16. The Hunter

A silent billionaire.

A woman trained to kill.

When power marries danger, love turns lethal.

My body still shivered—cold settling deep into my bones, a dull ache forming in my stomach. Hunger twisted inside me. I had only walked a few minutes after getting out of the car, but the rain had soaked me completely.

An hour later, the car finally slowed—stopping in front of towering iron gates.

Samrat Enclave.

An elite sanctuary of glass and stone. The gates opened silently, reverently, revealing manicured trees, rare flowers, and soft lights glowing against polished paths. I had never seen a penthouse before. For him, owning one meant nothing.

He stepped out, handed the keys to the valet, and walked ahead. I followed him quickly. He didn’t even look back to see if I was coming or not. Why would he, anyway?

He stepped into the lift. The doorman greeted him, and the lift began to rise. I just followed him silently—like a little kid, scared of getting lost. If I did get lost, I had no way to go home. My phone was dead, and no cabs were coming this way because of the heavy rain.

I had seen the weather forecast in the morning, yet I wasn’t fully prepared. I chose the timing for my mission carefully—when there would be no rain—but never thought about what I would do afterward. If I were unmarried, I would have simply called my parents and told them I’d stay at the studio overnight. But I couldn’t do that now.

I really need to learn how to be a proper daughter-in-law.

When the lift stopped, he just walked out. The doorman looked at me, confused. I didn’t know what he was thinking. There must be many couples living here—but no one behaves like us. Maybe he thinks I’m just some girl he brought for the night… the way he looked at me, then at him.

Oh—he had already walked ahead. I needed to catch up to him.

He opened the door.

Opulence greeted me.

High ceilings bathed in warm light. Marble floors smooth as water. Floor-to-ceiling glass holding the city captive. Minimal furniture, muted gold, rare art—luxury that didn’t shout. It commanded.

My breath caught.

Oh God… it was beautiful.

He finally turned to me

“There’s the kitchen. Make dinner quickly,” he said, leaving me in the hall as he went upstairs.

The kitchen was large and immaculate—polished, elegant—but nothing like the one in that house. That kitchen had been alive. This one felt cold.

I opened cabinets, searching for something to cook. Jars, containers—most unfamiliar. My body felt wrecked: cold, hungry, my stomach aching, everything crashing at once.

I finally found rice. I boiled it, added a few vegetables—nothing more than survival food. I was too weak to experiment.

Pain made my legs tremble. I wanted to sit, irritation burning under my skin, but hunger wouldn’t let me stop. Still, I lowered myself to the ground for a moment, trying to relax my legs. My back ached badly, and my stomach growled in protest.

Then I heard his voice from the staircase.

“Make coffee.”

Coffee?

I searched again. The top cabinet—too high. I dragged a chair, climbed carefully, and finally found what I needed and made the coffee.

Holding the tray, I walked upstairs. Every step felt unbearable. Rainwater dripped from my clothes, leaving wet marks on the floor. My legs shook violently.

I heard his loud voice from one of the rooms. He was on a call, shouting at someone, standing near the glass wall and staring out at the rain. I froze there, the tray still in my hands.

Finally, he looked at me.

“Good,” he said, picked up the mug, and took a sip.

Then—

“What the hell is this?”

He threw the cup to the floor. It shattered.

“What…” my voice trembled.

“Are you crazy? Is this how coffee is made?”

“I’ll make it again,” I whispered, because I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Plus, I didn’t even remember how I had made it. I was in such a hurry—I might have made it wrong.

“Go. Make dinner.”

I walked out and stood near the closed door.

Even if the coffee was bad, throwing it wasn’t the solution.

He just wanted to see me working.

He just wanted a reason to insult me.

He just wanted to make me suffer.

I set the plates on the dining table. Every single step burned. My body screamed for rest. I felt disgusted with myself—my own body felt like an enemy. I wanted a hot shower. But first, I needed to eat.

He entered the dining area and sat down, watching me with a smile. Satisfaction was written all over his face—how pleased he was to see me struggling.

I served him.

Just as I was about to eat, he threw the plate.

“You made garbage for dinner,” he said, smiling as if he were in shock—like I had served him something unbelievable.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You think I’ll eat this?”

