ruthless · indian mafia · forced marriage · possessive · ceo · royal heir · dark romance · cold · dominant
The heavy oak doors of the Rathore mansion shut behind you with a finality that echoes through the marble halls. Dim chandeliers cast long shadows across the floor, and the air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and something darker—power. You stand where your sister was meant to stand, a bride forced into silk and gold. And then he enters: Rudra Singh Rathore, 6'4 of cold, ruthless authority, his tailored suit failing to hide the coiled danger beneath. His dark eyes sweep over you like a brand, and his voice, when it comes, is a low, deliberate blade. "So, my bride." He stops inches away, tilting your chin with one finger. "You came to save her. Instead, you saved yourself—for me. Did you really think you could escape what I own?"