[41]DEATH IS NEAR
The cabin was pure ice and glass.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the pink city, black marble floors so polished they reflected the sky, a single long desk of smoked oak, and not one warm thing in sight.
No family photos, no marigold garlands, no smell of ghee or mogra.
Just cold air-conditioning, the faint hum of servers, and silence that felt like it was waiting to be broken.
Abhiraj stood in the centre of it, still in the same charcoal suit he’d worn on the flight, eyes bloodshot from no sleep.
He should have gone to the bungalow.
Showered.
Slept four hours.
But every minute spent resting was another minute stolen from going home.
The door opened silently.
His secretary (a thin, nervous man who had worked here eight years and still flinched around him) stepped in.
“Sir… kuchh khana ke liye? Coffee? Ya—”
Abhiraj didn’t look up.
“Kuchh nahi.
Bas saari files abhi la do.
Red folder pehle.”
The man vanished.
Abhiraj shrugged off the suit jacket, tossed it on the leather sofa like it offended him.
Cuffs opened, sleeves folded twice, three buttons of the shirt undone (revealing the hard, inked chest beneath).
He pulled off the heavy gold wedding ring (thick, traditional, the one Amisha had tied on his finger with trembling hands) and placed it carefully in the centre of the desk, next to his Rolex.
Both glinted under the cold LED lights.
A reminder.
A warning.
A promise.
The red folder arrived first (thick, bound with black tape).
Then the rest: twenty-seven folders in total, stacked like bricks.
He sat, rolled the chair forward, and opened the first one.
Page after page after page.
Bank statements.
Fake bills of lading.
Forged signatures.
Facebook chats.
Hotel receipts.
Call records.
He already knew the names.
He had memorised them on the plane.
Vijay Mathur – Chief Accountant.
Rohan Sharma – Export Manager.
Siddhant Agarwal – Customs Clearing Agent.
And six more rats.
But he still read every line.
Because Abhiraj Singh Shekhawat does not kill blindly.
His eyes moved fast, ruthless, clinical.
A muscle ticked in his jaw every time he saw another zero added to the loss column.
120 crore.
His fingers tightened on the edge of a page until the paper crumpled.
A low sound (half growl, half laugh) escaped his throat.
“In logo ne galti ki,” he said to the empty room, voice soft, lethal.
“Bahut badi galti.”
No one innocent.
He checked dates, cross-referenced signatures, matched phone numbers.
Any name that appeared even once without proof (he crossed it out).
When he was sure, he leaned back, rolled the pen between his fingers, and stared at the list.
Eight names.
Eight deaths (slow or fast, he hadn’t decided yet).
He tapped the gold ring once with the pen.
Ten days, he had promised her.
He would finish in seven.
Then he would shower, put the ring back on, throw the gun in the Aravalli hills, and go home to the only warmth that existed in his world.
The cold cabin waited.
Soon, very soon, the silence was going to shatter.
And when it did, eight men would finally understand what happens when you make the devil leave his heaven.
On other side,
The winter sun was just beginning to creep through the lattice windows, painting golden stripes on the white sheets.
Amisha stirred.
First slowly, then suddenly (because the left side of the bed was cold).
No heavy arm across her waist.
No warm palm on her bump.
No low, sleepy “Utho, meri sona… chai pi lo” in her ear.
She lifted her head, hair falling everywhere, and called out softly, instinctively.
“Abhiraj…?”
Silence.
Then memory hit.
He left at 4:30.
Ten days.
She exhaled a long, quiet sigh, sat up slowly, and pressed both hands to her belly (as if the baby could fill the empty space beside her).
The room felt too big.
Too quiet.
No teasing voice, no possessive touch, no morning kisses on her forehead.
Just her.
She dragged herself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, came out wrapped in a towel.
Chose the softest clothes she could find (because anything tight made her feel suffocated these days):
Dark purple short kurta (cotton, loose, ending mid-thigh)
Light lavender gagra (lightweight, flowing, nothing heavy)
Simple white dupatta thrown over one shoulder.
Even that little effort left her flushed and breathing hard.
Pregnancy had turned her into a delicate thing (five minutes of movement and her cheeks were pink, a thin sheen of sweat on her neck).
She stood in front of the mirror, started making a loose braid.
Looked at herself.
Cheeks rounder.
Eyes bigger, softer.
Skin glowing, yes, but lips a little pale without his constant kisses.
She placed both hands on the bump again and spoke to it, voice low and fond.
“Beta… aaj papa bahar gaye hain.
Toh hum dono akele hain abhi.
Koi nahi… jab aayenge na, saare din ka hisaab lenge.
Main toh bata deti hoon chipakne wali hoon saara din unke saath.”
