15. The Hunter

A silent billionaire.

A woman trained to kill.

When power marries danger, love turns lethal.

Morning came with similar nightmares. I woke up rapidly, covered in sweat, breathing heavily.

I quickly changed, took a shower, and tried to calm my mind down. I had shouted so loudly in my dream—hopefully this whole mansion is too big, and these walls are too thick. No sound would go outside from here.

And thankfully, he was not here to hear me crying in my dreams like this. I wonder if they all know about my past. Of course they know—after all, they are family friends of my family. What do they think about that?

Well… who cares.

I don’t know where he has gone, and I don’t want to know. But he hasn’t come back yet. My luck saved me—otherwise I would have had to sleep beside him.

What?

That’s never going to happen.

Quickly, I wrapped myself in a saree and pulled all the bangles onto my hands. Wore one piece of jewelry around my neck. Quickly wore sandals, and with a soft sound against the marble floor, I stepped out of the room.

The mansion was half-asleep, breathing slowly—like a beast resting between hunts.

I made my way downstairs.

The kitchen lights were on. The only place in the house that felt alive at this hour. A few women were already there, preparing for the day. The clink of utensils. The low murmur of voices.

I stepped in.

“Good morning, bhabhi,” Radhika said, surprised but smiling.

“Good morning,” I replied quietly.

I didn’t wait to be asked. I tied my dupatta properly, washed my hands, and moved toward the counter. My movements were calm, practiced—as if I had always belonged here.

But Maa held my hand.

“Don’t do it, beta. We will do that,” she said, smiling.

“Maa, please,” I said, smiling. “I want to help you.”

“Beta…”

“Please. Just a little,” I said, and quickly started chopping vegetables. The dough was kneaded. Spices measured—not by spoon, but by instinct.

No one stopped me now. They let me work.

Above us, the mansion remained dark.

I kept my head down and my hands busy.

It’s been just a few days—maybe it’s too early to say—but I love cooking for them. It’s not something I’m doing forcefully or because I have to as a daughter-in-law. I love this family. Everyone is so nice. It feels like this is why women get married. Everyone thinks about me, cares about me, appreciates me… except him.

Well, again—who cares about him? Literally, I’m the kind of wife who always thinks about ways to kill her husband. Why do I hate him so badly?

It’s funny to say, but I think we were enemies in a past life—born as husband and wife in this one, but still carrying memories of that past. Or maybe there’s something else.

I finished preparing breakfast. One by one, everyone moved toward the dining room with the trays.

Only I stayed behind.

There was a faint smear of dough on my forehead. My hair had come loose, strands escaping their careful order. I needed a moment—just enough to breathe, to put myself back together before stepping out.

Then—

A voice came from behind me.

Calm. Familiar. Unwanted.

“Good morning. Are you the new servant?”

My body stiffened.

I turned.

He was leaning against the doorframe, posture careless, eyes sharp. Watching.

“Oh,” he added, lips curving slightly, “Trishika. It’s you.”

A smirk.

What was his problem?

I hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t looked at him. Yet he kept intruding—on my space, my silence, my control. The words were deliberate. Meant to sting.

For a split second, my fingers tightened around the knife beside me. One move. Clean. Final.

But then I noticed him.

Black trousers. White shirt. A black vest beneath—simple, fitted. Infuriatingly handsome. Controlled. Like he’d stepped straight out of my irritation.

When he comes home, I think that by the time I go into the kitchen, he must already be home and getting ready.

I said nothing.

I rolled my eyes slowly, deliberately, right in front of him. Lifted the tray of tea and walked toward the door, intending to pass him without a word.

The end of my saree caught under my toe.

The world tilted.

I pitched forward—face first—my balance breaking in an instant.

His hand caught me.

Not my arm. Not my shoulder.

My waist—firmly, from the front.

His palm slid instinctively beneath the fall of my saree, finding my bare stomach, just above my navel, gripping hard enough to halt my collapse mid-motion. The fabric offered no real barrier, pressed thin between us, powerless against the certainty of his hold.

My breath shattered.

