The question wasn't meant for her. It cut through the room like a blade, directed at the suited man standing beside her — the one who hadn't so much as glanced at her all this time. The man flinched.

Raahil Raizada didn't move. He didn't need to. His stillness was more terrifying than violence. Because beneath that black suit and expressionless mask, his rage was alive — coiled like a serpent under glass skin, hissing with threat.

"I asked for the Vashisht girl," Raahil said, voice low, deliberate, laced with ice. "Nayantara. Not..." His eyes shifted to Innaya. Slow. Contemptuous. "...this."

That one word — not shouted, not spat — sliced deeper than a slap. It wasn't anger. It was disgust. The kind that didn't see you as human.

The man beside her stammered, "S-sir... the family said she's from the household. They said she's part of the deal—"

Raahil's head tilted slightly, a predator's gesture.

"Part of the deal?" he repeated, so soft it was nearly tender. That softness was worse. Far worse.

His hand moved to his jacket with unhurried grace — like he was reaching for a pen. But when it came out, it wasn't ink. It was death. A sleek matte black pistol. Silencer already screwed on. Polished. Quiet. Efficient.

The suited man paled. "Sir—Raahil sir —please, I—I was only doing what I was told—"

Click. A single breath.

Then—Thud. The shot didn't echo. It didn't need to. The man collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Blood bloomed across the marble floor, dark and sudden. 

Innaya froze. She didn't scream. She couldn't. Her voice had abandoned her. Her body refused to move. Her knees nearly buckled as she turned — the man lay behind her, twitching once... then not at all. He was dead. He was alive a moment ago. And now he wasn't.

Raahil calmly holstered the gun like he was adjusting his cufflinks. Not a single flicker of remorse touched his face. No raised voice. No explanation. Just swift, clinical execution. Then he looked at her. Really looked.

Like she was a stain someone had forgotten to scrub off his floor. His eyes were cold, cutting, utterly devoid of mercy.

"Clean that up," he muttered to the guard at the door without breaking eye contact.

And to Innaya? Nothing. Not a word. Not a nod. Just that stare.

As if the next body on the floor could very well be hers. Then — slowly — he walked toward her. Each step deliberate. Measured. Predatory.

Innaya staggered back, her legs unsteady, eyes fixed on the blood soaking into the marble. She had never seen a man die. Not like that. Not so effortlessly. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Raahil stopped just a few feet from her. Towering. Motionless. A storm waiting to break. His voice cut the air like frostbite.

"Who. Are. You?"

Innaya blinked rapidly, trying to find her voice.

"I-I'm... Innaya..."

It came out broken.

"T-they told me it was an order—I was just sent to—"

He stared. Not with interest. But like he was trying to decide whether to discard her... or destroy her.

"Leave."

The guards obeyed immediately, bowing their heads as they dragged the lifeless body out, their silence as chilling as the blood trail behind them. Now they were alone. Her. And the man who had just killed without blinking.

And that was when Innaya realized something worse than being dismissed or ignored. She had his attention now.

Raahil stepped forward. She backed away until the edge of a table hit her spine. No more space. No more escape. He stood over her, gaze raking over her from head to toe — not in desire, not in curiosity. But in pure, unfiltered disdain. His lip curled.

"This is what they sent me?" he muttered, almost to himself. "This?"

Innaya didn't answer. She couldn't. Her legs were jelly. Her throat knotted. Then — in a sudden, vicious movement — he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Her gasp tore through the air.

"Answer me," he growled, silver eyes blazing. "Who the fuck are you?"

Tears welled up instantly, but she held them back.

"I'm—I'm just Innaya—I didn't know, I swear—"

"You didn't know?" he mocked, voice twisted with venom. "You walk into my house like this," his gaze dropped to her body, full of cruel purpose, "in a kurti that looks like a rag, with your flesh spilling out like you were shoved into it—and you didn't know?"

Shame burned through her skin. Her face. Her chest. Her soul. Her voice was gone.

"Is this a joke?" he sneered. "Do they think I'm blind? That I'd touch a girl like you?"

He shoved her away, letting go of her hair with contempt. She stumbled, barely catching herself on the table's edge.

"I asked for Nayantara," he snapped. "Someone with poise. Beauty. A woman I could at least look at without retching."

Her vision blurred, but she still refused to cry. Not here. Not yet. He began circling her now, slow and sharp. Like a wolf around its kill.

