Adultery Love Sex And War : Age Of Darkness

[Demeter]

As I discussed in one of my previous comments, the story of Hemant and Sonarika has the potential to have a similar or even greater impact than, for example, the story (KMWKM - by Krish_999).
The content, the topics covered and the scope of events are richer in this story. It takes us readers from one suspenseful scene directly into another moment filled with emotion and eroticism.
Another important aspect in favour of this story is that it is not a ‘mediocre’ wife-sharing or cuckold story.
This is a special feature that is unfortunately not sufficiently exploited in the many so-called erotic stories that appear countless times here on xossipy and on other portals.

My appeal to all friends of erotic literature and visitors to this portal: write your opinions, suggestions and critiques! 
Let's create a lively discussion forum together that will encourage the author Harry, among others, to continue and perfect his writing. 
Both Harry as an author and the story with its two dominant protagonists, Hemant and Sonarika, have what it takes to become a big hit and achieve cult status....

... And in the end, we are the ones who will benefit the most, because we will have a lot of fun and enjoyment reading this explicit story.


I wish you all a healthy, successful and peaceful 2026!


-----------
Demeter

[Shiva shiva shiva]

Please update story sir

[Demeter]

Hello Harry,
I wish you and your loved ones a healthy, happy and successful year!

Will a new chapter about Hemant and Sonarika be published today or perhaps tomorrow? 
I (and, I think, many other fans too) would be very grateful to you for that.

Hopefully see you very soon!

----------
Demeter

[Harry Jordan]

Will a new chapter about Hemant and Sonarika be published today or perhaps tomorrow? 

Hopefully see you very soon!

----------
Demeter

I am glad that you are liking the story until now. To be frank , I don't want to give anyone hope because everytime I tried giving a schedule for an update,  I often ended up failing it. But for now I can tell you with full confidence that the chapter is developing quiet well. For now , even the coming chapter will again feature more Hemant and Sonarika's arc will be pushed to the future chapters as I want to dedicate an entire chapter to her arc in Delhi and her first few days in Goa. For now , Chapter 29 will not only feature more Hemant , but it will also feature some more action and setting plot. Don't want to give away much but the highlight part of Chapter 29 will be MICHAEL KING'S RETURN TO LONDON!


Its a major story moment as we will see alliances shaking up and battle lines being drawn. The coming chapter will once again be dedicate to Hemant and his own judgements and nightmare and what his mind is setting him up to be,  is he going to fully succumb to Michael King and loose his complete innocence? Or is he going to find some kind of hope and see that there is more to Hemant Kumar than he thinks? Will his mind change about Sonarika? Will he ever find peace?


Chapter 29 will be another outlook at Hemant Kumar/Michael King , revisiting his glory days and the legacy he has left behind. So the sex segments will be less but there might be some....we'll see   


For now , we are again following Hemant's arc in Mumbai and London as we see him setting the stage for his WAR with the AZRAEL Syndicate!!!   


*que the Azrael Song from Empuraan Malayalam Movie!*

[Shiva shiva shiva]

Waiting sir

[Demeter]

When are you coming back dear Friend ?
We miss you and the story greatly ...


James Blake - Coming Back (Lyrics) ft. SZA - YouTube


-----------
Demeter

[RCF]

Long gaps are killing the momentum..Post updates as earlier like every weekend if possible, thanks

~RCF

[Shiva shiva shiva]

Hi sir

[Harry Jordan]

Hey guys , 

               Apologies for the delay,  but like I said my health conditions have slowed my process down. However , thanks for the wait and patience and so for this weekend I am gifting you chapter 29. I had so much fun writing this because there was a lot of cool things I did with this chapter. So brace yourself , Chapter 29 is coming online in few hours!

                I will be sharing an inside scoop regarding this chapter once it is uploaded in a separate post. For now brace for the ride!

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                               CHAPTER 29

Hemant stood at the entrance of the Family Court, rooted to the marble floor as if the building itself had swallowed his feet. Around him, voices collided—lawyers calling out names, parents arguing in hushed fury, children crying without knowing why. This was a place where endings were processed like paperwork. Today, he wasn’t a spectator. Today, he was here for his own undoing. Karan clung to his hand, small fingers wrapped tightly around Hemant’s knuckles. The boy looked around with curious eyes, absorbing the chaos like a story he didn’t yet understand. 


"Papa" he whispered, tugging gently. 

"Why are there so many people shouting?" 

Hemant swallowed hard, crouched slightly, and forced a smile. 

"It’s just… grown-up things, champ" 

The lie tasted bitter. One day, Karan would understand, and that knowledge would break him in ways Hemant could already feel. Beside them stood Anjali, Sonarika’s teenage sister, her dupatta clutched nervously at her chest. She had always called Hemant bhaiya, had always defended him even when things went wrong. Her eyes were red, but steady. They waited. Minutes stretched like hours. Then the low purr of an engine cut through the air, drawing every eye toward the lobby. A black BMW rolled in, polished and confident. Hemant felt his chest tighten even before the door opened, as if his body already knew what his mind feared.


Vikram stepped out first, well-dressed, composed, the kind of man who never seemed to lose. He walked around the car and opened the door with practiced tenderness. Sonarika emerged slowly—and the world shifted. Her face glowed with an unfamiliar softness, and beneath her flowing kurta was the unmistakable curve of a baby bump. Proof. Final. Irreversible.

"Karan!" she exclaimed, joy flooding her voice. 

The boy broke free instantly, running into her arms. 

"Mumma!" he laughed, pressing his cheek to her stomach. 

Anjali joined them, hugging Sonarika tightly, asking. 

"Didi, are you okay? How’s Goa?" 

Hemant watched from a distance as Vikram crouched beside Karan, smiling, answering questions as if he had always belonged there. For a moment, it felt like Hemant had simply been erased—plucked out of a photograph and discarded. Sonarika laughed easily, untouched by the gravity that was crushing him. Then she noticed him. She walked over, measured, calm. 

"Hemant" she said gently. 

"How are you?" He met her eyes. 

"I’m fine" 

"And YOD?" she asked. 

"Growing" he replied. 

Short. Safe. Hollow.

Inside the courtroom, the air was heavier. The judge adjusted her glasses and glanced at the file. 

"Mrs. Sonarika Kumar" she said. 

"Do you have any objection to proceeding with the final judgment today?" 

Sonarika didn’t hesitate. 

"No, Your Honour" Five seconds. That’s all it took to bury twelve years.

The judge turned to him. 

"Mr. Hemant Kumar?” 

Silence stretched. Ten seconds passed like ten years. Hemant’s throat burned, his vision blurring as Sonarika looked at him, puzzled, almost impatient. 

"No objections" 

He finally said, his voice trembling despite himself. The gavel came down softly. 

"The divorce is granted"

Pens scratched paper. Signatures sealed fate. As Hemant stepped out, the echo of the courtroom still ringing in his ears, Karan ran toward him, eyes sparkling. 

"Papa" he said excitedly, 

"Can I go with Mumma? I want to see the baby" 

The words pierced deeper than any verdict ever could. Sonarika knelt beside them, sensing the fracture. 

"Karan" she said brightly, redirecting his attention, 

"Anju didi has something for you" 

"Really?" 

He grinned, running off. Sonarika stood and faced Hemant. 

"I’ll be honest Hemant" she said quietly. 

"I want to be there for Karan. But right now… this pregnancy makes things difficult. So I would like my visitation schedule to be delayed. Its better he stays with you for a while , atleast until the delivery" 

Hemant nodded, numb.

She hesitated, then added. 

"We’re going to a maternal clinic today—ultrasound, sonography. Karan wants to come. Can I take him? I promise I’ll send him back home by evening" 

Hemant looked at her glowing face, at the life she had chosen so easily. 

"Okay" He said. Each word felt like a blade sliding in.

She smiled, turned away, gathered Karan and Anjali, and walked toward Vikram. She hugged him, then kissed him without restraint. The message was clear. This wasn’t a loss for her—it was an upgrade. The BMW pulled away, carrying his son, his past, and a future where he no longer belonged. Hemant’s knees gave out. A sound escaped his chest that wasn’t quite a cry, wasn’t quite a scream. The world bled into white, noise dissolving into nothingness as he collapsed under the weight of what remained.


He woke with a gasp. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains. The roar of the sea replaced the murmur of the court. He woke up in his bedroom at the Silver Beach Villa, Mumbai—safe, intact, alone. Another nightmare , a new kind of haunting. Hemant walked to the window and stared at the endless silver horizon, clutching the ache in his chest. It had only been a dream—but his heart knew the truth it rehearsed every night: some losses don’t need reality to hurt just as deeply. 


Hemant’s feet tore across Silver Beach in a relentless rhythm, each stride carving purpose into the damp sand. The sea breathed beside him, vast and indifferent, its silver surface catching the morning light like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. This new stretch of beach gave him something rare—space. Space to think, to move, to be free of walls and watchers. The salt air burned his lungs clean as he pushed harder, pace climbing, heartbeat syncing with the surf. Liberty wasn’t comfort; it was clarity.


He had to run like this now. He had to hurt. Somewhere behind the calm of the waves waited unfinished business, claws dug deep into a past he’d buried under another name. Hemant Kumar had been careful, deliberate, respectable. But the past had found him anyway. Michael King—gangster, vigilante, ghost story—had never truly died. He’d merely learned to sleep, and now he was awake, whispering that some debts didn’t expire.


Michael King had once left fear and fractured empires in his wake. His name had become an urban legend, a warning traded in smoke-filled rooms. Hemant had tried to forget that man, to let the legend rot into myth. But legends don’t rot—they wait. And now Hemant understood that to truly put Michael King to rest, he couldn’t erase him. He had to surpass him.


The run ended, but the war didn’t pause. In the private gym beside the swimming pool of his Silver Beach villa, Hemant unleashed himself. Acrobatic drills snapped muscle and tendon into lethal harmony—vaults, twists, controlled landings that punished hesitation. Sweat streamed down a body forged anew, broader shoulders, dense muscle, abs etched like armor. This wasn’t maintenance. This was preparation for rebirth.


The boxing bag took the brunt of his fury. Each punch landed with intent, knuckles thudding like verdicts. Daraaksh Zarir’s sneer flashed in his mind, then Lai Tong’s calculating eyes. The bag swung back, and he met it again, harder. Above them all loomed the truth that cut deepest—the AZRAEL Syndicate was still breathing. He’d believed it dismantled a decade ago, reduced to ashes. Belief, it turned out, was a luxury.


Between rounds, he stood still, breath heavy, mind sharp. YOD Industries rose in his thoughts like a fortress—what began as a defense manufacturing firm had grown into an empire, branching into investments, enterprises, influence. Power, legitimate and otherwise, flowed through it now. He’d built it with Hemant’s discipline and Michael’s ruthlessness, and that fusion had made him untouchable. Almost.


This was the answer. Not Hemant alone, not Michael resurrected, but something more dangerous—a synthesis. The patience of a builder married to the instinct of a predator. The man who could sign contracts by day and dismantle syndicates by night. The man who didn’t chase vengeance blindly, but engineered it with precision.


He showered, dressed, and sealed the transformation. The blazer fit perfectly over a body honed for violence, the mirror reflecting calm authority rather than chaos. Hemant Kumar adjusted his cuffs, expression unreadable. Michael King smiled somewhere beneath the surface. The day at the company awaited—but so did the reckoning.


AT YOD INDUSTRIES


Hemant Kumar arrived at YOD Industries HQ with a warmth that didn’t belong to the rusted cranes and abandoned docks of Mumbai’s port side. The heavy steel doors slid shut behind him as if sealing a secret, and for the first time since Operation Jewel Thief, there was a faint smile on his face, relaxed, victorious, almost familial. 

"Good to see everyone standing" 

he said lightly, the echo of his footsteps betraying nothing of the storm his presence stirred.

Kamya didn’t share the warmth. She leaned toward Raquel in the corridor, her voice sharp but controlled. 

"You know what bothers me?" she whispered. 

"Neither Vaibhav nor I were told about the second truck. We hacked traffic, cameras, manifests—everything we were given. But that part?" 

She shook her head. 

"That wasn’t part of the plan"

Raquel slowed his pace, his expression tightening. 

"You’re not wrong" he replied quietly. 

"And it worries me because I’ve seen this before. When Hemant was Michael King" 

He paused, letting the name settle like dust. 

"Michael never played it this way. He trusted his team. This… half-truth strategy isn’t him"


They entered Hemant’s office together, a glass-and-steel sanctum overlooking the growing city at a distance. Hemant turned from the window, clapping once. 

"Well well well......there is my trusted confidantes......I am truly honored to say that Operation Jewel Thief was a success because of all of you!"

Hemant continued, sliding a folder across the table.

"To be honest , calling it a success would be an understatement. Considering the loot we have acquired , its a massive win for us. Which is why I have increased the amount that you were promised for this job"


He opened another file and pushed it toward Kamya and Vaibhav. 

"Now , along with your extended cut of the pay. Here is the other thing promised. Both of your visas are now under process for France. A wonderful shop is waiting for you at Le Havre coast of France for your flower shop Kamya. And just a few kilometers away , I have leased another shop for your computer hardware store Vaibhav. So , start your french classes for your new life there!"

Kamya gasped as Hemant turned the screen toward her. The room filled with gratitude and quiet smiles, but the tension didn’t fully lift. Kamya’s fingers curled around the folder. 

"I’m thankful" she said slowly. 

"Truly. But that doesn’t erase the fact that things were hidden from us"

She met Hemant’s eyes. 

"Why were we kept in the dark during Operation Jewel Thief?" Her voice steadied. 

"If something had gone wrong, we wouldn’t even have known why"

Hemant exhaled, long and measured, and for a moment the warmth faded. 

"I understand your concern. Yes , I kept a lot of the mission details from you. But I did that not just ensure the mission's success , but also to protect all of you"

His gaze drifted to the city at the distance. 

"This was not the way I used to do things. Everything I did , I did it with full faith to my team , making them a complete part of my plans. But I learned the hard way that , that level of transparency can also be fatal. And I lost it , I lost all of them , my team , my family , simply because I laid it all bare. That kind of mistake is something I can no longer afford"

He turned back to them. 

"I could not afford Operation Jewel Thief to be a failure. For me its success was an absolute. But I also knew I cannot do the same mistakes I did again. I want my team safe , my whole crew safe. So I hid some details to ensure your protection. Which is why I took the risk , because ensuring all of your safety is my priority. Because our identity and privacy matters"

Silence hung until Hemant added, gently. 

"Now you have new lives ahead of you. This is the new beginning , the beginning that you both desired.....cherish it and savor your future" 

Vaibhav hesitated, then asked. 

"I have just one question sir. Why put my shop in France too?" 

Hemant smiled knowingly. 

"Do you seriously think I don't see the equation between you two...." 

Kamya and Vaibhav blushed as he said. 

"France is the perfect place to grow love anyways....so....you have my blessing"


Laughter and relief followed, glasses clinked, and futures unfolded in their minds. Yet as they celebrated a new beginning, Hemant lingered by the window once more, his smile fading. In the reflection of the dark water, plans sharpened—because the loot from Operation Jewel Thief was only the beginning, and with it he would build the tools of warfare for a battle the world had yet to see.


