𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐚𝐚 𝐚𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐚

𝐇𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐚𝐚 𝐚𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐚

𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐧 𝐤𝐚 𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐪, 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐧 𝐤𝐚 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐚𝐧

𝐀𝐩𝐧𝐢 𝐚𝐝𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐢 𝐲𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐚, 𝐡𝐚𝐢 𝐡𝐨!

𝐇𝐚𝐢, 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐚𝐚 𝐚𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐚 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐚

🔞✨🔞

The air inside the hall was heavy with the fragrance of parijat and the sacred smoke of the havan, a golden haze that wrapped around the guests like a warm embrace.

The rhythmic, deep chanting of the Sanskrit mantras vibrated through the floorboards, a divine shield meant to protect the union.

At the center of the mandap sat Aradhya, a vision in crimson silk that shimmered under the golden chandeliers, her small, round face glowing with a shy, radiant joy.

Her plumpy cheeks were flushed a soft rose, and those signature rebellious curls danced against her skin every time she tilted her head toward the groom.

She looked every bit the 90s heroine—hazel doe eyes lined thick with kohl, a small bindi centered on her forehead, and a smile that felt like the first ray of Banaras sun.

The priest raised his voice, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd with a command that made the heart of a father swell.

"Shukla ji... aaiye, aur apni beti ka kanyadaan kijiye."

Arjun Kumar Shukla stepped forward, his eyes misty as he looked at his "Bitiya," the girl who still carried chocolates in her bag for the world's pain.

He reached for her hand, the delicate chime of her glass bangles echoing the sweetness of the moment.

"नाम्ने, विष्णुरूपिणे वराय, भरण-पोषण-आच्छादन-पालनादीनां, स्वकीय उत्तरदायित्व-भारम्, अखिलं अद्य तव पत्नीत्वेन, तुभ्यं अहं सम्प्रददे।"

The priest began, the sacred words filling the silence as the ritual of giving away the light began.

The grand, heavy doors of the marriage hall didn't just open—they swung inward with a violent crash, slamming against the marble walls like a thunderclap that silenced the mantras.

The sacred rhythm of the priest’s voice died in his throat as a tide of darkness flooded the sanctuary.

Nearly two hundred men poured into the hall, a terrifying phalanx of steel and shadows that moved with the synchronized precision of a predatory pack.

They were an international gallery of death; some carried the rugged, heavy Indian-made rifles, while others gripped sleek Russian Kalashnikovs and Italian-engineered pistols that caught the golden light of the chandeliers.

Each man was equipped with tactical earpieces and radios, their faces cold and devoid of human emotion—a private militia where just one man could kill a whole army, and they were all here for a single purpose.

A collective, jagged gasp ripped through the crowd of guests as the joy of the wedding was instantly replaced by the suffocating weight of terror.

Arjun Kumar Shukla’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his face turned to stone, his protective instincts screaming as his hand instinctively went to where his service weapon should have been.

Beside the guttering fire of the vidi, Aradhya gasped, her small hand flying to her throat as her doe eyes widened in pure, paralyzed shock.

The melodic chime of her glass bangles was the only sound left in the room—a fragile, trembling ring that sounded like a funeral knell in the sudden, deadly silence.

Then, the silence was shattered by a sound that felt like a mockery of the divine.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of the wedding speakers crackled to life, but it wasn't a mantra. It was the loud, brassy opening notes of an old vintage classic that every Indian heart knew:

"Le jayenge, le jayenge... Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge...!"

The guests stared in paralyzed confusion as a massive, jet-black Mahindra Thar roared into the hall, its tires screeching against the polished marble, leaving charred black streaks across the floor where the rangoli had just been.

"Aji rahey jayenge rahey jayenge

Paisewaley dektey rahey jayenge

Le jayenge le jayenge

Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge"....

Standing on the hood of the moving vehicle was Rudra, looking dangerously handsome in a deep emerald green sherwani and a regal pagdi. He looked every bit like the Dulhe ka Bhai, his face lit up with a playful, bubbly grin as he danced with an energy that defied the guns surrounding him.

