𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟏𝟐. Steel

Aaakrsh pov

She stood there, perfectly ridiculous in green — a long dress like a morning daisy dared to breathe inside my halls. Daisy. The word tasted wrong and stuck to my teeth. Why did that stupid, soft word pop into my head?

Her brown eyes flicked across the room, sweeping every shadow like she was measuring me. Every cell in me wanted to move: grab a gun, not ask questions, and spill lead down her throat. The urge was hot, immediate, animal.

She burned my club. Not a joke. Not a message. She burned the place where deals were struck, where men were made and unmade, where my fortunes and my favors lived. My arms — the investments, the inventory, the concessions worth well over a billion — went up in smoke. Special caches gone. Men who trusted my ledger found only ash.

How dare she.

She’ll pay. Not later. Not in words. She’ll pay in ways that leave marks you can read on ledgers and bones.

Mom will be leaving in a short while.. She walked out in a chauffeur’s car, kissed the air and waved like it was any other day. Safe. Insulated. Done. That’s the courtesy I afford my family — distance from my dirty work.

But the girl stayed. Good. Locking her in was simple business. Orders, a dozen men, two doors, one corridor. Containment isn’t loud. It’s paperwork and precision.

I have really given her the perfect name, Fireball. The name fits — pretty spark, reckless flame. She thinks chaos is a style. She thinks scorch marks are a signature. Amateur mistakes. Flames can be beautiful. Flames can be ledger entries. I keep both accounts.

She doesn’t know me. That’s useful.

“Have a comfortable stay,” I said, every syllable measured. No theatrics. No need. My voice did the work. Mom came to me, hugged me and then to her, 

She hugged mom. Sweet sight. A lie. My gaze burns the intentist,, such a false facade girl she is. 

Mom left the mansion, and when she was out, I dragged my attention to the two explorers of the palace.

“She isn’t allowed here,” I told the room. It was not a question.My voice dead cold and serious making both of their eyes widened, 

I stepped back, took out a cigar, lit it slowly. The smoke unspooled like a curtain. I watched it curl upward while my men moved like shadow puppets: a locked wing, a polite guard at the door, the subtle reroute of cameras. Little changes. Big consequences.

“She follows me everywhere,” she announced like a wounded kitten, and I turned to the petite, chubby thing who thought volume equaled courage.

“You were with Vishal yesterday?” I asked. She nodded, eyes flicking away. Charming. Loyal to fools.

“Keep the file in my study,” I said, tossing it to the nearest man like a live grenade and dismissing the papers with a shoulder. Business first. Sentences later.

“You’ll live on my floor,” I told the girl beside her. “You — take the guest suite. Vishal’s got the other one.” The butler nodded and they were shepherded off, like lambs led to a waiting knife. Now it was just me and the fireball.

“What are you doing here? Don’t your legs work?” I asked, slow, amused. My tone was a razor—mocking, bored, dangerous.

She crowed back, voice high and righteous: “Look, my family did a bitchy thing selling me — but you, you’re a moral man, right? You can’t just buy a girl. It’s against the constitution, against law and order.” The lecture came out like she was reciting lines from someone else’s morality play.