The soft coastal breeze filtered through the sheer linen curtains of the master bedroom, carrying the crisp scent of morning brine.
Rudra lay sprawled across the king-sized mattress, unbothered by the morning sun.
His long limbs coiled tightly around an oversized down pillow like an untamed lover holding his queen.
In the quiet, hazy warmth between sleep and waking, a familiar, teasing voice whispered directly against his ear- sweet as crushed sugarcane, rich with sacred jasmine:
“It’s time to wake up, my sexy, sinful hubby…
hehehe.”
Rudra smiled into the cotton, his deep voice muffled:
“Two more minutes, Sati…
I’m not letting you go anywhere today.
You belong to me…”
PECK-PECK-PECK!
A sharp, rhythmic drumming sensation struck his forehead like a tiny pneumatic drill!
“KAAAAA-KAAAAA!”
“Ow!
Ouch!
What the hell?!”
Rudra’s eyes snapped wide.
His hands shot forward on pure athletic instinct, catching the feathery intruder mid-peck!
Sitting trapped within his massive palms was a glossy black Asian Koel.
Its bright ruby-red eyes blinking in frantic bewilderment, trembling against his iron grip.
Rudra blinked, staring at the little bird perched on his knuckles.
A low, rolling chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“Well, good morning to you too, feathered alarm clock,” Rudra murmured softly, easing his grip.
He reached toward the bedside fruit bowl, plucking two ripe blackberries, extending them on his palm.
The koel chirped excitedly, gobbling the fruit before fluttering onto the teak balcony railing, preening its wings in the morning light.
Rudra sat up on the edge of the bed.
Reaching to his neck, his thumb caressed the smooth, dark Rudraksha beads resting against his throat.
In a quiet morning ritual.
He touched the wooden beads, tapped his fingers between his eyebrows, and brushed his own brow.
“Good morning, Sati.”
A soft, ethereal giggle rippled across the quiet room, dissolving into the sea breeze.
Rudra threw the duvet aside, stretched his long frame until his vertebrae cracked like small firecrackers, and headed straight into the master bathroom.
Twenty minutes later.
The frosted glass door slid open amidst rolling plumes of cedar-scented steam.
Rudra stepped out onto the marble floor.
A single dark charcoal towel slung low across his hips, reaching up to run a damp hand through his thick obsidian waves.
He glanced into the full-length mirror and froze.
“What the…?”
Rudra leaned forward, his liquid-gold irises wide in analytical disbelief.
The physique staring back at him was no longer the merely athletic, lean-muscled frame of Jai Hemant Shroff.
His shoulder caps had flared outward into dense, rounded cannonballs of bronze muscle.
His traps climbed high along his neck, and his chest had hardened into thick, square slabs of carved marble.
Most shocking was his midsection:
An impeccably chiselled eight-pack core, the deep, symmetrical ridges etched with razor-sharp vascularity, tapering down into an aggressive, aesthetic V-taper.
“Fifty percent…” Rudra breathed, flexing his right arm.
The bicep peaked like a mountain of corded steel, the veins winding down to his knuckles.
“Just yesterday, this vessel felt average compared to my old body.”
“But after one single day of relentless grinding- transmigrating, sprinting through Versova, saving Mohini, that high-speed drift, and bleeding over an acoustic guitar…
the physical framework is violently accelerating.”
He didn’t realize that the true catalyst wasn’t merely the physical exertion.
The raw soul-deep tribute he had poured out on the Worli stage.
Releasing the latent, suffocating pain of Jai Shroff while honouring the eternal memory of Sati- had shattered the lingering karmic locks on the vessel.
The remnant soul of Jai had found absolute peace, liberating the genetic lattice of his body to rapidly manifest the physical prime body of Rudra’s immortal spirit.
Rudra slapped his forehead, bursting into sudden, boyish laughter.
“Damn it!
Every transmigrator in history checks their little brother on day one, and I completely forgot!”
“Mohini grabbed it yesterday and nearly lost her mind…”
With a mischievous, wicked grin.
