Prologue
The world outside was drenched in the golden glow of chandeliers, laughter echoing through the grand halls of the Rathore estate. The prestigious gala was in full swing, a night meant for the elite—politicians, businessmen, and aristocrats—all gathered under one roof, toasting to their power, wealth, and carefully constructed reputations.
Mehreen Rathore moved gracefully through the crowd, her long maroon gown hugging her figure like a second skin. Her dark, wavy locks cascaded over her shoulders, the intricate gold embroidery on her outfit glistening under the soft lighting. To an outsider, she appeared calm, poised, the epitome of elegance.
But inside, she was restless.
Something felt off.
She had never been one for grand gatherings, preferring the comfort of books and quiet evenings over the artificial smiles and whispered deals that unfolded at such events. But tonight, something deeper unsettled her—a feeling of being watched, a presence she couldn’t quite place.
Brushing off the unease, she stepped toward the balcony, seeking a moment of solitude. The cool night breeze caressed her skin as she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a brief respite from the suffocating pretenses of the evening.
That was when she heard it.
A faint shuffle behind her.
Before she could turn, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, an iron grip trapping her against an unfamiliar body. A warm breath brushed against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Scream, and you’ll regret it.”
The voice was deep, smooth, laced with an authority that made her blood run cold. Panic surged through her veins as she struggled, but the man behind her was stronger, his grip unyielding. A cloth pressed against her mouth, the sharp scent of chloroform overwhelming her senses.
“No—” she tried to protest, her voice muffled.
Her vision blurred, the dazzling lights of the estate fading into an abyss of darkness.
When Mehreen woke, the world had changed.
She blinked, her head throbbing, the lingering effects of the drug making her sluggish. The air smelled different—clean, but unfamiliar. Gone were the sounds of music, the laughter of guests. Instead, an eerie silence loomed, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock.
Her heart pounded as she tried to sit up, realizing she was on a massive four-poster bed, the silky sheets pooling around her. The room was lavish, but there was no warmth in its luxury. The dark mahogany furniture, the pristine walls, and the expensive artwork all screamed wealth, but there was something about it that made her skin crawl.
This was not her home.
She swung her legs off the bed, trying to stand, only for her knees to give way. A strong hand gripped her arm before she could fall.
“Careful, princess. Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”
Her body tensed at the voice.
She looked up—and met the gaze of the devil himself.
Aarav Singhania.
He was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, his presence commanding. Dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark eyes held an unreadable intensity. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but there was no humor in it.
“Where the hell am I?” Mehreen’s voice was hoarse, but her glare was sharp.
“My home,” he answered smoothly.
A wave of nausea churned in her stomach. “Why am I here?”
Aarav stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “Because, sweetheart, your father took something from me. And now, I’m taking something from him.”
Her breath hitched, fear creeping into her veins. “You—you’re lying. My father—”
“Is not the man you think he is,” Aarav cut her off, his voice turning cold. “But we’ll get to that later.”
Mehreen took a step back, her fingers curling into fists. “Let me go.”
His smirk deepened. “And if I don’t?”
Her chest heaved with anger, her mind racing for an escape. “You can’t just keep me here.”
Aarav’s eyes darkened, amusement flickering in their depths. “Oh, but I can. And I will.”
She clenched her jaw. “I swear, if you—”
“Enough.” His voice was like a blade, sharp and commanding. “You are under my protection now. Under my control. And until your father pays for what he has done, you are not going anywhere.”
Mehreen’s nails dug into her palms. “You can’t do this.”
Aarav exhaled slowly, as if bored by her defiance. “I already have.”
Her heart pounded as she realized the terrifying truth.
She was no longer Mehreen Rathore, the beloved daughter of a powerful politician.
She was now Mehreen Singhania—claimed, caged, and at the mercy of a ruthless king.
And no one was coming to save her.
