The invitation arrived in a black envelope sealed with a silver wax insignia—an exclusive masquerade ball hosted by one of Mumbai's elite art collectors. High society. High stakes.

Riaz didn't want her to go.

But Aashika stood in front of the full-length mirror in their walk-in closet, wrapped in midnight-black lace, her mask perched delicately beside her on the dresser.

"You know I hate these parties," Riaz said from behind her.

"You hate sharing me," she replied, voice soft, yet teasing.

He stepped closer, resting his hands on her waist. "You're not wrong."

She turned to him, the lace hugging every curve, her back bare, her neckline deep. He stared.

"Say something," she whispered.

His jaw clenched. "You walk in like that, and I'm locking the doors behind us."

The venue was a palace-turned-gallery—crystal chandeliers hanging from golden ceilings, violins playing haunting waltzes, and everyone hidden behind elegant masks.

Riaz wore a black suit sharp enough to wound, and a Venetian mask that only highlighted his jawline. Aashika, in his arm, turned every head in the room.

"Who's the girl?" a voice whispered from a passing couple.

"Don't know, but she looks like sin."

Riaz heard. Smirked. Gripped her waist tighter.

They were halfway through the evening when Aashika felt it—a presence. A gaze she couldn't place. She turned.

And saw him.

Kunal Kapoor.

Unmasked.

Standing across the room in a deep blue suit, wine glass in hand, his smile twisted with something darker than charm.

Riaz followed her gaze, and his entire body stiffened.

"You didn't tell me he'd be here," Aashika said.

"I didn't know," Riaz replied, tone ice.

Kunal began to walk toward them.

Riaz stepped in front of her, blocking him.

"Riaz," Aashika said gently. "Don't cause a scene."

"He's a scene. I'm the ending."

But Kunal stopped a few feet away. Smiled. "Relax, Malhotra. I'm just here for the art."

Riaz didn't blink. "Touch her, and I'll hang your body in this gallery."

Kunal chuckled. "She was never yours back then. Why so scared now?"

Aashika stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Because now I know who's real. And who's just an obsessed liar playing dress-up."

The tension crackled like static.

Kunal lifted his glass mockingly. "To the happy couple. For now."

He walked away.

But something in the air shifted. A storm was coming.

Later that night, Riaz pushed open the penthouse doors with Aashika in his arms. Lips locked. Breath stolen.

He slammed the door shut with his foot and pressed her against it.

"You'll never go anywhere near him again."

"I wasn't planning to."

"That dress," he growled. "Do you have any idea what it did to me? Watching men watch you like they had a chance?"

She smirked. "That's why you were so grumpy?"

He kissed her. Deep. Hot. Possessive.

"You're mine, Aashi. Every inch. Every gasp. Every look."

"Then show me."

He did.

. . . .

That night, the black lace hit the marble floor.

He picked her up and carried her straight to the bedroom, the city lights pouring through the glass walls like silver fire. He laid her on the bed gently, reverently, eyes dark with hunger.

His mouth found her throat first—trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone, where he bit just hard enough to leave a mark. Her hands fumbled with his shirt buttons, breath short, lips parted. He stripped slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

"You looked like a queen tonight," he whispered, kissing her hip bone. "Now you look like mine."

He spread her thighs and knelt between them, kissing the inside of each one until she whimpered. Her fingers gripped the silk sheets, back arching as his mouth replaced his words. He took his time tasting her, hands pinning her hips in place as her legs trembled around his shoulders.

She cried out his name, over and over, until she came undone beneath him.

But he wasn't finished.

He climbed over her, kissing the tears from the corners of her eyes, sliding inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her gasp into his neck.

"Look at me," he growled.

She did.

And what she saw was worship. Raw, merciless love.

He moved deep and slow at first, making her feel every inch, every breath. Then faster, harder, chasing the fire between them until she shattered around him again.

"You're mine," he whispered against her lips as they clung to each other. "No one touches you. No one sees you like this. Only me."

They collapsed into each other, drenched in sweat, silk tangled around their bodies.

And somewhere between the pounding hearts and the storm building outside, he whispered,

"I'll burn the world if it ever tries to take you from me."

And he did.

One by one, every man who had ever looked at her with lust—who dared imagine her as theirs—disappeared. Some found hanging in alleyways, others mutilated beyond recognition. Their screams were never heard again. Riaz didn't just warn the world—he showed it. Obsession had a price.

He didn't blink when he signed their death orders. Didn't flinch when his hands were stained in blood for her.

Because in his world, Aashika was sacred.

And anyone who dared lay greedy eyes on her...

Was already dead.