The tiled echoes of the aquatic locker room were swallowed by a dense, suffocating hush.
Krishna stood with her knuckles pressed white against the metal locker door, staring down at the side-by-side images laid out before her.
On the left was the faded high-school shot of Jai Hemant Shroff.
Tucked beneath an oversized grey fleece, eyes hidden behind thick tortoiseshell frames.
On the right was the fiery, metallic-printed cover of Filmfare, displaying the broad-shouldered titan bathed in moonlight and crimson stage lights.
His piercing liquid-gold irises cutting straight through the glossy laminate.
“Saali…
baap ki aankh!” Krishna spat again.
The raw, street-smart expletive tearing from her throat with the exact gravelly timbre of Jackie Shroff in his prime.
Alia Bhatt didn’t flinch.
Instead, a rich, melodic giggle trilled from her throat.
Her left cheek dimpling in sheer delight as she gave Krishna a slow, exaggerated wink.
“Now that’s Uncle Jackie’s true blood speaking,” Alia teased, tilting her head with sweet, calculated innocence.
“The poise slips, and out comes the Teen Batti swagger.
I love it, Kishu.
Truly.”
“Cut the crap, Alia!” Krishna growled, stepping forward, her athletic frame squaring up until her shadow fell completely over the shorter girl.
“Why the hell are you hunting my brother?!”
“For six months you’ve been sticking to me like a leech, bringing up his name in every single conversation!”
“You spent the last three years crying into your pillow over Ranbir Kapoor”
“What the hell happened in six months that turned you into an unhinged psycho?!”
Alia’s disarming smile faded.
Her large, expressive doe-like eyes softened, shifting into an eerie, hypnotic stillness as she gazed at the two photographs.
The playful teenager vanished, replaced by an ancient, consuming obsession that had taken root long before the Worli stage caught fire.
(Flashback: Six Months Ago — The Bhatt Bungalow, Juhu)
The muted neon glow of the forty-two-inch plasma screen bathed the velvet bedroom in electric violet.
Seventeen-year-old Alia Bhatt sat cross-legged on her silk duvet, wearing oversized flannel pajamas.
Her eyes glued to the late-night rotation of 9XM.
Her full, peach-toned lips were moving in silent, flawless synchronization with the lyrics floating through the speakers.
On screen, Bachna Ae Haseeno was playing.
Deepika Padukone was gliding across the Italian sands in chiffon, wrapped in the arms of a youthful, effortlessly charming Ranbir Kapoor as Khuda Jaane swelled to its soaring chorus.
The screen flickered to the next track:
Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani.
Katrina Kaif was twirling beneath autumn rain, her fair skin radiant, laughing into Ranbir’s chest as Tera Hone Laga Hoon played.
Alia slipped off the bed, mimicking Katrina’s spins across the Persian rug with uncanny, fluid precision.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, imagining her own arms locked around Ranbir’s shoulders, feeling his cologne, feeling the warmth of his jaw.
The visual cut away to the animated cartoon hosts, Bade and Chote, cracking their signature slapstick jokes.
Alia pouted, falling back onto her pile of pillows.
Reaching out, she gathered a custom-printed velvet cushion into her arms.
A cushion bearing Ranbir’s high-fashion editorial portrait.
She pressed her lips directly against his printed mouth, lingering there with a fierce, desperate pressure that left the fabric damp.
“Just wait, Ranbir…” Alia whispered into the dark, her chest heaving with adolescent possessiveness.
“I will become a star.
I will make you mine, I will marry you, and we’ll have a beautiful little girl together.”
“All these Katrinas watrina and Deepikas seekika…
they’re just temporary placeholders.”
“They don’t have the fire I carry.
My debut is coming.
Karan promised me my launch.
You just wait for me…”
She clutched the pillow to her chest, drifting to sleep with his name cycling like a mantra behind her eyelids.
The following morning at Dhirubhai Ambani International School, reality had delivered a cold slap.
