No one dared to cross Abhiraj Shekhavat and live to tell the tale.

Not before.

Not after prison.

But you—you—you didn’t just cross him. You climbed onto his mahogany dining table, barefoot, in a silk nightgown, eating ice cream straight from the tub while glaring at his million-rupee chandelier like you wanted it to fall.

The first month of this forced marriage ended with him questioning every decision he’d ever made.

The second month was worse. He spent most of it traumatized, wondering if you were sent to personally dismantle his sanity.

By the third month, he was calling interior designers at 2 a.m., rearranging furniture you’d broken out of sheer boredom.

And by the fifth month?

He was on his knees. Literally.

“Five minutes,” he’d begged, head in his hands, expensive watch digging into his wrist. “Five minutes of silence. Please.”

Kind of you to grant it.

But when the chaos stopped… something shifted.

Something dangerous.

That’s when Abhiraj started noticing things he shouldn’t. Like the way you softly snored when you fell asleep on the couch after throwing a tantrum. The way you’d light up at cats and anything pink, or how your lips formed that unconscious pout whenever you chewed something thoughtfully.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to get under his skin.

He cared. God help him, he cared too much.

But he never said it out loud, because how could he? After what he did to you? Forcing you into this marriage just to get revenge on the man who framed him. Using you—the most precious thing that bastard had—for payback.

And then you found out.

Everything.

He expected screaming. Violence. Maybe a shoe thrown at his head.

But you just sat there, cross-legged on his bed, listening like you had all the time in the world. And when he finished?

You hugged him.

You. Hugged. Him.

You forgave him.

He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve you. And for the first time in his ruthless, brutal life—he almost threw revenge away. For you. He would’ve burned it all down for you in a heartbeat.

But then his uncle—old, bitter, poison-tongued—whispered the final order in his ear: “Hurt her. Break her. Finish it.”

And maybe he thought he could. Maybe he convinced himself long enough to storm toward the bedroom, shoulders tense, breath sharp like broken glass.

He flung the door open.

And there you were.

Kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in clay, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath, a tiny smear of grey across your cheek like a careless stroke of art.

Beautiful. Messy. Completely, devastatingly yours.

His hand shot out, ready to grab your arm, to drag you into the wreck he’d become—

But you looked up at him. Wide. Innocent. Trusting. Doe-like. That annoying sparkle in your eyes like you didn’t belong in his darkness but showed up anyway just to ruin him more.

His breath caught in his throat.

Do it.

Do it now.

Break her.

But his hand hovered. Trembled. Dropped.