FEW WEEKS LATER


Hemant Kumar’s day had been stitched together by meetings, signatures, and the dull ache of responsibility. YOD Industries was finally shedding its shell, inching toward enterprise status, and every errand felt like another brick laid into his growing legacy. The irony wasn’t lost on him—his professional life was ascending even as his personal one lay in ruins. The divorce papers were already filed, the betrayal already known, yet there was a strange calm in knowing that success, at least, had chosen to stay. By the time his car rolled into the driveway of the Silver Beach Villa, dusk had begun to settle, the Arabian Sea breathing softly in the distance.



The villa stood pristine and quiet, still smelling of fresh paint and unbroken promises. This was meant to be a surprise—Karan running through the halls, Anjali teasing him about his minimalist taste, laughter returning where silence now ruled. Hemant loosened his tie and stepped toward the entrance, ready to finally exhale, when something near the doorstep caught his eye. A small box sat there, plain brown, unassuming, as if it had always belonged. On its surface, written neatly in black marker, were four words that immediately tightened his chest: From Your Well Wisher.



He carried the package inside, setting it on the dining table instead of opening it immediately. Years in the weapons business had trained him to distrust unexplained deliveries, but curiosity—raw and human—won. Inside, beneath a thin layer of packing paper, lay a folded note. The message was brief, deliberate, almost cruel in its simplicity: She does not deserve you. She never loved you. Hemant felt the words scbang against wounds that hadn’t yet closed, reopening anger he’d tried to bury under legal procedures and forced composure.



Below the letter were photographs. His hands stiffened as he flipped through them—Sonarika and Vikram Bajaj, seated across from each other at what looked like a hotel dinner. No scandal, no explicit betrayal, yet every image carried an intimacy sharper than anything physical. In one frame, Sonarika’s hand rested lightly on Vikram’s arm as she spoke, her posture relaxed, familiar, almost affectionate. Hemant’s jaw clenched. He had already endured the truth of her choosing Vikram over him; seeing it frozen in stolen moments made his stomach twist with disdain and pain.



But as the initial surge of rage subsided, something colder crept in. These weren’t public photographs, nor careless selfies—they were taken from a distance, angled, deliberate. Someone had been watching. Someone had followed her movements closely enough to document them without being seen. Hemant leaned back in his chair, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the sea outside eerily silent. A well-wisher didn’t stalk; a benefactor didn’t prod an open wound unless they wanted something from the reaction.



He gathered the photos into a neat stack and set them aside, resisting the urge to tear them apart. Healing or not, he refused to be played. Whether this was meant to push him toward hatred, revenge, or a mistake he’d regret, Hemant knew one thing with unsettling clarity—this package wasn’t about Sonarika alone. It was about him. And until he understood who was pulling the strings, he would not make a move fueled by pain.



The sea outside the villa breathed in long, patient sighs, waves folding into the sand like secrets they could never quite keep. Hemant lay back on the couch, one arm dbangd over his eyes, the other resting limp at his side. Silver Beach glowed faintly through the glass walls—too beautiful, too calm, for the ache that refused to leave his chest.

His phone rang.

He stirred, irritation flickering for a moment—until he saw the screen.

A video call from Sonarika.

His heart lurched, a reflex he despised himself for still having. The divorce papers were signed, the cooling period ticking down like a sentence being served. She had already chosen someone else. 

Vikram. That name still burned like acid. And yet, his thumb hovered only a second before he answered.

The screen lit up.

"Papa!"

Karan’s face filled the display—wide grin, crooked fringe falling into bright, familiar eyes. For a moment, the world rearranged itself around that smile.

Hemant sat up instantly. 

"Hey, champ!" His voice cracked despite his effort. 

"You’re up late"

Karan giggled. 

"Mumma said I can sleep after I talk to you. Look, Papa!" 

He tilted the phone clumsily, showing off a toy car. 

"Anju didi got this for me! We raced it all day!"

"Did you win?" Hemant asked, smiling before he could stop himself.

"Of course" Karan said proudly. 

"Anju didi cheat though. She makes her car fly"

Hemant laughed—a real laugh, startled out of him. 

"She always did that. Tell her I said she still hasn’t grown up"

Karan nodded solemnly, as if passing on a sacred message. Then the words came tumbling out—how they’d gone to the park, how Mumma made his favorite parathas, how Anju didi taught him volleyball and let him watch cartoons longer than allowed.

Hemant listened, absorbing every syllable like water to parched earth. He searched the edges of the screen instinctively.

No Sonarika.

He shifted slightly. 

"Is… Mumma around?" he asked, carefully, casually.

Karan shrugged. 

"She was here before. She’s gone outside to meet some friends"

Of course she is.

The camera shook as Karan climbed onto a bed. For a second, the background came into focus—old wooden furniture, pale walls, the familiar framed painting near the door.

Delhi. Her maternal home.

Hemant’s smile faltered, just for a breath. His fingers tightened around the phone. He imagined her somewhere in Delhi, laughing softly, with him, living a life already rewritten. A life where Hemant existed only as a legal inconvenience.

"Papa" Karan said suddenly, peering into the screen. 

"Why didn't you come with us?"

The question struck deep, sharp and merciless.

"Papa has a company to run champ. But don't worry" Hemant lied gently. 

"I have a surprise for you waiting here when you return after the vacation"

Karan beamed, satisfied. 

"YAY! Cannot wait to see the surprise!!! I’ll show you my drawing next time. Goodnight, Papa"

"Goodnight, my hero" Hemant whispered. 

"Sleep well"

Karan blew an exaggerated kiss at the screen, then the call ended.

The silence rushed in.

Hemant stared at his own reflection in the darkened phone screen—older, hollowed, eyes rimmed with something dangerously close to tears. The sea continued its rhythm outside, indifferent , but he couldn't hear it due to his fortified house blocking all the chaos outside.

She hadn’t said a word.

Not a greeting. Not a glance. Not even the courtesy of closure.

His chest tightened as memories surged uninvited—Sonarika’s laughter once echoing through their old apartment, her hand in his, promises spoken with such careless certainty. And then the truth. The betrayal. Vikram. The future she chose without looking back.

A future that no longer had Hemant in it.

He set the phone down slowly and walked toward the glass doors. The moon hung low over the water, fractured into silver shards by the waves.

Hemant pressed his palm against the cold glass. The flames of vengeance slowly burning his emotions to hatred.

                                                                                                                                                                                                (TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

(CHAPTER CONTD)


FEW DAYS LATER AT REGALCORP COMPLEX , AIROLI


The glass-and-steel sprawl of RegalCorp’s tech park had always been designed to intimidate—acres of reflective façades, security bollards like clenched fists, the kind of place where ambition wore a badge and fear hid behind NDAs. Inside the top-floor cabin, Hansraj Mehta stood with his back to the city, the corporate park at Airoli scattered and spread ahead of the window like a kingdom he could no longer fully command. His knuckles were white around a crystal tumbler that held nothing but air.

"Do you understand what this means?" he snapped without turning. 

"Byculla was our best kept secret. A ghost vault. And now it’s been bled dry like a street locker"

Siddharth Mehta didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. 

"We still don’t know who did it. The security layers—"

"—were your responsibility" 

Hansraj cut in, finally spinning around. Age had sharpened him into something meaner, not weaker. 

"This was a calculated assault on us from an unknown enemy. Someone knew. Someone planned"

Gurmeet Chaddha, the head security, stood a step behind Siddharth, hands clasped, head bobbing in grim agreement. A soldier listening to a king losing territory.

Hansraj exhaled sharply. 

"Call Victor Tarasov. Tell him the next supply is frozen. No movement until we secure the route. I don’t care if it chokes half the syndicate"

Siddharth reached for his phone—

And then the room felt it.

A low, refined growl rolled through the glass walls, deep and deliberate. Not loud. Confident. The kind of sound that didn’t ask for attention—it assumed it.

Outside, at the main gate, security cameras pivoted as a green 2003 BMW E39 M5 eased through like it owned the asphalt. British Racing Green, paint flawless, engine note tuned to a predator’s calm. It didn’t rush. It arrived.

The car cruised past the fountain, past the flags, past guards who instinctively straightened without knowing why.

The number plate gleamed:

YOD ENTERPRISE

It stopped at the lobby.

Silence followed.

The driver’s door opened first.

Raquel stepped out—sharp black suit, movements precise as code. He adjusted his aviators with two fingers, scanned the perimeter once, then moved to the rear door and opened it with ceremonial patience.

The lobby lights seemed to shift.

Hemant Kumar stepped out.

Newly colored auburn hair caught the sun like a controlled flame. Grey suit, tailored within an inch of arrogance. Brown executive shoes polished enough to reflect futures. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t look around to be impressed.

He already knew what effect he had.

Employees froze mid-step. Conversations died. A pair of junior analysts openly stared. The female receptionist forgot to breathe for a moment, eyes flicking to the man she recognized instantly—the same face that had dominated Fortune’s front page last week under the headline:

Hemant walked forward, Raquel half a step behind him, a shadow with intent. The glass doors parted like obedience was hard-coded into the building.

Every step echoed.

By the time they reached the elevators, whispers had turned into legend.

"Is that—?"

"YOD Industries…"

"No appointment—?"

The elevator ride was wordless. Smooth. Controlled.

The doors opened on Siddharth Mehta’s floor. And Hemant didn’t slow down. He walked straight through the outer office, past startled assistants, past protests that died the moment they met his eyes. He reached the cabin door and pushed it open.

Inside, Hansraj Mehta was mid-sentence.

"…tell Tarasov—"

The words collapsed.

Siddharth’s phone slipped slightly in his grip. Gurmeet’s posture stiffened, instinctively alert. Hemant Kumar stepped in like a verdict. The corporate park hummed beyond the glass. Power sat heavy in the room, suddenly redistributed. Raquel closed the door behind them with a soft, definitive click.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Hemant let his gaze travel—Hansraj first, measuring the old lion with surgical calm. Siddharth next, the heir still bleeding uncertainty through a tailored suit. Gurmeet last, the man who knew where the bodies were buried and had just realized someone else had the map.

A faint smile touched Hemant’s lips. Not friendly. Not cruel.

Inevitable.

He adjusted his cuff once, deliberately, then looked directly at Hansraj Mehta.

"Mr. Mehta" he said, voice smooth as a signed contract, heavy as a threat.

"We need to talk"

The room understood, before the men did—This wasn’t a visit. It was an arrival.

Hemant’s expression softened—just enough to pass for courtesy.

He smiled at them, an easy, practiced curve that belonged on magazine covers and hostile boardrooms alike.

"Gentlemen" he said calmly. 

"I know things are… a little chaotic right now. Loss has a way of shaking even the most fortified empires"

Hansraj didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked.

Hemant walked forward and took the guest chair without waiting for an invitation. He sat like the room had been arranged around him long before today, crossing one leg over the other, fingers laced.

"That is precisely why I’m here. Not to add pressure—but to offer reprieve"

Siddharth let out a short, amused scoff. 

"Reprieve?" He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. 

"With all due respect, Mr. Kumar—YOD Enterprise is still… evolving. Slowly. I fail to see how a man building his first empire advises RegalCorp"

The insult landed. Or at least, Siddharth thought it did. Hemant’s smile didn’t fade. Instead, it sharpened.

"I expected that" Hemant said mildly, eyes flicking to Siddharth. 

"You’ve always lacked the maturity required for this business"

"Excuse me—" Siddharth bristled.

"That immaturity" Hemant continued, voice calm, lethal. 

"Is exactly why your sacred vault in Byculla was breached"

The air died.

Hansraj’s breath caught. Gurmeet’s hand instinctively moved closer to his belt. Siddharth froze, color draining from his face. Hansraj stepped forward slowly. 

"Careful, Mr. Kumar" he said, voice low. 

"You’re speaking about things you shouldn’t even know exist. How do you know that vault was ours?"

Hemant leaned back, unbothered.

"Because I study dynasties before I knock on their doors" he replied. 

"The so-called recreational center above that vault? Constructed by the Mehta Trust decades ago. Renovated twice. Clean on paper. Elegant, really"

He paused, then waved a hand dismissively.

"But your vault isn’t my concern"

That caught Hansraj off guard.

"My concern is Kohinoor" Hemant said, eyes locking onto Hansraj now.

The name landed like a coded signal.

"Our cargo ship?" Hansraj’s brows knit together.

"Under ICL maritime management" Hemant nodded. 

"Reliable. Quiet. Perfect for our new.........'investment'......."

"And what exactly is that?" Hansraj asked.

"Transportation of course.....but things that aren't exactly documented.." Hemant replied. 

"In Goa. Small-scale for now. Efficient. Discreet. I wish for Kohinoor to be used for thise transportation"

Siddharth laughed again, harsher this time. 

"You’re proposing we move your goods now?"

"I’m proposing a partnership" Hemant corrected smoothly. 

"You transport a portion of my consignments. In return, I give you something you really need right now!"

Hansraj tilted his head. 

"Which is?"

"A secured travel network across the Indian Ocean" Hemant said. 

"All the way to Madagascar"

Silence stretched.

Hemant continued, voice steady. 

"I’ve heard the rumors. Elite circles talk when they drink. Gold smuggling , mutliple elites , big black investment. I am here to give you a better alternative. Madagascar is safer. Less attention. Better exits"

Hansraj studied him carefully. 

"You speak as if you know too much for a tech entrepreneur"

Hemant nodded once. 

"Before YOD, I worked for Quadron. Mr. Vardhan’s company"

That name carried weight.

"There was… a favor" Hemant said. 

"An external source. Outside India. Small operation. I was brought in because of loyalty—to Vardhan, and to the system he protected"

Hansraj’s gaze softened, just slightly. That explanation fit. Too well. Siddharth didn’t miss the shift—and it irritated him. Hemant stood, adjusting his jacket. 

"This isn’t an ultimatum. It’s a proposal. Take your time. There’s no rush"

He walked toward the door, then stopped.

"But" he added casually. 

"Given the recent serial blasts and the rising surveillance and monitoring of law enforcement in Mumbai…..I’d strongly suggest you consider opportunities that let your empire breathe"

He gave a polite nod.

"I’ll await your decision"

Hemant turned and left. The door closed. For several seconds, no one spoke. Finally, Hansraj exhaled. 

"Looks like after all the failings....Pranitha made a vice choice for a life partner" he said quietly.

"You knew?" Siddharth stiffened.

"I know more than you think" Hansraj replied. 

"And that man… is dangerous in ways you haven’t learned to recognize yet"

Siddharth stared at the closed door—uneasy, intrigued, unsettled.

Outside, the corridor swallowed Hemant and Raquel.

Raquel smiled as they walked. 

"Bhaijaan" he murmured.

"Looks like the Mehtas are still in the blind"

Hemant’s lips curved—not into a smile, but a promise.

"Good for us" he said softly. 

"Because they have a major role to play for the war ahead!"

They stepped into the elevator.

The doors slid shut.

And Hemant Kumar began planning how to turn the Mehta empire into his most elegant weapon yet.


EVENING AT THE SILVER BEACH VILLA


The evening had changed its mood.

