CHAPTER 1 The Weight of Empires and Ash #3
Rudra looked down at the hand resting on his arm.
His face was an unreadable mask of stone, but internally, his instincts screamed.
He wasn’t a fool. He suspected the civility was an act.
He caught the fleeting looks of terror in the maids’ eyes when Kanta passed.
He noticed the way Mihika’s smile sometimes didn’t quite reach her eyes when she greeted him at the door.
But the family were perfect saints in his presence. The staff, paralyzed by their fear of Kanta’s retribution, refused to say a word. And Mihika... Mihika always smiled, always told him everything was fine, always redirected his attention to his work, his son, his empire.
Without a word to Kanta, Rudra brushed past her and strode down the hallway toward the parlor.
When he opened the doors, the tension in his broad shoulders finally collapsed.
There they were. His entire world. Aryan was asleep on the settee, his head resting in Mihika’s lap, the drawing of the dragon clutched in his small fist. Mihika was stroking the boy’s hair, her profile illuminated by the dying afternoon sun.
Hearing his footsteps, Mihika looked up. The exhaustion that had lined her face only moments before vanished, replaced by a radiant, genuine smile.
“You conquered the Sterling Group,” she whispered, careful not to wake the boy.
Rudra walked over, crouching down before the settee. He placed a large hand over Aryan’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his son’s breathing. Then, he looked up at Mihika. His dark eyes searched her face, looking for the cracks he knew were hiding beneath the surface.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low, vibrating with a fierce, suppressed intensity. “Did she say anything to you today, Mihika? Tell me the truth. Did they hurt you?”
Mihika reached out, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. She saw the heavy burden he carried. He had spent his entire adult life fighting a war to protect them. She would not add friendly fire to his battles.
“We are perfectly fine, Rudra,” she lied smoothly, her voice a soothing balm. “Your aunt was perfectly polite. We are safe. You built a fortress, remember? Nothing can hurt us here.”
Rudra stared at her for a long moment, wanting desperately to believe her. He leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to her forehead. “I will build it higher,” he promised the empty air. “I will make us untouchable.”
***
In the opposite wing of the sprawling estate, far from the quiet intimacy of the parlor, Birendra Rathore-Chauhan poured himself a glass of aged scotch. He stood by the window of his private study, watching the rain begin to fall over the manicured lawns.
Kanta sat in a leather wingback chair behind him, elegantly crossing her ankles.
“The boy is completely entranced by her,” Birendra grumbled, taking a sip of the burning liquid. “It’s unnatural. A man of his stature, the head of the Rathore-Chauhan empire, playing house with a cook’s orphaned granddaughter and a bastard child.”
“Patience, my dear,” Kanta said softly, a wicked, triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Rudransh is a man driven by duty. He took the girl in out of some misguided sense of loyalty to that wretched sister of his. And he works so hard, he hardly has time to notice the real world.”
In their immense hubris, Birendra and Kanta had vastly miscalculated the reality of the situation. Because Rudra had kept his head down, because he had tolerated their presence in the estate while he worked to secure the business, they believed they still held a modicum of control over him.
They thought his devotion to Mihika was merely a prolonged, unfortunate phase—a charitable obligation stemming from childhood grief.
“The empire is flourishing,” Kanta continued, admiring her manicured nails. “Rudra has done his job beautifully. He has made us richer and more powerful than ever before. Now, it is time for us to do our duty.”
“The Singhania girl?” Birendra asked, arching a thick eyebrow.
“Yes. Meera Singhania. Impeccable pedigree. Incredible wealth. And most importantly, she understands how to be a proper, controllable society wife,” Kanta smiled, the expression devoid of warmth.
“We will arrange a meeting. Once Rudransh sees what a true equal looks like, he will realize how absurd this little domestic fantasy with Mihika Kian truly is. He will discard her, just like one discards an old, broken toy.”
Birendra nodded, turning back to the window. “And the boy?”
“Aryan?” Kanta’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Once Rudransh is married to Meera, boarding school. The strictest, furthest one we can find. He is a stain on our legacy, Birendra. It is time we washed it out.”
They sat in their gilded cage, plotting their masterful maneuvers, blissfully unaware that they were playing with fire. They were stupid enough to mistake Rudransh’s silence for compliance, and Mihika’s endurance for weakness.
They did not know that Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan did not view Mihika as a charity case. He viewed her as his religion.
And as the storm clouds gathered over the estate, casting long, dark shadows across the marble floors, the stage was set for an inevitable, catastrophic collision between the desperate machinations of a dying aristocracy, and the terrifying wrath of a man protecting his love.