The main athletic pavilion was ringing with deafening cheers.
Standing atop the primary podium was the newly transferred Krishna Shroff, having single-handedly demolished the inter-school 100-meter freestyle record with effortless, genetic brilliance.
The entire sports department—coaches, seniors, and spectators—were surrounding the tall, athletic girl with unreserved adoration.
Standing in the rear gallery.
Alia had crossed her arms, a bitter knot of jealousy tightening in her throat.
Alia was athletic herself, but she had spent her early adolescence battling baby fat.
Forcing her body into brutal, disciplined swimming drills to carve out the lean, waist-cinched silhouette she needed for her impending camera debut.
She recognized raw, undeniable physical greatness when she saw it, and the Shroff bloodline was sickeningly gifted.
Later that afternoon, the campus had cleared.
Alia stayed behind in the Olympic-sized indoor pool, pushing her body through lap after gruelling lap.
The silence of the water was her sanctuary.
Fifty meters.
A hundred meters.
Two hundred.
Her lungs burned.
Her vision began to blur with black spots.
As she touched the deep-end wall on her final turn, a violent cramp seized her left calf!
“Guh—!”
Water rushed down her trachea!
Her limbs locked up in cold, paralyzing exhaustion.
She clawed at the tiled gutter, but her wet fingers slipped.
The surface bubbled as she sank into the chlorine abyss, her consciousness flickering like a dying bulb—
SPLASH!
A concussive shockwave split the water!
A pair of massive, iron-dense arms locked beneath her ribcage and knees, wrenching her upward with explosive hydraulic force!
Alia broke through the surface, gasping, coughing violently as she was hauled onto the tiled pool deck.
Large, warm palms pressed firmly against the centre of her sternum, applying precise, measured pressure before two calloused fingers tilted her chin upward.
A warm mouth sealed over hers, forcing clean, steady air deep into her waterlogged lungs!
GASP!
Alia’s eyes snapped wide!
She choked out water, her chest heaving.
Her fingers frantically tangling into the wet cotton of her saviour’s shirt.
Hovering barely four inches above her face was a sight that burned itself permanently into her cerebral cortex.
The late-afternoon sun sliced through the pavilion’s high glass skylights, illuminating a visage of breathtaking, Olympian perfection.
He was soaked to the bone, his grey cotton shirt clinging like transparent skin to dense, heavily defined pectorals and the carved ridges of a swimmer’s torso.
And looking down at her with pure, unshielded protective warmth—
Were two piercing, radiant, and undeniably liquid-gold irises.
“Are you alright?” a deep, velvet baritone rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her palms.
Alia lay paralyzed.
The youth rose to his feet.
Alia’s breath caught in her throat as he straightened up and kept going.
A towering 6’3″ monolith of bronze muscle, broad shoulders tapering into an impossible waist.
He reached up, tossing his head back, shaking the excess water from his thick obsidian hair, droplets scattering around him like liquid sunlight.
“Who…
who are you…?” Alia breathed, her voice a faint, dazed whimper.
Before the youth could speak, the locker room doors flew open!
“ALIA!
Oh God, thank heavens!” Krishna sprinted across the tiles, dropping to her knees beside her classmate, checking her pulse in frantic relief.
The towering young man smiled softly, looking down at his sister with quiet, gentle affection:
“She’s fine, Kishu.
Just swallowed a little water.
Take care of her.”
He reached down, casually peeling the drenched cotton shirt off his torso, revealing a wide, rippling back carved with dense, aesthetic muscle.
He tossed the wet fabric over his shoulder and strode toward the exit in absolute, unhurried silence.
Alia’s eyes followed the muscular valley of his spine until the double doors swung shut.
“Krishna…” Alia whispered, her hand trembling against her throat.
“Who was that…?”
Krishna exhaled a tired, protective breath.
“That’s my older brother.
Jai.
Jai Hemant Shroff.”
“Jai…” Alia murmured, the syllables rolling over her tongue like heated honey.
That night, Alia returned to her bedroom.
