It was another morning in the Mehra Mansion. Normal? Perhaps not. Let's see.

The dining hall was as quiet and orderly as always—Jay calmly ate his breakfast, Ishaan sat at his place, chewing toast while scrolling through a few urgent emails, and Jiya, though seated at the table, was more absorbed in her phone than her plate. The only sounds breaking the silence were the clinking of cutlery against porcelain and the faint footsteps of workers moving about the house.

But peace, in this mansion, never lasted long.

Aanya walked in carefully, carrying a steaming bowl of chicken noodles in her hands. She moved towards Jay and Jiya, who sat side by side. Just as she was about to set the bowl down, Jiya suddenly shot up from her chair, not bothering to glance at her surroundings. Her hand brushed against the bowl, and in an instant, the hot liquid spilled forward, splashing across Jiya's expensive designer dress.

The silence shattered. Every pair of eyes at the table turned toward the commotion. Jay immediately pushed his chair back to stand, while Aanya gasped, her face pale with shock.

"Oh my God! Tum achanak se khadi kyun ho gayi? Are you alright?" Aanya asked, panicked.

But before she could do anything else, Jiya spun on her, her face twisted with fury.
"You idiot! Don't you even know how to serve food properly?" she shouted, her voice cutting through the hall like glass.

"Jiya, tu—" Aanya began, but was instantly cut off.

"Do you even realize how expensive this dress is? Tumhari puri ek mahine ki salary se bhi yeh nahi aata! And now look at it—ruined!" Jiya's shrill tone rose, echoing against the walls.

Aanya stammered, "But Jiya, it wasn't my fault, you suddenly—"

"Not your fault?" Jiya scoffed, her eyes blazing. "You ruined my dress and dare to say it's not your fault? How shameless can you be?"

Her fury only escalated as Jay tried to calm her. Ishaan, however, sat still, watching silently, his expression unreadable.

"Oh God, I was supposed to wear this to my friend's birthday party ! Now what am I supposed to do?" Jiya cried, almost stamping her foot.

"Wear something else," Jay said softly, trying to reason.

"Something else?" Jiya snapped, glaring at him. "I bought this dress only for the party! And she—" her finger jabbed toward Aanya "—has destroyed everything!"

Aanya, still shaken, whispered, "I can clean it... let me try—" She reached for a cloth on the table, moving to dab the stains on Jiya's dress.

But Jiya yanked her hand away harshly. "Leave it! Don't touch me, you low-class idiot. You can't even do one job right. Bhai should never have hired you in the first place. God knows how you begged and pleaded for this job—maybe you even begged him!"

Her words sliced through the air. Aanya's chest tightened, her throat heavy, but she said nothing—her eyes, however, weren't on Jiya. They lingered on Ishaan, silently , hoping, willing him to say something. But Ishaan never even lifted his gaze from his plate.

And then Jiya, lips curled in disgust, spat, "You low-class bit—"

"Shut up!" Aanya's voice rang out suddenly, sharp and firm. She straightened, her eyes fierce. "Just shut up, Jiya. You've said enough. Before you call someone else low-class, take a good look at yourself. What you did was careless. The mistake was yours, not mine."

Jiya blinked, stunned. "What the hell—? You ruined my dress and now you dare—"

"Yes!" Aanya's tone was steady now, unshaken. "Because you got up without looking. I was setting the bowl down. You knew I was there, and still, you turned so suddenly. This mess is your own fault. Not mine."

Her voice hardened further. "And as for being 'low-class'—I think it's already obvious whose behavior here reeks of bad manners."

Jiya's face turned crimson with rage. "You—" she started again, but Jay stepped between them, raising his hands.

"Enough, Jiya. Please. I saw what happened. It was your mistake. Stop making it worse."

But Jiya only scoffed, her fists trembling, her eyes still locked on Aanya with venom. She turned as if to storm away when Aanya's calm, cutting words froze her mid-step.

"And about this job," Aanya said firmly, her eyes shifting from Jiya to Ishaan, "you should ask your brother why I'm here. I'm sure he has a for better answer then i do." how and why he  kept  me here." AS A MAID."

For the first time, Ishaan's gaze finally met hers—steady, unreadable. Their eyes locked for a few charged seconds, a thousand unsaid words sparking between them. 

Then, in one sharp breath, Aanya tore her gaze away and turned toward the kitchen. "Mannerless brat," she muttered coldly at Jiya before walking out.

Jiya's eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth falling open. Humiliation and fury burned her cheeks. With a furious stomp, she spun on her heel and stormed toward her room, slamming the door behind her.  Jay sighed and followed after her.

The dining hall grew still again. Ishaan calmly finished his breakfast, expression unchanging. But as he rose to leave for the office, his eyes unconsciously flickered toward the kitchen. Aanya was there, kneeling with a bucket, wiping away the spilled soup. Their eyes met fleetingly before she lowered her gaze, pretending to focus on her work.

Something tugged at him. His eyes dropped to her hand, where angry red marks bloomed across her skin—the burns from the scalding soup. He lingered for a moment, silent, before turning and walking away toward his room.

Minutes later, when Aanya was still scrubbing the floor, lost in her thoughts, a shadow fell across her. She looked up and saw a small tube of ointment being placed on the table beside her.

"Apply this on your hand," Ishaan's voice came low and curt.

