Her Majesty's revenge..

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠....

The room was dark—only the cold, blue glow of a dozen screens lit her face. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette resting between her lips, swirling in the dim light before fading into nothing. The faint click of her stiletto against the floor echoed through the silence as she shifted in her seat. Six inches of black heels, skin-tight black clothes that clung to every line of her body, and lips painted in a deep, unapologetic crimson—she looked like a woman carved out of vengeance itself.

On the wall before her, more than a hundred feeds flickered in shifting angles and perspectives. Every inch of his palace. Every hallway. Every private room. Every breath he took—she saw it. Her cameras had eyes where even shadows could not reach.

On the largest screen, he sat at his desk—Adrian. The king who ruled with ice in his veins. The man people feared to even speak about in whispers. She leaned forward, the cigarette dangling as her gaze narrowed. Every small movement of his—the way his fingers glided over the laptop keys, the way his jaw clenched when deep in thought—she noticed it all.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

She was not a down-to-earth crown princess of Rajasthan anymore. That girl had died the day blood soaked the palace floors. Now, she placed her ego above all things, sitting in her rightful place as the Queen of Rajasthan—not in ceremony, but in will. She was no longer the girl with kind, forgiving eyes; now she was a woman with a burning desire of rage in her gaze. A fire that could consume kingdoms.

She didn’t flinch when the ash from her cigarette grazed her skin. She didn’t blink when the camera caught him leaning back in his chair, head tilting slightly, lost in whatever dangerous calculations spun inside his mind.

Her lips curled—not in a smile, but in a promise.

Every second she watched him, the rage in her eyes deepened. Not the wild kind, but the cold, patient kind that doesn’t rush. The kind that waits until the knife can be pressed exactly where it will hurt the most.

Her cigarette burned lower. Her heels clicked against the floor again as she shifted. And still, she didn’t look away from him.

She knew his habits. His weaknesses. His patterns.

She was learning him… piece by piece.

And when the time came—she wouldn’t miss.

_______________________________________

The gala glittered under the weight of wealth and danger—crystal chandeliers casting gold over men who could order an empire’s fall with a single word. The air reeked of expensive cigars and colder intentions. Tonight wasn’t about celebration; it was war in silk suits.

Five of the underworld’s most secure bases—fortresses untouchable for over a decade—had fallen into FBI hands. Now the most feared mafia bosses sat together, their voices low but laced with steel. Adrian occupied the seat at the head of the table, his deep black eyes scanning the room like a hawk dissecting prey. Every flick of his wrist, every lean forward was calculated power.

But beyond the glittering windows, hidden in the shadows several meters away, Kira lay still. The night wind teased strands of her dark hair, the cool metal of the sniper rifle pressed to her cheek. Through the scope, she could see every detail—how Adrian’s jaw tightened when someone spoke too boldly, how his fingers curled against the glass in his hand.

The faint smell of gunpowder clung to her as she adjusted her aim, the crosshairs fixed dead center on his chest. The gala’s music floated to her like a faint, mocking lullaby. She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe.

Her finger rested lightly on the trigger. One squeeze, and the black-eyed king would fall.

But instead, she watched. Studied. Every word, every reaction, every weakness he betrayed without knowing. She wasn’t here to kill him—at least, not yet.

Her lips curved in a slow, razor-sharp smile as she whispered to herself, “Dance while you still can, Adrian… I decide when the music stops.”

The shot rang out like thunder, echoing through the sprawling marble halls of the gala.

A single bullet tore through the air, striking Adrian’s shoulder with a sharp, wet sound. His body jolted from the impact, black eyes snapping open wide—not in pain, but in a slow-burning fury that made even the most hardened mafiosos shrink in their seats.

Blood seeped into the white fabric of his tailored suit, stark and violent against the pristine cloth. But Adrian didn’t stumble. He didn’t flinch. He simply rose to his full, imposing height, gaze sweeping the room like a predator scenting blood.

The guests froze, a mix of panic and dread rippling through the crowd. Guards flooded the space within seconds, weapons drawn, boots pounding against the marble as they fanned out to cover every exit. Orders were barked. Lights flickered as they searched every shadow, every hallway, every balcony for the ghost who had dared to touch him.

But Kira was already moving.

From her vantage point high above, she slung her sniper over her shoulder with a casualness that almost mocked the chaos below. The shot hadn’t been a mistake—it had been deliberate. A warning. She could’ve ended him, but this was just the beginning. A promise carved into the night.

She turned to leave—then froze.

There, blocking her path, stood a man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The sharp cut of his suit outlined the powerful frame beneath. His forearms were corded with muscle, veins snaking down to hands that looked as if they could crush stone. His hair was dark, but his eyes—those eyes—were a piercing, impossible blue. They didn’t just look at her, they studied her, like he could see every secret she’d tried to bury.

For a heartbeat, they were locked in silence. Her stare was all razor edges and fire, a silent threat: Say one word, and you’ll regret it.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t warn the guards. Didn’t even blink. Instead, his lips curved into the smallest of smiles—an unspoken vow.

I won’t tell.

The message was clear, though she didn’t trust it.

Kira gave him one last cold glance before she stepped past, heels striking the stone in crisp defiance.

By the time the guards reached the rooftop, she was gone.

But the man’s gaze lingered in the shadows, his smile fading into something else entirely.

Not loyalty.

Not fear.

Curiosity.

And in his mind, a single thought bloomed—

Who is the woman bold enough to aim at Adrian… and let him live?