Yesterday, 04:44 PM
CHAPTER 28
FEW HOURS LATER AT THE APARTMENT
Hemant entered the apartment in silence.
The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that felt heavier than any argument they had ever had. The house, once filled with footsteps, laughter, arguments, music, and chaos, now felt vast and hollow—like a museum where echoes lived longer than people.
He stood still in the living room.
This was the same space where Karan had taken his first steps, where Sonarika had once danced barefoot while cooking, where Anjali had scolded him for being too rigid with rules. This was the space where birthdays were celebrated, where fights happened and were forgiven, where love once lived without conditions.
Now, it was only him.
Soon, even this would be gone. The Silver Beach Villa in Juhu waited for him like a monument to his success—but what use was a dream house built for a family that no longer existed? The new house would be grand, ambitious, cold—just like the man he had become.
This apartment, however, was still warm with ghosts.
Hemant slowly walked through the rooms. The dining table where Sonarika used to sit scrolling through work updates. The balcony where they once stood together during the first heavy monsoon after their marriage. The place where they sat and discussed their day. Karan’s room—half empty now, his toys neatly packed, his laughter still trapped in the walls.
And finally—The bedroom. The place where trust was built… and broken. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
She’s really gone now…
Delhi was only the beginning.
After that would be Goa.
After that would be Vikram.
For the first time, Hemant allowed himself to imagine it fully—not in flashes of jealousy, not in rage—but in cold, cruel clarity. Sonarika and Vikram in Goa. No hiding. No guilt. No fear of being caught. No marriage standing in between them.
Exotic beaches. Wild nights. A Thrilling future.
They would laugh freely there. Touch freely. Love freely. Have sex freely. And he would no longer exist in that world. He realized something that made his chest tighten painfully—
He was now her past.
Vikram would be her present.
And soon… her future.
Hemant had Karan. He had Anjali. He had YOD Industries. He had power, fear, money, influence. But he was losing the one thing he never thought he could—
Her.
For months, he had lived on anger. On betrayal. On revenge. On pride.
But now… as the apartment swallowed him whole…For the first time in months—
He cried.
Silent tears fell onto his hands as he clenched his fists tightly. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just helpless.
Despite everything she had done…Despite the betrayal…Despite the destruction…
He still wanted her.
Then the memory struck him again—
The airport. The sudden run. The tight embrace. The kiss.
So real. So desperate. So alive. Her words echoed again:
“No matter what… I will always love you”
A small, foolish flame lit up in his heart. What if… one day… she does come back? But fear crushed that hope almost instantly. What if that kiss was only goodbye? Hemant stood and walked to the wardrobe. As he opened it, something soft slipped out and fell to the floor. A faded pink salwar. One she used to wear years ago. Simple. Modest. Ordinary. But to him—it was everything. He picked it up slowly. Held it. Pressed it against his chest.
And this time… he broke.
His shoulders shook as he finally allowed himself to mourn—not just the marriage, but the love story they once were. The laughter. The dreams. The forever that never came.
He whispered softly into the empty room:
"Everything has changed…"
And for the first time, Hemant Kumar—The feared industrialist. The rising tycoon. The hardened strategist—
Cried like a broken man in the ruins of his own heart.
FEW DAYS LATER AT THE SILVER BEACH VILLA , JUHU
The convoy rolled silently into the private coastal stretch of Juhu, the sound of waves crashing faintly beyond towering palm silhouettes. The gates of the Silver Beach Villa parted with a slow mechanical hum, as if the house itself was inhaling Hemant into its vast emptiness.
Tara stepped out first, surveying the wide open driveway, the sea-facing elevation, the glass balconies that caught the sunlight like sharp blades. Hemant followed, his movements slow, weighted—like a man stepping into a dream that had already died.
A hollow breath escaped his lips.
"This was supposed to be our place…" he murmured faintly, more to himself than to Tara.
"Our morning tea on that balcony. Karan running barefoot on the deck. Sonarika complaining about the sea wind tangling her hair…"
He stepped inside.
The villa was breathtaking—double-height ceilings, contemporary luxury, glass walls opening straight to the ocean. The smell of fresh wood, new upholstery, untouched corridors. Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
But the perfection felt soulless.
Tara followed at a distance as Hemant walked through the living area, running his fingers along surfaces that had never felt warmth. He stopped at the master bedroom entrance—its massive balcony facing the sea, curtains gently fluttering in the night breeze.
"No more shared winters" he whispered.
