Her Only Fault

The call

The Mehra mansion stood like a fortress in the heart of Delhi—gleaming marble floors, grand chandeliers, and the scent of power lingering in the air. Inside, Kabir Mehra paced the length of his study, phone pressed to his ear, his frustration mounting with every unanswered call.

“Anshita… pick up the damn phone,” he muttered, raking a hand through his perfectly styled hair. His jaw tightened as the line went dead yet again.

He had spoken to her barely ten minutes ago. She was leaving college, cheerful as always, promising she’d be home for dinner. Then silence. No texts. No calls. Not even a single tick on w******p.

Something wasn’t right.

Kabir’s gut twisted, the same instinct that had saved him in boardrooms and back-alley deals alike. He strode to the window, overlooking the sprawling garden, his sharp eyes narrowing as his mind began to race.

Did she go out with friends? No, Anshita would never lie. Battery dead? Possible… but why now?

He stabbed the call button again. This time, the phone rang—and then a soft thud echoed through the speaker, like something falling to the ground. A chill shot down his spine.

“Anshi? Hello? Tum sun rahi ho? Hello?”

Nothing. Just the faint hum of traffic in the background… and then the line disconnected.

Kabir froze. The silence screamed louder than words. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He stormed out of the study, his voice echoing through the mansion:

“Rajeev!”

A man in his forties, dressed in a crisp black suit, appeared instantly. Rajeev had been the family’s chief security officer for over a decade—loyal, sharp, and ruthless when required.

“Ji, sir.”

“Anshita… she’s missing,” Kabir said, his tone like steel. “Pata lagao. Abhi.”

Rajeev blinked. “Sir, college se nikli thi na? CCTV check karte hain—”

“Check sab jagah!” Kabir snapped, his voice rising like a whip. “College, roads, toll booths—sab. Aur mujhe yeh kaam agle 30 minutes mein khatam chahiye.”

Rajeev didn’t waste another word. He vanished down the corridor, barking orders into his headset.

Kabir stood there, fists clenched, his chest heaving with rage and something darker—fear. Memories of his little sister flashed before his eyes: her laughter echoing through these halls, her habit of stealing his coffee in the mornings, her innocence that didn’t belong in his blood-stained world.

No. Nothing will happen to her. I’ll burn this city down if I have to.

His phone buzzed. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Kabir answered in an instant.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then a voice—smooth, deep, laced with venom.

“Tumhare liye ek surprise hai, Kabir Mehra.”

Kabir’s heart stopped. He knew that voice. He’d heard it in hushed whispers, in the trembling voices of men who spoke of power like a curse.

Avyan Singh Rathore.

“Kya chahiye tujhe?” Kabir snarled, his voice sharp as broken glass.

A low chuckle drifted through the line, dark and mocking.

“Main kya chahta hoon? Tumhari zindagi ka sabse pyaara hissa… ab mere paas hai.”

Kabir’s blood ran cold.

“Anshita… tumne usse haath lagaya toh main—”

“Tum kya kar loge, Kabir?” Avyan cut in, his tone soft but deadly. “Jo meri behen ne saha hai… wahi tumhari behen bhi sahegi.”

The line went dead.

Kabir stood rooted to the spot, the phone slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor. His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath coming in harsh bursts as the weight of those words sank in.

Ridhi Singh Rathore.

The name hit him like a blade. A year ago, a car crash, a courtroom drama, his father pulling strings to erase the mess. He thought it was over. He thought the Rathores had let it go.

He was wrong.

“Rajeev!” Kabir roared again, his voice trembling with fury. “Delhi ke har kone ko khol do! Mujhe Rathore chahiye. Aur mujhe meri behen wapas chahiye—ZINDA!”

Somewhere, miles away, Avyan Singh Rathore leaned back in his leather chair, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watched Anshita stir in the shadows of the farmhouse. The game had begun—and this time, there would be no winners.