"Why are you here?" he demanded, voice a low growl, words trembling on the edge of rage. "In my territory. In my empire. What do you want?"
V.S. took a step forward. One deliberate, measured step. The click of her boots echoed through the marble, sharp and intrusive-like a warning.
"You," she said, voice calm, steady, chillingly intimate. "Mr. Raghuvanshi."
Raghav's blood ran hot. Fury ignited, spreading like wildfire under his skin. He took two quick, sharp steps back-not in fear, but in preparation, predator acknowledging prey.
"Don't you dare come near me," he snapped, voice dropping to deadly calm, his hand drifting toward his gun. "I already have the world's prettiest wife. I don't allow anyone else near me."
She didn't step back. Didn't flinch. Instead, the rage in her eyes softened ever so slightly, revealing a different layer-cold, poised, untouchable.
"Maybe," she said quietly, almost casually, almost amused, "I'm prettier than her."
Every word struck him, sharp as a knife. His hand tightened around the gun, knuckles white, calm and lethal fury coiled like a spring in his chest.
"Leave. Now," he warned, voice low, measured, every syllable carrying the weight of lethal intent. "Or I won't think twice before shooting you where you stand."
Her voice softened. Not surrendering. Not frightened. Almost intimate.
"Your wife," she said quietly, her tone eerily calm, "is very lucky."
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