"No more stolen warmth"
His jaw tightened.
"She’ll create all those moments again… just not with me"
In his mind, Goa ignited—sunlit beaches, open freedom, Vikram beside her, laughter replacing the silence Hemant now carried. A different life. A different man.
"She will choose him....like before....like always....I will forever be her second best" he said quietly.
The silence in Silver Beach Villa was a physical thing, a heavy, suffocating blanket that Hemant carried from room to empty room. Each perfect, custom-fitted surface was a monument to a future that had curdled, a life that had been promised and then snatched away. His athletic frame, usually so sure and strong, felt hollowed out, a shell echoing with the ghost of his family’s laughter. Their laughter.
He stood in the doorway of the special room. The room he’d designed for her. For them. The air hummed with the latent energy of the vibrating bed, waiting for a command that would never come. His piercing eyes, once full of passion for his wife, now scanned the sterile perfection with a bitter ache. He thumbed the remote for the projector.
The screen flickered to life.
The footage was grainy, intimate. A much younger Sonarika, her face flushed, her pregnant belly round and undeniable, was barely holding the camcorder steady. The angle was personal, erotic. She was gasping, moaning, her free hand guiding Hemant’s head to her full, heavy breast. His suckling was audible, desperate. Sonarika’s cries were raw, primal.
"Mhmmm… drink it all, my love…."
"Come on honey… don’t be shy"
Sonarika's recorded voice purred, a sound that used to ignite him. On screen, his past self, eager and adoring, nuzzled against the swell of her belly before his mouth found one of her full, heavy breasts. The video was intimate, raw. It captured every detail: the way her head fell back, the long, throaty moan that escaped her lips as he suckled, the absolute surrender on her face as her milk let down for him. He remembered the sweet, warm taste, the profound intimacy of fulfilling her deepest kink, of being her sole source of pleasure.
The memory was a knife twist. Because now, there was another man.
Vikram.
The image on the projector blurred, the past melting into the vicious present of his imagination. The hum of the villa’s air conditioner faded, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves. The sterile walls dissolved into a vast expanse of sun-bleached sand and turquoise sea.
Goa.
She was there. Just as he’d seen in the stolen Bali photos. Lying on a towel, the red bikini she wore on the photos barely containing the lush curves of her milfy body. The sun worshipped her smooth, glowing skin. She was a vision of perfect, sensual peace.
Then, a figure emerged from the water. Vikram. Water slewed down his muscular, chiseled chest and toned abdomen. His trunks clung low on his hips, and a confident, alluring smirk was plastered on his face as his eyes locked onto Sonarika. Hemant’s jaw tightened. He’d seen Vikram’s social media. He had an imagination and belief on what that man was packing, and a sick, jealous part of him was certain that was the real reason his marriage had crumbled.
Sonarika pushed her sunglasses onto her head. Even from this distance, Hemant could see her answering smile, a flash of white teeth. He couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He saw her lips form a flirty remark. Saw Vikram’s retort as he closed the distance, his body blocking the sun as he loomed over her.
Their mouths crashed together, not with tenderness, but with a hungry, desperate passion that made his own old recording seem like a polite dance. Vikram’s hands were everywhere, gripping her waist, tangling in her hair, sliding down to palm her ass through the flimsy fabric of her bikini bottoms. Sonarika arched into him, her hands roaming over his broad back, pulling him closer, demanding more.
Then his fingers found the tie of her bikini top. A quick, practiced tug and it loosened. He peeled the fabric away, and her full, beautiful breasts spilled into the sunlight, the nipples already hard peaks. Vikram didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard.
A strangled sound escaped Sonarika’s throat. It was a brutal parody of his cherished memory. But Sonarika’s reaction… it was different. Her back bowed off the towel, a guttural, appreciative moan ripped from her that was louder, more primal than any sound she’d ever made for him. Her fingers clawed at Vikram’s shoulders, urging him on.
"Yes baby...… oh god Vikram yessss.....…"
His trunks were gone in an instant. Her bikini bottoms were ripped aside. There was no preamble, no gentle easing. Vikram mounted her, his powerful frame covering hers completely, and in one brutal, possessive thrust, he was inside her.
"AAAHHH!!!"
Sonarika’s scream wasn’t one of pain. It was a cry of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, swallowed by the roar of the ocean.
"Vikram.....YOU ARE AMAZING!!!!!"