Rudra playfully unhooked the edge of his towel, glancing downward to inspect his prize.
Below his chiselled abdomen rested an iron-dense, thick golden bronze monolith.
Heavy, vascular, and carrying the devastating, dark authority of an apex conqueror even at half-rest.
Rudra exhaled a proud, theatrical sigh of relief, wrapping the towel back around his waist.
“Thank God.”
“The ultimate instrument of female worship made the journey completely intact.”
His expression darkened slightly, his mind drifting back to the Kashyap villa.
“Mohini is a demoness in every sense of the word.
Ruthless, scarred, and dangerous.”
“I can use Maya Mirage’s regional reach to plant my first flags, but she is only a stepping stone.”
“A real king doesn’t hide behind an indie production house.
I need an entire battalion of loyal titans.”
“Rudra beta!
Breakfast is ready!”
Ayesha’s melodious, maternal voice echoed down the corridor, shattering his strategic reverie.
Rudra’s stomach let out a thunderous, cavernous growl that rattled the bathroom tiles!
He laughed, clutching his ribs.
“Food first, world conquest second.
The holy rule of mortal existence.”
“Coming, Mom!
Give me two minutes!”
Thirty Minutes Earlier — The Dining Hall
The morning spread was elaborate: fresh papaya slices, warm buttered toast, masala omelets, and tall glasses of freshly squeezed fruit juice.
Seated at the table.
Seventeen-year-old Krishna was tapping her foot impatiently against the floor.
Her MacBook Pro open on the placemat, surrounded by a mountain of morning newspapers, glossy entertainment tabloids, and Page-3 trade magazines.
“Where is he?!” Krishna huffed, crossing her arms.
“I swear, if he spends another ten minutes doing hair flips in the mirror, I’m eating his share of the eggs!”
“Patience, Kishu,” Jackie Shroff rumbled from the head of the table, sipping his tapri chai through his aviators.
“A rockstar needs his beauty sleep, bhidu.”
The hallway floorboards creaked.
Stepping into the dining room was Rudra.
He wore a crisp white henley that strained across his newly broadened chest, dark grey track pants hugging his dense quadriceps, his damp obsidian hair casually tossed back with effortless, roguish disarray.
Krishna looked up- and her jaw locked.
Her hazel eyes dilated in pure, breathless astonishment.
‘What the hell…?!’ Krishna’s mind screamed, a sudden, scorching blush creeping up her cheeks.
‘How does someone change this much in twenty-four hours?!
His shoulders are wider, his arms look like they could snap a tree in half…’
‘He looks hotter than Hrithik Roshan in Dhoom 2!
Stop it, Krishna, that’s your damn brother!
Rudra pulled out the chair directly across from her.
Catching her wide-eyed, flustered stare, a devilish, unrepentant Casanova smirk spread across his lips.
He leaned across the table until his face was inches from hers, dropping his velvet baritone into a scandalous, teasing whisper:
“Kishu…
if you keep looking at your big brother with those hungry eyes, I might have to consider taboo love.”
“You know what I mean, right?”
“YELP!”
Krishna shrieked, leaning backward so violently that her chair tipped on two legs, nearly dumping her onto the rug!
Her face detonated into a radioactive, fiery crimson!
Rudra threw his head back, howling with uproarious laughter, snapping his fingers in her face:
“Five-nil, little sister!
Five to zero since yesterday morning!
How does it feel to get a taste of your own medicine?!”
“YOU ARROGANT, DISGUSTING BASTARD!” Krishna yelled.
Her face burning as she shot up from her seat, thrusting both middle fingers directly into his grinning face!
“I WILL TEAR YOUR FUCKING—”
“KRISHNA SHROFF!”
Ayesha’s sharp, terrifying maternal shriek sliced through the room like a broadsword!
Ayesha rounded the kitchen island, eyes blazing with maternal fury:
“Language, young lady!
Two middle fingers at the breakfast table?!”
“See this, Jaggu!
Look at how wild she has become!”