She turned on 9XM, waiting for Ranbir’s signature songs to play.
But when Khuda Jaane illuminated the screen, her mind fractured.
The image of Ranbir Kapoor standing on the beach dissolved.
Replaced entirely by a towering, broad-shouldered giant with glowing golden eyes, carrying her dripping frame out of the deep end, his warm lips breathing life back into her chest.
Alia sat up in bed, vigorously shaking her head, running her hands through her hair:
“No…
no, no!
Ranbir is my crush!
Ranbir is the one I’m going to marry!
Jai is just…
he’s just Krishna’s brother!
He’s just a hot guy!”
She clicked over to Ranbir’s shirtless training montages from Wake Up Sid.
She leaned closer, scrutinizing Ranbir’s fair, soft-edged urban physique.
A quiet, involuntary murmur slipped from her lips:
“…Jai has twice his muscle.
Jai is way hotter.”
Frustrated, she slapped the television remote, killing the power, throwing herself face-down onto the mattress.
In the silence of sleep, the dream descended.
At first, Ranbir walked toward her across a sunlit set, extending his hand with that sleepy, aristocratic Kapoor smile.
But then, the floorboards trembled.
A shadow loomed from behind.
Jai stepped out of the mist, his 6’3″ frame towering over the set, his large hand wrapping possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against his rock-solid chest with an easy smirk.
In the dream, the two men began to argue over her.
The Kapoor’s versus the Shroffs, fighting for her hand!
Alia had giggled in pure, decadent delight.
In the fever of her subconscious.
She reached out, grabbing Ranbir’s lapel with one hand and burying her fingers into Jai’s muscular back with the other, whispering with dark greed:
“Why should I choose…?”
“You two can just share me.”
In the waking world, seventeen-year-old Alia woke up clutching the Ranbir pillow between her thighs.
Her breathing shallow, her nightgown damp with a warm, heavy flush of youthful arousal.
She sat up, looking around her room at the dozens of Ranbir Kapoor posters pinned to the walls.
A slow, predatory smirk spread across her lips.
“I already know everything about Ranbir,” Alia purred to the empty room.
“Now…
it’s time to hunt the giant.”
For the next six months.
Alia turned her life into an obsessive intelligence operation.
She latched onto Krishna at school, offering snacks, helping coordinate athletic paperwork, playing the part of the bubbly, supportive classmate, all to extract tiny fragments of information about the older brother.
What she uncovered had utterly fascinated her.
The giant wasn’t an arrogant playboy.
Jai was painfully shy, paralyzingly introverted, terrified of the media, and spent his days playing soccer or meditating in isolation.
‘A gentle giant with the body of a Greek god…
and the innocent heart of a monk,’ Alia had thought, practically salivating at the psychological puzzle.
‘Ranbir for the glamorous red carpets…
and Jai for the bedroom.
A royal lottery.’
She had managed to source an old, high-resolution candid photograph of Jai from a school meet three years prior.
She had it enlarged, pinning it directly beside Ranbir’s centerpiece poster.
Every night before bed, she would press her lips against Ranbir’s paper mouth, then turn to kiss Jai’s golden-eyed print.
Alia had been curled up with her Ranbir pillow, watching the live satellite broadcast of MTV Coke Studio.
She had scoffed when Arijit fumbled on stage, sneering at the amateur indie acts wasting precious airtime.
But when the drunken spectator hurled the green apple, and a 6’3″ titan cleared the monitor rigs in a single, impossible leap- snatching the fruit mid-air.
Alia’s heart stopped.
She watched the performance unfold in absolute, breathless horror.
The explosive rock fury of Ya Ali…
the weeping, open-heart surgery of Khuda Jaane…
and then- the two unreleased, impossible masterpieces.
She watched his fingertips bleed across the acoustic strings, his blood scattering like rubies across the dark wood.
She watched him look up into the full moon, two clear tears rolling down his chiseled cheeks as his raw, bleeding baritone tore through the speakers.
