The words struck like lightning.
Myra is missing.
The sentence echoed, twisted, fractured—refused to settle into meaning.
Ranvijay's footsteps faltered as he turned toward the voice, chest rising with slow, thunderous breath. His eyes flicked to Rajeshwari, to Anika, to Dadi Sa—all with panic, all speaking at once. But the world had blurred. Sounds had become noise. Faces lost shape.
All he could see was absence.
His woman.
His soul.
Gone.
His jaw clenched, muscle twitching in his cheek, his voice so sharp it sliced through the chaos.
"Shiv. Lock down the palace. No one leaves, no one enters. Not even a shadow."
Shiv, already halfway toward the security room, nodded grimly. "Yes, Bhaiya."
Ranvijay turned to the guards. "Where. Was. She?"
"In the east wing, Your Highness… in the lounge. With the women," one stammered. "Then the lights… flickered. Only for a few seconds—"
"She vanished!" Anika cried, hair messy, breath wild. "One second she was laughing. Laughing! And then—nothing!"
Ranvijay's hands balled into fists.
He strode to the girls' night room—no, crime scene now—and stopped cold.
Her scent still lingered. Faint jasmine, honey, a trace of rose from the earlier puja. Her dupatta sat like a ghost on the divan. He picked it up—slowly, reverently—as if touching the fabric would reverse time.
He pressed it to his face, and for a second… just one… his eyes closed.
Then—
He tore it from his face and shouted, "Get me the palace cameras. Now!"
Shiv's voice crackled through the intercom moments later, "CCTV feeds… wiped clean. Every camera. Just black."
Rage.
Pure, ancient, bone-deep rage.
Ranvijay gritted his teeth, knuckles pale. "Whoever did this… knew us. Knew her."
Rajeshwari stepped forward, pale but composed. "Ranju, this… this can't be random. This is him."
Ranvijay turned sharply. "You think Aditya?"
Rajeshwari met his gaze, eyes brimming. "I know it."
Ranvijay didn't speak.
He walked to the center of the room—where Myra had last existed—and dropped to his knees.
He touched the cushion softly.
Then, in a voice that held more fury than flame:
"She was right here."
His palm slammed the floor.
"I told her I would never let her vanish. That even death couldn't take her from me."
He rose, voice darker now.
"But I forgot one thing…"
Everyone stared, waiting.
His eyes burned. "That a man who loses his soul doesn't mourn. He hunts."
---
Within the Hour…
The royal helipad roared to life.
Dozens of vehicles flooded out of the palace grounds—black jeeps, sedans, bulletproof convoys.
Ranvijay changed.
No longer the prince.
Now, the predator.
He wore black—black shirt, sleeves rolled, leather gloves, a matte gun strapped to his thigh, a dagger holstered near his boot.
"Where are you going?" Rajeshwari asked from the top of the marble staircase, tears slipping down her cheek.
He looked up, pausing only a second.
"To bring back what belongs to me."
Shiv joined him, pale but ready. "No ransom demand. No calls. But we tracked the power source—something triggered a brief blackout signal near the outer forest line."
"Go," Ranvijay ordered. "Follow it. If I don't reach first, burn the trail."
As the car doors slammed, Dadi Sa whispered from behind, "This is no longer a rescue. This… is war."
---
Meanwhile…
A faraway cabin. Hidden. Cold. Silent.
Myra's wrists were tied delicately—not cruelly, but controlled. A silk cloth. A heated room. A tray of untouched food near the wall.
She stirred faintly, lashes fluttering. Panic hadn't yet come. She didn't know. Not yet.
A shadow moved.
The man stepped closer. He had changed clothes—no longer the common man who wandered past Anika earlier.
Now he wore white. Crisp. Clean. Disturbingly gentle.
He knelt beside her, brushing her hair with calloused fingers.
"You woke something in me," he whispered, "long before he ever touched your soul."
