Utsav
What the hell is this, Utsav?”
My father's voice—sharp and unforgiving—sliced through the quiet like a bullet. I was seated in the living room, legs crossed on the couch, staring at the television screen where chaos bloomed like wildfire. He stood by the doorway, his fury laced in that one sentence, but his eyes said much more—disappointment, confusion, and beneath it all, a warning.
“I never stopped you from anything,” he continued, pacing before finally settling across from me. He pressed his fingertips to his temple, rubbing in slow frustration. “But this? This isn’t some private spat or gossip column—this is a damn media circus! And it’s everywhere. National channels, online tabloids, Twitter, Instagram… we’re on fire and not in the way Mehrotras should be. We can’t silence a million mouths now.”
I stayed silent. My jaw clenched as the footage looped in front of me—images of me and Maya inside my car. Intimate. Close. Compromising. They had caught the exact moment I was helping her through a panic attack. She had been losing consciousness, and I’d changed her clothes to help her breathe—my shirt on her delicate frame, her bare shoulders peeking through.
That single act—necessary, clinical—was now the headline of every gossip channel, every whisper in every living room in the country. Some bastard had taken those photos from a hidden angle. A long lens. A coward’s weapon.
“I know we can control the media, Dad,” I finally said, cold and calculated, every word dipped in ice. “You taught me that yourself. This isn’t about some reporters. This is about the person who leaked the photos. Someone wanted this.”
My father’s lips curled with displeasure. “Shut up, Utsav. I know exactly how dangerous you are. We both know you can make entire empires crumble without lifting a hand. We could pay off the reporters, silence channels, wipe the internet clean… but this? This isn’t a rumor. These are pictures. Visual evidence. People believe what they see.”
He was right.
Photographs scream louder than facts.
He let out a long exhale, then muttered, “Everyone believes now that you and Maya are dating.”
The rage inside me was a violent storm, but my face remained stoic. Always unreadable. I stood, straightened my shirt, and slid my hands into my pockets with practiced ease. “What do you want me to do?” I asked, my tone calm—too calm.
“Engagement,” he said flatly.
I blinked, once. “Excuse me?”
“Not a real one,” he clarified, without missing a beat. “Just for the public. A lie. Until we shift the narrative and something bigger comes along to erase this mess. You’ve done it before, so don’t act like you’re above playing pretend.”
I walked toward the liquor cabinet and reached for the scotch. The glass met my palm with a satisfying clink as I poured it slowly, deliberately. “This is bullshit,” I muttered, staring at the amber liquid. “We are Mehrotras. There’s nothing we can’t manipulate. We could buy out every damn network, forge a counter-narrative, blame AI deepfakes if needed—hell, kill whoever’s behind this and burn the evidence. We can erase this overnight.”
My father walked toward me, grabbing his own glass as he spoke. “You think like a machine, Utsav. But the damage is psychological. The seed’s already been planted. In the public’s mind, you and Maya are a couple. Even if we erase the story, people will still talk. It’s human nature—they’ll whisper it until it becomes truth. Before that rumor becomes fact, we feed them a stronger lie. Control the direction. Guide the illusion.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t flinch, but my jaw tightened at the gesture.
“And as for the one who did this,” he said, “Leave it to me. I’ll find them. Personally.”
I shrugged off his hand, casually but with weight. “No, Dad. I’ll handle it.” My eyes drifted toward Maya’s closed bedroom door on the upper floor, cold fire flickering behind my gaze. “Whoever it was… whether it was him or her... I’ll find out. And I’ll destroy them.”
He didn’t argue.
He knew better than to try.
He just walked back to the couch and sank into it, scotch in hand, as if nothing had happened. As if we weren’t orchestrating war from a drawing room.
I stood there, staring into the distance, the TV screen now muted. My face was on it. Maya’s too. Frozen in time—like lovers. A complete lie. And yet it had the power to ruin everything.
No. Not ruin. Just twist the game.
Because this wasn’t a game anymore. This was a battlefield.
I set the empty glass down.
The moment that photograph hit the media, I knew one thing for certain: this was no longer about her silly little manipulation or my boredom. This was personal now. Someone tried to use me—to paint my actions as weak, emotional, vulnerable. And that’s not a mistake I let people survive.
Maya Shekhawat… She might’ve been innocent.
Or she might’ve planned it all.
Either way, she was now part of a power play she had no idea how to survive.
And me?
I wasn’t the pawn in this story.
I was the goddamn board.
People called me cold.
Detached.
Emotionless.
They were wrong.
I’m not emotionless—I’m aware. Hyper-aware. My mind calculates faster than any feeling can rise. I see danger before it knocks, betrayal before it smiles.
That’s why I stay distant.
That’s why I don’t fall in love. Because love... it’s the biggest blindfold.
