CHAPTER 10 The Queen of the Fortress #2
It was an all-consuming fire. The slow, reverent pace of the morning was replaced by a deep, driving rhythm of claiming. Rudra made love to her with a ferocious intensity, his hips snapping forward, driving deeper with every thrust, demanding every ounce of her surrender.
Mihika met him perfectly, her nails biting lightly into the muscles of his back, her hips rising to meet his every movement. The room echoed with the ragged, heavy sounds of their breathing, the slide of skin against skin, and the whispered, broken promises of forever.
They were utterly absorbed into each other. The physical boundary between where he ended and she began completely dissolved. He tasted the salt of her tears—tears of pure, overwhelming joy—as he kissed her fiercely.
When the crest of pleasure finally broke, it was a catastrophic, blinding wave of light.
Mihika cried out his name, her body clenching violently around him, completely fragmenting into the ether.
A split second later, Rudra’s control snapped.
He drove into her one final, desperate time, a roar of blinding release tearing from his throat as he poured everything he was, everything he had ever been, into the woman who held his soul.
He collapsed heavily against her, his massive chest heaving, his heart hammering against hers like a trapped bird. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, rolling them to the side so he wouldn’t crush her, but refusing to let a single millimeter of space open between their bodies.
In the quiet, dark aftermath of their storm, they held each other, victorious and at peace.
***
The next morning, the golden sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the tangled silk sheets.
Mihika was awake, trapped beneath the heavy, uncompromising weight of her husband.
Rudra lay half on top of her, his face buried in her dark hair, one massive arm clamped securely around her waist, and his leg thrown heavily over her thighs.
He was holding her with the possessive grip of a dragon guarding its most precious treasure.
“Rudra,” Mihika laughed, a soft, breathless, joyful sound. She tried to wriggle out from under him, pushing gently against his solid chest. “Rudra, let me go. I have to make Aryan’s breakfast.”
“No,” Rudra murmured, his voice a sleep-gravelly rumble. He didn’t open his eyes. He simply tightened his grip, pulling her flush against him. “Aryan can eat cereal. You are not allowed to move.”
“You are impossible,” Mihika giggled, her heart swelling with an impossible amount of love.
She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his sleep-warm jaw. His life with her was pure bliss, and he proved it to her every single day. The ruthless billionaire who commanded boardrooms with an iron fist was hopelessly captive to the sound of her laughter.
“Five more minutes,” Rudra bargained, finally opening one dark eye to look at her, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his handsome face. “Or I will lock the bedroom door, and we won’t leave until tomorrow.”
Mihika rolled her eyes, but she stopped struggling, melting happily back into his embrace, perfectly content to be his prisoner.
***
By eight o’clock that morning, Mihika, and Aryan had safely departed for St. Jude International Academy in the armored Maybach.
Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan stepped into a sleek black SUV, his face returning to the severe, unreadable mask of stone that the world knew and feared. He was heading to the Chauhan family estate.
The sprawling mansion, usually bustling with aristocratic arrogance, felt remarkably quiet and decayed as Rudra’s SUV crunched over the gravel driveway. The massive oak doors were opened by a trembling butler who immediately bowed his head, terrified of the titan’s presence.
Rudra strode into the grand parlor.
Birendra, Kanta, Ishana, and Ahana were already seated, waiting for him. They looked pale, exhausted, and deeply anxious. They had been summoned, and after the violent confrontation at the school courtyard, they expected to be formally evicted.
Rudra did not sit. He stood in the center of the Persian rug, his hands clasped behind his back, projecting an aura of power.
“I have made a decision regarding your financial future,” Rudra began, his voice echoing coldly in the cavernous room.
Kanta swallowed hard, her hands trembling in her lap. Ahana looked like she was about to cry.
“Because my wife is a woman of infinite grace and mercy,” Rudra stated, making sure the words cut deeply into their pride, “she has asked me not to leave you destitute. Against my better judgment, I have agreed.”