He set a punishing rhythm, fucking her hard and deep into the yielding sand, each drive of his hips punctuated by a grunt of effort. The sight was devastating. The woman who had built a family with him, who had shared his bed and his life, was now abandoningly herself to another man, her body rocking under his, her legs locking around his waist to take him even deeper.
"hghh...hgh....I love you Sonarika....hghh...gghh....hhghh.....hggh"
Vikram growled into her neck, his voice thick with lust and something more terrifyingly genuine.
Hemant’s heart stopped. And then she said it. Between ragged gasps and cries of pleasure, her voice broke.
"Ahh...ahhh...ahhh.....I love you too…..ahhhh....I love you…ahhh....ahhhh..."
The words were a physical blow. Vikram groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more frantic.
"We’ll make our own family here. Goa is our world now. Our haven"
"Ahhh.....Yes Vikram!" she cried out, her nails digging into his skin as she met his frantic rhythm.
"It’s all for us...ahh....ahhhh"
They were climbing, soaring towards the edge together. Sonarika was chanting his name now, a desperate mantra.
"Vikram...ahh....Vikram…you're ripping me apart....ahhh...ahhhhh"
He grunted, his body tensing.
"You’re mine. All mine"
He was picking up speed, his body slapping against hers, his ball sac smacking against her ass. Now Sonarika had her arms wrapped around his back, and her face buried against his neck. Vikram had let his whole body down on hers, letting Sonarika bear his weight as he hammered into her. Vikram's big shaft pistoning in and out of his soon to be ex-wife's red and dripping pussy.
"Aaaaah!"
Sonarika cried out. She gripped Vikram's back and dug her heels into his legs as her orgasm hit her. Arching her back, she let out another cry. Vikram was right behind her, giving her two more hard strokes, and driving his cock in her to the base as he unloaded his cum into her. They lay there, panting like dogs, the sweat shining on their bodies.
Her eyes, glazed with a pleasure Hemant had never given her, locked directly onto his. She was seeing him. Seeing his pain, his devastation.
The pleasure on her face cooled into something else. Something cold and final.
"I’m sorry, Hemant"
She said, her voice clear and sharp as broken glass even amidst her ragged breaths.
"But he’s a better man than you in every way. I love him now. Not you"
The rage was instant, a white-hot inferno that erupted from the core of his being. A guttural roar tore from his throat. He clenched his fist, every muscle in his athletic body coiling to strike out at the vision, to shatter it, to make her take the words back—
His knuckles connected not with flesh, but with the cold, unyielding teakwood floor of his villa.
The Goa sun vanished. The sound of the sea cut off. He returned to reality , standing in the very room that represented his heartbreak.
He was on his knees, the echo of his own cry bouncing off the empty walls. The projector still cast the soft, intimate light of the old recording, the ghost of a moan hanging in the air. The weight of it all—the betrayal, the loss, the cruel, detailed vision—crashed down upon him. His body folded, shoulders shaking as the hot, furious tears broke free. He was alone.
For a moment, his hands trembled. But he stopped crying moments later. Now—something colder settled behind his eyes. Behind him, Tara watched everything.
Silently.
Unseen.
Tara observed the change. She turned away, stepping into the edge of the balcony shadow, her phone sliding smoothly into her palm.
She dialed.
"Daraaksh… we’ve arrived"
A low voice responded from the other end.
"So the king has moved to his Fortress"
Tara’s eyes drifted over the open shoreline beyond the villa, the sea water stretching endlessly.
"Yes. The villa is exposed on the coastal side. Open beach. Minimal civilian surveillance"
There was a brief pause. Then Daraaksh spoke carefully, thoughtfully.
"Do not mistake openness for weakness. That beach is not a gap… it’s a funnel"
Tara’s brows furrowed.
"The law enforcement perimeter ends exactly at the main gate. The ocean side is untouched"
"Exactly" Daraaksh replied.
"He wants us to think it’s unguarded"
Tara finally looked back at Hemant—now standing still at the balcony edge, staring at the sea like a man mourning and waiting at the same time.
"Michael King built this villa" Daraaksh continued.
"Not Hemant Kumar"
A slow realization crept into Tara’s expression.
"This place isn’t Hemant's dream home anymore. No longer his refuge" she whispered.
"It’s bait. A trap set by Michael King!"
"Yes" Daraaksh said quietly.
"And he’s daring us to bite"
The call ended. Tara slipped her phone away. For the first time since she’d entered Hemant’s life, she no longer saw just a grieving husband or a broken lover. She saw a strategist hiding behind sorrow.
