Utsav
"Good," I muttered, my voice low but laced with approval, watching Aditya with a sharp gaze as he stood tall, determination blazing in his eyes.
For once, he wasn't hiding. For once, he was ready to fight for something-someone-that mattered.
He straightened his spine, adjusting the collar of his sherwani like a soldier preparing for war. "Let's go downstairs, bhai. I need to be with Aditi... she needs me now," he said.
I didn't respond immediately. My mind was calculating-running scenarios, weighing consequences. This day was more than just a wedding. It was the beginning of a storm. A power play disguised as a celebration. A test of loyalty. A game of control.
And I was its architect.
Still, I nodded eventually, and together we walked down the grand staircase, our footsteps echoing across the polished marble floors like war drums.
As we descended, my eyes instantly found Aditi. She was curled into herself on the velvet couch in the center of the living hall, surrounded by her friends-Maya, Shravni, Ishanvi-each of them wearing concern like a second skin. Aditi's shoulders trembled with every sob, her world seemingly collapsing before her eyes. Fear does that to people-makes them weak, vulnerable, dependent.
Then Aditya's voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade, slicing straight through the rising tension.
"This marriage is happening."
The command was final. Uncompromising. He had spoken not as a groom, but as a man who had drawn the line.
The girls all turned toward the sound, their heads snapping to the staircase like trained sentinels. I remained behind Aditya, hands tucked in my pockets, calm as ever. Watching. Calculating.
Aditya descended with the precision of a man on a mission. Every step was deliberate, echoing his inner resolve. There wasn't a flicker of hesitation on his face-only the burning fire of someone ready to defy everything for the woman he loved.
When he reached Aditi, he knelt before her-like a king bowing to his queen, not with weakness, but with reverence. I couldn't hear what he said, but it didn't matter. I didn't need to. His posture, his tone, the way her sobs slowed-it was clear. He was calming her. Promising her forever.
She clutched his hands tightly, as if anchoring herself in the middle of a hurricane. And then, the air shifted. Laughter followed. A teasing comment from Shravni, a wink from Aditya. The mood lightened, the tension diluted-at least on the surface.
But I wasn't looking at them.
My eyes were on her.
Maya.
She was staring at me-not Aditya, not the lovers' reunion in front of her-but me.
Her eyes dropped momentarily to my shirt, and I didn't miss the way her lips twitched with mischief. Ah. So she was waiting for a reaction. Wondering if I had noticed the lipstick stain she had so generously left behind earlier.
Of course, I had noticed.
I notice everything.
But did I give her the satisfaction of reacting? No.
Because Maya Shekhawat wasn't just playing a game.
She was playing my game.
She thinks she's clever, coy, unpredictable. A woman who dances with chaos and thinks she can tame it. But what she doesn't realize is this-I am the chaos.
Poor girl.
She thinks she's pulling stunts to get under my skin, trying to rattle the man who rules both the scalpel and the streets. She doesn't understand yet... that I let her think she's in control. That her defiance only fans the fire she's now trapped in.
She can plot, she can tease, she can even try to run-but I will burn through every layer of her resistance.
She's already mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
A few minutes later, they all began walking down the corridor-Aditya leading Aditi and her entourage toward her room, the atmosphere still fragile but lighter.
And just when I thought I could finally retreat into silence for a moment-she appeared.
Natasha.
Of course.
The top fashion designer in Bollywood. A woman worshipped by the media for her sense of style, but in my eyes-just another glam doll in a glittering box. Beautiful, polished, artificial.
A walking headache.
She was the type of woman whose world revolved around cocktail parties, luxury shopping, selfies, and shallow conversations. All glitter, no grit. Always trying to tame or tease men with her rehearsed seduction tactics and hollow charm.
"Hey, Mr. Mehrotra, how are you?" she asked, voice dripping with fake sweetness, her perfectly manicured hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as if she was performing for a camera.
I gave her a curt nod. "Fine," I said flatly, like a gentleman only because it cost me less energy than being rude.
She faltered for a split second, clearly expecting more. My cold response bruised her ego, I could tell-these women are easy to read.
Still, she persisted.
"You're so funny, Mr. Mehrotra," she giggled, trying to sound amused. "Just cold and calculated like a robot."
I didn't laugh. Obviously.
But I could feel it then-the heat of Maya's gaze burning into my side like a laser.