"But instead," he hissed, "they send me a chubby little nobody. No name. No value. Nothing."

Each word sliced through her like glass. And then — he stopped behind her. She felt him lean in, his breath a ghost at her neck.

"Or maybe..." he whispered, "...maybe they sent you to insult me."

She turned slightly, her voice nothing but air. "Please... I didn't mean to offend—"

"Shut. Up."

His voice wasn't loud. But it shattered the air. And the silence that followed was worse.

He didn't have to scream. He was the kind of man whose quiet was more dangerous than anyone else's rage. And now... that silence was all hers. He stepped in front of her again. Closer. Colder than before. Colder than death.

"I should shoot you too," Raahil said, flatly. As if stating the weather. "Just for breathing my air."

Innaya's knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor with a strangled gasp, her palms scraping the marble, the sob she'd been holding finally ripping from her throat.

But Raahil didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't move. He simply stared down at her — like one might look at a stain. Something offensive. Forgettable. She was not what he wanted. Not even close. And yet...

He tilted his head, as if trying to decide whether to crush her or cage her.

"Innaya," he said suddenly. Her name like dirt on his tongue.

She looked up, breath catching. Raahil's voice dropped, low and lethal.

"Call them," he said to his men, who had come inside the room again. His eyes never leaving hers. "All of them. The Vashisht family. Uncle. Aunt. The girl they tried to sell in her place. I want every last coward standing in front of me."

It wasn't a shout. It didn't have to be. It was a whisper wrapped in a death sentence. The guards vanished like shadows.

Raahil stood perfectly still, hands behind his back. Regal. Remorseless. Then he looked at her again. Not like a man looks at a woman. Not even like a man looks at a prisoner. But like someone inspecting a loose thread he was tempted to yank — just to see what would unravel.

"Lock her up," he said.

Two men returned and reached for her.

"Wait—please—what's happening?!" Innaya cried, panic clawing at her throat. "What did I do? "

Raahil moved toward her slowly, the heels of his shoes clicking like a countdown.

"You don't get to ask questions," he said. "You walked into my house. Now you'll stay silent while I wipe the filth you were delivered from."

She choked on a sob.

"I-I didn't know—"

"But they did," he snarled. "They knew. They dared insult me with you."

He grabbed her jaw, hard, lifting her face to meet his.

"I don't forgive insults," he said, his voice a blade.

Then shoved her away like trash.

"Take her to the east wing," he barked. "Lock the door. Post two guards. If she so much as touches a window—shoot her."

"please—please don't hurt them—!"

Her voice cracked. Useless. But he turned, gaze molten.

"Hurt them?" he said, with a soft, terrifying smile. "No, little mouse. I'm going to make a massacre out of them."

After some time,

In the grand hall, Raahil stood in silence. The chandelier above flickered. Light and shadow sliced across his face like war paint.

The blood was gone. But the fury remained. His hand trembled once, then slammed against a glass table. The sound was deafening. Shards exploded across the marble. No one dared move. His voice roared through the stillness.

"How fucking dare they insult me like this?"

His eyes blazed.

"I asked for Nayantara Vashisht. The elegant one. The one with the ambition in her eyes and silk on her tongue."

He turned in place — pacing, circling, unraveling.

"And they send me this—" His voice dipped into a guttural hiss. "A fat, low-class nothing. Dressed like a hand-me-down. Face like a footnote. Body like a mockery."

He stopped. Breathing hard. Unhinged.

"Do I look like a man who settles?" he growled. "Do I look like I'd touch something that pathetic?"

His voice cracked like a whip. "She isn't even worth the spit on my shoe."

A guard stepped forward hesitantly. "Sir... we returned to the Vashisht home. It's... empty. Locked. Everyone's gone. Staff. Neighbours said they left early morning."

Raahil's spine straightened. He tilted his head. Slowly. Eyes narrowing into slits.

"They ran?" he asked, quiet.

The guard nodded. "Yes, sir."

Silence. And then — laughter. Low at first. Then deeper. And then louder — until it echoed off the marble, manic and monstrous. The laughter of a man who had just been betrayed... and found it entertaining.

"They ran," he said again, grinning now. "They really think distance can hide them from me?"

He turned to his guards, eyes gleaming.

"Find them. Drag them here." His smile faded, voice now pure steel. "I want to watch their bones break."

And then—cold as ash—"Burn the fucking house down."