Chapter 1
CH- 1 (SERIES 1) A Woman’s despair
ꜱʜᴀɴɢʜᴀɪ, ᴄʜɪɴᴀ
ʙᴀɪ ᴍᴀɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇᴅʀᴏᴏᴍ
8:00 AM - WEDNESDAY
On this cold, sprawling bed,I lie alone—yet the same dream keeps returning,curling itself around my thoughts.If only he were here...even this emptinesswould turn into something like heaven.
I imagine his breath brushing against mine,my leg finding his by accident,and a shy, helpless smileslipping out of me.His hand resting on my waist,his lips touching my foreheadwith a quiet, gentle kind of love.
I see him making me laugh,and me melting into his touchas if my whole worldcould fit inside that moment.
But reality...reality is cruel in waysdreams never are.He isn’t here.And even if he were,he might never look at methe way I look at him—with that foolish, tender hope.
That’s the truth.And maybe it will always be.So I’ve accepted my fate—the way I always do,quietly,without a fight.
KASHI
The morning light spilled faintly through the sheer curtains, casting long, uneven patterns across the faded walls.
The room was dim yet warm, but somehow the person lying in it still felt its coldness seep into her bones.
The bedroom was large—a master bedroom—with walls painted in soft ivory. One wall bore a wedding frame with two laughing faces, where one smile was genuine and the other nothing more than a façade.
There was a huge closet, revealing neatly folded sarees and perfectly ironed suits, as though they had been stored away untouched for a year.
On the bedside table lay a bottle of pills beside a glass of water.
The other side of the bed was empty. The only thing resting there was a set of bangles, glinting faintly in the darkness.
Lying on the bed, Kashi—a woman in her late twenties—stared at the other side of the queen-sized bed, cold and vacant.
She looked at it as though trying to imagine him sleeping beside her, smiling at her gently.
But she knew it would never happen. It was all a myth—a dream.
Her dream. One that would never come true.
Her fingers traced the mangalsutra around her neck. She shut her eyes, memories rushing back—the time, the date, one year ago, when she had been given this identity.
A wife.
Hiswife.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye before she could even realise it.
She had always known this marriage meant nothing to him. She had agreed to it only for the happiness of her grandfather, who had promised to preserve a lifelong friendship and turn it into a bond between families—with his best friend of many years, her grandfather-in-law, Bai Yansong.
And now, here she was.
Known as Mrs. Bai.
Mrs. Bai Minsheng.
The sound of notifications broke her train of thought as she slowly sat up.
Her gaze immediately flickered to the large photo frame on the wall.
A wedding photograph sealed behind glass—the smiles of two strangers frozen in time.
Kashi found herself lost in the beauty of the bride, who was none other than herself.
She noticed the intricate mehendi on her hands, the heavy jewellery complementing her skin. She looked happy. Yes—anyone who glanced at the picture would say so.
But inside, she had been shattered in ways no one ever knew.
Just as she drifted deeper into her thoughts, a knock echoed at the door.
She took a deep breath, composing herself, and shifted her gaze towards it. She recognised it instantly—it was the head maid, Mia.
“Yes, come in,”she said in her usual gentle voice. The woman who had been lying in bed crying moments ago was gone.
Mia, a woman in her mid-forties, walked in. She had been part of this house for years—ever since Minsheng was a child. A gentle smile rested on her face as she looked at Kashi.
Kashi’s heart warmed at the sight, and she returned the smile. It came so naturally that no one could have guessed how broken she truly was beneath it all—how carefully she held herself together while silently suffering.
“How are you, dear? Did you sleep well?”Mia asked softly.“Vishakha Ma’am is calling you downstairs.”
Her voice carried concern, something motherly—but beneath it lay something else. Almost a warning. An urgency.
Kashi knew her grandmother-in-law well. Vishakha Bai never called this early unless something important had happened.
And at that moment, only one thought crossed her mind.
Did he call?
All she could think about was him.
Her thoughts swirled endlessly around his name, his absence, his silence.
Mia broke the quiet as she studied Kashi’s face. She recognised that look—the desperate hope of a woman waiting to hear from her husband.
“Mrs. Bai, you should come down early. Vishakha Ma’am will be waiting.”