Birendra let out a massive, shaky exhale of relief. Ishana’s eyes widened with sudden, desperate hope.
“As of this afternoon,” Rudra continued smoothly, “your original trusts will be reactivated. Your monthly allowances will be upgraded to their previous levels. You will be permitted to maintain your high-society lifestyle, your club memberships, and the upkeep of this estate.”
Ahana let out a small sob of joy, covering her mouth.
“However,” Rudra’s voice dropped an octave, transforming into a lethal, vibrating threat. “This wealth is conditional. It is a leash, and I hold the end of it. Here are your boundaries.”
He stepped closer to Kanta, towering over her.
“You will never, under any circumstances, come within two hundred feet of Mihika or Aryan ever again,” Rudra commanded, his eyes burning with dark fire.
“You will not attend events they attend. You will not shop at boutiques they frequent. If you see them in public, you will turn and walk the other way.”
Kanta nodded quickly, completely subdued. The fight had been drained from her.
“Secondly,” Rudra said, turning to look at Ishana and Ahana.
“You will never cause any distress to their peace. This means no gossip. No subtle remarks at your tea parties. No malice. If I hear a single whisper in the social circuit—if one word of disrespect regarding my wife or my son reaches my ears—the contract is void. If you violate these terms by a single millimeter, I will instantly freeze every account, strip you of this house, and leave you with nothing.”
The family was dead quiet. They understood perfectly. They were being given the golden cage back, but the lock was controlled by the man they had betrayed.
“Sign the legal documents my lawyers will deliver this afternoon,” Rudra said, turning his back on them. “And pray you never give me a reason to return to this house.”
***
The social circle of Mumbai’s elite was a brutal, merciless arena. Gossip, no matter how tightly guarded, possessed a liquid quality; it always found a way to seep through the cracks and reach eager ears.
Within a week, Kanta, Ishana, and Ahana were back in the social circuit. Their designer clothes were new, their jewelry sparkling, their wealth ostensibly restored. But the atmosphere had violently shifted.
When Kanta walked into the Belvedere Club for the annual charity luncheon, she expected the usual flock of sycophants to rush to her table.
Instead, she was met with polite, icy nods. Women she had bossed around for decades suddenly found themselves deep in conversation as she approached.
They weren’t being received with reverence anymore. They were being received with thinly veiled amusement and deep caution. Because everyone in the room knew the truth: Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan controlled everything, and the Chauhans were merely dancing on his strings.
Whispers fluttered behind expensive silk fans and crystal champagne flutes.
“What goes around comes around, darling,” Mrs. Singhania murmured to her table, watching Kanta sit in isolated silence. “The orphan they used to shun is now the queen of the empire. It is due to her grace that Kanta is even allowed to live in this city.”
The whispers were fueled by a dangerous new source. The servants and staff of the Chauhan estate, no longer terrified of Kanta’s wrath because they knew her power was an illusion, had begun to talk.
Stories leaked into the social ether. Stories of how Mihika was forced to eat in the kitchens. Whispers of the damp, windowless room she was given. Rumors of the psychological abuse, the starvation, the cruelties inflicted by Ishana and Ahana when Rudransh was away building his companies.
The socialites ate it up, but Kanta sat in her chair, sweating through her silk sari, paralyzed by a very real, very lethal terror.
She knew that the socialites were gossiping, but she also knew that if these specific details—the starvation, the systematic abuse—ever reached Rudra’s ears...
if he ever found out exactly how they had treated Mihika during the times he wasn’t at the estate...
the court-mandated no-contact injunction would be the least of her worries.
Rudra would level the estate to the ground with them inside it.
The social circle was merciless. They smelled blood in the water. No one was bowing to Kanta anymore. She was a ghost, haunted by the very real threat of her nephew’s ultimate vengeance, surviving on the mercy of the girl she had tortured.