She saw Michael King, awake.
And moving his chessboard silently.
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
Hemant entered the apartment in silence.
The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that felt heavier than any argument they had ever had. The house, once filled with footsteps, laughter, arguments, music, and chaos, now felt vast and hollow—like a museum where echoes lived longer than people.
He stood still in the living room.
This was the same space where Karan had taken his first steps, where Sonarika had once danced barefoot while cooking, where Anjali had scolded him for being too rigid with rules. This was the space where birthdays were celebrated, where fights happened and were forgiven, where love once lived without conditions.
Now, it was only him.
Soon, even this would be gone. The Silver Beach Villa in Juhu waited for him like a monument to his success—but what use was a dream house built for a family that no longer existed? The new house would be grand, ambitious, cold—just like the man he had become.
This apartment, however, was still warm with ghosts.
Hemant slowly walked through the rooms. The dining table where Sonarika used to sit scrolling through work updates. The balcony where they once stood together during the first heavy monsoon after their marriage. The place where they sat and discussed their day. Karan’s room—half empty now, his toys neatly packed, his laughter still trapped in the walls.
And finally—The bedroom. The place where trust was built… and broken. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
She’s really gone now…
Delhi was only the beginning.
After that would be Goa.
After that would be Vikram.
For the first time, Hemant allowed himself to imagine it fully—not in flashes of jealousy, not in rage—but in cold, cruel clarity. Sonarika and Vikram in Goa. No hiding. No guilt. No fear of being caught. No marriage standing in between them.
Exotic beaches. Wild nights. A Thrilling future.
They would laugh freely there. Touch freely. Love freely. Have sex freely. And he would no longer exist in that world. He realized something that made his chest tighten painfully—
He was now her past.
Vikram would be her present.
And soon… her future.
Hemant had Karan. He had Anjali. He had YOD Industries. He had power, fear, money, influence. But he was losing the one thing he never thought he could—
Her.
For months, he had lived on anger. On betrayal. On revenge. On pride.
But now… as the apartment swallowed him whole…For the first time in months—
He cried.
Silent tears fell onto his hands as he clenched his fists tightly. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just helpless.
Despite everything she had done…Despite the betrayal…Despite the destruction…
He still wanted her.
Then the memory struck him again—
The airport. The sudden run. The tight embrace. The kiss.
So real. So desperate. So alive. Her words echoed again:
“No matter what… I will always love you”
A small, foolish flame lit up in his heart. What if… one day… she does come back? But fear crushed that hope almost instantly. What if that kiss was only goodbye? Hemant stood and walked to the wardrobe. As he opened it, something soft slipped out and fell to the floor. A faded pink salwar. One she used to wear years ago. Simple. Modest. Ordinary. But to him—it was everything. He picked it up slowly. Held it. Pressed it against his chest.
And this time… he broke.
His shoulders shook as he finally allowed himself to mourn—not just the marriage, but the love story they once were. The laughter. The dreams. The forever that never came.
He whispered softly into the empty room:
"Everything has changed…"
And for the first time, Hemant Kumar—The feared industrialist. The rising tycoon. The hardened strategist—
Cried like a broken man in the ruins of his own heart.
FEW DAYS LATER AT THE SILVER BEACH VILLA , JUHU
The convoy rolled silently into the private coastal stretch of Juhu, the sound of waves crashing faintly beyond towering palm silhouettes. The gates of the Silver Beach Villa parted with a slow mechanical hum, as if the house itself was inhaling Hemant into its vast emptiness.
Tara stepped out first, surveying the wide open driveway, the sea-facing elevation, the glass balconies that caught the sunlight like sharp blades. Hemant followed, his movements slow, weighted—like a man stepping into a dream that had already died.
A hollow breath escaped his lips.
"This was supposed to be our place…" he murmured faintly, more to himself than to Tara.
"Our morning tea on that balcony. Karan running barefoot on the deck. Sonarika complaining about the sea wind tangling her hair…"
He stepped inside.
The villa was breathtaking—double-height ceilings, contemporary luxury, glass walls opening straight to the ocean. The smell of fresh wood, new upholstery, untouched corridors. Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
But the perfection felt soulless.
Tara followed at a distance as Hemant walked through the living area, running his fingers along surfaces that had never felt warmth. He stopped at the master bedroom entrance—its massive balcony facing the sea, curtains gently fluttering in the night breeze.
"No more shared winters" he whispered.
"No more stolen warmth"
His jaw tightened.