Of course, she was watching.
Watching me... watching us.
I didn't need to look at her to know her expression. Maya Shekhawat didn't wear jealousy lightly. I knew that little brat was fuming, biting down her possessiveness with the kind of fury only a woman scorned could muster.
Natasha, oblivious to the tension she was wading into, reached out and touched my shoulder lightly.
I stepped back. Instinctively.
Not for Maya's sake.
But because I didn't like being touched.
Especially not by strangers I had no patience for.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it-Maya's fingers tightening on Aditi's shoulder. A subtle twitch. A blink-long moment of pure territorial rage.
She wanted to rip Natasha's extensions out and probably snap her neck in half.
But she didn't.
She kept her face neutral, her lips slightly pursed, eyes cold as glass. Good girl. For once, she chose silence over chaos.
They eventually disappeared down the corridor, vanishing into Aditi's room like mist clearing after a storm. Natasha was still talking-about what, I didn't know. And frankly, I didn't care.
When I don't want to hear something, I simply don't hear it.
I turned without a word, without a backward glance, and walked toward my room.
She tried to stop me-I could feel it in the way her footsteps hesitated, her voice raised slightly behind me. But I didn't turn around.
I had no time to be the plaything of some rich brat who thought the world owed her attention just because her father's wallet was heavy.
I wasn't born to entertain little girls with glass dreams.
I was born to shatter them.
As I reached the room, the door creaked softly behind me. The air inside was laced with the faint scent of whiskey-smoky and bitter. I glanced toward the balcony.
Aditya.
He stood there alone, one hand wrapped tightly around a glass of whiskey. His knuckles were white, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the night sky like he was searching for a god who had long stopped listening.
Of course, he was burning.
Burning from the inside-rage, humiliation, the sharp sting of his father's interference. The arrival of uncle had clearly unsettled him, reopened wounds he thought time had buried.
But I didn't go to him.
I didn't need to.
Every man has his own demons to wrestle, his own storms to survive. Some fights aren't meant to be shared. Not even between brothers. And tonight... this was Aditya's war, not mine.
I walked past him without a word.
Entered my room.
I was about to lock the door behind me when a sudden knock interrupted the silence.
"Sir," came Rohit's voice, the assistant who had the unfortunate job of dealing with my moods, "this is Rehaan Mehra... a stylist hired by Aditya sir-to prepare the groom and close family members for the ceremony."
My eyes shifted to the man standing behind him.
Rehaan.
Polished. Polite. Holding a sleek designer bag, probably full of grooming products, cosmetics, and whatever tools men like him considered essential for 'transformation.' His presence screamed luxury-effortlessly manicured and uncomfortably unnecessary.
I let my gaze rest on him for a second longer than needed.
Then said coldly, "I don't need it. I can get ready on my own."
Before either of them could respond, I shut the door in their faces with finality. The thud echoed in the hallway.
"Idiots," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.
I walked over to the side table, poured myself a glass of whiskey, and settled into the chair by the window. One leg crossed over the other, the glass resting between my fingers. I sat in silence, the amber liquid catching the light like fire.
I wasn't here to play dress-up.
I wasn't here to dance in Aadi's wedding or entertain family drama or parade around like some well-dressed trophy for society's amusement.
I was here for a mission.
A mission that began the moment I stepped foot back on Indian soil.
And I don't leave anything incomplete.
Utsav Mehrotra always wins.
It's not just confidence.
It's a mindset-one shaped by years of training, sharpened by betrayal, refined by the hunger for justice... and vengeance.
Let uncle come.
Let the marriage falter.
Let chaos crawl through these walls like smoke from a dying fire.
None of it matters.
Because no one-no one-can stop me from completing what I came here to do.
I don't play games.
I own them.
And everyone else?
Puppets.
Puppets dancing on strings they can't see, while I sit in the shadows pulling each one with precision.
The storm has already started.
The wedding hall shimmered under the weight of chandeliers, golden drapes swaying in silent submission to the gentle breeze of the air conditioners. Everything gleamed-like the facade of peace that families like ours wore so effortlessly.
Aditya sat at the mandap like a king ready for battle, not a groom heading to a new chapter. His cream sherwani clung flawlessly to his sculpted frame, a traditional safa tied with precision. Polished mojaris adorned his feet, and a diamond-studded watch sparkled against his wrist, marking time as if counting down to war. His jaw was tense, shoulders tight-he wasn't just waiting for a bride. He was waiting for what he already knew was coming.