" Tum ho kali to gulab hum hain

Ho hthon se lagalo toh sharab hum hain

Kahete hain log ke kharab hum hain

Teri har baat ka jawab hum hain

Hoo apne do haathon se

Kamaya hua khanewale

Apna paraya kabhi khanenge.. "

Beside the vehicle, Isha moved like a whirlwind of fire and grace. Dressed in a matching green lehenga that flared with every turn, she danced to the vintage beat with the precision of a performer and the cold gaze of an assassin. Her sharp siren eyes never left the room, her movements a beautiful, distracting cover for the carnage waiting in the wings.

They moved like true Baratis, celebrating a union that hadn't been invited, their laughter echoing against the screams of the terrified guests.

"Sasurji

Le jayenge le jayenge teri shon machariya

Le jayenge

Le jayenge le jayenge

Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge

Le jayenge......"

Rudra, still grinning like a madman, reached out and snatched a gun from the hands of the soldier nearest to him. Without missing a beat of the music, he raised the barrel and fired three deafening shots into the air, the sparks from the muzzle lighting up the emerald silk of his sherwani.

The guests erupted into a chorus of screams, diving under tables and clutching each other in pure, unadulterated panic.

Through the chaos, the contrast was chilling. Arjun Kumar Shukla stood like a pillar of granite, his eyes burning with a cold, professional fury that didn't flinch at the gunfire. Beside him, the groom remained eerily still, his face set in a mask of defiance. But Aradhya, her small frame trembling, stood up from the wooden bench of the mandap, her doe eyes wide with a shock that felt like it was breaking her heart.

Rudra didn't stop. He and Isha continued their lethal dance, spinning through the aisles like they were at a village fair rather than a hostage situation.

Then, a voice like a crack of thunder tore through the vintage melody.

"STOP!" Arjun roared, his voice commanding enough to shake the very chandeliers. "STOP ALL THIS NONSENSE! WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

Rudra froze mid-step, one hand still raised in a dance pose. The music seemed to fade into the background as he slowly lowered his arms. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his handsome face. With a fluid, athletic grace, he jumped down from the hood of the Thar, landing softly on the marble floor.

"Aree... Uncle Ji!" Rudra exclaimed, his voice bubbly and mocking as he dusted off his emerald sleeves. "Hum to apni pyaari si Bhabhi Ji ko le jane aaye hai... Dekhiye, hum kitne bade Dilwale hain... Special imported barati bhi saath laye hain!"

He gestured with a wide, theatrical sweep of his hand toward the two hundred men—the Russian, Italian, and Indian mercenaries standing like statues of death around the hall, their fingers tight on the triggers of their rifles.

Arjun Kumar Shukla stepped forward, his massive frame shielding Aradhya as his shadow fell over the sacred fire. His voice was a low, vibrating growl, the sound of a predator who had spent thirty years hunting in the dark.

"My daughter is marrying the groom I chose," Arjun said, his teeth gritted so hard the muscles in his jaw pulsed with fury.

He didn't look at the guns; he looked straight into Rudra’s dancing eyes. "And you... I can handle all of you. Are you forgetting, boy? I have done 111 encounters, and the 112th will be yours."

The air in the hall turned suffocatingly heavy. Even the mercenaries seemed to tighten their grip on their Russian rifles, sensing the lethal authority of the man in front of them. For a moment, the music felt like a distant memory, replaced only by the crackle of the vidi and the sound of Arjun's steady, dangerous breathing.

Rudra’s smirk vanished. He stared at Arjun in a heavy, ringing silence, his emerald-clad figure perfectly still. The tension was a wire stretched to the breaking point.

Then, suddenly, Rudra’s head snapped back and he burst into a loud, hysterical laugh. The sound was bubbly and mocking, echoing off the high ceilings like a jagged blade.

"Ogho hooo...!" Rudra wheezed, wiping a fake tear from his eye as he clapped his hands together. "Itna kyu bigadte hai Kaka Ji? Itna gussa... aur wo bhi is umar mein?"

He took a casual step forward, completely unfazed by the threat of becoming a statistic in Arjun's record.

"111 encounters? Arre waah! Century toh kab ki paar kar li aapne," Rudra said, his voice dripping with playful venom.

He leaned in slightly, his handsome face lit by the orange glow of the wedding fire. "Lekin Kaka Ji, aaj aapka muqabla mujhse nahi hai. Aaj toh aapki kismat ka faisla wo karega... jiske ek ishaare pe ye saari 'imported' fauj khadi hai.”

