16-01-2026, 11:25 PM
(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.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-zhdxwxzhdxwxzhdx.png]](https://i.ibb.co/k6qMjs1G/Gemini-Generated-Image-zhdxwxzhdxwxzhdx.png)
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
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
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