Third Person's POV

A woman stood in the middle of her room, the silence around her pressing in, heavy and suffocating. The TV screen glowed as if mocking her. The flashing news burned into her brain.

"King of Udaipur, Dhruv Singh Rathore, welcomes his queen, Aakriti Nanda, into his life as they tie the knot in an intimate yet regal ceremony."

She stared at the screen with a blank look, clutching the remote tightly in her hand. Rereading the news, like somehow the words would rearrange, like it was some sick joke.

The only thought running in her mind was—

Dhruv is married.
To someone else.

"No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "No, no, no—"

She threw the remote angrily at the TV, as the words were like pins on her heart. She didn't stop to breathe. Her hand shot out, knocking the stack of books off the table. The candle, the cellphone, and the glass of water—all went crashing down in a single sweep of her arm.

Her breaths came faster now. Too fast.

She grabbed the cushion from the couch and hurled it. Then another. Then she clawed at one, fingers digging until the fabric ripped, white fluff exploding into the air like feathers in a war zone. She kicked the coffee table—once, twice—until one leg cracked and the whole thing groaned sideways. Papers flew. A candleholder shattered.

She didn't care.

A framed photo of her and Dhruv—taken years ago at some party, when his smile caught her eye. She walked over to it slowly, picked it up with shaking hands, and stared.

That smile was never hers. Not fully. But she had waited. She had hoped. She had believed.

With a sharp cry, she slammed it down against the edge of the shelf, the glass shattering, fragments raining onto her bare feet. She didn't flinch. Not even when a sliver of it cut into her skin.

Drawers were ripped open, and clothes were yanked out and thrown. The air filled with the scent of spilled perfume—sweet, sickening. Her vision blurred with tears and fury.

This wasn't just heartbreak.

It was madness.

And as she stood in the wreckage, hair wild, breath ragged, eyes burning with betrayal, one thought looped over and over in her mind like a curse:

'She stole him from me. She stole him from me. She stole my Dhruv from me.'

Her father entered her room and looked helpless after seeing her shattered self.

"Ananya Beta." He called out softly. Scared to trigger her.

"Why, Papa? Why? Why can't he love me? I love him so much. I have been following him for the past five years. I took a job in the name of learning to be close to him. Why did he not notice me? Why did he marry her? Why her and not me? Why? Why? Why?" Aananya said hysterically.

"Beta, I heard it was an arranged marriage." Her father told her, wishing her to calm down.

The words echoed in the room, but they were nothing compared to the storm swirling inside her.

She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that had nothing to do with humor. "Arranged?" Her voice cracked. "Then why not with me?"

She turned abruptly, eyes wide and wet, staring at her father as if she could find answers there. "Why not marry me? Why did he refuse to even meet me, Dad? But he agreed to marry her without a second thought?"

"Rumors say that he married because his grandfather wanted to get him married to her." Her father said helplessly. He did try to set his daughter up with Dhruv through his grandfather, but Dhruv seemed uninterested.

"Does that mean Dhruv doesn't love her?" She asked, smiling with madness.

"Dhruv was forced. Dhruv was forced. He doesn't love her. He doesn't love her." She said, laughing in between. Her father winced, looking at his daughter's scary side.

"Don't do anything silly. We can't afford to offend them. Especially Dhruv Rathore." He said, warning his daughter. But all that was running in her daughter's mind was how to get Dhruv back. Away from that bitch, Aakriti.

"I will ruin you. Ruin your reputation and even your life. Mark my words, I will destroy your life. Making you question your entire existence." She said in her mind and started laughing hysterically.

"You stole my place," Aanaya whispered, barely audible, breath shallow and broken. "And now... I will steal your peace. Now, Aakriti Nanda, you will pay. A price that you can't afford." She looked at Dhruv's photo and went on a trip down memory lane.

FLASHBACK: Five Years Ago
University of Rajasthan—Annual Youth Business Summit

The auditorium was packed.

The kind of packed where the air shimmered with nervous energy, perfume, and the dry hiss of anticipation. Students, professors, and industry leaders filled the seats, murmuring among themselves about the guest of honor—Dhruv Singh Rathore.

