The morning sunlight streamed through the small, cracked window, illuminating the modest room. Deepti carefully combed Aashu's unruly hair, her hands trembling slightly from the lingering pain of the night before. The little boy sat on the edge of a rickety wooden stool, his tiny legs swinging back and forth as he grumbled, "Di, mujhe school nahi jaana. Main aapke paas rehna chahta hoon."

["Di, I don't want to go to school. I just want to stay with you."]

She smiled weakly, gently brushing away the stray strands of hair falling over his forehead. "Aashu, padhai bohot zaroori hai. Tumhe toh mere sapne poore karne hain, yaad hai?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, but she quickly masked it with a warm, reassuring smile, one she had perfected over years of survival.

["Aashu, studies are very important. You have to fulfill my dreams, remember?"]

Aashu frowned, his big, innocent eyes staring up at her with a maturity no six-year-old should possess. "Par main aapko akela kaise chhod doon?"

["But how can I leave you all alone?"]

Her heart twisted painfully at his words. I want nothing more than to pull him into my arms and tell him he doesn't have to leave, she thought bitterly. She wanted him to stay by her side forever, where she could protect him. But she couldn't. School was his only exit. It was the only way he could ever have a future—a luxury she could never dream of for herself.

Bending down, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Main akeli nahi hoon, Aashu. Tumhare saath hone ka ehsaas mujhe hamesha rahega. Ab jao, late mat karo."

["I am never alone, Aashu. I can always feel you with me. Now go, don't be late."]

Aashu reluctantly picked up his small, worn-out schoolbag and trudged toward the door. He paused at the threshold, turning back one last time, his eyes swimming with worry. "Promise karo, aap khud ka dhyan rakhengi?"

["Promise me you will take care of yourself?"]

Deepti nodded, her throat too tight to form actual words. She waved him off, watching his small figure disappear down the bustling street. The very moment he was out of sight, the smile crumbled from her face.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the now-empty room. The sudden silence was deafening. Her eyes wandered across the faded walls, past the small cupboard that barely held their meager belongings, and finally rested on the faint outline of Aashu's scribbles on the wall—a messy, childish attempt at drawing a bright sun, with the words "Deepu Di" scrawled proudly beneath it.

The sight pulled her under. Memories came rushing back, unbidden and unforgiving.

Flashback:

Seven years ago, a fifteen-year-old Deepti stood outside her mother's locked bedroom door, clutching her six-month-old baby brother, Aashu, tightly against her chest. His frail, tiny body was burning with a raging fever, and his soft, breathless cries pierced right through her soul. Tears blurred her vision as she banged her fists against the wood again, desperation choking her.

The door creaked open, revealing Malika Jaan's cold, irritated face.

"Amma, Aashu is really sick. Please, can we take him to the hospital?" Deepti's voice had cracked, trembling violently under the crushing weight of fear and helplessness.

Malika Jaan's dark eyes scanned the shivering teenager and the crying infant with absolute disdain. For a fleeting, naive second, Deepti thought her mother might actually care. But the woman's voice shattered any illusion of humanity.

"He's just another illegitimate child," Malika Jaan spat out, her tone dripping with venom. "I don't care if he lives or dies. If I'd had my way, you would have been thrown out too. Your beauty is the only thing that matters in this house."

The words hit Deepti harder than any physical lash ever could. Crushed by her mother's breathtaking cruelty, her knees almost buckled beneath her. She held Aashu even tighter against her chest, shielding his tiny ears as if her arms alone could protect him from the poison of his own mother's words.

"Please, Amma," Deepti had whispered, her throat raw from crying.

But Malika Jaan simply turned her back on them, slamming the heavy door shut. The loud lock clicked into place, echoing in their faces.

Deepti sank to the cold, hard hallway floor, cradling the feverish infant in her lap. Aashu's tiny fists clutched desperately at her dress as if seeking comfort, his weak cries filling the empty corridor. Tears spilled freely down Deepti's cheeks, raining onto his delicate, flushed face.

I'm so sorry, Aashu, she whispered in her heart, her voice breaking with every syllable. I wish I could make things better. I wish I could make Amma see how much you mean to me. I promise you, I'll always protect you, even if no one else in this world cares.

She pressed her lips to his burning forehead, rocking him gently as heavy sobs wracked her young body. The world felt impossibly heavy, but the steady, rapid thump of Aashu's tiny heartbeat gave her a reason to keep breathing. She had no one else, but he had her. And on that cold floor, she vowed that no matter what hell she had to endure, she would never let her brother feel the suffocating loneliness that she did.

End of Flashback

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The silence of the room was my only companion as I sat on the edge of the creaky wooden bed, staring aimlessly at the flickering bulb overhead. The dim light barely chased away the shadows in the corners, but it was nothing compared to the darkness I carried inside my chest.

My thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of familiar footsteps approaching. I glanced toward the door just as Tara passed by.

She paused when she noticed me sitting up. Her faint smile could barely mask the sheer exhaustion etched onto her beautiful face. Her tired eyes held an unspoken apology—one I could never accept because Tara didn't owe me a thing. If anything, I owed her my entire life.

"Jaa rahi hoon. Amma bula rahi hai shaam ke program ke liye," she said softly, her voice strained yet steady. "Tu kuch khaake so jaana, aur kamre ka darwaza band karke rakhna."

["I'm going. Amma is calling me for the evening program. You eat something, go to sleep, and keep the bedroom door locked."]

I nodded silently, unable to muster a proper response as I watched her turn to leave. Her saree, though vibrant for the guests, felt like a heavy shroud over her thin frame, a constant reminder of everything she sacrificed. Her shoulders drooped ever so slightly under the invisible weight she carried every day, not just for herself, but to shield me.

As the door creaked shut behind her, I remained frozen, my thoughts spiraling into guilt.

Tara—my sister, my protector—was the exact same age as me, yet she seemed a lifetime older. This hellhole had forced her to grow up far too fast. It absolutely killed me to know that while I sat in the relative safety of this room, she was out there, using her body and her talent to dance for literal monsters.

I leaned my head back against the cold wall, closing my eyes. Memories of her selflessness swirled in my mind. I remembered how she would sneak me extra food when Amma was in one of her violent moods. I remembered how she would physically shield me from Amma's wrath with that brave, unbroken smile of hers. Most of all, I remembered how she had stepped directly into the brothel's darkest depths so that I wouldn't have to.

How can she still smile when life has stripped her of everything? How can she bear the crushing burden of my protection when it was never her responsibility?

"Tara..." I whispered into the empty room, my voice trembling with a heavy layer of guilt. "Why do you keep saving me? Why do you give up so much for me?"

My mind drifted back to the horrific day Amma had first tried to drag me out to one of her high-paying "programs." I had been terrified, weeping on the floor. But Tara had stepped right between us, her head held high. She fiercely declared to Amma that she would go instead. I had screamed, begging her not to do it, but Tara had only hugged me tightly and whispered, "Tujhe kabhi yeh sab nahi sehna padega, Deepu. Main tere liye sab kuch karungi."

["You will never have to endure any of this, Deepu. I will do everything for you."]

And she had kept her word. Every single day since.

Hot tears burned my eyes as I curled up on the bed, clutching the thin blanket Tara had once draped over me during a freezing winter night. I hated this life. I hated Amma. I hated myself for being so utterly powerless. But more than anything, I hated how much Tara had to endure just to keep me pure.

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[Content Warning: This section depicts physical violence and potentially upsetting themes.]

An hour later, the dim light overhead flickered violently as the bedroom door creaked open, instantly pulling Deepti out of her trance.

Her mother, Malika Jaan, stepped into the room. Her sinister smile sent a sudden, bone-chilling cold straight down Deepti's spine. There was something uniquely vile, calculated, and cruel about that look.

"Deepti, dekho kaun aaya hai?" Malika's voice dripped with an aggressive, fake sweetness—a terrifying tone Deepti had spent her entire life learning to dread.

["Deepti, look who has come to see you."]

Deepti's brows furrowed in confusion, but the sudden sound of heavy, commanding footsteps quickly replaced her uncertainty with pure horror. The man who stepped across the threshold was all too familiar.

"S-Sahab..." Deepti murmured, her voice barely rising above a broken whisper.

Her body instinctively backed up against the wall, pressing hard into the plaster as if physical distance alone could protect her from the predator standing before her.

He was dressed immaculately. His expensive designer suit stood in sharp, mocking contrast to the suffocating filth of the small room. His face, clean-shaven and cruelly handsome, bore a wicked smile that made Deepti's stomach violently churn. His dark, calculating eyes scanned her trembling frame with a leering, intense hunger, visibly feeding off the raw terror radiating from her.

"Missed me, jaan?" His smooth voice was laced with pure venom. The transactional way he threw around the word jaan made her skin crawl.

Deepti's face twisted in visceral disgust, but she forced herself to mask it behind her fear. She hated him. She hated the entitlement in his gaze, the casual way he invaded her personal space, and the way he treated her like a piece of property he already owned. But more than anything, she hated how completely powerless she was in his presence.

"S-Sahab... Aap aaj yahan?" she stammered, her gaze darting frantically to the floor.

["Sir... You are here today?"]

He chuckled darkly, the heavy sound filling the room and making the small space feel instantly suffocating. His steps were slow and deliberate, closing the gap between them with predatory ease.

"Kyun jaan, tumhe accha nahi laga?" His mocking voice taunted her as he leaned in close, watching her wide, unblinking eyes.

