"A husband can watch his wife changing"
Author POV
Her lashes fluttered.
Slowly.
As if waking from a dream that didn't know whether it was a nightmare or a fairytale.
Her head ached. Her heart still throbbed in places she didn't know existed.
And when her eyes fully opened—
Silence.
No one.
She blinked.
For a moment, there was... relief.
A tiny, quiet breath of relief.
But then—Rivan.
The memory struck her like lightning.
His eyes. His rage.
His blood-streaked hand.
Her voice, cracking. Her tears. His silence.
The way he froze.
The way he caught her.
The way—
She gasped and sat up quickly, heart racing, eyes wild.
And then she realized where she was.
The bed.
His bed.
Rivan Thakur's personal bed.
Her body stiffened, eyes wide in panic.
"No... no no no," she mumbled to herself, slowly pushing herself off the mattress, her bare feet touching the cold floor like she had just sinned.
She backed away from the bed, every nerve screaming.
"Not again, Devyani."
She whispered under her breath, clutching her dress tightly.
"Stay away from such things. Beds like these aren't made for you."
A bitter smile danced on her lips.
This is the second time, right?
The second time in your life you've ever sat on a bed this soft.
This time, it felt warm. Too warm. Too real.
She shook her head, slapping her own cheeks lightly.
"Stay away, Devyani," she warned herself, as if her own voice would protect her.
"Even if it feels good... even if it feels like heaven... run."
"Because if pati ji sees you here again, he'll probably—"
Knock.
Her heart jumped.
She turned like a scared cat, eyes locked on the door.
And there—
Jinal.
Standing with a smile. Soft. Calm. No thunder. No warnings. No red eyes.
"Hey... you're awake," Jinal said, stepping in gently with a bowl in her hand. "How are you feeling, bhabhi?"
Devyani blinked.
Bhabhi.
The word hit different.
She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out.
Jinal smiled even more brightly, as if she could read every fear and fracture on her face.
"Don't worry," she whispered, walking closer. "no husband here right now."
Jinal walked closer, still smiling like everything was normal—like this wasn't the most terrifying day of Devyani's life.
In her hands, she held a folded saree—rich maroon with subtle golden borders, elegant but not loud. Devyani's eyes fell on it instantly.
"This is for you," Jinal said sweetly, placing it gently on the bed Devyani had just escaped from. "Badi Maa said you should change out of the lehenga and wear this before coming down for lunch."
Devyani hesitated. Her hand reached out, then stopped midway, trembling.
"S-saree?" she whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Jinal nodded. "Yep. New bride, new clothes, new home."
She smiled again.
But Devyani didn't.
Instead, her fingers clutched her shawl tighter, eyes lowering to the floor as she mumbled—
"Umm... is there... is there any extra room here? A... a storeroom? I-I can change there. I don't mind, I promise. Even if it's small or—"
Jinal cut her off with a gentle laugh.
"Why?" she asked, brows raised in genuine confusion.
"This is your room now."
Devyani's head snapped up.
Her eyes widened.
"What?" she breathed.
Jinal looked around, waving her hand like she was showing off a five-star suite. "This is your husband's room, bhabhi. Which means now it's yours too."
Devyani stared at her like she'd spoken in an alien tongue.
Husband?
Room?
Mine?
Jinal stepped closer, lowering her voice playfully. "And don't worry... bhaiyya isn't home right now. You've got time. Chill, okay?"
She pointed toward the side of the room, past a thick wooden sliding door. "That's the changing room. Go change there. You'll be more comfortable."
Devyani blinked, frozen.
Jinal didn't wait for a reply. She simply smiled, gave her arm a light squeeze, and walked toward the door.
"Come fast, okay? We're all waiting downstairs for you. Lunch won't start without the new bride."
And then she was gone.
Leaving Devyani in the middle of his room.
Her fingers gripped the saree like it was fire.
Her heart beat like a war drum.
She glanced at the bed.
At the bloodstained sleeve of his shirt still wrinkled from where she had clutched it.
His scent.
It was still in the room.
The air felt heavy. Too heavy.
She stared at the closed changing room door.
This room.
This life.
This was hers now?
Her feet didn't move.
