Here we go.........

The world was a violent shade of red. Blood didn't just stain the floor; it claimed it, seeping into the cracks of the grime-slicked concrete. The air was thick, heavy with a putrid, metallic rot that made the simple act of breathing a chore.

Yet, in the center of the carnage, he sat fucking unmoved-a lion lounging upon a throne of wreckage.

His posture was effortless, one leg crossed over the other in a display of cold indifference. Between two bruised knuckles, a cigar burned low, its smoke curling into the stagnant air. In his other hand, he swirled a glass tumbler filled with amber liquid worth more than a common man's life.

A crisp white shirt, the top buttons torn open to reveal tanned, rock-hard abs and a chest that radiated heat. It was tucked into tailored black trousers that broke perfectly over pointed shoes worth millions. Brows furrowed in a permanent, calculative scowl. He wasn't just watching; he was presiding.

It was more than just power-it was a magnetic, authoritative dominance. He was the kind of man who commanded a room without speaking, forcing everyone-regardless of gender-to their knees, desperate for even a flicker of his attention.

He was tall, built with predatory grace, and dangerously classy. In this house of death, he was the only thing that felt truly fucking alive.

"I will... not tell you... anything, Rathod."

The voice was a wet, pathetic croak from the floor. The man was barely recognizable as human-a mangled heap lying in a widening pool of his own heat. His right eye was a swollen ruin, one hand was missing entirely, and his leg was twisted at an angle that defied nature. With his front teeth shattered and his lungs struggling against the rising tide of blood in his throat, even a saint would have looked away in horror.

But......

He was the Yuvraj Singh Rathod.

He did not look away; instead, he stared, burning holes in his body.

"Do you truly think I want to know anything from you, bastard?" Yuvraj asked.

His voice was terrifyingly calm-low, rhythmic, and calculative. He took a slow, measured sip of his whiskey. He let the bitter, burning liquid sear his throat, a sharp amber spark that fanned the flames of the predator lurking beneath his skin.

"Then... what do you want... from me?" the dying man wheezed.

"Your death," Yuvraj replied simply, as if discussing the weather. "People need to be reminded that when they take something from Yuvraj Singh Rathod, the interest rate is ten-thousand percent. You aren't a source of information anymore. You're a billboard."

He stood up, the light catching the lethal symmetry of his physique, his shadow stretching over the dying man like a shroud.

"You are the example, my boy. You will die so miserably that the mere mention of your name will turn your comrades' blood to ice."

Yuvraj leaned down, the scent of expensive tobacco and high-end whiskey masking the stench of the room for a fleeting second.

"Your so-called boss needs to understand exactly who he's challenged. Yuvraj Singh Rathod ko koi era-gera nahi hara sakta." A dark, cold smile touched his lips. "Usko iss duniya mein koi nahi hara sakta." (No, nobody can defeat Yuvraj Singh Rathod. No one in this world can best him.)

He stood back, adjusting his cuffs with effortless grace, and turned his back on the dying man, completely bored with the carnage.

"Clean this up," he muttered to the shadows. "The smell is starting to ruin the whiskey."

The engine of the black SUV died, leaving the street in a heavy, expectant silence. Yuvraj stepped out, his knuckles throbbing and his shirt unbuttoned, the "Rathod Empire" looming behind him like a dark monument. He owned the steel, the glass, and the ground they stood on-except for the two floors Siya had carved out for Nasiya.

He knew every inch of this building, just as he knew the stubborn woman sitting at the entrance.

"Guard," Yuvraj said, his voice a low, tired rasp. He didn't look at her-he couldn't. Not yet. He pointed toward the figure under the blanket. "Why is this beggar sitting here in the middle of the night? Clear the entrance so I can get my things."

The guard looked like he wanted to vanish into the pavement. "Sir... she... that's Miss Raichand. She isn't a beggar. She's been here all night for your sister's order."

Siya didn't move at first. She just let out a cold, sharp laugh that cut through Yuvraj's ego. She stood up, the blanket falling away to reveal a woman who looked exhausted but remained dangerously elegant.

"A beggar, huh? Rathod," she asked, her voice dripping with a hate so refined it felt like silk. "In your own building? I pay you enough rent for these two floors to know your memory isn't that short."

Yuvraj's gaze finally locked onto hers. For a split second, the "Lion" faltered. The calculative, cold-blooded bastard who had just left a warehouse of blood was replaced by a man who remembered the curve of her smile and the way she used to look at him before the world turned red. He felt a familiar, sharp ache in his chest-a feeling he buried under layers of power and whiskey every single day.

"The guard was supposed to have the dress ready," Yuvraj said, his voice hardening to hide the flicker of emotion. "I didn't ask for a welcoming committee."

"The guard is human, Rathod. He fell asleep. So I stayed to make sure your sister-the only Rathod with a soul-got her 'Nasiya' original on time." She stepped closer, her eyes scanning his disheveled state, his bruised hands, and the darkness in his eyes. She didn't look impressed; she looked disgusted.

"You look like hell," she whispered, her voice a mix of venom and a trace of something she refused to call pity. "Go get your suit from your so-called fashion house. And take this."

She shoved a beautifully wrapped garment bag toward him. "Tell your sister I hope she enjoys it. And tell yourself that owning the building doesn't mean you own the people inside it."

Before she could take a single step toward the safety of the elevators, Yuvraj's hand shot out. His grip was like iron, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a tight, bruising grasp. He yanked her back, forcing her into his personal space.

The scent hit her instantly-the sharp, oaky burn of expensive whiskey, the stale bite of cigar smoke, and beneath it all, the copper tang of fresh blood. Her nose scrunched in disgust.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," he hissed, his face inches from hers.

"Like what?" she countered, her voice steady despite the proximity.

