The night was heavy with silence. Inside the Shekhawat mansion, in a chamber lined with antique paintings and velvet curtains, the only sound was the faint clink of crystal against wood. Rudraksha Singh Shingal sat on his leather armchair, a half-filled glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. The faint golden glow of the chandelier above threw his sharp features into shadows, giving him the aura of a king who had seen too many wars.
Across from him, Ruhan sat. His posture was straight, his eyes burning with a fire that refused to dim. For years he had followed his father’s footsteps—blood, empire, and power—but tonight he was not here as an heir to the throne of the underworld. Tonight, he was here as a man in love.
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