Only her lips did—murmuring to herself in disbelief.
"Pati ji ka kamra... mera ho gaya?"
Devyani stood still for a moment, clutching the saree tightly against her chest.
Her mind was a cyclone of confusion — was this really her room now? Was she supposed to stay here? Change here? In his changing room?!
"No, no, Devyani... don't think too much," she whispered to herself, taking a shaky breath. "Pehle kapde badlo... warna maa gussa ho jayengi..."
With hesitant steps, she walked toward the sliding wooden door Jinal had pointed at.
Maybe it's just a normal bathroom or something... nothing fancy...
But the moment she pulled the door open—
Her breath hitched.
She blinked.
Twice.
And then gasped, her mouth parting slightly in utter disbelief.
It wasn't a changing room.
It was a palace.
At least to her.
The room was bigger than her entire house. Literally. It had its own high ceiling, glass wardrobes lined with lights that glowed like something out of a science fiction movie. The floor beneath her was polished black marble, so clean she could see her shocked reflection staring back at her.
A huge mirror stood across one wall — not the usual size — but a floor-length smart mirror with touch features glowing in soft blue light.
On one side, there was a mechanized tie organizer spinning slowly with over 50 ties arranged by color gradients.
Next to it, rows of luxury watches, each placed inside a velvet-cushioned box under protective glass.
There were drawers labelled in golden letters — cufflinks, sunglasses, pocket squares.
The walls had hidden compartments—one slid open automatically when she stepped closer, revealing Rivan's blazers arranged like a showroom rack, perfectly aligned and ironed.
She gulped.
Yeh toh... TV mein bhi nahi dekha tha...
There were three separate wardrobe zones—one only for formal wear, one for casuals, and one that looked like it was for travel gear. Even the shoes had their own temperature-controlled glass cabinet.
And in the middle?
A sleek island counter—yes, a counter in a dressing room—covered in colognes and perfumes, all from brands she couldn't even pronounce.
Devyani stared at a bottle that had a lion engraved in gold.
"Yeh room hai ya museum?"
She stepped back quickly, almost afraid of breaking something by breathing too hard.
The lights changed slightly as she moved, adjusting to her position.
The air even smelled rich. Musky. Sharp. Masculine.
Like him.
Everything here screamed RIVAN THAKUR.
And here she was—standing barefoot, clutching a maroon saree in her small hands, staring at a world she clearly did not belong to.
"Bas... bas jaldi kapde badal le Devyani... warna yeh kamra tujhe khud bahar fek dega..."
She gulped again and tiptoed toward the mirror.
Still wide-eyed.
Still scared.
Still unsure whether she was inside a room—
Or a dream she wasn't supposed to see.
Devyani stood in front of the massive mirror now — half dressed, half anxious, and fully panicked.
Her bridal lehenga now lay folded neatly on the side. She had somehow managed to slip into the blouse and petticoat, though the blouse hung a little loose around her shoulders, threatening to slip every few seconds. She tugged it higher and grabbed the shawl to keep it in place.
But now came the real monster.
The saree.
Six yards of rich maroon silk with intricate golden borders stared at her like a challenge she never signed up for.
Her fingers trembled as she held it up, trying to figure out where it even began.
"Yeh toh... road se zyada lambi lag rahi hai," she muttered, nervously chewing her lip.
She turned slightly toward the mirror, draped it over her shoulder—only for the rest of the fabric to fall around her like a tangled curtain.
"Abey! Kahaan ja rahi hai?!"
She caught the trailing end and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing worked.
It either slipped off... or folded weirdly... or bunched up like a towel fight gone wrong.
She paused, breath hitching with helplessness, her hands fisting the fabric.
Then she looked at her reflection.
A tiny girl standing in the middle of an emperor's closet, drowning in a saree she didn't know how to wear, wearing a blouse too big, and eyes too full of fear.
"Nahi aata mujhe... mujhe nahi aata saree pahenna ..."
Her lips quivered.
She clutched the saree close to her chest and whispered in a soft, broken voice, "Ab kya karun...? Kaise karun...?"
There was no maid.
No friend.
No mother.
No one.