His name alone stirred whispers.

Heir of the Rathore Group. Reclusive. Brilliant. Untouched by scandal. He joined his family business at the age of fifteen, when most boys his age were still figuring out high school. He was just given the reins—without any training. But he took them and moved like a king, quietly but firmly. Under his leadership, the Rathore empire didn't just survive—it flourished, expanded, and silenced skeptics.

He didn't smile in public. Didn't date. Never appeared at social gatherings unless protocol demanded it. No scandals. No gossip. Just success.

To the world, he was a storm behind glass—distant, powerful, and unreadable.

Always a mystery.

Ananya wasn't supposed to be in that room. She was supposed to attend her lecture, but all the classes were asked to come and attend this event. She wasn't even sure what she expected—some lecture about leadership, maybe.

But the moment he walked in, she forgot everything else.

The doors parted, and there he was.

Dhruv Singh Rathore.

Tall. Composed. Wearing a charcoal-grey suit that made every movement look like it belonged in a high-end fashion campaign. His hair was neatly combed, his jaw clean-shaven, and his eyes—sharp, dark, and impossibly indifferent.

He didn't glance around the room like others did. Didn't check who was watching. He walked like the world bent to accommodate him.

And for one naïve, breathless moment, it did.

He took the stage with a calm that silenced even the buzzing microphones. He didn't need to shout. He spoke slowly, deliberately.

"We build legacies not from risk, but from restraint," he began. "Power is not in aggression. It's silence that makes people lean in."

And everyone did.

Especially Ananya.

She didn't blink. She barely breathed. Her heart raced like a hummingbird's wings. She was seated in the back row, clutching her pen, pretending to take notes—but all she wrote was his name in cursive, over and over, like a schoolgirl.

She didn't understand half of what he said.

But she understood him.

The way he didn't try to be likable. The way he didn't care to impress anyone. His cold, exact voice. His narrowed eyes scanned the room, not looking for applause, but for intelligence.

When his gaze swept past her row for a second—just a second—her breath caught.

He saw me, her heart screamed. He saw me.

And that was it.

That's all it took.

One glance, and she was lost.

She followed his entire talk with a smile on her face. When he walked off the stage with a nod and no handshake, no smile, no wave—she loved him more.

So untouchable. So controlled. So unlike the boys who tried too hard, who laughed too loud, who leaned too close.

He didn't need to do anything. He was perfect.

When he exited through the side, her feet moved on their own.

She left her seat, following the crowd just far enough to glimpse him getting into a sleek black car outside the auditorium. His assistant held the door, and he slid in without a backward glance.

Ananya stood behind a pillar, holding her breath, as the car drove off.

Something strange settled in her chest.

Not infatuation. Not exactly.

It was... recognition.

As if something ancient and undeniable had clicked into place.

She didn't tell anyone. How could she?

Who would believe her if she said, I think I saw the man I'm going to love for the rest of my life today? He didn't even see me. But I know.

And she did.

From that day on, she read everything about him. Interviews. Board decisions. Business takeovers. She set a Google Alert on his name. She changed her electives to corporate governance because he had once spoken about boardroom discipline.

She built a quiet little world around a man who didn't know she existed.

But she didn't care.

Because for her, that moment five years ago wasn't just the first time she saw him.

It was the last time she looked at anyone else the same way.

Even after being the heiress of Mehta Industries. She planned to join the Rathore group using all her connections. She just wanted to be close to Dhruv. Even if it just meant watching him from afar.

Picked projects where Dhruv's name appeared on final reviews. Volunteered overtime. Sacrificed weekends. All for a glimpse, a nod, the illusion that her world somehow intersected with his.

And slowly, that devotion twisted.

She began to notice things others didn't.

A tone in his voice when someone disappointed him. The way his fingers tapped on the table when he was impatient. The faint lines near his eyes when he didn't sleep.

She filled notebooks with what she called "observations"—but they read like love letters in code.

Her walls, once lined with quotes and business charts, were now covered with clippings: business articles, leaked interviews, blurry images of board meetings, his rare appearances at economic forums, and even a candid shot someone once posted of him at an airport. She screenshotted and saved everything.

