𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟓. Sold to me

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ikshita pov

"You've been given much, so maybe you'd know," I said, tilting my head, the corners of my lips curving into a sly smile.

He took a slow, deliberate puff of smoke, exhaling it lazily in my direction, letting the haze curl around my face. I inhaled, unbothered, letting my eyes flick to his, unflinching.

"Not yet," he murmured, low, teasing, voice soft but sharp. "Met yours today, na?"

I raised a brow, dry as sandpaper. "Bad flirt. Try someone else," I replied, sipping my drink, letting the faintest smirk linger.

He laughed—short, almost musical, but carrying weight. Loud enough to turn heads, calm enough to make the crowd melt into irrelevance around him.

"Why should I," he said slowly, savoring each word, "when I already have one who's... sold to me?"

The words hit me like a thunderclap. Goosebumps erupted along my arms, the back of my neck prickling, every nerve screaming awake. My glass nearly slipped from my hand, but I caught it, stunned.

I repeated the words in my mind, over and over, like a dark, hypnotic rhythm:

Why...
should...
I...
when...
I...
already...
have...
one...
who's...
sold...
to... me?

It sank in. Slowly. Horribly.

That means—

That means my father... my own father... sold me to him in return for a deal.

No. No. No. No. No.

I am a princess. I am Ikshita Singhania. This... this cannot happen.

I took a breath, but it stuck in my chest. My pulse roared in my ears, a deafening drum of shock, fury, and disbelief.

And then... the impossible, terrifying question clawed its way up from the pit of my stomach:

Is he...?
Is he... Aakarsh The Mehrotra?

The name echoed in my mind, each syllable a pulse, a shockwave, a warning. My carefully measured world—my defiance, my strength, my life—shifted violently, irreversibly.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling the smoke, eyes watching me like a predator testing a storm. Calm. Collected. Terrifyingly in control.

And all I could do was stand there, frozen, a tempest of emotions spinning, my mind trying to process the impossible:

Sold. To him.
By my father.
By my family.

"Yes... I'm a fireball," he said, and I caught the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. My gaze flicked away, trying to appear nonchalant, though the smoke curling around my face made it impossible to ignore him.

"What?" I asked, voice flat, trying to sound casual—but my pulse betrayed me, thudding hard against my ribs.

He leaned closer, just enough that I could feel the chill of his presence. "I'm Aakarsh Singh Mehrotra," he said, each syllable cold as ice, precise, deliberate. His eyes traced me, slow, calculating, roaming my dress, my posture, then snapping back to lock with mine like a predator claiming its prey.

"The Mehrotra king," he continued, voice smooth but sharp, "the one your Singhanias signed a deal with." He paused, letting the words sink in, letting the smoke linger between us like a barrier and a warning all at once. "And you know what's the funnier thing?"