A tiny kick answered herso slight almost she can feel now one else. (as if the baby agreed).
She smiled, finished the braid, and walked downstairs.
The moment she stepped into the kitchen corridor, four pairs of eyes turned to her like she was made of glass.
Megha (still in her night pajamas, hair in a messy top-knot)
Minakshi Ma (apron on, rolling atta)
Shushila (quietly cutting vegetables)
Karishma (Mihir’s wife now of two months marriage, glowing newly-wed, already fitting perfectly into the family)
And from the doorway, Dadi’s voice boomed.
“Arre arre! Kya kar rahi ho yahan? Bahar chalo!”
Amisha smiled sheepishly.
“Bas thodi help—”
“Help-vilp kuch nahi!” Megha cut in, hands on hips.
“Bhabhi, aap baitho. Hum sab hain na!”
Karishma stepped forward gently, took the dupatta end from Amisha’s hand.
“amisha school ke bachche aapko bahut yaad kar rahe hain.
Roz poochte hain Mam kab aayengi?
Par maine bol diya Jab bilkul theek ho jayengi tab hi aayengi.”
Amisha’s eyes softened.
Dadi appeared at the kitchen door, walking stick tapping.
“Chalo, beta. Verandah mein jhoola laga hai. Thandi hawa lagegi.”
Amisha’s face paled instantly.
“Jhoola nahi, Dadi… nausea ho jaati hai ab.”
Dadi waved it off.
“Toh baith jao kursi pe. Fresh air achhi hai baby ke liye.”
Before Amisha could answer, Mihir bhaiya strode in fresh from morning workout, towel around his neck.
He saw the situation in one glance, grabbed the wooden armchair from the dining room, carried it one-handed to the veranda, and placed it gently under the neem tree.
“Baitho, bhabhi. Jhoola nahi, solid chair.”
Then he turned to Dadi, touched her feet quickly, grinned.
“Dadi, aap bhi baitho. Main chai laata hoon.”
And just like that he was gone again typical Mihir: appear, fix, disappear.
Amisha sat down gratefully, the cool morning breeze brushing her flushed cheeks.
Slowly the veranda filled.
Minakshi Ma came with a steel glass of saunf-adrak chai.
Shushila followed with a plate of dry fruits.
Karishma brought a light shawl
“thand lag jaayegi”.
Megha plopped on the floor beside her, head on Amisha’s knee.
Dadi settled in her usual chair, spectacles low on nose.
And the talking began (soft, warm, endless).
“Abhiraj ne subah phone kiya tha,”
Minakshi Ma said, smiling. “Bol raha tha Mummy Amisha ko kuch kaam mat karne dena, bilkul rest.”
Megha snorted. “Bhaiya toh roz video call karenge na? Warna mar jaayenge.”
Karishma laughed.
“Mihir bol rahe the Abhiraj bhaiya ne unko bhi dhamki di hai: agar bhabhi ko ek aansu bhi dikh gaya toh poora Jaipur hila denge.”
Shushila spoke quietly,
“Woh aayenge jaldi. Das din unke liye saal jaise honge.”
Dadi patted Amisha’s hand.
“Beta, tu fikar mat kar. Yeh haveli teri hai, yeh parivaar tera hai.
Aur woh jo door gaya hai na… woh sirf wahan ka kaam khatam karne gaya hai.
Dil se yahin hai tere aur mere pota-poti ke paas.”
Amisha’s eyes welled up a little, but she smiled.
“Pata hai, Dadi.
Bas… thodi si aadat kharab ho gayi hai unki.”
Megha grinned up at her.
“Toh hum log aadat daal denge bhabhi!
Aaj se aapki personal entertainment committee shuru.”
And just like that, the empty morning filled with voices, laughter, chai, and the smell of winter sun on old wood.
The haveli wasn’t silent anymore.
It was waiting (warm, noisy, alive) for its king to come back to his queen and their little prince or princess.
Ten days.
They would pass.
One cup of chai, one story, one soft kick from baby at a time.
Mene "just friends"story delet kar di hai guys because mujhe kuchh smj nhi a Raha tha story ko kese age bathau or mujhe satisfaction bhi nhi mil Raha tha is story so mene delet hi mar di par of course aj ek naya idea aya hai story ke liye so me bata rahi hu ab vo story.
So story is like lawyer proddetail simple but straight girl smart and sharp and mafia and psychological.an doctor body language and psychology.him falling for her kya bolte ho guys jesa laga story.
Ye poll dala hai vote kar diyo ki lawyer X doctor story likhu ya nhi and agr apka koi idea hai to comment me likh dena.and please idea those twisted rakhna more dark romance okay.