I felt his grip tighten, his body steadying mine as if he had expected the fall. For a moment, I hung there—caught between falling and him.

The moment lingered—long enough to realize how completely he had caught me… and exactly where his hand rested. He didn’t loosen his hold—he tightened it.

Anger exploded in my mind.

How dare he touch me without my permission—directly my stomach, not even over the saree. I had cut off men’s hands before they even thought of touching me. I would rather fall in humiliation than be held by him.

I was about to protest when his voice cut in.

“Stand straight,” he said coolly. “Or I’ll lose my grip.”

Then, with a smirk, “Can’t you walk properly, or did you do this on purpose?”

“Oh,” I snapped, annoyed, “so you’re not planning to hold me?”

“No. Never,” he replied instantly.

“Then why are you still holding my stomach?”

He pulled his hand away at once, a flicker of something like embarrassment crossing his face. Without another word, he turned toward the dining room. At the doorway, he glanced back.

“Anyway,” he said lightly, smirking, “you have a soft stomach.”

I froze for a second. What did he say?

“Excuse me?” I said in anger.

“I just stated a fact,” he added casually, like he hadn’t just signed his own death sentence.

I followed him, my steps sharper now. “You don’t get to have opinions about my body.”

He leaned slightly toward my face.

“And you don’t get to fall on me and then complain about how I caught you. You know the proper word here is thank you. But I guess you have no manners.”

“I didn’t fall on you,” I snapped. “You were just standing in the wrong place.”

A quiet chuckle left him.

“Interesting. Next time I’ll make sure you have a great fall—and these beautiful eyes fill with tears.”

“Yes, thank you so much,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said, extending his hand toward my stomach again.

I jumped back quickly. Before I could say anything, he had already walked away.

He really is a little jerk—no, not little. A complete jerk.

Thankfully, the tray was safe.

Everyone was already seated. Conversations were low, polite, careful—the kind that avoided sharp edges. I stepped in, adjusting my saree, my heartbeat still uneven from the kitchen.

He was there.

Seated at the head, posture relaxed, expression unreadable—as if nothing had happened. As if his hand hadn’t been on my stomach seconds ago. Seeing him made my blood boil.

“Come, beta,” maa said gently, patting the chair beside her.

I sat.

Plates were served. Spoons clinked softly. Someone mentioned the weather. Someone else spoke about work.

“Breakfast was good today too,” Reyansh said casually, glancing at me.

“Really good,” Nishant added.

“Thank you,” I replied, with a huge smile.

“It’s not that good. You still need practice,” he said, smirking at me. Now he was teasing me in front of everyone.

“I wonder who taught you cooking,” he added with a light laugh.

“Myself,” I replied.

“That makes sense,” he said. “You know, some people don’t have that many brain cells to learn things by themselves. You should join a cooking class. They’ll have a lot to work on you.” He finally laughed.

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe how crazy he was.

“Then don’t eat,” I said.

He stopped laughing—but the smirk stayed.

“Trishika, don’t feel bad. I’m a very supportive husband. I’ll eat this… whatever you made.”

He should just shut his mouth.

He stood up and walked away—but not before finishing his breakfast.

“Careful, bhabhi,” Priya said. “You’re holding the knife too tight.”

I froze for half a second and looked down.

Oh God.

My hand was wrapped around the knife, fingers clenched along the spine, gripping it the way I would—when the intention wasn’t eating.

I was so lost in his words.

Did they all notice that?

Maa smiled softly. “Beta, relax.”

“Bhabhi wants to murder the food,” Nikhil joked, laughing.

“He laughed for the first time at the dining table. He never laughs with us?” Father said, clearly shocked—everyone else looked just as surprised.

“Yes… I can’t believe it,” Maa added.

Really? But what about my insult?

Anyway, what else can I expect from this jerk?

After everyone left for work, I wandered through the mansion, letting its vastness swallow me whole.

So many rooms. Endless corridors. Beauty and luxury placed everywhere—careful, deliberate, expensive.

And yet… it felt hollow.

Somehow, I had already memorized everyone’s names.