Arjun stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching over the shattered glass and spilled flower petals, his presence looming like a thundercloud. Beside him, the groom stood his ground, his face pale but his eyes burning with a desperate courage.

"Itna kya aib dikha rahe ho?" Arjun’s voice boomed, vibrating with a father’s rage and a policeman's authority. "Dam hai to samne aa kar dikhaye! Kaha hai wo? Itni hi aashiqui chadi thi to ladne aaya kyu nahi? Dar ke chhup gaya kya?"

He looked around the circle of two hundred armed mercenaries, his lip curling in a sneer of pure contempt. He wasn't just a father anymore; he was the DGP of the state, challenging the shadow that had haunted his jurisdiction for years.

"KAHA HAI TUMHARA SARKAR!!!?"

The roar echoed through the silent hall, bouncing off the walls and chilling the blood of every guest present. For a heartbeat, even the rain outside seemed to stop, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

The heavy, suffocating silence was suddenly ripped apart by a deafening, bass-boosted beat that made the floorboards tremble. It wasn't the vintage melody from before—it was something louder, more aggressive, and chillingly literal.

"Saat samundar paar main tere pichhe pichhe aa gaya..."

The lyrics blared through the speakers, echoing off the high marble walls like a hunter’s anthem. At the mandap, Aradhya’s breath hitched, her glass bangles rattling against her wrists as the words "pichhe pichhe aa gaya" felt like a cold hand tightening around her heart.

Rudra and Isha exchanged a look, their terrifying smirks widening in perfect sync. The two hundred men—the Russians, the Italians, and the locals—all let out a low, synchronized chuckle, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt. They weren't just soldiers anymore; they were a cheering audience for a nightmare.

"Zulmi mera dil o zulmi mera dil... tere kadamo ke niche aa gaya…”

The heavy, golden chandeliers suddenly began to rattle, their crystal prisms chiming a frantic, dissonant warning as a low-frequency vibration gripped the entire hall. The marble floor beneath Arjun’s boots began to shudder, a violent tremor that felt like the earth itself was splitting open in terror.

" saat samundar paar main tere pichhe pichhe aa gaya

main tere pichhe pichhe aa gaya

saat samundar paar main tere pichhe pichhe aa gaya " ....

The guests screamed, clutching at pillars as the "earthquake" intensified, but the sound wasn't coming from below—it was roaring from above. The rhythmic, deafening thwack-thwack-thwack of heavy-duty rotors began to drown out the vintage music, shaking the very foundation of the building.

Rudra and Isha looked up at the trembling ceiling, their eyes alight with a fanatical, dark pride. In perfect, chilling unison, they shouted over the rising din:

"LO AA GYE SARKAR!!!"

Then, with a terrifying, structural groan, the center of the ornate ceiling gave way.

WOSHHHH!

Chunks of plaster and debris rained down like white ash as a massive, jet-black military-grade helicopter descended through the roof, its landing skids shattering the upper balconies. The sheer force of the downdraft sent the wedding flowers, the sacred fire’s embers, and the guests' veils flying into a chaotic whirlwind.

The chopper landed with a bone-jarring thud right in the center of the hall, its massive blades still spinning, whipping the air into a frenzy that choked the breath out of the room. The roar was absolute, a mechanical beast snarling in the house of God.

Panic erupted. The calculated silence was gone; guests scrambled over chairs, children wailed in high-pitched terror, and the "imported barati" stood like stone gargoyles amidst the wreckage.

The music didn't stop; it surged, the heavy bass of "Saat Samundar Paar" vibrating through the very metal of the helicopter.

Through the thick, swirling clouds of dust and the acrid smoke of the cigar, a tall, imposing silhouette emerged from the dark interior of the chopper. He moved with a slow, predatory grace that commanded the air around him to go still.

As he stepped out into the light, the full, terrifying glory of the "Walking Devil" was revealed. He was dressed in a deep red sherwani, the color of fresh blood, intricately embroidered with real gold thread and shimmering diamonds that caught the flickering light of the dying chandeliers.

He looked like a king from a dark age. Thick golden chains were wrapped around his wrist like shackles of wealth, glinting as he moved. One hand was raised, casually holding the cigar to his lips as he exhaled a thick plume of grey smoke that masked his features. In his other hand, he gripped a heavy, compact loaded gun, his finger resting lazily on the trigger.