I stood not far, clad in a blood-red sherwani tailored to a militant elegance. My hair slicked back, each strand in place. Every inch of me screamed discipline, detachment, danger. My gaze swept across the hall like a hawk over prey. I wasn't here for sentiment or celebration. I was here to witness the unraveling of everything.
And then, the moment arrived.
Aditi appeared at the top of the stairs, draped in red and gold lehenga, heavily embroidered yet delicate. Her bridal makeup was flawless, but nerves radiated from her like ripples across still water. Her movements were soft, hesitant, yet laced with determination. A bride caught in the storm, yet walking willingly into its eye.
Behind her followed her army of friends.
Maya.
In a red sari that clung to her curves like second skin. Her jewelry was modern-minimalist, bold. Her eyes, however, didn't waver. They were fixed on me.
Always on me.
She held one side of Aditi's lehenga, but her body was drawn to mine, every step echoing defiance. Maya wasn't a woman made for the background. She was thunder hidden in silk, a wildfire in a glass bottle. Her gaze held no restraint.
To Aditi's other side, Ishanvi walked in a golden sari that shimmered like molten sunlight. Diamonds laced the fabric, catching light with every movement. She looked like royalty reborn. And then there was Shravni, standing apart yet together, in a simple black sari-old, timeless, commanding. Class that needed no embellishment.
These women weren't accessories to a bride. They were storms walking in silence.
The women guided Aditi to the mandap. She sat beside Aditya, hands trembling, but he clasped them firmly. A silent promise that he was there. That he wouldn't let her stand alone.
And then it happened.
Rohit rushed to Aditya, whispered something into his ear.
Aditya's expression shifted. His jaw locked, shoulders stiffened, and his grip on Aditi's hand tightened. He didn't look up. Didn't speak. Just turned to the pandit.
"Start the rituals," he said.
I knew what Rohit had said. I didn't need to hear it.
He's here.
And right on cue, the doors swung open.
Footsteps echoed through the hall like gunfire in a cathedral.
He appeared.
Rajveer Mehrotra.
Fifty. Still tall, commanding, untouchable. Salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. A three-piece suit in charcoal grey that fit him like a second skin. His eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned the crowd like a predator.
And behind him? Guards. Always.
"Stop this wedding. Now."
His voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It echoed. Pierced.
Every woman flinched. Aditi froze, her friends looking between each other in stunned fear. No one moved. Even the pandit shrank slightly.
Aditya didn't move.
He sat like a statue, spine straight, gaze ahead, holding Aditi's hand like a tether.
"I said STOP. THIS. WEDDING," Rajveer repeated, each word precise, dangerous. His tone was composed, but everyone in the hall could hear the threat.
Aditya refused to look at him.
And then, his gaze turned to me.
I stood in the corner, arms crossed, the faintest smirk playing on my lips. I had been waiting for this.
"You knew?" Rajveer asked, disbelief painting his voice. "You knew and said nothing?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
"Utsav," he growled now, eyes burning. "Stop this wedding before I shoot Aditya right now. Or this mindless girl."
A collective gasp swept through the hall.
Aditi looked at Aditya in panic. The girls reached for her instinctively.
And me?
I watched.
Still. Silent. Observing.
Because I knew what would come next.
Aditya stood.
Fury burned in his eyes like wildfire set loose.
"SHUT UP!" he roared, his voice reverberating off the walls.
Every eye widened.
Even Rajveer blinked.
"This wedding is happening, Dad. Whether you like it or not."
He didn't wait for approval. Didn't back down. Aditya Mehrotra, the son who never once dared to raise his voice before his father, stood today as a man forged in rebellion.
And finally... he reminded me of me.
Because today, Aditya didn't just challenge his father. He declared war.
And I? I simply watched.
Because this moment-this very moment-was the ignition.
The strings I had been weaving for months had finally begun to pull. The dominoes had started falling.
People often mistake silence for weakness.
But I had never been silent.
I had been calculating.
Every second. Every move. Every breath.
Rajveer Mehrotra may have ruled for decades with fear.
But fear is temporary.
Power shifts. Always.
And I don't play games.
I own them.
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