31. Samarth Rathore.
The car slowed down and finally stopped outside the venue.
Bright golden lights flooded the entire entrance. A massive backdrop with THE GRAND AURUM GALA EXHIBITION shimmered behind a red carpet that stretched from the driveway to the glass doors.
Media vans lined the side.
Camera flashes exploded the moment the car door opened. The paparazzi were relentless.
Before the driver could step out to open the door, I grabbed Dhrithika’s wrist.
“Wait.”
She looked at me, confused.
“I… I don’t want to walk that,” I said quietly, nodding toward the flashing cameras outside. “I don’t want to be in front of the media.”
Another round of flashes lit up the windshield, I tilted my face slightly.
She studied my face carefully. “Why?”
I hesitated.
Because if one photo leaked out my family will find I am in Mumbai, and slowly my name will get connected to Ranawats again.
“I just don’t like attention,” I muttered instead. “I’m not part of this. I don’t want to become some public figure overnight.”
“ This girl is full of drama,” Dadi snapped. “ It's not like these people are gathered here to focus on you solely.”
I swallowed. She was right at her place, but I can't tell her my problem. I don't want to face my past again.
“ It's alright Dadi! She is just anxious.” She immediately took out her phone and dialed someone. “Send internal security to the side entrance. Now.”
Within minutes, two guards approached the car from the private driveway area and covered my side. The flashes were still going off at the main carpet, so Dadi Dadu and Dhrithika went to gather their attention.
The guards formed a subtle shield around me.
I tilted my face downward, letting my hair fall forward to partially cover my profile.
No direct shots.
No clear frame.
No headlines.
We moved quickly toward the side entrance.
The night air felt heavier. My heart was pounding like I had just escaped something dangerous.
They might not remember me, because my face structure changed a lot. Back then I was just a teenager, but now I am all grown up, but still, I want to cancel that 25% possibility as well.
Dadi and Dadu and Dhrithika entered from the red carpet entrance. toward the main hall entrance. And I entered inside from the back, As I reached inside Dhrithika squeezed my hand lightly. “Relax. No one saw you properly.”
I gave a small nod.
As we stepped inside, my breath hitched.
The entire place looked unreal. Royal blue and white décor dominated the hall, rich blue orchids cascading from crystal stands, soft white drapes flowing from the ceiling, chandeliers scattering light like diamonds.
The stage backdrop shimmered in metallic tones, reflecting the brand name in bold gold.
It didn’t just look expensive.
It screamed money, power.
Every corner was curated — from the velvet seating to the glass showcases glowing under focused spotlights. Security stood discreetly near each display. Guests moved gracefully, champagne flutes in hand, their jewelry glittering under the lights.
And yet—My eyes weren’t admiring any of it. They were searching. Scanning faces. VIP lounge. Near the stage. By the investor’s cluster. Near the signature piece covered under dark silk.
Everyone was there but not Yugant Raizaada.
It has been almost thirty-six hours since I last saw him.
No calls.
No messages.
No accidental encounters in the corridor and I don’t know why that’s bothering me this much.
I told myself I don’t care.
I told myself I’ll leave soon.
But standing in the middle of his world tonight… I feel it.
His absence.
“Dhwani, let’s get ourselves drinks,” Dhrithika suggested lightly, probably noticing how distracted I looked.
I nodded.
Maybe a drink would calm my nerves.
We walked toward the long marble counter where crystal glasses were arranged in perfect symmetry. Bartenders in blue waistcoats moved efficiently, pouring and serving without missing a beat.
“Two glasses of peach rose wine,” Dhrithika said confidently.
The bartender nodded and poured the soft blush-colored liquid into two tall glasses.
I wrapped my fingers around the stem. The faint fruity aroma rose as I lifted it slightly.
I took a small sip.
Sweet. Light. Harmless. Unlike that night.
“Did something happen?” I asked quietly as Dhrithika took a sip of her wine.
She looked at me. “No. Why?”
I hesitated, then forced it out. “You stopped calling me Bhabhi suddenly.”
“Actually,” she said calmly, “I found out you and Bhaiya aren’t married. That’s why I stopped.”
Of course she would call Bhabhi only to someone who is actually going to be Yugant’s wife.
So Yugant finally told the truth to everyone? And isn't it weird that Dadi didn't react knowing such an important thing? Neither did she tell me to leave her house. I shrugged off every thought. I am leaving soon anyways.
I was lost in my thoughts when loud voices erupted near the entrance. Camera flashes burst again through the glass panels.
“I guess Bhaiya arrived,” Dhrithika said quickly, placing both our glasses back on the counter. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me slightly closer toward the entrance.
My heartbeat spiked when I saw him. Yugant Raizaada.
