“If I must burn, let it be in the fire I poured gasoline on.”
---
Reewa POV
The golden lehenga clung to her like molten honey, stitched with hand-cut mirrors and anger. It shimmered in the spotlight of the Taj Palace ballroom, but Reewa wasn’t there to dazzle.
She was there to make sure he felt it.
Rudraksh Singh Rathod had sent her six floral arrangements that week—each more extravagant than the last. Roses, orchids, tulips. The last one had a card that simply said:
“For the fire you try to hide.” —R”
She’d set them all on fire.
Literally. Her terrace had the ashes to prove it.
Now, she stood across a sea of silks and champagne, locked in silent war with the one man who knew her too well—and not at all.
He leaned against a marble pillar like a sin dressed in black. Dark bandhgala. No tie. No shame. The shadows caught on his cheekbones and carved him into a myth women wanted to pray to.
But not her.
Not anymore.
He raised his glass toward her. A toast. A challenge.
She tilted her chin. Sipped her champagne. Smiled like she wasn’t plotting his emotional execution.
Ira’s voice whispered in her ear. “He hasn’t looked away from you once.”
Reewa’s laugh was soft, sharp. “He won’t. Not tonight.”
Tonight, she would show him that she didn’t need chains to stay.
And he would finally taste the bitterness of losing the very thing he thought was always his.
-----
The ball was in full swing, but her pulse moved to a different rhythm.
Her heels clicked against the marble like war drums, each step deliberate. Calculated. She moved through the crowd like smoke—soft, untouchable, impossible to hold.
And yet…
The burn of his gaze followed her like a brand.
She felt it when she greeted investors. When she laughed with childhood friends. When she clinked her glass with the daughter of a foreign ambassador.
But especially when she slipped into the corner of the ballroom reserved for Delhi’s elite royalty—where he stood like gravity itself.
She didn’t approach him. She didn’t need to.
He moved first.
“Leaving a trail of broken hearts tonight, Rajkumari?” Rudraksh’s voice curled around her like velvet dipped in danger.
She turned slowly. “Funny. I was about to ask if you’d trademarked your talent for dramatic entrances.”
He smirked. “And you, for dramatic exits?”
A flicker of emotion cracked in her chest. Her last exit—after the rooftop, the almost-kiss, the aftermath—had hurt more than she cared to admit.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she smiled, wicked and sweet. “I didn’t exit, Rudraksh. I evolved.”
His smirk faded. A flicker of something stormier flashed in his eyes. But before he could speak, a familiar voice interrupted.
“Reewa. Your grandfather’s looking for you.”
Veer Singh Rathod. Rudraksh’s cousin. Loyal, reckless, unaware he’d just stepped into a silent war zone.
Reewa tilted her head. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
Veer nodded and stepped away.
The silence between them was no longer empty. It pulsed with memories—poolside touches, rooftop screams, the way his hand had lingered too long on her waist when no one was watching.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked finally.
“Doing what?”
“This.” His gaze dropped to her neckline, where the diamond Rudraksh had given her years ago was not hanging. “Taunting me. Wearing gold like a weapon.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You think this is about you?”
His jaw tightened.
Good.
“It’s not. But if it hurts, maybe you should ask yourself why.”
She walked away before he could answer.
The best part?
She didn’t look back.
Not even when she knew—knew—his hand had curled into a fist behind her.
---
The chandeliers gleamed above like constellations trying to imitate her glow.
Reewa was radiant, but not in the soft way they remembered. Tonight, she was gilded with confidence, cloaked in silence that commanded attention. The room revolved around her—and Rudraksh knew it.
And he hated it.
Because for the first time, she wasn’t revolving around him.
He watched her tilt her head back in laughter with one of the Kapoor twins—Karan, if he remembered right. The fool leaned in a little too close, his hand grazing her lower back.
Reewa didn’t flinch. She smiled, a slow, devastating curve of her lips that was all fire and no warmth.
Rudraksh was on his feet before logic could stop him.
