A silent billionaire.
A woman trained to kill.
When power marries danger, love turns lethal.
“She’s dead. Finally.”
The tall one laughed—loud, careless. His broad shoulders shook with relief, the sound too confident for a place like this.
“We should go down… check the body. Just to be sure,” the shorter man said, his voice trembling despite the layers of winter wrapped around him.
“We don’t need to,” the third man cut in from behind them. “No one survives a fall from this cliff. Not here. Not this mountain.”
“But she’s different,” the short man whispered, fear slipping into his words. “She is—”
“Enough. Let’s inform the boss.” the third man shouted.
“Move.” he barked again, and all three of them turned and walked away together.
Their footsteps faded, crunching against frost and fallen leaves, until even their voices surrendered to the mountain’s silence.
It was a winter afternoon.
The wind moved slowly, carrying the sharp breath of cold through the air. Dry leaves drifted downward like exhausted secrets, brushing past stone before disappearing into the abyss. Somewhere far below, birds called to one another, unaware of how close death had come to touching the sky.
The cliff was forbidden—restricted by authorities, marked dangerous, watched by warning signs no one respected. And yet, the view…
Beautiful beyond language.
The valley stretched endlessly, wrapped in pale light, untouched and merciless. Heaven, some would call it.
I never thought I would see it from this angle.
So deep. So close. So alive.
My fingers tightened around the single branch jutting out from the rock, its roots clinging stubbornly to the cliffside—much like me. My body swayed with the wind, suspended between gravity and choice.
I allowed myself one breath.
Just one.
Then I straightened my grip.
Work is work.
And I never leave a job unfinished.
I poured all my strength into my hands and lifted my body onto the branch. It held—strong, unyielding, rooted deep into the rock as if it had been waiting for me.
Slowly, carefully, I began to climb.
Stone scraped against my palms. Cold bit into my skin. Minutes stretched thin as breath, but eventually my fingers found solid ground. The surface appeared, rough and real beneath my hands, and with one final pull, I climbed up.
I lay still for a moment, letting the mountain forget me.
Then I rose.
From the edge of the cliff, I watched them—three shadows moving away, their voices dissolving into the tall trees of the forest below. They were already disappearing, swallowed by branches and distance.
Good.
I didn’t wait. I started running toward them.
“You know… we should check the body before leaving,” the short man said again, his voice tight with fear.
“We’d have to climb down,” the tall man replied. “Too much work.”
“What if the boss asks for proof?” the short one insisted.
“We’ll say the animals got to her,” the tall man shrugged. “Nothing left to bring back.”
“Shut up. Both of you.”
The third man stopped abruptly and turned, his voice cutting through the trees like a blade.
“And you,” he said, glaring at the shorter one, “if you keep talking, I’ll throw you off that cliff myself. And if you survive, then on your way back, find her body and bring it with you—as your punishment.
Silence fell instantly.
“Now move,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”
They obeyed. And behind them, unseen and untouched by death, I followed.
They reached their car. The tall man opened the back door, careless, already convinced the mountain had finished my work for him. I stepped in close, my shadow merging with his.
“You should have made sure I was dead,” I said softly.
He didn’t even have time to turn.
Before fear could reach his face, my wrist shifted. Steel slid free with a quiet click—the hidden blade resting beneath my skin like an old promise. I drove it into his neck with every ounce of strength I had.
Warmth spilled instantly.
I dropped low, sliding beneath the car as his body staggered back. His hands flew to his throat, eyes wide, soundless. Blood soaked his fingers before gravity claimed him.
He hit the ground hard.
“What—what happened?” the third man shouted, panic tearing through his voice.
“Hey! Get up!” He rushed toward him, then froze.
“Blood…” he whispered. “On his neck.”
“She came,” the short man stammered, shaking violently. “She’s alive.”
“I know, you idiots!” the third man roared. “Find her. Kill that bitch!”