"She’ll create all those moments again… just not with me"
In his mind, Goa ignited—sunlit beaches, open freedom, Vikram beside her, laughter replacing the silence Hemant now carried. A different life. A different man.
"She will choose him....like before....like always....I will forever be her second best" he said quietly.
The silence in Silver Beach Villa was a physical thing, a heavy, suffocating blanket that Hemant carried from room to empty room. Each perfect, custom-fitted surface was a monument to a future that had curdled, a life that had been promised and then snatched away. His athletic frame, usually so sure and strong, felt hollowed out, a shell echoing with the ghost of his family’s laughter. Their laughter.
He stood in the doorway of the special room. The room he’d designed for her. For them. The air hummed with the latent energy of the vibrating bed, waiting for a command that would never come. His piercing eyes, once full of passion for his wife, now scanned the sterile perfection with a bitter ache. He thumbed the remote for the projector.
The screen flickered to life.
The footage was grainy, intimate. A much younger Sonarika, her face flushed, her pregnant belly round and undeniable, was barely holding the camcorder steady. The angle was personal, erotic. She was gasping, moaning, her free hand guiding Hemant’s head to her full, heavy breast. His suckling was audible, desperate. Sonarika’s cries were raw, primal.
"Mhmmm… drink it all, my love…."
"Come on honey… don’t be shy"
Sonarika's recorded voice purred, a sound that used to ignite him. On screen, his past self, eager and adoring, nuzzled against the swell of her belly before his mouth found one of her full, heavy breasts. The video was intimate, raw. It captured every detail: the way her head fell back, the long, throaty moan that escaped her lips as he suckled, the absolute surrender on her face as her milk let down for him. He remembered the sweet, warm taste, the profound intimacy of fulfilling her deepest kink, of being her sole source of pleasure.
The memory was a knife twist. Because now, there was another man.
Vikram.
The image on the projector blurred, the past melting into the vicious present of his imagination. The hum of the villa’s air conditioner faded, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves. The sterile walls dissolved into a vast expanse of sun-bleached sand and turquoise sea.
Goa.
She was there. Just as he’d seen in the stolen Bali photos. Lying on a towel, the red bikini she wore on the photos barely containing the lush curves of her milfy body. The sun worshipped her smooth, glowing skin. She was a vision of perfect, sensual peace.
Then, a figure emerged from the water. Vikram. Water slewed down his muscular, chiseled chest and toned abdomen. His trunks clung low on his hips, and a confident, alluring smirk was plastered on his face as his eyes locked onto Sonarika. Hemant’s jaw tightened. He’d seen Vikram’s social media. He had an imagination and belief on what that man was packing, and a sick, jealous part of him was certain that was the real reason his marriage had crumbled.
Sonarika pushed her sunglasses onto her head. Even from this distance, Hemant could see her answering smile, a flash of white teeth. He couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He saw her lips form a flirty remark. Saw Vikram’s retort as he closed the distance, his body blocking the sun as he loomed over her.
Their mouths crashed together, not with tenderness, but with a hungry, desperate passion that made his own old recording seem like a polite dance. Vikram’s hands were everywhere, gripping her waist, tangling in her hair, sliding down to palm her ass through the flimsy fabric of her bikini bottoms. Sonarika arched into him, her hands roaming over his broad back, pulling him closer, demanding more.
Then his fingers found the tie of her bikini top. A quick, practiced tug and it loosened. He peeled the fabric away, and her full, beautiful breasts spilled into the sunlight, the nipples already hard peaks. Vikram didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking hard.
A strangled sound escaped Sonarika’s throat. It was a brutal parody of his cherished memory. But Sonarika’s reaction… it was different. Her back bowed off the towel, a guttural, appreciative moan ripped from her that was louder, more primal than any sound she’d ever made for him. Her fingers clawed at Vikram’s shoulders, urging him on.
"Yes baby...… oh god Vikram yessss.....…"
His trunks were gone in an instant. Her bikini bottoms were ripped aside. There was no preamble, no gentle easing. Vikram mounted her, his powerful frame covering hers completely, and in one brutal, possessive thrust, he was inside her.
"AAAHHH!!!"
Sonarika’s scream wasn’t one of pain. It was a cry of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, swallowed by the roar of the ocean.
"Vikram.....YOU ARE AMAZING!!!!!"
He set a punishing rhythm, fucking her hard and deep into the yielding sand, each drive of his hips punctuated by a grunt of effort. The sight was devastating. The woman who had built a family with him, who had shared his bed and his life, was now abandoningly herself to another man, her body rocking under his, her legs locking around his waist to take him even deeper.
