A black Mercedes Maybach slid to a smooth stop in front of the Aurora Grand Hotel — one of most luxurious five-star towers.
The building gleamed under the afternoon sun, a seamless blend of glass and steel that mirrored the city's skyline. Valets hurried to and fro, opening doors, guiding guests, their polished shoes clicking against the marble drive.

The rear door of the car opened, and Aransh Verma stepped out.

He adjusted the cufflinks on his crisp white shirt, slipped on his charcoal-grey blazer, and straightened his tie — every movement calm, deliberate, exuding quiet authority. His eyes — sharp and unreadable — lifted to the grand glass facade before him.

Without wasting a second, he walked through the revolving doors.

The lobby was vast — chandeliers glittering like constellations, a faint scent of jasmine in the air, and the steady hum of polite conversations. Behind the marble reception desk stood a young woman, her professional smile never faltering.

"Hello, sir. How may I help you?" she greeted warmly.

Aransh placed both hands on the counter, his tone composed but firm.
"I want to meet the manager of this hotel."

The receptionist blinked, slightly taken aback by his directness.
"Uh, sir, the manager is currently in a meeting. If you'd like, I can convey your message—"

"I'll wait," Aransh interrupted, his voice smooth but leaving no room for negotiation.
"Tell him Aransh verma wants to meet him."

The woman's polite smile wavered for a fraction of a second — the name carried weight. She quickly picked up the phone, murmured something to the manager's secretary, and hung up.

"Sir, please come with me," she said, stepping out from behind the desk.
"I'll guide you to his office."

Aransh followed her without a word.
Their footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor as the elevator doors slid open. The mirrored walls reflected Aransh's expression — cold, controlled, but his eyes burned with purpose.

The elevator chimed on the sixth floor.
The receptionist gestured to a door ahead. "That's the manager's office, sir."

"Thank you," he said curtly.

She turned and left.

Aransh didn't knock. He simply pushed the door open and walked in.

The hotel manager, a middle-aged man in a navy suit, looked up from his desk, startled — then immediately stood.
"Mr. verma—! Please, have a seat."

Aransh sat down opposite him, posture straight, gaze steady.
"I'll get straight to the point," he said. "I need access to the CCTV footage from the day I stayed here — August 8th. From my arrival to the moment I checked out. second floor Room 208."

The manager blinked, thrown off by the precision of his demand. But one look at Aransh's face told him this was not a request.

"Of course, sir. Please follow me."

They walked down another corridor — colder, quieter — until they reached the surveillance control room.
Inside, several monitors flickered with live security feeds. The faint buzz of electronics filled the space.

"Pull up all footage from August 8," the manager instructed the technician. around "Room 208 — entire floor's recordings 

The technician nodded, typing swiftly.
Minutes passed. The faint whirring of hard drives was the only sound.

Finally, the technician frowned. His fingers stilled.
"Sir..." he hesitated, glancing at both men, "there's... nothing here."

Aransh's eyes darkened.
"What do you mean nothing?"

"I mean there's no footage, sir," the man said nervously. "The records for that day are missing. Only the lobby entry — when you checked in — Everything after that has been deleted."

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Aransh stepped closer, his reflection flickering across the monitors. His voice, when he spoke, was calm — too calm.
"So... someone wiped the entire floor's recordings?"

"Yes, sir," the technician confirmed. "Every file from the east wing — where Room 208 is located — was erased. Whoever did it... knew exactly what they were doing."

The manager looked uneasy. "Mr. verma, we— we didn't know about this. I can assure you, our IT—"

"Save it," Aransh said quietly. His tone was deadly composed, but his eyes were blazing.

He turned his back to the screens, hands clasped behind him, looking out at nothing.
"So," he murmured, half to himself, "they deleted everything. Smart. They wanted to make sure Ishaan and Nisha never found out what happened that night... who came to my room."

