The Next Morning
The estate was silent. Outside, monsoon mist clung to the ancient pillars and ivy-covered walls like secrets refusing to fade. But inside Vivaan?
A storm.
He hadn't slept. Not after the way Aaravi had played him the night before—tamed him without even kissing him. Not after that whisper to the mirror, like a coded signal to some unseen watcher.
And now, the ache in his chest wasn't just desire—it was suspicion.
Who had been watching?
And why did it feel... rehearsed?
The mirror.
The room.
Her.
He paced, shirtless, half-mad. Every nerve hummed with a cocktail of adrenaline and lust. Then his phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: "12:00 PM. West Veranda. Come alone."
It wasn't her.
It was him.
Mehul.
West Veranda – 12:03 PM
The west veranda wasn't part of the tour.
Shielded behind veils of mist and sheets of cascading water, it was the kind of place one didn't find unless invited. A sanctuary for secrets—and for men who thrived in shadows.
Vivaan stepped in, shoes crunching on gravel, eyes adjusting.
There he was.
Mehul.
Cane chair. Crisp white kurta. Black tea.
A leather-bound journal open beside him—handwritten notes, red ink.
He didn't look up.
"You're late."
"I'm not here to play by your clock," Vivaan replied, stepping closer.
Mehul finally glanced up, his gaze as calm as it was calculating.
"You think last night changed the equation?"
Vivaan's jaw tightened.
"You watch her. Through the mirror."
Mehul gave a slow smile. "Of course I do. Someone has to protect the queen while she plays with her pawns."
"She's not playing with me."
"No?" Mehul stood, taller than expected. "You think you're different from the others? From the men who fell for her perfume, her pain, her power?" He stepped closer. "She seduces to protect herself. Always has. But never forget… she chooses who gets to touch her. And who doesn't."
A silence thickened between them.
Then Mehul added, low and firm:
"She blames herself for Veer. He got too close to something—something inside the Syndicate. She couldn't stop him in time."
Vivaan froze.
"She knew he was in danger?"
"She always knows more than she tells," Mehul said flatly. "And that's why I watch. Not for her pleasure. For her protection."
Vivaan's voice cracked. "And if I become a threat?"
Mehul didn't blink.
"I won't kill you. I'll unmake you. Intellect first. Heart second."
He turned. Then paused.
"Room 708. Tonight. Come stripped—of ego, logic, and clothes."
That Night – Room 708
It wasn't a room.
It was a shrine.
Low lights. Black satin. Incense curling like questions.
Silk ropes coiled on the bed. An ice bucket near the headboard. A metronome ticking slow.
And her.
Aaravi.
Barefoot.
In a sheer black robe that kissed her body with every movement. Her nipples visible beneath. A delicate leather choker framed her collarbone like a signature of dominance.
She didn't greet him.
Just blindfolded him.
No words.
Pushed him onto the bed. Bound his wrists in silk. His breathing quickened—fear and arousal wrestling for space.
He tried to speak.
Her finger pressed to his lips.
"Tonight, we test obedience. Loyalty. Surrender."
Then came the sensations.
An ice cube trailing down his chest.
A whip cracking beside his thigh.
Her breath—hot, cruel, divine.
He writhed. She hummed.
Every time his hips arched, she denied him. Every moan earned him a harder grip. And just when he reached the edge of climax, she pulled away. Again. And again.
Time disappeared.
Pleasure blurred into punishment.
And still—he begged.
Not with words.
With need.
Then... silence.
She was gone.
He tore off the blindfold, panting, undone.
Only a note remained—written in lipstick on the mirror.
"Checkmate is coming.
Are you ready to lose everything?"