"You're so damn overprotective! Just because I'm a girl doesn’t mean I’m made of glass!" you snapped, arms crossed defiantly, chin tilted up as you stared into the eyes of the man towering over you — Raghavan Singh.

He didn’t flinch. Six feet of coiled power, his presence alone silenced rooms. His broad chest rose slowly under the weight of his tailored black kurta, the faint scent of burnt tobacco clinging to him like a warning. His hooded eyes, sharp and unreadable, bored into yours. Then he reached out — his rough, calloused hand brushing your hair back gently before resting on your head.

"I don’t protect you because you’re a girl," he said in that gravel-thick voice, the kind born from years of smoking and commanding armies of men. "I protect you because you’re my daughter. And in this world… that means everything."

Silverwood Manufacture wasn’t just a company. It was a kingdom — a front for a ruthless empire built on blood, fear, and absolute control. Politicians shook in his presence. Rivals vanished overnight. Even his most trusted men never looked him directly in the eye for too long. Break his trust? He wouldn’t shout. He wouldn’t argue. He'd chop. Cold, clean, and without hesitation. Then he’d pour himself a drink, let the blood dry on his shoes, and waltz alone to the beat of his enemies’ screams.

Your mother learned that the hard way. She betrayed him once — just once. She disappeared. The man she ran with? Found floating in a canal with no fingers and no name.

And you?

You were the flame in his fortress. An influencer, confident, fearless — the queen of your campus. You had followers, fans, and a long list of boys with hearts in their throats every time you walked by. Until you told them who your father was.

Raghavan Singh.

The name that ended conversations. The name that turned desire into dread.

You wore what you wanted — crop tops, skirts, leather boots. You danced in neon clubs, laughed too loud, lived too freely. And that — that — drove him mad. The world had broken too many women. He wasn’t about to let it touch you.

"Every man is given two sacred gifts," he said, eyes locked on yours, "His wife… and his daughter. And God help the one who dares lay a finger on either."

In that moment, you hated him. And yet, deep down, you understood him. Because being the daughter of the devil… meant you never had to fear hell.