“What decent boy is ever going to marry this foul-mouthed tomboy?!”
Krishna froze, horrified, looking between her mother and her brother.
Rudra immediately dropped his head onto Ayesha’s shoulder as she walked by, pretending to sniffle with exaggerated, theatrical vulnerability:
“Mom…
she bullies me every single morning.”
“I just asked her why she was staring at her laptop, and she immediately attacked my fragile dignity…”
“You lying snake!” Krishna gasped, her eyes bulging.
Ayesha rubbed Rudra’s head soothingly, shooting a lethal glare at her daughter:
“Sit down, Kishu, and apologize to your brother right this second!”
Krishna clamped her teeth shut.
Her eye twitching violently as identical red anime tick-marks flared on her temples.
She slumped back into her chair, glaring at Rudra with pure, murderous vengeance.
‘Just you wait, you biggest bully,’ Krishna thought darkly, a wicked smirk suddenly touching the corner of her lips.
‘I’m going to extract this debt with compound interest.’
She straightened up, clearing her throat with theatrical importance:
“Mom, Dad…
I wasn’t using my laptop to play games.
You need to see this.
Right now.”
She shoved the stack of morning papers across the table.
Rudra reached out, picking up the top publication.
The national edition of the Times of India.
His golden eyes widened in genuine, stunned bewilderment.
Taking up the entire front page was a high-resolution, full-bleed photograph from last night:
Rudra standing beneath the Worli moonlight, his leather jacket discarded.
His chiselled torso gleaming with sweat, his head tilted toward the stars while two crystalline tears rolled down his cheeks, his bleeding fingers scattering red droplets across the black guitar!
The bold, metallic headline screamed across the country:
THE BIRTH OF A GOD: UNKNOWN ROCKSTAR SHATTERS COKE STUDIO!
Beneath it lay the latest special edition of Filmfare, displaying a close-up of his piercing, tear-filled liquid-gold eyes with the golden title:
THE GOLDEN VOICE OF MUMBAI: WHO IS RUDRA?
Stardust, Cine Blitz, and every major Page-3 trade daily carried the exact same visual explosion. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“How is this even possible…?” Rudra muttered, running his hand over his face.
“This was an underground showcase twelve hours ago.”
“Underground?!” Krishna laughed hysterically, spinning her MacBook Pro toward them.
“Superhero, you are the number one trending topic on Orkut across the entire country!”
“The video has blown up on Facebook and YouTube!”
On the screen, grainy, 360p mobile uploads of his performance were circulating across thousands of Orkut communities.
[ Aryan_Rockz91 ]: Bro, who is this guy?!
He shredded those strings until his fingers bled!
Real fucking rockstar!
[ Simran_P ]: Those eyes…
I cried through the whole last song.
I don’t even know his name, but I’m officially his wife.
[ Rahul_D ]: The way he caught that apple mid-air and bit it?!
Pure Bollywood swag!
Salman and SRK have serious competition!
[ Marcelo_Rio ]: I don’t speak Hindi, but this man’s voice made my mother weep in Rio de Janeiro!
Pure soul!
Greetings from Brazil!
“Look at the television!” Krishna grabbed the remote, clicking over to MTV India.
The screen flared with MTV’s prime-time morning bulletin.
Sitting in the neon-lit studio were veteran VJs Nikhil Chinapa and Anusha Dandekar, alongside a fresh-faced, charismatic newcomer:
A twenty-six-year-old Ayushmann Khurrana.
Ayushmann radiated effortless North Indian charm.
Clad in a fitted casual blazer, sporting neatly styled spiked hair, thick-rimmed stylish spectacles, and a boyish, dimpled smile that carried the razor-sharp wit of an experienced radio host.
“I’m telling you, Nikhil, I have covered music festivals from Delhi to London,” Ayushmann spoke into the camera.
His expressive hands gesturing with infectious energy.
“I have never seen an artist take complete command of five thousand people in under forty seconds!”
“This guy didn’t just sing—he performed a spiritual exorcism on stage!”