I didn’t know why, but the entire family lived together here. It was bigger than mine—much bigger—yet unbearably quiet.

In my family, there were eight of us: my grandmother, my parents, me—their only child—my uncle, my aunt, and my cousins Sakshi and Pari. When we sat together, the house trembled with noise. Not anger—joy. Laughter. Arguments that ended in teasing. Voices overlapping, echoing through rooms filled with warmth.

We talked too much. We loved loudly.

Here, even with so many people, silence ruled.

The children were young, yet carried themselves with a maturity that felt rehearsed. Acting your age isn’t wrong—but acting older than your heart? That felt sad.

The quiet pressed against my chest, slow and heavy. Suffocating.

I stopped in front of a wall lined with photographs—generations staring back at me. Ancestors. Bloodlines. Legacy framed in gold.

Too much history. Too many expectations.

I decided I would only remember the living for now.

Pratap Singh Rathor—the grandfather.

Three sons.

Rudra Singh Rathor and Anuradha Singh Rathor.

Their children: Radhika… and my husband.

Then the uncles and aunts.

Sumedh and Diya, with Reyansh, Ankita, and Priya.

Sunil and Sushila, with Nishant and Nikhil.

Family portraits from different years lined the wall. Everyone looked composed. Perfect. Smiling.

Except him.

In one photograph, his eyes seemed to follow me—cold, warning, territorial. As if even in a frozen moment he was telling me to stay away from what belonged to him.

“Trishika beta,” maa said softly behind me, “knowing the family is a good step.”

Before I could respond, she smiled again.

“If you want, I can show you Ranbir’s childhood albums.”

I almost said no. I was certain he hadn’t been cute—probably just as rude and stubborn then.

But she took my hand before I could refuse and led me to her room. From the closet, she pulled out four albums.

“All of them are his,” she said proudly.

“All?” I asked, startled.

“Yes,” she laughed. “I was a very photogenic mother. I clicked his pictures all the time.”

“So nice,” I murmured, polite but unconvinced.

Back in my room, I placed the albums on the table. I told myself I wouldn’t open them.

Back in my room, I told myself I wouldn’t open them. Why would I? Why would I want to see him—how he looked when he was born, when he was five, or in his teenage years? I knew in every picture he would be the same—no emotion, no expression, just staring at the camera, annoyed by everything.

Well… who knows? He could have been a bully. A rich brat, showing off his money and influence. Generally, I believe people like him can be like that. Maybe I’m making big allegations—but he gives me no reason to understand him, no way to know him better.

I can’t understand what he’s thinking. That I married him willingly? I didn’t want this. Marriage is already hard—and if it’s difficult for him to accept me, it’s the same for me.

He doesn’t want to see me in his room. And for me—it’s not easy either. I lived with my parents for twenty-four years, in my own home… and suddenly I’m here, expected to accept strangers as my own.

This luxury around me is far more than I ever imagined. But still… it suffocates me.

And he keeps being mean.

I placed the albums on the table. I had my own too… where did I keep them? This room has so many drawers, I can’t even remember.

Yesterday, I was leaving the room because he wanted me out—until Maa stopped me and whispered that I am his lawful wife, and everything he owns is mine too. That I have to find my space in his world—and he can’t deny me my rights.

So I’m here.

Not moving one step back just because he doesn’t want to see me.

This is my right—to be here, in his space, in his room.

Her words lit something inside me. A fire.

A new mission. Stay with your husband—even if he doesn’t want you.

Let’s see how long he keeps denying me. I’m not desperate for his love… but I’m not leaving either. I’m stubborn too.

And I have a second option. God forbid it ever comes to that. But if he pushes me too far—

I’ll kill him.

It would be a tough fight. He’s not a simple target. I know his power, his connections.

And strangely… I feel curious.

How would I do it?

Ranbir Singh Rathore… I don’t want your love. I just want my right. And if my respect is ever crossed—

You’ll pay for it with your life, because you don’t know what you brought into your house.

My eyes burned with that thought.

But then I realized something else. I cried in front of him like a child.

When he shouted.

I’ve always been like that.

A crybaby.

