CHAPTER 6 The Architect of Ashes #3
“You made her eat in the kitchens,” Ishana listed, her voice rising in panic.
“You gave her the dampest room in the servant’s wing.
You insulted her dead grandmother. You called her a beggar.
You constantly, systematically abused her for six years, and she absorbed every single ounce of it and never told him. ”
Ahana gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
“If Mihika ever decides to tell Rudra about all the abuse,” Ishana said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper, “if she tells him what her daily life was actually like in this house when he wasn’t looking...”
The implication hung in the air, heavy and lethal.
Rudra had just stripped them of their empire over a single day of blackmail. If he found out about six years of systemic, emotional torture... the legal severing of ties would be the least of their worries. He would destroy them in ways the law couldn’t even regulate.
“You are, without a doubt,” Ishana said, looking at her parents with a mixture of disgust and pity, “the stupidest people on the entire planet. We are dead. If she opens her mouth, we are all dead.”
The four of them stood in the silent parlor, trapped by their own aristocratic hubris, waiting for the legal team to arrive, knowing that their survival was resting in the hands of the woman they had tried to destroy.
***
The coastal winds were howling as the AgustaWestland helicopter touched down on the reinforced helipad atop the penthouse.
Rudra stepped out of the cabin, the downwash whipping his dark hair across his forehead. He didn’t feel the cold. In fact, for the first time in a year, the heavy, suffocating weight that had crushed his lungs was gone.
He walked down the private stairwell, his boots making no sound on the concrete. As he keyed his code into the penthouse door, the electronic lock clicked, and he stepped into the foyer.
Vikram stepped out from the shadows, giving a curt, silent nod to indicate the perimeter was secure. Rudra dismissed him with a subtle wave of his hand.
The penthouse was dark, save for the ambient floor lighting.
It was nearing midnight. Rudra stripped off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair, and loosened his tie.
The violent, destructive energy that had fueled him at the estate was rapidly draining away, replaced by an overwhelming, magnetic pull drawing him toward the center of the house.
He walked down the long corridor, expecting to find them asleep in the master bedroom where he had left them.
But the bedroom door was open, and the bed was empty.
A spike of panic hit his chest, but before it could fully bloom, he heard it.
A soft, chiming giggle.
Rudra’s heart gave a violent leap. He turned on his heel, moving silently down the opposite hall toward the entertainment wing.
The heavy, soundproof double doors of the home theater were slightly ajar. A soft, flickering blue light spilled out into the dark hallway.
Rudra walked up to the doorway and leaned his broad shoulder against the frame, looking inside.
The massive, wall-to-wall screen was playing an animated movie—something bright, colorful, and completely nonsensical. But Rudra didn’t look at the screen. His eyes were locked on the massive, plush velvet viewing lounger in the center of the room.
Mihika and Aryan were curled up together, a tangle of limbs and soft blankets.
Aryan was nestled securely between Mihika’s legs, his back resting against her chest. Mihika’s arms were wrapped snugly around him, her chin resting on the top of his dark head.
They were sharing a massive bowl of popcorn that rested precariously on Aryan’s lap.
Something hilarious happened on the screen, and Aryan threw his head back, letting out a loud, unrestrained laugh.
Mihika laughed with him, a beautiful, musical sound that reached all the way to her dark eyes. She playfully tossed a piece of popcorn at his nose, making the boy giggle even harder as he tried to catch it in his mouth.
Rudra stood in the shadows of the doorway, completely transfixed.
He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He watched the way her hand naturally, instinctively stroked Aryan’s hair. He watched the unfiltered peace on his son’s face.
The burning rage that had threatened to incinerate his soul only an hour ago completely evaporated. The ghosts of his past, the betrayal of his family, the billion-dollar empire he had just fractured—none of it mattered. It was all background noise. It was all dust.
They are safe, Rudra thought, an overwhelming wave of emotion crashing over him.
He had gone to war, he had burned the bridges of his legacy, and he had secured the perimeter. There were no more threats. There was no more blackmail. The gilded guillotine had been dismantled and tossed into the sea.
Looking at Mihika and Aryan curled up in the flickering light of the home theater, laughing together, Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan felt his soul stitch itself back together.
It was a feeling of pure peace. It was the most anchoring peace he had felt in an entire year.
He didn’t step into the room to interrupt them. He didn’t announce his presence. He simply stood in the doorway, a silent, immovable guardian, watching his world spin flawlessly on its axis once again.