Anusha leaned forward, her eyes dancing with unmasked, breathless fascination:
“And can we talk about his entrance?!
Clearing the monitor rigs in a single leap, catching a flying apple, and putting on dark shades like a classic nineties hero?!”
“He looked like a Greek god carved out of bronze!”
Nikhil nodded solemnly:
“MTV management has officially confirmed that due to unprecedented national demand”
“An uncut, high-definition broadcast of last night’s performance is being mastered for a special national DVD and broadcast syndication.”
“It is officially the highest-rated single broadcast in the history of our network.”
The screen transitioned to a backstage interview conducted minutes after the curtain had fallen.
Arijit Singh stood before the microphone, his black acoustic guitar cradled against his chest.
Looking straight into the lens.
Arijit ignored the reporters, speaking with raw, tearful conviction:
“Bhai…
I know you are watching this.
Without you, I would have died internally in the mud last night.”
“You carried my pain…
you made my instrument divine.
This life belongs to you.”
In the living room.
Rudra’s throat tightened.
He touched the table, whispering softly:
“Arijit…
you beautiful fool.
Your own soul did the heavy lifting.”
On the television.
Anusha turned toward Jasmine Sandlas, who was standing beside Arijit, wearing Rudra’s oversized black leather jacket around her shoulders.
Anusha smirked, her tone laced with sharp, catty industry mockery:
“And what about you, Jasmine?
Or should I say…
the Gulaabi Queen?
The mysterious rockstar seemed exceptionally fond of you on stage.”
“Did he take you home for some…
‘private quality time’ after the show?”
Jasmine’s hazel eyes narrowed into cold, dangerous slits.
A slow, predatory smirk curled across the red-haired singer’s lips as she leaned directly into Anusha’s microphone:
“Not yet, darling.
But don’t worry…
when Rudra and I finally finish our private session”
“I’ll be sure to send you an exclusive front-row ticket to the afterparty.”
Anusha choked on her own saliva.
Her face flushing crimson as she snapped her mouth shut!
Ayushmann Khurrana burst into a loud, wheezing giggle, quickly covering his mouth with his notes, while Nikhil Chinapa chuckled into his coffee!
“HA!
YES!” Krishna cheered, slamming her palm on the table.
“I love this girl!
Total savage!
Rudra, she’s completely into you!”
“I officially approve of my future sister-in-law!”
Ayesha crossed her arms, her maternal gaze fixing onto Rudra with quiet, analytical curiosity:
“Beta…
is there something going on between you and that red-haired girl?
You know you can tell your mother.”
Rudra sweat-dropped, holding his hands up in mock surrender:
“Mom, please!
I met the girl less than ten minutes before the show!
I don’t even know her favourite colour!”
Jackie Shroff leaned back, letting out a booming, chest-deep laugh that rattled the teacups.
“Alright, bhidu log!” Jackie declared, clapping his hands.
“Turn off the gossip channels.
The world can scream all it wants, but inside this house…
breakfast is sacred family time.”
Rudra smiled gratefully, digging into his eggs.
He casually shared the story of meeting Vijay Varma and Jaideep Ahlawat in Aram Nagar.
Carefully omitting the private bedroom negotiations with Mohini Kashyap—mentioning how both theatre actors were massive fans of Jackie Dada.
Jackie’s weathered face lit up with paternal warmth:
“Real theatre boys, bhidu?
True artists!”
“Next time you cross paths with them, drag them straight here for dinner.”
“Ayesha makes the best mutton curry in Bombay.”
“Deal, Dad,” Rudra grinned.
Meanwhile — Outside the Shroff Building
Standing on the sunlit pavement of Carter Road, peering at the brass building directory through his wild salt-and-pepper curls, was Imtiaz Ali.
After Rudra had vanished from the Worli amphi-theater in a cloud of coloured smoke.
Imtiaz had sprinted to the delivery alley- only to see the taillights of the sapphire-black BMW M5 tearing toward the sea link.
Yet Imtiaz was no ordinary spectator.
He had memorized the vehicle’s temporary registration plate in a single glance.
