The sky outside was soft blue, brushed with streaks of tangerine as dawn unfolded over Delhi. Reewa stood on the balcony of her penthouse, barefoot, her silk robe fluttering gently in the breeze. The city stretched before her—alive, unforgiving, and utterly unaware of the chaos that raged within her chest.
She tightened her fingers around her steaming cup of masala chai, grounding herself with the familiar warmth. Her world, despite the wreckage Rudraksh Singh Rathod had left in his wake, still looked golden in the morning light.
Her lashes were thick with sleep, but her gaze was alert—calm, but not at peace. Last night’s outburst still echoed in the corners of her mind, every word like a match struck against a soaked heart. His nearness had been a storm. His silence afterward, a dagger.
And yet, she didn’t feel broken.
Wounded, yes. Shaken, undeniably. But shattered? No.
Because Reewa Singhal didn’t crumble. She bloomed.
Just like the marigolds in her mother’s temple garden—delicate yet defiant, blooming again and again no matter how many petals the wind stole. So today, she brushed her pain behind a kohl-lined gaze and painted on her signature gloss—the peach-pink that always made her feel like herself. Unapologetically soft, unshakably strong.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. A message from her restaurant manager: Full house tonight, ma’am. Media is requesting a statement. Everyone’s waiting to see you.
Of course they were.
The public didn’t know the private agony behind Dewdrops' poised heiress. They saw grace and charm, not the war she fought to keep her heart from remembering his hands on her waist... his voice growling her name like it belonged to him... his eyes burning like a vow he refused to admit.
She exhaled slowly and texted back. Schedule the press for tomorrow. Tonight, the only thing I’m serving is elegance.
Then she set her cup down and turned toward her wardrobe. The dress she picked shimmered like molten gold. It cinched at her waist, skimmed her curves, and kissed her ankles with every step. If the world insisted on watching, she’d give them a show—one where the queen didn't just rise after war, she glowed.
As she descended the marble staircase, her heels clicking with silent defiance, her mother peeked from the living room. “You look beautiful, beta,” Meera whispered, her voice laced with gentle worry.
Reewa paused. “I know.”
And she meant it. Because today, her beauty wasn’t in her eyes or her smile. It was in the way she carried her heartbreak without letting it dim her light.
Even if Rudraksh Singh Rathod had tried to tear her apart last night, she would never let him see the pieces.
---
The ride to Dewdrops was silent, except for the hum of the city waking up around her. She didn’t check her phone again. Whatever storm Rudraksh was brewing on his end could wait. For once, she wasn’t chasing clarity. Let the silence speak. Let it stew.
She had empires to run.
As she stepped out of the car and into the private entrance of Dewdrops, the staff straightened at attention. Reewa’s presence always commanded a subtle shift in the air—like light filtering through glass, warm yet impossible to look away from.
But today, she didn’t smile.
Not the usual sunshine smile. Not the teasing one that made even the coldest critics melt. She was composed. Regal. The quiet fury of a woman who had felt everything and refused to fall.
The chefs greeted her. The head sommelier handed her the wine list. Her assistant whispered updates. She nodded through it all, her mind locked in a chamber where last night’s words still echoed—
"Don’t pretend you’re not mine, Reewa."
The way he had said it, like a prophecy, not a plea. Like a curse disguised as truth.
And the worst part? A traitorous part of her had believed him.
She reached the private tasting room and closed the door. Alone. Finally.
Her fingers trembled only when no one could see.
There was a knock. Not urgent. Controlled.
Before she could answer, the door opened—and Ira walked in, her expression unreadable.
Of course it had to be her.
Reewa stiffened. “I’m not in the mood for—”
“I know.” Ira held up a coffee. “Which is why I brought your stupid oat milk latte. The one with the cinnamon.”
Reewa hesitated… then took it.
They sat across from each other in silence. Ira didn’t push. She never did. That was the most dangerous part of her—the quiet way she made you unravel without ever asking questions.
Finally, Reewa broke the silence. “He shouldn’t have said those things to me.”
Ira didn’t flinch. “He shouldn’t have felt them, either. But he does.”
Reewa looked down at her cup. “That’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was."
“I never asked him to feel anything,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I never wanted this.” Her voice cracked. Just slightly. Like a mirror holding a hairline fracture—almost invisible, but deadly if pressed again.
