¹

20 years ago

Noorabad village lay in silence that night, heavy with secrets, blood, and the thick scent of burning incense. Inside an old haveli surrounded by black SUVs and gunmen, Dev Thakur, the most feared man in the underworld, poured himself a glass of whiskey his white kurta splattered with blood not his own.

Across from him, sitting with far more control but the same fire in his eyes, was Vikram Malhotra, the rising political force in the capital. Their worlds should never have met. A don and a politician. But sometimes, two men from opposite ends of power share the same enemy and that's where alliances are born.

"We protected your election," Dev said, lifting the glass. "You protected my business in Delhi. But these kind of bonds, Vikram... they don't last without blood."

Vikram exhaled slowly. "You want more than power, don't you?"

Dev smirked. "I want loyalty. For generations."

The moment hung heavy in the air.

Then, word came from the hallway. A servant entered, voice shaking. "S-sir... congratulations. It's a girl. Madam Meera gave birth."

Vikram stood immediately, his expression unreadable.

"A daughter..." Dev said thoughtfully. He stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Then let's make a real pact. Let your daughter be raised with my son's name already written in her fate."

Vikram stiffened. "You want to..."

"Yes. Your daughter will be promised to my Rahul. Not tomorrow. Not later. Now."

Vikram looked at the man before him. The devil in human skin. The man who had saved his career and now wanted his daughter in return.

And yet... to say no was dangerous. To say yes was worse.

But the ambition in Vikram's heart whispered louder than any fatherly instinct.

He raised his glass.

"To the future...."

◇◇◇

The Malhotra estate bustled with quiet joy that morning. Servants moved with hushed excitement, preparing sweet offerings for the gods. Flowers were being strung, the kitchen filled with the aroma of saffron and ghee.

Upstairs, in a sunlit bedroom with soft pink curtains and baby blankets folded neatly, baby Priya Malhotra had just been placed in her crib wrapped in white muslin, her tiny face calm, her eyelids fluttering in a dream known only to newborns.

In the garden below, two boys ran barefoot on the grass, their laughter echoing across the marble walls.

Arjun Malhotra was nine mischievous, sharp-eyed, and full of boundless energy. Beside him was his best friend, Rahul Thakur, the quiet, serious one. Where Arjun was bold, Rahul was calculating. But where others feared Rahul's silence, Arjun only ever grinned at it.

"Catch me if you can!" Arjun shouted, vaulting over a stone bench.

Rahul chased him with a rare laugh, dodging flower pots and ducking under hanging vines. The two were inseparable the politician's son and the mafia heir, bound not just by bloodlines, but by something stronger: unspoken loyalty.

Just as Arjun skidded to a stop under the veranda, a servant approached breathlessly.

"Master Arjun, your father asked for you. The baby is born!"

Arjun's face lit up. "A sister?"

The servant nodded.

Rahul followed as Arjun took off inside.

The nursery was warm, soft with the scent of rose water and milk. Meera Malhotra lay resting in bed, her face pale but peaceful. In the center of the room, cradled in a polished wooden crib, slept the newest Malhotra.

Arjun rushed forward, standing on tiptoe to see the tiny baby. "She's so small..."

Rahul stepped in slowly, silent as always. His eyes fell on the crib.

He hadn't said a word yet.

He didn't need to.

He looked at her this tiny creature, pink-skinned and delicate, swaddled like a doll.

She yawned, wriggled, and opened her eyes just slightly.

And something shifted inside him.

A strange stillness settled over his usually guarded face.

Arjun turned. "Isn't she cute?"

Rahul didn't reply.

His young mind didn't understand everything yet not the deal their fathers had made, not the weight of a promise whispered in whiskey and smoke. But something primal, something unexplainable stirred in his chest.

He stepped closer to the crib, reaching out one hand.

"Her name is Priya," Meera said softly from the bed, watching them both. "She's going to change everything."

Rahul blinked once.

Then whispered, "She's mine."

Everyone laughed thinking it was childish, playful, innocent.

But Meera's smile faltered for just a second.

Because in Rahul's eyes, there wasn't playfulness.

There was possession.

Even at nine years old, Rahul Thakur didn't make casual statements.

He made claims.

And Priya Malhotra had just become his first one...

◇◇◇

The Malhotra mansion was unusually quiet in the late afternoons, bathed in golden sunlight and the soft hum of lullabies coming from the nursery.

Inside, baby Priya slept soundly in a carved wooden cradle. She had her mother's eyes and her father's nose but the delicate, soft look of innocence that made anyone who saw her stop and stare.

Well, almost anyone.

For ten-year-old Rahul Thakur, she wasn't just a baby.

She was his.

He visited daily. While Arjun would run off to play cricket or pester the kitchen staff for sweets, Rahul would climb up the stairs alone and push open the nursery door like he belonged there.

He never made noise.

Never disturbed her.

But he would sit on the floor beside her cradle, knees drawn to his chest, and just watch.

He memorized every movement the way she curled her fingers, the tiny sounds she made in her sleep, the way she kicked when the blanket felt too tight.

Once, when the maid reached in to adjust her swaddle, Priya began to cry.

Rahul stood up instantly. "You're doing it wrong."

The maid blinked. "S-sir, I'm just-"

"She doesn't like her feet tucked too tight," he said, voice low but sharp. "Give her space."

Meera Malhotra entered the room just then and paused. She watched Rahul this serious boy with unreadable eyes gently pick up the crying baby. And to her surprise, Priya stopped crying the moment she was in his arms.

"She calms down with you," Meera said softly.

Rahul didn't look at her. He just held Priya closer, his hand cupping her head with a care that no ten-year-old should have known.

"She knows I'm hers," he whispered.

Meera frowned.

"Don't you mean she's yours?"

Rahul's gaze didn't shift. "No. I belong to her."

Days turned to weeks...

He'd bring small toys, flowers from the garden, even broken pencils carved into dolls, things she was too young to play with. But he kept them beside her cradle.

When Priya had her first cold, Rahul stayed by her side all night, refusing to eat until her fever broke.

Meera watched, worried. "You're just a boy, Rahul..."

He answered, "Boys grow up. Promises don't."

And then he'd sit beside the crib again, stroking baby Priya's tiny hand with a finger far too big, murmuring softly, "Grow up fast, little dove. So no one dares to touch what's already mine..."

----

To Be Continue...