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The air was thick with a nervous energy as whispers and mutters filled the grand hall, where the media’s relentless pursuit for answers had not been satisfied. Reporters, with their microphones poised and cameras ready, circled the entrance like vultures awaiting the next prey. The tension was palpable; everyone could feel that something was about to change. And then it happened—the atmosphere shifted abruptly, like the calm before a storm.
The grand entrance doors were thrust open with a force that sent a shiver through the crowd, and in an instant, a dozen of Yudhveer Singh Rathore’s personal bodyguards flooded the room. They moved with a lethal precision, each holding a sleek, black firearm that gleamed ominously under the chandelier lights. Their presence alone was enough to silence the room; they were not just guards, they were an unspoken threat. The guests recoiled, stepping back in instinctual fear, eyes wide with shock and a mix of anticipation and dread. It only took a moment for everyone to understand—this kind of presence heralded the arrival of only one man.
Yudhveer Singh Rathore had arrived.
He entered the hall with a stride that exuded unchallenged authority, a king reclaiming his throne. His attire was a masterpiece of luxury—a bespoke midnight black sherwani, cut to perfection to highlight his imposing figure. The fabric shimmered subtly with every movement, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that traced regal patterns along the cuffs and hem. Each thread of gold was a statement of wealth and power, and every detail of his attire spoke of an ancient legacy steeped in grandeur. A line of ornate buttons, crafted from pure gold and embedded with tiny emeralds, ran down the front, glinting like stars against the dark fabric. Draped over one shoulder was a royal velvet shawl, lined with rich maroon silk, its edges embroidered with the Rathore family crest—a fierce lion poised in mid-roar, symbolizing the unbreakable strength of his lineage.
A sharp observer might catch a glimpse of a small yet significant detail: a tattoo of the Rathore king’s emblem, inked with precision on his left wrist. It was more than just a mark; it was a symbol of his birthright, a constant reminder of the power that coursed through his veins. His hair, jet black and thick, was meticulously styled back, adding a touch of ruthless elegance to his appearance. His eyes, dark and piercing, held a simmering intensity that few dared to meet directly. They were the eyes of a man who commanded with a look, who demanded without words, and whose very presence could silence a room.
Yudhveer’s physique was every bit as commanding as his attire suggested—tall, with broad shoulders and a build that spoke of disciplined strength. His tailored sherwani clung to his muscular frame, hinting at the power beneath. He moved like a predator—silent, confident, and deadly. Every step was deliberate, the soft, measured thud of his polished black boots against the marble floor echoing like the drums of war. His presence was magnetic, a force that pulled every gaze towards him, yet it was his aura of controlled fury and power that kept them at bay, too terrified to approach.
As Yudhveer advanced, the room seemed to shrink under his gaze. Heads bowed automatically, not because he demanded it, but because the Rathore King’s presence made it impossible not to. Respect, fear, and jealousy mingled in the air, but Yudhveer paid no mind. This was a tradition that had outlasted time itself—a silent acknowledgment of the Rathore legacy that transcended generations. Yudhveer didn’t need to ask for reverence; it was given, unspoken and absolute. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, did not stray from his path. He walked with the calm assurance of a ruler who knew that the world beneath his feet belonged to him.
When he reached the media’s line, the once eager and audacious reporters found their voices failing them. The microphones that had been thrust forward now wavered, and the flashes of cameras slowed to a hesitant stop. A collective gulp echoed in the tense silence as beads of sweat formed on the foreheads of those who had, moments earlier, sought to challenge the Rathore authority. The reporters who had been bold in their pursuit of controversy now exchanged uneasy glances, their courage dissolving under the weight of Yudhveer’s unblinking stare.
Yudhveer stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of detached amusement mixed with a subtle menace. The room’s power dynamics had shifted entirely; where the media had once held sway, Yudhveer now reigned supreme. He tilted his head slightly, a cold smile playing at the edges of his lips—a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of retribution.
“So,” Yudhveer’s voice boomed through the silence, deep and resonant, each word slicing through the air with precision. “I hear you have questions. Why don’t you ask them now?”
His challenge hung in the air, met with a wall of silence. The reporters, who had moments before been relentless in their questioning, now stood frozen, each one unwilling to meet his gaze. It was as if the very air around Yudhveer was charged with an electric threat, too potent to breach with mere words. His patience, never one of his virtues, waned quickly as the silence dragged on.
With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Yudhveer signaled to his most trusted enforcer—a formidable figure known as Viraaj “The Viper” Bhardwaj. Viraaj’s reputation was infamous; he was not just a bodyguard, but a specter of intimidation whose very name was enough to silence enemies. His face, scarred and stoic, told the story of a life lived on the edge of danger. Viraaj was more than muscle; he was Yudhveer’s right hand, a loyal shadow whose presence was synonymous with ruthless efficiency.