Just her and the echo of her voice bouncing back from marble and mirrors.
She sat slowly on the soft ottoman at the center of the room, still hugging the saree. Her legs dangled a little — too small for the high seat.
She sighed.
Then looked up again.
"...Main kar lungi."
Her voice was barely a whisper. A promise to herself.
If she can be married to a stranger, wake up in his bed, face his family, survive his anger...
Then she could damn well learn how to drape a saree.
Even if it killed her.
.
.
.
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RIVAN's penthouse
Rivan stormed into his penthouse like a man possessed.
The door slammed behind him, rattling in its hinges. His chest heaved with every breath as fury rolled off him in silent waves. He was angry — no, beyond angry. He was betrayed. Cornered. Shackled.
By his own blood.
By a girl who cried "Pati ji" while clutching his bleeding hand like he was something holy.
Rivan pressed his palms against the edge of the marble counter, head bowed, muscles trembling.
He growled under his breath and pushed himself away.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
This wasn't his life.
And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, his phone buzzed on the table.
He didn't want to see it.
But he did.
Mr. Thakur.
Of course.
He snatched the phone and tapped open the message, jaw tightening with every word.
Mr. Thakur:
Come home for lunch.
Don't forget you have a wife now.
Lunch, breakfast, dinner – with Devyani is compulsory.
Or else, forget about the deal.
Silence.
Dead, deafening silence.
And then — laughter.
But it wasn't joyful. It was bitter. Hollow. The kind of laughter that tasted like venom on the tongue.
"Compulsory?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.
His knuckles turned white around the phone.
Was this a joke?
He — Rivan Thakur — the man who hadn't let anyone sit on his bed, who kept his distance from the chaos of the haveli, who didn't believe in love, devotion, or any of that emotional garbage — was being ordered to eat lunch with a wife he never chose?
A wife he didn't trust?
A wife who was clearly sent as a pawn in a game he wanted no part in?
He paced like a lion trapped in a glass cage, his bare feet echoing against the marble floors. His mind screamed to leave her, abandon this mess, burn the damn haveli down if he had to — but then, uninvited, that image came rushing back again.
His mother house then
Her
Unconscious.
Clutching his shirt in her tiny hands.
Something dark twisted in his chest. He hated it. Whatever this feeling was — he despised it.
He wanted to blame it on the drugs.
Yes. That was easier.
He was still drugged. Still foggy. Not thinking clearly.
That's why he carried her.
That's why he let her lie on his bed.
That's why he called the doctor.
That's why... he didn't pull away.
This wasn't him. It couldn't be.
Because if it was—
He didn't finish the thought.
Instead, he grabbed the bottle of water on the counter, took a long gulp, and stared blankly at the floor like it might give him answers.
But it didn't.
Only the phone did.
Still lit up.
Still glowing.
Still reminding him...
That lunch was compulsory.
.
.
.
.
.
Devyani pov
I stood frozen.
In the middle of a room that looked more like a royal suite than anything I had ever seen on TV — let alone stepped inside. The walls were covered in mirrors.Everything here smelled like him — power, spice, and danger.
But I wasn't thinking about that.
I was thinking about the beautiful saree in my hands.
How do you even wear this thing?!
I had tried — God knows I had tried. I'd wrapped it one way, then another, then tried folding it the way, but nothing made sense.
The pallu kept slipping, the pleats were a joke, and the blouse— it was slightly loose, sitting awkwardly on my shoulders.
I'd decided to cover it with my shawl... but even that looked wrong.
My fingers were trembling now, and my heart was racing.
Jinal wasn't here. She was the only one I knew. The only one who had smiled at me like I wasn't a stranger. And now I was stuck. Alone. In his room. Wearing his family's saree.
And now I couldn't even manage a simple saree.
I looked down at the golden cloth in my hands — soft, expensive, heavy — and my throat ached with helplessness.
"I wish I had a mother," I whispered softly, sitting down on the marble floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
My voice shook, and tears slipped past my lashes before I could stop them.
"If I had her... maybe this wouldn't be so hard... maybe she'd show me... how to tie this stupid saree... how to be a wife... how to exist in this place that doesn't feel like mine..."
