The mansion was silent.
But not the kind of silence that rests after peace—
It was predator silence.
Vivaan stood shirtless by the arched window of his suite, the cool marble grounding his turbulent thoughts. Moonlight carved lines across his body, each shadow a whisper of the war inside him. His back still ached—not from pain, but from her.
Aaravi's nails had marked him like possession.
Her breath still haunted his collarbone.
He wasn't just in her bed.
He was inside her game.
And worst of all—
He didn't want to leave.
The door creaked.
She entered—
A vision of destruction wrapped in silk the color of sin.
Deep wine-red. Slit high enough to tempt death.
Wet hair. No jewelry. No makeup.
Just eyes that devoured.
"You'll need a new name," she said, closing the door with a soft click.
Vivaan raised a brow. "For what?"
"To enter the League. As a ghost. No real names. No pasts. Only roles."
He stepped closer. "And who am I supposed to be?"
She paused… smiled.
One side of her mouth lifted like the edge of a dagger.
"Zor."
"Zor?"
"It means strength," she murmured, tracing his chest with her finger. "Yours is buried under control. I'll set it free—
When I finally break you."
He gripped her wrist. "You think you're in control of me?"
She leaned in, lips brushing his earlobe, breath sweet and electric.
"I don't think," she whispered. "I already am."
She slid her hand down his stomach, pausing at the edge of his waistband.
And just like that—
The logic in his brain short-circuited.
His body remembered only her rhythm.
Her scent. Her sting. Her fire.
She turned, walking away with a sway that mocked him.
And he hated himself for watching her leave.
Later that night
The underground war room of the estate was a cathedral of chaos—
Monitors flashing encrypted replays, spreadsheets mapping black money, old leather maps of hidden cricket grounds pinned to walls like sacred blueprints.
Vivaan met Mehul beneath dim industrial lights. The man was older, eyes worn with too much truth.
"She's using you," Mehul said flatly, not looking up. "She did the same with Veer."
"I know," Vivaan replied. "That's how I get close."
"And when she snaps your spine too?"
"I'll learn how much I can take."
Mehul slid a thick file toward him. It landed with a thud.
"Your first move," Mehul said. "A rigged T20 in Jaipur. You're not fixing overs. You're fixing people. Bribery. Blackmail. Disruptions."
Vivaan flipped it open.
Rajveer D'Souza
Young. Hot-headed. Talented. Vulnerable.
"Control him," Mehul said. "Or break him."
Vivaan's eyes narrowed. "And if I succeed?"
"She might tell you a sliver more about Veer."
Vivaan looked up.
"Sliver?"
Mehul's gaze darkened.
"Aaravi never gives whole anything. Not her love. Not her truth. Not even her hate."
Meanwhile…
Aaravi stood before her mirror.
She unwrapped her robe slowly, watching her own reflection.
The kiss Vivaan had left on her neck was still visible.
She traced it with her fingers… and smiled.
He was learning.
But still too naïve.
She slipped into sheer black lace, every inch of it whispering sin.
Lighting a cigarette, she whispered into the mirror,
"Poor boy. Still thinks this is about his brother."
She exhaled slowly.
"The Queen doesn't play for revenge," she said, "She plays to own the board."