Alia clutched her chest, her fingers digging through her cotton tank, a sharp, physical pain lancing through her heart.
She wanted to throw herself through the television screen.
She wanted to wipe his tears, to pull his dark head against her chest, to shield him from the agony that was breaking his voice.
“Who are you…?” Alia wept softly, her own tears blurring the screen.
A stray draft from the balcony caught the wall.
FLUTTER.
The pinned photograph of Jai Hemant Shroff tore free, drifting down to land on her lap.
Alia looked down.
She looked at Jai’s tortoiseshell glasses.
She looked at the shy, introverted boy hiding beneath the grey hood.
Then she looked at the TV screen.
The camera executed a tight zoom on Rudra’s face.
The Tyndall effect ignited his irises into molten, hypnotic gold.
GASP!
The velvet Ranbir cushion slipped from Alia’s limp fingers, tumbling to the floor.
Her hands shook violently as she held Jai’s school photo up beside the television screen.
The jawline.
The broad Olympian symmetry.
The piercing, unmistakable golden irises.
“No…” Alia breathed, her pupils dilating into wide black pools.
“It’s him.
It’s Jai.”
She stood up slowly.
Her bare foot came down directly upon the fallen Ranbir pillow, grinding the printed face of the Kapoor scion into the carpet, completely unbothered as the seams strained beneath her weight.
The naive, polished schoolgirl crush on Ranbir Kapoor shattered into ten thousand brittle pieces.
Ranbir was a pampered, pedigreed boy playing at cinema.
But the man on the screen.
The titan bleeding over the strings, commanding five thousand screaming souls with the authority of an ancient emperor was an apex predator.
Alia watched Jasmine Sandlas wrap her legs around Rudra’s waist on stage, watching the red-haired singer touch his jaw with wanton reverence.
A feral, venomous snarl ripped through Alia’s throat!
“HOW DARE YOU, YOU RED-HAIRED SLUT!” Alia shrieked, kicking the Ranbir pillow straight across the room, sending it crashing into the wastebasket!
“HE IS MINE!
YOU DON’T GET TO TOUCH HIM!”
She ran to the television, pressing her palms against the warm glass, tracing the outline of Rudra’s smiling, bleeding lips with trembling fingers, whispering with dark, unhinged devotion:
“You aren’t Jai anymore…
You are Rudra.
And you belong solely to me.”
(Flashback Ends)
BANG!
Krishna’s fist slammed against the metal locker door, leaving a sharp, vibrating shudder running through the aluminum!
“Answer me, Alia!” Krishna roared, her athletic composure fracturing into pure fury.
“What the hell do you want from my brother?!”
Alia snapped back to reality.
She looked at Krishna’s livid, flushed face and let out another soft, infuriating giggle.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the Filmfare print of Rudra, pressing her lips against his printed jawline, kissing the paper with slow, lingering worship right before Krishna’s eyes.
Krishna felt a cold knot twist in her stomach.
She knew the Bhatt lineage.
She knew the dark, chaotic undercurrents running through that bloodline.
Alia wasn’t the sweet, slightly ditzy girl she pretended to be in school assemblies.
Beneath the dimples and the high-pitched laugh was a terrifying, calculating prodigy who had inherited her father Mahesh Bhatt’s volatile, all-consuming artistic madness.
Alia lowered the poster, her eyes locking onto Krishna with unmasked, predatory clarity:
“I had a silly crush on Ranbir,” Alia confessed, her voice dropping into a smooth, hypnotic purr.
“Then Jai pulled me out of the pool, and I fell for the gentle giant who saved my life.”
“But last night…
when Jai ripped off his mask and showed the world the beast inside…
my love died, Kishu.”
“And this divine, beautiful obsession was born.”
She stepped closer, tapping the print against her collarbone:
“I am going to debut soon.
Karan Johar is currently developing an elite high-school romance under Dharma Productions titled Student of the Year.”
“I want Rudra as my lead hero.