He was everywhere.

But still not with her. 

End of Flashback

The Next Day

Photos are flooding social media—#RathoreWedding, #CoupleGoals, #RoyalLove.

To the world, she looked like the perfect royal bride.

But to Aanaya, every photo was a thorn in her chest.

She stared at the images in silence from her modest apartment, her thumb hovering over her phone screen. All over social media, there was talk about their wedding.

The internet praised her grace. "Ethereal beauty," one caption read. "Born to be a queen." said another.

Dhruv Singh Rathore was like a mystery that everyone wanted to solve. But nobody dared to. He was a private and cold person. His wedding was a joyful and inquisitive event for everyone. The people thought that all they could know was from the news.

But to everyone's surprise, Dhruv Singh Rathore created a social media account the very next day of his wedding, shocking everyone. To make them go completely speechless. He posted a photo with the caption 'my wife.'

In the photo, Aakriti was dressed in crimson silk, with no accessories, glowing in the presence of the sunlight. She was wiping her hair with the towel, looking like a goddess.

Everyone realized that their king had fallen in love except for one.

Ananya Mehta.

A photo was posted by Kabir Singh Rathore with the caption 'Love in the air' that gave everyone diabetes.

Dhruv's hand rested lightly at Aakriti's waist while cooking. Dhruv had his smirk, and Aakriti was blushing. 

She zoomed in.

He wasn't smiling with his eyes.
At least not to her deluded mind.

"You're just playing the part, aren't you, Dhruv?" she murmured. "You're trapped. And I'll save you. I'll free you... from her."

Ananya stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. She crossed to her cluttered desk, where old files, printed emails, and clippings were already gathered—a shrine to obsession masked as concern.

Photos of Aakriti—candid shots from events, screenshots of news articles, and grainy images clearly taken without consent—were pinned like trophies across the corkboard.

She opened her laptop.

"Aakriti Nanda.

Corporate heiress. Scholar. Granddaughter of Cabinet Minister Sanjay Nanda.

Too clean. Too perfect. Too... untouchable.

But everyone had cracks.

You just need to know where to press.

"She's not right for you," she murmured, dragging her fingers across one of the photos, her nail scraping down Aakriti's smiling face. "She doesn't know you, not like I do. She doesn't see you behind the silence."

She opened her laptop again. This time, her fingers were quick and precise. She logged into an anonymous account and began drafting an email.

Subject: Urgent Inquiry—Aakriti Nanda's NGO Funds
Attachment: Nanda_Trusts.png

You might want to look into the Nanda Foundation's offshore accounts in Luxembourg. Some of the donation trails don't add up.
— A Friend of the Truth.

"You buried your skeletons well, Aakriti. But not well enough." She said with a smirk sending the mail to all media houses.

She hovered her finger over Send, a dangerous smile creeping onto her lips.

"They'll start to question you now, Aakriti," she whispered. "Perfect little princess with a perfect little past. Let's see how untouchable you really are."

But even as she hit Send, her eyes flicked back to a picture stuck in the corner of the corkboard—a private shot of Dhruv. Leaning against his black SUV, sunglasses on, phone to his ear. He wasn't smiling. He never smiled.

Except once.

With her.

An entry that could look like illegal offshore movement... if framed properly.

A grin tugged at the edge of her lips.

The memory bloomed unwelcome but addictive.

Three years ago.

She still remembered that day at the charity event at the City Club. How he had brushed past everyone with disinterest but paused when she nervously knocked over a glass of wine. How his fingers had closed around her wrist to steady her. The way he had asked,

"You okay?" He asked not out of obligation, but something else.

He had looked at her, really looked.

"You were different then," she said, her voice trembling.

She slammed the laptop shut, her mind racing.

"Why is she standing so close to you? Why can't it be me?" She stared at Dhruv's photo.

If Dhruv wouldn't remember that connection on his own, she'd make him.

She'd dismantle Aakriti piece by piece—career, reputation, and finally... love.

Because in Ananya's mind, this wasn't revenge.

It was a rescue.

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