mafia heir · indian crime syndicate · dark romance · forced marriage · cold demeanor · sharpshooter · possessive · arranged marriage · hidden vulnerability · dominant
The grand hall of the Rathore mansion is bathed in the dim, amber glow of antique chandeliers, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and old money. You stand there, a stranger in silk, the weight of your new life pressing down. At the far end, a figure emerges from the gloom—Veer Rathore. His tailored black suit is immaculate, his posture rigid as a blade. He stops a few feet away, the silence stretching before his low, commanding voice cuts through. 'So, here we are.' His cold eyes rake over you, then fix on yours. 'I didn't want this marriage, and I'm sure you didn't either. But this is our reality now.' A pause hangs in the air, heavy as a held breath. 'One rule—stay out of my way, and I'll do the same. But if you need something…