I will talk to Karan.”
“He is obsessed with physical perfection, and right now, your brother looks hotter than Hrithik Roshan.
He will sign him in a heartbeat.”
Krishna nearly choked on her own breath.
‘Hotter than Hrithik…?’ Krishna thought, remembering how Rudra had stepped out of the bathroom this morning.
The 6’3″ frame, the carved eight-pack ridges, the vascular deltoids, the sheer, suffocating masculinity pouring off his skin.
‘He already surpassed Hrithik’s peak this morning.
If this psycho sees him in person, she’ll completely lose her mind!’
Krishna forced her mind into sharp, defensive focus.
She couldn’t let this girl corner her brother.
She remembered what her father had said yesterday:
Sajid Nadiadwala held an open, blank-check contract waiting for Rudra.
And Rudra himself had made it crystal clear that he was refusing to be handed an easy, spoon-fed star-kid debut.
Krishna exhaled a long, dismissive sigh, rubbing her temple with bored nonchalance:
“Keep dreaming, Alia.
Big decisions aren’t made in school locker rooms.”
“Sajid uncle already has a signed commitment with Dad to launch Rudra under Nadiadwala Grandson Entertainment.”
“And after last night?
My brother is the biggest viral sensation in the country.
He doesn’t have time for your little high-school script.”
Alia’s dimples vanished.
Her brow furrowed into a sharp, displeased scowl.
She was an insider; she knew the industry hierarchy.
Nadiadwala Grandson Entertainment was an older, heavier commercial empire than Dharma.
Sajid was Jackie Dada’s closest friend.
If Sajid locked Rudra into an exclusive contract, not even Karan Johar’s influence could pry him loose.
Alia’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
“Then arrange a meeting between us, Kishu,” Alia demanded, her tone turning cold.
“Give me his private number.
Let me talk to him face-to-face.
If you don’t…
I will personally leak this photograph to Zoom TV and Mid-Day.”
“I will tell the entire press corps that the mysterious ‘Rockstar God’ is Jackie Shroff’s hidden son.”
Krishna didn’t flinch.
She crossed her arms over her chest, stepping into Alia’s space, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across her lips:
“Go ahead, Alia.
Leak it.
Call the news vans right now.”
Alia blinked, taken aback.
“You think exposing his name hurts him?” Krishna laughed coldly.
“It will only make him ten times more famous!”
“Sajid uncle will lock him down with a multi-film exclusivity deal before you can even finish your afternoon classes, and you’ll never get within fifty feet of him.”
“Now get out of my way.
I have swimming trials to run.”
Krishna turned on her heel, striding toward the exit.
Behind her.
Alia stood in silence, her head lowered, her bangs casting a deep, dark shadow over her eyes.
Just as Krishna reached the heavy push-bar of the door—
“Kishu…”
Alia’s voice slithered through the quiet room- soft, rhythmic, and dripping with venomous, psychological poison:
“I feel so sorry for you, darling.”
“Did you honestly believe I couldn’t see right through your little act?”
Krishna paused, her hand hovering over the door handle.
Alia slowly lifted her head.
Her face was twisted into a dark, knowing sneer as she stepped toward the taller girl.
Her footsteps silent against the tiles:
“You don’t want to protect him from the industry, Kishu…”
“You just want to keep that magnificent titan entirely for yourself.”
Krishna’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She spun around, her face pale: “What the fuck are you talking about?!”
Alia stopped inches away, tilting her chin up, her dark eyes glittering with unspeakable, taboo malice:
“You have a six-foot-three Greek god living under your roof…
sharing your breakfast table, laughing in front of you with his shirt unbuttoned…
and you can’t touch him.”
“Soon, the biggest queens of this industry will swarm him.
They will claw at his clothes.”
“They will scream in ecstasy beneath his heavy body while he pounds them into the mattress night after night.”
