Her Only Fault

First Awakening

A dull throbbing pain pulsed through her temples as consciousness clawed its way back. The smell of damp wood and leather filled her nostrils, mingling with something else—fear. Not hers, but his. Whoever he was.

Anshita Mehra blinked against the dim glow of a chandelier. Her head felt heavy, her body stiffer than steel. She tried to move and realized her wrists were bound to the arms of a chair, her ankles lashed to its legs. Panic gripped her like a vise.

Where am I? What’s happening?

Her breath came in sharp bursts as her gaze darted across the room—rich mahogany furniture, thick curtains shutting out the moonlight, and a single man sitting in an armchair, his face shadowed except for the faint glimmer of cold steel in his eyes.

He rose slowly, the scrape of the chair legs echoing in the suffocating silence. With each step he took toward her, the floor seemed to tremble. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black shirt that clung to a body carved from power—Avyan Singh Rathore looked like the storm parents warned their children about.

Anshita’s voice cracked as the words spilled out, raw and trembling:

“Please… mujhe jaane do. Main… main ne kuch nahi kiya.”

Avyan stopped barely a foot away, his gaze sweeping over her face like a blade. “Sach mein? Tumhe lagta hai mujhe farq padta hai tumne kya kiya ya nahi?”

Tears burned her eyes. She shook her head violently.

He chuckled—low, humorless, the kind that crawled under the skin. Bending forward, he gripped the armrest of her chair, caging her between his arms. His breath fanned her face as he spoke in a voice that dripped poison. His dark eyes searched hers with ruthless intent. “Tum jaanti bhi ho maine tumhe kyu uthwaya?”

Her pulse pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears. “Mujhe nahi pata… main tumhe jaanti bhi nahi hoon… please, mujhe chhod do,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

Avyan’s fingers lifted her chin sharply, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, cold—nothing like the warmth she was begging for.

“Guilt ya innocence se mujhe farq nahi padta, Anshita.” His voice was soft now, almost tender, but it cut deeper than a scream. “Jo meri behen ne saha hai… wahi tum bhi sahogi.”

Her eyes widened in horror, a strangled sob escaping her throat. “Nahi… nahi please! Main kuch nahi kiya! Why are you doing this?”

Avyan’s jaw tightened, his control snapping for a fraction of a second as he spat the words:

“Ek saal se meri behen hospital ke bed par zinda laash bani hai. Ek saal! Kabir Mehra ne socha paisa uske paap dhokar nikal dega. Galat socha.”

He released her chin with a jerk and straightened, his shadow looming over her trembling figure.

“Ab woh har din jeeyega yeh jaante hue… ki uski behen meri qaid hai.”

Anshita squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please… mujhe mat dard do, m bhi tumhari behn ki trh innocent hu.”

Something flickered in Avyan’s eyes—something dangerously close to hesitation—but it vanished as quickly as it came. His hand connected sharply to her cheek left her with a stinging sensation. His lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Innocent? Kabir Mehra ki behen aur innocent? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He leaned close again, his voice dropping to a whisper that made her blood run cold.

“Tumhari saans… ab meri marzi se chalegi. Tumhari duniya… ab meri qaid hai.”

Anshita’s sobs filled the room, but Avyan turned away, his face carved from stone. The sound didn’t move him. Nothing would—except the sight of Kabir Mehra breaking piece by piece.

As Avyan reached for his phone, the glow from the screen lit up his face—cold, merciless, godlike in its wrath. His men stood silently outside, awaiting orders, while the farmhouse walls soaked in the cries of a girl who had just stepped into hell.

The game had begun. And in Avyan Singh Rathore’s world, there was no escape.