The sky over Silver Beach was bruised with purple and ash, clouds drifting low as if even the sea had grown heavier. Hemant sat on the balcony this time, a mug of untouched coffee cooling beside him. The villa felt quieter than before—not peaceful, just empty in a way that echoed.

His phone vibrated on the table.

He looked down.

Incoming video call.

Sonarika.

A smile rose instinctively, fighting its way through the weight on his chest. He knew it was going to be Karan sharing his days with his father through his happy mood. Hemant answered at once.

"Papa!" 

Karan’s face burst onto the screen, flushed with excitement, eyes shining like he’d been saving up stories all day.

"There you are" Hemant said softly. 

"Looks like someone had a busy day"

"You won’t believe it!" Karan bounced slightly, the camera wobbling. 

"Nana and Nani took us out again! Mumma came too. And Anju didi!"

Hemant leaned back, listening, letting his son’s voice paint pictures where his own life had gone colorless.

"We went to the amusement park" Karan continued breathlessly. 

"I went on the big wheel, Papa! Mumma was scared but I wasn’t. Then we ate ice cream. Chocolate for me, vanilla for Mumma. Anju didi bought popcorn even though Nana said it’s unhealthy"

Hemant chuckled. 

"She always does that. Did Nana give in?"

"After Mumma asked him" Karan said proudly, as if it were a strategic victory.

The stories flowed—movies where Karan laughed too loudly, gardens where he chased butterflies, shopping malls where he tugged at Mumma’s hand until she bought him a new T-shirt. The playhouse. His favorite one. The one Hemant used to take him to on Sundays.

Each word warmed him, hurt him, healed and reopened him all at once.

"That sounds wonderful, champ" Hemant said honestly. 

"I’m really glad you’re having fun"

Karan grinned, then paused, thinking. 

"Oh! Papa, there’s something else"

Hemant felt it then—that subtle tightening in his chest, the way happiness sometimes warned him before it betrayed him.

"When we went to the city park....we met Dance Uncle!" Karan said, tilting the phone closer, 

The world stilled.

Hemant’s fingers curled slowly around the armrest.

"Dance Uncle" he repeated, he already knew who it was.

“Yes!” Karan nodded enthusiastically. 

"The one who danced with Mumma on stage. He bought me softies! Mumma was surprised. Anju didi was too. Nana talked to him too"

The air felt suddenly thin. Dance Uncle. Vikram.

Hemant could see it without trying—the memory rising sharp and uninvited. Sonarika in that dance costume at her company’s Founder’s Day. Vikram beside her, confident, fluid, hands steady at her waist as the lights burned down and applause filled the hall. The time Hemant realized before their relationship grew up to the point it wrecked his marriage.

His pulse thudded loudly in his ears.

"Oh" Hemant said, carefully. 

"That’s… nice"

Karan didn’t notice the shift. 

"He’s funny, Papa. He said I am Mumma's Boy"

The words sank in deeper than anger. They sank into something quieter. Something final. Vikram was in Delhi. He was there meeting her. Still part of her world.

And Hemant believed he was no longer a part of her world anymore. He had no right to be angry. He had signed the papers. He had agreed to the end. The law, the process, the inevitable conclusion already stood between them like a wall. Still, the knowledge burned. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the proof he’d been refusing to accept. Sonarika wasn’t just leaving him. She was erasing him.

"Papa?" Karan’s voice pulled him back. 

"Are you okay?"

Hemant forced a smile, one he hoped didn’t look as brittle as it felt. 

"Of course, buddy. Just thinking how much you’re growing up"

Karan beamed again, satisfied. 

"I’ll tell you more in our next call. Goodnight, Papa"

"Goodnight, my son" Hemant said softly. 

"Sweet dreams"

The screen went dark. The sea roared faintly below, louder tonight, restless. Hemant remained still, phone heavy in his hand, the silence settling back around him like a sentence passed without appeal.


A future already unfolding—one where Sonarika laughed freely, introduced new name in his place, built new memories. One where Hemant existed only as a voice on a screen, a past carefully trimmed away.

He exhaled slowly, staring out at the black water.

She wasn’t fixing her marriage. She wasn’t fighting for them anymore. She was simply moving on. And the most painful truth settled in, solid and unmoving that Hemant believed: 

To her, it was as if he no longer mattered at all.

The next few days passed like a fever dream.

Hemant barely slept.

When he closed his eyes, he saw them—Sonarika and Vikram—stitched together by his imagination with a cruelty that felt intentional. Her head resting against Vikram’s shoulder in some café he didn’t recognize. Vikram brushing a strand of hair from her face the way Hemant once had. Their laughter echoing in spaces that used to belong to him. Morning light spilling over their sweaty and nude bodies wrapped in tangled sheets. Evening walks. Shared glances that said this is ours now.

He told himself it was conjecture.
His mind told him it was truth.

Every memory of her became a blade. Every imagined touch sharpened it.

To survive the noise, he trained.

The personal gym in his villa became his refuge—and his battleground. Steel plates clanged as he lifted until his arms shook, until the burn drowned out the ache in his chest. Sweat streamed down his back, breath coming harsh and uneven. His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—too restrained, too human.

Weak, something whispered.

He punched the heavy bag until his knuckles split, each strike fueled by a vision: Sonarika smiling at Vikram, Sonarika introducing him to people who would never know Hemant existed. The bag swayed violently, chains rattling like distant gunfire.

Then the beach.

At dawn and dusk, Hemant ran along the shoreline, sand biting into his calves, lungs screaming for mercy. The sea wind howled past his ears, and for moments—dangerous moments—he imagined it carrying other sounds.

Sirens.
Shouts.
The crack of gunfire echoing through narrow streets.

His past was no longer knocking.

It was kicking the door down.

By the second evening, the hallucinations began to feel… familiar.

He slowed to a stop near the water, chest heaving, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him. The sky burned orange and red, like a warning flare. His vision blurred—and then sharpened.

Someone stood beside him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a black worn out open suit. 

Hemant didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

Michael King stepped into view—his older face, harder, scarred, eyes cold and unflinching. The man Hemant had once been before love softened him. Before he believed redemption was permanent.

"They’re moving on without you" Michael said calmly, watching the waves. 

"She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back"

"Stop" Hemant clenched his fists.

"You feel it, don’t you?" Michael continued. 

"That hollowing. That weakness. This is what being Hemant Kumar bought you"

Michael gestured at Hemant’s chest. Images slammed into Hemant’s mind without mercy.

London. Rain-slicked streets glowing under yellow lamps. His old gang moving like shadows, loyal, lethal. The unspoken respect when Michael King walked into a room.

Kira.

Her face appeared unbidden—sharp eyes, unreadable smile, the woman who had never asked him to be gentle, only honest. The way she vanished as suddenly as she arrived, leaving behind more questions than wounds.

Ashnoor

The face of innocence and teenage wildness. The young woman who brought the vibrant side of Michael King , the belly of London nightlife that became the background of their passionate intensity. A woman who could blend between innocence and sultry with him , only him. The way she used to scream his name

'Mike....Ohhh...Mike'

The woman who made the sexual enigma in Michael King!

And then.

Shanghai.

Neon lights bleeding into alleyways. The Triads. Blood on tiled floors. Deals sealed with silence and threat. Michael standing unbroken in the middle of chaos.

Then the church.

Saint Michael Church, Cornhill. The smell of incense. Father Dominic’s trembling hands on his shoulders.

"You are a sword. Archangel Michael walks through you" the priest had whispered. 

Hemant staggered, clutching his head.

"No" he muttered. 

"That was madness.I lost everything ,  I chose a different life"

Michael’s expression hardened. 

"And where did it get you? Admit it Hemant , abandoning me made you weak. Now even your wife left you for another man. Your new life was an attempt to escape , but the truth is Hemant , you can never escape your past!"

The final memory hit like an explosion.

Azerbaijan.

Fire devouring a house under a black sky. Screams swallowed by smoke. Heat blistering skin. The night everything burned—proof that mercy was never meant for men like him.

Hemant dropped to his knees in the sand.

"I loved her.....somewhere I still love her....I buried my past for her.” 

He whispered, voice breaking at last.

Michael crouched in front of him, eyes level, mercilessly calm. 

"And turns out that wasn't enough. When you got weak, she replaced you. Now where did all your failings bring you. Back to me!"

Hemant’s hands trembled—but the tremor slowed. Something inside him hardened. His vulnerability—the last fragile thing Sonarika had ever touched—began to calcify.

"Sonarika wouldn't even have thought about another man if it was me instead of this weaker you as her husband. I am what makes you best Hemant! Accept this cold truth!" 

Michael said quietly. The sea roared louder, the sky darkening as if the world itself leaned in to listen. 

Hemant lifted his head.

For the first time in days, his breathing steadied.

The heartbreak didn’t vanish—but it transformed. It sharpened. It focused.

Sonarika and Vikram’s love story played on in his mind one last time—and then faded, like a chapter he no longer needed to reread.

Because something else was waking up.

Something older. Something ruthless. Something that didn’t break when abandoned.

Michael King smiled.

And somewhere deep inside, Hemant Kumar struggled to control his mortal form.


SOMEWHERE AT THE MUMBAI PORT

The Mumbai port never slept. It only shifted gears.

Cranes groaned like old beasts, containers thudded onto concrete, diesel fumes hung thick in the humid air, and the Arabian Sea slapped against steel hulls with bored impatience. It was chaos—regulated, monetized chaos—and Siddharth Mehta stood right in the middle of it, annoyed.

His black Range Rover was parked near a restricted dock, flanked by four armed men. Beside him stood Gurmeet Chaddha, his security head—ex-Army, broad shoulders, eyes that never stopped moving.

Siddharth checked his watch for the third time.

"He’s late...That’s already a bad start" Siddharth muttered. 

Gurmeet didn’t reply. He just looked toward the access road. That was when the noise changed. Engines—low, deliberate, unapologetic. First came a Mahindra Scorpio, matte black, rolling slow but heavy, like it owned the asphalt. Then another Scorpio behind it. Between them slid a dark green 2003 BMW E39 M5, its paint catching the sodium lights of the port like liquid emerald.

The convoy didn’t rush. It arrived.

Dock workers slowed. A few heads turned. Even the port seemed to hold its breath. The vehicles stopped precisely in Siddharth’s space. Doors opened in sequence. Men in tailored suits stepped out of the Scorpios—no shouting, no theatrics. Just quiet confidence and visible bulges beneath jackets that said these weren’t decorative accessories.

From the BMW’s driver seat stepped Raquel. Sharp suit. Sharper eyes. Calm like a loaded weapon. He walked around the car and opened the rear door. Hemant Kumar stepped out. Auburn hair brushed back, dark brown blazer sitting perfectly on his frame, golden aviators reflecting cranes, ships, and men who suddenly felt smaller. He looked less like a criminal and more like the kind of man films were written about. He adjusted his cuffs once, then walked forward. Siddharth straightened instinctively. Hemant removed his aviators mid-stride, revealing eyes that had seen things no corporate boardroom ever would.

"Morning Sid, Mumbai traffic. Still a nightmare" Hemant said casually, extending a hand. 

"And here I thought you were a man of punctuality" Siddharth didn’t take the hand immediately.

Hemant smiled—slow, thin, dangerous.

"I never mentioned a preferred timing for the meeting"

A beat. Then Siddharth took the hand. The handshake was firm. Equal. A test passed.

"Shall we?" Hemant gestured toward a nearby warehouse.

Gurmeet leaned in.

"It’s fine, Stay close"  Siddharth said, already walking. 

The warehouse door rolled open with a metallic scream.

Inside, rows upon rows of shipping containers sat stacked like silent witnesses. Sodium lights cast long shadows across concrete stained by decades of secrets.

Hemant led Siddharth to the first container.

He snapped his fingers.

Two of his men moved instantly, unlocking the container and dragging out a heavy crate, placing it onto a steel table. Then they stepped back, hands clasped, eyes forward.

Hemant rested a palm on the crate.

"You asked for proof, and here is the real deal!" he said. 

He opened it. Inside were small glass containers—dozens upon dozens—each sealed, each filled with a thick, silver liquid that shimmered unnaturally under the lights. Siddharth’s breath caught despite himself.

"Mercury, high purity" Hemant said calmly. 

"This is safe?" Siddharth picked up one container carefully. 

"To hold? Yes. To misuse? Depends on the imagination" Hemant replied and shrugged. 

Siddharth inspected it, nodding slowly.

"How many of these?"

"Each crate holds thousands" Hemant said. 

"This warehouse has roughly fifty containers"

Siddharth looked around, doing the math in his head. His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from scale.

"And if I’m satisfied?" Siddharth asked.

Hemant leaned closer. 

"Then I move everything to Goa. From there, it boards Kohinoor. Clean export. Quiet seas. And you get a proper sea route!"

Siddharth frowned. 

"Why here? This port is crawling with the Indian Navy. Coast Guard patrols every hour"

Hemant smiled again—this time wider.

"Sometimes, to hide something from the smart brains, you don’t bury it deep" he said softly, 

He tapped the container behind them.

"You hide it right in front of them. Because that’s the last place they ever suspect"

Silence. Even Gurmeet didn’t have a counter to that. Siddharth closed the crate. He turned to Hemant and nodded once.

"I’m satisfied"

Hemant put his aviators back on, the world reflecting off gold again.

"Good Then this is the beginning of a brilliant business relationship" he said.  

Hemant extended his hand once more. Siddharth shook it. Somewhere outside, a ship’s horn bellowed. The port went on with its business. And so did they.

                                                                                                                                                            (TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                         (CONTD)

THAT NOON AT YOD INDUSTRIES


YOD Enterprise breathed differently from the villa. Here, the air was sharp with purpose—glass, steel, quiet authority. The headquarters rose from the abandoned port side of Mumbai like a reclaimed fortress, its glass walls reflecting cranes, small trolley ships, and the distant sprawl of a city that never truly slept. From the upper floor of the Manager's office, Mumbai looked conquerable.


Hemant sat at the head of the long conference table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, eyes steady.
Files were spread before him—growth projections, investment blueprints, diversification charts. YOD was no longer just a weapons manufacturer whispered about in defense circles. It had evolved.

Secure vaults and biometric lockers.

Advanced security systems.

Armored vehicles—first for the Indian Army, now adapted for civilian protection.

An enterprise.

A machine built on precision, foresight, and control. Here, Sonarika didn’t exist. Neither did Vikram. Neither did his nightmares.

Until today.

A soft knock broke the rhythm.

"Come in" Hemant said, without looking up.

Raquel entered. He was immaculate as always—well-ironed suit, posture disciplined—but something was off. His expression carried a weight that no tailoring could hide. In his hand was a thick file.

Hemant looked up then. His jaw tightened.

"You did what I asked?" Hemant said.

"Yes Bhaijaan.Every detail. I've trailed and surveilled Bhabhijaan's activities in Delhi for the past few weeks.....also did a detailed background check on Vikram Bajaj and the Bajaj Family"

Raquel nodded. 

"Sit"

Raquel took the chair opposite him and placed the file carefully on the table, as if it might explode.

"Tell me about Vikram Bajaj" Hemant leaned back. 