And right now?
Someone’s trying to blindfold me.
So let the games begin. Let them believe in rumors, lies, engagements.
Let them dance.
Because in the end, Utsav Mehrotra always wins.
The room had finally grown quieter—at least on the surface. But I knew better. Silence in the Mehrotra mansion was never peace; it was strategy. A loaded gun waiting to be fired.
I stood there, unmoved, scotch glass still warm from my palm, while the fire blazed across television screens, newspapers, and social media headlines outside these mansion walls.
A moment later, my uncle—who had been watching the entire exchange without uttering a single word—walked over to the sofa and sat down behind me with a quiet sigh. His eyes, aged and calculating, didn't miss anything, especially not opportunities hidden in scandals.
Aadi sat beside him, his posture casual but eyes wary. He had remained quiet during the argument with my father, but he was never truly quiet. He was always listening.
“Bhai…” Aadi finally broke the silence, his tone laced with forced amusement, “why a fake engagement though? I mean, Maya’s not that bad. You could do worse.”
There was an edge to his tone, a quiet defiance that hadn’t been there before.
Before I could respond, my uncle cut in with a slight scoff. “He’s not a fool like you, Aadi,” he said, leaning forward, voice laced with cynicism. “Utsav understands where real power lies—not in love, but in control. Marrying for sentiment is a poor man’s luxury. He should marry a woman who brings leverage, not chaos. Profit, not pleasure.”
Aadi’s jaw clenched visibly, but he didn’t argue. I could see it though—the frustration simmering beneath his skin. The fire in his chest itching to lash back. His silence wasn’t submission. It was restraint.
I sighed, letting the weight of their words settle before brushing them off with icy calm. “Relax, everyone,” I said, voice cool, detached, final. “This is my mess, and I’ll clean it up. You don’t need to involve yourselves. If a fake engagement can control the media storm and shift the narrative like Dad suggested, I don’t have any objections. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I didn’t wait for a response. Their approval didn’t matter. Their opinions were noise. I turned on my heel and walked away, heading to my room with unhurried steps, calm as a blade before the plunge.
But inside, the storm had already begun.
Because someone dared to strike against me—against us. Someone had hidden in the shadows, captured that moment with Maya, and leaked it to the world. It wasn’t random. This wasn’t an accident. It was calculated, deliberate… and personal.
And for that, they would bleed.
The Mehrotra mansion had been a circus lately. Ever since Aadi’s rollercoaster of a wedding had flipped into chaos, everyone had been on edge. And now, this—my scandal, splashed across headlines and whispered through the halls like poison.
Since morning, everyone had been watching me like judges in a courtroom—waiting for my reaction, my breakdown, my surrender. They wouldn't get any of it. Not from me.
I don’t respond to chaos. I eliminate it.
Even Anvi and Aarav had found it amusing. Teasing me as if I were some lovestruck teenager, some fool who’d fallen for a girl and gotten caught in the act. Laughing like it was some romantic comedy.
Lovers?
Rest of my life with her?
Hell no.
They didn’t know me at all.
And Maya?
She was probably dealing with her own version of hell right now. Her friends, no doubt, were either mocking her or giggling behind her back, gossiping about our so-called relationship. The typical circus women love to play—noise, tears, drama, backstabbing. It was all beneath me.
Let the world spin stories. Let the flames burn brighter. I won’t even flinch.
The media couldn’t shake me. The reporters couldn’t break me. I’ve seen far worse in life. Pain is an old companion of mine. Betrayal, blood, lies—I’ve walked through that fire since childhood.
And this?
This was just another ripple.
But if the person behind this thought I wouldn’t react… if they believed for one second that they could provoke me and live to enjoy the fallout, they were deeply mistaken.
Because I am not a man. I am a beast in silence. And beasts don’t bark—they strike.
I may not wear kindness like armor. I may not seek justice like a saint. But when I punish—I make them remember. I make them beg.
They can try to run.
They can hide behind a million faces.
They can vanish into the wind.
But they won’t escape me.
Not even God could stop me when I set my mind to something.
This wasn’t just about revenge.
This was about principle.
Someone touched the one part of my life I don’t allow anyone near—my control. They dared to humiliate me. Expose me. Twist the truth of who I am.
And for that?
There would be no forgiveness.
No mercy.
Only hell.
Let the world believe in the illusion of Utsav Mehrotra, the gentleman in suits and silence. Because the real Utsav? He doesn’t negotiate. He ends stories
“I’m ready,” I said, my voice calm but cold, my eyes trained sharply on the woman sitting across from me.
Maya Shekhawat.