I didn't cry loudly. I didn't even sob.
I just sat there, breathing through the pain like I always had.
Until—
Click.
The sound of the door.
My body jolted.
I turned quickly, wiping my eyes, hoping — praying — it was a jinal, anyone but—
But it wasn't.
It wasn't jinal.
It was him.
Pati parmeshwar ji.
Standing at the door.
In his room.
And me — sitting on the floor, in blouse, clutching a half-wrapped saree like a scared little girl.
My breath caught.
He looked... darker than usual. His brows furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
Why was he here?
Why now?
My hands gripped the saree tighter as I scrambled to stand, heart thudding violently inside my chest. This couldn't be happening. Not like this. Not in this state.
He stared.
I couldn't speak.
I didn't even blink.
Because for one horrifying second... I thought he might just walk right back out.
Or worse — stay.
I couldn't breathe.
He was standing there. In the doorway. Tall. Silent. Watching.
The man who told me — with no room for argument — that no one was allowed in his room.
And yet here I was.
Half-dressed.
Holding his family's saree in trembling hands.
Inside the room I had no right to be in.
Tears stung my eyes before I even realized they were falling.
I took a shaky step back.
"I-I didn't mean to..." I whispered, my voice nearly inaudible over the loud thumping of my heart. "I didn't know... they said this is my room now... I-I didn't know...you'd come back—"
He didn't say a word.
And that silence?
It was worse than yelling.
My heart dropped to my stomach. My legs felt like jelly. Every inch of me screamed to hide, to disappear, to run— but where could I go? I was already inside the storm.
In a panic, I reached for my shawl and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders like a shield, as if it could hide me — hide the blouse that didn't fit, the bare skin I was sure he'd already seen.
I felt exposed. Like I'd been caught doing something sinful.
Like I was naked in front of a god I had unknowingly angered.
His eyes weren't even moving, but I could feel them burning holes into me.
I wanted to disappear.
My voice trembled again, thick with tears. "I—I didn't mean to come inside... I swear I didn't know it was forbidden... I just... I couldn't wear the saree..."
My chest heaved with each breath, my vision blurring. I clutched the fabric tighter, pulling it over my collarbones like a frightened child.
This wasn't how a wife was supposed to look.
But this was us.
This was me.
Shaking. Pathetic. Crying in front of a man who probably hated the sight of me.
And yet I couldn't stop.
Because somewhere deep down... I knew I had already broken a rule.
And in his world, broken rules came with a price.
He took a step forward.
I flinched, clutching the saree tighter to my chest, the fabric crushed in my shaking fists. My whole body felt exposed—even though I was wrapped in layers. It wasn't the clothes. It was his presence. It was him being here, seeing me like this.
This isn't right...
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Why was a man inside while a girl was changing?
I could barely hold it in anymore — the confusion, the panic — it all spilled out of me in one breathless whisper.
"Didn't... didn't anyone teach you... it's bad... bad manners to see a... a girl changing...?"
My voice cracked by the end, and I looked down instantly, because meeting his eyes for more than a second — it felt like punishment. Like burning.
Silence.
And then—
A deep voice. Cold. Lazily amused.
"Nope. A husband can watch his wife changing."
My breath hitched.
Chii.
How could he say that?
My eyes widened in disbelief, face heating up in shock, horror, and something else I didn't want to name. My feet inched back instinctively.
But he wasn't done.
He took another step — slow, deliberate — like a predator cornering a rabbit.
"But," he said, voice sharper now, darker, "you're not my wife."
I blinked, confused.
He leaned slightly forward.
"So technically, I can't see you like this..." he murmured, voice laced with venom, "but you—you're the one in my room. My changing room. And that means—"
His eyes flicked up to meet mine, slow and terrifying—
"I own this place. Everything in it... belongs to me."
He paused. A cruel smirk pulling at his lips.
"Including you."
I gasped.
My heart dropped.
No...
It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
My knees buckled slightly, but I somehow stayed standing.
Did he just say I belonged to him?
Like things did?
Tears welled up again, stinging. My fingers tightened around the saree.
It means he'll kill me.
He'll kill me now for entering his sacred space. For seeing something I shouldn't. For existing where I wasn't supposed to.
