They say every man has a line he won’t cross. A limit. A last stop before the fall. I used to believe I had one too... some buried scrap of morality, some invisible wire that’d stop me before it got too far.

Turns out, that was a lie I told myself to sleep better at night. Because the second I saw her name on that file, I should’ve shut it, walked the fuck out, and never looked back. But I didn’t. Because I’m a sick, selfish bastard who doesn’t just like chaos... I thrive in it.

Especially when it’s personal.

And her? Naira Kapoor? She’s not a mark. She’s not just another name. She’s a living, breathing act of defiance, dressed like sin and walking like she owns the fire she was born from.

I stare at her photo again. Not for the first time. And definitely won’t be the last.

Chin up. Eyes locked. Not seductive... commanding. Like the camera owes her something. Like the whole damn world does.

Most women are afraid of how they’ll be seen. She’s afraid of nothing. And that’s what makes her dangerous and irresistible.

I hate women like her. Or maybe I tell myself I do, because it’s safer than admitting the truth: I fucking crave women like her. The sharp ones. The ones who don’t soften their edges for anyone. The ones who’d rather bleed than bend.

Because deep down, I want to see what happens when someone like that breaks. What sound it makes. What it takes.

“You're staring at her picture like you're in love,” the man across from me says, tone amused.

I don’t even look at him. “That’s funny. Considering I don’t believe in that shit.”

He chuckles. Easy. Light. Like this is all just a twisted little game.

But it’s not.

Love isn’t real. It’s just a weapon people use when they want something—your loyalty, your secrets, your goddamn soul. And when they’ve wrung you dry, they toss you aside and call it heartbreak.

I know. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve lived it. Because love isn’t something I was taught. It wasn’t in the air I breathed or the home I grew up in. It’s a foreign language carved into fairy tales for people who don’t know better.

I fold the photo. Slide it back into the file like it means nothing. But I don’t shut the folder. I can’t.

It’s not just her picture. It’s her entire life, dissected and spilled across pages like a post-mortem. Meetings. Photos. Scandals. Rumours. Every fucking step she’s ever taken, mapped like they’re preparing for war.

Because they are. And I’m the weapon.

“Your task is simple,” says the voice from across the table, so smooth, he could sell venom to a snake. So calm for someone asking me to destroy a woman.

“Get close to her. Earn her trust. Make her fall in love.”

I lean forward slightly, the edge of the table pressing into my palms. “And then?”

He smiles. Like the devil offering me a cigarette. “Then you break her. Publicly. Cruelly. Loud enough for the press. Big enough to bury her name in shame.”

I sit back. Let the silence stretch. Let his words bleed into the space between us.

“You’re not hiring me to hurt her,” I say quietly. “You’re asking me to assassinate her identity. To take the one thing she still has left.”

“No,” he corrects, all faux politeness. “We’re just asking you to finish what her own scandal started.”

Her scandal.

They keep saying that like it’s a brand she chose to wear. But no one ever explains what happened. Just whispers it like gospel and leaves the rest to rot in the shadows.

And maybe I should walk away. Maybe that line I thought I had... I should redraw it. But I won’t. Because there’s a part of me, a dark, hungry part, that wants to know her. To touch the flame she’s made of. To test how much heat she can take before she burns.

And maybe, just maybe, I want to know what it’ll feel like… when she turns around and sets me on fire instead.

I glance at the file one last time. Her name, bold at the top: Naira Kapoor.

I should walk away. Ten million on the table. Easiest payday I’ve ever been promised. No blood, no bullets, just one woman’s reputation turned to ash. I've done worse for less. But this... this doesn't feel like a job. It feels like fate dragging me to the edge of a cliff I swore I’d never return to.

I close the file... not because I’m finished, but because I already feel the shift in my gut. Like if I stare at her photo for one more second, I’ll start forgetting why I took this offer in the first place. I’ll start seeing her as a person. As someone with eyes that look back.

And that’s dangerous. That’s how it starts. Because something tells me... when this ends, it won’t be her lying in the ruins. It’ll be me. The man with the match, watching his own hands burn.

I lean back in the chair, the cold leather creaking beneath my weight. White walls. Designer everything. No warmth. No soul. Just another glass cage built by rich men who don’t bleed. Men like the one across from me now... still talking, voice smooth and soulless. Spitting out timelines, PR hits, social media storms. I tune him out.

Because I don’t give a fuck about the headlines. Or the contracts. Or the fake outrage they plan to stir.

I’m not here for her. Not really.

I’m here for him. My mother’s enemy. The man who tore her life apart like it was made of paper and promises.