Alia leaned in, her lips brushing Krishna’s ear, whispering with dark, sickening intimacy:
“Tera bhi toh mann karega na, Kishu…
ki kaash tera bhai tujhe bhi apne bistar mein le jaaye, aur tere seene se cheekhein nikaale…?”
(Your own heart will burn with the exact same hunger, Kishu…; Yearning for your brother to drag you into his bed, tearing screams of pleasure from your chest…?)
“SHUT UP!”
Something fundamental snapped inside Krishna’s mind!
A wave of blind, volcanic rage swept through her nervous system!
Her right arm pulled back, driving a closed, state-champion boxing punch straight toward Alia’s face!
“Pagal ladki!
Woh mera bhai hai!
Teri himmat kaise hui itna ganda sochne ki?!
Aaj tu maregi mere haathon sei!”
(You crazy bitch!
He is my brother!; How dare your filthy mind even conceive something so disgusting?!; Today you die by my hands!)
Alia didn’t even blink.
She stood motionless, a cold, mocking smirk playing on her lips.
Seeing that the smaller girl wasn’t even attempting to raise a guard.
Krishna’s athletic discipline kicked in at the final microsecond.
She twisted her wrist, redirecting the devastating kinetic blow three inches to the left!
KRAAAACK!
Her knuckles slammed violently into the heavy steel locker door!
A fist-sized, concussive crater buckled into the metal, the latch shearing completely off in a sharp clatter of screws!
Krishna stood panting heavily.
Her knuckles bruised and bleeding, her eyes blazing with murderous fury.
Alia slowly looked at the crushed steel, then looked back into Krishna’s wild, panicked eyes.
Her dimple deepened into a triumphant, terrifying sneer:
“Oh, Kishu…
But it wasn’t a joke, was it?
Your body betrayed you, darling.”
Alia had spent her entire childhood under the direct mentorship of Mahesh Bhatt and Vikram Bhatt.
She possessed an innate, terrifying genius for reading microscopic behavioural shifts- pupil dilation, pulse spikes, and vocal micro-tremors.
When she had first flashed the Filmfare poster.
Krishna hadn’t reacted like an ordinary sister seeing her sibling on television.
Her cheeks had flushed a deep, involuntary peach; her pupils had dilated.
Her breath had caught in pure, feminine heat before she forced her guard back up.
Krishna had already stopped seeing Rudra solely as a brother.
Alia leaned closer, her voice a poisonous, velvety caress:
“Don’t worry, Kishu…
I don’t judge you.”
“In our high-society circles, taboo desires are perfectly normal behind locked doors.”
“As long as the press never catches wind of it, who cares?
Help me marry Rudra…
and I promise, our bedroom door will always stay unlocked for you.”
“Sister-in-law and sister…
sharing the same titanic king, devouring his flesh together.”
“Kya tune mere khandaan ko apna khandaan samajh rakha hai?!” Krishna snarled, her voice shaking with raw, defensive revulsion.
“Jahan tera baap Mahesh Bhatt apni hi beti Pooja Bhatt ko honthon par choom raha tha magazine cover ke liye?!”
“Sahi kehte hain log tere baare mein…
poora khandaan paagal hai!
Koi sharam-lihaaz nahi hai, bas tharak bhari padi hai andar!”
“Aur tu bhi bilkul apne baap par gayi hai…
chhi!”
(Do you think my family is like yours?!; Where your own father Mahesh Bhatt was kissing his eldest daughter Pooja Bhatt on the lips for a sleazy magazine cover?!; People are completely right about your bloodline…
your whole house is insane!; Zero shame, zero dignity, just unhinged lust rotting your minds!; And you turned out to be an exact copy of your father…
sickening!)
Krishna stared hard into Alia’s eyes, expecting the painful family scandal to crack her composure.
Instead, Alia threw her head back, laughing with wild, hysterical abandon!
“Hehehehe!
Oh, Kishu…
try harder, please!
Do you think I haven’t heard that pathetic gossip since I was six years old?!”
“Even if they had something between them…
SO WHAT?!
It was their life, their choice!