Walking in like he owned not just the hall—but the entire world.
Crisp black suit, perfectly tailored. A sharp white shirt beneath. A sleek black bow tie sitting flawlessly against his collar. Hair was styled neatly, not a strand out of place. His jaw clean, expression controlled, confident, powerful.
He wasn’t just handsome. He was… commanding. All I could see was him.
Is he always this handsome? Or is he looking extra perfect tonight?
I felt a stupid urge rise inside me. I’m going to compliment him.
The thought had barely formed—When I saw her.
Ms. Kingsley.
She stepped beside him gracefully, smiling for the cameras. And then, slipped her arm around his.
It still felt fine. Normal. They’re guests.
But then—Yugant’s hand moved, he wrapped his arm around her waist.
Firmly. Not casually. Touching her curves.
My lips parted before I could control it.
Shock.
A strange heaviness settled in my chest. We are nothing. Just two strangers tied by circumstances. So why did it feel like something just cracked inside me?
I didn’t even realize when he moved further inside. One moment he was at the entrance, cameras flashing around him and the next, he was in the center of the grand hall, surrounded by businessmen, investors, and familiar faces.
He was shaking hands. Nodding confidently.
Smiling that controlled, charming smile. Ms. Kingsley was still beside him.
Still close.
Still fitting perfectly into that picture.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his hand. It rested so naturally on her hips.
Confident. Possessive. Familiar.
What is wrong with me? Why does it feel like someone just punched me in the stomach?
Urgh. This is ridiculous.
If I kept staring, I’d make a fool of myself.
I turned and walked back toward the bar counter, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The noise inside my head was louder than the music playing in the hall.
“Give me one glass of Macallan 18,” I said flatly.
The bartender paused for half a second — probably surprised then poured the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler and slid it toward me.
I picked up the glass, but before it could touch my lips, someone snatched it from my hand.
“What the fuck—” My words stopped the moment I saw Yugant standing in front of me.
I turned my head to look at the woman who had been standing beside him a few minutes ago. She was now talking to Dhrithika.
“What were you doing?” he snapped, his voice harsh and filled with anger.
Oh, that got his attention? Cool.
“I was just thirsty, so… juice.”
“Is this juice?” he asked, holding up the amber drink.
I swallowed. “I actually…”
He placed the glass back on the table and grabbed my wrist, pulling me away from the hall. We reached the corridor, and he dragged me into a corner, pushing me against the wall.
Before I could understand what was happening, his hands came around my waist. He grabbed my chin, tilted my face up, and pressed his lips against mine.
Everything happened so suddenly that I couldn’t process it. My eyes closed as I felt him sucking my lips, kissing me roughly, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.
My hands slid onto his shoulders. I tightened my grip as my knees weakened.
He wasn’t satisfied. His hand moved over my bare waist and stopped at my hip before he slapped it harshly.
I gasped.
He took that opportunity and slid his tongue into my mouth, exploring.
I couldn’t stop myself. I kissed him back. The taste of his mouth was fresh and intoxicating.
Why did it feel so good?
Why was I getting addicted to his taste, his cologne, when I knew there was nothing between us?
After what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled away from my lips, but he didn’t stop.
His mouth trailed downward to my throat. He tried to push the fabric aside, but the straps were tied securely at the back of my neck.
Then I felt his fingers move. Before I could stop him, he untied the strap. The fabric slipped down, exposing my neck and the curve of my cleavage.
He didn’t look up.
Instead, he lowered his head and began leaving slow, open-mouthed kisses along my skin.
My breath came in shallow gasps.
No doubt, I was loving it—but this was not the place for it. Someone could walk in at any moment and see us like this.
It would affect his reputation, not mine. And despite everything, I didn’t want that.
“Mr. Raizaada,” I called, placing my hand on his biceps trying to stop him, but it felt as if he didn't listen to anything.
“Mr. Raizaada, please stop,” I tried again, my voice softer this time. Still no response.
“Yu–Yugant!”
The moment his name slipped from my lips, he froze, taking a deep breath right against my skin.
Slowly, he pulled back and looked into my eyes. Then his gaze drifted downward, lingering on the exposed curve of my cleavage. I followed his eyes and noticed a deep, vibrant red mark on my skin.
I quickly pulled the fabric up, my fingers trembling as I tried to tie the strap behind my neck. It wasn’t easy; my hands were still shaking.
He noticed immediately.
Without saying a word, he turned me gently by my shoulders. Moving my hair to one side, he retied the strap carefully, his fingers surprisingly steady. When he was done, he placed a soft kiss on my bare shoulder blade.
I shuddered.
What had gotten into him today?
He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing my ear, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that made my pulse stumble.