My lips parted, but no words came.
Just a shaky, terrified breath...
What will he do to me now...?
I didn't even get time to blink.
One second he was just standing there—terrifying, cold—and the next, his hand shot out and grabbed me.
"—?" I gasped, but the words never left my throat.
He yanked me forward so hard I nearly tripped, my bare feet slipping against the polished floor. The half-draped saree slid further, and my blouse shifted awkwardly, but he didn't care. He didn't even look.
He just dragged me.
Dragged me like I was nothing.
And then—
With one hard push—
He threw me out.
threw me out of the room.
I stumbled, crashing against the cold hallway wall, breath knocked out of me, the shawl falling from my shoulder, leaving me exposed, trembling.
His voice hit me next.
Loud. Brutal. Final.
"Just get the fuck out of my sight!"
I froze.
Tears spilled faster down my cheeks as I stared at the floor, unable to move.
"If I see your face again," he growled, "I swear I'll fucking kill you."
Kill me...?
My eyes widened. My breath caught.
And then—
He slammed the door shut.
Right in my face.
I was left standing there.
In a half-draped saree.
Barefoot.
Shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Tears ran down in hot, messy streaks, soaking into the fabric I clutched around myself for some tiny shred of dignity.
I didn't know what to do.
Didn't know where to go.
Didn't even know how to breathe anymore.
My body felt numb. My mind completely blank.
I'm not safe here...
I shouldn't be here.
Not in this haveli.
Not in his room.
Not in his life.
He hates me.
And maybe...
Maybe I deserve it.
Because I don't even know why I'm here.
All I know is—
I want to disappear.
Author pov
Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. It was Jinal.
She came with a light smile, ready to check on Devyani—
But the moment she saw her...
Her smile died.
Devyani stood frozen near the closed door, her saree barely hanging on, her hands clutching the fabric to her chest, her eyes red and wide with fear, cheeks stained with tears. She looked like a terrified bird thrown out of its nest.
"Devi?" Jinal whispered, shocked.
Without asking anything, she quickly pulled her into a side corridor—one that led to the upper, quieter floor where few family members ever came.
Jinal didn't ask questions.
Devyani didn't give answers.
Because what would she even say?
That he threw her out?
That she had been standing half-dressed, crying, because the man who now carried the title of her husband threatened to kill her?
No. She couldn't say it.
And Jinal... Jinal didn't push her.
She could feel the tension, the pain, the trembling in Devyani's hands as she helped her with the saree. Anger simmered quietly in Jinal's chest, but she bit her tongue. Everyone knew Rivan's anger. Interfering now would only make things worse for Devyani.
Once the saree was properly draped, Devyani finally took a breath, still fragile.
And then she hesitantly looked at Jinal and softly asked, "Can you... put some clips? I want to hide my face."
Jinal blinked in confusion. "Why? You're looking beautiful."
Devyani lowered her eyes, holding back tears. "Please..."
There was a deep pain in her voice. A desperation.
Jinal didn't understand the reason. Maybe it was a ritual from her side. Maybe something from her village. Maybe...
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
So she nodded gently. "Okay."
Without another word, Jinal fixed the pallu of Devyani's saree over her head, securing it with a few soft clips. She adjusted it carefully until Devyani's face was almost entirely hidden beneath the fabric.
Devyani finally exhaled. A strange sense of relief washed over her. Because in her mind—
If he couldn't see her face,
He wouldn't hurt her.
He wouldn't kill her.
Not yet.
Not today.
The dining hall buzzed with low murmurs and clinking dishes. The entire family had gathered—Virendra at the head of the table, Yashodha beside him, Aditya quietly scrolling through his phone, and Bua whispering something to Rekha.
Everyone was waiting for the newlywed couple to make their appearance.
But when only Jinal and Devyani entered...
All heads turned.
And a strange silence followed.
Devyani walked hesitantly beside Jinal, her steps small, her head bowed, and her face completely hidden under the thick veil she had tightly pinned. Her hands clutched the pallu nervously, heart hammering against her ribs.
Confusion spread across the room like wildfire.
