The Mumbai sun scorched the city above, but beneath its chaotic rhythm, the air turned still—haunted, electric.
Vivaan stood alone in a shadow-drenched alley of Dharavi, the note Aaravi left trembling in his grip. She hadn't written words—she had hidden coordinates inside a cryptic matrix of chess notations and cricket stats.
It was genius.
And wicked.
Like her.
The alley ended at an iron gate, bolted shut with layers of rust and secrets.
He pressed his palm to a corroded scanner. For a moment—nothing. Then a whisper crackled from within.
"Welcome to the game."
The gate groaned open, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
Inside: madness.
A vast, circular arena bloomed like a coliseum of the damned. Blazing floodlights hung like execution ropes. Spectators in silk suits screamed bets over gunmetal railings. A cricket pitch sat at the center—but it wasn't for cricket.
It was for carnage.
Players weren't just athletes.
They were branded.
Tattooed. Masked. Owned.
Blood soaked the pitch. Cheers erupted at every bone snapped. No umpires. No boundaries. Just cameras and syndicate eyes—hungry for spectacle, feeding on despair.
Vivaan's pulse spiked.
"What the hell is this place…"
A voice, smooth as venom, sliced through the noise.
"They call it the WCL—The Wicked Cricket League."
He spun.
Mehul.
Long coat draped over his broad frame. Black glasses. A carved cane topped with a silver scorpion.
Mehul looked like he didn't belong—yet commanded the space like he built it.
"She brought you here for truth," Mehul said quietly. "This is where Veer disappeared."
Vivaan's throat dried. "He was part of this?"
"He tried to expose it. Got too close. Too bold."
Mehul leaned in. "Too close to the Queen."
Vivaan's mind froze. "Queen?"
Before Mehul could respond, a hush fell across the stadium.
All eyes turned to the upper deck.
And then—
She appeared.
Aaravi.
Wrapped in a blood-red saree, slit high on her thigh. Wild hair fell like a crown of fire. Eyes rimmed in gold. She radiated danger like perfume.
She didn't glance at Vivaan.
She simply raised two fingers and snapped.
A new match began.
A boy was dragged onto the pitch—blindfolded, shirtless, trembling. A number etched across his back. Vivaan gritted his teeth. It wasn't a game.
It was a message.
A threat.
A warning.
A seduction.
His mind screamed to leave—but his body, his blood, refused.
This wasn't just a rescue mission.
This was a trap.
Aaravi wasn't the pawn.
She was the Queen, and she was pulling Vivaan into her maze with a smile on her lips and daggers in her rules.
That night.
At the estate, the moon floated above the infinity pool like a silent voyeur. Black petals drifted on the water's surface. Aaravi leaned back in the pool, naked, her body slick with oil and moonlight. Every inch of her was calculated chaos.
Vivaan stood at the edge, fists clenched.
"You rule that hell?" he asked.
Aaravi smiled without opening her eyes. "I own what men fear to touch."
She turned, water licking her skin. "The League didn't break Veer. His heart did. You're next, if you're not careful."
He stepped in. The water burned like ice.
"Why me?" he asked.
Her hand slid down his chest, fingers grazing the line of his swim shorts.
"Because you're clever. Dangerous. Beautiful when you're cornered."
She kissed him—slow, aching, dominant. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him into her as if she were drowning in desire and dragging him under too.
"You want truth?" she whispered. "Earn it. Bleed for it."
He gasped as she bit his lip.
"Or leave now, and always wonder what it tastes like to be owned by a queen."
She pulled him deeper into the water.
Deeper into the game.