Mumbai –

The ballroom of the Grand Hyatt glittered like a den of predators disguised as the elite. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over men in tailored suits and women dripping in diamonds and desperation. Laughter mixed with the clink of champagne glasses, but the air felt thick — waiting.

The guest of honor was late.

Vikram Khanna.

No one dared start the real party without him.

Three hours later, five sleek black Mercedes rolled to a stop outside. Doors opened in perfect sync. Vikram stepped out, and the night itself seemed to bow.

He was 26, but carried the presence of a man who had already conquered death twice.

Long dark hair tied back loosely, a well-groomed beard framing a sharp jaw. The black suit clung to his broad frame like it was made for sin.

The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a glimpse of hard chest dusted with hair. He walked like a king who knew every man in the room owed him something.

People rushed forward to greet him. He accepted hugs with a lazy smile that never reached his cold eyes.

A group of Arabic belly dancers in shimmering, barely-there costumes swayed toward him like offerings. Vikram’s gaze lingered on their moving hips with open appreciation. One girl approached with a glass of aged whiskey on a tray. He took it without breaking eye contact with the dancers.

Mr. Mehra, the host, sidled up with a greedy smile.

“Vikram bhai… sharaab ya shabab — sab aapke liye hai. Jo chahiye, le lo.”

("Vikram-bhai... liquor or feminine charms—it’s all yours. Take whatever you want.")

Vikram chuckled low, swirling the drink.

“Hmm… sab mast hain. Ek-ek ko chunna mushkil hai. Saari le jaun kya?”

(Hmm... they're all great. It's hard to pick just one. Should I get the all?)

Mr. Mehra laughed loudly. “Arre, aapki toh garmi hi nahi khatam hogi. Saari ladkiyaan milkar bhi aapko satisfy nahi kar paayengi.”

(Mr. Mahra Laughed Loudly: “Oh, your heat just won't end. Even all the girls put together wouldn't be able to satisfy you.”)

Vikram’s lips curved into something dangerous.

“Nice joke. Sab ek saath bhi karein tab bhi nahi hoga.”

(Even if everyone does it together, it still won't happen.)

The older man leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Toh phir… shaadi ke baad biwi pe tik paoge?”

(So then... will you be able to stay faithful to your wife after marriage?)

Vikram’s eyes darkened with amusement.

“Abhi koi plan nahi hai. Jab tak sab kuch bina shaadi ke mil raha hai, toh shaadi kaun karega?”

(There are no plans right now. As long as one gets everything without getting married, who would want to get married?)

Mr. Mehra persisted. “Accha, toh aapko kaisi ladki chahiye?”

(So, what kind of girl are you looking for?)

Vikram took a slow sip, gaze drifting over the crowd.

“Sundar toh ho… lekin body thodi hari-bhari ho. Sab kuch bada. Attitude itna ki duniya us ko ghamandi samjhe. Modern. Bold. Mujhe modern ladkiyan achi lagti hain… bas.”

(She should be beautiful... but with a voluptuous, full-figured body. Everything about her should be big. She should have an attitude that makes the world perceive her as arrogant. Modern. Bold. I just like modern girls... that’s all.)

Mr. Mehra nodded eagerly. “Oo acha… ye hai aapki pasand. Mil jayegi.”

(...This is the one you like. You'll get it.)

Before Vikram could reply, a sharp crack split the air.

A gunshot.

The bullet whistled past Vikram’s shoulder, tearing through fabric and flesh. Blood bloomed dark against his black suit.

Chaos erupted.

Vikram didn’t flinch. His voice cut through the screams like a blade —

“Pakdo uss m@darc***d ko!”

("Grab that motherfucker!")

He started running after the shooter himself, but his most loyal man, Sahib, grabbed his arm.

“Sir, aapka khoon nikal raha hai. Main usko aapke saamne launga… zinda.”

(Sir, you are bleeding. I will bring him before you… alive.)

Vikram’s eyes burned with pure rage.

“Saale ko zinda lekar aana. Warna tumhari bhi maut pakki hai.”

(Bring the bastard back alive. Otherwise, your death is certain too.)

The Mumbai roads were a nightmare of honking cars and pouring rain. The assassin in a black shirt ran like a man who knew death was breathing down his neck. He weaved between vehicles, crashing into bonnets, stumbling, but never stopping.

Sahib chased like a wolf on the hunt — silent, lethal, eyes locked on his prey.

“Pakdo uss kamine ko! Jaldi!”

(Grab that scumbag! Quick!)