“Viraaj,” Yudhveer commanded, his voice calm but underpinned with a dangerous edge. “Clear all of this. Make sure they receive the... best treatment,” he added, his tone laced with a dark irony that sent a shiver down the spines of those who understood the double meaning.
Viraaj nodded once, his eyes flicking towards the reporters with a look that promised swift action. He stepped forward, his towering frame casting a long shadow that swallowed the trembling journalists. Without a word, Viraaj and his team moved to clear the media, their actions precise and intimidating. Cameras were lowered, microphones were hurriedly tucked away, and the reporters who had been so bold minutes before now scrambled to retreat. Viraaj’s men worked with a quiet ruthlessness that left no room for protest, their practiced movements ensuring that the media was swiftly and efficiently removed from the scene.
The guests watched in stunned silence, the earlier buzz of conversation replaced by an uneasy quiet. Yudhveer Singh Rathore had not merely arrived—he had seized control. His presence was a stark reminder that in the world of the Rathores, power was not given; it was taken. And as the last of the media was ushered out of the hall, it became abundantly clear to everyone present that Yudhveer was not a man who tolerated challenges to his authority.
As the heavy doors swung shut behind the departing reporters, Yudhveer turned for the first time to face his grandfather, Pratap Singh Rathore. The old king met his gaze with a proud, knowing look—a silent exchange that spoke volumes about the transfer of power and legacy. There was no need for words between them; the respect and understanding were mutual, passed down through generations of Rathore blood.
Yudhveer nodded once in acknowledgment, a brief gesture that conveyed his unwavering commitment to his role. The party resumed, but the tone had shifted. There was no more room for idle chatter or gossip; the presence of Yudhveer Singh Rathore was a stark reminder of the Rathore legacy that loomed over everyone like an unspoken decree. Still unfazed by the murmurs and sideways glances, Yudhveer strode further into the hall, his every step reinforcing the undeniable truth: in the kingdom of the Rathores, Yudhveer’s word was law.
Pratap Singh's eyes lit up as he saw his beloved grandson approaching. A smile spread across his weathered face, his heart swelling with pride. Yudhveer moved through the crowd with ease, his expression softening the moment he saw his grandfather. He stepped forward, and without hesitation, wrapped his arms around Pratap Singh, pulling him into a warm embrace.
"Happy birthday, Dada Sa,"
Yudhveer said, his voice filled with genuine affection.Pratap Singh hugged him tightly, holding him for a moment longer before pulling back and kissing his forehead.
“I knew it,” Pratap Singh said, his voice brimming with happiness. “I knew you would attend.”
Yudhveer smiled, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of respect and love. “Of course, Dada Sa. After all, it’s your birthday. How could I possibly miss it?”
Pratap Singh chuckled, patting Yudhveer’s back affectionately. “You know, Yudhveer, your presence is the best gift I could ask for. Seeing you here makes me feel like I’m still that young, spirited man I once was.”
Yudhveer laughed softly, shaking his head.
“You’re still that man, Dada Sa.
Age is just a number. Look at you, charming everyone with your wit and stories. I think some of your friends are still in awe of you.
”Pratap Singh's eyes twinkled with amusement. “Ah, my friends… we’ve seen so much together. They’re not in awe of me, but of the stories we’ve lived. Those were the days, Yudhveer. Times were different, simpler. But you, you’re carving your own path, making your own legacy. I’m proud of you, my boy.”
Yudhveer’s smile widened, touched by his grandfather’s words. “I have big shoes to fill, Dada Sa. You’ve set the bar high.”
Pratap Singh waved a dismissive hand, though his smile remained.
“Nonsense. You’ve already surpassed anything I could have hoped for. It’s not about following in someone’s footsteps, but about making your own mark. And you’re doing just that.
”Yudhveer nodded thoughtfully. “I guess I have you to thank for that wisdom.”Pratap Singh gave a hearty laugh. “Wisdom comes from living, not just listening, Yudhveer.
Remember that.”The old man glanced around the room, spotting a group of distinguished-looking elderly men, all dressed in impeccable suits. He gestured towards them. “Come, I want to introduce you to some of my old friends. They’ve heard so much about you, and they’ll be thrilled to finally meet the man behind the stories.
”Yudhveer nodded and followed his grandfather as they made their way through the crowd. Pratap Singh led him to a small group of elderly gentlemen, each with an air of sophistication and history about them.
“Yudhveer, meet my old comrades,”
Pratap Singh said, his voice filled with pride.