They scattered. Too late.
They started searching—boots crunching against gravel, breath uneven, panic loud in the quiet forest.
The short man’s eyes dropped—to the space beneath the car. He bent down, lowering his face to check the dark space below.
“Hello,” I said calmly.
Before he could scream, before his hands could even lift, I raised my gun.
One shot.
Clean. Precise.
His body collapsed beside the tires, surprise still etched across his face.
I stepped out from beneath the car, adjusting my gloves slowly.
Only one left.
“Now it’s just you,” I said, my voice almost bored. “Let me finish this quickly. I have other work today.”
“You think you can kill me that easily?” he shouted, fury replacing fear.
I tilted my head.
“Oh,” I said softly, drawing my blade again. “Then fight me for your life.”
He fired first.
I moved.
The bullet tore past my shoulder, grazing air where I had been a heartbeat earlier. I closed the distance fast—too fast. His second shot went wild as my knife slashed across his arm, sending the gun skidding across the ground.
He lunged.
Strong.
Desperate.
I ducked, rolled, came up behind him.
He swung a knife blindly. I blocked, metal screaming against metal, sparks flashing briefly in the cold light. We collided again—his strength against my precision. He tried to overpower me.
Mistake.
I twisted his wrist, heard the crack, felt his grip weaken. My blade slid between his ribs as I stepped inside his reach.
He gasped.
I leaned close.
“Next time,” I whispered, “check the body.”
I pulled the blade free.
He fell.
Silence returned to the forest, broken only by the wind moving through the trees—slow, indifferent, eternal. I wiped my blade clean, holstered my gun, and walked away.
Work finished.
I walked for a few kilometers before checking my phone. Eight missed calls from my mother. Eleven from my father. I knew why they were calling. And for once, I wasn’t in the mood to answer.
The work was finished. My pulse had finally slowed. There was a quiet satisfaction settling deep inside me, warm and steady. I knew what they wanted to talk about. I didn’t want to return to the same conversation, the same expectations, the same gentle pressure disguised as concern.
I had agreed to everything they said. I always did. But this time, that agreement felt different. This time, it was life-changing.
I adjusted the shirt tied around my waist, fingers tightening briefly around the fabric. For this kind of work, only black felt right.
Clean.
Unmarked.
No stains. No traces left behind.
Perfect.
The road opened ahead of me, empty and ordinary, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.
I reached the small bus stop on the forest road. The wilderness stayed behind me, and ahead, the road carried the promise of the city.
When the bus arrived, I stepped inside without looking back.
My studio was waiting. And so was the next version of me.
Two hours later, I was back in my studio.
The space smelled of oil paint and turpentine, layered with the quiet chaos only an artist understands. Large canvases leaned against brick walls, half-finished thoughts frozen in color. Sunlight slipped through tall windows, catching on gold accents and textured strokes, making the room feel alive—like it was breathing with me.
A supplier carefully packed my selected paintings for an upcoming exhibition, wrapping them in layers of brown paper and care. This exhibition mattered. It wasn’t just a display—it was proof.
Of patience.
Of discipline.
Of the parts of me the world was allowed to see.
My phone rang.
“Hi. Girl, the work is done,” Chhaya said politely.
Chhaya Sharma—sharp-eyed, composed, always dressed like she walked out of a courtroom victory. A lawyer by profession, a negotiator by instinct. She spoke softly, but every word carried authority. If someone needed a contract erased or rewritten into silence, Chhaya knew how.
“What do you think?” I replied, my voice calm—confident. Like I had achieved something significant. Because I had. Some lives didn’t deserve to continue, and I never questioned that. And yes, I had achieved something.
“I knew you would,” she said. “You’re the best.”
There was a pause before she added, “One more thing—your mother called me. She asked if I’m free to go shopping with you.”
I exhaled slowly. “You know what all this is for.”