“Don’t let that glass touch your lips again,” he murmured. “If you’re craving something strong… Something addictive… you already know where to find it.”
His fingers tightened slightly at my hips. .
“Why settle for cheap intoxication,” he continued softly, “when you can come to me and lose your senses properly?”
His breath traced along my skin. I closed my eyes, his words raising goosebumps on my skin. “I promise,” he added, voice rougher now, “what I give you will linger far longer than any drink ever could.”
I licked my lips, trying to gather something—anything—to say, but the words refused to form. My thoughts felt scattered.
I exhaled slowly and turned to face him.
He watched me for a long second, his gaze intense, unreadable. Then his thumb brushed once over my lower lip, deliberate, slow.
My breath hitched.
I pushed his hand away almost immediately, unable to handle the weight of his touch—or the way he was looking at me. My eyes dropped to the floor.
“Y-you’re crossing a line, Mr. Raizaada,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I told you, it was just a one-night stand. There’s nothing between us anymore.”
He didn’t step back.
Instead, he tilted my face up again, fingers firm beneath my chin.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
I blinked, forcing myself not to look away this time. “Yes. I’m sure.”
He studied me as if searching for cracks in my answer.
“This is your last chance, Dhwani,” he said, his voice low—almost controlled, almost dangerous. “If you say you want to give us a chance, I’ll wait. A month. A year. As long as it takes.” His jaw tightened slightly. “But if you walk away now… there won’t be another chance for us.”
Something in his tone felt final. Like a door closing slowly.
But I had already made up my mind. I couldn’t afford the feelings.
“I don’t need a chance,” I replied, swallowing the strange heaviness in my chest. “We were just strangers tied together by circumstances. That’s all.”
I stepped back, creating space between us.
“The moment my brother returns,” I continued, forcing clarity into my voice, “I’ll leave from here.”
His hand slowly dropped from my chin, then he turned and walked away.
He didn’t even tell me whether Bhai was coming or not.
Typical.
I checked my reflection in the glass window beside me. My lipstick was still intact, hair in place, no visible disaster on my face—unlike the storm inside. Satisfied that I didn’t look like someone who had just been kissed senseless in a corridor, I walked back into the hall and toward Dhrithika.
“Where were you, Dhwani?” she asked. “I was looking for you everywhere.”
“I was just… looking around,” I replied casually, as if I hadn’t just had my entire emotional stability shaken.
“Can you give me my phone?” I asked, nodding toward her clutch.
She handed it over without suspicion.
I stepped aside, away from the crowd, and dialed Ishaan again.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Then—disconnected.
I stared at the screen in disbelief.
“For fuck’s sake, Ishaan,” I muttered under my breath, anger rising again. “You robotic asshole, pick up your damn phone.”
He was seriously testing my patience now.
Between one emotionally unstable Raizaada and one unavailable Awasthi, my life had officially become a circus.
And I was the clown standing in the middle of it.
I tried a few more times, but there was still no answer.
Then applause erupted through the hall. A voice echoed from the stage polished, confident, announcing the beginning of the evening’s main segment.
My heartbeat spiked. Too fast. Too loud.
Something was about to happen. I could feel it in my bones. Whether it would be good or bad… that was still a mystery.
I walked back into the grand hall and stood beside Dhrithika. The blue and white lights reflected off crystal chandeliers, the orchids glowing under soft spotlights. Everything looked perfect.
My eyes met Yugant’s, just one second before he looked away.
That American girl, whatever her name was, stood glued to his side, fingers wrapped possessively around his arm. Her glossy smile made me want to roll my eyes.
Let’s call her Miss Anabella
Because she looked expensive… and mildly dangerous.
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the stage instead of the way Yugant’s hand rested a little too comfortably on her waist.
Why was I even noticing?
It's not like I care, huh!
A tall, well-dressed man in a navy tuxedo stood under the spotlight, his voice smooth and practiced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, smiling confidently, “welcome to the most anticipated luxury showcase of the year — The Grand Aurum Gala Exhibition.”
Another round of applause filled the hall.
“Tonight,” he continued, “we celebrate not just craftsmanship, but legacy. Not just diamonds, but vision. This evening you will witness a collection that blends heritage with power, tradition with audacity.”
The lights dimmed slightly.
A soft instrumental score began to play — elegant, dramatic, almost cinematic.
“Please fasten your attention,” the host said with a slight grin, “because what you are about to witness is not merely jewellery… it is dominance set in gold.”
The crowd chuckled lightly.
Spotlights shifted toward the extended runway that had been hidden in subtle lighting before. The silk drapes along the side glowed in royal blue.
“And now,” the host announced, stepping aside, “let the night begin.”
The music swelled.