“This is Colonel Arvind Singh, retired but still as sharp as ever.
And here is Mr. Devendra Chauhan, one of the finest legal minds this country has seen.
And this,” he pointed to another gentleman, “is Vikram Thakur, the man who can still outdrink all of us and tell the best stories.
”Each man greeted Yudhveer warmly, shaking his hand firmly. They exchanged pleasantries, and soon the conversation turned to tales of the past. Pratap Singh regaled the group with stories of his younger days, filled with adventures and narrow escapes, much to the delight of his friends.
Yudhveer listened attentively, occasionally adding his own witty remarks, earning a round of laughter from the older men. They spoke of the changing times, of how the world had evolved, and of how the values of their youth seemed to be fading. Yet, they all agreed that in Yudhveer, they saw a glimpse of those cherished principles.
“Your Dada Sa has told us so much about you, Yudhveer,” Colonel Arvind said, his voice deep and resonant. “He’s proud of the man you’ve become, and rightly so. It’s good to see the younger generation carrying forward the family’s legacy with such grace.
”Yudhveer smiled modestly. “I’m just trying to live up to the example that’s been set before me. It’s an honor to meet all of you and hear these incredible stories firsthand. They’re inspiring, truly.”Vikram Thakur patted Yudhveer on the shoulder. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, young man. Don’t let the world change that.”Pratap Singh beamed with pride as he watched Yudhveer interact with his old friends, his heart swelling with joy.
This was the legacy he had hoped to pass down – not just the wealth or the name, but the values, the spirit, and the camaraderie that defined the Rathore family.
As the evening wore on, Yudhveer continued to charm the guests, moving effortlessly from one group to another, greeting relatives, family friends, and business associates. He spoke with grace and confidence, showing respect to the elders and engaging warmly with those closer to his age.
Pratap Singh watched from a distance, his heart full. This was his family, his legacy, and in that moment, surrounded by laughter and love, he felt truly blessed. Yudhveer caught his eye across the room and gave him a small, reassuring nod. Pratap Singh returned the gesture, a silent promise passing between them – a promise to honor the past, live in the present, and build a future worthy of the Rathore name.
Here’s a longer version of the scene you described, expanded to add more detail, emotions, and interactions:
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Ranvijay stood at the entrance of the grand ballroom, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on her. Anjali. She was a vision in a beautiful, floor-length gown that hugged her figure perfectly, shimmering under the soft lights. Her hair was styled elegantly, cascading in waves down her back, and her smile was brighter than the chandeliers overhead. To Ranvijay, she looked like she had stepped right out of a dream or descended from the heavens themselves. He couldn't help but let his gaze linger on her, his heart swelling with love and pride.
"God, she's stunning," he thought, mentally composing romantic lines he'd whisper to her later. He couldn't believe how lucky he was to have her by his side, not just tonight but every day. His mind wandered to the many nights they'd spent together, her laughter like music to his ears, her touch soft and comforting. Every moment with her felt like a treasure, and seeing her so happy, surrounded by his siblings—Aditi, Ishani, Rohan, and even their cousin Sahil—made his heart feel even fuller.
As he made his way toward her, he imagined sweeping her into his arms, dancing the night away, and whispering those sweet lines in her ear. But just as he was about to reach her, his phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. With an irritated sigh, he pulled it out, recognizing the number of a business associate he couldn’t ignore. Ranvijay glanced at Anjali one last time, then reluctantly stepped outside to take the call.
Meanwhile, Anjali was at the center of a lively conversation, laughing heartily with Ishani, Aditi, Rohan, and Sahil. Their banter was light-hearted and fun, filled with inside jokes and playful teasing. Suddenly, a suave young man approached them, his steps confident as he greeted the group with a friendly, "Hi, everybody!"
They all returned his greeting, polite smiles all around. The man, whose name was Raghav, seemed particularly taken by Anjali. He looked at her, his eyes gleaming with interest, and said, "You look beautiful tonight. Would you like to dance with me?"
Before Anjali could respond, Aditi couldn’t resist the chance to tease her. “Ohhh, Bhabhi!” she exclaimed with a mischievous glint in her eyes, nudging Ishani playfully. The others joined in with grins, clearly enjoying Anjali’s moment of fluster.
Raghav’s smile faltered slightly as he processed the word “Bhabhi.” His eyes widened in surprise. “Wait…are you married?” he asked, almost incredulously.
Anjali chuckled, her laughter like the tinkling of bells. “Yes, I am,” she replied, her voice warm.
Raghav blinked in disbelief but then quickly recovered, flashing a charming smile. "Oh, but you don't look like you're married."