Before she could react—before she could even thank or question him—he was gone, footsteps fading up the door.

Aanya slowly straightened, staring at the ointment, then at her reddened palm. Her eyes flickered toward the door where Ishaan had disappeared. Her lips curved in the faintest, bitterest smile as she whispered under her breath,
"Rude bastard... Jaisa bhai, waisi behen."

And with that, she returned to her work, though her heart throbbed with a heaviness that words couldn't name.

The Mehra Corporation towered against the city skyline, a fortress of glass and steel where silence was as sharp as power. By late morning, Ishaan was already in his office—immaculate suit, cold composure, the mask of a man who never faltered. He sat behind his massive desk, scrolling through contracts, the faint glow of his laptop reflecting in his eyes.

To his employees, he was unreadable—precise words, clipped orders, and a presence so heavy that no one dared breathe too loud. The earlier morning scene at the mansion should have been forgotten. Buried. And yet, somewhere beneath that polished exterior, it wasn't.

He leaned back, fingers steepled, staring at the city through the glass wall. His mind, however, didn't see skyscrapers or traffic. It saw a bucket, a burn-red hand, and a quiet pair of eyes that refused to break even under insult.

He clenched his jaw, shaking the thought away. Why am I even thinking about this?  don't forget ishaan She's ... Aanya verma, aransh verma' sister. 

A knock at the door pulled him back. His assistant entered, arms full of files.
"Sir, the Singh contract needs—"

"Leave it on the desk," Ishaan interrupted, his voice curt, cold as ever. The assistant obeyed without question, carefully placing the stack and leaving the room in silence.

The sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-Class screeched to a halt before a two-story cottage hidden in the shadows of the forest. The air itself seemed to stiffen, as though warning of the storm that had just arrived. A guard rushed forward, pulling open the heavy door with both hands.

From within, a man stepped out—draped head to toe in black. A tailored shirt hugged his frame, perfectly pressed trousers moved with precise confidence, and a long coat swayed around him like a cloak of authority. On his wrist gleamed a silver watch that caught the dying light, while dark sunglasses shielded his eyes, giving him the aura of a predator who revealed nothing yet saw everything. The mere vibe of his presence screamed danger.

"Welcome, Boss," the guard bowed deeply.

The man gave no verbal reply—just a curt nod that carried more weight than words. He moved forward with unhurried steps, the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes echoing like a warning bell.

At the entrance, two more guards bent their heads in respect before pulling open the iron gates. He stepped inside, and the world seemed to shift.

The interior of the cottage was anything but homely. Black marble floors stretched beneath dim, amber chandeliers. The walls were paneled in dark oak, broken only by the occasional silver crest of a lion carved into the wood. Heavy curtains veiled the windows, suffocating the light and drowning the space in an atmosphere of secrecy and power. In the center stood a long line of men—loyal soldiers dressed in dark suits—each bowing the moment his figure crossed the threshold.

He walked straight through, unflinching, and lowered himself into a black leather sofa that resembled a throne more than furniture. His mere act of sitting made the men stiffen, as if the king had returned to his dominion.

Then—a voice cut through the silence.

" Welcome back, Dante!"

The man, Dante, rose from his seat. His sharp eyes softened only slightly as he turned to embrace the figure behind him—Vitale, his right hand, his most trusted man.

"Thank you, Vitale," Dante's voice was deep, measured, yet carried the sharpness of steel. "The lion had to return to his den eventually. Now tell me—who dared to lay their hands on it this time?"

Vitale's smile faded. His expression hardened into the mask of a soldier delivering grim news. "It's Diavolo again. And this time... they're preparing something big."

Dante's face grew still, unreadable, like a statue carved in obsidian. He sank back into the leather sofa, his power radiating not through action, but through silence. Finally, his gaze sliced toward Vitale.

"I thought you had handled them the last time," Dante's tone was cold, not accusing—just dangerous.

"I did," Vitale answered firmly. "We all believed eliminating their so-called leader would crush the gang. We killed him, yes. But..." his voice dipped lower, grave, "he wasn't their true leader. He was nothing more than a puppet, a mask to deceive the world. The real head of Diavolo remains in the shadows. No one knows his face... only his name."

Vitale slid a thick black file across the table. Dante picked it up, flipping through page after page of faces, maps, and coded reports. His sharp gaze halted at one word—one name. He whispered it aloud, his tone dangerously calm.

"Corvo."

The room seemed to drop into silence. Even the men standing at attention exchanged nervous glances.

"So that is the name of the man who thinks he can challenge me..." Dante closed the file with a deliberate snap, laying it on the table as if sealing a vow.

"Our teams are still digging deeper," Vitale continued. "For now, that is all we know. Just the name."

Dante rose to his feet, adjusting his long coat with regal precision. His eyes, dark as midnight storms, burned with an intensity that made the men shift on their feet.

"Vitale Call everyone back."  His words were low but carried like thunder. "the vacation is over. I want them here by tomorrow. All of them."

"Yes, Boss," Vitale replied without hesitation.

Dante stepped forward, his figure towering, his presence alone bending the room to his will. With a final glance at the file, his lips curved into a shadowed smile.

"This time," he said, voice dripping menace, "it's going to be fun."

"Every king has rivals. Every lion has hunters. But this time, the predator is hunting the predator."

Thank you for reading.
Bye bye take care. :D