The afternoon light is filtered through the elegant living room, casting soft shadows on the polished wooden floor. The Rajput household breathed with a quiet intensity-tradition hanging in the air like an invisible tapestry.
Vanya sat perfectly still, her usual confidence replaced by a subtle nervousness that made her fingers twist together. Across from her, her mother Devyani perched on the edge of an antique sofa, sharp eyes studying her daughter. Mahendra Singh Rajput-her father-leaned back in his armchair, a study in controlled composure. And Dadi, the family matriarch, watched from her favorite swing, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Maa... Papa... Dadi," Vanya began, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "Mihir proposed to me."
A heartbeat of silence.
Devyani blinked. "Proposed? As in marriage?"
A simple nod from Vanya.
Dadi's laugh broke the tension. "I told you this boy was different!" Her weathered hand clapped together in delight. "I saw it from the start!"
Mahendra remained silent, his fingers drumming a measured rhythm on the armrest. His gaze bore into Vanya-deep, questioning. "And what do you want?" The words came out soft but sharp. "Do you want to marry Mihir?"
Vanya met her father's eyes without flinching. "Yes, Papa. Completely."
Her father sighed, rubbing his temple. "Twenty-two is young, Vanya."
"I'm not a child," she responded quietly. "I know exactly what I'm choosing."
Devyani leaned forward, maternal concern etched in her features. "We don't doubt your connection with Mihir. But marriage-"
"Is a partnership," Vanya finished. "And I'm ready."
Dadi clapped her hands. "The wedding is decided!" She winked. "You've been living with him under the excuse of work anyway!"
Mahendra's exasperated sigh met Devyani's soft smile. "If this is truly what you want," her mother said, "then we support you."
Relief washed over Vanya's face.
"But," her father added, a hint of a smile breaking through, "Mihir will officially ask for your hand."
Vanya's smirk matched her father's. "He's already prepared for that."
And just like that, the wheels were set in motion.
_________________
Later at night __ text:
Mihir: So... did you tell them?
Vanya: Hmm.
Mihir: And?
Vanya: Maa thinks I'm too young. And Dadi... well, she's already calculating how much gold to demand from your side. 😂 (Jk)
Mihir: Knew it. Your Dadi is a corporate genius in disguise. Should I start calling her CEO of Rajput Enterprises?
Vanya: You should start praying. Her interrogation technique is straight out of a crime thriller.
Mihir: Please. I've survived political scandals, media traps, and power-hungry vultures. What can an old lady do?
Vanya: That 'old lady' once made a wedding caterer confess his past-life sins. Good luck.
Mihir: Wow. The romance in your words is breathtaking.
Vanya: I try my best to keep expectations low.
Mihir: You know what's funny?
Vanya: My patience for this conversation?
Mihir: That no matter how much you act uninterested... you're already mine.
Vanya: There's still time to cancel this circus.
Mihir: Cancel? Rajput, you entered my battleground, and now you want a retreat? Too late.
Vanya: Confidence looks good on you. Desperation doesn't.
Mihir: Desperate? For you? Shamelessly. Pathetically. Irrevocably.
Vanya: Cringe.
Mihir: Shaadi ke baad ek hi cheez badlegi, Rajput... tumhe "Mihir" nahi, "pati dev" bulana padega.
(After marriage, only one thing will change, Rajput... you'll have to call me "husband dearest.")
Vanya: Sapne kam dekha karo, Shekhawat.
(Dream a little less, Shekhawat.)
Mihir: Ye sapna nahi, likhi hui taqdeer hai. Tum meri ho, sirf announcement pending hai.
(This isn't a dream, sweetheart. It's destiny written in bold. You're mine-just waiting for the grand reveal.)
Mihir: Now, say it. Say you love me.
Vanya: I love... my sleep 💤
Mihir: Vanya.
Vanya: Goodnight. Hope the rejection doesn't kill you in your sleep.
Mihir: Oh sweetheart, if I haunt your dreams tonight-don't blame me.
______________________________________________
The Rajput household pulsed with an electric anticipation, the air thick with unspoken excitement. The Shekhawats had arrived-not merely as guests, but as architects of a moment that would redefine two families' destinies.
Mihir sat with his trademark composure, a living statue of calculated calm. His intense gaze, however, told a different story-softening perceptibly when it landed on Vanya. She sat beside her mother, her delicate fingers tracing phantom patterns on her dupatta, betraying a subtle nervousness beneath her confident exterior. The weight of the moment was sinking in-raw, real, transformative.
Pandit ji's weathered fingers danced across the ancient panchang, his voice carrying the wisdom of generations. "Agle mahine ek bahut shubh muhurat hai-7th June. Ladki ke janmadin par shaadi hone se sukh-samriddhi badhti hai."
(Next month, there is an auspicious time-7th June. A wedding on the bride's birthday brings prosperity.)
Devyani's smile bloomed like a gentle morning flower. "Toh Vanya apne 22nd birthday par dulhan banegi?"
(So, Vanya will become a bride on her 22nd birthday?)
Mahendra Singh Rajput's nod was a mountain of silent approval. "Yeh tareekh humein bhi manzoor hai."
