Hospitals were supposed to be places of healing, of miracles. But for Aarohi Mehra, they were warzones. Not because of what happened within the walls—but because getting there meant surviving the battlefield called home.
She moved quickly, slipping past the rusted hospital gates as the morning sun tried to break through thick monsoon clouds. The air smelled of damp earth, burning fuel, and antiseptic. It was a scent she’d grown used to. The scent of survival.
Her shoulders were tense, her braid fraying from being hastily tied, and her uniform—an old green kurta—was ironed to neatness despite the fact that the hem was worn thin. Her bag was weighed down not just by books, but by dreams. Heavy ones. Expensive ones.
Dreams her parents hated.
They called her ambitions foolish. Her studying “useless.” They said she should’ve been married by now. But Aarohi kept studying anyway. Because it wasn’t just her freedom on the line.
It was Chhavi—her little sister. Her heart.
At just seven, Chhavi was already quieter than most children, already afraid of their mother’s temper and their father’s silence. Aarohi stayed in that toxic house not because she couldn’t leave—she could. But if she did, they’d take their anger out on Chhavi.
And that was something Aarohi would never risk.
So she endured. Bruises hidden beneath sleeves. Pain behind a smile. She walked into the world with her head high and her soul trembling, just so her sister could sleep without crying.
This morning had started like any other—shouting, broken glass, threats.
But she had to make it to her rotation on time. Her scholarship was on thin ice. Her professors had started noticing her fatigue, the occasional missed class, the sometimes-bloodied hands from patching up her own injuries.
She couldn’t afford to be late. Not again.
She gripped her folder tightly as she crossed the parking lot. Her eyes were glued to the hospital steps—until a gust of wind caught her papers and threw them into the air.
“No no no—please,” she gasped, immediately dropping to her knees, scrambling to gather them. Her long braid slipped over her shoulder, fingers fumbling to keep the wind from carrying her precious notes into muddy puddles.
She didn’t notice the convoy of black SUVs that had pulled up on the hospital curb.
Didn’t notice the swarm of men in black surrounding one figure.
Didn’t see the predator watching her every move.
But he saw her.
Raghav Rathore.
Power in human form. The kind of man whose name was never printed in full in newspapers, only whispered in police stations and echoed in courtrooms behind closed doors. A man with no official position, yet more influence than most ministers. Sharp suit, sharp jaw, sharper instincts.
He’d come to the hospital to finalize a “charitable” donation for a trauma wing—an investment to clean some of his bloodstained money.
But now he stood motionless, gaze locked on the girl crawling after scraps of paper like they were made of gold.
He should’ve looked away.
But he didn’t.
Something about her made him pause. She was trembling slightly, but not because of fear. It was exhaustion. Desperation. He knew that look. He saw it often—on men begging for their lives.
But it looked different on her.
Raw. Defiant.
He began walking, slowly, toward the stairs without a word. His guards followed—until he lifted a hand and stopped them.
Aarohi had just stood up, clutching her papers to her chest, when she turned around——and collided straight into a wall of muscle and scent she didn’t recognize.
Strong arms gripped her shoulders to keep her from falling.
“Careful,” came a deep, velvet voice. She froze.
Eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.
He was tall. Towering over her. Dark suit, colder eyes. Everything about him screamed danger—but not the wild, chaotic kind. The calculated, silent kind. The kind that broke things just by choosing to.
I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, stepping back quickly, dropping a page again in her panic. “I wasn’t looking. I didn’t mean to—”
He bent down slowly and picked it up before she could.
“You're trembling,” he said quietly.
“I’m not,” she whispered, though she was. She didn’t like how her voice sounded around him. Small. She wasn’t small. She couldn’t afford to be.
He handed her the page, eyes not leaving hers. “You’re in pain.”
Aarohi looked away. “I'm fine. Just late. Please... excuse me.”
“What’s your name?”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I don’t ask questions twice.”
There was no threat in his tone. It didn’t need to be one. The air around him did that for him.
Aarohi,” she finally said. “Aarohi Mehra.”
He repeated it in his head, slowly. Aarohi. Mehra.
Soft syllables for a girl with bleeding palms and brave eyes.
He stepped aside. “Be careful. This place... is full of monsters.”
She didn’t understand what he meant. But she nodded once, tightly, and hurried past him, disappearing into the hospital.
Raghav stood still for a long moment.
Behind him, Kabir cleared his throat. “So... that was her?”
Raghav nodded once.
“She’s... different,” Kabir said quietly. “Not your usual type.”
Raghav smirked faintly. “She’s not a type. She’s a contrast. She doesn’t belong in this filth, and yet, she survives in it. That kind of strength... that kind of softness wrapped in steel... it’s rare.”
Kabir glanced at the hospital doors she had disappeared through. “You want us to follow her now?”
Raghav lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly. “No. Let her be. Let her feel untouched. Let her think she still has choices.”
Kabir tilted his head. “And after that?”
“I want her details. Everything. Where she lives. Who she speaks to. Her schedule. Her weakness.”
“You’re going to pull her in?”
Raghav looked ahead, eyes darker than the clouds rolling in above them. “She’s beautiful, Kabir. Not in the usual way. Beautiful like silence after chaos. Like scars that tell a story.”
Kabir was quiet.
Raghav took another drag. “I want her to come to me willingly. But if she doesn’t...” he paused. “I’ll still have her.”
And the family?”
“Let’s see what kind of hell she’s tied to. Every chain has a weakness. I want to know hers.”
He flicked the ash off the cigarette, his tone suddenly softer. “But not yet. Let her live a little longer in her illusion.”
Kabir nodded. “Understood.”
Raghav’s
eyes stayed fixed on the hospital door.
Because now he knew her name.
And Raghav never forgot the names of things he wanted to own.
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