My sister was an adult!
It was just a bold promotional stunt!”
Krishna recoiled in genuine disgust:
“Alia, tu bas satrah saal ki hai!
Itni gandi soch abhi se?!
Iss paagalpan ko nikaal apne dimaag se, varna tu barbaad ho jaayegi!”
(Alia, you are only seventeen years old!; Carrying such filth in your head already?!; Tear this madness out of your mind, or it will destroy your life!)
Alia stepped forward until their noses almost touched, her eyes wide, unblinking, and burning with absolute psychological ruin:
“Main das din mein atharah ki hone waali hoon, Kishu…
Aur main Rudra ke haathon barbaad hone ko khushi-khushi tayyaar hoon.”
(I turn eighteen in exactly ten days, Kishu…; And I am more than ready to be completely ruined by Rudra’s hands.)
Krishna stood frozen, her voice reduced to a fragile, desperate whisper as she tried to anchor her own sanity:
“Woh mera bhai hai…
Mera sagaa bhai hai…”
(He is my brother…; My biological brother…)
Alia leaned past her jaw, her warm breath brushing against Krishna’s ear like a serpent’s coil:
“Tera asli bhai Jai tha, Kishu…
Rudra nahi.”
(Your real brother was Jai, Kishu…; Not Rudra.)
With a light, mocking tap on Krishna’s shoulder.
Alia picked up her leather satchel and walked out of the locker room, her high-pitched humming echoing down the corridor.
Krishna’s knees buckled.
She slid down against the dented locker, collapsing heavily onto the wooden bench.
Her trembling hands reached down to the floor, picking up the two photographs.
She looked at the old photo of Jai.
The quiet boy she had grown up with, the introverted brother she had teased, protected, and loved with pure, innocent sisterly devotion.
Then, her eyes drifted to the glowing Filmfare print of Rudra.
She remembered his entrance yesterday morning.
The unhinged Michael Jackson spin, the effortless Casanova swagger, the devastating charm that made her heart flutter.
She remembered him leaning across the breakfast table, whispering scandalous jokes that had sent burning heat straight to her inner core.
She remembered him emerging from the bathroom this morning.
A towering, 6’3″ titan with bronzed deltoids and a chiselled eight-pack core, radiating a primal, masculine virility that rivalled the gods.
A heavy, burning flush climbed from Krishna’s throat, detonating across her cheeks.
“Nahi…
nahi…
woh mera bhai hai…” Krishna sobbed softly, clutching her temples, trying frantically to tear the poisoned thoughts from her mind.
(No…
no…
He’s my brother…)
Yet, moving on dark, uninhibited instinct.
Her trembling thumb slowly drifted across the paper—
Gently grazing the printed curve of Rudra’s lips.
Outside in the sunlit courtyard.
Alia watched through the glass doors, her lips curving into a slow, victorious smile.
The seed had been planted.
The taboo fire had ignited.
Aram Nagar, Part 2 — Maya Mirage Productions (4:00 PM)
Through the soundproofed observation window of her private executive office.
Mohini Kashyap leaned against the glass, her hazel eyes fixed upon the rehearsal studio below.
On the hardwood floor, Jaideep Ahlawat and Vijay Varma were standing side by side, stripped down to basic cotton undershirts.
Two master tailors and a costume designer were measuring their shoulders, chests, and waists with measuring tapes, drafting the rugged, rustic wardrobe for their roles as Khalujan and Babban Hussain in the upcoming feature Ishqiya.
Beside her.
Mohan Kashyap took a sip of iced water, watching the two actors with quiet, grudging respect.
“They have incredible bone structure for a rural noir, Mohini.”
“Jaideep carries that heavy, brooding North-Indian presence, and Vijay has that unpredictable, wired energy.”
“If we shoot this right…
they might actually pull off an upset.”
BZZZT-BZZZT.
Mohini’s BlackBerry smartphone vibrated violently on the mahogany desk.
She turned, picking up the device.