The first model stepped onto the runway showcasing other companies' designs. One by one many models came. Gasps followed immediately.
Next was Raizaada’s turn.
Another model arrived wearing an intricately crafted diamond choker, layered with emerald drops that shimmered under the lights. The audience leaned forward, cameras zooming in. Every angle was designed to reflect perfection.
One by one, models walked out — each piece more breathtaking than the last.
Polki fusion sets.
Structured diamond collars.
Ruby-studded heirloom pieces.
Minimalistic platinum designs for global investors.
The hall was silent except for soft murmurs of appreciation and the clicking of cameras, as the paparazzi gathered into another corner of the hall, taking pictures for tomorrow’s latest highlight.
The designs were extraordinary, even I couldn't deny it.
Powerful.
Bold.
Exactly like him.
The music intensified.
“And finally,” the host’s voice boomed again, “the showstopper piece by Raizaada’s.”
The entire hall darkened.
A single spotlight illuminated the center stage.
A black silk cover was slowly lifted from a tall glass pedestal. The room collectively held its breath.
The black silk was lifted slowly.
No model walked out wearing it because it was enough like that. The piece stood alone — inside a crystal glass pedestal at the center of the stage.
The spotlight intensified and the hall went silent. Every single eye locked onto it. Even mine.
A structured diamond collar — bold, sculpted, powerful — designed to sit high on the collarbone like a crown turned into jewellery.
Rows of precision-cut diamonds curved flawlessly, catching the light from every angle.
Suspended beneath them were deep ruby droplets, floating so delicately it almost looked like they were levitating.
A murmur of awe spread through the audience. Phones lifted.
Cameras zoomed in.
This feels like a personal victory.
That piece was art.
“Interesting.” A loud voice cut through the hall. Everyone turned towards the source.
A man stepped forward from the second row of guests.
Maheshwar Pratap Rathore.
“Well,” he continued, “it would have been more impressive… if it wasn’t plagiarized.”
The word echoed.
Plagiarized.
A ripple moved through the hall.
Murmurs. Confused glances. The host stiffened. “Sir, what exactly are you implying?”
“I’m implying,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks, “that this design belongs to my company. These designs were mine,” he continued, his voice echoing through the mic. “They were stolen from me. And not just stolen but taken under threat.”
The hall fell silent.
“Mr. Yugant Raizaada threatened me,” he declared. “He kidnapped my brother’s son Samarth and used him to blackmail me into handing over these designs.”
A collective gasp tore through the audience.
Cameras turned violently toward Yugant.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“He abducted the boy,” my uncle went on, his tone trembling just enough to sound convincing. “Kept him hidden. And when I refused to transfer my work, my nephew disappeared.”
My hands turned cold.
This is a lie.
“Ask him where Samarth is,” Mr Rathore challenged, pointing toward Yugant. “Ask him why my nephew vanished after meeting him.”
The media pounced.
“Mr. Raizaada, is this true?”
“Did you threaten this man?”
“Where is Samarth Rathore?”
My heart pounded so violently I thought I might faint.
I took one step but froze.
Cameras are everywhere. Live streaming.
News channels recording.
If I stepped into that frame, If my face went viral, my past would resurface too.
The case.
The arrest.
The accusations.
The life I escaped.
Everything would drag me back.
Police.
Court.
Media trials.
My entire existence in Mumbai would collapse.
The paparazzi stormed into the center of the hall like vultures sensing blood.
Microphones were shoved forward. Cameras raised higher. Flashlights exploded one after another.
They surrounded Yugant from every side.
He stood there calmly, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, posture straight, expression unreadable.
Only his eyes moved and they were fixed on me.
As if expecting me to step forward and explain things.
“Mr. Raizaada!” one reporter shouted. “Is this true? Did you kidnap Samarth Rathore and steal these designs from Mr. Maheshwar Pratap Rathore?”
“Where is Samarth Rathore?”
“Are you involved in corporate blackmail?”
Questions flew from every direction.
Yugant finally exhaled slowly and spoke.
“Why speculate,” he said smoothly, his voice steady despite the chaos, “when we can hear the truth from the man himself?”
The crowd stilled.
He tilted his head slightly, a slow, dangerous smile forming on one side of his lips.
“Let’s set the record straight… directly from Samarth Rathore.”
He pointed toward the entrance. The massive doors at the back of the hall opened.
Every head turned. Every camera shifted.
And there he was.
My Brother, Samarth Rathore.
A sob escaped my lips before I could stop it.
His eyes fixed straight straight at Mr. Rathore.
“Maheshwar Pratap Rathore,” he called out calmly and loudly, “Swagat nahi karege humara?”
(“Won’t you welcome me?”)
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