"He’s… not what you’d expect" Raquel exhaled once, controlled. 

Hemant raised an eyebrow.

"No flamboyance. No excess wealth habits. No scandal trails. He lives reserved. Keeps a low profile. His finances are clean. His reputation is pretty quiet and closeted"

Hemant listened, face unreadable.

"There’s something else.....Something from his past" Raquel continued. 

He opened the file and slid out a photograph. A woman.Her eyes were soft. Her smile gentle. And the resemblance hit Hemant like a physical blow.

Sonarika.

Not identical—but close enough to hurt.

"This is Sarika. Vikram’s first love. They were betrothed young. Families were involved and were close to each other. He loved her deeply" 

Raquel said quietly. Hemant said nothing.

"She suffered from a rare genetic disease.Inherited from past generation. Unfortunately there was no cure. She passed away years ago" 

Raquel went on. The silence thickened. Raquel tapped the photo lightly. 

"That resemblance may explain why Vikram and Bhabhijaan grew close.....it makes sense"

Hemant’s fingers curled slowly against the table.

"Where is Vikram now?" Hemant asked.

"Delhi Bhaijaan.....he is in New Delhi" Raquel hesitated. 

"Of course he is.......after all she is his true love now!" Hemant’s lips curved faintly. 

Raquel’s eyes lowered. 

"Officially, he’s there for BajajCorp matters. Unofficially… he has no business there"

Hemant already knew the answer.

"Let me guess....they've been meeting outside for weeks now isn't it? cafes , gardens?"

"Yes....Bhaijaan" Raquel said in a sad tone as he opened another section of the file. 

"He’s booked a premium viewing booth for the Arijit Singh concert in Delhi tomorrow night. Group booking"

Hemant’s gaze sharpened.

"The guest list includes Bhabhijaan , her friends—Ragini, Meghna, Disha, Mouni, Sagar"

Raquel continued. Hemant for that moment remembered that terrible dream he had of Sonarika and Vikram's wedding night. He saw the couples , all standing together celebrating while he silently suffered. The pain in his chest winced.

"Of course.....all the lovebird couples.....in one night of music....the music of love!"

Hemant’s voice was calm. 

"Not just them Bhaijaan"

Hemant wondered when he realized the list wasn't done.

"The list also has Ragini , and then there is also Bhabhijaan's new boss"

"Sreelekha Naik?"

"Yes. Owner of VATIKA Botanical Research Center, Goa"

"Odd for an old woman be part of their group. Maybe she likes music a lot!"

Hemant paused. 

"Does Mrs. Naik have any connection to Vikram?"
 
"She’s close friends with Vikram’s mother. Neelam Bajaj" Raquel nodded grimly.

That was it. The final piece clicked into place.

Hemant leaned back, eyes distant. 

"So she’s being integrated not just into his life—but his family as well" he said quietly. 

"Bhaijaan, you might be—" Raquel opened his mouth. 

"Enough Raquel.....I've listened enough....leave the files" Hemant cut in, voice sharp. 

"And from now on no more surveillance on Sonarika.....its done!"

Raquel stiffened.

"We have more important business....some modern warfare to be conducted here!" 

Hemant said, final. Raquel stood slowly, disappointment etched across his face. He gathered the file and turned toward the door. Then he stopped. He turned back.

"Bhaijaan"

Hemant looked at him.

"I’m one of the few who knows about Michael King....I've seen some of his legend , his unmatched charisma....the brutality.....and lately I was worried that the very Michael King was returning again!" 

Raquel’s voice softened. The name hung in the room like a ghost.

"But Operation Jewel Thief , it opened by eyes. I finally was able to see the real truth. The way you handled that whole heist , the surveillance , the planning , it was very different from King. You need to understand something" 

Raquel said. 

"You’re not him anymore"

Hemant didn’t interrupt.

"Everything you’ve built—this company, this growth—it’s not Michael’s legacy resurfacing. It’s yours. Hemant Kumar’s clarity. His strategy. His restraint. The ambitious man only my brother saw....now I see him"

Raquel swallowed. 

"What I am trying to say is Bhaijaan.....that you still have a lot to live for.....even though you feel you are alone.....you need to understand you have built a family.....a family that has all of us with you....and this family cares for you. Who believe in you.....I don't want to be Michael King's right hand.....I want to be Hemant Kumar's enforcer!"

For a moment, something unguarded flickered across Hemant’s face. 

Warmth. Unexpected. Undeniable.

He nodded once. 

"Thank you Raquel.....I needed that little brother......and don't worry.....I am honestly glad that I have a big family now!" 

Hemant said quietly. Raquel gave a small, respectful smile—almost brotherly—then turned and left. The door closed. Hemant remained seated.

On the table, the photos lay exposed—Sonarika and Vikram sitting across from each other in a café in Delhi. Talking. Smiling. The exact scene his mind had tortured him with nights before.
Dreams. Or the real future.

Hemant stared at them for a long moment… then stood and walked toward the glass wall.
Mumbai stretched endlessly before him—the skyline glowing. The future waited somewhere between those lights and that darkness.

Maybe his dreams weren’t prophecies.

Maybe they were fears.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t a man being erased. He rested his hand against the glass, eyes steady. The question wasn’t whether Michael King would return. It was whether Hemant Kumar was truly ready to show the world what he truly is.


THE NIGHT OF NIGHTMARES!





Hemant’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the string quartet. The silk of his Armani suit felt like a cheap, constricting skin. Across the marble floor of the Bajaj Mansion, bathed in golden light, stood Sonarika.

His wife.

No. Not his. Not anymore.

The red wedding saree clung to her curves like a lover’s caress, the fabric whispering secrets with her every graceful movement. The jewels at her throat and ears caught the light, but they were dull compared to the glow on her face. Her smile, wide and unreserved, was aimed at Vikram Bajaj. He stood beside her, a prince in a cream sherwani, his hand possessively low on her back. They leaned into each other, whispering, their lips almost touching, a private world humming between them.

A small hand tugged his pant leg. Karan. His son’s innocent eyes, so like Sonarika’s, looked up at him, confused by the spectacle. 

"Papa?"

Before Hemant could form a lie, Anjali was there. Sonarika’s teenage sister, her face a mask of concern. 

"Bhaiya? Are you okay?"

The kindness in her voice was a shard of glass in his throat. 

"I’m fine" he managed, the words gravelly. 

He forced a smile that felt like a crack in plaster. She hesitated, then took Karan’s hand, leading him toward the bridal couple. Hemant watched, paralyzed, as his son was absorbed into the happy scene. Vikram bent down, saying something that made Karan grin. Sonarika ruffled his hair, her eyes soft. It was a perfect picture. A perfect family.

From which he had been surgically removed.

He turned and walked away, the elegant room blurring into a wash of meaningless color and sound. He found a quieter hall, only to see his friend Kunal slumped against a pillar, a half-empty glass in his hand. Following his gaze, Hemant saw Mouni, dbangd over Sagar. She was feeding him a strawberry, her laughter tinkling and sharp. Kunal’s shoulders were slumped in defeat, a posture of accepted humiliation.

"Hemant, You surviving?" Kunal murmured, not looking at him. 

"Fine" 

Hemant repeated the hollow word. Kunal just nodded, his eyes saying he knew the truth. The air grew thick with whispered conversations that seemed to seek him out.

"…like love birds, isn’t it?"

"She looks breathtaking. Who would guess she’s a mother?"

A lower, more salacious voice cut through. 

"I hear they were always… compatible. Very, very compatible. In every way"

A chuckle, mean and knowing. 

"Good she upgraded. Her ex was only…..adequate. Vikram? He is a different package!"

Then, the final blow, delivered with a conspiratorial leer. 

"My cousin smuggled Viagra to him. Vikram said he doesn’t plan on letting his wife sleep tonight!"

Each word was a nail. Hemant fled again, but the mansion offered no sanctuary. He found himself on an open gallery overlooking manicured gardens. And there they were.

Sonarika and Vikram were a single silhouette against the twilight sky. His arms enveloped her from behind, his lips tracing the shell of her ear. She melted into him, her head falling back against his shoulder, a sigh of pure contentment visible even from a distance. Nearby, Mouni and Sagar were locked in a deep, exploring kiss. And to his right, Meghna, Sonarika’s best friend, had Disha, Hemant’s quirky ex-asisstant, pinned playfully against a pillar, their mouths moving together with practiced ease.

Everyone was paired. Everyone was tasting passion. He was a ghost in his own life.

The night dragged on, a torture of forced smiles and averted eyes. Finally, the crowd began to thin. He was heading to the guest wing when he saw Meghna, Disha, Mouni, and a gaggle of others, giggling like teenagers, shepherding Sonarika and Vikram down a corridor. The door they ushered them through was adorned with fresh marigolds—the marital suite.

Hemant’s feet carried him to his assigned room on autopilot. Karan was inside, engrossed in a game. 

"Where’s Anju Didi?" he asked.

"Different room, champ" Hemant’s voice was raw.

A pause. Then, the innocent knife. 

"Papa? Will Mumma sleep here tonight?"

Hemant’s knuckles turned white. 

"No, Karan. She won’t"

Another pause, the game forgotten. 

"Is Dance Uncle my papa also?"

Rage, hot and blinding, erupted. Hemant whirled. 

"No!" 

The word was a whip-crack. Karan flinched, his small face crumpling in fear. The sight doused the fire instantly, leaving only cold, sickening ash. Hemant knelt, pulling his son into a shaky hug. 

"I’m your papa. Always. Mumma loves you, she will always be your mumma… but she’s not with me anymore. Okay?"

Karan nodded, a single tear tracking down his cheek before he turned back to his game, seeking solace in digital worlds.

Hemant stumbled back into the hallway, needing air, needing silence. He checked on Anjali, who gave him a sleepy, reassuring smile. As he walked back, he saw Meghna and Disha leaning against the wall near the marital suite, Mouni and Sagar a few feet away. They were giggling, their eyes bright with voyeuristic thrill.

That’s when he heard it.

Dhuk…. Dhuk…. Dhuk…

A deep, rhythmic thumping from behind the ornate door. Slow. Steady. Inexorable. His blood ran cold.

He tried to walk past, to flee the sound, but Meghna’s hand shot out, landing lightly on his chest. Her grin was predatory. 

"Leaving so soon, Hemant? The show’s just starting" The thumping grew faster, more urgent.

Dhuk   dhuk    dhuk    dhuk…

It was joined by a low, guttural grunt. Vikram’s. Then, a high, breathy gasp that unraveled Hemant’s soul. Sonarika’s.

Meghna leaned in, her perfume suffocating. 

"Sounds like she’s finally getting what she needs. A real man. One who knows how to make a woman scream. Not just… sigh politely" 

She laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and pulled Disha into a hungry kiss, their hands roaming as if to mock his solitude. Hemant wrenched himself away, the sounds pursuing him down the hall—the accelerating thuds of the headboard, Vikram’s animalistic growls, and Sonarika’s crescendoing moans, each one a symphony of pleasure he had never been able to elicit.

He threw open his room door.

Kunal was sitting on the edge of the spare bed, head in his hands. He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. 

"Mouni… her boyfriend… they wanted the room. Do you mind if I…?"

Something in Hemant snapped. 

"Why?" he hissed, voice trembling with fury. 

"Why do you just take it? Why are you so… so submissive?"

Kunal’s smile was a grim, terrible thing. 

"It’s your first day as a cuckold. The first cut is the deepest. It gets easier. You'll eventually learn your place"

His place. The words detonated inside Hemant. A raw, primal scream built in his chest, tearing at his lungs to be let out. He opened his mouth—

And jolted upright, gasping.

The sheets were tangled around his legs, soaked with cold sweat. The thumping was his own frantic heartbeat. The grunts and moans were the echoes of a shattered dream.

Silence.

Not the lavish Bajaj Mansion. His bedroom. In Silver Beach, Mumbai. The faint smell of salt air from the open window.

Alone.

The ghost of Sonarika’s pleasure still vibrated in his bones, a phantom pain more acute than any waking truth. He sat there in the dark, the emptiness of the king-size bed yawning beside him, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a shameful, sensual stain.

Morning arrived quietly at Silver Beach, pale sunlight slipping through the glass walls of the villa like it didn’t want to disturb him.

Hemant was more than awake. The nightmare gave a different kind of fuel to his workout for the day. His body moved on instinct—push-ups, pull-ups, controlled breathing, the steady rhythm of exertion grounding him. Sweat rolled down his spine as he pushed harder than necessary, as if fatigue could outrun thought. The gym echoed with nothing but his breath and the dull thud of discipline.

When he finished, he stood still for a moment, hands on his knees, heart pounding—alive, controlled.

He showered, dressed simply, and made himself a light breakfast. There was no urgency today. No board meetings. No inspections. A rare, quiet day at home.

Or so he thought.

With his coffee in hand, he sat on the balcony and unlocked his phone. Muscle memory betrayed him immediately.

Sonarika’s profile.

He barely realized he’d tapped it until the image filled his screen.

A fresh post.

She stood in front of a mirror, sunlight brushing her face, full makeup flawless, confidence effortless. A blue mini-skirt dress hugged her frame—elegant, celebratory, unmistakably intentional.

The caption stared back at him:

"A day full of family, laughter, love and music"

Hemant’s jaw tightened. Blue was his favorite color. But that was the moment he realized.

Tonight.

The realization landed slowly, then all at once.

Tonight was the Arijit Singh concert.

The premium booth. The laughter. The friends. Vikram.

In his mind, the evening unfolded without his permission—music swelling, lights dimming, Sonarika smiling freely, leaning closer to someone who wasn’t him. A celebration not just of music, but of release. Of beginnings.

She would be free soon. Free of him. Free to forget.

The thought clawed at him, sharp enough to summon old nightmares—faces, voices, imagined touches. He shut the screen abruptly, breath shallow.

Enough.

He swiped away and opened another profile.

Tamanna

Her feed was calm, warm—photos from Germany. Coffee cups on wooden tables. Streets dusted with winter light. Her daughter Shraddha laughing, bundled up, arms flung wide like the world still felt safe. Mother and daughter, unbroken.

Hemant felt something in his chest ease.

Tamanna had never asked him to be anything other than present. In her quiet strength, he’d found sanity when everything else cracked.

He lingered for a moment… then moved on.

Pranitha

Amsterdam.

The video loaded.

She surfaced from a swimming pool, water streaming down her skin, laughter bright and unapologetic. The bikini—skimpy, daring—left little to imagination. The way she glanced at the camera was deliberate, teasing, as if she knew exactly who would be watching.

Hemant hissed softly under his breath, body reacting before his mind caught up.

Ever since she’d flied out for business, the calls, the messages—playful, provocative, unfiltered—had been relentless. And right now, with his villa too quiet and his thoughts too loud, he wished she were here.

Very much.

The phone rang.

He blinked, pulled back into the present.

"Kunal?" Hemant answered.

"Morning Hemant.....are you free in the morning....would like to hangout for breakfast!" 

Kunal said cheerfully.

"I know just the spot. Beachside restaurant near my place. Twenty minutes" 

Hemant smiled faintly. 

"Perfect. See you"

The call ended.