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.
"Fine," he said under his breath, a dangerous calm settling over him. "Let them play their game. I have my own ways. And the truth—"

He glanced back at the dark screens, his reflection split between them like fractured glass.

"—the truth will come out. One way or another."

He straightened his blazer, turned, and walked out of the control room. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor — the sound of quiet vengeance in motion.

Behind him, the monitors continued to flicker...
as though hiding secrets only the dark still remembered.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Black Crown Estate was silent that night.
Only the low hum of the fireplace filled the vast living room — golden flames flickering across the dark marble walls. The glow danced over the edges of the leather sofas, the heavy drapes drawn shut against the outside world.

Dante sat at the center — in his usual seat, the long black sofa that everyone in the house half-jokingly, half-fearfully called the throne. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his jaw said otherwise. His dark eyes were locked on the laptop screen in front of him, the faint blue light reflecting off his sharp features.

Across from him sat Matteo, Vitale, and Grace — his most trusted people. None of them spoke until Dante finally broke the silence. His voice was low, even — too calm.

"Did you find out who sent me that video?"

Matteo hesitated before answering, his tone frustrated.
"No, Dante. I've tried everything. Whoever sent it... left no trace. The ID used to send the video was temporary — created just for that purpose. After sending it, it vanished. Like it never existed."

Dante's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak.

Matteo continued, leaning forward slightly.
"I've tried tracking its origin through three different systems — IP spoofed, server rerouted, encrypted beyond reach. Whoever did this isn't just anyone. This is high-level work — professional hacking. Deleting an ID's existence completely... it takes experience, precision, and intent."

He looked up at Dante.
"And I'm willing to bet the person who wiped out our cottage footage — that same night — is the same one who sent this video."

Grace and Vitale exchanged uneasy looks.

Matteo's voice dropped lower. "Both jobs were done cleanly. No proof. Only someone with expertise could pull that off."

Dante clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching under his skin.
He didn't respond immediately — just stared at the screen for a few seconds, his face hard, unreadable. Then finally, he spoke — cold, cutting through the silence.

"You're right, Matteo. Whoever it is... they're connected to  Verma's."

Matteo frowned. "You think so?"

Dante nodded slowly.
"Yes. Because the person who sent me that video... wanted me to see Aanya differently. They wanted to clear her image. And who else would want that, if not Aransh or Verma's.?

Vitale leaned forward, his brows furrowed.
"But, Dante — if that's true, then how would Aransh or anyone working for him even know what happened that night at Mehra Mansion? How would they know what you did... or that the file was switched?"

Grace leaned forward slightly, her voice calm but sharp with logic.
"But Dante, if this person is really connected to Aanya — if he's one of Aransh's people — then our earlier assumption was wrong."

She looked between Vitale and Matteo before meeting Dante's cold gaze.
"We thought Aransh was the one who ordered Maya to change that file. But that doesn't make sense anymore."

She paused, letting her words sink in.
"Why would Aransh do something like that to his own sister? He knows exactly what the consequences would be — that the blame would fall entirely on Aanya. He wouldn't destroy her reputation and then send you the footage trying to protect her at the same time. That's a contradiction."

Her tone grew firmer, more precise.
"And remember — when that file was changed, Aransh was in our custody. Locked in the cage. There's no way he could have been behind it."

The room fell into silence.

All eyes turned toward Dante. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire behind him.

Dante leaned back slowly, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression carved from stone.

Vitale started to speak, "So... that means—"

"Yes," Dante interrupted, his tone sharp but calm. "It means there are two different players in this game."

He rose from his seat, hands slipping into his pockets as he began to pace — the low, rhythmic sound of his shoes echoing across the marble floor.

"One," he said, voice cold and deliberate, "is the one who changed the file. The one who wanted to destroy Aanya's image in my eyes — to make me hate her. To make me turn against Verma's completely."

He stopped, turning his gaze toward the fire. His reflection flickered in the flames — dark, dangerous, and calm.

