His Childish Bride

58//💕The Masterstroke

~Ch.59 is published on Stck

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The black Rolls-Royce Phantom glides through the dimly lit streets, its polished exterior reflecting the flickering glow of passing streetlights. The city outside is alive, humming with the distant honks of impatient drivers, the occasional siren wailing in the night. But inside the car, silence reigns.

Adwait sits in the back seat, his posture relaxed yet exuding a quiet intensity. His fingers tap rhythmically against his knee, the only sign of the storm brewing within him. He keeps his gaze fixed outside, though his mind is far from the neon signs and towering buildings. It is trapped in a memory, one that has haunted him for years.

Debanjon Chowdhury.

The name alone ignites something dark inside him, a fury that has been simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to be unleashed. His father got murder, his mother and twin sister ripped from his grasp, vanishing into the abyss of Debanjon's cruelty.

For years, Adwait had survived in the shadows, clawing his way up, building himself into a man capable of dismantling anyone who tried to hold him back. He had honed his mind into a weapon sharper than any blade, gathered power and surrounded himself with men who would follow him into war. Now, after all these years, the time has finally come. The time to unleash the demon inside his cheerful facade.

"We are here, Mr. Singhania." Basheer says, clearing his throat.

Adwait opens his eyes. The storm raging inside him settles but the fury remains. He steps out of the car, his polished black shoes touching the pavement as his gaze lifts to the towering building in front of him. The Chowdhury mansion, of the man who destroyed his life. Tonight, the past bleeds into the present and Debanjon Chowdhury will learn that no sin goes unpunished.

Basheer rings the bell and the grand double doors swing open revealing a middle aged servant bows slightly. He has been already informed about the guests so he simply leads them inside.

Adwait follows, his gaze sweeping the mansion's interior. The air smells of aged wood and expensive cigars, the grandeur almost suffocating. Portraits of ancestors line the hallways, their painted eyes watching him like silent sentinels. But Adwait doesn't falter. His footsteps are measured, confident, as if he belongs here- as if he already owns it. By the time he enters the lavish dining hall, three men are already seated.

Pradeep Chowdhury sits to Debanjon's right, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly at Adwait's arrival. There is something about the young man that unsettles him, a vague familiarity he can't quite place. On the other hand, Indrajit sits further down, swirling his wine glass with a neutral expression. Only he knows the storm brewing beneath Adwait's calm exterior.

And at the head of the table, in a chair that screams dominance, sits Debanjon Chowdhury. The man exudes power, his presence filling the room effortlessly. Dressed in an elegant navy-blue suit, he looks every bit the king of his empire. He offers Adwait a slow, knowing smirk.

"You are punctual, Mr. Singhania. I appreciate that." Debanjon remarks.

"Time is a valuable thing, Mr. Chowdhury. I never waste it." Adwait retors while Debanjon gestures to the empty chair across from him.

"Then let's not waste any more of it. Sit." Debanjon says looking at the young man.

Adwait sits, unbuttoning his coat as he settles into the chair. His posture is relaxed but his senses are razor-sharp, reading every flicker of expression, every subtle shift in body language.