𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟐𝟑. Ullu ka patha

･:*࿔.ೃ⋆❀˚༺☆༻°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Ikshita's Pov

I looked at him — Mr. High-and-Mighty Mehrotra — who was currently playing chauffeur, driving me through every random local shop like it was his royal duty to "escort" me. And as if that wasn't enough, he had just declared — in that calm, authoritative tone of his — that he would be paying every single bill.

Oh, how generous.

My blood boiled.
Why are Indian men such misogynists in disguise?
They see an independent woman and instantly assume she needs saving — as if their wallet is some kind of holy grail.
Newsflash, boys: a woman who can buy her own lipstick doesn't need your savior complex.

Dumbasses.

I crossed my arms, glaring out of the window like it had personally wronged me. But then... my overthinking brain decided to play traitor.

Wait.
Why exactly was I getting mad about him paying?

Wasn't he the one who kept using that arrogant little line — "You're mine, Daisy."
If he wants to play the part, then fine.

I leaned back in the seat with a tiny smirk tugging at my lips.
Technically speaking, he's the one who "bought" me, right?
So, let the King of Aakareya pay.
Let him burn his credit cards to ashes — I'll make sure every swipe stings.

So technically, all my maintenance expenses should be on him, right?
Like... basic logic.
If Mr. "You're Mine" has claimed ownership, then he better handle the premium package.

And with that realization came a wicked little spark in my brain — I could totally use this to my advantage.
Swipe that card, baby.
Go out of my budget, my boundaries, and maybe even his patience.

Yes!
Hell, yes!

But then — this man.
This foolish, infuriating, smug creature of a man who genuinely believes he's the smartest brain cell in the universe.
The same man who made me panic yesterday, then drive me insane this morning, and somewhere between his arrogance and my attitude... his lips found mine.

Not once.
Not twice.
Not even thrice.

Honestly, I've lost count.

And in my defense — I repeat, in my defense — that man manipulated me into it.
Completely.
Psychologically.
Strategically.
Emotionally.

He used that sinful smirk, those damn green eyes, and that voice that sounds like it was trained to ruin peace treaties — and the next thing I knew, I was kissing my nemesis like my survival depended on it.

I wanted him in my control — not for petty revenge, but because power tasted sweeter when it was personal. If I could bend this man, Aakarsh Mehrotra, to my will, I could bend anything. I could open doors, pull strings, make entire rooms tilt. I pictured it sometimes, wicked and precise: me, two steps ahead, smiling while the city danced to my tune.

I told myself I'd toy him out, break him at the edges, then use whatever remained to climb higher. No soft hands, no pretty promises — just tactics, tricks, and a thousand little humiliations served with a smile. And if he ever crossed the line, I swore I'd punch him—hard—right where it hurts. Dramatic? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

I was rehearsing the whole plan in my head, mapping out contingencies, when his hand slid onto my lap. A quick, possessive grip — fingers firm on my thigh. For a second my training wobbled: he had that look, the one that always promised trouble and made it sound delicious. He's—what do we say in Hindi