The sound of wedding bells clashed cruelly with the breaking of her heart.

She stood amidst a crowd clad in silks and sequins, their faces glowing with joy, while hers was frozen in disbelief. The lights were dazzling, the air thick with the scent of roses and incense, but none of it could distract her from the sight that tore her world apart.

The man she had loved for over five years, the one she had dreamt of building a life with—the one she believed would be hers forever—was now standing on the wedding stage. But not with her.

He was smiling, his eyes soft with affection. But those eyes weren’t looking at her. They were gazing at another woman—the bride. Not her. Never her.

She wasn’t the one in the red bridal lehenga.

She wasn’t the one he had chosen.

She was just... a guest. Or worse, a mistake.

It felt like the floor beneath her had disappeared. Like someone had quietly pulled the earth from under her feet and left her floating in a dark void of nothingness.

Her hands trembled as her heart pounded painfully inside her chest. This can’t be real, she kept telling herself. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe he’ll look at me. Maybe he’ll explain. But deep inside, she knew the truth.

There was no mistake.

He had chosen someone else.

And she? She had never been chosen.

With a heart heavy as stone, she turned and walked out—away from the music, away from the laughter, away from the betrayal that suffocated her in that decorated prison of lies.

The night was quiet, as if the world had silenced itself in respect for her heartbreak. She wandered to the beach, barefoot, not caring about the sand sticking to her feet or the chill of the wind brushing against her bare arms. The moon cast a pale silver glow across the waves, and the ocean roared like it understood her pain.

She stood at the edge of the shore, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold together the pieces of her shattered soul.

She tried not to cry. Tried to be strong.

But her eyes betrayed her.

The tears fell silently, tracing paths down her cheeks, each droplet holding the weight of memories she wished she could forget.

Her voice was no more than a whisper, a broken murmur lost in the wind.

“Is this new to me? No… it’s not.”

Her lips trembled. Her body shook—not from the cold, but from everything she had held inside for too long.

“Even God can’t bear to see me happy.”

She sank to her knees, the wet sand clinging to her clothes, and sobbed freely. Not just for him, but for everything.

“For my brother… who left me when I needed him the most.”

“For my parents… who died and left me in this cruel world alone.”

“For my best friend… who promised to never leave but disappeared without a word.”

“And now… him. The one I believed in. The one who swore he loved me.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Everyone leaves. Everyone betrays. No one loves me. Not even God.”

But this wasn’t the first time she had felt unloved.

She knew that ache. She had grown up with it.

She was just eight when the world decided she wasn’t meant to have a family. Her parents died in a car crash, and her brother—too young, too scared—vanished into the system, swallowed by another fate. She ended up at St. Agnes Orphanage, a cold building filled with too many children and too little love.

There were nights she cried herself to sleep, clutching the torn photograph of her parents. Nights she promised herself that she would grow stronger. That one day, someone would stay.

And she had kept her promises. She had worked harder than anyone. Pushed through loneliness, rejection, and heartbreak. She became a doctor—one of the best residents at Hopewell General Hospital. Her dedication was unmatched, her smile gentle, her heart pure.

At twenty-five, she was known for her sweet nature, innocent eyes, and soft-spoken kindness. Patients adored her. Colleagues respected her.

But no one ever truly loved her.

That’s all she had ever wanted.

Not riches. Not fame.

Just love. A hand to hold. A voice that said, “I’m here for you.”

Her fingers dug into the sand as the tide rolled closer, brushing against her knees. She stared at the horizon, where the stars kissed the ocean.

The pain inside her burned like fire, but beneath the ashes… something else stirred.

Not hope. Not yet. But maybe... a decision.

She stood up, brushing the sand from her clothes. Her tears had dried, but the hollow ache in her chest remained.

With quiet steps, she made her way back. Not to her apartment. Not to the hospital.

But to St. Agnes Orphanage—the place that had once been her prison and her only refuge.

It stood exactly as she remembered—old, silent, still carrying the faint scent of childhood memories and bitter truths.

She walked inside, barefoot, unnoticed, like a ghost returning to where it had been born.

The caretaker, old Mrs. Desai, spotted her and gasped softly. “Meher?”

That was her name.

Meher.

A name that meant "blessing."

But tonight, she didn’t feel like one.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied, her voice hollow.

“Why are you here, child?”

“I just... needed to come back,” Meher whispered. “To remember who I was. Before I believed in people who only broke me.”