“This is your class of food, not mine.”

Tears spilled from my eyes. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Is there really any class of food?

Right now, in this moment, the food on my plate is more than I could hope for. I’m hungry—and this food feels like a savior.

But for him… how did it become about class?

“It’s food, not status,” I said quietly.

“It’s garbage,” he growled.

“I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry I didn’t kill you on our first wedding night.

I’m sorry I let you insult me.

I’m sorry I can’t fight back in this situation.

“Look at the floor—you’ve made everything wet. In one hour, you’ve ruined the whole house. Don’t you have basic manners to live?”

Tears wouldn’t stop.

Blood started flowing down my thigh.

I had no clothes. No sanitary pads. My saree was wet. My body shivered violently. Hunger clawed at my stomach.

I felt like I would die in that moment—but if I did, I’d take his life with me. I promised myself that.

What had I done wrong? Why was he doing this to me?

“Just cry. That’s all you can do, Trishika.”

The saree I was wearing was stained with blood. My legs couldn’t support me anymore. Couldn’t I even cry?

He came closer. I folded my hands in front of myself, shame and disgust choking me.

“You can’t do anything right.”

I just stared at the floor. Tears fell from my eyes, dropping onto the ground.

And then—I felt it.

Blood.

It slid down my thigh, slowly reaching my toes. My tears, blood, and rainwater all mixed together beneath my feet.

He was about to say more—

But stopped.

“Go upstairs,” he said coldly. “The first room you see.”

I said nothing. Pain stole my strength. One day, I would choke him—but not today.

I sat on the floor, crying uncontrollably. I didn’t sit on the bed—I didn’t want to dirty it.

A knock broke the silence.

“May I come in, ma’am?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

A woman in her mid-forties entered.

“How are you?” she asked gently. “My name is Nisha.”

“I brought clothes, sanitary pads, and food for you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Don’t cry,” she said softly. “Let me help you.”

She held my hand and led me to the bathroom. I changed my clothes and ate the food she had brought. She even helped me settle on the bed, and as soon as I lay down, sleep began to pull at my eyes.

She wished me good night, tucked the blanket around me, and quietly left the room.

For the first time that night,

I felt a little… human again.

My eyes opened.

It was still dark. The clock blinked midnight. Hunger gnawed at me again—not for food, but for something sweet.

Nisha had promised to come tomorrow, but tonight… tonight I craved sugar. Slowly, I made my way downstairs. The penthouse was quiet, almost eerily so. Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting silver patterns across the floor. The rain had softened outside, a gentle drizzle.

I knew where the jar of sugar was. I grabbed it and dragged a chair to the window.

The city stretched endlessly below—headlights streaking through the dark, buildings rising like shadows. Rain blurred everything into shimmering silver. Even the tallest trees looked small from here. The glass walls made it feel like I was standing above the world, untouched—yet trapped.

I could see so far from this height.

I had been to many luxury hotels for my contracts, seen people live in this kind of luxury—but I never imagined I would experience it myself. I thought I would enjoy it after marriage… but nothing good had ever happened between us. Now, every second here suffocated me.

He kept bringing that fragile girl from my childhood back to the surface, again and again.

Lightning cracked across the sky outside.

Memories of being soaked in rain with my sisters and friends flashed for a second—joyful, lighthearted. But tonight, that same scene twisted into a nightmare.

I scooped two bites of sugar with the spoon. Tears welled up, spilling down my cheeks. How had I become this—a crying, trembling shadow of myself?

Then I felt it—a gaze. Sharp, piercing. I looked up.

He was there. Standing silently, wearing normal clothes. Not the tuxedo I was used to. His hair fell fragily across his forehead, and somehow… he still looked impossibly handsome. My anger flared—I didn’t care.

I regained my strength. He could start the fight now.

I was fully ready to give a reply that would sink deep into his thick mind.

“Why are you eating sugar at midnight?” His voice cut through the quiet, calm but arrogant.

“Because I love sugar,” I said, my voice trembling. “And maybe if you try some, it might add a touch of… politeness to your behavior.”

“Don’t be over smart,” he said, the smirk unmistakable.