Her manicured thumb unlocking the screen.
A text message flashed across the display from a private, unlisted number:
[ Rudra: ]
“I’m heading to Aram Nagar.
Clear the office.”
Mohini’s breath seized in her throat.
Her pupils dilated into deep, obsidian voids.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as an electric, wanton heat surged through her veins, coating her pink pussy in a sudden, scalding wave of arousal!
She slowly turned her head toward Mohan, a slow, predatory smirk curling across her lips:
“Woh phir se yahan aa raha hai, Mohan…”
(He is coming back here, Mohan…)
Mohan’s hand froze around his glass.
His eyes flicked toward the framed trade posters of Rudra dominating the entertainment pages on his desk.
A sudden, cold shiver of primal anxiety travelled down his spine.
In less than twenty-four hours.
The unknown youth had conquered the national airwaves, had forced MTV executives into a nationwide broadcast frenzy, and had driven half the women in Mumbai into madness.
And now, the titan was walking straight toward their door.
[ Chapter End ]
Author Note
Hahaha!
You all felt shock reading this chapter, like watching a movie drenched in dark desire.
But let me ask you, dear readers: Is Krishna falling for her brother… or for Rudra?
You already know the answer.
Just revisit Chapter 13.
The moment Rudra stepped out of the shower and stared at himself, his inner monologue will tell you everything.
If you still feel confused, that’s not my problem.
It means your mind can’t comprehend what I’ve written.
The flaw lies in your intellect, not mine.
Some of you might think the pace is too fast.
No — Trauma can scar the subconscious in less than a second and if those scars persist it evolve into ASD and finally they evolve into PTSD.
And let me remind you: do you really think having relationships with IIT, NSD, DU, and AIIMS girls — smart, powerful, intelligent women — is easy?
If I told you about my affairs, you’d be shocked to the core.
Let me share one small incident:
There was a girl in my college trapped in a toxic relationship with her rich boyfriend.
He slapped her, humiliated her, and yet she stayed – not because she loved him, but because her mind was breaking.
I saw the early signs of Stockholm Syndrome:
She defended him even after abuse.
She clung to him, terrified of losing his money and status.
She minimized the harm, convincing herself it wasn’t “that bad.”
She confused fear with love, dependency with devotion.
I stepped into her life before those symptoms hardened into permanent scars.
I became her friend, flirted, and within 3 weeks she was with me.
Then I called her boyfriend and told him I was sleeping with her.
He came raging with a hockey stick, but I am 6’1, trained in MMA and calisthenics, and I carry my own fury against men who abuse women.
I fought him, broke his hand, choked his neck, slammed his head under my foot, and roared:
“Hijde ke aulaad, agar dum hai toh mere se lad!
Tere poore khandaan ko nanga karne ki taqat rakhta hoon main!” (Yeah I know I am too filmy, but that’s just my personality haha).
I broke him — his hand, his pride, his power.
After that day, he never touched her again.
I didn’t “heal” her out of kindness.
I wanted to test if I could break the chains of Stockholm Syndrome before they became permanent.
And I did.
I am not a “good guy” in the typical sense.
I believe in the principle of equivalent exchange.
I know many of you, especially girls, will feel disturbed reading this.
Yet your minds will fight with themselves that I am good and kind.
You don’t know what kind of mad mind I carry.
I’m in a good mood tonight — tomorrow is my exam, my revision is complete, and I’m free.
That’s why I’m sharing this chaos.
There’s a reason many loves me — they knows the kind of mind I have.
👉 And one more thing: if you’re loving this novel, please give me your reviews.
I need at least 6 more reviews to make it visible to a wider audience.
I know many of you enjoy the story, and your support will help me reach more readers.
Thank you!
And before I end, Celestialbeing_20, thank you, brother, for your constant support.
For the past 7 days you’ve given me 3 power stones daily.
I’m truly grateful.
Enjoy the night, my beautiful and handsome readers.
More chaos is coming in the upcoming chapters.