Vikram’s men closed in from both sides, trying to corner him.

Thunder cracked overhead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the runner’s terrified face for a split second. He slammed into another car. The owner shouted, “Andha hai kya, sale?!”

("Are you blind, Sale?!”)

Then the skies opened fully. Heavy rain lashed down.

The man kept running.

A wooden plank suddenly flew from the left side of the road and cracked against his legs with brutal force. Dham!

He collapsed hard onto the wet asphalt.

Sahib reached him in seconds. He grabbed a fistful of the man’s wet hair and yanked his head back.

“Vikram sir ne tujhe zinda laane ko bola tha… warna ab tak teri laash sadak pe padi hoti.”

("Vikram Sir, if you had told me to bring you back alive... otherwise your body would have been lying on the road.")

He dragged the man up by his hair and started walking him back toward the waiting cars.

Then — everything went black.

A sudden power cut plunged the entire stretch of road into darkness. Rain hammered down harder. Visibility zero.

The assassin twisted violently, broke free from Sahib’s grip, and vanished into the stormy night.

“Dhundho usko!” Sahib roared, but it was useless. The man had melted into the chaos.

On the other side of the city,

in a cramped, old chawl in Andheri, rain pounded on a tin roof.

A young woman ran into the small angan, arms full of wet clothes.

“Ye bina mausam ki barish… kapde na bhig jaayein!”

("This unseasonal rain... hope the clothes don't get wet!")

“Avantika! Jaldi utha kapde!”

(Avantika! Quickly pick up the clothes!")

her bhabhi Roshni shouted, rushing out with more clothes in her hands.

They hurriedly hung the clothes on the charpai and plastic chairs, trying to save whatever they could.

“Ji ho gaya… ab pali gira dete hain chaaron taraf se, ghar mein paani na aaye.”

(Right, that’s done… now let’s build a small embankment all around so the water doesn’t get into the house.)

A sudden loud knock on the door made both girls freeze.

Roshni’s voice trembled. “Kaun hai?”(Who is it?")

Then a familiar, exhausted voice came from outside.

“Gate khol, maa…”

(Open the door, mother.)

Roshni rushed to open it. Her husband — Avantika’s elder brother Rajeev — stumbled inside, drenched and breathing heavily.

Avantika’s eyes widened. “Maa! Dekho… bade bhaiya ko kya hua hai!”

Their mother, Lajwanti, came running. “Mera beta… kya hua? Roshni, paani pila usko!”

("Mom! Look... what’s happened to elder brother?")

Rajeev took a few sips, then waved them off. “Main theek hoon ab.”

Lajwanti’s voice rose with worry. “Hua kya tha? Itna haaf kyun raha hai tu? Pune gaya tha na kaam se?”

(What happened? Why are you panting so hard? You went to Pune for work, didn't you?)

Before he could answer, Rajeev’s second wife Sonam appeared. “Aji… kya hua hai? Batao na?”

“Sab chup-chaap jaake so jao!” Rajeev shouted suddenly. “Aur mujhe bhi sone do!”

("Everyone go quietly to sleep!" Rajiv shouted suddenly. "And let me sleep too!")

He stormed into his room. Sonam followed silently and locked the door behind them.

Avantika exchanged a worried glance with Roshni before they both retreated to the other small room.

✨Morning.

came cruelly bright and clear, as if the storm had never happened.

The house was buzzing with forced excitement.

Today was Avantika’s wedding day.

She sat on the edge of the bed in a simple red lehenga, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Her hands shook as she clutched the edge of her dupatta.

Lajwanti entered, adjusting her own saree.

“Ye din toh har ladki ko dekhna hota hai, ek na ek din. Dar mat… jis se teri shaadi ho rahi hai, woh heera hai. Heera.”

(Every girl has to face this day sooner or later. Don’t be afraid... the man you’re marrying is a gem. A real gem.)

Avantika stayed silent.

She was going to marry a 40-year-old widower — a rich man her greedy family had chosen to offload their “burden.” Rumors whispered that he had killed his first wife because she was educated and refused to be controlled.

Avantika’s body trembled with fear. Fresh tears fell.

“Mujhe shaadi nahi karni hai…” she whispered brokenly.

The modest chawl in Andheri was unusually alive that morning. Paper lanterns and marigold garlands hung awkwardly from the narrow corridors, trying to hide the peeling paint and damp walls. Rajeev, his younger brother Sanjeev, and their little brother Rajesh had spent the entire night arranging everything — borrowing chairs from neighbors, setting up a small mandap with borrowed fairy lights that flickered weakly, and making sure the pandit had enough flowers and ghee.

