The city stretched beneath me, each flickering light a battle lost or won. I should have been planning my next move, drawing up my next strategy, but instead, I was sitting in my penthouse, swirling amber liquid in my glass-thinking about her.
The woman who had made a career out of getting under my skin.
Varna red lehanga mein comeback karna padhega, @lostlakshi aur mere bacho ko palne ke liye paise chaiye
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๐๐จ๐ฆ๐ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฏ๐ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง'๐ญ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ค ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ. ๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ฉ๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ. ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ข๐๐ฎ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฅ๐ข๐๐. ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ ๐ฉ๐จ๐๐ญ ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ง๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ง ๐๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ฐ๐๐ฌ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ฌ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ฐ๐๐ง๐ญ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ ๐๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ. ๐๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ง'๐ญ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฏ๐ - ๐ก๐ ๐ญ๐จ๐จ๐ค ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐จ๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฏ๐๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฒ ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฌ.
"๐๐๐๐ง ๐ค๐๐ก ๐๐ข๐ฃ๐ข๐ฒ๐... ๐ฃ๐๐ง๐ ๐ค๐ ๐๐๐ค๐ก๐ซ๐ข ๐๐ข๐ง ๐ก๐จ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ." "๐๐จ๐ก ๐ฆ๐๐ซ๐ข ๐ฌ๐๐ณ๐๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐, ๐ฃ๐จ ๐ข๐ง๐๐๐ฒ๐๐ญ ๐๐๐ง ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐." She was a widow, he was a mad king. She lived in white, her days as hollow as the bangles she shattered at her husband's pyre. He lived in red, a force of chaos wrapped in flesh, his path painted in the blood of the fallen, his throne a pyre of the conquered. His enemies feared his madness. His allies feared his boredom. He did not rage to conquer-he raged to feel, to break the silence that clung to his soul like the ashes of his fallen foes. She wasn't just a bride, she was the prize, the possession he won in a war. He extended his hand, rough and scarred, the hand that had broken empires and crushed crowns. His voice was a low rumble, a whisper wrapped in steel. "Yeh haath ek shauk nahi... ek zimmedari hai. Thukra dengi toh bhi, zindagi bhar yeh haath kisi aur ke liye nahi badhega." She looked at the outstretched hand, the hand that had shattered kingdoms, and her lips curled in a bitter, ghostly smile. "Vidhva hai hum... Bhagwan bhi maaf nahi karenge." He stepped closer, the air between them thick with unspoken promises and dangerous desires, his jaw tightening, eyes darkening with a madness only she seemed capable of awakening. "Jab mard pe daag lagta hai, uski kamai se dhul jaata hai. Magar aurat par jo daag lagta hai, woh uske marne ke baad bhi zinda rehta hai." His fingers twitched, aching to trace the curve of her neck, to feel the pulse beneath her fragile skin, to break the distance between madness and defiance. "Aap mere liye sirf kamzori nahi, junoon hai," he murmured, his voice rough, the words a dark promise. "Aur junoon ke raaste mein aane wale log sirf ek hi anjaam paate hain-maut." And in that stolen breath, where white met red, where restraint clash.
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