Chapter-2

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?

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