Chapter Thirty Four
Author's POV:
The guard stood stiffly in front of Aansh, chest heaving slightly, eyes lowered in fear.
"Sir... Mrs. Rathore has left the venue," he said carefully, almost like each word was a bomb about to explode.
Aansh froze mid-step. The air around him shifted.
He didn't shout-he didn't have to. His silence was worse.
The veins in his jaw ticked, and his hand clenched the glass in his hold so hard it cracked, spilling clear liquid over his fingers.
The sharp sting grounded him for a second, but only barely.
She left.
The words replayed in his head, slow and deliberate, like poison dripping into his bloodstream.
The second time she's walked out on an event... but this time-
this time he would make sure she learned.
"Find out who she interacted with before she left," he said finally, voice low and lethal, but beneath that-something else.
Something that almost sounded like hurt.
The guard's fingers trembled as he clutched his folder tighter.
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed, Aansh's mask faltered. His chest rose and fell unevenly.
His mind replayed her face tear-streaked, trembling.
Why was she crying?
And why, in the middle of a hundred people, had that broken look in her eyes felt like a bullet to his chest?
He hated her-he was supposed to hate her.
She was chaos in a world he built with precision.
But the image of her tears wouldn't leave him.
The more he tried to drown it out, the louder it screamed inside him.
He needed air.
He needed distance from her name, from her scent, from the way his heart clenched at the thought of her breaking down alone.
He walked to the balcony-the private one that no one dared step on except him.
The night was quiet, the city stretching out beneath him like a glittering lie.
He tugged off his blazer and tossed it onto the couch, his movements rough, frustrated.
His reflection in the glass door caught his eye-shirt undone, eyes hollow. A man with emotion looked back at him.
He poured himself a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly, but when he tried to drink, the glass slipped, shattering on the marble. The sound echoed in the emptiness.
He pressed both palms to the cold railing, breathing hard.
"Why the fuck am I thinking about you...
" he whispered, voice breaking for just a second.
"I hate you, Ria. I always will...."
He slammed his fist against the railing, the metal groaning beneath his strength.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but even in the darkness, her image painted itself across his mind - that small smile she forced when she was breaking, those eyes that always held hope even when they shouldn't.
He hated that he remembered all of it.
He opened his eyes again when movement below caught his attention.
The event floor looked calm from afar-but his instincts screamed otherwise.
Something felt wrong.
He spotted a group of British marketers moving too fast, too focused.
His muscles tensed.
He grabbed his phone, dialing without thought. "Karthik," he said sharply.
"Bro, you sound pissed-what happened?"
"Those British bastards are planning something," Aansh cut in, voice cold as steel. "They're armed. I can see it."
"What? I'm on my way."
The line went dead.
Aansh tucked his gun under his jacket, and within minutes, chaos erupted.
Gunfire split through the night, screams echoing in the hall.
Guests ran in every direction, women tripping over their gowns, men shouting orders, guards ducking behind pillars.
And in the middle of all that-Aansh Rathore walked like a storm, unbothered, calm, dangerous.
He wasn't afraid of death. Death had been his shadow for years.
"So," he said, approaching the man who'd started it all, "you planned an entire attack at my event?
Should've sent me an invite."
The British leader spat, "You broke off our deal, Rathore!
You'll pay for that mistake."
Aansh smirked faintly, his tone dripping venom.
"Your deal was trash. I don't do trash. I clean it up. "
The man raised his gun-and so did Aansh.
Both stood still, the air between them thick with tension.
And then-
A shot rang out.
But it wasn't from the British man.
Pain exploded through Aansh's back. He staggered forward, teeth gritted, refusing to fall.
Another shot tore through his arm, hot and sharp, blood soaking through his sleeve.
The man in front of him blinked in shock, lowering his gun-
but Aansh turned, aimed, and fired back before the second attacker could blink. The man fell instantly.
Silence.
The British head's face drained of color.
He fled. Coward.
Aansh swayed but refused to fall. He pressed a hand to his arm, blood seeping through his fingers. His vision blurred, but he walked out of the hall as if nothing happened-like bullets were just raindrops.
Karthik found him outside minutes later, eyes widening.
"Bro-what the hell! You're bleeding everywhere!"
Aansh didn't respond immediately. He was staring at the horizon, at the empty road.
His mind was far and calculating something.
"Yeah," he muttered finally. "I've had worse."
Karthik shook his head. "You need a hospital. Now."
"No." Aansh's voice was low, steady, deadly calm. "Find that British bastard. And the one who shot me-he wasn't with them."
"Aansh-"
"Do it," he said, cutting him off, his tone final.
He turned toward the car, every step leaving a faint trail of red behind.
But the pain in his chest wasn't from the bullets.
It was from knowing that he couldn't get the girl he swore to break and hate out of his mind.
Karthik sighed knowing it was useless trying to convince Aansh, so he hoped ria would take care of him since she is his wife.
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