Yashodha was the first to speak, blinking in surprise. "Devyani beta, you don't need to keep your face hidden like this. We haven't kept any ghoonghat ritual here. You're part of this house now, not a stranger."
Devyani froze.
What now?
She could feel the eyes on her.
"What should I say?"
"Should I tell them the truth? That pati ji said he'd kill me if I showed my face?"
No.
She couldn't.
So she quickly dropped her gaze further and mumbled, just loud enough for them to hear—
"N-No... in our village, this is considered shagun... good omen for newlywed brides to keep their face covered for few day."
There was a pause.
Then, understanding dawned on Yashodha's face. "Oh... right. Of course, traditions are different. That's fine."
Jinal gently nudged Devyani to sit beside her, away from Rivan's usual seat. The one that remained empty.
And though no one said it aloud—
They all noticed that the groom hadn't shown up for the first family meal.
Not even for his new bride.
But for now, everyone let it pass.
As for Devyani...
She kept her head low, her face hidden.
And repeated the same prayer in her heart—
"Please don't let him come."
"Please don't let him see me."
The quiet hum of conversation instantly died when the tall, sharp figure of Rivan Thakur appeared at the threshold of the dining hall.
It was like time paused.
Forks halted mid-air, eyes widened, and a deep silence settled in the grand room.
After years...
Rivan Thakur was about to sit at the dining table of Thakur Haveli.
Virendra's eyes shone faintly, a rare flicker of joy lighting his otherwise stern face. He tried to keep calm, pretending it didn't matter, but deep down—he had waited for this moment. For years.
For his son to come back.
For his son to sit beside him.
Like a family.
Rivan's eyes scanned the table—cold, calculating, unimpressed.
And then... they stopped.
His brows furrowed.
A girl, fully veiled in her pallu, sat quietly at the edge of the table. Her shoulders were small, posture hesitant, and yet her presence irked him like fire.
At first, he ignored her, assuming her to be some guest from the extended family.
But then his gaze landed on Yashodha—sitting across the table, serving food to that same girl.
And something in him snapped.
He took a sharp step back, voice dangerously low and venom-laced.
"If this lady is sitting here—then I'm not going to eat."
Everyone froze.
Yashodha lifted her eyes, heart clenching, but face calm. Without a word, she placed the bowl she was holding back on the table and stood up.
"I'm the outsider here. So it's better if I leave."
Her voice didn't tremble, but pain dripped through her tone like acid. She turned, walking out silently—dignified, broken—but silent.
And just when they thought the worst was over...
Virendra Rathore—the head of the family—also pushed back his chair.
No words.
No expression.
Just sheer disappointment.
And he walked away.
The air in the room thickened with tension.
But Rivan?
He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched.
"I fucking don't care who leaves. But I'm not sitting with her."
The entire family watched in stunned disbelief.
Rivan sit, like a storm about to explode—but then something unusual happened.
From the corner of his eye, he felt a gaze.
Not a bold one.
But terrified. Trembling.
The pallu girl.
She sat frozen, shrinking into her seat, and still—
His rage kept boiling.
Until—
Something inside him snapped again.
Not because of her.
But because of everyone else's eyes on him.
Judging.
Accusing.
Staring.
And that...
He couldn't tolerate.
Just then, Devayani's hand trembled, and her silver bangles made a faint ting sound as she clutched the edge of her saree tighter.
That small sound...
Was enough.
His jaw twitched.
His fists clenched.
And for the first time—
The veiled girl, sitting silent and still, unknowingly challenged the devil himself.
The meal had only just begun...
But the war was already on fire.
The tension was thick—palpable.
Every soul seated at the Thakur dining table held their breath, afraid even to move a spoon. It wasn't the kind of fear one shows on their face—it was the kind that crawled under the skin, into their bones.
Rivan Thakur was angry. Visibly. Brutally.
His eyes burned in fury, chest heaving as if trying to control a storm within. First, his so called father tried to emotionally manipulate him. Then that woman dared to sit at his dining table—in his home—with his family.
His nostrils flared.
He could feel it—his temper rising like boiling lava. One more word, one more sound, and he could destroy everything in his path.
His jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone as he turned to leave.
He saw her.
Sitting. Silent. Still.
