Breaking Point

That evening, Myra sat by the grand window, watching the storm outside. The wind howled against the glass, mirroring the war inside her.

She had heard everything.

The servants whispered. The guards murmured.

Her father and stepmother had been thrown out of Rajgarh with nothing.

Her hands trembled as she clutched her locket. Had Ranvijay done this?

The door creaked open.

She turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat.

Ranvijay.

Standing at the threshold, his presence overwhelming the space.

She clenched her fists, her voice a whisper. "What did you do?"

His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers. "What was necessary."

Tears burned behind her eyes."I don't know what you did to them but remember even if I hate them I'm not like you …"

"Exactly I myself is enough for them and about them they deserved worse you don't have to be like me."

She shook her head, stepping back. "You're a monster."

Ranvijay's lips curled into a knowing smirk, unaffected by her hatred.

He took a slow step toward her.

Her breath hitched.

"I don't care what you think of me, Myra." His voice was deep, deliberate. "This Monster is yours and whoever tried to touch will have to face my wrath."

Her back hit the wall. Her heart raced.

She wanted to escape him.

But deep down, she knew—Ranvijay was a storm she could never outrun.

The air between them crackled with tension.

Myra's back was pressed against the cold wall, her pulse racing as Ranvijay loomed over her. His eyes, dark and unreadable, held her captive.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "You think you own me just because you ruined them?" Her voice trembled with rage, but she refused to let him see the weakness in her.

Ranvijay's lips curled into a smirk, his presence commanding. "No, Myra," he murmured, lifting a hand to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "I owned you the moment I saw you sweetheart."

Her breath caught in her throat.

She wanted to push him away. To fight.

But his closeness was suffocating, his scent—a mix of musk and danger—invading her senses.

He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear as he whispered, "And no one—not even you—can change that."

Myra's chest tightened.

She had spent years in a prison built by her stepmother. And now, she had walked straight into another.

A prison with golden bars. A prison where her captor wasn't cruel with his hands, but with his obsession.

She met his gaze with fire in her own. "You think I'll fall for you?" she challenged.

Ranvijay chuckled darkly, tracing a slow finger down her arm. "No, Myra," he murmured. "I know you will."

She shoved him away, breathless, eyes burning with unshed tears. "You're delusional."

He let her push him, but his smirk never faded. "We'll see."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, his footsteps echoing through the grand halls.

Myra collapsed onto the bed, fists gripping the silk sheets.

Her world had crumbled.

Her Mother was gone.

Her stepmother and father was ruined.

And she was trapped in a marriage with a man who had orchestrated it all.

A man who had known her before she even knew him.

But she hated him. She had to.

Didn't she?

Ranvijay entered his study, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

His grip on the crystal glass was tight.

She still hated him. Of course, she did.

But that was fine.

Love was never instant.

He swirled the whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. His reflection in the glass was sharp, dangerous.

He had waited years for Myra.

Waited as she suffered in silence. Waited as her stepmother locked her away from the world.

Waited for the right moment to steal her away and make her his.

Now, she was here. In his palace. In his life.

And soon—in his arms.

Ranvijay downed the whiskey in one go, the burn doing nothing to ease the fire inside him.

She would fight him. Hate him. Curse him.

And he would let her.

Because in the end, she would be his completely.

And this time, he wouldn't let her go.

---

The Next Morning

Myra sat at the breakfast table, her appetite nonexistent.

Across from her, Ranvijay sat with a newspaper in one hand, his other lazily stirring his coffee. He looked at ease, dressed in a crisp black suit, as if he hadn't ruined her life just hours ago.

The silence was unbearable.

She pushed her plate away and stood up.

"I'm going to my room," she mumbled.

Ranvijay didn't even look up. "No, you're not."

She froze. "Excuse me?"

He finally met her gaze, calm and unreadable. "pretty little lady sit there and listen You're my wife, Myra. You'll act like one."

Her heart pounded. "And what does that mean?"

He leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of coffee before responding, "It means you'll attend the royal gala with me tonight."

Her blood ran cold.

The royal gala. A grand event where nobles, businessmen, and politicians gathered in Rajgarh.

A place where she would be paraded as his wife.

"No." The word left her lips before she could stop it.

Ranvijay raised a brow. "No?"

She crossed her arms. "I won't go."

He set down his coffee with a soft clink, rising to his feet. The air shifted as he closed the distance between them, his tall frame towering over her.

"You will," he said, voice low, dangerously soft. "Or do you want me to drag you there, Myra?"

Her breath hitched.

The look in his eyes told her he would.

This wasn't just a demand.

It was a warning.

And Myra knew one thing—Ranvijay never lost.