Roshni and Sonam — Rajeev’s two wives — moved around the tiny kitchen area in their bright sarees, giggling and whispering about the rich groom who was about to lift the burden off their family. Suman, Sanjeev’s wife, joined them, adjusting her heavy dupatta while laughing softly. “Aaj se hamari Avantika bhi ameer ghar ki bahu ban jayegi. Kitna bada ghar hoga uska!”

Lajwanti, the mother, was busy near the small mandap, nervously chatting with the panditji. “Panditji, kuch missing toh nahi hai na? Mandap mein aur kuch chahiye? Tel, haldi, mangalsutra… sab ready hai?”

The old pandit nodded calmly, flipping through his tattered panchang. “Sab theek hai, beti. Bas ladki ko bhejo. Muhurta time aa raha hai.”

Outside, their father Jagdish stood at the entrance of the chawl, smiling widely and welcoming the few guests who had arrived — mostly relatives and neighbors who had come more for the free food than anything else. “Aaiye, aaiye… baithiye. Chai-pani ho jayega.”

In the only slightly bigger room of the house, Avantika sat on a wooden stool, surrounded by her few close friends from the chawl. They were excitedly doing her makeup with whatever little they had — a small broken mirror, a tin of Lakmé powder, and a stick of kajal.

One of the girls carefully applied a thick, dark stroke of kajal around Avantika’s eyes. The deep black liner made her large, hazel-colored eyes pop dramatically against her fair skin. Another friend dusted cheap powder on her cheeks, trying to give her a glowing look. Finally, they painted her lips with a dark, blood-red lipstick that made her mouth look fuller and almost defiant.

Avantika stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. She looked beautiful — like a traditional bride — but her eyes were empty. The red lipstick trembled slightly as she pressed her lips together to stop herself from crying again.

“Tu kitni sundar lag rahi hai, Avantika!” one friend gushed. “Groom toh dekh kar pagal ho jayega.”

Avantika didn’t reply. She just kept staring at the stranger in the mirror — the girl who was about to be sold off to a 40-year-old widower with a violent past, all so her family could breathe a little easier.

From the other room, Lajwanti’s voice called out, “Avantika! Beta, jaldi aa. Baraat aa rahi hai koi bhi waqt mein!”

Avantika’s hands clenched in her lap. The heavy red lehenga felt like chains. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.

“Mujhe yeh shaadi nahi karni…” she whispered once more, voice barely audible.

But no one was listening.

Outside, the sound of dhol and shehnai grew louder. The baraat was approaching.

The dhol suddenly fell silent. The festive beats died mid-rhythm as if the drums themselves sensed danger.

It was not the baraat.

Three black Ambassador cars screeched to a halt right at the entrance of the makeshift tent outside the chawl. Doors opened with heavy thuds. Vikram Khanna stepped out first, his long hair and thick beard catching the humid breeze. Sahib, his most loyal and dangerous right-hand man, followed closely, eyes scanning every face like a predator.

For a moment, Vikram looked almost playful. He snapped his fingers toward the dhol player. The man, terrified, started beating the drum again. Vikram moved to the rhythm — slow, powerful steps — his long hair swaying with each motion. But the dhol player’s hands shook, and the beats slowly faded into awkward silence.

Rajeev’s face turned ashen the moment he saw Vikram. His legs nearly gave way. He tried to signal with a trembling hand — a weak “hi” — but it was too late.

Vikram’s men grabbed Rajeev before he could run. They dragged him forward and threw him at Vikram’s feet like a sack of grain.

Vikram bent down, grabbed Rajeev by the collar of his cheap sherwani, and delivered a brutal punch to his face. Blood sprayed from Rajeev’s nose.

The entire chawl froze in shock. Relatives and neighbors gasped. Some men tried to step forward to stop the violence.

“Vikram bhai… yeh kya kar rahe ho?” someone pleaded.

Vikram didn’t even glance at them. He punched Rajeev again, harder.

“Saale! Mujhe marne aaya tha? Goli chalayega mere pr ? Socha tha chhod dunga tujhe?”

Rajeev coughed blood, begging desperately.

“Mat maro… chhod do… please mat maro! Mujhe paise ki zarurat thi… bas itna hi tha…”

Inside the room, Lajwanti, Avantika, and the other women could hear every word. Lajwanti’s face paled.

“Avantika, yahin rehna. Bahar mat aana!” she ordered, then ran out.