Kashi nodded, her smile widening.“Please tell Gigi I’ll be downstairs shortly.”
Mia nodded in return and quietly left the room.
Kashi swung her legs off the bed and made her way toward the attached closet, fear curling in her chest. What did Vishakha want to tell her? Was it news about him?
Hope and dread tangled together inside her.
Her bare feet padded softly against the floor as she crossed the room, her saree brushing lightly with each step.
She selected a saree for the day—a red one with bright embroidery—and then headed toward the master bathroom.
Meanwhile, Mia descended the stairs, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips. It had only been a year since Kashi had become part of the Bai family, yet her hope had never faded.
Even when her husband had given her nothing to hold on to—leaving his newlywed bride behind for a business trip that seemed endless—she still waited.
Mia felt a sharp pang of guilt and sadness. There was nothing she could do to help Kashi.
But today, she had seen that smile.
She knew Kashi had already guessed.
News had come from her husband.
And Mia knew that whatever awaited her would make Kashi feel scared, excited, and hopeful all at once—emotions she never expected to feel again.
Emotions she thought were long dead.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
ꜰʀᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴘᴀʀɪꜱ
ʟᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴘᴀʀɪꜱ - ᴘᴇɴᴛʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ꜱᴜɪᴛᴇ
9:23 PM - MONDAY
The study was cloaked in the soft gloom of a day that had long forgotten the sun. Though it was night, it made no difference to the room—or to the man sitting there—because what difference did night make to someone buried in work twenty-four hours a day?
The distant hum of the city drifted through the window, barely registering to him.
Dust clung to the air like breath held too long. Yellowed papers lay scattered across the desk in wild disarray—notes scribbled in margins, formulas scrawled in haste, diagrams half-drawn and abandoned mid-thought. Books lined the shelves behind him like sentries, spines cracked, pages swollen with age, ink, and silence.
He was dressed in an Armani suit. His large hands were clasped together—a gesture he made when lost in thought. Muscles bulged beneath the fabric, dangerous curves that women would kill to touch. A muscle twitched in his jaw, sharpening his already striking features.
His eyes were bloodshot but alert, fixed on the chaos before him as if meaning might finally emerge if he just stared long enough.
He knew he wouldn’t stop until the work was done. A man of his word, he made promises rarely—but once made, he would see them through at any cost.
There was no clock in the room; he had removed it months ago. Time mocked him here. He didn’t need to see it—not until his work was complete. The wristwatch on his arm was enough.
A half-empty cup of baijiu sat cold at his side, untouched. He hadn’t drunk in months. The sharp scent of ink, paper, and overworked brain cells filled the room.
Still, he didn’t stop.
He ran a hand through his hair roughly—a gesture of frustration.
Thud.
The door burst open. Li, his most loyal and trained man, entered.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. From the way Li had barged in, he already knew something serious had come.
“What is it, Li?”he asked without lifting his gaze from the papers. His voice was cold, stern.
“Boss... it’s from your grandfather. The call,”Li said evenly.
“Again?”His voice was sharp, threaded with frustration.
“Yes, boss,”Li muttered, knowing the answer would only rile him further.
“What did he say?”His tone was clipped; he already suspected.
“He said... you should come back home and also...”Li faltered, unsure how to continue.
“And what else, Li? Speak.”His voice rose, tense and dangerous.
“And... your grandfather said he knows there’s no work. That it’s just an excuse not to return home,”Li said cautiously.
Thud.
A fist slammed against the wall. Li didn’t flinch; he had long since grown accustomed to this ritual.
“How did he know, Li? Tell me. Wasn’t it only you and I who knew? Huh?”His voice was dangerously low.
“Boss... I have no idea. Maybe your grandfather hired a spy...”Li suggested hesitantly, knowing well he might provoke more anger.
“What the fuck...”The boss muttered, standing abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
Li remained silent, eyes lowered. He knew better than to interrupt in these moments.
“Shit... shit... shit...”Another slam against the wall, this one cracking the paint.
Thud.
The door burst open again. Four men rushed in.
“Boss, Zhang is refusing the deal. He says he will meet only you,”one said.
“Yeah, boss. He threatens war if you don’t see him...”another added. The others nodded, gauging his reaction.
