Chapter 55
The morning light cut through the tall windows of the Versace mansion—pale, sharp, and unforgiving.
It washed over the marble floors, glinting off the edge of my desk where maps, ledgers, and sealed contracts waited for my signature.
The machinery of power was always hungry; it never cared who fed it.
Pregnancy changed the way the air felt. Heavy. Close. Every heartbeat inside me was a reminder that my choices no longer belonged to me alone.
Fear tried to surface, but I buried it beneath discipline. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. There was a war to build, debts to collect, bloodlines to burn clean.
Aurelio Kashani’s father still breathed, and that was beyond acceptable..
I sat back, inhaled slowly, and let control settle like armour over my skin. Then the notification on my phone made me lift my eyes.
Its a fine day, why don't you come practice your shooting skills?
Are you not afraid that I'll shoot you again?
I guess I'll see you soon, Ara.
The shooting range smelled of smoke and gun oil. The echo of bullets ricocheted down concrete walls, each shot steady and familiar. Dominic stood at the far lane, sleeves rolled, stance perfect—every inch the weapon he was born to be.
He looked back once, a smile cutting through the haze. I returned it with the barest curve of my lips and picked up my pistol.
“You’ve gone soft,” I said, cocking it.
He fired again, hitting dead centre. “Lucky for you, I don’t plan on missing.”
For a while, we let the rhythm of gunfire do the talking. Then I lowered my weapon, eyes fixed on him.
“It was Kashani,” I said quietly.
His shot went wide for the first time all morning. “What?”
“It was him who ordered the kidnapping. The torture. And you—” I took a step forward “—you knew.”
He didn’t answer, just loaded another round and fired into the target. He wasn't denying it.
“Will you stand with me or him?” I asked. “Because if you stand with me, Dominic, we’ll end this war in a week.”
He hesitated, gun half-raised. The smell of cordite hung between us. “I can’t,” he said finally, his tone soft but absolute. “He’s my uncle. Loyalty isn’t that simple.”
“Loyalty?” I laughed, low and bitter. “He had me chained, bleeding, half dead, and you’re quoting loyalty?”
His jaw flexed. “It’s more complicated than you think.”
I stepped close enough to see the tension in his throat. “I’m asking if you’ll burn the world with me… or watch me burn.”
The standoff was a ghost of what we used to be.
Dominic stood perfectly still, the silence between us amplified by the ringing in my ears from the boardroom execution.
“You have to survive this without me if it comes to that,” he said, his voice a jagged edge of reality.
My pulse spiked, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I raised the gun, levelling it at the centre of his chest. The metal felt heavy, final. “Then leave.”
He didn’t flinch.
The echo of my previous gunfire still hung in the air, thick with the scent of cordite and everything we were forced to bury.
Slowly, he lowered his weapon and took a step toward me. I didn't pull the trigger; my finger froze on the guard.
Dominic stopped inches away. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the metallic scent of war clinging to his skin. His hazel eyes searched mine, memorizing my face as if he were looking at a masterpiece he was about to set on fire.
“Be careful what kind of war you start, Ara,” he murmured. His hand rose, hesitating before his palm settled against my cheek. It was a soft, reverent touch that didn't belong in a room filled with blood.
His thumb brushed my jaw, and then he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead. Then another lighter one on my cheek.
It was a goodbye disguised as tenderness.
If I spoke, the dam would break.
I watched him turn and walk away, his footsteps swallowed by the shadows of the estate. He would never know about the child. He would never know that while I lied for him and bled for him, he was still walking toward the family that wanted me dead.
The weeks that followed were a cold, calculated blur. Back at the mansion, the secret of the pregnancy weighed heavier than any crown.
Sanaa was still a ghost, her silence a sharp blade between us, but Mayami and Asvika were my anchors.
They monitored every meal, every hour of sleep, and every supplement.
My mother was already gone—sent to a safehouse overseas.
She thought it was for her protection. She didn't realize it was so I could burn this world down without her seeing the flames.
Then came the night of the Kashani Gala.
The opulence was sickening—crystal chandeliers and laughter that failed to hide the rot beneath the floorboards. They thought inviting me was a move of diplomacy. They didn't realize it was an invitation to their own funeral.
I moved through the ballroom in black silk, a glass of water disguised as wine in my hand. I was a rumour made flesh, eyes sharp enough to draw blood. Beside the wine fountain, I saw Asvika weaving through the crowd. At her side was a man I hadn't seen in years.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with skin that caught the light like polished bronze. Aahil Khan. Asvika’s older brother, the prodigy of the Khan line, and an old ghost of my past.
“I brought him,” Asvika whispered as they reached me. “You’ll need him.”
Aahil stopped in front of me, his smile slow and dangerous. “Finally,” he said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”
“I will never forget my debts, Aahil,” I replied.
He stepped into my space, pulling me into a brief, formal hug. It was the only honest warmth in the room. He leaned into my ear, his tone barely a breath. “Let’s make them pay for making you kneel.”
“We will,” I whispered back.