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She was a siren draped in silk—her touch both ruin and salvation. He drowned willingly, craving the depths only she could pull him into
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Annahita exhaled, the sound shaky, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She wasn't trembling—no, she was burning. A strange heat coiled within her, a mix of exhilaration and something far more dangerous. The scent of gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the fading echoes of the man's screams.
The hall remained still, suffocating under the weight of what had just transpired. The courtiers, the guards, the advisors—all stood frozen, their eyes locked onto the fallen man, onto the woman who had pulled the trigger, onto the king who had made her do it.
Adhiraj's grip finally loosened, his fingers brushing against hers one last time before he stepped away. He turned toward the man, who now writhed on the floor, clutching his bleeding leg, his defiance reduced to pitiful gasps of pain.
"Ab samjha?" Adhiraj's voice was calm, almost gentle, as if speaking to a child. "Teri soch ka naatak yahaan nahi chalega. Aurat kamzor nahi hoti. Aur jo unhe dabane ki koshish karta hai, uski yahi haalat hoti hai." (Now do you understand? Your twisted beliefs won't work here. A woman is not weak. And those who try to suppress them end up like this.)
The man whimpered, his forehead pressing against the cold floor once more—not in arrogance this time, but in surrender.
"Sarkaar..." his voice cracked, his pride shattered. "Rehem..." (My Lord... mercy...)
Adhiraj tilted his head, considering the plea. Then, with an ease that made the moment all the more terrifying, he flicked his gaze toward one of his guards.
"Isse baahar pheko." His words were clipped, final. "Zinda chhor rahe hain hum tujhe, taaki sab dekhein ki jo aurat ko kamzor samjhta hai, uski zindagi sirf dukh aur sharmindagi hoti hai." (Throw him out. I'm letting him live so that everyone sees—those who think women are weak will only find misery and shame.)