He placed a flower beside her ear—one he had dried years ago. "You forgot. But I didn't."
Outside, the sky darkened further.
Inside, Myra's breath hitched.
And across the forest, in a car moving faster than death itself—
Ranvijay whispered to the night,
"Let the earth split. Let the heavens burn."
He clutched the dupatta.
"But I will not stop until I bring her home."
---------------------------------
Should Be
The scent of old wood and lavender lingered in the air.
Myra's lashes fluttered. Her limbs felt… heavy. Too soft beneath her. A strange warmth cocooned her, but not the kind that comforted—it unsettled. Her throat was dry. Her skin prickled.
Then silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The dangerous kind.
A ceiling she didn't recognize met her gaze—dark wooden planks, sloped, with a tiny chandelier swaying overhead. No palace light. No familiar breeze through silk curtains. No sounds of women laughing, no Dadi Sa's voice calling for more sweets.
She sat up slowly—too slowly—and blinked.
The room was dim, lit by an amber lamp. A single large window was covered by sheer curtains, casting ghostlike shadows. There were no bars. No locks visible. But something about it still felt like a cage.
She tried to move—her hand met resistance. Silk ties. Soft enough not to bruise. Firm enough to stop.
Her breath caught.
Panic clawed at her chest.
She was in a bed—simple but clean. Beside it, a tray with untouched fruit, a glass of water, and a note folded carefully in red ink.
She ignored the tray and pulled at the knot around her wrist. It came undone easily—almost like it had been meant to be escaped.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the note.
Just one line, written in handwriting she didn't recognize:
"You were never his to lose."
Her heartbeat roared.
Who?
Why?
Where—?
Then a sound.
Soft. Familiar. Footsteps, deliberate. Controlled.
She looked up.
A man stepped out of the shadows. His presence filled the room before he even said a word.
Clad in white shirt and dark pants. Face partially in shadows. Hair slightly tousled. And those eyes—sharp as knives, obsessive, locked onto her like a predator who had finally caught something sacred.
"You're awake," he said softly. Gently. Too gently.
Her spine stiffened. "A..... Aditya?"
The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked toward the window, adjusted the curtain slightly to let in a sliver of moonlight, then turned back to her.
"Do you remember Jaipur?" he asked.
Myra blinked. "What?"
"The streetlights. The smell of gulab jamun from the corner stall. That one monsoon evening. You were ten."
She stared at him, frozen.
"You don't remember. But I do." His lips curved. "You wore yellow that day. Your mother held your hand too tight. You dropped your bracelet. I picked it up."
He took a step forward.
She shrank slightly, her back pressing into the headboard.
"You don't remember me, do you?" he said, voice tinged with hurt that felt too personal.
She said nothing.
He pulled something from his pocket.
A red thread.
The same kind she used to wear on her wrist as a child.
"I kept this all these years," he murmured. "Because I knew I'd find you again. And I have."
Her voice finally cracked out, dry and shaky. "What do you want from me?"
He looked at her like she was the only sun he'd ever seen.
"I want what was always mine."
She stared at him—eyes wide, terror blooming now in her chest, real and growing.
"I belong to no one," she said firmly, voice trembling but defiant.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he stepped closer—until the bed separated them.
"You think you don't," he whispered. "But you've always been mine… even before he laid eyes on you."
She clenched the blanket around her, heart hammering. "Ranvijay will find me."
That name.
The man's expression darkened like a storm swallowing moonlight.
He stepped back slowly, eerily calm.
"Oh, I know he'll try. But what will he do when he realizes… I knew you first?"
Myra's stomach dropped.
He turned toward the door, speaking almost sweetly:
"Rest, Myra. You'll need your strength. Because tomorrow… you'll remember everything I've waited so long to give you."
Then the door clicked shut.
And Myra—still gripping the red thread in her fist—finally let her panic take over.
But even in fear, her mind whispered one name again and again like a prayer:
Ranvijay.