(We also agree with this date.)
Mihir, who had been a silent observer until now, finally spoke-his words a delicate blade of intention. His gaze locked onto Vanya, challenging and tender in the same breath. "A birthday gift no one will ever be able to top."
Vanya's eyebrow arched-a weapon more precise than any spoken retort. "You make it sound like you're doing me a favor."
He leaned in, that trademark Shekhawat smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Samajhdar ho, Rajput. Toh ab tak samajh jaana chahiye tha-asal gift toh tum ho."
(You're smart, Rajput. You should've realized by now-the real gift is you.)
Before she could launch her counterattack, Dadi's hands clapped together-a thunderclap of joy. "Tai hai, shaadi saat June ko hogi!"
(It's decided, the wedding will be on 7th June!)
The elders dissolved into a flurry of preparation, their excitement a tangible force. Mihir, never missing a beat, turned back to Vanya. His voice dropped to a whisper-intimate, challenging. "Birthday ke liye kya chahiye? Diamonds, luxury trip, ya... main?"
(What do you want for your birthday? Diamonds, a luxury trip, or... me?)
Vanya scoffed, her pulse betraying her despite her best efforts. "Khud ko priceless mat samjho, Shekhawat."
(Don't think of yourself as priceless, Shekhawat.)
Mihir's laugh was a low, dangerous melody. "Oh, but I am... aur ab officially tumhara hone waala hoon."
(Oh, but I am... and now, I'm about to be yours, officially.)
She huffed, arms crossing in mock defiance. But the smile tugged at her lips-soft, secret, surrender-told a different story.
___________________________________
The decision was final-the wedding would be an intimate affair. No extravagant celebrations, no media frenzy. Just something real. Raw. The way they wanted it.
"I don't want any unnecessary drama or reporters prying into my life," Vanya had declared-her tone leaving no room for negotiation. It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Both families understood. Respected. Accepted.
The official announcement could wait. At this moment, this choice-it was theirs alone. A silent revolution, sealed with a date and a promise.
The wedding invitations were exquisite, engraved with their photos-a timeless mark of their union. Shopping was done, preparations were complete, and every detail had been meticulously planned.
The venue? Taj Lake Palace, Udaipur. A breathtaking symbol of royalty and romance, where history whispered through the marble walls and the lake shimmered under the golden sun.
Only close family, trusted friends, and influential figures from the political world would bear witness to this moment. No media frenzy, no unnecessary spectacle-just a vow sealed in the heart of regal serenity.
__________________✨_____✨
# The Arrival of Viransh Raghuvanshi
The ancient oak doors of the Raghuvanshi mansion didn't merely open-they *surrendered*, parting like worshippers before their god.
The man who stood in the threshold existed in perfect contrast to the golden light that spilled around his silhouette, as if darkness itself had taken human form. He didn't simply enter-he claimed the space.
The chandeliers cast rivers of light across the marble floor, creating a path before him. Yet the light never quite touched him, as if afraid to disturb the perfect darkness of his aura.
Viransh Raghuvanshi didn't step inside so much as he allowed the mansion to receive him. The marble floor whispered beneath his hand-crafted Italian shoes, each step a percussion of power.
His footsteps echoed like distant thunder-deliberate, measured, unstoppable. The Italian leather shoes whispered secrets of power with each step. Around him, the air grew heavy, charged with electricity, making it harder for others to breathe.
His suit wasn't merely black-it was midnight given form, absorbing all the light that dared touch it.
Cut with razor precision, it outlined a body shaped by discipline and power. Three generations of Raghuvanshi pride had been woven into its fabric.
Everyone in the hall felt his presence before they saw him. Servants froze mid-step. Conversations died. Spines straightened as if pulled by invisible strings. They didn't bow from fear-they responded to something primal, the instinctive recognition of apex power.
His scent cut through the air-sandalwood mixed with something untamed, something that whispered of mountain storms and ancient forests. His eyes, darker than the deepest night, swept across the room-not admiring, but claiming.
There, commanding the center of the grand foyer, stood Lord Shiva.
The Mahadev idol rose from its marble pedestal like a dark flame frozen in time. Carved from a single block of midnight-black stone, its surface caught the light in ways that made it seem alive-breathing, watching, judging.Fresh flower garlands hung from the statue's neck. The sweet smell of incense filled the air.
Viransh approached with the confidence of a warrior and the reverence of a devotee. For the first time since entering, his footsteps made no sound. The hard edges of his face-sculpted by ambition and sharpened by ruthlessness-softened almost imperceptibly.
He stopped exactly seven steps from the idol. His shoulders, always rigid with purpose, relaxed by a fraction. His hands, tools of both creation and destruction, came together in front of his chest.
The world held its breath.
"Har Har Mahadev,"
Viransh whispered in his deep voice
As Viransh straightened, the air around him shifted. The spell broke. He was once again the man whose name made business rivals wake in cold sweats.
He turned, his movements liquid with power.
Then-a voice.
The only voice that could make Viransh pause.
"Viransh beta".
The name hung in the air like a spell. At the base of the grand spiral staircase stood Samrat Raghuvanshi, his silver hair gleaming in the light, his presence the only one that could match his son's.