I was thirteen when I found her collapsed on the floor. Eyes wild. Makeup running down her face in rivers. She kept saying his name like it was a curse and a prayer all at once. “He promised me—he promised—”

Back then, I didn’t understand what that meant. But I do now.

He used her. Loved her, maybe, in whatever twisted way monsters do. Then tossed her aside when her story got messy. Bought silence. Buried everything that didn’t fit his narrative.

And the world forgot. But I didn’t. I never have. Not through the shelters, the dead-end jobs, the sleepless nights hearing her sob when she thought I couldn’t.

I swore on everything I had left... I’d make him pay. Not with courtrooms. Not with lawyers. But with scars.

So I built myself from nothing. Cut deals with the devil. Watched myself disappear in the mirror piece by piece until all that was left was this: a man made of rage and ruin. A man who knows exactly how to ruin someone back.

And now here I am. Sitting across the table from one of his pawns. Another rich man in a tailored suit offering me blood money. Ten million to break someone who’s barely even the enemy.

But that’s the thing about revenge. It doesn’t come clean. It doesn’t come cheap. It comes wrapped in guilt. In people who look nothing like your past but still end up collateral.

And something tells me... this woman, Naira, she’s not just a name in a file.

She’s the fire I’m about to walk into. And I won’t walk out the same.

Maybe I won’t walk out at all.

“When the job’s done,” he says, “you’ll have what you want. Full access to the Raika files. Including what your mother signed. What she was promised. And who betrayed her.”

That’s what cracked it open for me. The moment that name—Raika—spilled from his mouth like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the word that ruined my mother. Like it wasn’t the thing I’d tasted in my mouth every single day since I watched her fall apart in that dim-lit hallway, mascara running, knees buckling, voice gone.

That’s why I’m here. To finish the lie someone else started and buried. To exhume the corpse of a promise long broken and show the world the rot underneath.

Naira Kapoor? She’s just collateral. Unfortunate. Beautiful. Disposable.

Not the target. Not yet.

I lean forward, fingers drumming against the edge of the file, jaw tight enough to crack. “What’s the play?” I ask, voice low. “You want me to bump into her at a party and charm her panties off?”

He smirks. Like he thinks he knows me. Like I’m just another pretty face with a dirty skill set. “You can do better than that,” he says, smug.

I can. That’s the problem.

It’s too easy. Everything about this reeks of precision... choreographed chaos, corporate puppetry, revenge painted with lipstick. And I’m supposed to be the one holding the brush.

But something about her… doesn’t fit. I’ve seen her pictures. Watched the clips. Read every twisted headline he slid across the table. She’s meant to be ruthless, cold, entitled.

But the fire in her eyes? That doesn’t look like someone who’s evil. That looks like someone who’s barely holding herself together. Someone who’s survived too much to shatter easily.

It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care. Guilt is for people with time to feel things. And I carved that softness out of me with a blade years ago.

“I’ll need access,” I say finally, voice flat. “Her calendar. Meetings. Appearances. I don’t do slow. You want her undone? I’ll rip the seams out one by one.”

He grins like I just offered him her soul. “I knew you were the right man for the job.”

No. He didn’t.

Because I’m not the right man. I’m the worst kind. The kind who can smile while you bleed. The kind who’s made a home in rage. The kind who doesn't just burn bridges... he watches people drown from the flames.

And that’s what makes me perfect.

──── ᥫ᭡ ────

I leave without another word. Mumbai’s heat hits me like a slap, heavy and thick, but I don’t blink. I light a cigarette... my first in over a year. I had promised myself I was done with them. Like I promised I was done with revenge.

But some promises are made to be broken. Especially when all you have left are ghosts and memories.

The smoke curls around my face like a noose. I take a drag anyway.

Old habits never die. They just wait, patient, until the darkness gets loud enough again. And tonight, it’s fucking deafening.

I stare at the skyline as if it owes me something. Somewhere out there, she’s living her perfectly curated life... coffee in hand, camera-ready smile, probably planning her next viral campaign. Unaware that I’ve just been paid to dismantle it, thread by thread.

Unaware that if I’m not careful, she might dismantle me first.

I toss the cigarette before it burns down. It tastes like ash and regret. Like every bad decision I’ve ever made, packed into a single pull.

The driver pulls up. I slide into the backseat. He doesn’t ask where to. He knows better.

I don’t want to go anywhere. Not really.

What I want... what I’ve always wanted... is to go back.