Like a shadow that didn't belong in light.
And despite all the rage building in his chest—
He froze.
Not because of her presence.
But because of what he saw.
Her fingers were trembling.
So badly that even the silver bangles on her wrist clinked with her heartbeat.
Her shoulder slightly hunched, like she was trying to make herself invisible.
And beneath the long pallu that covered almost her entire face—
He caught a glimpse of a tear.
A single tear
That was all.
But something inside him—just for a second—halted.
She wasn't sitting here out of defiance.
She wasn't here to challenge him.
She was scared.
Terrified.
Maybe even broken.
And unknowingly, he had become the monster everyone always whispered about.
He looked away.
But Devyani...
She didn't lift her head.
She didn't dare move.
The silence after the meal was heavier than the tension before it.
Plates were only half-finished when Rivan Thakur suddenly stood up, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape.
He didn't look at anyone—his cold voice alone was enough to make blood freeze.
"Reyansh Sehgal. Aditya Thakur. If you're done eating, let's go for a drive."
The entire dining room went still.
Reyansh's spoon paused midair—mouth open, frozen.
Aditya's heartbeat skipped so violently, he felt his soul leaving his body for a moment.
Both of them looked at each other as if silently asking:
"Did he just say... drive?"
With Rivan?
That wasn't a plan—it was a funeral invite.
A drive with Rivan Thakur didn't include music or sightseeing. It meant either silence so suffocating you start choking on your own breath, or conversations that could emotionally dismember you without a single curse word.
At the far end, Aradhya, Jinal, and Payal shared a wicked glance.
Payal grinned, "They're gone."
Jinal stifled a giggle, "Should we prepare condolence letters?"
Even the ever-serious Samarveer sighed dramatically, pressing his hands in prayer,
"Thank you, Bagwan. Thank you for not including me in this death ride. Thank you for blessing me with life."
Beside him, Rekha leaned toward her husband and whispered in horror-struck concern,
"Should I call Babhi ji and ask her to meet Aditya one last time?"
Samarveer almost choked on water, nodding with mock seriousness.
Even Rajmata Durgeshwari tried to hide a smirk behind her shawl.
But the names had already been dropped like weapons on the table. Rivan didn't wait to check who followed. He was already walking toward the main door—his coat thrown over his shoulder like a storm passing by.
Reyansh whispered under his breath to Aditya,
"... if I don't return... burn my laptop and erase my chats."
Aditya muttered back,
"Just tell maa to keep my white kurta ready. I want to die like a proper Thakur."
And reluctantly—like prisoners marching toward their doom—they got up.
The girls didn't stop smiling.
This wasn't a drive.
This was going to be history.
Aditya Thakur stood up slowly, chair making barely a sound.
He didn't hug anyone.
He didn't smile.
He didn't glance.
With a straight face and voice colder than winter wind, he simply said,
"Goodbye."
No drama. No emotion.
Unlike Rudraksh, who would wink or crack a stupid joke...
Unlike Rivan, who didn't believe in farewells...
Aditya was silent steel—dangerous in stillness. Built different.
Everyone stared as he walked past them.
And then came Reyansh Sehgal.
He got up eyes flickering toward Jinal for a split second.
But the moment her gaze met his—he looked away.
"Goodbye," he muttered quickly, not trusting himself to stay a second longer.
With heavy steps—as if walking into his own grave—he followed Aditya.
Outside, the black beast waited.
Rivan's signature car—pitch dark, monstrous engine, all windows tinted.
They all got in.
And within seconds, the engine roared—louder than thunder, angrier than a wounded lion.
The car jerked so suddenly that Reyansh screamed,
"ARE YOU GONE CRAZY?! STOP IT, RIVAN!"
But the devil didn't stop.
Eyes on the road, jaw tight, his hand pressed down on the accelerator like it was someone's throat.
The car sped up.
Everything around became a blur.
Reyansh grabbed the handle above his seat, shouting again,
"We're not on a racetrack! You trying to kill us or what?!"
Aditya, on the other hand, didn't say a word.
He sat calm. Composed.
Because he knew one fact very well:
"No one stops Rivan Thakur once he loses his mind."