Dressed elegantly yet modestly, she sat between her mother and my family on the ornate cream-colored couch in our drawing room. She looked poised, but only to the blind. To someone like me—someone trained to read faces, postures, breaths—she was visibly tense. Her spine was stiff, too straight to be natural. Her fingers clutched her coffee mug like it was a lifeline. She hadn’t met my eyes once.
Good. She should be scared.
Her father wasn’t here. Apparently out of town for some reason, though I doubted that it was coincidental. Men like him always avoided the storm, sending women forward like peace offerings. Her mother, however—Mrs. Dhriti Shekhawat—was right where she needed to be: seated beside Maya, with a carefully practiced smile and grief-creased eyes.
“We’re ready too, beta,” Mrs. Shekhawat said warmly. Her voice was soft, nurturing, yet stained with the weight of the scandal that brought her here. “The situation is complex, and I’m just glad the Mehrotras are willing to take responsibility. You’re a good son, Utsav. I’m honored to have you as my son-in-law.”
I gave her a small nod—minimal effort, minimal emotion. They didn’t know the truth. None of them did. They believed this engagement was the real beginning of a love story.
What a joke.
This entire setup was a lie, a diversion carefully crafted by the master manipulator himself—Adhiraj Mehrotra, my father.
No one in this room realized this engagement was nothing but a strategic move. A media distraction. A glossy, gift-wrapped illusion to bury the scandal of the leaked photographs and replace it with the image of a noble union.
A manufactured beginning. A scripted performance.
My father knew how to bend public narrative like a seasoned puppeteer. He had built an empire not on medicine or business, but on perception—twisting situations to his will, manipulating people like marionettes on strings. He had the voice of honey and the soul of a predator. Always smiling. Always planning.
But he was no longer the king of this game.
This is Utsav Mehrotra’s world now.
And everyone else? They’re just pawns on my board.
“We are also honored to welcome Maya into our family, Mrs. Shekhawat,” my father said with his usual velvety smile. “She’s a wonderful girl, and my son is lucky to have her.”
He smiled like he meant it. Sweet, elegant, dangerous. It was the kind of smile that could lull a snake to sleep before slicing its throat.
That was the most annoying part of him—he knew that I saw through him, that I knew exactly how this entire act worked. Yet he still kept up his facade, even in front of me. As if playing the role made the lie more real.
“I know the situation is... messy,” Mrs. Shekhawat said, trying to steady her tone. “I don’t know who’s behind this, but my daughter’s dignity—”
My father gently cut her off, ever the master of well-timed interruptions.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said with a sympathetic sigh. “I understand. Maya is a top-class singer, and Utsav is a renowned heart surgeon. Our lives naturally attract attention. Paparazzi are everywhere these days. It was probably just one of them who seized an opportunity and turned it into a scandal. But rest assured, we’ve handled everything. Maya’s dignity is safe. She is like our own daughter now.”
He spoke so sweetly that the words should’ve come with a warning: Too much sugar can burn the soul.
Mrs. Shekhawat seemed comforted, her shoulders relaxing a little. When she’d entered our home earlier, she’d been close to tears, desperate and ashamed. But Maya—my clever little game player—had calmed her mother down with her signature poise. She’d kept it together, at least on the surface. And now here we were, playing house in front of both families, sealing an illusion that no one questioned.
But amidst all this noise, I wasn’t paying attention to the words.
My eyes never left Maya.
She didn’t dare meet my gaze. She hadn’t for the entire hour.
She thought she could hide her fear behind a calm expression.
She thought she could play this game like I wouldn’t notice.
But I saw it all.
I saw her stiff posture, her clenched jaw, the subtle tremor in her fingers, the way her breath hitched every time my father or I spoke about her like she was a delicate item passed between hands.
She was nervous.
And I loved it.
Fear was the most honest emotion. It couldn’t be faked, couldn’t be masked. Her nerves were a delicious reminder that she knew exactly what kind of man she was getting involved with—and that it terrified her.
Good.
She should be terrified.
Because Maya Shekhawat wasn’t stepping into a relationship. She was stepping into a trap. A silent, bloody trap she couldn’t even see the walls of yet.
She was mine now.
Mine to break.
Mine to hurt.
Mine to ruin.
And most importantly—mine to own.
This wasn’t about love.
This wasn’t about redemption.
This was about power. About ownership.
And I didn’t care if the entire world thought this engagement was romantic.
I didn’t care if Maya thought she had the upper hand.
Because I wasn’t playing this game with her.
I was declaring war.
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"Do let me know your thoughts about this chapter in the comments section. If you liked it, please don't forget to vote. Your single vote is enough to give me the courage to keep writing more.
And please, don't judge the characters solely based on the starting chapters. There's so much yet to unfold. Especially Utsav - I know his personality might seem negative at times, but trust me, he's about to go through a powerful journey of transformation.
Let the story breathe a little before forming opinions. Big twists are coming."
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