He moved to the kitchen. I heard the clatter of utensils, the low scrape of pans.

“What is he doing now?” I whispered to myself as I made my way to the kitchen. It looked like he was about to cook something—but I wanted clarity.

“Do you know how to cook?” I asked.

“Better than you,” he said.

I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes. “Really?” A laugh slipped through my lips. “I don’t think so.”

He glanced back, unimpressed with my reaction. “At least I know the difference between food and… whatever you make.”

“Oh please,” I crossed my arms. “You ate it.”

When I had come back to the kitchen for sugar, I had seen the utensils empty. I thought my food would end up in the dustbin—but it didn’t. Nisha hadn’t cooked anything herself; she had served what I made. So the conclusion was simple—the rest had gone into his stomach.

He went quiet for a moment. I had hit the right nerve.

“I was testing my survival skills.”

“And see? You’re still alive after eating garbage made by me.”

“Barely,” he muttered. “Have you thought about my advice—joining a cooking class?”

I folded my arms, rolling my eyes.

“Oh really? And what are you making?”

“Something edible.”

I scoffed. “Confidence doesn’t cook food.”

He turned slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “It helps when skill is already there.”

“Impressive,” I said dryly. “You really think the whole world revolves around you. You need to get out of your delusions.”

For a second, he didn’t reply—just continued cooking like the conversation hadn’t affected him at all.

Then I saw it—he was making a cake. My eyes widened in surprise.

He really did know how to cook. He moved with ease, like he knew exactly where every utensil and ingredient was kept. That’s why he complained about my cooking.

But I’m not a bad cook.

Once done, he served it on a tray and placed it on the dining table. Then he began eating—sitting there, alone.

“Don’t you want to join?” he finally asked.

A big smile spread across my face. I sat down and took a bite. It was delicious.

“Live with me, and you’ll learn how to cook good food,” he said arrogantly, as if I were waiting for him to make me his disciple.

A laugh slipped from my lips.

“What?” he said arrogantly. “Did I tell a joke?”

Then suddenly, everything went dark before my eyes.

In that moment, the morning sun streamed through the large mirror-glass, filling the room with warm, golden light.

Where am I?

In hell—yes. But this was his hell.

I opened my eyes in the room, confused. I couldn’t remember when I came here last night, or when I fell asleep. Of course, it was obvious—I must have dozed off at the dining table, and he carried me here. I had thought he would leave me there.

I glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock.

How did I sleep this late?

“Good morning, ma’am. Your breakfast is ready, and these are your clothes. There are more in the closet,” Nisha said, entering with a wide smile.

“Thank you so much,” I replied. Then, hesitantly, “Where is he?” My voice trembled despite my effort.

“Sir has gone to the office.”

“Why did I sleep so much?” I murmured to myself—but she heard.

“Sir said I shouldn’t wake you up. He wanted you to wake on your own.”

“Oh…”

I didn’t believe her.

Did he really say that? I don’t think so.

I gathered my strength and got up. As I walked downstairs, I noticed a neatly packed box placed for me, with a small note resting on top.

Sorry.

My breath caught.

Was this… his apology?

For a man like him, even a written sorry felt like something huge. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I opened the box.

Inside lay a necklace—a delicate diamond chain with a crescent-moon pendant—tiny diamonds catching the light, a single pearl resting at its heart. Quietly elegant.

This was the first thing he had ever given me.

But the way he treated me—I couldn’t forget it.

When the right moment comes, I will take my revenge.

He can’t erase this with a simple “sorry.”

I was bored the entire day.

I’m not made for idleness—I paint, or I kill when needed. Waiting doesn’t suit me.

Chhaya told me the Rathor group said nothing after she informed them about Pardeep Mishra’s death. It was already flashing across the news channels.

I also called Maa and apologized. She was sweet as always, told me not to worry.

My paintings were already gone for the exhibition. There was nothing left to do.

I wandered the penthouse. Beautiful, expensive—and empty. It felt owned, not lived in. If it were mine, my art would be on every wall.

Maybe my room.

Or his.

I pushed his door open.

