Prologue
It was a hot June night in Gurugram, the kind of night where even the wind felt impatient. I am Rivansh Malhotra, twenty-five years old, living the life most people fantasize about but never dare to touch. Sharp jawline, unreadable eyes, a rose tattoo on my neck that whispers of beauty and decay. People talk about it. People talk about me.
My BMW S 1000RR, alpine white and gleaming like moonlight forged into steel, roared beneath me as I cut through the city’s veins. My father’s money—politics, business, power—meant the world bent for me, though I never asked it to. All I wanted was speed, silence, and to be left alone.
I had just finished another grinding day of my MBBS internship at Fortis Hospital. I parked in my apartment’s lot, exhausted, ready to collapse into nothingness—when it struck me. My iPhone 16 Pro. I’d left it at Starbucks, during a quick stop for boba tea fifteen minutes earlier. Typical.
With a curse, I kicked my bike back to life and sped through the empty roads to Ambience Mall. By some luck, one of the staff had found my phone, neat and untouched. She handed it to me with a smile I barely returned.
I checked my watch—Tag Heuer Grand Carrera Calibre 36. 10:55 p.m. Time was slipping like sand through fingers. I rushed back to my apartment on Golf Course Road, parked, and stumbled toward the elevator. The button lit up. The doors closed. Floor one. Floor two.
And then—eerkkk. The elevator screeched to a halt. Darkness swallowed me whole.
“Not today,” I muttered, cursing under my breath. It felt like the unluckiest day of my life. But I was wrong.
Smoke began seeping in from the ceiling—white, unnatural, curling in shapes that made no sense. My chest tightened. I tried holding my breath, but it was already too late. The last thing I remembered was the flicker of power returning—just as the world fell away.
I woke up to the roar of engines. My head throbbed. A seatbelt pressed against my chest. I wasn’t in an elevator anymore. I was strapped inside an airplane—midair.
Disoriented, I unbuckled and turned to the woman beside me, late twenties, sharp eyes that didn’t blink.
“Who brought me here?” My voice was gravel, confused.
She didn’t hesitate. “A teenage boy wheeled you onto the flight. You were unconscious.”
“And… this flight?”
“Kangra. Himachal Pradesh.”
Her tone made it sound like I should’ve known. And then, before I could push further, she said my name. Rivansh. Her voice wrapped around it like she’d owned it for years.
“Don’t ask questions,” she whispered. “Just open this when we land.”
She slipped an envelope into my hand. By the time I looked up again, she was gone.
The pilot’s announcement crackled overhead—prepare for landing. My pulse pounded as the plane descended into Kangra’s dark hills. Everyone filed out. I stayed behind, the envelope burning in my palm.
When I tore it open, the air left my lungs.
Inside lay a severed thumb, wearing a ring etched with two initials: R and K.
The “R” was mine. But the “K”? Still a stranger. (Her name, I would later learn, was Kashvi.)
Beneath the thumb was something worse—my old iPhone SE 2. The one I had lost three years ago during a tour. It powered on instantly. My Apple ID—still active. I couldn’t open it with my passcode. But when I pressed the severed finger to the Touch ID, the phone unlocked without hesitation. My ID. My life. My nightmare.
Shaking, I shoved it away. Beneath it lay a black-and-white rose pressed onto a note. The handwriting was delicate, feminine:
“No questions. Come to Royal Nest Society, Kangra. Apartment 10. Key under the rug. Before midnight.”
The words dug into me. I wasn’t the type to chase mysteries, but my veins burned with unease. My whole life, I’d avoided relationships, attachments, love. Even in school—Vidya Niketan, an elite boys’ boarding—I had lived untouched, unbothered. But this? This was different.
An attendant’s voice broke the spell. “Sir, please exit. Everyone has left.”
I stumbled out of the plane, into Kangra’s quiet night. At the airport Starbucks, something impossible glimmered on my iPhone screen. The Keys app. It showed access to a Mercedes C43 AMG Coupé.
I found it in the lot—matte grey, no plates. When I unlocked it, the car growled to life like it had been waiting just for me. Full tank. Perfect condition. And as I drove, navigation spoke unprompted, guiding me toward the outskirts.
Toward Royal Nest Society.
The roads wound through the forest, shadows crawling at the edges of my headlights. I parked, my chest tight. Guardian bells jingled softly on the apartment door. I bent, found the key beneath the rug, and slipped it into the lock.
The door opened.
And then—
A cloth pressed against my face, soaked in chloroform. My limbs weakened. My vision blurred.
The last thought before everything went black:
My delusions had caught up with me.