He stepped onto the shattered marble floor, his boots crushing the remnants of Aradhya's wedding flowers. He didn't look at the army, and he didn't look at Arjun's fury.

His obsidian eyes, sharp and possessive, locked onto Aradhya. The song reached a crescendo—“Main tere pichhe pichhe aa gaya”—and as the red of his sherwani merged with the red of her bridal lehenga in the reflection of the floor

The heavy thud of his boots against the marble sounded like a countdown. A slow, dark smirk played on his lips—the kind of look a wolf gives a lamb it has already cornered. He tilted his head, his gaze cutting through the chaos to lock onto Aradhya.

Terrified, Aradhya’s breath hitched in her throat as she instinctively stepped behind Arjun, her small hands trembling as she grabbed onto the back of her father’s sherwani, trying to vanish into his shadow.

Seeing her hide only made the his smile grow. It was a slow, terrifyingly patient expression. With the calm, measured steps of a predator who knows there is no escape, he began to circle the mandap.

He walked in a slow arc, his obsidian eyes roaming over every inch of her—the shimmering red lehenga, the glass bangles, and the tear-filled hazel eyes of the beautiful bride.

He finally stopped directly in front of Arjun, standing so close that the smoke from his cigar drifted into the IPS face.

He tilted his head, the diamond-encrusted gold on his chest sparkling under the wreckage of the ceiling.

"Hamne suna aap puch rahe the..." his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that carried over the dying music. "Kaha hai Sarkar? Kaha hai Sarkar?"

He suddenly spread his arms wide, the heavy gun in one hand and the cigar in the other, taking a dramatic step back as if to present himself to the entire room.

"Lo... Aa gaye Sarkar!"

His smirk deepened into a chilling grin as he looked Arjun straight in the eye, his voice dripping with mocking disrespect.

"Kyu Sasur Ji... Swagat nahi karenge hamara?”

Arjun’s jaw clenched so hard the bone seemed ready to snap, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated loathing. He stood like an iron wall between the Devil and his daughter, his hand twitching near his holster.

"Nahi hu mai tumhara sasur!" Arjun spat, each word hitting like a bullet. "Tum jaise criminal se mai rishta nahi jodta... Aree, tum toh hathkadiyo layak bhi nahi ho! Tum sirf meri banduk ki goliyo ke layak ho."

Ranveer didn't't flinch. Instead, he threw his head back and burst into a jagged, dangerous laugh that echoed through the hollowed-out hall, drowning out the dying beat of the music. It was the sound of a man who played with death for breakfast.

He tilted his head, the red silk of his sherwani shimmering as he took a slow drag of his cigar, blowing the smoke directly toward the sacred fire.

"Ohhoo, Sasur Ji..." he purred, his voice dropping to a chilling, silken thread. "Hume maarke apni beti ko... byah se pehle vidhwa banana chahte hai kya?"

Aradhya let out a small, choked sob from behind her father, her glass bangles trembling as she clutched Arjun’s arm. The sheer audacity of his words—claiming her as his own before a single ritual was complete—felt like a physical blow.

Arjun’s eyes burned with a lethal fire. "Meri beti tum jaise insaan se kabhi shaadi nahi karegi!" he roared, his voice shaking the remaining glass in the chandeliers. "Wo sirf aur sirf Shivansh se shaadi karegi!"

With a sharp, decisive gesture, Arjun pointed toward the groom. Despite the two hundred guns leveled at him, shivansh stood his ground with a desperate, white-knuckled strength, refusing to back down from the man in the blood-red sherwani

Ranveer’s jaw clenched so hard the pulsing vein in his temple became visible, his obsidian eyes darkening as he turned his full, lethal attention to the groom. He began to circle Vikram like a shark scenting blood in the water.

"Ohhhh... to yeh hai," Ranveer purred, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating bass. "Hamare hone wale saut... hmmm."

He stopped directly in front of Vikram, his height looming over the other man. He looked deep into the groom's eyes, searching for a flicker of fear, but his "maghar ofsos..." smirk only sharpened when he found none. "Ho nahi payenge," he whispered—a cold, final prophecy.

With a sudden, violent flick of his wrist, Ranveer cocked the heavy gun and pressed the cold muzzle directly against Vikram’s forehead.

The hall fell into a deathly silence. The mercenaries tightened their grip on their rifles, ready to paint the white marble red. Vikram didn't flinch, his jaw set in a mask of defiance, but the air was sliced by a piercing scream.