Avantika and her two friends rushed to the small window, peeking through the faded curtain. Avantika’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered so violently she felt dizzy. The man outside — tall, bearded, long-haired, radiating raw power even while bleeding from a shoulder wound — looked like death itself.

Lajwanti pushed through the small crowd and fell at Vikram’s feet.

“Chhod do mere bete ko… Bhagwan ke liye!”

Vikram looked down at her with cold amusement.

“Bhagwan ke bharose chhodun use? Achha hai… main ise Bhagwan ke paas hi bhej deta hoon.”

Everyone started crying — Rajeev’s wives Roshni and Sonam, Suman, Jagdish, the younger brothers. The entire family was on their knees, pleading.

Vikram pulled out a revolver from the back of his waistband and pressed the cold barrel against Rajeev’s forehead.

Rajeev whimpered like a child.

Then a sharp, desperate voice cut through the chaos from the window.

“Bhaiya!!!”

It was Avantika.

Vikram’s head snapped toward the sound. He couldn’t see her face clearly because of the dupatta and the distance, but he saw her delicate hands gripping the window railing tightly. Those hands were trembling.

He looked back at Rajeev, a dangerous smile spreading on his lips.

“Oho… toh behen ki shaadi hai. Waise… kitni umar hai teri behen ki?”

(Oh, so it's your sister's wedding. By the way... how old is your sister?)

Rajeev’s fear turned into sudden rage. Blood dripped from his mouth as he shouted,

“Harami! Meri behen ke baare mein kuch mat bol!”

Vikram kicked him hard in the stomach. Rajeev curled up in pain.

“Saala… abhi bhi bada bol raha tha ‘chhod do’. Main tujhe chhod dunga… par teri behen ko nhi chhoduga. But hnn c#dunga toh accha se.. ki teri akal thikane jaye.”

(You bastard... just a moment ago, you were mouthing off, saying "let me go." I’ll let *you* go... but I won’t spare your sister. But yeah, I’ll f#ck her good—good enough to knock some sense into you.)

The entire area fell into deadly silence.

Rajeev crawled forward and grabbed Vikram’s feet.

“Mat karo… mujhe maar dalo… mere parivaar ko chhod do… please!”

But Vikram ignored him. He started walking straight toward the room where the women were. His steps were slow, deliberate, like a lion stalking into a cage.

Inside, Avantika’s friends panicked.

“Avantika, chhup ja!” one whispered.

Avantika backed away and hid behind the old wooden almira, her heavy red lehenga rustling. She was shaking violently, tears streaming down her kajal-lined eyes. Silent sobs escaped her lips.

The family’s begging grew louder.

“Nahi… ruk jao… please!”

Vikram laughed — a low, cruel sound.

“Ab toh shaadi se pehle suhaagrat ho jayegi.”

He reached the door and tried to push it open. It was locked from inside.

He knocked once, almost mockingly.

“Darwaza khol, dulhaniya… tere Raja ji aaye hain. Suhaagrat manani hai. Khol darwaza.”

"Open the door, my bride... your king has arrived. We have to celebrate our wedding night. Open the door."

No response.

No response.

Then, with one powerful kick, the flimsy wooden door burst open. Both sides swung wildly.

The girls inside screamed.

Vikram stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a hunter. He grabbed one of Avantika’s terrified friends by the arm.

“Tu hai dulhaniya? Bata… kahan hai meri dulhan?”

The girl, crying, pointed a trembling finger toward the almira.

Vikram’s gaze followed. He could see the edge of a dark red lehenga peeking from behind the wooden cupboard.

All the other girls ran out of the room in panic.

Vikram walked to the door, closed it with a loud thud. The door shut but didn’t lock properly — it remained slightly ajar.

Before he fully closed it, the raw hunger of lust burned unmistakably in his dark eyes.

From inside the now-closed room came Avantika’s broken, terrified screams.

“Maaaaa!!!! Ahhhhhh!!!!

Chhod do mujhe…

Ahhh… ahhh…”

(Maa!!!! Ahhhhhh!!!!

Let me go…

Ahh… Ahh…”

Her soft, painful sobs and choked cries echoed through the thin walls.

Then, in a voice cracking with fear —

“Bhaiya… bachao…”

("Brother... help...")

To be continue ..

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So my loves🌹.

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Show me your felling.. ..

Ye Aryan ke parents ki story h 😭✨maybe at some point you feel bored 😑 but only in beginning ... But you will love the story..🌹❤️