Using his high-level contacts within the Maharashtra Regional Transport Office at two in the morning.
The filmmaker had bypassed bureaucratic red tape to uncover the registered owner of the multi-crore luxury sedan.
When the RTO database spit out the name—Jackie Shroff.
Imtiaz had stood frozen in the cold midnight air.
His jaw dropping in absolute, transcendent awe.
“Jackie dada’s boy…” Imtiaz had breathed, running his hands through his unkempt curls.
“The son of the original Hero!”
The industry knew of the Shroffs’ financial recovery.
They knew of Jackie’s fierce protection of his children after the tabloid storms.
But no one- not a single soul in Bollywood knew that the reclusive, introverted star kid hiding behind Bandra walls possessed the vocal cords of an ancient god.
Imtiaz had walked into a nearby tea stall, pulled out the morning edition of Filmfare, and stared at Rudra’s bleeding, laughing portrait beneath the full moon.
“Ranbir is a brilliant craftsman…” Imtiaz had murmured to the rising sun.
“He has technique.
He has lineage.
But this boy…
this Rudra…
he carries the bleeding madness of an untamed dervish.”
“He is Janardhan ‘Jordan’ Jakhar.”
Now, standing on the fourth-floor landing of the Shroff penthouse.
Imtiaz adjusted the collar of his crumpled olive linen shirt.
He reached out and pressed the brass doorbell.
Inside the Penthouse
The chime echoed through the corridor.
“Kishu, grab the door before you leave for school,” Ayesha called out, clearing the empty toast plates.
“Got it,” Krishna grumbled, picking up her tall glass of fresh orange juice to take a final sip as she walked into the foyer.
She pulled the heavy teakwood door open—
Her dark eyes locked onto the wild, salt-and-pepper curls and the deeply lined, poetic face of the man standing on the mat.
Her brain short-circuited.
CRASH!
The tall glass slipped straight from her numb fingers, detonating against the Italian marble tiles in an explosive spray of juice, pulp, and shattered crystal!
From the kitchen.
Ayesha’s voice roared in pure exasperation:
“Kishu, tujhe ho kya gaya hai?!
Yeh teesri baar tune glass giraya hai!
Mere paas factory hai kya glass ki?!
Agli baar se tu steel ke glass mein juice piya karegi!”
(Kishu, what on earth is wrong with you?!; That is the third time you have dropped a glass!; Do I own a glass factory or something?!; From now on, you will drink your juice out of a steel tumbler!)
Ayesha grabbed her own tall glass of pomegranate juice, storming toward the foyer:
“Tujhe ho kya gaya hai?
Kaun hai bahar?!”
(What has gotten into you?; Who on earth is at the door?!)
Ayesha rounded the corner, stepped beside her frozen daughter, and looked at the visitor—
Her breath caught in her throat.
CRASH!
Ayesha’s hand completely unclasped.
Back at the dining table.
Jackie and Rudra leaned back in their chairs, howling with side-splitting laughter!
“Arey bhidu, dekh!” Jackie howled, slapping his knee.
“Lagta hai aaj hamare ghar ki auratein paagal ho gayi hain!
Jaise maa…
waise beti!”
(Hey boss, look at that!; It seems the women of our house have completely lost their minds today!; Like mother…
like daughter!)
Rudra chuckled, raising his tall glass of thick mango juice toward his lips in an arrogant toast.
In the hallway, identical, throbbing red tick-marks flared on the foreheads of both Ayesha and Krishna!
With synchronized, chilling precision, mother and daughter stepped to the left and right, clearing the sightline between the foyer and the dining room.
Rudra brought the rim of the glass to his lips.
His golden eyes casually flicking toward the entrance—
Beside him, Jackie’s aviators slid straight down his nose.
The laughter died instantly.
The temperature in the penthouse plunged to absolute zero!
Both father and son’s eyes dilated to their catastrophic limits!
TILT!
The heavy teak dining chairs tipped violently backward!
THUD!
SPLASH!
