a celebration… but for breaking ishni, ruining her life"
He finally turned to face Vipul, eyes like molten steel.
“Famous people were there. Politicians. Businessmen.
Vipul stiffened. “You think they were involved?”
“yes, they laughed while she was bleeding, they witness the brutal scene, yet know one came to save her, that's there crime,” Rudra said coldly
Vipul nodded.
Rudra’s voice was sharper now, eyes blazing with a fury that had been simmering ever since Ishni fell asleep on his lap with scars etched into her soul.
He stepped closer to Vipul, every word laced with danger.
“This… this isn’t just for me,” he said, his voice a deep growl. “ She deserves a world where people know the truth — that my wife is innocent. That her bastard ex-husband was the liar. The cheater. The monster.”
His fingers slammed onto the table, rattling everything in the room.
“She suffered silently. Not anymore.”
Vipul didn’t flinch — he’d seen this fire before.
“I want every single guest from that party identified. Anyone who laughed. Anyone who whispered. Anyone who covered up for Karan.”
Rudra’s eyes burned with promise.
“Find them.”
“Yes, boss,” Vipul said.
"And when you do…” Rudra stepped into the shadows of the room, the light catching the scar near his brow — the only visible trace of his violent legacy.
“Bring them to my basement. They won’t leave until they bleed the truth.”
Vipul gave a tight nod, eyes narrowing with purpose. “It’ll be done.”
Rudra slowly turned back toward the window, jaw clenched.
“Because this isn’t revenge,” he muttered.
“This is justice.”
In basement
The room had changed.
It wasn’t just a basement anymore.
It was judgment day.
Five chairs, bolted to the floor, arranged in a semi-circle. Bright floodlights above. Cold air. No windows.
And silence that screamed.
Five men.
Harish Mehta.
MLA Rathore.
Ranjit Bhalla.
Real estate mogul Dheeraj Kapoor.
And Doctor Sethi — the man who faked Ishni’s psychiatric records.
Each one now reduced to trembling wrecks, hands tied behind them, faces bloodied from earlier ‘convincing’.
Suddenly — thud. Thud. Thud.
Boots echoed.
And there he was.
Rudra Singh Rajput.
He entered slowly, in all black. Shirt sleeves rolled. Gloves on. Eyes like a storm that had no intention of passing. Behind him, Vipul wheeled in a cart — laced with tools not meant for healing.
No one dared speak.
Rudra stepped in front of them, sat in chair like he owns the place ofcourse he did
"How does it feels to see your death right infront of your eyes mm?" He voice carried a rage of powerful
"Please...let..us go" MLA rathore said,
“Let you go?” Rudra’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.
He tilted his head, smirking darkly. “When crimes are done, you have to pay.”
They all looked confused, exchanging glances. Harish whispered, “Wh-what is he talking about?”
Rudra laughed—sharp, cruel, hollow. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.
“Too bad, huh? Your memories seem weak. Let me refresh them.”
He paced slowly, like a judge in his own courtroom.
“Two years ago... when you laughed at Ishni Oberoi.”
His words grew louder. He pointed at each of them.
“When you joked about her character with Karan. When she cried in front of you. Begged. Pleaded. And you?”
He stopped in front of Ranjit Bhalla, whose swollen eye twitched with fear.
“You dragged her name through the mud. Called her mad. Unstable. Dangerous.”
He turned toward Doctor Sethi. “And you? You didn’t just break a woman… You broke the truth. You handed her soul over to vultures with a fake file.”
Rudra’s voice cracked with restrained rage.
“When she was thrown out of her job, her house, her life… not one of you helped her.”
He leaned in close, eyes burning.
“Instead… you marked her the villain.”
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, suffocating kind.
Then, Rudra whispered.
“And now? The devil you helped create is mine. My queen. And you—”
He kicked MLA Rathore’s chair, sending it crashing back with a thud. The man screamed.
“—you’re in the courtroom of hell,"
He looked back at the cart.
“Time to make your final statements.”
He began with Harish.
Rudra didn’t yell. He didn’t curse.
He simply carved.
A scalpel slid across Harish’s shoulder, deliberate and slow, as if he were signing a signature.