Hemant set the phone down and looked out at the sea again.

Tonight belonged to Delhi. To music. To endings and beginnings that no longer included him.

But this morning—this morning still belonged to him.

And for now, that was enough.

The beachside restaurant was already alive with the morning—cutlery clinking, waves rolling in lazy rhythm, the smell of coffee and salt braided together. Sunlight glimmered off the water, scattering gold across the tables.

Hemant was seated when Kunal arrived.

They shook hands, firm and familiar, two men who had learned to smile despite carrying fractures inside.

"Hey man.....congratulations on the Fortune Magazine cover and interview.....it was definitely well deserved....looked like a moviestar in it...plus the growth of YOD Enterprise!!" 

Kunal said as he sat down, nodding toward Hemant with genuine admiration.
 
"Didn’t plan for the cover. But the growth—yeah, that part was intentional"

Hemant exhaled lightly.

"As it should be, You’ve built something real" Kunal said.

"And you—your new banking investment. I heard it’s already turning profit" 

Hemant raised his cup. 

"That was the idea. Something steady. Something that keeps flowing, even when everything else doesn’t"

Kunal smiled faintly.

"For the family" Hemant said.

"Always" Kunal nodded. 

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watching the waves curl and retreat. Then Hemant’s expression shifted—subtle, but Kunal caught it.

"She posted this in the morning" 

Hemant said finally, unlocking his phone and sliding it across the table.

Kunal glanced at the screen. Blue dress. Bright caption. Love and music.

"Tonight she is joining Vikram for an Arijit Singh Concert in Delhi...Mouni and Sagar will joing them too" 

Hemant added.

"I know" Kunal nodded once. 

"You do?" Hemant frowned. 

"Mouni told me before she left.....She and Sagar are on their 'annual honeymoon' trip. Delhi tonight is a pit stop , a small get together for a double date with them!"

Kunal said calmly. The words landed heavy.

Hemant leaned back, the chair creaking under the shift of his weight. Something inside him recoiled—then went quiet.

"A celebration Of endings" Hemant muttered.

"Most likely a celebration of beginnings" Kunal corrected gently.

"And you’re… okay with this?" Hemant looked at him, confused by the lack of bitterness. 

Kunal took a slow sip of water. 

"No..But I’m done pretending that pain gives me ownership" he said honestly. 

Hemant stilled.

"When Mouni comes back next month, the divorce papers will be waiting" 

Kunal continued, eyes steady.

"You’re filing?" Hemant’s brow furrowed. 

"I already have"

There was no drama in his voice. No tremor.

"I’ve transferred eighty percent of my assets to her, Everything. Properties. Accounts. She’s the legal guardian until the kids come of age"

"Kunal… why?" Hemant’s heart thudded. 

Kunal smiled—not sadly, not bitterly. Peacefully.

"Because I took enough from her already"

"And you? What happens to you?" Hemant searched his face. 

"I’m keeping enough cash to move, Nothing more" Kunal said. 

"Move where?" Hemant asked, concern creeping in.

Kunal’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the sea met the sky.

"A Journey , something I wanted to do. I always believed life should feel like motion, like a road. You don’t stop to build monuments—you move until the road ends. I want to see the world Hemant , see it in its natural form. For now I don't have a destination , just a direction. To go north , and keep going. That way I can finally live a life on my terms , fullfill something that I truly desire"

Kunal said

Hemant swallowed. 

"You’re leaving?...You can’t just disappear"

A knot tightened in Hemant’s chest. 

"I’m not. Hemant I am not abandoning my family , I've set all their future up with my earnings, and my legacy as a person, it will only harm them rather than uplift them. And this trip is not meant to be forever , I am just gonna go until my mind is fullfilled enough. Once that is done , I will return. Also I am not going right away. I will be here when Mouni returns from her special honeymoon , to give her the happy news and release her from my terribe existence"

Kunal replied gently. Hemant shook his head slowly, stunned. 

"This… this takes courage Kunal" Hemnat said sighing

"No. It takes exhaustion" Kunal laughed softly. 

He looked down at his hands. 

"I’ve cried enough in this life. My choices broke her long before she broke away. The kids deserve better than two parents poisoning the same room"

Hemant said nothing. There was nothing to argue with. Kunal continued. 

"My legacy?...its too fractured to repair. So I’ll let it go. I’ll walk away before it hurts anyone else. My kids , Mouni , they're all better without me. Atleast with all the things I've earned , that will give them a much needed financial stability and a better future. But they don't need me , and for this awakening , I thank you Hemant , or else I would've been that same miserable man in her life!"

He looked back up, eyes clear. 

"For once, I’ll live on my own terms that fit me , not live as someone that was infected with humiliating kinks. Do something I love. Find peace— with myself and my existence"

They stood a while later, the bill settled, the morning drifting forward.

Kunal clasped Hemant’s shoulder. 

"And I wish the same for you Hemant. YOD Enterprise is your best achievement. It has not only brought the best of you , but I have a feeling it has brought out your purpose in life. Your life is not just Sonarika , there is Karan , there is Anjali , there are people in YOD Industries. There are more people in your life than you think. And if you are thinking about a partner. Look no further. Pranitha , she fancies you a lot. From what I've learned from Jess , she has already developed a deep infactuation with you. You two are way too compatible and on a social standpoint too , you will put even the best film couples to shame. Just....if Sonarika has truly moved on , you should too. And life is not dark for you like you think , there is sunshine ahead!"

As Kunal walked away, his figure shrinking against the bright sprawl of the beach, Hemant remained still.

Something had shifted.

Kunal’s choice wasn’t surrender—it was clarity. A clean break. A future not built on resentment, but acceptance.

Hemant looked out at the sea again, the wind lifting against his face. Kunal's motivation echoing in his ears

Maybe letting go didn’t mean losing.

Maybe it meant choosing how the road continued—even without Sonarika.


FEW HOURS LATER AT YOD ENTERPRISE HQ


YOD Enterprise was quieter than usual that afternoon.

The upper floors hummed with restrained efficiency—glass corridors, muted conversations, the distant thrum of machines far below. Hemant stood near the panoramic window of his office, hands in his pockets, Mumbai spread out like a living organism beneath him.

Kunal’s words wouldn’t leave him alone.

His journey. Motion. Acceptance.

Kunal had reached a conclusion—not born from weakness, but clarity. And that unsettled Hemant more than despair ever had.

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, toward the two women who had steadied him when everything else collapsed.

Tamanna.

Calm. Grounded. A woman who had already survived loss—an absent husband swallowed by his family’s violent legacy, a daughter she now raised with quiet resilience. With her, life would be structured. Gentle. Predictable in the best way. On paper, she was perfect.

But his life was not paper.

Then there she was. 

Pranitha.

Fire. Energy. Desire sharpened into honesty. She didn’t flinch at his simplicity , she tweaked him to regain his lost self—she teased it, provoked it, matched it. Pranitha didn’t want safety. She wanted someone real , someone exciting, and she brought that out of him. And a man like Hemant—he knew it deep down—she is the most compatible one with his new life.

Who should he go after? his mind asked him.

Before he could answer, the door opened.

Sanjana Ranawat walked in.

Law Enforcement uniform. Crisp. Immaculate. Authority woven into every step. She paused, studying him with the same sharp eyes that had once memorized his smiles in college corridors.

"Hemant" she said evenly.

“Sanjana....I assume you’re here to interrogate me again!" he replied, guarded. 

"Even though I still have my doubts.....No that is not why I am here!"

She exhaled, then surprised him with a small smile. That alone made him straighten.

"I'm here to tell you.....that I’m taking voluntary retirement" she said.

"You’re… what?" Hemant blinked. 

"The department’s in chaos. Recent incidents, the serial blasts , the gang wars ,  internal politics, pressure from every direction. It’s bleeding into my personal life. My family deserves better than a ghost in uniform"

Hemant scoffed lightly. 

"Well if its any consolation , I am not at all relieved with your retirement. My life is already in ruins like usual. And you can be happy knowing that your miserable ex is still suffering!"

Sanjana’s expression softened—not pity, but understanding. She stepped closer.

"Do you really think I want you to suffer? If you believe that, then you don’t understand me at all anymore.”" 

She asked quietly. He looked away.

That is when she stood up and walked. She came close to him and grabbed onto his hand. She then led his hand to land it on her buttcheeks from over the uniform. The moment his hand landed , Sanjana left a quiet muffling moan. Hemant was startled by her gesture. After which Sanjana opened her eyes and confessed.

"Do you remember our college's annual day? A year after our dating?"

"Of course"

"You remember the crazy wish I had regarding us"

"Definitely , you wanted to do it in the open on that night at our college roof. Something I wasn't sure about" 

Hemant confessed as Sanjana remembered those days.

"And you do remember what I did" Sanjana teased back.

"Yeah , you tried to act naughty and flirty with the second year Rishi to piss me off!"

Hemant revealed to which Sanjana giggled. After that she confessed.

"But thanks to that , you gave us our most memorable night of our relationship. You remember that night right?"

"How can I forget , when everyone else was cheering in the great hall with the annual celebration. I was dogging you at the roof near the flagpole and cumming inside you at the right time of the fireworks"

"And that is exactly why I will never forget. Because you were the best 'first love' a girl can have"

Hemant felt a short reprieve from his nightmarish thoughts thanks to revisiting some cool memories.

"Do you know why I fell for you?" Sanjana asked.

"My singing?" Hemant answered doubfully.

"No...well partially. It is something else"

"umm....my looks!" Hemant said with a raised eyebrow

"Its your discipline idiot....when the first time I noticed you , it was through my hostel window when I saw you training in the college grounds....even all the professors and teachers said Hemant was the epitome of discipline and punctuality.....there was life in you.....there was purpose. You were an adventure guy , and people looked upto you. When boys your age were drinking and smoking , you lead your friends to a healthier lifestyle. Hell , you literally made me stop drinking in our relationship!"

Hemant giggled in shyness.

"The problem is , you think you are suffering here because of Sonarika when the truth is you're not. You just stopped believing in yourself. Love is not the curse for you. When we broke up did you stop believing in Love? No , did I stop believing in Love? No , we both found love again. The problem with you is not your heartbreak or your suffering. Its that you've stopped getting back up. That was your best part. When you failed , you didn't give up , you aimed higher the next time and many times you succeeded. And look at you now , you were once an average overweight man with a regular salary job and now you are running a fast growing industrial comple. You simply refused to acknowledge that because of your own ego and your need to be in pain. Pain is not your motivation Hemant , determination is. There is more to life than heartbreak"


"You’re part of my life, Hemant" she said. 

"But part of my past. And I’ve made peace with that. What we had—our college days, that reckless romance—it mattered. It always will"

She met his eyes again. 

"But I don’t love you anymore. I moved on"

The words were firm, not cruel.

"You should too" she added. 

"If Sonarika doesn’t care for you anymore, then holding on won’t make you noble—it’ll only make you smaller"

Hemant’s jaw tightened.

"Don’t pretend this is the end of your story. It isn’t" Sanjana said. 

She paused, then lowered her voice.

"The problem was never your love life, Hemant. The problem is—you stopped believing in yourself"

Something cracked. She smiled faintly.

"The Hemant I knew and loved , he was a fighter , a warrior. He is not someone who gives up , he was someone who gets back up"

The words landed with terrifying clarity.

"Good luck Hemant for your future. Because I know you will win in life if you know yourself" 

Sanjana finished. She turned and left without waiting for a response. The door closed.

Silence rushed in.

Hemant stayed frozen, breath shallow.

She was right.

Sonarika’s images haunted him because he was still trying to be the vulnerable man she fell in love with—soft, accommodating, shrinking himself to fit into a life that never truly belonged to him. With a hope that she will come back , but his life never was about hope , it was about action. And its time he lived an optimistic life , it was time to embrace his natural instincts and carve out a better path. That was his blueprint , a blueprint that created Michael King!

That man was real. But he wasn’t complete.

Michael King hadn’t been born from cruelty. He’d been born from action. From conviction. From a refusal to be powerless.

Hemant lifted his head. He learned Hemant is his real identity , not a violent past!

His phone rang. The number of an old friend. Richard Williams , an ally of Michael King. He answered instinctively.

"Michael" a familiar British voice said, strained. 

"I have Bad News!"

"What happened?" Hemant’s stomach dropped. 

There was a pause. Heavy. Respectful.

"Father Dominic....He passed away this morning" Richard said softly.

Hemant closed his eyes.

The world dulled.

Father Dominic—the man who had looked into his eyes and seen something other than a gangster. The man who had named him. Anchored him. Believed he could be more than violence. A symbol of God's Wrath!

"I’ll be there for the funeral" Hemant said, voice steady despite the fracture beneath.

The call ended. Hemant turned back to the window. Mumbai glowed behind him. London called ahead. Loss had a way of stripping choices down to their truth. And as he stood there, grieving, resolute, Hemant knew— no matter his conflictions. The ghost of Michael King demands him to visit the past and pay his respects!

                                                                                                                                                                        (TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                 (CHAPTER CONTD)

THE NEXT MORNING IN LONDON!


London woke up wrong that morning.

Not loud. Not broken. Just… wrong.

The air felt heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath. Fog crept low through the streets—not the romantic kind tourists loved, but the kind that carried rumors and dread. Bells tolled from Saint Michael’s Church in Cornhill, each note sinking into stone, into bone. Father Dominic was dead. And everyone who mattered in the shadows knew what that meant.

Outside the church, Richard Williams stood at the roadside entrance, coat buttoned, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His men were positioned with surgical precision—some visible, some pretending to be mourners, some pretending to be nothing at all. They weren’t guarding the funeral.

They were waiting.

Across the street, inside the upper floors of adjoining buildings, lenses pointed downward. Cameras whirred softly, feeds traveling through cables and satellites, slicing across continents.

In Shanghai, high above the neon arteries of the city, Jiu Mei sat before a wall-sized screen. The leader of the Sun On Yee Triad watched the church entrance without blinking, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had known Father Dominic once. She had known Michael King far better.

In Qamarvan village, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir hammered his fists into a heavy bag, sweat streaking down his bare shoulders. A live feed played on a mounted screen nearby. Each punch landed in rhythm with his thoughts.

He will come, Daraaksh told himself. For the priest… he will come. Halfway across the world, Heathrow Airport was a loaded gun. Every major faction of London’s underworld had men there—armed, impatient, reckless. They expected blood on the tarmac. They were ready to make a legend die twice.

Then every phone buzzed.

Severe weather alert.
A fast-moving storm approaching from the east.

Some of the men laughed. Others frowned.

Far east of London, on the A130 highway cutting through Rochford, the storm already had a heart.

A black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R tore through the road like a living thing, its engine howling, tires screaming, carbon fiber slicing through the air. Thunderheads rolled behind it, thick and violent, as if chained to the car’s wake. Rain lashed the countryside, chasing it.



Not following.

Obeying.

By the time the supercar crossed into London, the storm arrived with it. Wind slammed into buildings. Clouds swallowed the sun. The temperature dropped sharply enough that mourners outside Saint Michael’s pulled their coats tighter.

Cameras shifted. Conversations died.

At Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing at the live feed his men were sending him. His associates fell silent. Old instincts stirred—instincts he hadn’t trusted in years.

At the Pentagon, a UAV circled above Cornhill. CIA analysts tracked atmospheric anomalies, traffic disruptions, thermal signatures. Sharon Reagan stood rigid, coffee forgotten in her hand.

"This can’t be coincidence" someone muttered.

Sharon didn’t answer. She already knew.

In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh stopped punching. He glanced sideways at the wall beside him—dozens of old photographs. Grainy images. Newspaper clippings. Surveillance stills.

Michael King. Bloody. Smiling. Untouchable.

Daraaksh smiled wide.

"Michael King" he said softly.

"He is back in his kingdom"

The Evantra screamed through London streets, people turning in awe at its alien design, unaware they were watching history restart. Traffic parted like instinct had taken the wheel. The storm roared overhead, then—suddenly—began to move on.

As the supercar slid to a stop near Saint Michael’s Church, thunder rolled one last time… and the clouds broke.

Sunlight spilled down, sharp and golden, illuminating the church façade as if God Himself had chosen a spotlight.

The car had arrived.

Richard Williams smiled.

His men moved immediately, forming a protective corridor. Cameras snapped. Feeds refocused. Every eye—human, digital, satellite—locked onto the vehicle. The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out. Not a tailored suit. Not ceremonial black.

Leather.

A black, gleaming leather jacket hugged a broad frame. Matching leather pants. Jordan boots planted firmly on London stone. Medium-long hair moved slightly in the dying wind. The man’s back was to the world. Daraaksh frowned, intrigued. 

"Interesting" he murmured.

Escorted by Williams’ men, the figure walked toward the church entrance with unhurried confidence, boots echoing louder than the bells ever could. He stopped just short of the door.

Every feed leaned closer. Why had he stopped? Then he turned. The man lifted his hand and removed his goggles. And the secret world saw his face.

In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh’s grin spread slowly, reverently.

"There he is!" he whispered. 

In Washington, Sharon Reagan went pale. Her breath caught as she realized Hemant exposed himself to his enemies. In Shanghai, Jiu Mei smiled openly, raising her glass in silent acknowledgment of an old friend who refused to stay dead. In Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov stood up so fast his chair fell backward.

"Impossible...he was supposed to be dead!" he breathed. 

The men filming him began to shake. One of Daraaksh’s bodyguards swallowed hard. 

"Sir… it feels like he’s staring at us"

Daraaksh didn’t look away from the screen.

"Indeed.....because he knows we’re watching!" he said calmly. 

On the church steps, Michael King let a small smile touch his lips. Just enough. He slid the goggles back on, turning away from the cameras, from the world, from the storm he’d dragged across continents.

And he walked inside Saint Michael’s Church to mourn his friend.

Behind him, legends stirred. Enemies trembled. Empires recalculated.

No one knew whether this was the return of an old myth…
or the birth of something far worse.

But everyone knew one thing for certain:

London would never be the same again.

Saint Michael’s Church was overflowing—rows of bowed heads, murmured prayers, the soft rustle of black coats brushing against stone pews. Candles flickered like nervous witnesses. Above it all, the choir sang a slow, aching hymn, their voices rising and falling like a tide meant to carry a good man home.

Michael moved through the crowd unnoticed, untouched, as if grief itself made way for him.

He stopped before the casket.

Father Dominic lay still, hands folded, face calm in the practiced peace of death. The man who had listened without judgment. Who had spoken of redemption to a monster and meant it. Michael rested his fingers lightly on the edge of the wood.

"You were the voice of light" he whispered, so softly even God might have leaned in to hear.

"You gave my purpose meaning..… you spoke to Michael King like I was the Archangel himself!"

His jaw tightened.

"Thank you, Father"

Then he saw it. The line. Faint. Precise. Ugly in its restraint. Stitches ran along the priest’s neck, hidden beneath makeup and reverence, but impossible to miss to a man who had spent a lifetime reading violence like a second language.

His eyes hardened.

Not old age. Not fate. Not God’s will. Murder.

Something inside Hemant snapped into alignment. Muscles coiled. Breath slowed. His vision tunneled, the world sharpening around a single truth.

Outside, the wind howled.

The candles trembled.

It felt—impossibly—like the storm was circling back.

Michael straightened and turned, his voice low, calm, lethal.

"Who did this?"

Richard Williams stood a few steps behind him. He hesitated. Michael turned fully now. Richard flinched. There was fire in those eyes—not just rage, not madness—but an inferno that will burn this church down in an instant. A vengeful purpose. The kind that erased mercy as a concept.

"Who did this, Richard?" Michael asked again.

A beat.

Then Richard exhaled. 

"Lai Tong" he said.

Hemant didn’t blink.

"So he has no plans to back off!" he asked.

"I guess Ricky Tan was just the beginning.....he must be neutralized!" Richard nodded. 

Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

"He didn’t act alone.....The Hunt Crime Syndicate backed him" Richard added carefully. 

That name landed like a match dropped into gasoline.

The Hunt Syndicate.

Michael King had buried bodies under that name once. It seems there are still bodies that are left to be buried.

He looked once more at Father Dominic’s body.

Then he turned away.

"I need a weapon" Michael said.

And he walked out of the church.

Across the street, in the upper floors of the hotel, the cameras never stopped rolling. One of William’s men intercepted Hemant at the steps, handing him a heavy black bag without a word.

Michael took it and continued to his supercar.

The Evantra’s door closed with a low, predatory thud.

Inside the car, he opened the bag.

An F90MBR assault rifle lay nestled inside, matte black and immaculate. A belt packed tight with ammunition. Grenades. Two Glock 17s—clean, reliable, familiar.

Michael nodded once. He zipped the bag shut. Outside, thunder rolled again—distant, promising. The engine ignited. Michael King put the car in gear, eyes forward, hands steady. Michael King had once terrorized the underworld. Now he was about to erase it.

And the Hunt Crime Syndicate?

They were about to learn the difference between a legend…...and a reckoning.

The Thames moved quietly , the water sliding past the riverside warehouse in Westminster like it wanted no part of what was about to happen. Inside, the Hunt Crime Syndicate was busy counting money, sealing deals, congratulating themselves. Thomas was caressing his ring— a sign among the syndicate of mid-level kings who thought themselves untouchable—were riding high.

Thomas himself leaned back in a chair inside the warehouse office, phone pressed to his ear, smirking.

"They’re angry? Good. Let them be angry. We helped Lai Tong cut a priest’s throat. So what? Fear is currency in this city—and tonight, we just printed more of it" 

He scoffed.

On the other end of the line, his associate didn’t laugh.

"Thomas… it’s not just anger. Every faction is losing their mind. The Triads, the Russians, even the old independents"

Thomas rolled his eyes. 

"London’s been waiting for someone to take control. The Hunt Syndicate will—"

The voice cut in, shaking now.

"THE HUNT SYNDICATE IS OVER TODAY!!!. WE'RE FINISHED!!!!"

"What are you talking about?" Thomas straightened. 

A pause. Then, barely a whisper:

"MICHAEL KING IS ALIVE!. He’s back in London. He was spotted in the church.... He came today… for Father Dominic"

The name hit Thomas like a punch to the spine.

Michael King.

The Urban Legend of the Vigilante Gangster named after the Archangel himself!

The man known as the "Butcher Of Mayfair" as he massaccred the infamous druglord and cult leader Ronan Dragun and all his drug addicts and cultists.

A Relic who was believed to be long dead. Now returned as the Archangel himself!

"No,That’s not possible" Thomas muttered. 

"I saw the feeds....Others did too. It’s him. And judging by how he stormed out , its not good news for any of us!" 

The man insisted. Fear finally crept into Thomas’ voice. 

"Sound the alarm. Now. Lock this place down"

He was already too late. The first explosion tore through the riverside wall like God had kicked it in. Fire bloomed along the dock. Water erupted skyward. Men screamed as shockwaves flung them like broken dolls. Alarms wailed. Crates shattered. Guns clattered to concrete.

"CONTACT—RIVERSIDE!" someone shouted.

Then the second blast went off.

And out of the smoke—The black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R came screaming through the flames.


It burst through the warehouse gate, the supercars music system was playing music loudly to cancel out the sounds of gunfire and explosion. And the song of choice was rightful enough to do it. 

The Vengeful One By The Disturbed

As I survey the chaos taking in the lack of raw humanity… 

Its as if the entire world's fallen in love with their insanity.....


The supercar skidding sideways, tires shrieking, sparks flying. The car stopped dead in the center of hell.

Its doors opened. And the legend stepped out. The speakers roared to life.

I'm the Hand Of God…

I'm the Dark Messiah...
    
I'm the Vengeful One...


Michael King raised the F90MBR.

The rifle thundered.

Men fell before they could scream—rounds tearing through armor, bodies snapping back as if struck by invisible fists. Those wounded by the explosions were finished without hesitation. Controlled bursts. No wasted motion.

The Hunt Syndicate panicked.

Some ran.
Some fired wildly.
None survived.

Michael moved like a machine guided by wrath, advancing through smoke and debris, bullets stitching death into every corner. Each pull of the trigger was deliberate. Personal.

In the Blackest Moment of a Dying World… 

What have you become.....


Inside the control office, Thomas and his closest men barricaded themselves behind desks and consoles, guns shaking in their hands.

Outside, gunfire raged.

Then—one by one—it stopped.

Silence.

"I think… I think its over!" Thomas swallowed. 

That’s when the window exploded inward. A severed head flew across the room, eyes wide in frozen terror. A grenade was stuffed in its mouth. The blast was immediate. Three men vanished in red mist.

Thomas was thrown across the room, screaming, blood pouring from his side. He dragged himself toward the exit, sobbing, broken, desperate.

The riverside doors blew open.

Smoke rolled in.

Michael King stepped through it, twin Glock 17s raised, suppressors whispering death. Each remaining man dropped before they could beg.

Only Thomas remained.

He collapsed at Michael’s feet.

"Please—please—it wasn’t me!" Thomas cried. 

"It was Mr. Hunt! David Charles Hunt ordered it! It was all business!"

Michael looked down at him. Cold. Empty.

"When you are in the business of blood....everyone is expendable!" he said calmly.

Thomas looked up, hope flickering. 

"Then let me live. I’ll testify. I’ll be your weapon against Hunt!"

Michael crouched close.

"I’m making you something better than a weapon Thomas!" he said quietly.

"I'm making you my message....to not just Hunt....but all of London!!!"

Thomas screamed.

The warehouse echoed once…Then went silent.

Fifteen minutes later, London law enforcement arrived in force—sirens, floodlights, chaos.

The Evantra was gone. Michael King was gone. But at the center of the warehouse, they found Thomas. Hanging on a wooden cross. Arms spread. Blood dried like scripture.

Every officer felt it—the chill, the certainty. This wasn’t a message. It was a proclamation. Michael King was back in London. And the underworld was crawling deeper to hid themselves from his wrath!


THAT EVENING AT MASIRAH ISLAND


The sea was black and endless when the cargo seaplane touched down near Masirah Island.

Its pontoons slapped the water hard, spraying salt into the night air as the massive aircraft slowed, engines growling low and tired. The island loomed ahead—barren, forgotten, perfect. No satellites lingered here longer than they had to. No questions were asked on Masirah.

Hemant Kumar stepped out into the warm wind, leather jacket gone now, replaced by something simpler. Functional. The kind of clothes worn by men who planned to disappear again.

He was escorted inland by armed locals who didn’t speak and didn’t need to. The path cut through sand and rock until lights appeared—dim, disciplined. A private airstrip carved out of nowhere.

Waiting at the far end of it stood a sleek white Cessna TTX, fueled, humming softly like it was impatient.

And beside it—Yuri Reznov.

Older now. Thicker through the shoulders. Hair touched with gray, but the eyes were the same—sharp, amused, and dangerous. He opened his arms slightly as Hemant approached.

"Long time no see, Michael" Reznov said with a crooked smile.

"Just getting my groove back!" Hemant stopped a few feet away. 

Reznov laughed quietly. 

"Well you've refined yourself quiet well" He looked him up and down. 

"I heard what you did in Westminster. David Hunt is blowing a gasket"

Hemant didn’t respond.

Reznov nodded. 

"Alteast it was long overdue for their macho bullshit. But you’ve rung a bell that doesn’t stop ringing"

"They killed Father Dominic...That bell was already ringing" Hemant said. 

"Let’s talk business before the desert gets curious"

Reznov accepted that. He gestured toward the Cessna. They walked.

"What about the network chain you just restarted at Madagascar?" Reznov said. 

"Same old thing we used to do.....just a different pawn!"Hemant shook his head. 

Reznov raised an eyebrow.

"I made a deal with the Mehta family in Mumbai. Influential. Quiet. Their cargo ship—Kohinoor—will carry the first shipment to Madagascar. Clean papers. Clean crew"

"And from there?" Reznov asked.

"Your planes.......same purpose....same destination!" Hemant said.

"Those elites.....do they know what the shipment is?"

"They just know about the mercury....nothing more"

"Efficient. You always were" Reznov smiled. 

"This isn’t about money"

Hemant’s expression hardened. Reznov stopped walking.

"You’re going after AZRAEL" he said.

"I am not chasing them....I am hunting them down....for good!"

"That won’t be easy" Reznov exhaled slowly. 

"It never is easy" Hemant sighed.

"Not like that Michael" Reznov said quietly. 

"This time it’s different. AZRAEL is… a relic. Most of its old members are retired. Some are rusting. Some hiding"

"So?" Hemant asked.

Reznov turned to face him fully.

"The routes. The networks. The intelligence. They’re all controlled now by smaller factions—mafias, smugglers, mercenary outfits. But they’re not independent. Even the old chain of AZRAEL influence and command is under them. Protected like their prime asset!"

"Who are they?" Hemant’s eyes narrowed. 

Reznov hesitated. That alone was an answer.

"No idea who , among us we call it The Secret Empire. No flag. No face. No homeland. Just influence" 

He said finally. 

"And their leader?"

"They call it The Oracle"

Hemant didn’t blink.

"No one knows if it’s a man or a woman. Or a group. Or a machine. But whoever it is… they’re good. Too good"

Reznov’s jaw tightened.

"They’ve been using your methods. Your patterns. Your chaos. That’s why Michael King never died in the stories. They kept him alive—used him as a myth"

"So that explains Michael King's legacy not dying!" Hemant’s voice dropped. 

"Precisely......their tactics....it helped painting Michael King as a demon.....a monster that only terrorized....very few of us ever believed it......we believed they were ruining your legacy....but since you showed up....I think this means--"

"This means they wanted Michael King's attention.....and now they got it!" Hemant said.

Reznov stepped closer. 

"But understand this—they are prepared for Michael King. They’ve studied him. Built contingencies around him , don't treat them lightly King!"

Hemant’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile.

"Don't worry , perhaps I have some contingencies of my own!" he said.

"You sure about this?" Reznov searched his face. 

Hemant looked past him, toward the waiting aircraft, toward Mumbai, toward ghosts that refused to stay buried.

"They are expecting the same old Michael King" he said. 

"But they have no idea about the man that was his blueprint!"

