Story
The Billionaire's Wife






As the sleek, luxurious car glides through the imposing gates of the Udaipur palace, its grandeur stands tall, casting long shadows across the lush grounds. The palace, with its intricate carvings and golden hues, reflects the brilliance of the setting sun. The air is thick with the weight of heritage and power, with the car's tires barely making a sound as it rolls over the polished marble driveway. Inside, the atmosphere between Abhimaan and Swadhinta crackles with tension. She sits regal yet defiant, her eyes sharp like a hawk, surveying the fortress of wealth around her. Abhimaan, with his commanding presence, leans slightly forward, his voice low but firm, "Welcome to your cage, Dove." He says, his words dripping with both sarcasm and a promise of control. Swadhinta turns her gaze towards him, her posture unyielding. "I am the bird that soars beyond your reach, Mr. Rajvansh-untamed and unbound." She replies, her voice filled with quiet strength. She is no ordinary woman, and her words cut through the space between them like a blade. A faint, amused smile tugs at the corner of Abhimaan's lips. He raises his eyebrow, looking straight into her eyes, "Then let it be clear- from today, I am the sky you can't escape, no matter how far your wings may take you." He counters, his tone soft yet dangerously possessive with ounces of ego drizzling through each word. As the car slows to a halt in front of the palace entrance, the tension between them only intensifies, leaving the air thick with unresolved power struggles. The palace looms above them, a symbol of the very battle unfolding between their wills-luxury and captivity in equal measure. ******* Him: You have to redeem for the sin you committed, Ms. Shukla. Her: A sinner seeks no redemption from others. ****** Him: Abhimaan Singh Rajvansh apne guroor pe ek daag bhi bardasht nahi nahi karta aur tumne toh sare-aam uss par kichad uchaala hai- keemat toh chukani hogi. (Abhimaan Singh Rajvansh won't tolerate even the slightest blemish on his pride, and you've dragged his name through the mud in public- you will pay the price for it.) Her: Guroor?! Thoda sambhal ke, Raja sahab! Pta lage ki kahi aapko khud keemat chukani na pad jaye aapke iss akad ke chalte. (Pride, you say? Be warned, Raja Sahab- your pride may cost you far more than you're prepared to lose.)



They are forged from opposite realms, yet destined to lock perfectly into place—the final pieces in a puzzle the universe has guarded for centuries. She is the kind of woman who bares her most shadowed edges only when she believes in the virtue of a man—her man. In the dim, velvety glow of a Victorian gothic chamber, their bodies entwine, finding not just warmth but passage into each other’s souls. Lavender coils through the air like a silent hymn, its soft intoxication crowning the royal pair—one in black, the other in white. He wears black as if it were born with him. Not merely a shadow, but the weight and fullness of it. Modest in stature yet arrogant in presence. Lazily regal, moving as though time bends for him, yet dangerous—lethal—in the cold precision of his gaze. His very aura hisses a warning: Disturb him, and you will not be spared. She wears white like a quiet coronation. Purity carved in silk, decency flowing in the arc of her smile. A light, unwavering, in service to her king. Yet she too carries her own brand of ruin—the kind that white brings to mourning. Gentle until provoked. Soft until shattered. Then, she is the storm in the guise of snow. He is the sun’s merciless fire; she, the moon’s patient glow. They meet like a single eternal dusk—when he sinks, she rises, refusing to let his light extinguish. Together, they are the balance between beauty and ruin, love and danger—each the other’s salvation, and each the other’s weapon. °°°°°°° Her: How your eyes fell on me so undistracted? Him: Eyes? My whole fucking being fell for you, Mrs. Rathore. Her: I can't believe it. Him: Believe me, wife. Even the stars fell for you, how could I not? °°°°°°° Him: I had lost myself, somewhere, while searching for you. Her: Believe me, husband, not more than me. Your footsteps use to echo inside abandoned corridors of my heart.

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