["Why, jaan? Didn't you like that I came?"]

Deepti pressed herself flat against the wall. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides as she tried to contain the violent storm of fear, anger, and unrelenting hatred brewing inside her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to push him away and run as far as her legs could carry her, but she knew the brutal reality of her world. There is no escape. Not yet.

She remained entirely silent. Her lack of an answer spoke volumes, but the man didn't care. He thrived on her helplessness. His smirk widened as he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. His cold touch froze her in place.

The wicked smile on Sahab's face turned deeply sinister as he noticed a single tear slip down Deepti's cheek. Without missing a beat, he leaned forward and wiped it away with his thumb, a cruel mockery of gentleness.

"Why didn't you pick up my calls, jaan? Hmm?" His tone was deceptively soft, but the deadly warning laced within it was loud and clear.

Her body locked up. Calls? Messages? Recognition hit her with a sudden jolt of terror. Her stomach churned as the realization dawned on her. She had blocked his number weeks ago in a desperate, quiet attempt to escape his suffocating control. Now, her small act of defiance had caught up with her.

"I... I was busy, Sahab..." Deepti stammered, her voice barely audible.

His gaze darkened instantly. The fake smile vanished from his face. His expression warped into pure rage as his hand shot forward, grabbing her brutally by the chin and forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

"Busy?" His voice was ice-cold now. His grip tightened until Deepti winced in pain. "Or were you just avoiding me?"

"N-No, Sahab, I promise—"

Before she could finish the sentence, his palm came crashing down against her face in a brutal, backhanded slap. The sheer force sent her staggering backward. Her cheek burned with a searing, white-hot pain.

"Don't lie to me!" he bellowed, his roar echoing off the small walls.

Deepti's hands flew to her stinging face, tears streaming freely down her cheeks as she struggled to steady her footing.

"Give me your phone," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Sahab, please... I didn't mean to—"

"Now!" he roared.

He ripped the device right from her trembling hands before she could utter another syllable. His fingers moved swiftly across the screen. He unlocked it, his expression growing darker with every passing second. Deepti's heart raced as she watched him scroll through her settings.

Suddenly, his movements froze. His lips curled into a snarl as he turned the glowing screen to face her.

"You blocked me?" he hissed, his voice dangerously low and venomous.

Deepti opened her mouth to explain, to beg, but the words refused to form. I can't breathe. I can't think.

"You dared to block me, Deepti?"

That calm, quiet tone terrified her far more than his shouting. Sahab grabbed her tightly by the arm, his grip bruising her skin, and dragged her violently toward the adjoining bathroom.

"Sahab, please! I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" Deepti begged frantically. Tears blinded her as she tried to pull away, but he was entirely immovable.

He didn't respond. He kicked open the bathroom door and hauled her inside. Without a single word, he reached down and turned on the bathtub faucet. The sound of rushing, cold water filled the small room, and Deepti's panic reached an absolute peak.

"S-Sahab, please!" she sobbed, her knees buckling beneath her.

He was too strong. Gripping the back of her neck with an iron hold, he shoved her forward. Her head plunged directly into the freezing water. Panic erupted in her chest as she thrashed against his unyielding weight.

"Learn to respect me, Deepti," he growled, his voice detached and cold. "When I call you, you answer. When I message you, you reply. Do you understand me?"

He yanked her head out of the water, allowing her a single, gasping breath before plunging her right back under. The icy water stung her eyes. Her lungs burned for oxygen as she fought against the suffocating pressure.

"Say it!" he shouted, pulling her up by her hair.

"I-I'll... I'll never block you again!" she choked out between heavy sobs, water streaming down her face as she gasped for air.

Satisfied, he finally released his grip. He let her crumple onto the hard floor, coughing and shivering violently.

"Good," he said smoothly, his voice returning to an eerie calm as he casually adjusted his luxury cufflinks. "Remember, Deepti. You belong to me. And you will never disobey me again."

He turned and stepped out of the bathroom, leaving Deepti on the cold tiles—drenched, shivering, and completely broken. The harsh sound of the bedroom door slamming shut echoed in her ears. All she could do was curl tightly into herself, her body trembling in the dark as she wept in absolute despair.

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The city lights flickered beyond the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Vanguard Tower, casting a faint, cold glow over my office. Everything inside this room reflected absolute control—sleek black Italian leather furniture, an intricately designed bookshelf stacked with global financial journals, and my heavy, dark mahogany desk. It wasn't just furniture. It was a fortress of authority. This was the exact room where rival companies came to die, and where the Rathore empire solidified its iron grip on the country's economy.

