Episode 1: The Silence Before the Storm
Episode 1: The Silence Before the Storm
POV: Shivanya Rathore
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They say some storms announce themselves with thunder.
Mine arrived in silence.
It was a quiet evening, just after the golden hour had draped the Rathore haveli in shades of amber. The old wind chimes at the main door jingled softly, brushing against memories. The air smelled of sandalwood and cardamom — the scent of home, comfort, my mother’s chai.
I sat cross-legged in the courtyard, sketching a new mandala pattern in my diary, humming an old folk tune my grandmother used to sing. That courtyard had seen my childhood tantrums, teenage tears, and now, the calm of twenty-three-year-old Shivanya who lived life like a serene river — untouched by the chaos of the world beyond.
Or so I believed.
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The Setting: Rathore Haveli
The Rathore haveli stood like a proud old tree — roots deep in tradition, walls whispering stories of long-gone valor. White marble floors reflected the orange sun as it set behind the neem trees. Bougainvillea climbed over the jharokhas. A pair of mynahs chirped by the temple bell.
I lived here with my father — Advocate Devraj Rathore, a respected man in Udaipur known for his honesty — and my younger sister, Niyati, whose world revolved around poetry and pink bangles.
I never imagined that behind Baba’s measured words and gentle eyes… he hid a debt with the devil.
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A Stranger's Carriage
That evening, an unfamiliar black SUV rolled into the courtyard, its tires crushing gravel under brutal weight. I stood up slowly, my diary slipping from my lap.
My heart didn’t race. It froze.
Three men stepped out, dressed in crisp black suits — all silence, no warmth. One of them held a brown leather briefcase. Another wore sunglasses though the sun had long slipped beneath the horizon.
The third didn’t speak. He just looked at me.
Not in curiosity.
Not in lust.
But in cold calculation.
“Is Advocate Rathore home?” the man with the briefcase asked.
I swallowed. “He’s in his study.”
They didn't wait for permission.
I followed, silent, barefoot on the cold marble. Something about the air shifted. The kind of stillness that arrives before a funeral.
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Inside the Study: Truth Unveiled
The study smelled of ink, old books, and freshly brewed guilt.
“Devraj Rathore,” said the suited man, opening the briefcase and placing a few documents on the desk, “You owe Ekaksh ₹24 crore. And your son Raghav—he signed this guarantee with his blood.”
My ears rang. Raghav? My elder brother?
Baba stood frozen. His lips trembled, but no words came out.
“We need the money in seven days,” the man continued. “Or Ekaksh will collect his dues another way.”
And then he looked at me.
That was the moment I felt it.
Fear.
Not for myself. But for Baba. For the home that had raised me with poetry and prayer.
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"The world I knew cracked like glass,
Under boots of power, bold and brass.
A name they whispered with death in his wake —
Ekaksh… a storm no soul can fake."
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Flashback: My Brother’s Disappearance
Raghav had vanished two years ago after joining a real estate firm in Delhi. His calls became rare, excuses frequent, and then—nothing. Baba never told us where or why. Now the truth hung like noose-shaped smoke in the study.
My brother had betrayed not just the law… but blood.
“You have seven days,” the man repeated, snapping the briefcase shut. “After that, she belongs to Ekaksh.”
He gestured toward me.
I blinked.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, my voice steady.
“No money. No mercy. He takes your father’s life… or your hand in marriage.”
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A Forced Proposal
The words fell like molten steel. Marriage? To a mafia lord I’d never met?
“This is not a proposal, Miss Rathore. It’s a verdict.”
He turned to Baba. “Tell your daughter. Or we will.”
They walked out as casually as they had entered — ghosts in tailored suits.
The door clicked shut.
The silence screamed.
Baba broke. His knees buckled. I ran to hold him.
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“My son made a mistake, daughter. I thought I could fix it. I thought I could protect you…”
He sobbed.
I had never seen my father cry like this. Not even at Mother’s funeral.
“Who is he?” I asked softly.
“Ekaksh,” Baba whispered. “He doesn’t forgive.”
I had heard the name only once, in a hushed conversation between two constables.
A ghost who ruled the underworld of India.
He had no family. No face. Just a name.
And power that made politicians tremble.
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The Letter Arrives
That night, sleep became a stranger.
I sat by the window, watching the moon carve silver shadows on my palm.
The clock struck 2 a.m.
And someone knocked.
I opened the door cautiously.
A single envelope lay on the floor.
Thick black paper. Sealed with blood-red wax.
I picked it up, heart hammering. My name was written in perfect, chilling cursive.
"Shivanya Rathore.
You belong to me now.
Prepare for your new life.
— Ekaksh."
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
But something inside me cracked — not out of fear.
Out of rage.
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“They call him a devil in a crown of sin,
But even storms must bow to the fire within.
If I must burn to protect my name,
Then let him come — I’ll play his game.”
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As the first light of dawn crept into the courtyard, painting the marble floor with threads of gold, I stood there — no longer the girl who hummed to flowers and folk songs.
I was Shivanya Rathore.
And I had just been claimed by a monster I’d never met.
But monsters bleed too.
I would find his weakness.
Even if I had to walk through his world of blood to reach it.
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[To be continued in Episode 2: “The Price of Betrayal” — where Ekaksh demands full repayment from Shivanya’s family, and she is summoned to his world.]
