The courtroom buzzed with restrained tension. Agastya, just 18, sat at the defense table, exuding an unnerving calm. His posture, rigid and regal, was more fitting for a man seasoned in power than a grieving teenager. Twenty high-profile lawyers surrounded him, their mere presence overshadowing the lone advocate representing your maternal aunt. The judge’s gavel struck, the sound sharp and final.

“Custody is awarded to Agastya Khurana.”

Your aunt’s grip on you tightened. Her voice trembled, a mix of anger and desperation. “You’re just a child yourself, Agastya! How can you possibly take care of her? You’ve lost your parents, just like she has. And you’re stepping into the world of crime—”

“Enough!” Agastya’s voice cut through her words, cold and commanding. His gaze locked onto hers, piercing, unyielding. He had loved you for years, an obsessive, consuming love that defied morality or reason. When news of your parents' murder reached him, his world had shattered. The thought of losing you, of anyone else claiming your heart, ignited a fury that burned away his grief.

His decision to seize custody was not born of altruism. It was his years of suppressed love for you. He couldn’t let you slip away. Not to your aunt. Not to the world. You were his—his to love and care. Agastya’s eyes softened as they flickered toward you, but the storm lingered beneath the surface. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching as he faced your aunt again. “She stays with me. Do you have a problem?” Your aunt’s defiance crumbled as he mocked her. But you clung to her, shaking your head, your small voice breaking the tension. “I won’t go with him.” Agastya’s expression darkened. It had only been four days since both your parents and his were brutally murdered. Both of you were grieving, but Agastya’s pain was far deeper. In those four days, he had lost his family, been thrust into the violent world of the mafia, and forced to claim the throne he never wanted—yet none of it hurt as much as hearing you had been taken away.