Harish screamed. Blood spilled down his arm.
Rudra leaned close, his voice ice-cold.
“For each lie,” he whispered, “a layer of skin.”
Another cut. Then another.
Harish convulsed, crying, his voice cracking into sobs.
“You called her manipulative. You said she was ‘asking for it.’ You called her a whore in front of media while she couldn’t even stand straight. That’s lie one,” Rudra muttered, pressing harder.
Vipul stood silently behind, handing him gauze—not to help, but to keep Harish alive just enough.
Then came MLA Rathore.
Rudra turned to him with steel pliers in hand.
Rathore shook his head violently. “No. No, please—please! I have a family—”
“So did she,” Rudra snapped.
He gripped Rathore’s hand. The man thrashed, but he was bound too tight.
CRACK.
One fingernail ripped off.
A raw, animal scream ripped from Rathore’s lungs.
“You funded the smear campaign. Made her a media circus. Threatened her with legal cases you knew were fake.”
CRACK.
Second nail gone. Blood poured.
“Each nail… for each death threat she received because of you.”
CRACK.
Third.
Rudra’s eyes burned like coals. “You said she should’ve died to save ‘reputation’.”
He leaned closer.
“Now you’ll beg for death.”
Behind them, the others wept in terror.
Ranjit Bhalla.
The film director who once staged Ishni’s humiliation like it was a scene for entertainment.
Now, tied, gagged, and soaked in sweat, he watched as Rudra approached—calm, controlled… deadly.
Rudra picked up a roll of rusted barbed wire from the cart.
“Your words turned her pain into a joke, Ranjit. "
He wrapped the barbed wire around Ranjit's torso, inch by inch. Flesh tore. Blood seeped. Every coil tighter than the last.
Ranjit screamed behind the gag, his back arching in agony.
Rudra crouched beside him, voice low.
“Lights. Camera. Retribution.”
He punched the knot of barbed wire, embedding it deeper.
He grabbed a lighter. Lit the edge of the barbed wire. Flames danced over the rusted metal. Ranjit convulsed in agony as the fire kissed his bleeding skin.
“Now burn like the hate you spread.”
Behind Rudra, Dheeraj Kapoor was shivering violently.
“P-please. I didn’t— I was just—”
Rudra interrupted, turning to him.
He picked up a nail gun.
“One nail… for every time you said, ‘This is business, not personal.’”
THAK.
One into the thigh.
THAK.
One into the palm.
THAK.
The screams were wordless now.
Rudra’s expression didn’t flicker.
He stood slowly. Blood on his gloves. Sweat on his brow. And eyes… still cold.
Only one man remained.
Dr. Sethi.
The man who rewrote truth in clinical ink.
Rudra walked over, slowly removing his gloves.
“You forged papers. Pumped her with meds she didn’t need. You called it ‘treatment.’ I call it slow murder.”
He picked up a syringe.
And a hammer.
“You like needles?” Rudra said softly.
Dr. Sethi began begging. “Please—please—no—”
CRACK.
Rudra drove the syringe through the doctor’s hand with the hammer.
The scream was bloodcurdling.
“You wrote she was mad?” Rudra hissed. “Now let’s see how sane you feel when your hands melt off.”
Each man screamed, pleaded, confessed everything.
Vipul recorded it all.
Their crimes. Their truths. Their shame.
“Your reputations,” Rudra said, pacing slowly, “will rot long before your corpses.”
And then, one by one…
He ended them.
No mercy.
No quick deaths.
No prayers.
Only justice.
Blood pooled like ink across the floor.
And Rudra, soaked in it, removed his gloves, tossing them aside like he tossed away their names.
“This,” he said quietly, “is what it means to hurt my wife.”
He turned, the storm in him silent now—only thunder in his eyes.
“Vipul,” he said, voice flat and cold as stone.
“Hang them all.”
Vipul didn’t flinch.
“Yes, boss.”
“And burn the place.”
A beat of silence.
He stood there, looking the place being burned with no emotions a cigarette in his hands
And then —
Vrrrr… Vrrrr…
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out slowly, the screen glowing with a name that could make his heart beat again.
"Jaan Calling..."