Anjali smiled gracefully, “If that’s a compliment, then thank you.”
“It is,” Raghav responded smoothly, regaining his composure. “My pleasure. But…uh…will you still dance with me?” His voice carried a hint of hesitation now, aware of the boundaries.
Anjali hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to decline, but Rohan, Aditi, and Sahil were having none of it. They started cheering, egging her on. “Come on, Bhabhi! Just one dance! Live a little!” Rohan laughed, his voice teasing. Aditi clapped her hands, urging her to say yes, while Sahil chimed in with a playful whistle.
Caught between her polite refusal and their enthusiastic encouragement, Anjali finally gave in, her smile turning sheepish. “Okay, okay, just one dance,” she agreed, laughing at their victorious cheers as Raghav took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
As Anjali and Raghav started to dance, Raghav kept a respectful distance, but there was still a lightness in their steps, the music guiding their movements effortlessly. Anjali was laughing softly, enjoying the moment without any heavy thoughts, just the joy of the dance.
Ranvijay ended his call and re-entered the ballroom, his mood lifted by the good news he had just received. His eyes scanned for Anjali, eager to finally be with her, but what he saw instead made his blood run cold. Anjali was on the dance floor, twirling gracefully with another man, her laughter bright and carefree. Raghav's hand rested on her waist, and although it was an innocent gesture, it struck Ranvijay like a bolt of lightning.
His heart thudded heavily in his chest, and a storm of emotions surged within him—anger, jealousy, and a protective instinct that flared like a wildfire. His eyes darkened, the joy from moments ago replaced by a simmering rage. He took large, purposeful strides toward them, his expression unyielding.
As he approached, the music seemed to fade, and Anjali, sensing a change, looked up to see her husband standing there, his eyes blazing with unspoken fury. She quickly disentangled herself from Raghav, a nervous smile playing on her lips. "Raghav, this is my husband, Ranvijay Singh Rathore," she introduced, her tone calm yet with an underlying hint of tension.
Raghav extended his hand toward Ranvijay, a polite smile on his face. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rathore.”
Ranvijay, however, didn't move. His eyes were locked on Raghav, his expression unyielding. Anjali gave him a warning look, nudging him subtly, and finally, Ranvijay reached out to shake Raghav's hand. But instead of a casual handshake, he gripped Raghav’s hand tightly—too tightly—his fingers pressing with enough force to make Raghav wince.
Raghav’s face contorted in pain, and he quickly pulled his hand back, rubbing it discreetly as he tried to maintain his composure. Ranvijay's eyes still held that fiery edge, and Raghav, sensing the tension, took a cautious step back.
"Well, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to have a moment with my wife,” Ranvijay said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.
Raghav nodded quickly, his smile now more nervous than genuine. “Of course, Mr. Rathore. It was nice meeting you, Anjali. See you soon.”
Before Raghav could fully turn away, Ranvijay added, his tone pointed, “It’s Mrs. Ranvijay Singh Rathore for outsiders.”
Raghav's nervous laugh filled the awkward pause, and with a hurried nod, he made his exit, disappearing into the crowd.
Ranvijay turned to Anjali, his eyes still hard but now mixed with something else—hurt, maybe, or just the rawness of the jealousy that had gripped him.
Ranvijay grabbed Anjali’s hand with a firm grip, dragging her through the bustling corridors of the grand venue. "Ranvijay, yeh kya kar rahe ho tum? Chhodo mujhe!" Anjali protested, trying to keep up with his hurried pace, her voice laced with confusion and a hint of panic.
"Wait for some time, biwi," Ranvijay said, his tone calm but unyielding, as he glanced over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. Anjali stumbled slightly in her high heels, struggling to match his speed. His long strides made it difficult for her to walk steadily, and her hand tingled under the pressure of his hold, but he didn’t seem to care.
As they reached a secluded corner, Ranvijay barked orders to his guards. "No one comes past this point. Understood?" The guards nodded, immediately stepping into position to block anyone from entering the area. He pushed open the door to a lavish washroom, pulling Anjali inside with him.
Anjali looked around in bewilderment. "Yahan kyun laaye ho mujhe?" she asked, her voice quivering. The large washroom was pristine, with marble countertops, polished mirrors, and a faint scent of jasmine in the air. But before she could fully comprehend the situation, Ranvijay's next words left her stunned.
“Mrs. Rathore, strip.”
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glimpse of next chapter
I won't repeat my self anjali, strip or
else I'll tears that beautiful gown of yours
and you can spend the whole
night in this washroom. The choice is yours
Ranvijay please,tears welled up in her eyes
He count ....5...
How's the chapter bookbees😁
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Love you😍
Author maya♡
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