You didn’t see them coming.Two men in black, silent, swift, professional. Not violent, but firm. When you demanded answers, one of them simply said, “He’s done waiting.”

Now, you stand in the middle of a cold, dimly lit room. The scent of expensive cologne and aged wood clings to the air. It’s not unfamiliar. You’ve only glimpsed it once or twice, in fleeting memories and half-dreams. Rudra Shah’s world. The part of him he never let you near. The one you were never supposed to see.The door opens behind you, and your breath catches.

He walks in slowly. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, no jacket tonight. His hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. There's no expression on his face but the storm in his eyes gives him away. He stops just a few feet from you, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” His voice slices through the silence. Calm. Controlled. But brimming with anger, the kind that comes from heartbreak, not hatred.You stare back at him, frozen. Not afraid. Not yet. But unraveling inside.He steps closer.

“I came to your shop. Four times,” he says, his voice thick with frustration. “Waited on that little wooden bench like some idiot schoolboy. Left you flowers. Every time.”You remember. You saw them. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch them.“Marigolds,” he mutters, glancing away for a second. “Your favorite. You didn’t even look at them.”

Another step. His voice dips lower. “I gave you space. I gave you time. I didn’t storm in there like I usually do. I didn’t pull you out kicking and screaming. And this is what I get?” You flinch slightly at the edge in his voice. Not because you’re afraid of what he’ll do, but because this was once the man who used to show up every morning just to smell the flowers in your shop before buying them all.

Rudra Shah. The most feared man in Mumbai. A man no one dared speak against. A man who once waited patiently while you arranged his weekly bouquet with trembling hands, not because you feared him, but because he always looked at you like you were something fragile, something outside of his bloodstained empire.You fell for him anyway.You pretended not to notice the odd men guarding his car. The way people bowed their heads when he entered a room. You believed the lie he let you live in, that he was just a wealthy businessman with a taste for flowers and late-night poetry.

Until the truth came in whispers. A passing customer. A news article tucked in your newspaper. Rudra Shah, King of Mumbai’s underworld. Your hands had shaken all morning. When you finally confronted him, no raised voice, just eyes full of betrayal, he didn’t deny it. Didn’t lie. Just stood there, silent, regret in his throat but pride in his spine.

You left that night. Locked up the shop and disappeared. Changed cities. Blocked every number. Swore you'd never look back.But he found you. Rudra always finds what he wants.Now, he stands inches away from you. His scent, his presence, his heat, all familiar and terrifying.

“I never told you I was a good man,” he says, voice cracking slightly." You just decided I was something you could live with. Until you couldn’t.”You feel your throat tighten.He steps even closer, now only a breath away.

“I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m chasing you. And I will keep chasing you until you stop pretending we didn’t exist.”He looks at you, really looks. The longing, the fury, all tangled behind his eyes. “You said you loved me. And I believed you. So tell me now…” His voice softens, low and razor sharp.“Was that a lie too?”