"hghh...hgh....I love you Sonarika....hghh...gghh....hhghh.....hggh"
Vikram growled into her neck, his voice thick with lust and something more terrifyingly genuine.
Hemant’s heart stopped. And then she said it. Between ragged gasps and cries of pleasure, her voice broke.
"Ahh...ahhh...ahhh.....I love you too…..ahhhh....I love you…ahhh....ahhhh..."
The words were a physical blow. Vikram groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more frantic.
"We’ll make our own family here. Goa is our world now. Our haven"
"Ahhh.....Yes Vikram!" she cried out, her nails digging into his skin as she met his frantic rhythm.
"It’s all for us...ahh....ahhhh"
They were climbing, soaring towards the edge together. Sonarika was chanting his name now, a desperate mantra.
"Vikram...ahh....Vikram…you're ripping me apart....ahhh...ahhhhh"
He grunted, his body tensing.
"You’re mine. All mine"
He was picking up speed, his body slapping against hers, his ball sac smacking against her ass. Now Sonarika had her arms wrapped around his back, and her face buried against his neck. Vikram had let his whole body down on hers, letting Sonarika bear his weight as he hammered into her. Vikram's big shaft pistoning in and out of his soon to be ex-wife's red and dripping pussy.
"Aaaaah!"
Sonarika cried out. She gripped Vikram's back and dug her heels into his legs as her orgasm hit her. Arching her back, she let out another cry. Vikram was right behind her, giving her two more hard strokes, and driving his cock in her to the base as he unloaded his cum into her. They lay there, panting like dogs, the sweat shining on their bodies.
Her eyes, glazed with a pleasure Hemant had never given her, locked directly onto his. She was seeing him. Seeing his pain, his devastation.
The pleasure on her face cooled into something else. Something cold and final.
"I’m sorry, Hemant"
She said, her voice clear and sharp as broken glass even amidst her ragged breaths.
"But he’s a better man than you in every way. I love him now. Not you"
The rage was instant, a white-hot inferno that erupted from the core of his being. A guttural roar tore from his throat. He clenched his fist, every muscle in his athletic body coiling to strike out at the vision, to shatter it, to make her take the words back—
His knuckles connected not with flesh, but with the cold, unyielding teakwood floor of his villa.
The Goa sun vanished. The sound of the sea cut off. He returned to reality , standing in the very room that represented his heartbreak.
He was on his knees, the echo of his own cry bouncing off the empty walls. The projector still cast the soft, intimate light of the old recording, the ghost of a moan hanging in the air. The weight of it all—the betrayal, the loss, the cruel, detailed vision—crashed down upon him. His body folded, shoulders shaking as the hot, furious tears broke free. He was alone.
For a moment, his hands trembled. But he stopped crying moments later. Now—something colder settled behind his eyes. Behind him, Tara watched everything.
Silently.
Unseen.
Tara observed the change. She turned away, stepping into the edge of the balcony shadow, her phone sliding smoothly into her palm.
She dialed.
"Daraaksh… we’ve arrived"
A low voice responded from the other end.
"So the king has moved to his Fortress"
Tara’s eyes drifted over the open shoreline beyond the villa, the sea water stretching endlessly.
"Yes. The villa is exposed on the coastal side. Open beach. Minimal civilian surveillance"
There was a brief pause. Then Daraaksh spoke carefully, thoughtfully.
"Do not mistake openness for weakness. That beach is not a gap… it’s a funnel"
Tara’s brows furrowed.
"The law enforcement perimeter ends exactly at the main gate. The ocean side is untouched"
"Exactly" Daraaksh replied.
"He wants us to think it’s unguarded"
Tara finally looked back at Hemant—now standing still at the balcony edge, staring at the sea like a man mourning and waiting at the same time.
"Michael King built this villa" Daraaksh continued.
"Not Hemant Kumar"
A slow realization crept into Tara’s expression.
"This place isn’t Hemant's dream home anymore. No longer his refuge" she whispered.
"It’s bait. A trap set by Michael King!"
"Yes" Daraaksh said quietly.
"And he’s daring us to bite"
The call ended. Tara slipped her phone away. For the first time since she’d entered Hemant’s life, she no longer saw just a grieving husband or a broken lover. She saw a strategist hiding behind sorrow.
She saw Michael King, awake.
And moving his chessboard silently.
(CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)
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