"NHIIII!!!!"

Before Arjun could react, Aradhya lunged forward, throwing her small frame in front of Vikram, acting as a human shield. Her glass bangles shattered against the groom's chest as she pushed him back, her doe eyes now burning with a fierce, tear-streaked fire.

Ranveer froze. The cold steel of the gun was now inches away from the girl he had come to claim. He stared at her—at the way her rose-flushed cheeks were stained with salt and her rebellious curls were wild with panic.

Slowly, deliberately, Ranveer pulled the gun back, resting the heavy barrel casually over his own shoulder. He didn't look angry; he looked intrigued. A slow, haunting smirk spread across his lips as he nodded to himself, as if enjoying a new game.

He began to encircle them again, his red sherwani swishing against the floorboards as he watched Aradhya protect the other man.

"Bahut yarana lagta hai," he mocked, his voice dripping with a lethal, jealous irony. "Itna prem? Itna balidan? Lagta hai hum thoda late ho gaye... ya shayad, khel abhi shuru hua hai.”

The sharp, dry snap of Ranveer’s fingers was the sound of a guillotine falling.

Instantly, the two hundred mercenaries moved like a singular, lethal shadow. The refined marriage hall exploded into a symphony of terror.

Guests were slammed onto their knees, the cold barrels of Russian rifles pressed against their temples. The sounds of breaking porcelain, overturned tables, and the high-pitched, jagged screams of women filled the air. It was no longer a wedding; it was a massacre in waiting.

Arjun, his face turning a violent shade of purple, reached for the service revolver tucked into his waist. But before his fingers could even graze the cold steel, a shadow flickered behind him.

Isha appeared like a ghost, her green lehenga swirling as she pressed the cold, unyielding muzzle of her own weapon deep into the small of his back. Arjun’s hands flew up instinctively, his frame trembling with a helpless, suffocating rage.

"Sochna bhi mat, Uncle ji," Isha whispered against his ear, her voice as smooth and deadly as a silk noose. "One move, and this hall becomes a graveyard before your daughter can even say 'Papa'."

Ranveer threw his head back and let out a devilish, echoing laugh that cut through the chaos like a jagged blade. He looked around the carnage with a look of mock disappointment, shaking his head slowly as he adjusted the gold chains on his wrist.

"Dekha, Sasur ji?" he purred, stepping over a shattered flower vase. "Wo kya hai na... aapne baratiyo ka swagat achhi tarah nahi kiya. To ab wo bechaare thode gussa ho gaye."

He moved closer, his tall silhouette blocking out the light of the sacred vidi fire. He stood right in front of the trembling bride and her father, the smoke from his cigar wrapping around them like a suffocating shroud.

"Par chinta mat kijiye," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly intimate hum. "Aapki bitiya doli mein baith kar... is barat ke sath zaroor jayegi."

"BABA!" The word broke from Aradhya’s throat—a shattered, sobbing plea. She was still gripping Vikram’s hand with a white-knuckled desperation, her  eyes wide and drowning in tears as she looked at her father’s defeated face.

Ranveer’s smirk didn't waver. He reached out with his gun-hand, using the barrel of the loaded weapon to gently, mockingly tilt Aradhya’s chin upward so she was forced to look into the abyss of his obsidian eyes.

"Rona nahi, Jaan," he whispered, his smirk widening. "Sultan ki begum ke aasu... bahut mehenge padte hain.”

Aradhya stepped forward, her voice trembling but sharp "Tum jaanwar ho! Tumhe kya lagta hai, darr ke mare main tumse shaadi kar lungi?"

"Darr se nahi, Doctor Sahiba... Zidd se. Humein 'Na' sunne ki aadat nahi hai, aur aapko 'Jaan' bakhshne ki aadat hai. Apne baap ki vardi ki laaj rakhiye, aur hamare saath chaliye."

"Tumhare baap ki vardi mein itne sitare nahi hain, jitnee meri goliyaan unki chhati mein hongi."

"Main tumse nafrat karti hoon!"

Ranveer leaned into her ear, his breath cold.

"Nafrat hi kijiye...

" Suna hai, ishq se zyada gehri dushmani ki umar hoti hai. "

LATER .....