Back to when I was thirteen. Back to that night. My mother curled on the floor like a broken thing, sobbing out the name “Raika” like it was some kind of curse carved into her bones.

That name. That legacy.

Old money. New sins.

And now, they want me to destroy Naira Kapoor... because her father ruined their dynasty?

Hypocrites. Fucking hypocrites.

Like they haven’t done worse in boardrooms and bedrooms, behind charity galas and billion-dollar smiles. Like they’re not the same kind of rot... just dressed better.

They don’t care what actually happened in that video. They don’t care if she was framed, if it was edited, coerced, manipulated. Hell, she could’ve been drugged or drowning and they’d still run it on every screen.

Because all they see is an opportunity. A woman whose reputation is already cracked. A legacy begging to be shattered. And that makes her easy. Disposable.

And maybe she’s not innocent. God knows I’ve met enough pretty liars who use their pain like a blade. Maybe she knew what she was doing... maybe she knew he was married to a pregnant woman, maybe she fed on the chaos, welcomed the storm, thought she was untouchable. Maybe she deserved it.

But that look in her eyes—

I can’t get it out of my head. Not defiant. Not dangerous. Startled. Caught off guard. Like prey right before the trap snaps shut.

It didn’t look like guilt. It looked like betrayal.

And I know that look. I’ve worn it. Watched it in the mirror after my mother collapsed and everything I thought I knew about love and loyalty turned to ash.

That video wasn’t proof. It was a trigger. A gut punch. And my instincts... they’ve saved me more than once. When bullets were flying and smiles were lies.

But this job isn’t about instincts. Or truth. Or giving a fuck.

It’s about debt. Revenge. Collecting on blood promises that were never honored. It’s about cracking the bones of men who think they’re gods.

And Naira Kapoor? She just happens to be in the blast radius. Still…

Still there’s this voice in me. Low. Relentless. Telling me she’s already been punished enough. That this isn’t justice... it’s slaughter. That maybe I’m not about to take down a monster, but a girl who got used like my mother did.

I shove it down. Hard. Because hesitation gets you killed in this world. Empathy is a weakness dressed up as virtue.

And I didn’t crawl out of hell just to flinch now.

I grind my teeth, drag a palm down my face. Remind myself who I am. What I’ve become.

I get close. I earn trust. I make her believe I care. Then I rip it all down and leave her with nothing but questions and ruins.

I’ve done worse than this. Much worse. And still... this file feels heavier than it should. Like it’s bleeding in my lap. Like if I touch it too long, I’ll find pieces of myself buried in the wreckage.

That scares me more than I’ll admit. Because I can handle being the villain. But I don’t know if I can survive caring.

Not again.

The car slows as we enter Regent Hill. Pretentious little bubble. Trees lined up like guards. Houses with glass smiles and secrets rotting underneath.

My eyes stay on the road. But my mind? My mind is already standing in front of her. Watching the way her mouth moves when she speaks. Wondering if she has any idea how dangerous it is to look that untouchable.

Naira Kapoor.

The name’s not just a name anymore. It’s a pulse. A rhythm. A gun cocking in the back of my skull, waiting for the trigger.

She doesn’t know me. Not yet. But she will. Because women like her never see it coming. Not the lies. Not the man behind them. Especially not when the man wears the lie better than his own skin.

And me? I’ve worn it for so long, I don’t remember what’s underneath.

The car stops. I glance out at the building, a high-rise looming over the sea like a silent predator. Nothing about it screams luxury, no gold-plated signs or flashy guards. Just stillness. Controlled, clinical silence. The kind that smells like old money and buried sins.

This is where real power lives. Not in boardrooms or news headlines, but behind soundproof glass and locked doors. Where men with clean suits and filth under their fingernails decide whose life gets fed to the wolves next.

I adjust the cuff of my shirt and step out.

Tonight, I meet the man behind the curtain. The one writing checks big enough to turn reputations into rubble. And I’m the match he’s chosen to light the fire.

The elevator ride is silent, too smooth. Forty-second floor. Not a single person in sight. No staff. No guards. Just a camera watching me blink.

When the penthouse door swings open without me knocking, I’m not surprised. Men like him don’t wait... they orchestrate.

“Mr. Raichand,” he says like he’s welcoming a portfolio, not a person. Voice crisp. Accent dipped in entitlement.

I step in, eyes grazing over the interior. Expensive, cold. Floor-to-ceiling glass with the Arabian Sea spilling moonlight like liquid silver. It should be beautiful. Maybe it is. But I’ve never trusted beautiful things.

They rot too easily. They lie too well.

“Drink?” he offers, already reaching for the decanter.

