"Devanshi!"

Her father's voice echoed through the massive hallway of the Raisinghani mansion, cold enough to make even the servants freeze mid-step.

Devanshi Raisinghani rolled her eyes dramatically before looking up from the couch.

"Why is everyone in this house always screaming like we're in a daily soap?" she muttered, lazily turning the page of her magazine.

The head maid standing nearby nearly choked trying not to laugh.

"Beti…" she whispered carefully. "Your father looks angry."

"Correction," Devanshi said calmly, grabbing another chip from the bowl beside her. "He always looks angry. I genuinely think smiling causes him physical pain."

Before the maid could respond, heavy footsteps approached.

Mahir Raisinghani entered the room wearing a black kurta, looking exactly like what the media secretly called him behind closed doors:

The King of the West Coast.

Cold eyes.
Sharp posture.
Controlled violence.

And unfortunately for Devanshi, also her father.

"You're still sitting here?" he asked dangerously.

Devanshi blinked innocently. "No, papa. Spiritually, I'm somewhere in Switzerland."

His jaw tightened.

The maids immediately disappeared from the room.

Smart women.

"Tomorrow evening the Rathores are coming," he said firmly. "Behave properly."

"There it is," she sighed dramatically, closing her magazine. "Today's episode of How To Ruin Devanshi's Life."

"Enough."

"No actually, not enough." She sat up straight now, irritation flashing across her face. "I already said I don't want this marriage."

"You don't get to decide that."

"Oh wow," she clapped slowly. "Women empowerment really died in this house."

"Devanshi."

"What exactly do you people even know about him?" she snapped. "Every single story I hear about Reyansh Singh Rathore sounds like a criminal documentary."

Mahir's expression darkened instantly.

"You will not speak about him like that."

"Oh sorry," she deadpanned. "Should I say future serial killer husband more respectfully?"

"Enough!" he thundered.

Silence filled the room.

For a second, Devanshi looked away.

Not because she was scared.

Because she was tired.

Tired of this mansion.
Tired of bodyguards.
Tired of whispered conversations stopping when she entered rooms.
Tired of feeling trapped inside a golden cage her entire life.

"I don't want this life," she said quietly this time.

Something shifted briefly in Mahir's eyes.

Gone in seconds.

"You were born into it."

"And I didn't get a refund option either," she muttered.

"Tomorrow. Seven pm." His tone turned final. "Wear something decent."

Devanshi leaned back against the couch dramatically.

"I'll wear a funeral saree. Feels appropriate."

He stared at her for a long moment before walking away.

The second he disappeared upstairs, she threw the cushion directly at the wall.

"This is insane!"

Her best friend Tara, currently sitting cross-legged on the carpet eating noodles, looked up calmly.

"So…" Tara said. "We're running away?"

Devanshi turned slowly.

"You say that like it's a casual weekend activity."

Tara shrugged. "For you it is."

Devanshi started pacing.

"No because genuinely think about this. They want me to marry some mafia CEO psychopath named Reyansh Singh Rathore."

"Hot name though."

"Tara!"

"What? Villains always have hot names."

Devanshi groaned loudly, dropping onto the couch again.

"I haven't even seen him."

"That's actually concerning."

"I heard he once made someone disappear."

Tara stopped chewing.

"…Like metaphorically?"

"That's the problem. Nobody knows."

"Oh."

Devanshi stared at the chandelier above her.

This mansion had everything.
Money.
Luxury.
Power.

But somehow she had never felt smaller anywhere else.

"I can't do this," she whispered.

Tara immediately sat beside her.

"Then don't."

Devanshi looked at her.

"You're serious?"

"You hate this life. You've hated it for years." Tara lowered her voice. "Your father won't let you breathe unless you leave."

The words hit harder because they were true.

For years Devanshi had dreamed of normal things.

Taking local trains.
Burning instant noodles at 2 a.m.
Having a job.
Buying coffee with her own money.

Not guarded convoys and political dinners.

Not whispered mafia alliances disguised as marriages.

