Chapter Two
Author's pov;
On a stormy night, when the skies roared with fury and lightning painted cracks across the clouds, a scream tore through the underground chambers of the Rathore Torture Cells.
"Please! Mujhe mat maaro! Galti ho gayi!"
(Please! Don’t kill me! It was a mistake!)
The man’s pleas bounced off the walls—walls that had seen countless souls beg for mercy, and yet never learned to feel.
In the center of the bloodstained cell, sitting like a god of death, was Aansh Rathore.
He sat on an iron chair, legs crossed, expression calm—dangerously calm. His physique was sharp, built like a sculpted weapon, he was perfection. His piercing icy blue eyes stared ahead, untouched by the man's desperation.
To Aansh, pain wasn’t punishment—it was art.
The man cried out again. "Please! I’ll never even look at Ishita again, I swear!"
At the sound of his sister's name, Aansh’s fingers tightened on the glass of whiskey in his hand. His expression didn’t change—but his eyes snapped open like a loaded gun.
“Ishita ka naam… tere jaise ke mooh se?”
(My sister’s name… from the mouth of someone like you?)
He stood slowly, his boots echoing across the concrete.
“Zubaan kaat do.”
(Cut off his tongue.)
A guard stepped forward, blade in hand. One swift motion, one guttural scream—and silence returned.
Blood pooled near the man’s knees. He thrashed in agony, voiceless now.
Aansh crouched beside him, pointing at the bloody piece on the floor.
“Is zubaan se tune meri behen se pyaar ka izhaar kiya tha? Ab kutte bhi nahi chaatenge isey.”
(You confessed your love for my sister with this tongue? Now even dogs won’t lick it.)
He stood tall again, adjusting his cuffs.
“Aankhein nikaal do. Kutton ko khila dena.”
(Take his eyes. Feed them to the dogs.)
The last scream that night wasn’t just of pain—it was the sound of a soul realizing its end.
---
Outside, the storm still raged, but Aansh walked through the rain like it feared touching him.
He stepped into his Rolls Royce Phantom, custom-built, matte black, leather stitched by hand. As he lit a cigarette, his phone buzzed.
Karthik Singhania.
“Bol,” Aansh said.
“Bhai! Relax, I just heard… what did you do to the guy who proposed to Ishita?”
“Zubaan kaati, aankhein nikaali… aur kutton ko khila diya.”
(I cut his tongue, took his eyes out… fed them to the dogs.) He spoke like what he did was normal
Karthik whistled.
“Dude. Harsh. You could’ve just shot him. I mean,the guy just expressed his feelings."
“Mujhe mat chhed, warna tujhe bhi goli maar dunga.”
(Don’t test me, or I’ll fucking shoot you too.)
Aansh cut the call,not caring what his best friend was going to say.
---
The gates of Rathore Mansion creaked open, revealing the kind of palace most people only saw in history books. Lit up against the storm, it looked majestic—and breathtakingly beautiful.
Aansh walked in.
Every servant immediately bowed their head. Not one dared to meet his gaze.
As he stepped into the marble hallway, a voice echoed behind him.
“Aansh! Beta, where were you? I was worried sick!”
It was his mother, Gayatri Devraj Rathore, dressed in a beautiful red and gold sareee, hands folded, face painted in motherly concern.
He walked past her like she didn’t exist.
“Aansh, main tumse baat kar rahi hoon!”
(Aansh, I’m talking to you!)
He stopped halfway up the stairs and spoke without turning around.
“Main nafrat karta hoon jhooton se. Isliye acting mat karo.”
(I hate liars. So don’t act for me.)
He disappeared into the shadows of the upper floor, leaving behind the sound of his mother’s heartbreak.
---
His room was massive, it was breathtakingly decorated, but it felt less like a home and more like a luxury prison.
He threw his blazer on the couch, jaw clenched.
He hadn’t spoken to his mother properly in years. He didn’t need to. She had already lied enough to last a lifetime.
He stepped into his washroom—more like a private spa—and stood under the shower for an hour. Water poured down his muscular frame, but couldn’t wash away the memories.
The betrayal.
The humiliation.
The press conference where his mother had smiled beside her cheating husband and said they were “a happy family.”
---
By the time he changed into grey casual wear, it was midnight.
He walked silently to a familiar room, one that still held warmth.
His grandfather’s.(Pratap Rathore)
The door creaked as he stepped in.
The old man was awake, sitting in a chair with a shawl over his shoulders.
“Tu jaanta tha main aunga?”
(You knew I’d come?)
“Tu har raat aata hai, beta. Par har baar thoda aur thak ke.”
(You come every night, my son. But every time, more tired.)
Aansh sat beside him.
“Why are you still awake, Dadaji?”
“Because I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Come with me to the temple tomorrow.”
Aansh let out a bitter laugh.
“Mujhe maaf kijiye, par main bhagwan mein vishwas nahi karta.”
(Forgive me, but I don’t believe in God.)
His grandfather looked at him gently.
“Main tujhe bhagwan ke liye nahi bula raha. Main tujhe insaan banane ki koshish kar raha hoon.”
(I’m not calling you for God. I’m trying to help you become human.)
Aansh looked away, voice low,
"Don’t have expectations from me. Am the devil everyone is soo afraid of....and feelings makes one weak"
His grandfather sighed, eyes heavy with regret.
“Dont say that my child, everyone has feelings, let me help you find yours. You need a wife, beta.”
Aansh stood.
“Shaadi? Mujhe?” he scoffed. “Main kisi se mohabbat nahi kar sakta. Na kabhi karunga.”
(Marriage? Me? I can’t love anyone. I never will.)
He walked toward the door.
“So jaaiye, Dadaji. You need rest.”
“Aur tu, beta?”
(And you, son?)
“Main toh kab ka so gaya hoon. Sirf aankhein khuli hain.”
(I’ve already gone to sleep long ago. Only my eyes are open.)
---
As he walked back to his room, his grandfather whispered to himself,
“Ab waqt aa gaya hai… is sheher ko ek nayi Rathore bahu dene ka.”
(It’s time… to give this house a new Rathore daughter-in-law.)
And somewhere far away…
She slept peacefully under a cotton blanket, unaware that fate had already written her name besides a devil's
Rathore Mansion