He crossed the ballroom like a storm in a sherwani. Black silk, gold buttons, and eyes that screamed murder.
“Touch her again,” he growled at Karan, low enough that only they could hear, “and you’ll wake up in Dubai without your passport or kneecaps.”
Karan blanched.
Reewa turned, furious. “Rudraksh—”
But he didn’t look at her. He was still staring Karan down.
“Go,” he said.
The Kapoor twin disappeared so fast it was almost comedic.
“Are you out of your mind?” Reewa snapped, grabbing Rudraksh’s arm and dragging him toward a more secluded corner by the bar. “You don’t own me.”
“No,” he said darkly. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll watch someone else pretend they can.”
“Oh, screw you.”
The bartender flinched behind the counter.
Reewa slammed her clutch on the marble. “I am not your wife, your possession, or your problem. You lost the right to interfere in my life the night you pushed me away. Or have you conveniently forgotten?”
He stepped closer. Too close. His cologne wrapped around her like silk and smoke.
“I haven’t forgotten a single second, Reewa. Especially the ones where you looked at me like I was the only man in the world.”
“That’s because I was a fool,” she bit back. “But not anymore.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
She stilled. Damn him.
His eyes dropped to where her fingers trembled slightly around the stem of her wine glass. She clenched her fist, shoved it behind her back.
“Because I’m angry. Not weak.”
He leaned in. His voice was a whisper of sin. “You can be both.”
And before she could reply, he stepped back with a smirk and raised his glass in a mock toast.
“To evolution.”
He walked away before her fury could find words.
And Reewa? She didn’t chase.
But her fingers still trembled long after he disappeared into the crowd.
---
The orchestra shifted into a waltz.
Elegant. Timeless. Mocking.
Reewa stood still by the bar, fingers curling tighter around the stem of her glass. Her heartbeat matched the music’s rhythm—slow, then building, then crashing like a wave against a jagged cliff.
She didn’t know what pissed her off more: Rudraksh’s arrogance, his smirk… or how her body still betrayed her in his presence.
“Ms. Singhal?”
She blinked. One of the Rathod cousins—Veer, maybe—offered a hand, smiling nervously. “May I have this dance?”
Reewa was about to refuse when—
“No,” a voice cut in like velvet over steel.
Rudraksh. Behind her. Again.
“You’ve had your moment,” he told his cousin with a look sharp enough to cut marble. “Now leave."
Veer practically bowed out of existence.
Reewa didn’t turn. “You’ve got some nerve.”
“I warned you once,” he said, low. “I won’t warn you again. Stop parading yourself in front of idiots.”
She whirled around. “You don’t control me!”
“Maybe not,” he said, stepping into her space, hand outstretched. “But you owe me this dance.”
She stared at his hand. Then at the crowd suddenly watching them, hushed whispers swirling like smoke.
Fine.
She slapped her glass on the bar, grabbed his hand, and let him drag her onto the center of the ballroom floor.
The music soared.
And they moved.
Slowly at first—hands in place, steps perfect. But beneath the grace was tension, thick enough to cut.
“You’re doing this to assert control,” she said sweetly. “But it only makes you look desperate.”
“You’re dancing with me,” he murmured back. “Looks like I win either way.”
She smiled. Razor sharp.
Then, without warning, she yanked him closer. Their bodies collided—chest to chest, breath to breath.
“You think you win?” she hissed.
"I don't play games I don’t win," he muttered, voice low enough to make her chest tighten.
Her laugh was soft and scathing. “Then lose beautifully, Rudraksh.”
And then—
She surged forward.
Her hand curled behind his neck, yanking him down in one brutal, blazing move. Their mouths crashed—fire against fire.
There was nothing gentle about it.
It was fury. A challenge. A claim.
Her lips moved against his like she meant to ruin him—biting, breathing, bruising. His hands fisted the back of her blouse, anchoring her as his mouth retaliated with raw hunger. Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled. She kissed like she hated him. He kissed like she belonged to him.