"You really think I can survive outside?" she asked softly.

Tara looked at her expensive silk pajamas.

"…Honestly? You barely know how to use a washing machine."

"Wow. Supportive."

"But," Tara continued quickly, "you're smarter than everyone thinks."

Devanshi fell silent.

Maybe because for the first time…

running away didn't sound impossible.

It sounded necessary.

The mansion slept under silence.

Devanshi stood inside her room staring at the open suitcase on her bed.

This was insane.

Actually insane.

She had never:

traveled alone

booked anything herself

lived without security

stepped outside her family name

Yet here she was stuffing random clothes into a bag while having what felt like a full spiritual breakdown.

Tara stood beside her holding fake documents proudly.

"Ta-da."

Devanshi grabbed them instantly.

Anshika Mehra.

Age: 21.

Mumbai.

She stared at the name.

"Anshika," she whispered.

"You look like an Anshika."

"I don't even know what that means."

"It means emotionally unstable but pretty."

"That's offensive."

"Yet accurate."

Despite herself, Devanshi laughed quietly.

Then her eyes drifted toward the photo frame near the bedside table.

Her mother smiled back at her softly.

The laugh disappeared immediately.

The guilt returned like it always did.

Eight years later and it still hurt the same.

If she hadn't insisted on ice cream that night…

If they hadn't taken that route…

Maybe—

"Devanshi."

Tara's voice pulled her back gently.

"You okay?"

She nodded too fast.

Lie.

But easier than explaining.

Always easier.

Tara zipped the suitcase shut.

"The train leaves in forty minutes."

Devanshi inhaled sharply.

This was it.

No going back.

The cold night air hit her face as she quietly stepped out through the back gates of the mansion.

No guards noticed.

Or maybe someone did and chose silence.

For the first time in her life…

there was no driver opening the car door for her.

No security team.

No family name protecting her.

Just Devanshi.
Or technically…
Anshika.

The taxi arrived moments later.

The driver looked confused seeing her giant suitcase.

"Airport?"

"Train station."

He nodded.

Mumbai lights blurred outside the window as her chest tightened slowly.

Fear.

Excitement.

Freedom.

All mixed together.

Her phone buzzed suddenly.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

Her stomach dropped.

She answered carefully.

"…Hello?"

Silence.

Then a man's calm voice.

"You should've taken more cash."

Devanshi froze.

"What?"

"You packed emotionally. Not strategically."

Her grip tightened around the phone.

"Who is this?"

A pause.

Then—

"The world outside your mansion isn't soft, Devanshi."

Her blood ran cold.

Nobody here should know her real name.

"Who the hell are you?"

The call disconnected.

She stared at the screen, heart racing violently.

"Tara," she whispered immediately, dialing her.

The call connected sleepily.

"Did you reach?"

"Someone called me."

"What?"

"They knew my name."

Silence.

"Maybe your father?"

"No." Devanshi swallowed hard. "This voice… I've never heard it before."

A strange feeling crawled down her spine.

Like someone was already watching.

The taxi stopped suddenly.

"We're here."

Devanshi looked outside.

Mumbai Central Station.

Crowded.
Loud.
Chaotic.

Nothing like her protected world.

And for the first time…

she stepped into it completely alone.

Somewhere else in Mumbai—

A man sat silently inside a dark luxury car overlooking the station entrance.

Sharp eyes watched Devanshi struggle with her oversized suitcase while arguing with a porter five seconds after arriving.

"She's worse at this than I expected," Shaurya muttered from the front seat.

No response came.

Reyansh Singh Rathore leaned back slightly, gaze never leaving her.

Alive.

Safe.

Real.

After all these years.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

His phone buzzed.

ARYAVEER:
Bring her back before uncle starts a war.

Reyansh typed calmly:

No.

Then locked the screen.

Outside, Devanshi nearly dropped her suitcase down the stairs before glaring at it like it had betrayed her personally.

For the first time in years…

Reyansh almost smiled.

Almost.