"And the other," he continued, "is the one who sent the video — the one who wants to save her image. The one trying to make me see the truth."

He looked back at his people, eyes burning with a dangerous glint.
"Two people. Two games. One war."

Matteo spoke quietly, "So what do we do now?"

Dante's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smirk — the kind that made even Grace shift uncomfortably.

"We find them," he said.
"Both of them."

He stepped closer to the window, the city lights faintly visible through the sheer curtains.

"The sharp hacker..." he said softly, "and the game player."

Then, after a beat — his tone dropped, cold as winter steel.

"And when I do... I'll end their game myself."

The room fell silent again — no one dared speak.
Only the fire crackled, the reflection of flames dancing in Dante's eyes — eyes that had already decided someone was going to burn.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The long dining table gleams under the golden chandelier light. Silver cutlery, polished to perfection, clinks softly as the Mehra family eats in silence. The air is heavy — too still, too formal.

From the kitchen doorway, Aanya stands quietly, hands clasped together. A soft smile touches her lips as she watches them — a family eating together. For a brief moment, she feels warmth in her chest, a nostalgic ache. It reminds her of her own family — the laughter, the noise, the feeling of belonging she once had.

But the silence here is different. It's distant, restrained. Still, she smiles... until Mrs. Mehra — Sikha — breaks the silence.

"So, Ishaan," Sikha says gently, spoon clinking against her plate. "When are you going to get married?"

The question cuts through the air like glass shattering.

Aanya's smile vanishes. Her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes instinctively lift toward Ishaan, waiting — hoping — for him to say something. Anything.
Maybe he'll say it — that he's already married... that he has a wife standing just a few feet away.

But instead, Ishaan answers quietly, expression unreadable.
"I'm not ready yet, sikhu Mom."

Aanya's heart sinks. Her fingers tighten around her kurti.

Sikha sighs softly, setting her spoon down.
"But how long will you keep living like this, Ishaan? You have to move on, beta. She left you. You can't stay stuck in the past forever. I know it's hard to forget your first love, but you have to move forward."

Ishaan simply nods, not meeting her eyes.
"I'll think about it," he says flatly.

She left you...
The words echo in Aanya's head, louder and louder until she can't hear anything else.

Who left him? What love?
Did Ishaan... love someone else?

Her chest tightens painfully. And then she realizes — she has no right to feel this way. But the ache in her heart doesn't stop.

At the table, Sikha continues lightly, turning toward Karan, who sits opposite Ishaan.
"I keep telling Karan the same thing. He should move on too — his ex left him without any explanation, but he still waits for her."

Karan's jaw tenses. His spoon freezes midway to his mouth.
"Mom," he says, voice low, "I told you, I don't want to talk about that."

He exhales, eyes dark with frustration.
"And please, don't blame her. She must've had her reasons. I was the one at fault. I love her, Mom... I still do."

The room falls silent again.

Ishaan looks at his brother — then down at his plate. The words I love her echo in his mind. His face remains cold, but his jaw clenches tightly.

He knows.
He knows Karan is talking about Aanya.

And for reasons he can't explain — something twists painfully inside him.
He doesn't understand why it hurts.
Why the idea of someone loving his wife — a woman he was supposed to hate, punish, and use for revenge — makes his chest burn with anger he can't control.

Pathetic, he thinks bitterly.

Across the room, hidden by the soft shadow of the doorway, Aanya's tears slip silently down her cheeks. But not because she heard Karan still loves her — no.

It's because Karan defended her.
Even after everything.
Even when no one knew she was the woman he was talking about — he still protected her.

And yet, the man who should have spoken for her... her own husband... sat silently.

He didn't say she was already his wife.
Didn't say she belonged to this house.
Didn't even acknowledge her existence.

So Aanya turned away, heart heavy, the taste of salt and silence in her mouth.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Thank you for reading
Please vote and comment.
Bye bye take care. :D