Jackie and Rudra tumbled backward onto the hardwood floor in a tangled heap of long limbs.
Their tall glasses slipping from their hands, dumping thick, sticky yellow mango juice directly across both of their shocked, frozen faces!
Standing in the hallway with their arms crossed over their chests.
Ayesha and Krishna looked down at the two juice-covered giants with identical, razor-sharp, and triumphant smirks.
Lying flat on his back with mango pulp dripping from his chin.
Jackie Shroff stared at the doorway, a choked, horrified curse slipping from his lips in synchronized harmony with his son:
“SAALA…
MAA KI AANKH!”
(HOLY…
SHIT!)
Standing on the welcome mat, casually scratching his salt-and-pepper curls with an amused, gentle grin, was the undisputed poet of modern cinema:
Imtiaz Ali.
Juhu — The Nadiadwala Grandson Palace
A sprawling, palatial estate overlooking the Arabian Sea.
The home of Sajid Nadiadwala was the epitome of old-money Bollywood luxury.
Upstairs in the expansive, carpeted playroom, six-year-old twin brothers Subhan and Sufyan were bouncing wildly on their custom bunk beds!
Both boys were clutching brightly coloured plastic toy guitars, thrashing their heads to the rhythm of the television mounted on the wall!
“I’M THE ROCKSTAR GOD!” Subhan shouted, executing a clumsy knee slide across the carpet!
“NO, I’M RUDRA!” Sufyan yelled back, strumming his plastic strings.
“LOOK AT MY GOLDEN EYES!”
The double doors swung open.
Stepping into the playroom with an exasperated maternal sigh was Warda Khan Nadiadwala.
At thirty-four, the wife of producer Sajid Nadiadwala was a breath-taking, statuesque beauty.
A former prime-time investigative entertainment journalist.
Warda possessed a flawless, glowing olive complexion, dark feline eyes framed by thick lashes, and a voluptuous, hourglass figure that commanded absolute attention, currently dressed in a luxurious silk lounge robe.
“Subhan!
Sufyan!” Warda scolded gently, placing her hands on her hips.
“What is this absolute chaos?!
Your tutor has been waiting downstairs for fifteen minutes, and you haven’t even touched your breakfast!”
The twins stopped, pointing their plastic guitars excitedly toward the television screen!
“Mummy, look!” Sufyan chirped proudly.
“Look at the TV!
We are practicing to become rockstars just like Rudra!”
Warda let out a tired sigh, rolling her dark eyes.
“Who on earth is—”
Her voice trailed off.
Her gaze settled onto the high-definition replay of the Worli concert playing across the screen.
The camera was tracking Rudra as he hit the opening notes of Sawaare.
Warda stood frozen, the breath slowly leaving her lungs.
She watched the sheer, overwhelming physical symmetry of the 6’3″ titan.
The bronzed marble musculature.
The unbuttoned black vest clinging to his chest, the arterial blood scattering from his fingertips like rubies across the dark wood.
“My God…” Warda whispered, her heart hammering against her chest.
“Who is this boy…?
How much bleeding sorrow does he carry inside his soul…?”
Then, the camera executed a tight, cinematic zoom.
The lights shifted to pure celestial amber as Rudra tilted his face upward, laughing through his falling tears beneath the full moon.
His piercing, liquid-gold irises filled the entire seventy-inch screen!
GASP!
Warda’s hand flew to her lips in absolute, paralyzed horror!
Her knees buckled beneath her silk robe.
She stumbled backward, collapsing heavily onto the edge of her children’s bed, her pupils blown wide in disbelieving shock!
The twins paused, looking at each other before bursting into giggles:
“Look, Sufyan!
Even Mummy fell in love with Rudra!
He’s the coolest!”
Warda didn’t hear them.
Her hands were shaking violently as she stared at the glowing screen.
She knew those eyes.
She had visited the Shroff home for private dinners with Sajid.
She had seen the shy, introverted boy who used to sit in the corner with his head down, hiding behind thick tortoiseshell glasses, unable to maintain eye contact for more than three seconds.
