Her Only Fault

The Devil's Promise

The farmhouse stood far from the chaos of Delhi, hidden behind acres of dense forest. It was a place that reeked of silence and secrets—the perfect cage for a war trophy.

Inside, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of wood and leather. Avyan Singh Rathore sat on the edge of a mahogany desk, his long fingers spinning a crystal glass of whiskey in slow, deliberate circles. The amber liquid shimmered under the dim chandelier light, matching the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Across the room, in a chair secured with thick ropes, lay the girl who was about to become his weapon—Anshita Bedi. Her head lolled to one side, her breathing slow and shallow as the sedative still clung to her veins. A lock of her dark hair fell across her cheek, making her look almost… fragile.

Avyan hated that thought. Fragile. That word didn’t belong in his world.

He rose, his six-foot-two frame moving with predatory calm, and walked toward her. Every step was deliberate, every echo of his boots on the wooden floor a reminder that he controlled the rhythm of her life now.

He crouched in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied her face closely. Up close, she was beautiful—not the plastic glamour he despised, but the kind of beauty that breathed innocence. Wide doe-like eyes (though now closed), soft lips, and skin that had never known darkness.

“Kabir Mehra ki behen…” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice was a low growl, thick with contempt. “Tumhi uski zindagi ho, hai na? Tumhi uska kamzori.”

A cruel smile tugged at his lips as memories crashed in—Ridhi laughing in the Rathore mansion, running through the halls with bangles jingling on her wrists… and then the hospital room, the lifeless shell lying on that bed for a year.

The rage surged like wildfire, scorching through every vein. Avyan’s jaw tightened as he whispered,

“Ek saal… ek saal meri behen coma mein sadi hai. Aur Kabir? Party karta raha, business sambhalta raha, jaise kuch hua hi nahi.”

His voice dropped, soft and deadly:

“Ab woh har din marega… tumhari saans gin ke.”

He leaned closer, his breath grazing her ear as he spoke,

“Tum meri saza ho, Anshita. Tum meri khel ki mohra ho.”

For a second, something flickered in his chest—not pity, not mercy, but something unfamiliar. Her face, so serene even in unconsciousness, made something inside him tighten. He straightened abruptly, running a hand through his hair as if to shake the thought away.

“Avyan Singh Rathore kabhi nahi hilta,” he muttered under his breath. “Aur yeh ladki… sirf badle ka zariya hai.”

His phone buzzed. Shivansh, his elder brother. Avyan answered, his voice cool.

“Ho gaya kaam.”

Shivansh’s tone was grave on the other end. “Avyan… samajh le, yeh khel tujh par bhaari padega. Rathore parivaar ke faisle soch samajh kar hote hain.”

“Yeh faisla dil se hua hai, bhai,” Avyan replied, his jaw set like stone. “Aur is baar… koi mujhe rok nahi sakta.”

He cut the call and glanced back at Anshita. Slowly, deliberately, he walked toward the window, the cold night air brushing his face. Below, his men patrolled the grounds, guns glinting under moonlight. No one would dare touch her here.

He turned back, his eyes dark with a promise that tasted like blood.

“Kabir Mehra… tujh se meri har saans ka hisaab lunga. Teri behen meri qaid hai… aur yeh khel tab tak chalega jab tak tu apni zindagi se haar na maan le.”

Avyan downed the last of his whiskey, the ice clinking like a death knell. The game had begun. And in this game, mercy did not exist.