Before becoming an assassin, I was fragile. Soft. Weak. In school, if someone ate my lunch, I cried instead of protesting. If someone told me to do their homework, I did it.

Once, a girl threw my bag in the dustbin. I just cried.

My mother used to worry about my future—how I would survive if I kept letting people bully me. She once told me to at least punch her.

I remember saying, “If I hit her, she’ll tell the teacher.”

And Maa said, “What about your bag in the dustbin?”

The next day, my sister slapped that girl and pulled her hair. Her parents complained. My parents laughed after they left.

But I stayed the same.

Still crying.

I never played sports either. I was too clumsy—always hurting myself, always making my team lose. Once, while playing, I fell so badly that my knees got badly cut, and I fainted. It was not that brutal that I should have fainted, but a soft girl like me couldn’t handle blood and pain.

From then on, I only played indoor games. Even when my friends dragged me outside, I couldn’t handle any scar on my so-called beautiful body. Can anyone believe I am an assassin now?

That all changed one day, a decade ago. In one day, my whole world shattered, and I was never able to collect those pieces again. That pain, that trauma still haunts me at night.

In my teenage years, everything started to change slowly—very slowly—but it changed under everyone’s eyes, and no one noticed. I started becoming strong. One day, I held a knife in my hand and thought I didn’t deserve what had happened to me. And I would find out why it happened. That aim tightened my grip around the knife. I made two personalities—one to watch and one to hunt.

I became an assassin. I went through years of tough training. I cut every inch of that fragile woman away. Made that woman see every blood, every brutal reality. I slit throats without hesitation. My gun fires without looking back.

But sometimes…

That fragile girl still comes out.

And maybe that’s good.

Because if I want to keep Trishika and Velvet Viper separate, I have to stay fragile on the surface.

I can only be one thing at a time—

A weak woman depending on someone…

Or a strong woman taking someone’s life.

I can’t balance both openly.

One identity has to hide to protect the other.

And then there’s him.

He’s intelligent. Too intelligent.

He will figure it out if I’m careless. One small hint—and everything will be exposed.

Maybe it’s good he doesn’t pay much attention to me.

But sometimes I feel like he’s curious.

About Velvet Viper.

About her—does he get any ideas?

Does he suspect something?

I don’t know.

But I have to stay alert.

Because his curiosity—

Can kill him.

The afternoon pressed on, and my work waited.

I had a mission to complete.

I made my way to the studio, grateful for the quiet support the family gave me—letting me work. Yesterday, maa had insisted I take a car and a driver. I couldn’t. My work didn’t allow such comforts.

Some lives don’t come with witnesses.

So today, I did the same—I took public transport and walked the rest of the way to my studio.

Inside the studio, I stood before the canvas, brush in hand—trying to focus.

Trying to paint. But my mind refused to stay still. Let’s finish the contract first.

As per the tip given to the Rathore Group, I stood on the terrace of a six-floor apartment.

Across the four-way road in front of me rose The Durbar Heights—a ten-storey monument of glass and gold. A luxury hotel meant only for the elite. Tonight, its terrace was alive. Music. Lights. Laughter.

A succession party.

I had planned to enter.

Risky—but risk is the language of my profession. Still, too many powerful men, women, even children. Security would be airtight. For now, this apartment my base—until I extracted Pradeep Mishra.

Alive.

I lifted my long-range monocular scope, bringing it closer for a more detailed view.

There he was.

Pradeep Mishra.

Chief of Security.

Standing near the railing, drink in hand, laughing too loudly. Flirting with a woman. Drunk. Careless. Power had softened his edges.

They moved inside together.

I lowered the scope. Adjusted my gloves. I was about to leave—

When a sound tore through the evening.

A scream.

Then chaos.

I sprinted to the edge of the terrace.

Below, near the hotel entrance, a crowd was forming. People running. Shouting. Phones raised. I moved fast—down the stairs, across the road, blending in as just another shocked woman.

A body lay twisted on the ground.

“Sir… sir, wake up!” a man cried.

Another voice cut through the crowd.

“This is Pradeep Mishra.”

I froze.