The man sitting across from me fidgeted like a trapped animal, his fingers twitching against his expensive briefcase. I steepled my fingers, leaning back as I listened to him ramble about a joint venture expansion plan. The distinct tremor in his voice betrayed the desperate, nervous energy he was trying so hard to hide.

"This deal will open unprecedented doors for our expansion, Mr. Rathore," he stammered, his gaze flickering up to meet mine before darting away. "With the Vanguard name attached to it, success is mathematically guaranteed."

Guaranteed. I bit back a dark, sardonic smile. Everyone came into this room begging for guarantees, yet few ever brought anything of actual value to my table.

I fixed my gaze on him. It was a sharp, calculating, predatory look. I didn't blink. I didn't shift. I had learned over the years that it wasn't shouting that made grown men sweat—it was the quiet, measured silence of a reaper waiting to strike.

"And what guarantees do you bring to the table, Mr. Mehra?" My voice was flat. Deadly calm.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, quickly dabbing at his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. "W-We've done extensive market research, sir. The projected numbers are incredibly solid—"

"I don't invest in assumptions." My words sliced through his weak excuse like a scalpel. "And I certainly do not bankroll predictions. Bring me realized results, Mr. Mehra, or do not waste my time."

I watched with cold detachment as he scrambled to gather his scattered documents. His hands shook so violently that a page slipped to the carpet. Pathetic. He didn't even have the spine to stand his ground.

"Of course, Mr. Rathore," he stuttered, bowing his head submissively. "I—I'll have the updated, concrete reports on your desk by tomorrow morning. Personally."

"You won't." I allowed myself a faint smile, though it held absolutely no warmth. It was the smile of a predator watching its prey run. "Because by tomorrow morning, Vanguard Ventures will have already bought out your majority shareholders. Consider this your final board meeting, Mr. Mehra. You're dismissed."

The color drained from his face entirely. He didn't just walk out; he practically scurried out of the room, terrified of the man who had just dismantled his entire life's work in under five minutes.

As the heavy door clicked shut, the silence of the room wrapped around me again. I turned my attention to the sleek tablet on my desk. Neat, precise data blinked back at me. This was my world. An empire quantified in billions, built on cold logic and ruthless strategy. I swiped through the latest acquisition reports, absorbing the complex financial structures with the effortless ease of someone who lived and breathed this game.

The faint, distant hum of the city below was a constant reminder of what I controlled. I was a third-generation heir, but I had expanded the Rathore Group into territories my grandfather could have only dreamed of. They called me The Corporate Reaper because I liquidated the weak and absorbed the strong. I didn't have feelings about it. Business wasn't personal. It was math.

Yet, tonight, even the flawless numbers on the screen couldn't drown out a strange, uncharacteristic restlessness stirring deep within my chest.

A soft chime cut through the silence. The intercom buzzed, and my executive secretary's voice came through. "Sir, the legal team has finalized the paperwork for the slum rehabilitation and urban redevelopment project in the North Mumbai sector. They need your final signature to initiate the land buyout."

I pressed the button. "Bring it in."

A moment later, the leather-bound folder was placed on my desk. I opened it, my eyes scanning the blueprints of a neglected, dark district of Mumbai—a place miles away from my glittering South Mumbai tower. It was a chaotic maze of crumbling structures, neon signs, and old sins, a notorious brothel district that Vanguard was about to completely flatten to construct a multi-billion-rupee luxury commercial hub.

My pen hovered over the signature line. The restlessness in my veins flared again, sharper this time.

Life isn't just about deals and power plays, an old phrase echoed in my mind.

I frowned, dismissing the rare distraction instantly. For me, it always has been. And it always will be.

With a swift, fluid motion, I signed my name across the document, sealing the fate of that distant district. To me, it was just another ruthless acquisition—a faceless crowd of tenants who would soon be displaced by my bulldozers to make way for profit. I closed the folder, slid it back to my secretary, and turned my focus to the next task on my screen.

The deal was done.

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AUTHOR NOTE 🤍

Finally, the new chapter of Burning Vendetta is here, guys!

How was it?? Writing this chapter was an absolute rollercoaster of emotions. We went from the glittering, proud world of Aaransh and the Rathore family to the heartbreaking, dark reality that Deepti faces every single day. I really wanted to show the raw contrast between their lives before they inevitably collide.

Which part did you like the most? Let me know in the comments!

What do you think about this, Sahab? I was literally disgusted and terrified while writing his scene. It is heartbreaking that there are so many entitled creeps like him in real life, too. Do you think his obsessive control over Deepti is going to get worse?

Also, how was our Tara?? 😭❤️ I love how fiercely protective she is of Deepti and little Aashu.

The real journey will start from the next chapter. Things are about to get intense! 🙂‍↔️

Okay, goodnight!

Goal for Next Chapter: 80 Votes | 40 Comments

Byee!

With Love,
Authorshyra ❤️