Especially not with words.
The car screeched to a halt on a deserted road—surrounded by trees, the sky turning darker as clouds rolled in.
Not a soul in sight.
Reyansh stumbled out of the car first, breathless and clutching his chest.
"I swear I'm gonna get a heart attack one day because of you..."
He muttered, wiping his forehead, legs still shaking.
Aditya stepped out next, silent as ever, scanning the area like he already knew this wasn't just a casual ride.
And then came Rivan—slamming the door shut with enough force to make the ground flinch.
He didn't say anything.
He just walked ahead.
There was something terrifying about the stillness of his movements.
He removed his coat, threw it on the car, rolled up his sleeves...
Then from the inside of the vehicle—he pulled out a gun.
Reyansh froze.
Aditya narrowed his eyes.
"What the hell is this, Rivan?" Reyansh asked, his voice cracking.
Rivan didn't look at him. His eyes were focused... rage simmering under his skin.
He cocked the gun, loaded it smoothly.
Aditya's lips tightened. He understood now.
This wasn't about the drive.
It wasn't about food.
It wasn't even about Devyani.
This was about control—someone had dared to snatch Rivan Thakur's control from him.
And now...
He was hunting.
Reyansh's face lost color. "Rivan... listen—"
Click.
Rivan loaded the gun, cocked it, and aimed directly at Reyansh's head. "So, tell me," he said in a voice that dripped venom, "how does it feel to betray the only man who would've died for you?"
Aditya stepped forward, expression blank but firm. "We had no choice."
"No choice?" Rivan's laugh was dangerous. "You drugged me. You fucking drugged me and tied me to a girl in front of the everyone —like I'm some circus animal!"
"Because you are reckless," Reyansh said, hands up, trying to calm the ticking bomb in front of them. "If we told you directly, you would've killed us before letting the marriage happen."
The gun wavered slightly in Rivan's hand, but his jaw clenched.
"So you both decided to ruin me?" he hissed. "You fucking played me like I was your pawn. My own brother... and my best friend."
"I will never forgive you," he said, lowering the gun—but then, suddenly, he turned it and fired.
BANG!
The bullet hit the ground between their feet.
"Next time I won't miss," he warned. "And next time, it'll be your fucking funeral."
Rivan stood between them, the silence pressing against their eardrums louder than any scream.
He leaned toward Aditya first, his voice a low whisper—dangerously calm.
Whatever he said made Aditya's composed face twitch for the first time. His jaw locked, but his eyes flickered in disbelief.
Then Rivan turned to Reyansh, stepping so close their breaths almost collided.
His words were softer than before, but the effect was explosive. Reyansh's eyes widened. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow. "You wouldn't—" he managed to whisper.
Rivan pulled back slowly, a smirk dancing on his lips—the kind that only meant destruction.
"I already did," he said with finality.
Without another glance, Rivan slid into the car and drove off, the tires screeching violently, kicking dust and gravel into the wind.
As the sound of the engine faded, Aditya and Reyansh looked around.
Their phones? No network.
The road? Endless and empty.
People? Not a soul in sight.
And just when they thought they were alone—
A car engine roared from behind.
A black SUV parked quietly... and from it emerged Thakur—the younger Thakur.
Reyansh gulped.
Aditya closed his eyes.
They were stranded—with no escape and only one mission: face the hell Rivan designed for them.
I'm going to die.
I'm actually going to hit my head and die in this haunted haveli.
But just as I brace myself for the sharp pain of the floor—
I don't fall.
Instead, two rough, cold hands grab me. One hooks behind my back, the other around my waist, pulling me against something hard—no, someone.
Something hard. Solid. Unmoving.
I look up.
My throat chokes on the scream I was about to let out.
He stopped right before her, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off his damp skin, his scent of musk and soap surrounding her. His eyes narrowed, piercing, as he bent slightly—his voice a low growl that made her heart crash violently against her ribs.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
All she could do was clutch her saree tightly against her chest and pray her knees wouldn't give out under the weight of his presence.
His breath brushed against my ear, hot and teasing, sending shivers racing down my spine.
"Didn't anyone teach you," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, "that watching a man take shower naked... is bad manners?"