𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟏𝟏.Hukum ki maut

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
I

kshita POV

Next morning, my life turned into the biggest joke of the century.

Apparently, Lord of Hell — yes, the hazel-eyed, devastatingly hot, walking-red-flag asshole, Mr. Akdu Mehrotra himself — had forgotten a confidential file in our mansion. A whole goddamn file, like the villain version of Cinderella leaving his glass slipper behind. And guess who was handed the grand, royal, humiliating task of delivering it back to him?

Me. The freshly sold-off princess turned delivery girl.

So there I was, sitting in the car with Aaloo — my ride-or-die bestie, my human emotional support system, my one-woman army of sarcasm. Only this time, she wasn’t just my moral backup, she was literally my baggage. Because if I was sold to the devil, she was packaged in as the “Buy 1 Get 1 Free” offer. Corporate deal at its finest.

And if you think this is where the circus ended — oh no, add one more clown. Vishal. Yes, that Vishal, the man with zero timing and double the uselessness. Honestly, if my life was a soap opera, he was that side character who only appeared to sigh dramatically or get punched in the background.

So now picture this: Three people, two suitcases, one stolen dignity, and a file that apparently carried the fate of empires — all crammed into a car, heading straight into the lion’s den.

Correction.  Heading straight into my new cage.

Because let’s not get all sentimental — this wasn’t a field trip. This was my transportation into enemy territory. My own house had decided to pack me off like fragile cargo, and here I was, the pawn in someone else’s chessboard.

But trust me, if they thought I’d walk into Mehrotra Mansion as their little obedient piece, they’d forgotten one thing. I wasn’t the pawn. I was the wild card.

And now they both were in some serious relationship.
Crazy enough? My best friend tangled with his best friend while I was stuck hating the Lord of Arrogance himself.
Life clearly had a sense of humor.

“Fucking crazy, my foot,” I muttered, slamming the brake as we reached the palace gate. The guards immediately stiffened like their uniforms had just gotten ironed.

“Whom do you want to meet?” one of them dared to ask.

I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, tilted my head, and gave him a slow once-over—top to bottom, like I was assessing a servant who had just spilled chai on a silk carpet.

“Your boss,” I replied, casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Who?” the other one croaked, already sounding nervous.

I arched a brow, leaned on the steering wheel, and smirked.

 “Woah then, how many bosses do you actually have?” i asked them, 

As Because if it’s more than one, then clearly I came to the wrong mansion. I don’t do discount-level empires, sweetheart.

“Cut the crap, ma’am — whom do you want to meet? We can’t let you in without Hukum’s permission.” The guard tried to sound firm; his voice trembled anyway. I lifted one unimpressed brow like it cost me nothing.

“Do you even ask this question when your hukum dies?” I drawled, slow and poisonous. “Na na what do we say this in hindi… yeahh..— hukum ki maut agar is gate se aayi toh tabhi yeh sawal puchoge?” The words landed clean and sharp. For a beat the air went thick; I could see them trying to decide if I was joking or lethal.