Gasps echoed in the ballroom. Cameras flashed. But they were far, far gone.
He growled into her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you a lesson,” she spat, lips brushing his. “About underestimating me.”
And just like that—
She tore her mouth away. His breath followed her like a storm.
Then—
Slap.
Her palm landed across his cheek with perfect, savage grace.
She smiled—sweet and lethal. “Let that haunt you tonight.”
And she walked away, golden lehenga swirling around her like sunlight laced in rage.
He didn’t chase her.
But God, he would.
Because now she wasn’t just the girl he was obsessed with.
She had become the woman who could bring him to his knees.
---
The second she stepped out of the ballroom, her façade cracked like glass under pressure.
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as her heels clicked furiously down the marbled corridor, past the golden chandeliers, past the stunned guests whispering behind veils of silk and scandal.
Her fingers trembled.
Not from guilt.
From power.
From the burn still lingering on her lips.
What the hell did I just do?
She hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t meant to kiss him. She only wanted to shake him, shame him, show him she wasn’t someone he could bait like a helpless girl trapped in his arena.
But the second she’d touched him—the second her lips crashed into his—it was like something ancient broke free inside her.
Something wicked.
Something that remembered every stolen glance, every unsaid word, every brutal tease that danced between them since they were kids.
She stopped by the private garden door and pushed it open, stepping into the cool night air. Her chest rose and fell as if her body still hadn’t caught up with what her heart had done.
Her fingers reached for her lips.
Still swollen. Still tingling. Still his.
She hated that.
She hated that his scent clung to her skin. That the kiss had tasted like dark cinnamon and war. That she had wanted—for a split second—to stay in his arms.
She sat down on a marble bench under a flowering gulmohar tree, the blooms a wild riot of red above her.
“I kissed him…” she whispered aloud, as if hearing it would make the madness settle.
But it didn’t.
It only made her face burn hotter.
And then I slapped him.
God.
What had she become-
A queen of chaos wrapped in sunshine. A woman who danced with fire, then tried to pretend she wasn’t scorched by it.
And yet—
Even now, in the middle of her spiraling thoughts, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
That stunned look on his face when she walked away?
Priceless.
Her heart thudded, wild and traitorous.
This wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.
---
Rudraksh POV
The silence after her slap was louder than any gunshot he’d ever heard.
Every pair of eyes in the ballroom had turned to him—some scandalized, some gleeful, most in stunned awe—but he only saw her. Storming out in a cloud of lavender silk and fury, like a goddess who had just burned a kingdom and walked away without regret.
She kissed him.
She kissed him.
And then she slapped him.
Not a gentle tap of protest. Not a dramatic, tearful movie scene.
No.
It was punishment.
And a challenge.
And fuck, it was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced.
His jaw still stung, but it was the feel of her that haunted him—how her lips molded to his with that perfect blend of fury and hunger. How her nails dug into his collar when she pulled him down to her level, as if she owned him for those two seconds.
And she did.
Because Rudraksh Singh Rathod—King of the underground, CEO of RRC, crowned devil of Udaipur’s empire—had stood frozen like a damned teenager being kissed for the first time.
He could hear Veer muttering behind him, Ira swearing softly, even Meera Singhal calling someone in a panic.
But none of it registered.
His blood was pounding too loud.
She didn’t kiss him to confess anything. No, Reewa Singhal kissed him to declare war.
And the slap?
That was her signature on the treaty.
He licked the blood from the corner of his lip, eyes narrowing.
There were hundreds of people in that ballroom. Royals. Mafia. Business tycoons. All of them had just seen him lose control because of her.
Reewa Singhal.
The one woman who knew exactly how to make him bleed without using a blade.
And still—even after all that, all he could think of was the spark in her eyes when she’d pulled him close. The heat of her breath. The defiance in her kiss.
She didn’t run from fire.
She was the fire.
And now?
He was going to burn with her.
Or burn for her.
Either way, this game had just taken a lethal turn.
And he wasn’t backing down.
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