Hey beauties,

How are you all?

Finally Sunday is here and I could write and do editing. 

Guys office work is really tiring and hectic. It's all new for me. Still I am trying to manage everything.

I also changed the chapter name because this chapter will be all about our Adirath baby.

I know this chapter is not so long, but it is longer than the first one. In next chapter, I will try to write more.

Yes I have not yet made the POV banner, but will soon make it too.

So no more taking now let’s start with the chapter...

Adirath POV

I finish my breakfast and place the napkin down beside the plate. Immediately, my mother’s voice reaches me.

“Adirath I need to talk to you.”

I look up at her. A slow breath escapes me before I can stop it.

A sigh. Because I already know. Whenever my mother says those words, it is never something simple.

It is always something serious.

Something that places me in the exact position I dislike most—

The position where saying no to my mother becomes impossible.

I watch her set her teacup down gently, the porcelain making a soft sound against the polished table. Her gaze settles on me with the same calm authority she has always carried.

There is strength in my mother that most people never notice, because it does not scream or demand attention. It simply exists, quiet and immovable, like the pillars that hold this palace together.

“Adirath, you’re now 29. You need to get married.”

The words land exactly where I expected them to.

Marriage. Of course.

The one subject that never fails to irritate me.

My jaw tightens slightly as I lean back in my chair, the carved wood cool against my shoulders. A slow breath leaves my lungs before I respond.

If there is one thing I have learned about conversations like this, it is that they rarely end quickly. They stretch, they circle, they try to break through walls I have spent years building.

I sigh again. Because this topic is the one I hate.

Love. Marriage. All the illusions people attach to them as if they are something sacred.

I do not believe in love.

Not after what I have seen. Not after what this palace has witnessed. And marriage, in my world, is nothing more than a ceremonial contract disguised as emotion.

“Sorry maa sa, but this wish of yours will never come true.”

My voice remains firm and calm, each word placed deliberately, leaving very little room for negotiation.

My mother’s brows draw together in a small frown, not out of anger but confusion, as if she truly does not understand how someone could refuse something that seems so natural to her.

“What do you mean Adirath? Why do you not want to get married?”

The question lingers in the air between us, heavier than the scent of breakfast that still fills the room.

I push my chair back and stand up slowly, my movement deliberate. Standing gives me distance, and distance gives control. The tone in my voice carries the quiet finality that usually ends discussions before they escalate.

“Because I don’t believe in all this love and marriage. And Adirath Singh Rathore doesn’t need any of it in his life.”

Silence settles across the table for a moment. It is not uncomfortable, not exactly. It is the kind of silence that forms when people are deciding whether to push further or retreat.

My mother does not stand.

She remains seated, her posture straight, composed, regal even without the title she once carried formally. When she speaks again, her voice is calm, steady, the way it always becomes when she is determined.

“But Rajasthan needs its queen. Your kingdom needs its rani sa. A kingdom without his rani is like a child without mother.”

The words are soft. But they are strategic.

My mother has always known how to choose arguments that carry emotional weight. She knows that speaking about the kingdom forces me to think beyond myself, beyond my own reluctance.

Still, irritation slips through me. I look at her for a moment before replying.

“Then maybe you should make Abhimanyu the king.”

The reaction is immediate.

Abhimanyu nearly chokes on his drink before looking between us like a man who has suddenly been dragged into a battlefield he never volunteered for.

His expression holds the exact same panic he used to wear as a child whenever our grandmother assigned him lessons he had absolutely no interest in.

“Why bhai sa? I am not at all interested in this king thing. Please keep this thrown to yourself only.”

His whining tone makes Meher snort quietly into her glass, quickly pretending she was coughing instead.

Across the table, my chacha sa clears his throat gently before attempting to insert logic into the conversation with the cautious diplomacy that has always defined him.

“Adirath what if one day you found a girl with whom you fell in love at first sight, then you will get married to her.”

Love at first sight.

The phrase itself sounds absurd to me. It sounds like something poets invented because reality was too harsh to write about honestly.

I turn my gaze toward him.

“I don’t think chacha sa there is any girl in this world which will bring Adirath Singh Rathore on knees.”

The confidence in my voice is not arrogance. It is certainty.

I have seen what love does. It weakens men. It blinds them. It turns strength into hesitation.

My chachi sa, however, decides the tension has grown too heavy. Her lips curve into a teasing smile as she leans forward slightly, clearly determined to dissolve the seriousness of the moment.