( A/N - IS BEECH BAHUT SARA DRAMA HAIII 😁😁 TO USKE LIYE AAP LOGO KO CHAPTER KA WAIT KARNA HOGA )

The sacred fire flickered low, casting dancing, demonic shadows against the walls of the ruined hall. Ranveer stood over the vidi, his red sherwani making him look like he was carved from a block of frozen blood.

With a click of his thumb, he flipped it open. Inside sat the Sindoor—not the traditional orange of Banaras, but a deep, violent crimson.

Ranveer smirked , his voice a low, velvet rasp "Suna hai Banaras ke ghaton par har sham ko aarti hoti hai... par aaj ki sham, Lucknow ke Hamare shadi  ke naam hogi. Kyu Aradhya? Maang bharna shuru karein?"

Aradhya shivered, her breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. She looked at the red blood as if it were poison.

Aradhya voice trembling but defiant "Ye... ye pavitra rasam hai. Aapke haath khoon se range hain... aap mere maatho ko nahi chhu sakte! Mahadev kabhi maaf nahi karenge aapko!"

Ranveer’s expression didn't change. He took a step closer, the gold chains on his wrist clinking like a death knell. He dipped his thumb into the crimson powder.

Ranveer sneered "Mahadev se hisab hum baad mein kar lenge, Jaan. Abhi toh hisab is duniya ka baaki hai. Tumne kaha mere haath khoon se range hain? Bilkul sahi kaha. Aur ye sindoor bhi toh khoon jaisa hi laal hai... tumhare aur mere rishte ke liye sabse behtar rang yahi hai."

He reached out, his hand steady and cold. Aradhya flinched, turning her face away, her rebellious curls shadowed by the darkness.

Aradhya looked away "Main mar jaungi... par aapki biwi kabhi nahi banungi! Mere Baba ne kaha tha ki rakshas sirf kahaniyon mein hote hain... aaj dekh bhi liya."

Ranveer grabbed her chin with his other hand—firmly, possessively—forcing her to look into the obsidian abyss of his eyes. The smirk on his lips vanished, replaced by a terrifying, dark obsession.

He scoffed "Rakshas se darr lagta hai? Toh fir toh tumhe mujhse ishq ho jayega. Kyunki main woh rakshas hoon jo tumhare liye bhagwan se bhi ladd jayega. Aaj ye sindoor tumhare maathe pe nahi... tumhari kismat pe lagega. Aaj ke baad, Aradhya Shukla sirf or sirf Ranveer singh Rana ki hai".

He moved his thumb toward her forehead. Aradhya’s eyes squeezed shut, a single, hot tear rolling down her cheek.

"Ye shaadi nahi hai... ye sauda hai! Aapne mere Baba ki jaan ki keemat lagayi hai!"

Ranveer leaned in, whispering against her ear "Keemat toh har cheez ki hoti hai, Aradhya. Bas tarika alag hota hai. Tumhare Baba ki zindagi ka tohfa... mere is chutki bhar sindoor mein chupa hai. Chaho toh inkar kar do... aur agla pal unki aakhri saans hogi."

Aradhya froze. The sob died in her throat. She looked at her father, pinned down by Isha’s gun, and then back at the him Slowly, painfully, she tilted her head back, offering her forehead like a sacrifice.

Aradhya let out a broken whisper "Aap jeet gaye... par yaad rakhna... aapne sirf ek shareer hasil kiya hai. Meri nafrat aapko kabhi chain se sone nahi degi."

Ranveer’s smirk returned—sharper, more lethal than ever. He pressed his thumb against the center of her forehead, dragging the deep red powder upward into her parting with a slow, deliberate stroke

"Nafrat? Humein toh vahi pasand hai. Mohabbat toh kamzor log karte hain, Aradhya... Hum toh bas kabza karna jaante hain. Mubarak ho... ab tum officially RANVEER AARADHYA SING RANA HO."

_______________❌____________

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello cuties kyaa haal chaal ..hanji to kaisa tha Mera dhamakedaar prolongue Hehhe..I hope aap sabhi logo ko maza aya hoga ...so yess guys....this was it for prolongue..to is book me bahut sara drama hone wala hai 18+ scens bhi honge so PLZZ ..READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Baki to mai hu hi aapka swagat karne ..okkk then stay tuned for chapter 1 .byeeee ..💕💕