A heavy, scalding shiver travelled straight down her spine.
A feverish heat pooling between her thighs as she whispered in a dazed, trembling voice:
“Kya yeh tum ho, Jai…?
Kya Rudra hi Jai hai…?”
“Par aise kaise…
Aisa kya hua ki ek sharmila ladka, jo kisi se nazrein nahi milata tha…
aaj paanch hazaar logon ke saamne khade hokar aag laga raha hai…?”
(Is this truly you, Jai…?; Could Rudra really be Jai…?; But how on earth is this possible…?; What could have transformed an introverted boy who couldn’t even meet someone’s gaze…
into a beast commanding five thousand people with pure fire…?)
She touched her own throat, her breath coming fast and shallow.
The shy star kid was dead.
In his place stood an untamed, Carnal king whose raw virility practically reached through the screen to tear open her deepest, most guarded feminine desires.
A dark, sultry smirk slowly curled across Warda’s full lips as she remembered her husband’s promise to Jackie Dada:
“Nahi…
yeh woh sharmila ladka nahi hai.
Yeh kuch aur ban chuka hai…”
“Aisa kuch jiske baare mein yeh industry soch bhi nahi sakti…”
(No…
this is not that shy boy anymore; He has evolved into something entirely different…
something far beyond what this industry could ever fathom…)
She leaned back against the headboard.
Her eyes burning with dark, wanton obsession:
“Rudra…
hum jald milenge.”
“Kyunki Jackie dada ne Sajid se vaada kiya hai ki tumhara career hamare haathon mein hoga…”
(Rudra…
we will meet very soon; Because Jackie dada promised Sajid that your debut would belong to our house…)
Subhan and Sufyan ran over, tugging at her silk sleeve with pure, innocent grins:
“Mummy!
Aap bhi Rudra bhaiya ki deewani ban gayi na?!”
(Mummy!
You’ve become completely crazy about Rudra bhaiya too, haven’t you?!)
Warda looked down at her boys.
Reaching out with trembling, manicured hands.
She gently stroked their hair.
Her feline eyes fixed upon the golden titan on the screen.
Her lips parting in a slow, dangerous, and intoxicating whisper:
“Haan, mere bachon…
main bhi Rudra ki deewani ban gayi.”
(Yes, my sweet children…; I have fallen completely under Rudra’s spell too.)
[ Chapter End ]
Author Note
Hello my sexy and hot readers
I’m sorry for today’s chapter delay and love you too, my gorgeous female readers, I know how desperately you’ve been waiting.
Don’t roll your eyes and mutter “Not again”… I can already hear your giggles.
As you know, I’m your magician‑storyteller, weaving words that pull you straight into my world.
Enough joking – the reason for the delay is simple: today was my first mid‑term exam.
Everything went smoothly, don’t worry.
Your Dark Wolf King conquers anything with his hideous grin, haha.
Now, let me mention two very important people:
Santosh0079344 (Santosh Bhai) — the sole creator of the image I use as my novel title and DP.
He’s a brilliant AI artist who has supported me since my Marvel novel days, gifting me breath-taking visuals and power stones every single day.
Brother, thank you — it means the world.
My NSD Muse — someone very dear to me, a great friend and once a lover.
She belongs to the National School of Drama, and she taught me the art of storytelling.
Techniques like cyclical structure which I used in this chapter, flashback layering, emotional range, subtle tension, eye expressions, visceral sound cues like BOOM and CRASH – all came from her.
Without her, I am nothing.
She’s the reason my style stands apart on Webnovel, especially in the amateur category.
Despite writing R18 erotic stories, many women love my work because I never treat women as objects.
That’s the difference – I write them as divine forces, not hollow tropes.
There’s one more person I really want to mention… but not today.
I’ll wait until I receive my most expensive gift from someone other than my parents.
I call him my Big Bro, haha.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Slowly, Bollywood’s big players will arrive, each in their own cinematic style.
Stay tuned — the saga is only beginning.
Your Dark Wolf King 🐺🔥