She laughed. “And you know I’m good at shopping—clothes, makeup, accessories. Everything.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “That’s exactly why I tolerate it.”
“I’m ready and very excited,” she said brightly. “Let’s go tomorrow. Whole day.”
“You’re always excited about it.”
Her laughter rang through the phone. “I’ll inform the client that the work is done. Perfectly done.”
“Of course,” I said gently. “Thanks.”
“Bye,” she said, and the call ended.
I was about to set my phone down when it rang again.
Aditya Singh.
“Hi. What’s up?” he said casually.
“Good.”
“I’ve removed all CCTV footage—roads, forest routes, nearby locations. Your image doesn’t exist anywhere near that site. You were never there.”
Aditya was calm, efficient. A cyber security expert who treated erased evidence like routine maintenance. Hoodie, tired eyes, fingers always moving like they were typing even when they weren’t.
“Thanks.”
“Welcome—but it’s my job. You don’t have to worry about evidence anywhere.”
“I know,” I said. “Still… thanks.”
“Anytime. Bye.”
The call disconnected.
That’s when I heard it. A loud, sharp sound—from behind me. I turned instantly, my heart skipping once.
My breath caught.
The most precious painting I had ever created lay tilted, cracked at the bottom corner. Not shattered—but wounded. This painting had taken nearly a six months to complete.
Layer by layer.
Emotion by emotion.
A storm of blues and greys softened by gold, like rage learning restraint.
It had been sold last month at an exhibition.
To a billionaire.
I didn’t know his name. I only knew he had paid far more than I expected. Today, his agent was supposed to collect it.
The worker stood frozen, pale. “I—I’m so sorry, ma’am. It slipped while moving it.”
I knelt immediately, inspecting the damage. The frame had split slightly. The canvas was strained—but not torn.
Fixable. Barely.
“I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” I said, steadying my breath. “It’s heavy.”
The agent could arrive any minute. I rolled up my sleeves. I had killed men without hesitation. I could save a painting.
I worked carefully, patiently.
The damage wasn’t deep—just a fracture at the edge, a bruise rather than a wound. Half an hour later, the painting stood whole again, steady and silent, as if nothing had ever touched it.
But its value had changed.
Once a billionaire had claimed it, the canvas was no longer just art—it was an expectation. A mistake was no longer allowed.
Another half hour passed, and the agent arrived. The workers packed the painting again, this time with double the caution. The crate closed. The seal locked. And then it was gone.
Only then did I realize my body was still frozen.
I stood there for a moment, hoping—no, trusting—that no one would ever question anything. That art would remain art. That blood would remain invisible.
The work for today was done.
Fatigue settled into my bones, quiet and heavy. I locked the studio, went home, and allowed myself one simple luxury—
Sleep.
By the time I reached home, the house was already alive with voices.
“There she is,” my grandmother said from the sofa, her sharp eyes softening. “Always late.”
“She works too much,” my mother added, though her tone carried pride.
“And now she’ll work on marriage preparations,” my chacha said lightly, folding his newspaper.
I sighed inwardly.
“We were talking,” my chacha said, smiling too knowingly, “Tomorrow we’ll go shopping. Proper shopping. Beautiful traditional clothes.”
“Yes,” my mother agreed quickly. “Lehenga, sarees, jewellery—everything.”
“And… the day after tomorrow, the groom’s family is coming to finalize everything,” my father added casually.
My heart skipped. “What? Already?” I whispered, eyes wide. Everything was happening so quickly. If I blinked, I might wake up on my wedding day.
I swallowed hard, still processing. The speed of it all left me frozen for a moment.
“I don’t need—” I began.
“Oh, please,” my cousin Sakshi interrupted with a grin. “Let her be a bride for once.”
“Or are you planning to scare the groom away too?” my cousin Pari added.
Laughter filled the room.
I smiled faintly, saying nothing. Because this time, I had already agreed. And that agreement—
Felt heavier than any weapon I had ever carried.
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