“Don’t tell me Adirath, you are interested in boys?”

For a brief moment, my composure cracks.

My eyes widen slightly.

Across the table, Abhimanyu bursts into a laugh that he immediately tries to hide by pretending to cough into his hand.

My mother, apparently deciding that teasing me might somehow achieve the goal she wants, continues the joke without hesitation.

“Well Adirath, if you’re gay then also I have no problem. I will welcome my son-in-law with all celebration and happiness.”

The entire table suddenly looks far too amused.

Just as I open my mouth to end this ridiculous line of conversation— a loud voice interrupts from the doorway.

“I knew it. I knew he was gay for sure.”

I close my eyes for half a second. Mentally banging my head against a wall. Because there is only one person in this palace who would make an entrance like that.

Aarivendra Singh Shekhawat.

The so-called chirag of the Shekhawat family.

My childhood friend.

He walks into the dining hall with his usual confidence, his expression carrying the kind of satisfaction a man wears when he believes he has just uncovered a grand secret. His suit is as sharp as always, his hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, and his smirk entirely too pleased with itself.

Before saying anything else, he bends respectfully in front of my mother, touching her feet in greeting.

She smiles warmly and places a hand over his head.

“Khus raho.” (Stay blessed.)

Aarivendra straightens and turns his attention toward me, his grin widening further.

“I knew it man, that’s why he never used to talk with any girl in college. Those girls were always trying to talk with him, but he never did.”

I roll my eyes.

“I am not gay. I don’t like men.”

Aarivendra tilts his head slightly, clearly enjoying himself far more than necessary.

“Are you sure man? Because your family is saying something else.”

I glance toward the table.

My mother, chacha sa, and chachi sa are all attempting—and failing—to hide their laughter. Even Abhimanyu looks dangerously close to betraying me completely.

I shake my head slowly.

There is no escaping this conversation unless I end it myself. So I turn back toward my mother.

“Okay maa sa, I will get married.”

The reaction is immediate. Her eyes widen. “Really?”

The disbelief in her voice almost makes me reconsider the statement I just made. My chacha sa raises an eyebrow, unable to resist one last jab.

“To a girl or?”

A small smile forms on my face.

“Of course a girl chacha sa. I told you, I am interested in women only. Rajasthan will have it’s rani sa.”

The entire table seems to relax at once. The tension that had quietly built through the conversation dissolves as relief spreads across their expressions.

My mother stands up immediately, relief and excitement already shining in her eyes as if she has been waiting years to hear those words.

“That’s good Adirath, I will tell everyone this news and get you a beautiful and perfect bride soon.”

She begins to walk away from the table, already planning things in her mind the way mothers do when they believe their sons have finally agreed to something important.

But before she can take another step, I speak again.

“But maa sa, I have a condition.”

She stops. Turning back toward me. She does not know what the condition will be. But she agrees before even hearing it.

“Of course beta, I will agree to your condition, tell me what type of girl you want?”

I allow a slow smirk to appear. Across the table, Aarivendra sees it immediately. He mutters under his breath.

“There comes his smirk. I am sure he is going to put an impossible condition now.”

I hear him clearly. Of course I do.

Aarivendra has known me long enough to recognize that expression. That small shift in my lips is not amusement. It is calculation.

It is the moment when people around me realize that whatever comes next will not be simple.

My gaze drifts toward him for a moment and I nod subtly, acknowledging his observation without addressing it directly. Then I turn back toward my mother, letting the silence stretch for just a second longer before I speak.

“Well my condition is that, the girl should be choose by Kesar. I will marry the girl who is liked by my Kesar. If Kesar doesn’t approve the girl, then don’t think I will marry her.”

The reaction around the table is immediate. Every pair of eyes widens.

For a moment, the room becomes completely still, as if the palace itself is trying to process what I just said.

And then Meher speaks.

“Bhai sa, then I think you won’t get married in this life, because Kesar absolutely hates girls near you. He doesn’t like any girl. Sometimes I feel he even hates me, but tolerates me as I am your sister.”

Her voice carries genuine innocence, the kind that makes everyone else suppress a laugh because what she is saying is not entirely wrong.

Just then, Kesar arrives from the adjoining room.