He met Reznov’s gaze.

"I’ll find the Oracle. I’ll burn the empire. And then I’ll put Michael King to rest—permanently"

Reznov watched him climb into the Cessna TTX, the door sealing shut with a hiss.

As the propeller spun up and the aircraft began to roll down the strip, Reznov felt it—that familiar, dreadful certainty.

Michael King had never spared those who hid in the shadows.

And whoever the Oracle was…they had just made the worst mistake of their existence.

                                                                                                                                                                         (TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                                   (CONTD)

MIDNIGHT AT THE SILVER BEACH VILLA



Mumbai welcomed him back with humidity and silence.

It was past midnight when Hemant’s SUV rolled into the driveway of the villa. The sea was invisible tonight, only its presence felt—low, constant, breathing somewhere beyond the dark.

As he stepped inside, a familiar figure emerged from the hallway.

"Tara?" Hemant paused, surprised.

"Sir. You’re back" She smiled tiredly. 

“I thought you'd be absent for few more days.....How was the medical trip?" 

He said, setting his bag down. 

"It went well....the people in the village were very co-operative" she replied.

"That’s good" Hemant said, genuinely relieved. Then she tilted her head, studying him.

"And you, sir? Your travel was quiet unexpected"

"I was gone out of the city. An old friend passed away" He nodded. 

"I’m very sorry" Tara’s smile softened immediately. 

"It’s alright....its the fragility of life sometimes!" he said quietly. 

"It’s late. You should sleep" He glanced at the clock. 

"You too, sir, good night" she said. 

"Good night, Tara"

They went their separate ways, footsteps fading into different corners of the house.

The villa felt larger than it should have.

Hemant took a long, warm bath, letting the water wash away London—the church bells, the storm, Father Dominic’s calm eyes in the coffin , the heat and brutality of the warehouse. He changed into comfortable clothes and finally sat on the edge of the bed.

Only then did he turn on his phone. It lit up instantly. Missed calls. Many of them. Video calls. All from Sonarika. Yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon. Last night. Even this evening. He frowned, thumb hovering. During his grief, during the rituals, during the chaos he unleashed to bring down the Hunt Syndicate—he hadn’t looked at his phone once.

Slowly, reluctantly, he opened her social media. And the pain returned—sharp, precise, cruel. Photos from the Arijit Singh concert filled the screen. Lights. Smiles. Music frozen into frames. Sonarika radiant blue miniskrt , looking beautiful and sexy at the same time. Karan laughing beside her. Anjali clinging to her arm in her fashionable get up. Then that photo. A group picture.

Sonarika stood at the center—Karan and Anjali close, Ragini beside her. Her parents, Jagjeet and Meenakshi Sharma, smiling proudly. Sreelekha Naik stood nearby, elegant as ever. And beside her—

Vikram.

Not front and center. Not dramatic. Just… present. Then Mouni and Sagar. Meghna. Disha. Everyone who mattered to her. Everyone who made up her world. Except him. The caption beneath it twisted something deep inside his chest:

'The best family time'

Family. Hemant stared at the word until it blurred. So this was it. She hadn’t just moved on—she had replaced him. Integrated someone else where he used to be. And she was happy. Truly happy. Not pretending. He locked the phone, overwhelmed, and lay back on the bed, hoping sleep would be merciful.


It wasn’t.

The unfamiliar ceiling swam into focus, and with it came the familiar, gut-wrenching dread. Not his villa. Not his bed. The palatial roof of the Bajaj mansion loomed above him, a cold, ornate tomb for his peace of mind , the very same mansion that he dreamed few days ago watching the cruel sight of Sonarika and Vikram being married. Hemant sat up, the silence a physical weight. The palace was deserted. No Karan, no Anjali, no friends , no family, no ghosts of their shared past. Just an echoing hallway leading to the one room he feared.

His feet were leaden on the marble as he walked. The door to the marital suite stood ajar. A wave of scent hit him first—jasmine, rose, and beneath it, the unmistakable, musky perfume of sex. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He stepped inside.

Flowers meant for a wedding bed were crushed on the floor, the wedding dresses and ornaments tangled among them. 



On the vast bed, they slept. Vikram and Sonarika. Naked, their bodies dusted with petals like some pagan offering, their skin gleaming with a fine sheen of dried sweat. The sheets were a chaotic landscape of their passion.

Hemant’s eyes, against his will, cataloged the devastation. Vikram’s limp cock lay heavy on his thigh. And Sonarika… her pussy lips were parted, swollen, a dark pink against her skin. Dried streaks of semen glittered on her inner thighs, on the sheets beneath her. He really roughed her up last night.

A soft groan. Vikram stirred, rubbing his eyes, gently moving Sonarika’s hand from his chest.

"Mhmm....no"

A low, sleepy moan from Sonarika. Her hand shot back, fingers wrapping around Vikram’s wrist, pulling him to her. 

"Don’t go now…" she whined, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

Vikram smiled, a look of pure ownership. He leaned down, kissing her forehead. 

"Not going anywhere, baby"

Her face—her beautiful, traitorous face—pouted. 

"Please!" 

She begged, tugging his arm until his hand cupped her breast. Her nipple peaked instantly under his palm. 

"One last time?" 

She rolled onto her back, her legs falling open in languid, unmistakable invitation. The view was obscene. Her vulva was flushed, the lips puffy and well-used.

"Again, baby?" Vikram laughed, the sound rich and confident. 

"You’re insatiable"

"Please…" she breathed, her hips making a tiny, circular grind against nothing. 

"It felt sooo good last night… I wanna feel it again"

"Alright, woman" he sighed with fake exasperation. 

"But it has to be a quickie!"

A brilliant smile lit her face. She lifted her arms, and he moved over her, his body a powerful shadow blocking the light. His cock, already half-hard, bobbed against his stomach. He took himself in hand, guiding the broad, smooth head to her entrance. It glistened, already wet for him.

A soft gasp. A long, slow sigh from Sonarika’s lips as he pushed in.

Hemant watched, frozen, as Vikram sank into her in one continuous, deep stroke. There was no resistance. Only a wet, welcoming heat that swallowed him whole. Sonarika’s back arched, a moan tearing from her throat as he settled deep, his hips flush against her, his balls resting heavy on her perineum.

He’s touching her cervix probably. The thought was a poison dart. The place where his son was made.

Their eyes locked. They kissed, deep and slow, her hands roaming his muscled back. Then, with a groan that was almost a growl, Vikram began to move.

It wasn’t love-making. It was a claiming.

His hips pistoned, each thrust a sharp, wet slap of flesh on flesh.

Smack. Smack. Smack. 

The sound echoed in the silent room, in Hemant’s skull. Sonarika’s arms wrapped around his neck, her face a mask of rapturous bliss. Her mouth fell open, her eyes squeezed shut. She was lost in it. In him.

"Ahhhh... Vikram… Huhh...Ahhh...…" 

She moaned and chanted Vikram's name, each word a dagger in Hemant’s heart. Vikram sat back on his heels, pulling her legs over his shoulders. He bent, pressing a kiss to her ankle, then ran his tongue along the sole of her foot. Sonarika gasped, a laugh caught in her throat. 

"What are you—ohhh!"

He was back inside her in an instant, driving up into her with renewed vigor. Her whole body jolted with each impact, her breasts bouncing wildly. He ran his hands down her shins, gripping her knees, holding her open as he fucked her deeper, harder. The pace became frantic, brutal. The bed frame creaked in protest.

With a grunt, he pulled her legs down, then hauled her upright. She came easily, wrapping her arms around his neck, her damp hair sticking to her back. She was sitting in his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside her. She let out a sharp cry as he began to move again, bouncing her on his shaft, his hands gripping her waist, controlling every lift and drop.

"Yess! Yessss, like that! Don’t stop!" she screamed, her head falling back, her neck exposed.

He stood suddenly, his knees bending, keeping her impaled. He took two steps back, bringing her to the edge of the bed, her buttocks just hovering over the mattress. Squatting slightly, he began to thrust upward, fucking into her from below. The angle was savage. Each drive of his hips lifted her off the bed.

Sonarika was screaming now, a continuous, ragged sound of pure ecstasy. Her nails clawed at the sheets. Her body tightened, shuddered. 

"I’m cummming! Vikram, I’m—!"

Her orgasm hit her like a seizure. Her back bowed, her toes curled, and a guttural cry ripped from her throat. That was all it took for him. Vikram roared, a sound of pure masculine triumph. Hemant saw the muscles in Vikram’s abdomen clench, saw the veins on his neck stand out. He was pulsing inside her. Hemant could almost see the hot, thick jets of seed flooding her, painting her inner walls, claiming the very womb that had once carried his child.

Sonarika moaned, a low, continuous sound of satisfaction as another, smaller climax shook her. She slumped against him, spent, a small, smug smile playing on her lips as she felt him fill her. Her eyes met his, and in them was a look of absolute, worshipful pride.

The sight broke something in Hemant. The final thread. This wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual. A transference of everything she was, everything she had been to him, into this new man. Vikram had not just taken his wife; he had taken her complete, willing surrender.

Sonarika and Vikram laid together, wrapped in each other’s arms, faces peaceful, complete.

"I’ve found meaning in my life" Sonarika said softly. 

"I found you"

Vikram smiled, touching her forehead. 

"You were always meant for me"

Hemant stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the doorframe. The room blurred. The sounds faded.

A jolt.

Cool cotton sheets. The faint smell of salt air. The familiar ceiling of his villa at Silver Beach.

He didn’t gasp awake. He simply opened his eyes, the torrent of images still flashing behind his lids. A low, wounded sound escaped him—a sob choked in his throat. He rolled to the edge of the vast, empty bed, the cool emptiness of his side a physical ache. Curling into himself, the first hot tear traced a path to his pillow. Then another. He didn’t fight it. He let the silent, shuddering cries take him, his body shaking as the vision of her smile—that proud, satisfied smile—seared itself into the darkness behind his eyes.

Tears slid silently into the pillow as the ache refused to loosen its grip. His heart felt bruised, exhausted from holding on to something already gone. Then—voices echoed in his mind.

Kunal.

"if Sonarika has truly moved on , you should too. And life is not dark for you like you think , there is sunshine ahead!"

Sanjana.

"Don’t pretend this is the end of your story. It isn’t"

Hemant inhaled slowly. Deeply. His phone buzzed. A message. From Pranitha. He opened it.

"Thinking about you"

That was all. No drama. No expectations. Just presence. Hemant stared at the screen for a long moment… and then something unexpected happened. He smiled. Small. Fragile. Real. Not everything in his life was pain. Not everything was loss. Not everything was a strategic move to topple Empires and Syndicates. There were still people who saw him. Connected to him. People who value him. New perspectives. Fresh start. Still mornings that hadn’t decided what they would become.

He looked toward the window where the first hint of sunlight brushed the horizon.

Maybe—just maybe—there was sunshine ahead.

And maybe in between all this mayhem , he deserves some of that light.

Morning broke gently over Juhu.

The sea was calm, almost innocent, waves rolling in with a rhythm that pretended the world wasn’t burning elsewhere. The Silver Beach stretched wide and empty, save for one man cutting through it like a shadow that refused to slow.

Hemant ran.

Barefoot on wet sand, breath controlled, strides long and brutal. Each step landed with purpose, muscles firing in perfect coordination. The city behind him was still waking up, but his body had already crossed continents—London, Westminster, blood and thunder—before the sun had even climbed.

Speed is silence, Uncle Sifu’s voice echoed in his head.

Shanghai. The Shaolin Dojo. Early mornings wrapped in fog and discipline.

"Do not fight the ground" Sifu had said, tapping Hemant’s legs with a bamboo stick.

"Let it carry you"

Hemant increased his pace, heart hammering, lungs burning clean. The beach blurred. He remembered the sting of knuckles against wood, the endless horse stances, the way Kung Fu wasn’t about aggression—but inevitability.

Then another memory layered over it.

The Army spirit. Military drills. Younger days. Orders barked in harsh voices. Running with weight. Fighting tired. Learning how the body breaks when pushed far enough—and how to push it further anyway.

By the time he slowed, sweat drenched his shirt and the sun was fully awake.

Back at the Silver Beach villa, the world narrowed again.

The outdoor gym faced the pool, glass reflecting sky and water like a lie of peace. Hemant moved through forms—fluid, precise. Shaolin transitions into kickboxing combinations. Elbows, knees, pivots. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu ground work against invisible opponents. Shadow fighting shaped by real deaths.

London flashed in fragments.

The warehouse. The silence after gunfire. Thomas’ scream.

Hemant exhaled sharply, driving a final punch into the heavy bag. It swung wildly, chains rattling. He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping to the tiles.

Finished.

That’s when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.

Sonarika.

His chest tightened—but it didn’t cave in this time. Hemant wiped his hands on a towel, inhaled deeply, and answered.

"Where the hell were you?" Sonarika’s voice came sharp, unfiltered. 

"Do you have any idea how many times I called you?"

"I was out of the city" Hemant said calmly. 

"I had something important to take care of"

"Excuses , everytime. Even Tara was unaware of your travel. I thought she was your assistant!" 

She snapped. Hemant stayed quiet for a beat. Then, carefully and clearly stated. 

"A close associate of mine passed away. I was attending the funeral"

The line went silent. And Hemant kept the details to minimum. Seconds stretched.

"I… I’m sorry" Sonarika said finally, her tone softer, stripped of its edge. 

"I didn’t know"

"Its all alright , I am used to the grimm and brooding moments , tragedies are consistent with me. Atleast I am glad it didn't affect you and your perfect family. Would've ruined your night with family at the concert"

There was a second silence after which Sonarika's voice came.

"Concert? You knew?"

"Of course. I saw the pictures in your social media" Hemant replied.

"Karan missed you" Sonarika said quickly. 

"Some of those video calls… he wanted his Papa there. He wanted to show you"

Hemant’s throat tightened—but he held steady. 

"He can have his happy moments with his Papa when he comes home from vacation. After all he has a new home waiting for him"

"He will love it I am sure" Sonarika said with graceful tone.

"Hope so....its just been few days and I already miss his antics...I saw how happy he was in those concert photos.."

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just acceptance.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.....surrounded by your loved ones. Your parents. Karan. Anjali. Your friends. Mouni. Sagar.  Your Vikram" 

The silence on the other end was immediate.

"My Vikram? What are you talking about?" Sonarika said, confused. 

"How did the double date go?" Hemant let out a small breath.

"Double date , Hemant who told you this?" Sonarika's voice heightened.

"Kunal told me. Mouni bragged to him about their planned double date with you and Vikram to rekindle the kind of bonding you guys had in the past"

Hemant could hear a sigh coming from Sonarika. He believed it was probably her frustration talking to him probably.

"Hemant....There was no double date" she said slowly. 

"You have to believe me!" She said in a warm tone.

He didn’t answer right away.

"How can I believe you...after everything. But one thing is certain Sonarika. I am no longer upset , lately I was bothered by the separation. But this isolation also helped seeing things a little clearly. I am no longer bothered by you and Vikram anymore!"

Sonarika tried to speak, but he went on—gentle, final.