He looked at Li for a moment; a silent understanding passed between them—anger shared, unspoken.
He looked like he might strangle someone.
“A meeting? With me?”he scoffed, voice dripping with disdain.“They think they can waste my time with some trivial meeting?”
The men fell silent, careful as he grew hotter with rage.
“Fine... arrange the meeting.”He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident.“And tell him—no nonsense.”
His men nodded.
“And Li... arrange a flight. We’re going back to China." He exhaled sharply, the weight of inevitables pressing down.
“There are some things I can’t escape... no matter how much I try.”The words froze Li and the others—but they knew exactly what he meant.
“Yes, boss. I’ll arrange the flight immediately,”Li said, already moving to his phone.
The men left to inform Zhang. He would be ready... or regret it.
The boss stood and made his way to the master bedroom.
It was lavish, cold... just like him.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, tossing it aside, revealing a crisp white shirt beneath.
His Italian shoes clicked against the floor as he entered the master bathroom.
He leaned on the sink, sleeves rolled up, muscular arms on display. He stared at the mirror, searching for himself—but found only a ruthless mafia boss staring back. Knuckles white against the edge of the sink, he seemed to wrestle the reflection.
He splashed water on his face, as if trying to wash away the blood that was gone physically but etched into every inch of his skin.
It wouldn’t leave.
The mirror seemed to mock him, showing him exactly what he hated most: the man he had become.
He stared a little longer, then finally whispered, almost to himself:
“Would she hate me now?”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
ᴍᴜᴍʙᴀɪ, ɪɴᴅɪᴀ
ᴅᴇᴇᴡᴀɴ ᴍᴀɴꜱɪᴏɴ
12:00 PM - WEDNESDAY
The hour was thick with silence—a velvet kind of stillness where time seemed to slow, and sound itself felt fragile.
The door opened with a whisper, revealing the master bedroom, a symphony of intricate Indian design.
The room exuded timeless elegance, steeped in the soul of artistry. Warm, amber light spilled across the space from jaali-patterned lanterns suspended from the ceiling, their carved shadows dancing on the walls like silent storytellers.
He entered in his Armani suit, each step accompanied by the subtle click of expensive shoes. He sighed—a brief, almost imperceptible moment of weakness.
The room was vast, walls adorned on one side with vivid Madhubani art, and on the other, dark, intense canvases—a quiet contrast, as if reflecting two opposing souls. And in truth, it mirrored them perfectly: his dangerous masculinity, her delicate strength.
He moved carefully, trying not to disturb the quiet.
The mattress was layered in plush handloom linens, soft cotton sheets dyed in block-printed patterns of indigo paisleys and muted maroons. Silk bolsters and embroidered pillows in jewel tones—ruby, emerald, gold—lay in an effortless, deliberate disarray.
And there she was.
Small, curled up, completely unaware. His wife. His undoing. The woman who made him weak without trying, who could crumble his dangerous aura with a single glance.
Her arms tucked around herself—a habit he had watched for years. Her saree rustled around her like a halo. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips—rare, fleeting, almost forbidden.
The air carried her scent: jasmine and sandalwood. It was hers alone, and it had a calming pull on him no matter what.
He inhaled deeply, muscles relaxing, the harsh edges of his face softening into something almost boyish.
He removed his suit jacket silently, draping it on a chair, revealing a crisp white shirt that made him look nothing like the fifty-seven-year-old man he was—handsome, dangerously so, like a devil unraveled by the sight of his angel.
In one corner, a brass urli bowl floated with marigold petals and rosewater. Near it, a traditional jhula swayed slightly, suspended from thick brass chains. He paused, remembering her swinging on it—the way her saree would swirl, her giggles filling the room, her mischievous smile teasing him. All gone now.
He crossed the room slowly, stopping at the bed. Close enough to her to breathe her in, but careful not to touch.
His gaze fell on the sindoor at her forehead and the mangalsutra around her neck—clingy symbols of their bond, as natural to her as her skin.
“God... she’s beautiful... like an apsara,”he murmured, his voice hoarse, softening with every second he stared.
“My apsara,”he whispered again, barely audible.
Without thinking, he kneeled at the end of the bed, lifting the blanket slightly. Her small feet came into view.