"We need to talk."
The mansion's grandfather clock chose that moment to strike-a deep bronze note that shivered through the bones of everyone present. It wasn't marking time; it was announcing destiny.
"Papa."
The word left Viransh's lips like smoke rising from sacred fire-controlled yet carrying hidden heat.
Samrat turned without waiting for more, leading the way to his study. The room embraced them in warm amber light from old lamps. The scent of leather-bound books, burning sandalwood, and aged whiskey created an atmosphere thick with tradition.
Samrat took his place behind the massive desk-a throne of mahogany that had witnessed three generations of family decisions. His fingers drummed once on its polished surface.
"Viransh, we must take your grandfather to the Kumbh festival. Your mother will accompany us. Your siblings are caught up with college-"
Viransh's sharp gaze sliced through his father's words. His patience was a blade-thin and dangerous.
"The point??,papa"
Samrat exhaled slowly. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a wedding invitation adorned with gold and crimson. He slid it across the desk's dark surface.
"This invitation comes from the Shekhawat family in Rajasthan. Our attendance is not optional-they have been our allies for generations. Since we will be with your grandfather, you must go in our place." His eyes locked with his son's. "And I will not accept a refusal."
Viransh's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A muscle flickered near his temple. For three heartbeats, silence ruled the room.
Then, without even glancing at the invitation, he reached out and took it. He rose to his full height, towering over the desk.
His face revealed nothing-a perfect mask carved from marble. But his eyes... his eyes held something ancient and dangerous.
For one moment, father and son held each other's gaze-two predators acknowledging each other's territory.
Then, in a voice quiet yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable vow, Viransh simply said:
"It will be done."
____________________
The door to Viransh Raghuvanshi's room swung open with a smooth, almost calculated ease-like everything else in his life. Without pausing, he walked in, his movements fluid, deliberate.
The wedding card in his hand barely held his interest as he placed it on the sleek, black marble table before heading straight to the bathroom.
His room was not just a space-it was a reflection of the man himself.
Dark. Powerful. Impeccably controlled.
The dominant color was black, but not the kind that drowned out the light.
It was the kind that absorbed it, commanding attention with its depth. Matte black walls stretched high, adorned only by subtle gold accents-tasteful, understated, yet rich.
A massive king-size bed rested at the center, dressed in charcoal silk sheets, the fabric shimmering faintly under the dim glow of recessed lighting.
A leather-bound armchair rested near the floor-to-ceiling windows, which were shielded by heavy black curtains that allowed no intrusion of the outside world unless commanded.
His study desk was sleek, modern-crafted from black mahogany with a minimalist design, housing only what was necessary. A gunmetal grey laptop, a few scattered papers, and a silver pen sat in perfect alignment. Not a single object was out of place.
Every inch of the space was curated, structured, controlled.
And yet-there was something raw about it.
Like the man who owned it, the room was silent but never empty. It carried an energy, a presence-something that whispered power even in stillness.
Viransh didn't stop to admire any of it. He had lived in this chaos of darkness long enough for it to feel like home. Without a second thought, he walked into the bathroom-where scalding water and silence awaited him.
As Viransh stepped out, the dim lighting cast shadows across his towering 6'3" frame. At 29, he was a man built for dominance-broad shoulders, a solid chest, and arms thick with strength.
His presence alone felt overpowering, a quiet storm that never needed to announce itself. Every movement was controlled, effortless, yet carried the weight of someone who knew exactly what he was capable of.
His face was striking-sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a straight, aristocratic nose that spoke of legacy.
But it was his eyes-deep-set, dark as an endless abyss-that held the true storm.
They weren't just sharp; they pierced. A gaze that silenced rooms, that commanded without a word, that burned with an intensity no one dared to meet for too long.
A splash of gold caught his eye-the wedding invitation perched on his desk like a bird of prey. The one his father had declared "non-negotiable." With a sigh that carried the weight of unspoken burdens, he crossed the room and picked it up, the expensive paper cool against his fingertips.
Ever the calculator, his mind immediately seized on the date: June 7th. Six days from today. His thoughts moved like clockwork-enough time to shift the Mumbai meeting.
The names danced in sunlit lettering: Mihir Shekhawat and Vanya Rajput.
Two dynasties joining hands. Chess pieces moving on a board too large for ordinary players to comprehend.
He began to open the card. The heavy paper unfolded with the reluctance of a secret being revealed, the inner page emerging like a butterfly from its chrysalis.
And then-
The universe paused mid-breath.
His hand suspended in air, as if caught in amber.
His heartbeat forgot its ancient rhythm.
Through the half-opened invitation, a pair of eyes gazed back at him.
____________________________________
Author's Note:
And with that, the game begins... A wedding, a twist, and a man who refuses to let go.
What happens when fate is rewritten with obsession and power?
Tell me, dear readers-what do you think will happen next?
"Not all love stories are sweet—some are dark, twisted, and dangerously addictive. I write the kind that lingers, that burns, that makes you question your own desires.
If my words consume you, fuel my madness. Your support keeps the obsession alive."
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