His face was smashed beyond recognition—but the build, the clothes, the watch he’d worn upstairs.

It was him.

He had fallen from the top.

Too drunk?

Pushed?

Thrown?

A family party. Too many witnesses. Too much noise. And yet—someone had organized his death in plain sight.

As per my investigation, Pradeep Mishra had once been a decent man. Corruption hadn’t been his nature—only his company. Working under Aakash Singhania had stained him.

And silence is also a sin. Watching crime and enabling it feeds the devils.

Tonight, his sins had taken payment.

I stepped back, disappearing into the crowd, and messaged Chhaya.

Code.

Pancakes finished before I could buy them.

Her reply came instantly.

Okay.

Back in my studio, I sat in silence, thinking about how cruel this world was.

Then the rain began.

Hard. Relentless.

As if the sky itself was trying to erase what had happened.

Chhaya called. She’d conveyed the message to Kartik Khurana—target dead. Aditya had already pulled and copied the CCTV footage and forwarded it to them.

Pradeep Mishra had once guarded the powerful. Tomorrow, his fall would flood the newspapers.

I looked outside. Rain hammered the streets, drowning the city’s noise.

Too much rain.

And I hadn’t come with a car.

God.

How was I going to get home now?

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Maa. She said I would stay at the studio and that she was sending someone to pick me up. Guilt washed over me—I should have listened to her advice. I decided I would apologize to her.

All my artworks were packed. In four days, there was an elite art exhibition—one that wasn’t limited to paintings alone. Rare sculptures, limited-edition installations, heritage pieces… art meant for people who didn’t ask for prices, only provenance. An exhibition where only the elite could afford to pause and own a masterpiece.

My art had not always belonged there.

Four years ago, through a friend who worked with an art organization, I was given space for just one painting. One chance. Choosing art as my career had been a hard decision. People advised me to pick something “safer,” something more respectable. But my family stood by me. They knew art was the only way I could release my grief—how broken I was inside. Only a few truly knew that truth.

That one painting sold.

Not just sold—someone bought it for more than I had ever imagined it was worth. I hadn’t even dared to set expectations for it. After that, everything changed. Opportunities followed me. My work began to get its own gallery space at exhibitions. My art entered the homes of the elite. And every time, it sold for more than I thought possible.

My first sold artwork wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. It showed my pain. The incidents that shattered me. The reason I became a woman who hunts evil instead of fearing it. I don’t know what the buyer saw in it—but that was the truth I had painted.

My thoughts suddenly shifted to the artwork that had broken a few days ago. I still hadn’t received a call from the agent who was supposed to pick it up. Maybe they hadn’t noticed the damage yet.

A car horn snapped me out of my thoughts.

I looked outside. A Rolls-Royce Phantom stood there—silent, commanding. Of course, Maa had sent it.

I ran toward the car and quickly opened the back door—but my legs froze before I could sit.

It was him.

“I’m not your driver,” he said coldly. “Why are you sitting in the back seat?”

I immediately closed the door and slid into the co-driver seat. He started driving without looking at me.

Why did he come himself? It would’ve been better if I had stayed at the studio than sit beside him like this.

“Why don’t you take a car and a driver ?” he said, irritation sharp in his voice. “Do you think I have only one job—to take care of you?”

I hadn’t even been looking at him, not once.

“Who asked you to come here?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“What did you say?” he asked arrogantly. Then, without hesitation, “Get out of my car.”

He stopped the car and opened the door—controlled entirely by the driver, smooth and commanding, just like him.

Rain poured in through the open door.

I was in shock. He actually meant it.

“fine,” I said. “I’ll tell Maa,” I said. Even I don’t want to go with him, arguing the whole way. I got out, rain heavily pouring on my head, and I started walking to the bus stop.

“Sit inside,” he ordered angrily. “Now.”

It was raining very hard, so I calmed myself and climbed back in without another word.

The rest of the drive was silent. Heavy. Suffocating.

Traffic slowed us down because of the rain, and he turned the car toward another route.

I stared ahead, confused. This route doesn’t lead home.

Where was he taking me?