"Like I'm someone who takes your arrogance. Remember who I am, Siya. I am Yuvraj Singh Rathod. I am not some weakling you can just insult and walk away from. Mind your tongue, or the consequences will be something you cannot handle."

"What will you do, huh?" she dared him, her eyes flashing. "Kill me like you kill everyone else?"

His ego, already raw from the night's violence, snapped. He looked down at the garment bag in his hand-the dress she had spent sleepless nights perfecting for his sister. With a slow, deliberate movement, he gripped the fabric and tore it. The sound of high-end silk ripping apart was deafening in the quiet night.

"Make a new one," he commanded, dropping the ruined heap at her feet. He knew her weakness; she would never let his sister down on her big day.

Siya went still. For a moment, Yuvraj thought he had won. He could practically see the invisible smoke of fury radiating from her. But then, she took a deep breath, reached down, and unstrapped her heels.

She marched toward his custom-made car-his pride and joy. She slammed her heel into the windshield, but the reinforced glass only cracked. Dissatisfied, she turned to the trembling guard, snatched his heavy wooden baton, and swung.

CRACK.

The glass spider-webbed. Yuvraj's heart hammered against his ribs. He loved that car more than most people, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. He stood like a statue, watching as she moved to the back, smashing the rear window, then the side lights, before denting the pristine metal of the doors.

Yuvraj stood as a pillar of cold, silent fury as the baton swung again and again. Each crack of glass was a physical blow to his pride, but he refused to flinch. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him hurt over a machine.

Siya was breathing hard now, her chest heaving with exertion and pure, unadulterated rage. A thin trail of blood ran down her palm from a small cut-a silver sliver of glass having bitten into her skin.

Something flickered in Yuvraj's chest at the sight of her blood-a phantom pain he hadn't felt in years-, but he crushed it instantly.

"I earn ten times the value of this car every minute, Raichand," he said, his voice a chilling, steady anchor in the chaos. "This is nothing to me. It's just scrap metal."

Siya opened her mouth to snap back, to tell him exactly what he could do with his minutes and his money, but a calm, feminine voice cut through the adrenaline.

"Siya. Tamasha ho gaya ho toh ghar chalein? Raat bohot ho gayi hai."

Siya froze. Standing in the shadows was Naina. Her best friend, her sister in every way that mattered, and the only person who could truly anchor her when the world-or Yuvraj-tried to blow her off course.

Yuvraj's jaw tightened. The sight of Naina didn't just annoy him; it provoked a territorial darkness. He hated how easily Naina could calm the storm he worked so hard to provoke.

Naina walked forward, her heels clicking softly on the pavement, completely ignoring the ruined luxury vehicle and the bruised, half-dressed billionaire standing next to it. She gently took the guard's stick from Siya's shaking hand and handed it back to the wide-eyed employee.

"Let's go, Siya," Naina said softly, her voice a soothing balm. She took Siya's hand, frowning at the cut on her palm, and began to lead her away.

"She still owes me a dress, Naina," Yuvraj called out, his voice echoing in the empty street. "Don't think her little tantrum cancels the debt."

Naina stopped and turned her head just enough to catch his eye. Her expression wasn't one of anger like Siya's, but of profound, quiet pity.

"And you owe her an apology for the last five years, Yuv," Naina replied calmly. "But we both know you don't have the currency to pay that back. Come on, Siya. He isn't worth the moonlight."

Yuvraj watched them walk away, the two women silhouetted against the streetlights. He was left alone with his shattered windows, his dented pride, and the shredded remains of a dress that represented the only bridge left between him and the woman who hated him.

The night air chilled, but Yuvraj's skin remained hot, fueled by a mixture of expensive malt and the raw adrenaline of a man who lived on the edge of a blade. He watched the taillights of Naina's car fade into the city's glowing arteries, leaving him in a graveyard of shattered glass and torn silk.

Any other man would have been shaking. Any other man would have felt the sting of the insult or the ache of the loss.

But he was Yuvraj Singh Rathod.

To the world, he was an unaffected monolith. He had built his empire in a landscape where emotions were a liability-a weakness that rivals smelled like sharks smell blood. In his world, there were only two currencies: Deals or Blood. If you wanted something, you negotiated until the other side had no choice but to sign. If they refused, you snatched it until they had no choice but to bleed. There was no middle ground. No mercy. And certainly no room for the fluttering of a heart that Siya Raichand had just tried to provoke.

He looked down at the shredded dress, the moonlight catching the silver threads. To anyone else, it was a ruined masterpiece. To Yuvraj, it was a tactical move. He hadn't just destroyed a dress; he had reasserted a debt. He had forced her back into his orbit, knowing she couldn't leave his sister's happiness in pieces.

He pulled a fresh cigar from his inner pocket, his bruised knuckles steady as he lit it. The flame illuminated the hard, calculative planes of his face for a second-the face of a man who had long ago traded his soul for a throne.

"Sir?" the guard whispered, trembling as he looked at the decimated car. "Should I call the mechanics? The police?"

Yuvraj exhaled a thick, grey cloud of smoke, watching it vanish into the dark sky. He didn't even look at the man.

"Call the mechanics," Yuvraj commanded, his voice devoid of any heat. "Have a new car delivered by dawn. And the police?" A dark, humorless smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "In this city, I am the law. Why would I call myself?"

He turned and walked toward the entrance of Rathod Fashions, his pointed shoes crunching over the glass of his own million-dollar car as if it were common gravel. He had a suit to collect. He had a sister to please. And he had a plan to ensure that Siya Raichand understood one thing:

In the world of Yuvraj Singh Rathod, you don't get to walk away. You only wait for him to decide when you're finished.

****************

Whom do you like more?

Yuv & Siya or Veer & Naian.

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