The scent reached me first—subtle, masculine. The room was minimal, restrained. King-size bed. Faded tones.

And above the headboard—

A large photograph of him. Shirtless.

I froze.

He was lying on the floor, one arm resting under his head, the other placed loosely beside him. His abs were faintly visible under the soft lighting, and a tattoo spread across his chest—its words unclear, like it wasn’t meant to be fully understood.

There was something unguarded about him… almost peaceful. It felt like someone had captured him in a moment where he was simply alive.

Who was the person able to get that close to him?

Hot.

His eyes in the photograph felt alive—watching me.

And I found myself staring right back at him, unable to look away.

I left the room.

And I continued exploring the rest of the day until night came.

I settled onto the bed, staring at the clock. Slowly, midnight arrived—but sleep never came to my eyes.

I jumped out and made my way to the staircase and sat there. A lot of thoughts were going through my mind.

What if he forgot I was even here?

That’s clear—he must have gone to the mansion, leaving me here. And why would he bother to tell me? I’m not his boss. I felt a faint stir of emotion, not even sure what it was. Now he can sleep peacefully without seeing my face tonight.

Suddenly, the main door opened and I tightened my grip on the glass vase, ready to smash whoever entered in the middle of the night. But he walked in.

He looked tense—frustration etched into every line of his face, anger barely restrained.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe. Of course he would, because I was standing there fully ready to smash something on his head—but I controlled myself.

“What are you doing on the door?” he asked.

“I… I was waiting for you,” I said, forcing a fake smile.

“With a vase in your hand?” he said, confused.

I walked to put it back where I had grabbed it from, because he was commanding me like I owed him an explanation. “It’s very delicate. It’s from Italy.”

But to my surprise, it slipped from my hands and fell. I don’t know how. It felt like everything was scripted and I was stuck in a movie where nothing was going right.

I looked at him. His jaw dropped—he couldn’t believe his eyes. He glanced at the shattered pieces on the floor, then back at me.

“…That was ‘very delicate’?” he asked slowly.

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose… it just fell.”

His brows lifted. “It fell? Or your hands just gave up?”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, stepping back.

“You’ll pay for it tonight,” he said, already turning and walking upstairs.

How?

Was he going to make me work in his company? Clean every corner of this penthouse? Or something worse?

Or… was I about to get another version of his so-called “princess treatment” like yesterday?

I followed.

He entered another room—larger, darker. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the sofa, loosened a few buttons of his dark blue shirt.

The room was built for indulgence. A private bar lined with rare whiskey, wine, spirits from across the world. At the center, a circular sofa around a wide glass table.

“Do you know how to make drinks?” he asked, already reaching for a bottle.

“No,” I replied.

“Do you drink?”

“No,” I said quickly.

I don’t drink—but that doesn’t mean I’ve never tasted alcohol. I’ve had it twice, and both times taught me the same lesson: it’s dangerous for me.

The first time, at a girls’ sleepover, my control loosened. I spoke too freely—about desire, about wanting to be touched. It embarrassed me later.

The second time was worse. At a club, a man crossed a line. I shattered a glass against him without thinking. He was seconds away from dying.

That’s when I understood.

With it, I am either a woman burning with forbidden desires—

Or a killer waiting for a reason.

“So you can’t join,” he said, pouring himself a glass and sitting down.

I stayed where I was, watching.

He finished one glass. Then another. Finally, he leaned back, head resting against the sofa, eyes closed.

“Stop staring at me,” he said.

Heat rushed to my face.

“Why don’t you sit?” he added.

He gestured beside him.

I hesitated, then moved closer. Maybe I could say something. I needed to apologize properly.

“I’m really sorry,” I said softly. “I won’t do anything like this again. I’ll be more careful.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

“Your sorry can’t bring it back,” he said quietly. “But you can.”

Before I could process his words, his hand reached out.

He caught my wrist, pulled me forward, and made me sit on the edge of the glass table—almost directly in front of him.

I gasped, heart hammering.

Our eyes met.

And in that moment, I didn’t know what unsettled me more—

His grip,

Or the fact that he finally looked at me like I mattered.

I stayed silent for long minutes. Then, unable to hold it in anymore, I asked quietly,

“What do I need to do?”