And maybe, just maybe…

This time, she would begin again. Not by trusting others. But by learning to love the one person who never left her.

Herself.

In a distant land, across oceans and time zones, the night was thick with the scent of smoke, blood, and fear.

The room was dimly lit—concrete walls stained with crimson memories, a single bulb swaying from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows that danced like ghosts of the dead. In the center sat a man on a leather throne, one leg crossed over the other, exhaling slow, poisonous clouds of smoke into the stale air.

His eyes, dark as a midnight storm, were locked onto the man writhing in the chair before him—bound, bloodied, barely conscious.

A twisted silence reigned.

With a bored expression, the man flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot, as though smothering a soul.

He rose.

The sound of his footsteps—measured, slow, deliberate—echoed through the dungeon like a countdown to death.

Every person present in that dark hellhole was trembling. Trained assassins. Armed guards. Hardened criminals. And yet, in his presence, they were reduced to prey.

He walked toward the prisoner, his face unreadable, his aura cold as death.

Then, without a word, he gripped the man's hair, yanked his head back, and stared into his eyes.

“You made a mistake,” he said, his voice low, deep, and void of emotion. “You touched what’s mine.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His voice alone carried the weight of a thousand screams.

And then, like the predator he was, he executed the man—swift, brutal, and without flinching.

Blood sprayed across his face, splattering his crisp black shirt, staining the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood still, almost as if bathing in the warmth of it.

When it was done, he stepped back and calmly wiped his face with a silk cloth, tossing it to the floor like a used napkin.

He turned to the others.

“You see this?” he asked softly, gesturing to the corpse. “This is what happens when someone thinks I can be played.”

Not a single soul dared to breathe.

They called him "Asher"—the Devil in a suit.

No one knew if that was his real name. He had dozens of names in the underworld:

"The Blood King."

"The Phantom Lord."

"The Shadow Emperor."

Each name whispered with dread, each one earned through rivers of blood and legends of cruelty.

He was a man of many faces, but only one identity: unknown.

Outside these walls—beyond the blood-soaked corridors of his empire—he was known by another name, a far more glamorous one: Aaryan Verma, the 31-year-old CEO of Verma Empire, a global conglomerate spanning real estate, weapons, luxury automobiles, pharmaceuticals, and private security firms.

Top of the Fortune Global 100.

Award-winning philanthropist.

The media’s darling billionaire.

Bachelor of the decade.

And yet, behind those flawless suits, perfect headlines, and billion-dollar deals, lay a man carved from ice and shadows.

No one outside his inner circle had any idea what he truly was.

Only his family knew the truth.

The Vermas—one of the most powerful and respected families in the country. They were known for their wealth, legacy, and influence. Good to the good, merciless to the corrupt.

They protected their own. But they also knew better than to question Aaryan’s ways.

To the world, he was cold, ruthless, calculating. But to his family… he was different.

He laughed with his sister. Held respect for his grandmother. Took care of his cousins like a silent guardian. His loyalty ran deep for the few he considered his own. But his circle was small. Impossibly small.

And when it came to love…

He had none.

Women threw themselves at him. Socialites, models, even daughters of rival billionaires—all dreamed of being the one to tame the untouchable Aaryan Verma.

But he never entertained any of them.

Not a date. Not a dance. Not even a second glance.

Whispers followed him everywhere.

“Maybe he’s gay?”

“Is he impotent?”

“Or maybe he’s just heartless.”

His family was growing restless. His grandmother had tried setting him up. His sister tried emotional blackmail. His mother sent priests, astrologers, even love coaches. All in vain.

But the truth was simpler.

He just didn’t believe in love.

Not anymore.

Not after what he’d seen. What he’d done.

Not with the blood on his hands and the weight of a hundred corpses in his name.

Marriage? That was for the innocent.

He didn’t deserve innocence.

But destiny... doesn’t ask for permission.

It arrives uninvited.

Often disguised.

And sometimes… wearing tears and a broken heart.

Somewhere, across the ocean, a girl named Meher was crying on a beach, whispering her pain to the stars, not knowing that her story had already begun to entwine with his.

A girl who was all heart.

And a man who had none.

She, aching to be loved.

He, convinced he never could.

What would happen when their worlds collide?

After that night—the night her heart was ripped out in silence—Meher was never the same.

Her laughter, once soft and genuine, vanished without a trace.

Her eyes, once wide and shimmering with dreams, dimmed into something lifeless.