Ira leaned forward, her voice low. “Then stop letting it define you.”
Reewa looked up. Her lashes were damp. Her lips parted. But for the first time since last night, she said the truth out loud.
“I think I hate him for making me feel like this.”
Ira nodded. “Good. Use it.”
Reewa blinked. “What?”
“Use it, Reewa. Build with it. Shine with it. Don’t let it break you. Make it burn.”
And in that moment, she remembered who she was.
She wasn’t just Reewa Singhal—the dreamer, the soft girl in heels. She was an empire builder. A flame wrapped in velvet. The woman men like Rudraksh could crave… but never control.
She stood, tall and radiant. “Schedule my Vogue interview for this week. And tell Aman I want the new winter menu tested by Friday. Also—send back Rudraksh Singh Rathod’s flowers.”
Ira blinked. “He sent flowers?”
“Hundreds.”
“To Dewdrops?”
“No. To my home. To my mother.”
Ira choked on her coffee. “Oh. He’s pulling the ‘charm the family’ card now?”
“He can charm God himself. He’s not getting me.”
Reewa walked to the glass window and looked out. The city sparkled below. Her city. Her world.
Let Rudraksh rage in his shadows.
She would bloom in the light.
---
Rudraksh Singh Rathod didn’t lose control.
Not in business. Not in war.
Not even when he held a gun to a traitor’s forehead and watched him beg.
But that morning, as he sat alone in his Udaipur estate’s private lounge, surrounded by untouched breakfast and a phone that hadn’t buzzed all night, he realized something unsettling—
He had lost control.
Of her.
The staff tiptoed around him, unsure of whether he would explode or remain in that terrifying, still silence he reserved for only the worst of betrayals.
A knock.
He didn’t look up. “What?”
Veer stepped in, jaw tight. “The Delhi florist called. Said the flowers for Reewa were returned. All of them.”
Rudraksh didn’t react at first. Then, slowly, his lips curved. Not in amusement. Not in regret.
In something darker.
“She returned them herself?”
“No. Her assistant. Ira’s doing, maybe. Or her brother’s.”
“No,” Rudraksh said. “She’s making a point.”
Veer looked cautious. “Should I stop the rest of the—”
“No.” He stood, tall and menacing, buttoning his black sherwani with deliberate precision. “She wants war? Fine. But she forgets who I am in war.”
Veer didn’t respond. Because he knew.
Rudraksh had burnt cities for less.
And for Reewa—he’d tear down empires.
But the thing that burned most wasn’t her rejection. It wasn’t the flowers. It wasn’t even the fact that she hadn’t responded to a single message.
It was the image of her walking away. From him. After all these years. After everything he’d done to keep her tangled in the web he spun from childhood.
You’ve always been mine, he had said.
And still… she walked.
He picked up his phone. Opened the last message he hadn’t sent.
> You’re not running from me, Reewa. You’re running into yourself. And I’m already there, waiting.
He deleted it.
Instead, he called someone. One of his old guards stationed outside Dewdrops.
“Keep your eyes on her. Not from a distance. I want to know who walks into that restaurant. Who she talks to. Who she smiles at.”
“Sir—”
“And if anyone—any man—touches her, even casually, I want his name. I want his blood type.”
Click.
He tossed the phone aside and stared out at the marble courtyard bathed in morning sun. The palace walls felt suffocating. The echoes of silence too loud.
He didn’t need to chase her.
He needed to remind her.
Who she belonged to.
Who always watched.
Who never let go.
His Reewa could burn bright all she wanted. Bloom all she liked.
But in the end… she was his garden.
And he?
He was the storm it grew beneath.
--------
That evening, Reewa stepped into her Delhi office in a pastel saree, radiant as ever, her smile stitched with defiance. The team buzzed around her like bees to a queen—until a courier arrived.
A single black velvet box.
No note. No sender name.
She opened it slowly.
Inside sat a choker. Midnight-blue sapphire lined with obsidian. Royal. Dangerous. Familiar.
Her breath hitched. Not because of the necklace.
But because she’d worn this design once, as a child.
And back then, only one boy had said it looked like a collar made for his queen.
Her phone buzzed.
> Rudraksh: You look stunning in silk. But I miss the leash underneath.
She stared at the message.
Then closed the box. Not in fear.
But with a fire in her eyes that promised this game…
had only just begun.
---
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