"I’m happy for you. Truly. You’ve found someone who makes your life feel complete. And it’s time I let you go—for real. So this divorce doesn’t become another wound. I don't want us to end up like a toxic couple and learn to hate each other. We will just focus on Karan and his well being for now and make sure our individual time is spend on his childhood so that he doesn't feel anything left out in life!"

The line stayed silent.

"Life has taught me that not everytime one can have hope. Sometimes its just suffering , and for someone to truly move on , one has to use that suffering as a motivation rather than a means of pain. I have accepted that you have moved on and for the moment. It has given me peace. So I wish you nothing but a bright future ahead , even if I am not a part of it!" 

Hemant said. Sonarika was still silent.

"Call me in the evening for Karan. Have a good day and a great future Sonarika. Bye!" 

"Hemant, wait—" Sonarika began.

He ended the call.

The gym was quiet again.

From the kitchen doorway, Tara watched quietly. She said nothing. She never did. Some people understood that silence was safer. Hemant wiped his face, nodded once to her, and walked into the house. His office door closed behind him. Locked. He crossed to the far wall and pressed a loose tile.

Click.

The wall slid open. The basement breathed cold air. Hemant descended. Weapons lined the walls—rifles, pistols, projectile blades—clean, cataloged, ready. Ammo stacked with obsessive precision. Crates of cash in multiple currencies. Gold bricks gleaming dully under harsh lights. At the center wall was the real weight. Photographs. Names. Red lines. Dates.

The heads of AZRAEL.

Men who ruled through fear and money. Corporate overlords with clean hands and dirty orders. Warlords. Financiers. Dictators who ruthlessly pulled triggers and commanded small armies.

All of them marked.

All of them once part of the machine that made Michael King necessary.

But above them—

Two photographs stood apart.

Sonarika. Vikram.

For a long moment, Hemant stared.

There was a time that wall had burned him. Rage. Betrayal. The temptation to let Michael King handle it—the old way. But that fire was gone. The talk with Kunal and Sanjana. It showed Hemant and his truth is worth living for. And now he has to become the same blueprint he was of Michael King. But at the same time , not do the same mistakes King did. These past few days , Hemant suffered from heartbreak and betrayal. And now he had cried enough , suffered enough. His mind cried through his nightmares. And it has all crumbled off now.

What remained was quieter. Sadder. Clearer. His Heart might be broken. But his purpose is not. Hemant reached up, pulled both photographs down, and tore them once. Clean. Final. He dropped the pieces into the bin without ceremony.

"New Beginnings....New Purpose!" he said softly.

Michael King didn’t get to decide his future. He pinned up a single new image. Blank. White. No face. Just a name written in black ink:

THE ORACLE

Hemant stepped back.

AZRAEL fed into it. Routes. Money. Control. Everything pointed upward. Daraaksh Zarir's face at the top right below the mysterious Oracle. To end AZRAEL—to truly bury Michael King and walk away whole—this Oracle had to be found. Exposed. Finished. Hemant looked at the wall again, at the mountain of names between him until Daraaksh. A long road.
A lot of bodies. He didn’t flinch.

Surprisingly , Lai Tong's image wasn't in the wall. Because it was laying on the table crossed with a red marker.

"Its time to send you to your brother!!!" he murmured.

And somewhere deep inside, a legend stirred—not to rule him…but to be ended, once and for all.

                                                                                                                                                                            END OF CHAPTER 29

[RCF]

Sonarika is a dumb bitch who doesn't know shit about life. She doesn't understand what true love means and she constantly makes mistakes over mistakes. Why the fuck would she continuously meet Vikram, bitch doesn't have juice in her head..Vikram says now we are just friends and she will think the least she could do for him after breaking his heart is be his frien, also why would she meet Meghana again after that last war cry with her, she should have suspected she was scheming again lol

What bullshit, One can never become a friend after thoroughly fucking her for a while...only true dumbass bitches like her will think like that...With all the pain Hemanth is going on I feel like whether there is some problem in her head or not, she is a big red flag actually red forest...Hemanth deserves better, some one like Pranitha. I think he should move on and settle well with some one else and some one intelligent like Pranitha, who knows the value of Hemanth. She respected him when whole world was looking at him like a loser including Sonarika.

I went and re-read all the chapters in this gap and feel like her mistakes are huge despite her condition. Her condition accelerated her hormones to take part in infidelity but she would have been part of it anyways despite no condition considering her loneliness and lack of understanding between the couple and add her dominating nature against Hemanth and her mistrust on him with his friendship with Kunal. She is true bitch in heat...it was only matter of time for her to spread legs to someone. I hated her more after reading the story again. Her redemption though noble and graceful, she has fallen too steep to crawl all the way to top. Her only purpose from now should be to take on Meghana,Vikram and her evil sister together and triumph over them...If she ever reunions with Hemanth,I will be truly disappointed.

~RCF

[Harry Jordan]

Sonarika is a dumb bitch who doesn't know shit about life.

...If she ever reunions with Hemanth,I will be truly disappointed.

~RCF

On paper , you are right. Sonarika has made terrible mistakes. But we don't see her perspective of what happened in Delhi yet. Most of what you see in these recent chapters was Hemant's perspective and his mind making up things regarding them. We still don't know why they met , what was the talk and the close proximity of Meghna. Whatever it is , there is a chance that whatever Hemant is thinking Sonarika is doing , the complete opposite might be happening.

Which is why the final moments in this chapter glides over something intriguing. Sonarika's blank reaction to whatever Hemant claims she is doing. Her wearing blue dress and Hemant glacing over the fact that blue was his favorite color which he didn't acknowledge at that moment. Her calling multiple times on that day and on the music night , hinting that even at that moment she was thinking of him. Here the arc is that Hemant is making up things on half informations and is moving away from Sonarika for his sanity and to be in his best form as he has a war to fight. 

This is the start of his equation with Pranitha where a unique kind of a relationship steps in , where trust is different but faithful and the relationship is built on exotic lifestyle and bond.

As for Sonarika and Hemant reuniting , well , its never going to happen like the past. If they ever reunite , it will be a different Hemant and a different Sonarika , both who have healed from their problems and demons , who have conquered their nightmares and evolved. Their story is not about going back to their usual old normal self. But evolve as individuals and find out whether they have compatibility with each other in their real self.

[RCF]

On paper , you are right. Sonarika has made terrible mistakes. But we don't see her perspective of what happened in Delhi yet. Most of what you see in these recent chapters was Hemant's perspective and his mind making up things regarding them. We still don't know why they met , what was the talk and the close proximity of Meghna. Whatever it is , there is a chance that whatever Hemant is thinking Sonarika is doing , the complete opposite might be happening.

Which is why the final moments in this chapter glides over something intriguing. Sonarika's blank reaction to whatever Hemant claims she is doing. Her wearing blue dress and Hemant glacing over the fact that blue was his favorite color which he didn't acknowledge at that moment. Her calling multiple times on that day and on the music night , hinting that even at that moment she was thinking of him. Here the arc is that Hemant is making up things on half informations and is moving away from Sonarika for his sanity and to be in his best form as he has a war to fight. 

This is the start of his equation with Pranitha where a unique kind of a relationship steps in , where trust is different but faithful and the relationship is built on exotic lifestyle and bond.

As for Sonarika and Hemant reuniting , well , its never going to happen like the past. If they ever reunite , it will be a different Hemant and a different Sonarika , both who have healed from their problems and demons , who have conquered their nightmares and evolved. Their story is not about going back to their usual old normal self. But evolve as individuals and find out whether they have compatibility with each other in their real self.

Lol I was not even talking about this update...

Of course Sonarika will have glorified reasons why she met Vikram and why she forgave Meghna, obviously exactly opposite is happening in Delhi and I am saying none of those matter at all. She is a sinner and there should be only one way a sinner should end up.....alone, dejected and suffering. Why? Shouldn't there be a difference? Hemanth grew stronger and built his empire for her,for his family. She is building her own self now on the ashes of her marriage...I see those two totally as different meanings and outcomes. 

She always dominated him, though defended him to the core with Meghna but herself never respected him for his choices at home.Her behavior in security officer station, her recklessness when she saw him with Kunal shows her lack of trust on him and his choices. She considered him weak and not intelligent or capable enough to solve a problem, yes she loved him her own way but that's not a healthy love. 

Sex and her condition is different, yes it played a part in her choices but her behavior showed signs to us even before her condition is revealed. Her kiss in the rain is not her lesion in her brain..its clean attraction towards a personality that she wanted in Hemanth. If she cannot live with Hemanth's old self then she doesn't deserve new Hemanth.She can sleep with Vikram but she couldn't take the same done by Hemanth with Meghna...typical..I would like to see her evolve into true, confident and kind women unlike her old personality and sacrifice her love for Hemanth and Pranitha/Tamanna. 

I also feel she destroyed Vikram life now....How pathetic to lead some one into relationship and say " Hey the person you slept with all these days is gone overnight, she found she has a chip in her brain hence she slept with you...so go find some one else" lol 

I would hate if she gets happy ending. 

~RCF

[Harry Jordan]

I would hate if she gets happy ending. 

~RCF

Well , we are introduced to Sonarika's love for Hemant to be very possessive. Her love was always posessive as she met and fell for Hemant in their vulnerable states and both found their peace and comfort in each other. She was indeed very sensitive and possessive about him to the point she could not tolerate anyone saying anything bad about him. But when Hemant started to change and the guilt of cheating on him clouded her , that is where she started to act a little hypocritical , because her mind was split as her love for Hemant and the guilt collided constantly. She could never tolerate Meghna bad mouthing him , she regretted ever meeting Vikram and on top of that she never neglected Hemant even when she was cheating on him. 

The best part of her arc is that she finally sees her mistakes and she is doing the best she can to undo the things. The best part of her arc is she accepts the mistakes and is even ready to accept Hemant moving away simply because she wants Hemant happy and not suffering for him. Even in the girls slumber party , she confessed her state of mind. She admits she has done things with Vikram she never did with Hemant but despite all that , she craves Hemant more as her love for him has only grown.

But Sonarika can never claim Hemant back , not as her usual self. She will have to evolve , become better , find her truthful self and then start to EARN him back. That is Sonarika's journey from now on. And if she fails , she can find her peace knowing that she is a better person now and Hemant is happy in his life. Her whole arc is now on the rebirth and redemption for the real Sonarika. To find out who is wrecking her life and eventually defeat her demons and find peace. This is her ultimate test. She is already paying the price of her cheating every point right now as day goes by , she is haunted and missing her true man. But the old Sonarika and Hemant cannot be together.

If there is ever a hope for Sonarika and Hemant to become one , it is their evolved selves who have finally understood each other and accepted their true selves.

[RCF]

Well , we are introduced to Sonarika's love for Hemant to be very possessive. Her love was always posessive as she met and fell for Hemant in their vulnerable states and both found their peace and comfort in each other. She was indeed very sensitive and possessive about him to the point she could not tolerate anyone saying anything bad about him. But when Hemant started to change and the guilt of cheating on him clouded her , that is where she started to act a little hypocritical , because her mind was split as her love for Hemant and the guilt collided constantly. She could never tolerate Meghna bad mouthing him , she regretted ever meeting Vikram and on top of that she never neglected Hemant even when she was cheating on him. 

The best part of her arc is that she finally sees her mistakes and she is doing the best she can to undo the things. The best part of her arc is she accepts the mistakes and is even ready to accept Hemant moving away simply because she wants Hemant happy and not suffering for him. Even in the girls slumber party , she confessed her state of mind. She admits she has done things with Vikram she never did with Hemant but despite all that , she craves Hemant more as her love for him has only grown.

But Sonarika can never claim Hemant back , not as her usual self. She will have to evolve , become better , find her truthful self and then start to EARN him back. That is Sonarika's journey from now on. And if she fails , she can find her peace knowing that she is a better person now and Hemant is happy in his life. Her whole arc is now on the rebirth and redemption for the real Sonarika. To find out who is wrecking her life and eventually defeat her demons and find peace. This is her ultimate test. She is already paying the price of her cheating every point right now as day goes by , she is haunted and missing her true man. But the old Sonarika and Hemant cannot be together.

If there is ever a hope for Sonarika and Hemant to become one , it is their evolved selves who have finally understood each other and accepted their true selves.

She didn't act weird with guilt, her weird and dominating behavior is even before she developed feelings for Vikram. She mentioned countless times with her friends and even agreed with Mouni that she doesn't enjoy her married life with Hemanth and feel he is a mismatch and this was even before she started the affair. Vikram's nature and his poetry also attracted her and she agreed he is true partner for her and would have been her choice if she had met him before Hemanth. Which of these come from guilt? I feel like story gave her great plot armor in terms of accident and hyper sexuality as a shield. 

Anyways I just shared my opinion, Its your story so write whatever makes sense to you and how ever story takes you there...No offense, For me this is a failed love story no matter what happens from here on...Of course she deserves a better life if she wants to become a good person and free of guilt so finding a peaceful life and personality development for her is a great arc, also she has enemies so her path is totally different. As far as Hemanth is considered, he should move on and find love again this time a different one and a faithful one because love doesn't gets defined based on lifestyle..or personal growth. He needs love from someone who loves him for who he truly is not for what he needs to become. 

~RCF

[Harry Jordan]

~RCF

Well , Sonarika went through the usual trope of a "Stale Marriage" and she ended up making the same mistakes some women does which is adultery. She does state her marriage is dull to Mouni and confessed it had its lowtime and Vikram did entice her with poetry and common likings. But another aspect about her is that still she didn't abandon Hemant , she didn't deny him , she didn't ignore him. She was indeed hypocritical but she was still possessive of Hemant. And Hemant has the right to be angry as Sonarika in her state of mind had always chosen Vikram over him on occasion until she learned of her sickness. That reveal is what changed Sonarika from seeing Hemant not just as a partner , but as her ultimate savior who came in her life in the right time and rescued her from her descend. 


So, in short , she fell in love with him again because she sees how important he was in her life. But through Hemant's perspective its completely different as he sees Sonarika as hypocritical , self indulged. Something she is not anymore. And in a way this is her perfect arc , to find her redemption and start understanding her mysterious husband and at the same time find her true self with her new worklife and heal. Vikram is unfortunately the sad victim here , but then again he pirsued a woman despite knowing that she is married. Sonarika has changed , she is no longer caving to her desires easily , her awareness of her sickness has helped her see her nature and thus she is rebuilding her life like the way it was meant to be. And that path will change her , her dreams are gone , her 'desirable man' she no longer follows , not after understanding the importance of Hemant in her life. In many ways , that posessive , controlling , checkmark for desirability Sonarika no longer exist. She has just one constant motivation , to be a good mother to Karan , and to heal herself so that maybe just maybe rebuild a new relationship with Hemant , one with understanding.


As for their "love story" , the old Sonarika and Hemant can never be together. If there is ever a chance , its their true self to each other, and for that to happen , Hemant will have to see the real Sonarika , and Sonarika will have to see the real Hemant , the blueprint of Michael King. Once they see that , maybe there is a chance. But atleast , their arcs will bring them peace , either it is with each other or separate individuals! 

This is their story. Will it ultimately have love in the end or they walk away with closure. Only time will tell!