Payal jingled softly around her ankles—the very ones he had gifted her on their wedding night. He touched them reverently, leaning down to brush his lips against her skin. Slowly, deliberately, he kissed one foot, then the other, committing the softness to memory.
He lingered, taking in her beauty, her stillness. Then he rose, knowing that if she woke to meet his gaze—those eyes that could burn or hate—he would not survive the vulnerability it would bring.
He sighed, leaving the room silently. It was astonishing to seeAnsh Deewan, the feared mafia boss, keeping his gaze low, his pride subdued by a tiny woman.
“Kalyani,”he whispered, her name like a prayer.
He closed his eyes, recalling how she would lean into his touch, tiptoe to reach him, kiss his cheeks. The way she waited for him each night, scolding him for not taking care of himself.
A memory now, fragile and gone.
He disappeared into his study, sliding into his chair, burying himself in work once more. The cold, ruthless mafia boss returned, leaving no trace of the broken man he had been minutes ago.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
(ꜱᴏʜᴏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴍᴜᴍʙᴀɪ)
12:00 PM - WEDNESDAY
The dim hum of curated jazz laced the air, weaving effortlessly with the low murmurs of old money and new ambition. Soho House Mumbai—a sanctuary of velvet sophistication—perched like a secret above the city’s frenetic pulse.
There was no doubt: Soho was the finest club in Mumbai, famous for its design, its ambience. Every day, celebrities, businessmen, and the city’s elite with dark secrets drifted through its doors.
It wasn’t just a luxury—it whispered it.
And there, standing with the kind of quiet dominance that drew eyes and bent wills alike, wasEkaksh—the youngest mafia heir to the Deewans.
At twenty-four, he carried a maturity that made men uneasy and women reckless. His presence commanded attention; women threw themselves at him, men bristled in envy. He knew it. He took pride in it.
The club was thick with curated charm—leather armchairs aged like wine, walls swathed in earthy tones, low light spilling across terrazzo floors. His gaze swept the room, sharp, searching. But he didn’t see who he was looking for.
The pool glimmered beneath hanging lanterns, the moon shattered across its surface in fractured light. Voices floated—artists discussing unseen exhibitions, producers murmuring deals that would never see the papers, women dressed like they didn’t care, yet acutely aware of who watched.
He noticed the stares, the desire—but paid them no mind. Women, to him, were predictable: desire, curiosity, temptation. Loyal women didn’t exist in his world. And even if they did, they weren’t for him.
It was nothing new; he was used to it. Every woman wanted a man like him—tall, dark, dangerously handsome. His jaw flexed with barely restrained intensity, his brown eyes smoldered like fire—enough to make anyone weak in the knees.
Soho House didn’t ask questions. It offered corners to disappear in, velvet chairs to collapse into, a world where past and present drank quietly together.
And Ekaksh, like the club, was a mystery few could enter—and even fewer could understand.
The bar gleamed—a sleek marble counter veined like a storm, manned by bartenders who remembered faces, not names. Rows of aged spirits gleamed behind it: whisky, mezcal, gin—labels that never advertised, but whispered power to those who knew.
Every man who passed nodded in recognition. Respect. After all, why wouldn’t they?
SOHO was owned by none other thanAnsh Deewan, Ekaksh’s father. Not just this club, but a network of elite establishments. Ekaksh managed them in his father’s stead, though his sporadic presence at home worried Ansh endlessly.
Today, he was here for one reason: to finalize a deal with the Malhotras. To prove his worth. To show his father that he belonged. He knew precisely how to close it—and he would not leave until it was done.
Then, the energy shifted—not loud, not sudden, but unmistakable.
Akshwalked in.
Ekaksh’s jaw flexed ever so slightly. He hated interference—even from family. Especially from family. But he said nothing. Because as much as it grated, he knew the truth: if the deal went sideways, if money turned dirty or whispers became threats,Aksh would handle it. Quietly. Entirely.
And he knew Aksh would not leave him alone. Not for a second.
The Deewans never left their own to die.
When one fell, the other stood beside him—bruised, battered, but unbroken.
It was a truth outsiders could never comprehend.
A vow. One they had inherited long before they understood it.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Deewangi Writess
