In a world where hearts are both armor and weapon, three souls collide, forever altering their destinies.
Mithra, the indomitable warrior, had built walls around her heart. But when she met Varun, his killer smile shattered her defenses. Love struck...
Another scorching summer afternoon settled over the grand mansion, nestled in the privileged enclave of the city. Its walls, thick with secrets, absorbed the heat, and the air hung heavy with stillness. Unlike the usual lively hum of laughter and play, the air held only the hushed footsteps of mourners.
In the heart of the mansion lay the lifeless forms of its owner and his wife. Their stillness contrasted sharply with the girl standing nearby—a child of twelve, her face a mask of stoicism. The whispered condolences from well-meaning visitors washed over her, but she felt nothing. Tears had abandoned her long ago, leaving behind a numb resolve.
When someone whispered, "Be strong," she nodded—a mere reflex. She knows her threshold. It was surviving the aftermath of her father's betrayal—the day he brought home another woman and a child, claiming them as his own made her strong. Her father, once her hero, had shattered their world. He had brought home another woman, a child, and declared them family.
Now, as her father, the man who had cradled her dreams, lay lifeless with the stepmother she had never truly accepted beside him the girl watched, envious yet detached. How could grief manifest so differently? Was it a measure of love, or merely the weight of betrayal? . Her step-sister wept inconsolably, but she remained dry-eyed, her heart a fortress of anger and hurt.
And now, as the crowd gathered—neighbors, distant relatives, curious onlookers—she wondered if they sensed the fractures within her. Did they see the void where love had once thrived? Or did they mistake her composure for indifference?
The casket awaited its descent into the earth—a final farewell. She stepped forward, her fingers grazing the polished wood. Her father's face, etched with lines of joy and regret, haunted her. The tears she refused to shed pooled behind her eyes, threatening to spill.
"Take one last look," they urged. But what did one see in that final gaze? Regret? Forgiveness? Perhaps both. The girl's gaze lingered, seeking answers. Perhaps her father's eyes held secrets—regrets he couldn't voice, love he couldn't express and she made no effort to understand him. Now that its too late to regret, she didn't want anyone to read her broken thoughts.
And as the lid closed, sealing her father's story, she whispered her own silent promise: to carry his memory, flawed and fractured, within her. To be strong, not for formality, but because strength was the only currency left in this cruel inheritance.
The crowd dispersed, leaving her standing alone—a survivor of love and loss. The unshed tears weighed heavy, but she bore them like armor. For in that moment, strength wasn't about defiance; it was about survival.
As the funeral's echoes faded, the crowd dispersed, leaving behind a select few—the close relatives, her father's best friend, and Partner. Among them, she stood—an island of uncertainty in a sea of familial discord.
She anticipated the well-worn script—the whispered debates about her future. It had played out before, when her mother passed away. Her uncles had posed the same question: Who would care for her? Her father's unwavering reply then—his promise to protect his daughter—still echoed in her memory.
A tear escaped, betraying her stoicism. Maybe she hadn't truly hated him. Maybe she was just angry at the cruel hand fate had dealt.
He was all she had—the sole thread connecting her to a fractured past. Now, with him gone, she clutched the inheritance he'd left behind. Money and assets—a cold comfort in a world devoid of warmth. Her father is not here this time to console her, to bear all tantrums she threw his way for betraying her mother.
But this time, the stakes were different. Love had given way to a more ruthless currency: money. The remnants of her father's once-thriving business empire lay scattered—a legacy of loss and shattered dreams. And now, the vultures circled, their eyes fixed on the few properties that remained.
"No one will inherit his properties," declared Mr. Jaidev, her father's loyal friend. His voice cut through the tension like a blade. "He has a legal daughter—the sole heir. The GM foundation will safeguard his construction company and textile factory."
The others protested. "What about the recent losses? His empire is in ruins. Merging with another company might salvage what's left," they argued. But she remained aloof, her gaze fixed on the ground. She knew these people—their hunger for wealth masked by feigned concern.
"She's just twelve," they persisted. "What can she do?" Their voices overlapped, each syllable a plea for access to her inheritance.
Mr. Jaidev's response was ice. "Her fate isn't your concern if you won't care for her." He had already decided—her step-sister would find refuge with her maternal uncle, along with the properties held in her and her mother's name.
Then, unexpectedly, Mr. Jaidev stepped forward. "I will take care of Mithra," he declared. The shock rippled through her. She knew him as her father's confidant, but why this sudden commitment? Why was he willing to raise her when her own blood turned away?
His eyes held a secret—a pact forged in shared memories. "I have a son," he continued, "Having a daughter won't bother me or my wife." Mithra stared at him, torn between skepticism and hope. Was he genuine, or did he harbor hidden motives? She would watch, observe—the rusted blade of trust poised for action.
For Mithra knew vengeance required allies. And perhaps, in Mr. Jaidev, she had found one—a guardian of shadows, ready to cross skies and traverse the abyss alongside her.
As the car glided through the twilight, Mithra's resolve solidified. The boy—Jaidev's son—sat beside her, a silent witness to her determination. She had crossed the threshold into a new life, leaving behind the remnants of her shattered family.
"The accident," she began, her voice steady, "someone planned it, didn't they? It wasn't an accident—it was murder." The words hung heavy in the air, like storm clouds gathering.
Jaidev glanced at her, his eyes reflecting both sorrow and resolve. "Yes," he confirmed, "it's the same one—the business rival." His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white. "Your father's empire crumbled under their relentless assault."
Mithra clenched her fists. Anger surged—a tempest within her chest. Her father's blood stained the pavement, and the world had moved on. But not her. She would unravel the truth—the threads of betrayal and greed that led to that fateful collision.
As the city lights blurred past, Mithra made a silent vow. She would ascend, fueled by rage and purpose. No emotions would sway her—no grief, no fear. She would cross the skies, traverse the abyss, and confront the puppeteer who had orchestrated her father's demise.
The moon watched—a silent witness to her oath. Revenge was her compass now, and she would follow it unyieldingly. The stars whispered secrets—their ancient light guiding her path.
Nothing in the world would stop her—not the rival's cunning, not the shadows that clung to her soul. She was a daughter of wrath, a phoenix rising from the ashes. And as the car carried her toward Jaidev's home, she knew: vengeance would be her wings.
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So guys, here is the prologue. Most of you might know this story as the one titled as "Destructive Love" i am rewriting this story, this time properly.