“No, thanks.”

He pours himself one anyway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll need one, soon.”

I say nothing. Let him circle me like a vulture trying to find a soft spot in the bone. “She’s tougher than she looks,” he starts, swirling his drink like the weight of it makes him feel important. “Not what you’d expect from someone raised on scandal and silk.”

I don't take the bait. “I don’t underestimate anyone.”

“Good,” he says, turning to face me now, eyes sharp behind a polished smile. “Because she’s not just a survivor, Mr. Raichand. She adapts. She watches. And she remembers.”

That word. It lands in my chest like a punch I wasn’t braced for.

Remembers.

Just like my mother. Curled up on the cold marble floor, whispering names she never spoke in daylight. Holding onto grief like it was the only thing she still owned.

Memories can be weapons. Sharper than steel. Slower to kill, but crueler.

I wonder what Naira Kapoor remembers.

He studies me now, gaze narrowing just a fraction. “Don’t get too close,” he warns, and this time, the charm drops. His voice is sharp, precise. “She’s not meant to be touched. Just tarnished.”

Touched. What a word.

Like she’s an object. Something to be used, cracked, discarded.

And for a split second… I almost nod. Almost agree. That’s what I came here for, right? To dismantle her. To stain what’s left of her name. To be the final nail in a coffin someone else built for her.

But then I remember that photo again.

Her eyes... wide, glassy, too full of something she didn’t have time to hide. That sadness. That stillness. That look you only get when something inside you breaks, and no one notices.

It messes with me more than I want to admit. Because I’ve seen that expression before... on myself. On the nights I couldn’t sleep. On the nights I shouldn’t have lived.

And suddenly, the file in my hand feels heavier. The plan feels cheaper. And my chest tightens in a way I can’t quite blame on guilt, but it’s damn close.

Still, I bury it.

Because softness gets you killed. Hesitation is just a fancy word for weakness. And I didn’t survive everything I did to start flinching now.

I clench my jaw, shift my stance.

I nod once. Sign the papers. Play the part. Let them think I’m every bit the monster they need me to be. And maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been one for so long, I wouldn’t recognize anything else if it slapped me in the face.

──── ᥫ᭡ ────

By the time I’m back in the car, the sky’s turned darker. Heavier. There’s that hush in the air, the kind that shows up before a storm or right after a funeral.

I scroll through the digital file on my phone, screen glowing cold against my palm. Her photos. Her schedule. Her interviews. A video clip where she’s walking out of some panel event, head high like she’s walking through flames and refusing to flinch.

I’m supposed to be dissecting her. Studying weaknesses. Finding cracks. Instead, I’m memorizing her.

The way her shoulders square up like she’s bracing for a war no one sees. The way her eyes scan a room like she doesn’t trust anyone... not even the silence. There’s this moment, just a second, when she smiles. Not for the camera. Not for the press. For no one in particular. And it’s tired. So damn tired.

And somehow, that ruins me a little.

I close the file before I start getting ideas. Before I start pretending this is anything but business. She’s a means to an end. A piece on the board. And I’m the hand that moves the pieces, not the heart that flinches. She’s the pawn. I’m the knife. And knives don’t feel.

They cut. That’s it.

──── ᥫ᭡ ────

I reach my building and take the stairs to the rooftop, every step bleeding into the next. The city unfolds below me.... wild and unforgiving. I lean over the railing, watching traffic like it’s a bloodstream. Fast. Unapologetic. Messy.

I pull out the lighter. Flick it once. The flame catches with a hiss that sounds too much like a warning. I hold it under the edge of a printout from her file. Her name goes first—Naira Kapoor—curling into black before it vanishes.

It should feel powerful, right? Like control. Like clarity.

Instead, all I feel is this ache I can’t name. Like something old and buried is clawing its way back to the surface. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or that stupid, useless thing people call a conscience.

The paper burns slow. Almost like it’s resisting. Like even fire doesn’t want to hurt her.

The wind catches the ashes before they hit the concrete. Carries them out into the city, into the night, into the unknown.

Good.

No one should see the blood about to spill. Not hers. Not mine.

──── ᥫ᭡ ────

Idk about you guys, but writing from his pov was both fascinating and terrifying because the man is a walking red flag wrapped in trauma and revenge. 😭🙏🏻

I’d love to know your thoughts on this chapter! Did anything stand out to you? What do you think is really going on with Naira’s scandal, and do you trust Veeransh at all?

Don’t forget to vote, comment, and share your thoughts. Your support genuinely means everything to me. 🫶🏻✨