He moves into the dining hall with the same calm authority he carries everywhere else, ignoring every person seated at the table as if they do not exist. His golden frame glides across the marble floor until he reaches me, stopping beside my chair like a silent shadow that belongs only to me.

Meher gestures toward him dramatically. “See, he even ignores us always.”

Kesar releases a low growl.

It is not aggressive. It is more like a statement. A quiet declaration that her observation is correct.

If that growl had words, it would say exactly what Meher just joked about—

Yes, I only like my dadda and tolerate everyone in his family.

I understand him immediately.

My hand reaches down to run through the thick mane around his neck, and the corner of my mouth lifts slightly.

Then I look back at my mother.

“See maa sa you said you will agree to my condition. So there it is. Now you can find any girl and bring her in front of my Kesar.”

For a moment she simply looks at me, her expression somewhere between disbelief and quiet determination.

Then she shakes her head slowly.

“Apki yeh condition manjur hai hume. Dekhna Adirath, ek din kio aesi ladki aayegi jo apke Kesar ko bhot pasand hogi. Hume yakin hai, humare bete ke liye kio ladki tho banai hi hogi bhagwan ne.” (We accept your condition. You will see, Adirath, one day some girl will come whom your Kesar will like very much. We are certain that God must have created some girl for our son.)

I almost laugh.

God.

If there is one being I do not believe in, it is him. But I do not argue with my mother about faith.

Instead, I allow another smirk to form.

“Jarur Maa sa. I am going to office now.” (Of course mother.)

My gaze shifts toward Aarivendra.

“You coming?”

He shakes his head immediately, leaning comfortably back in his chair.

“Not at all. First I will eat breakfast from my favorite Devyani maa’s hand.”

Of course he will.

Aarivendra has always known how to insert himself into my mother’s good graces. I nod once.

“Suit yourself.”

With that, I turn toward the door. Kesar rises instantly and follows me.

Behind me, the conversation resumes almost immediately. As we walk down the hallway, I hear Abhimanyu’s voice float from the dining room.

“Maa sa, how will you find a girl like this?”

I allow a small smirk to remain on my face as I step outside the palace.

Because I already know the answer. She won’t.

No girl will ever pass Kesar’s approval. And that is exactly the point.

The royal car waits at the entrance of the palace courtyard.

The driver opens the door the moment he sees me approaching, but I dismiss him with a glance and slide into the back seat myself. Kesar jumps in beside me effortlessly, occupying the space with the casual confidence of a creature who knows the vehicle belongs to him as much as it does to me.

As the car begins moving toward the city, I look at him.

“I know there is no girl whom you will like, but if there would be a girl whom you will like, then I will surely make her your mumma.”

Kesar turns his head slightly toward me. For a moment his eyes hold mine.

Then he gives a small nod.

Almost as if he understands every word. I shake my head faintly.

Ridiculous. And yet… comforting.

Rathore Industries towers above the city skyline like a monument to ambition. Glass, steel, and power.

The headquarters alone occupies several floors of the tallest commercial complex in Jaipur, but the company itself stretches far beyond this building.

Branches across India. Branches across the world. Rathore Industries is not just a company.

It is an empire.

The moment I enter the building, the atmosphere shifts. Employees greet me respectfully, conversations quieting instinctively as I walk past. Authority does not need to announce itself here. It simply exists.

My cabin sits on the top executive floor.

Large windows overlook the entire city, giving me a view of Jaipur that most people only see from photographs.

Kesar walks in behind me and settles on the large sofa near the wall, stretching out like the king of the room while I move behind my desk.

A few seconds later, my PA enters.

Ram.

He has been working for the family for over five years and knows exactly how to function in my presence without unnecessary conversation.

“Sir, your schedule.”

He begins listing the meetings one by one.

Foreign investors. Real estate negotiations. Textile expansion proposals. Fashion brand collaborations. Jewelry distribution deals.

Rathore Industries operates in multiple sectors—textiles, real estate, fashion, jewelry—and that is only part of the empire. The Rathore family also owns luxury hotels, high-end restaurants, and multiple hospitality ventures across India.

Money has never been scarce in this family. Royal blood comes with royal wealth.

The morning passes quickly in meetings.

Foreign investors join through video conferences, discussing expansion opportunities and partnerships. Numbers are presented. Contracts are reviewed. Decisions are made.

Most people spend weeks thinking about business choices.

I spend minutes.

Power, once built, simplifies many things.

By the time afternoon arrives, the city outside my windows is blazing under the desert sun.