She moved through the days like a ghost trapped in a porcelain shell—delicate, beautiful, but empty.

She went to the hospital each morning, her white coat hugging her body like armor. She performed surgeries with mechanical precision, answered questions with hollow calm, and smiled with the barest stretch of lips when spoken to.

But no one really saw her anymore. Not the real her.

Because the real Meher had stopped living.

At night, she returned to the one place that had ever felt like home—St. Agnes, the orphanage she’d lived in since she was eight. Nestled on the quieter side of Marseille, it stood like a warm pocket of childhood memories in a world that had only ever known how to take from her.

Even there, she wore a mask. The caretakers asked, the children asked, even Sister Marie—the woman who had practically raised her—gently tried to coax something out of her.

But Meher only smiled and said the same words every time:

“Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

Days turned to weeks. Weeks blurred into a month.

Her life became a silent routine—no music, no color, just the dull rhythm of existing.

Until one day, as she was reviewing a patient’s report in the hospital's glass-panelled corridor, her superior, Dr. Étienne Laurent, approached with an unreadable look.

“Dr. Meher, there’s a notice from the board.”

She looked up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re being transferred to our India branch. Mumbai.”

She blinked, stunned. “Sir... it’s too sudden. Why? I mean—what happened?”

He sighed. “I don’t have all the details, but the directive came from the top. They said Mumbai needs a leading cardiologist, and you’re the best we’ve got here. Honestly, it feels like a request from someone with strong influence.”

Her brows furrowed faintly, but she nodded. “Okay, sir...”

Later that evening, Meher stood on the terrace of the orphanage, staring at the soft lights of Marseille.

France.

Her country. Her home.

The place where she’d learned to walk, run, dream, fall, and survive.

She had grown up with the scent of baguettes in morning bakeries and the sound of the sea crashing against old stone piers. She had watched the Eiffel Tower shimmer from afar on school trips and spent late nights curled up in a dormitory bunk bed reading French novels under a blanket with a flashlight.

This land had been her everything.

France wasn’t just where she lived. It was the only place she had ever belonged.

Now, she was being asked to leave. Just like that.

Not by choice. Not for happiness.

But because life—yet again—had made a decision for her.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She sat by her window, legs tucked under her, staring at the quiet street below.

Her heart whispered things she didn’t want to hear.

Memories she’d buried deep resurfaced like ghosts.

Her boyfriend—the man she had trusted for five years—had married someone else without even offering her a goodbye. No explanation. No fight. No breakup.

Just… silence.

He had shattered her heart with his actions, but it was the silence that haunted her.

He hadn’t even loved her enough to end it properly.

Was she that easy to forget?

And her best friend—Rhea—the one who’d been like a sister, had disappeared without a word right before everything fell apart. As if she too had turned into smoke.

Everyone had left.

Her parents, when she was barely old enough to understand.

Her brother, who never came looking for her after the accident.

Her friend.

Her love.

Even God, it seemed, had abandoned her.

She requested two weeks of leave from the hospital—her last before the move—and spent each day wandering the streets of France, saying goodbye to places that had once been chapters of her story.

She visited her old school in Lyon, where she first dreamed of becoming a doctor.

She walked barefoot along the beaches of Nice, letting the ocean pull at her grief.

She ate her favorite croissants from the corner café run by Monsieur Gérard, who always remembered her name.

She sat alone on a bench near the Seine in Paris, her eyes wet as couples passed by hand in hand.

And through it all, she carried an ache so deep it felt like a second skin.

Not just because she was leaving France.

But because she had nowhere to go to.

India was foreign to her—her birthplace, yes, but not her home. She hadn’t been there since she was a child. And now she was being sent there, to a city she didn’t know, for reasons she didn’t understand.

She didn’t feel ready.

But no one had ever asked her if she was.

On her final night in Marseille, she stood on the orphanage rooftop again, watching the stars blink in a velvet sky.

Children’s laughter echoed faintly from below. The sound pierced something soft inside her.

This orphanage had been her sanctuary for seventeen years.

Now she had to say goodbye.

She bit her trembling lip, eyes glistening.

“Will I ever belong anywhere... again?” she whispered to the wind.

She didn’t have the answer.

But somewhere far away, in a city pulsing with chaos, danger, and fate, the man destined to collide with her life was about to receive news of a new doctor joining his hospital.

Their paths were about to cross.

And the quiet ache in Meher’s soul was about to meet a storm more destructive than anything she had known.