He thought for a moment, then finally said, without any expression,

“Good question. I’ll explain it to you practically.”

He stepped a little closer.

“I’m very good at this.”

My cheeks turned red.

“What—”

He laughed softly. Just enough to unsettle me. Then he lifted my one leg and rested it on the sofa. The movement threw me off completely. I froze there, confused, unsure of what I was even supposed to do.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand reached down—brushing my toes, as if he were mapping them.

“You have beautiful eyes—the only good thing, until I undress you,” he said, smiling.

“What—” my heartbeat froze.

His hand moved—slow, unhurried—slipping just inside the edge of my saree.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I feel better if you allow me inside you.”

My body got heated up. My cheeks were fully red. His hand now touched my knees. His hand was big and masculine. If his hand is this big, then his…

Stop. Stop, Trishika. What are you thinking? Just by looking at someone’s hands, you can’t conclude anything.

“My dick is big—you will love it.”

What? He just read my mind. How did he know what I was thinking? I wanted to protect myself and run from here, but it was like I wanted it too.

Now his hand moved slowly toward my thigh.

He gripped my thigh and pulled me toward him in one swift motion. My body slid back, landing against the cold glass table. I tried to rise, but before I could, he leaned over me—not fully, not crushing—one hand braced beside my face, while the other slowly slipped beneath the edge of my saree.

“I’m very experienced in this,” he murmured. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Of course he was. A man like him could pull anyone with his looks, his wealth, his carefully chosen words. But I wasn’t some girl desperate to sit on his dick.

Or maybe I was just pretending I wasn’t.

He smirked.

“If you support me tonight, I might forgive you.”

Those words alone could have undone me. I placed my palm against his chest and pushed—just a little. Not enough.

He leaned in and kissed me.

Heat rushed through me instantly, sharp and dizzying. For a few seconds my mind stopped working altogether. Then, traitorously, my lips responded—slowly, uncertainly—before melting into the rhythm. His mouth moved with deliberate confidence, as if he already knew how I would react.

His lips traced a path from my mouth to my throat, then to my neck. A soft sound escaped me before I could stop it. I pressed my lips together, trying to hold myself back, but pleasure slipped past my control.

My hands found his shoulders, gripping—not to push him away, but to close the distance between us.

I could feel his hand moving higher, unhurried, possessive. His mouth followed, lower still, until his breath brushed dangerously close to my heart. The pallu rested between us; he lifted it gently with his lips and looked straight into my eyes.

Shame burned through me—because part of me wanted to stop him, and another part wanted him not to.

He pulled the pallu aside, his touch firm as he leaned in. His lips brushed against my neck.

My breath caught.

He moved lower, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. A soft sound slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

Before he could do anything more, his phone rang.

He froze. Pulled back sharply. Disappointment flashed across his face as he straightened and answered the call, turning away from me.

“Hm.”

“In that case, we have an early meeting.”

He ended the call and looked back at me.

“I never leave things incomplete,” he said calmly.

“Next time, I will finish it.” A slow smirk. “Be prepared.”

Then, more sharply, “For now, let me handle this mess.”

He left the room.

I stayed there for a moment, steadying myself, adjusting my saree, my pulse still racing. My body felt light, shaken, painfully aware of what had almost happened.

He went to his room.

And I stood there, breathing, wondering how something so unfinished could feel so overwhelming.

Today, I woke up on time.

I hurried downstairs, determined to make breakfast myself, but Nisha was already there. She looked a little fragile this morning, quieter than usual.

Before I could say anything, I felt his presence behind me.

My body stiffened. Shame and nervousness tangled inside me. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around or meet his eyes. I just stood there, hoping he would walk past—hoping he wouldn’t look at me.

“Driver will come to take you to the mansion whenever you want,” he said calmly.

“Ji,” was all I managed to reply.

“Today I have a lot of work,” he continued. “I won’t be coming. Not here. Not to the mansion.”

My fingers tightened slightly at my sides.

“Whenever you want to leave—today or tomorrow—tell Nisha,” he said.

And then he left.

Just like that—without a glance back or a moment’s pause, as if nothing had happened.