It is lunchtime. I remain inside my cabin, reviewing a file while Kesar sleeps on the sofa behind me.

The door opens. Ram steps in again.

“Sir, the health minister wants to meet you.”

I look up. And nod once. Allowing the man inside.

The health minister enters with visible hesitation.

His name is Mahendra Pratap Chauhan, a man who holds a government position but understands exactly where real authority lies in Rajasthan.

The moment he steps inside the room, he bows slightly.

“Ghani kamba Hukum sa.” (My respectful greetings, Your Majesty.)

I respond with a sharp nod.

He sits across from my desk, clearly uncomfortable. His fingers clasp together, then unclasp, then clasp again.

He is afraid. And why shouldn’t he be?

Even though Rajasthan has a government, everyone knows the truth. Respect still belongs to the royal family.

After a moment, he clears his throat.

“Hukum sa, I have come for a personal favor.”

My gaze sharpens instantly. Because I already know where this is going.

My voice drops, cold and firm.

“If it is about your son, then forget about it.”

The word son breaks him immediately. Mahendra Pratap Chauhan folds his hands in front of me, desperation written across his face.

“Hukum sa, humara ek hi beta hai, please usse maaf kar dijiye. Hum usse sazza dege par please hume wo wapas dedijiye.” (Your Majesty, he is our only son. Please forgive him. We will punish him ourselves but please return him to us.

I look at him with a sharp, angry gaze, the kind that strips away whatever fragile courage the man had gathered before entering this room. My fingers rest calmly against the edge of my desk, but the tension in my body is unmistakable.

“Do you really think you would be able to make his ways correct? What punishment will you even give to him? Cut his pocket money for a month or two!”

My voice carries none of the warmth that politicians often expect when they speak to men of power. There is no diplomacy in it, only disgust.

The minister trembles where he sits, his hands still folded in front of me as if he believes humility alone can save the boy who committed a crime that should never be forgiven.

“I…I will give him a really hard punishment, just please don’t kill him.”

His voice cracks on the last words. The fear in his eyes would almost be pitiful if I did not know exactly what kind of man his son is.

My anger sharpens.

“And what about the girl?” I ask coldly. “What about the pain she felt?”

For a moment he looks confused, as if that question had never even occurred to him.

Then he stammers.

“I…I will make her marry my son. She will become my daughter in law and get the respect from the world and society. Please give me my son back hukum sa.”

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across my face. Not amusement. Something darker.

“You want your son back?”

The minister nods immediately, desperation blinding him to the tone in my voice. He does not understand what he is asking for.

He does not understand what kind of man sits across from him. I press the intercom button on my desk.

“Ram.”

“Yes boss,” Ram’s voice responds instantly.

“Bring him in.”

A moment later the door opens.

Ram steps inside accompanied by two of my guards. Between them they drag a limp body across the floor like dead weight.

The moment the minister sees the figure, he lets out a broken cry.

“Betaaa!”

His son. Virat Chauhan.

The boy who believed his father’s power could protect him from consequences. He rushes forward the moment the guards drop the unconscious body onto the floor.

I lean back in my chair, watching calmly.

“He is not dead,” I say with a small smile. “Not yet.”

The guards release the boy and step aside. The minister kneels beside his son, shaking him desperately, tears already running down his face.

“Virat! Virat beta uth jao!”

The boy doesn’t move. Ram stands quietly near the wall, his face pale but composed.

The minister turns toward me again, his hands folded once more as he kneels on the floor.

“Please have mercy hukum sa.”

I look at him with complete indifference.

“Did your son and his friends have mercy on that girl?”

The room becomes silent.

“She was also pleading like this,” I continue. “I am trying my best to make Rajasthan a safe place for girls but people like you and your son are destroying it. You do your work with honesty, it is time you understand this truth minister shahab, your son is no longer just your son he is a rapist.”

The word lands like a hammer.

Rapist.

The minister shakes his head violently, refusing to accept it.

“Please I will make my son marry that girl, she will be happy forever, please don’t kill him.”

I stand slowly. The chair slides back behind me. At the same moment, Kesar rises from the sofa.

The massive lion stretches his body once before stepping down onto the floor, his golden eyes already fixed on the trembling boy lying there.

My voice becomes colder than before.

