𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢

1. 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞

  "Khubsurti na surat me hai
na libas me, nighaein jisse chahe usse haseen kar dein"

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♡ Author's Pov ♡

It was 6 a.m., and the city was waking up to the melodies of chirping birds. Children stirred in their beds as mothers called them for school, while fathers prepared for work. The bustling rhythm of morning life echoed in every corner, but inside the imposing Raizada Haveli, an entirely different energy loomed.

A man, cloaked in a dark aura that radiated power, stirred from his sleep. His movements were deliberate, commanding respect even in solitude. He stretched his arms, his chiseled frame outlined by the soft glow of the dawn breaking through the curtains. Rising from the bed, he moved with purpose to begin his day.

After freshening up, he walked to the private kitchen in his chamber, where he poured himself a glass of warm water. He sipped it slowly, his sharp gaze fixed on nothing in particular, lost in thought. Without delay, he made his way to his gym, another part of his opulent chamber. The clang of weights and the rhythm of his workout filled the silence until a sharp ring interrupted.

Ring… ring… ring…

Grabbing a towel, he wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” he answered, his voice deep and authoritative.

“Sir, the guns and drugs… they’re gone. They’re not on the ships,” came a panicked voice from the other end.

His brows furrowed, a storm brewing in his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘they’re gone’? Who dared to do this?” His voice rose, each word slicing through the line like a blade.

“Sir… it’s her,” the man stammered.

A string of curses left his lips as he ran a hand through his hair, pacing the gym. “Her? That woman! Why is she back? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I only found out now, sir. She’s playing her games again,” the voice replied, trembling.

“Useless,” he snapped, ending the call with a frustrated punch to the red button.

He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. “That woman… she can’t let me have a moment of peace, can she?” he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with both anger and something he couldn’t quite name.
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Arthur’s POV

I made my way downstairs, only to find my family gathered at the dining table, as expected—waiting for me.

I took my seat at the head of the table, the maid promptly serving me my breakfast.

In this household, serving myself was an unspoken impossibility.

My Dadasa cleared his throat, the sound signaling the start of something important.

Ah, I thought, here comes the inevitable Mahabharat.

“Arthur,” his voice, both old and commanding, cut through the stillness of the room.

“Jii, Dadasa,” I nodded, raising an eyebrow, silently questioning what the latest family drama would be.