“Rape karne wale agr mangalsutra pehenayege tho Bharat desh me kisi ko saman nahi milega, aese shaitano ka marna hi acha hai.” (If rapists start putting mangalsutra on women then no woman in India will ever get respect again, such devils deserve death.)

The minister freezes. The words hit him harder than any physical blow could. For a moment he simply stares at me.

Then my gaze shifts to the guards. They immediately understand. They move forward and grab the minister by his arms.

He struggles. Confused. Terrified.

“Chale jayiye minister shahab isske baad jo hoga wo ap dekh ni payege.” (Leave minister sir. What will happen after this is not something you should see.)

The guards begin dragging him toward the door. He resists desperately, trying to reach his son.

“No! Please! Hukum sa please!”

His voice echoes through the room as he is forced outside. The door closes behind him.

Silence returns. Only three of us remain in the room.

Ram. Kesar. And me.

I walk toward the unconscious boy and pick up a small glass of water from the desk. Without hesitation I throw it directly onto his face.

He jolts awake. His eyes open wide in confusion. Then fear. Pure, overwhelming fear. He tries to speak.

But only a broken, choking sound escapes his throat. His tongue. Gone. Cut out days ago. Just one of the things I did to him.

His hands tremble violently as he looks up at me. Then he sees Kesar.

The lion begins walking toward him slowly. Each step echoes against the floor.

Virat tries to crawl backwards. His entire body shaking uncontrollably. He shakes his head wildly.

Begging.

Just like that girl must have begged. Just like she must have pleaded when he and his friends destroyed her life.

My expression remains completely neutral.

Kesar reaches him. For a moment the lion simply watches him. Then instinct takes over. The attack is sudden.

Brutal.

Kesar lunges forward with terrifying speed, his claws sinking into the boy’s chest as he slams him to the ground. Virat lets out a strangled scream that dies halfway through his throat as Kesar’s jaws close around his shoulder.

Bones crack. Flesh tears. Blood splashes across the floor.

The boy struggles violently for a few seconds, kicking helplessly beneath the massive weight of the lion. Kesar rips into him again, claws shredding skin as his teeth sink deeper.

The sound of tearing flesh fills the room.

Ram turns his face away immediately, unable to watch.

But I don’t move. I watch everything. The chaos. The brutality. The blood spreading across the marble floor.

Because for men like this— Mercy is the real crime.

Kesar finishes quickly.

When he finally steps back, the body lying on the floor no longer resembles the arrogant boy who once believed he could escape justice.

The room smells like iron. Blood.

Kesar walks calmly toward me. As if nothing unusual just happened. I nod once.

“Good job Kesar, now go clean yourself.”

The lion turns and walks toward the bathroom attached to my office. Once the door closes behind him, I look at Ram.

He is still staring at the floor. I shake my head slightly.

“Still not adapted to this blood.”

Ram nods slowly.

“Sorry boss, but it is very difficult to even look at it. I don’t know how you do it.”

My face remains neutral.

“Issi khoon me humari puri jindagi beet gyi hai, issiliye hume iss khoon se farak ni padhta.” (Our entire life has passed in this blood that is why this blood does not affect us.)

Ram nods again, though it is obvious he does not fully understand the weight behind those words.

He cannot. My past is not something people easily comprehend.

I glance once at the destroyed body on the floor. Then back at Ram.

“Get this clean up.”

He nods immediately and leaves the room. I return to my chair and begin reviewing the files on my desk again, waiting for Kesar.

A few minutes later he emerges from the bathroom completely clean, his fur wet but spotless. Soon after that, one of the cleaners enters the office.

The man freezes the moment he sees the mess left behind. His throat moves as he gulps nervously.

Still, he bows respectfully.

“Hukum sa.”

Then he quietly begins his work.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Meetings. Decisions. Documents. The city outside continues its endless movement while my world remains exactly the same.

By the time night arrives, I return to the palace later than usual.

The corridors are quiet again. As I walk toward my chamber, my mother’s words from the morning return to my mind.

“Hume yakin hai, humare bete ke liye kio ladki tho banai hi hogi bhagwan ne.” (We are sure that God must have created some girl for our son.)

I shake my head. Disagreeing with the thought even now.

Love. Marriage. Destiny. Illusions people comfort themselves with. Inside my room, Kesar settles near the bed as I lie down.

Within minutes, sleep takes me.

And for now—the world remains exactly as I believe it is.

Controlled. Predictable.

And completely untouched by love.

___

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