Nikhil, the secretary, enters Rajbeer's office the next morning:

"Sir," he said, handing over a file. "Regarding the East Sector redevelopment... there's a complication."

Rajbeer didn't look up.

"The orphanage, right?"

Nikhil blinked. "Yes, sir. It sits right across from Plot B. The trustees aren't happy."

Rajbeer finally looked up. Cold eyes. That signature smirk.

"Who are the trustees?"

"Mostly city officials. But there's a nun who seems to run it with an iron hand. Sister Maria, I believe. And they have volunteers... social workers. Few of them were there yesterday."

That got his attention.

"What about the details I asked you yesterday?"
Nikhil fumbled, "Sir, we are looking into it, there is not much about her, but we are cross-checking if we left anything. I will give you the file by evening."

I gave him a nod and, with a plan in mind, "let's pay a visit to the orphanage and get rid of the obstacle."

The sleek black car purred to a stop outside the weathered gates of Astha's Orphanage. Dust rose as its tyres skidded to a halt on the muddy road. The contrast was glaring—chrome and concrete met ivy-covered stone, his polished boots stepping onto soil that still smelled like childhood.

Rajbeer Singh Ahluwalia stepped out, his sharp black suit cutting through the morning fog like a blade. His assistant, Nikhil, trailed behind, adjusting his tie nervously.

Rajbeer (flatly):
"This is the place causing so much noise?"

Nikhil:
"Yes, sir. The orphanage occupies a part of the plot. The council hasn't cleared demolition yet due to its historical status. And the Sister in charge... she's been rallying for it."

Rajbeer said nothing, eyes scanning the swing set, the cracked tiles, the faint sound of children singing inside. Innocence — the kind he had no use for.

Rajbeer (cold):
"Let's cut the sentiment. I want the land cleared before the monsoon. This isn't a place. It's a liability."

Inside the orphanage's small, sunlit office, the soft hum of the ceiling fan did little to cut through the heaviness in the room.

Rajbeer sat with his signature air of quiet dominance, legs crossed, one hand tapping rhythmically against the armrest of the old wooden chair. Across from him, the nun, Sister Maria, looked visibly tense, her fingers interlaced over a faded blue file labelled LAND USE RIGHTS – BLOCK C2.

Sister Maria:
"Mr. Ahluwalia, thank you for taking the time to—"

Rajbeer interrupted her, "We're not here to discuss sentiments, Sister Maria. We're here to talk feasibility. Sentiment doesn't build infrastructure."

Sister Maria cleared her throat, trying to maintain composure.

Sister Maria, "We understand that, Mr. Ahluwalia. But demolishing a children's home—this children's home—will spark backlash. We need time. Relocation options, perhaps—"

Rajbeer cutting in, gaze icy, "Time? Every day this project stalls, my investors bleed. I don't deal in emotional delay."

The small office suddenly felt like a battlefield. Rajbeer stood up and went by the window, his silhouette sharp against the background, while the Sister sat behind a cluttered desk, eyes blazing with defiance.

Rajbeer, slow and deliberate, "Madam, this land is worth millions. Redevelopment isn't just the option anymore; it's profit. Your orphanage is a relic, and relics don't pay taxes. Let's not waste any. I'm here because your board couldn't resolve. So I'll offer one: vacate within 30 days and ensure a replacement facility is considered elsewhere."

Sister Maria, her voice steady, unwavering, "This 'relic' has saved hundreds of lives. Your money can't buy loyalty, nor the legacy we've built here."

Rajbeer turns, eyes piercing, "Legacy doesn't put food on the table. It's business. You can hold on to your sentimental fantasies, or you can walk away with a deal I offer."

Sister leaned forward, narrowing her gaze, "These children are not files, Mr. Ahluwalia. You cannot just relocate their lives."

Rajbeer, "I can. And I will. The only thing stopping me is red tape."

He glanced around — outdated furniture, fading walls, a faint smell of talcum powder and baby lotion. Disgust curled in his stomach.

Rajbeer in a low voice, "This building will crumble in the next storm. I'm offering a lifeboat before it sinks."

Sister Maria- internally fuming, "You're offering a cage dressed as salvation."

Their eyes locked — a battle of will.

Rajbeer (smiling darkly):
"Some cages are kinder than storms."

"You have one week to decide. After that, I won't be asking."

Sister Maria fumed, "I'm not here to bargain. I'm here to protect. And if you think intimidation will work—"

Rajbeer's lips curled into a cold smile. "Intimidation isn't my style. Strategy is. And I've got resources that will bury you under paperwork, regulations, and lawsuits until you beg for mercy."

Sister Maria's eyes flashed with fire, "Then bring it on. We'll fight you in court, in public opinion, in every possible way. This orphanage won't fall."

Rajbeer's voice dropped, dangerously calm, "You're welcome to try. But remember — I always get what I want."

They stared each other down in silence — two gladiators poised for a battle, no one could predict the outcome of.

He leaned forward, the steel in his eyes sharpening. "You can resist, protest, rally every sympathetic voice you want, but the outcome is inevitable. The orphanage will be demolished. The land will be mine."

Her jaw tightened, but she maintained her ground. "You underestimate the fight you're starting. There are trustees, social activists, journalists—all watching. The backlash could destroy your reputation and delay your project indefinitely."

Rajbeer chuckled, a low, dark sound. "I'm counting on that. Every fight, every scandal, every protest—those are opportunities to break their resolve. I thrive in chaos."

He pulled a folder from the table and slammed it down. "Inside are the details of the contracts, the financials, everything. If you want to save the orphanage, you'll have to make concessions. Or I have other ways to ensure this goes through."

His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "I always get what I want. This is just the beginning."

Sister Maria's eyes narrowed, fury simmering beneath her calm. "Then prepare for a war."

Rajbeer rose slowly, his shadow stretching across the floor like a dark promise. "War, it is."

He turned and walked out, leaving silence and stunned resistance in his wake, leaving Sister to think about the decisions to make.

Rajbeer adjusted the cuffs of his jacket as he stepped down from the cracked stone steps, his sharp gaze scanning the property one last time. The ground was still damp from the last night's rain, and the scent of wet earth clung to the air.

His mind should've been on the meeting, the land acquisition, the trustee's resistance. But it wasn't.

It was still haunted by the image of her.

His girl, laughing barefoot in the rain, holding that tiny child in her arms as if the world didn't know cruelty. His world didn't allow softness like that.

He didn't show softness. He didn't stop. He didn't feel.
But then—

"Umm... excuse me?"

He turned.

A little hand had tugged gently at the edge of his expensive coat; a tiny girl holding a toy rabbit protectively against her chest. Her frock was slightly too big, her shoes mismatched. She looked maybe two, maybe three. Dark brown curls framed her cheeks.. Her gaze was steady, but shy—like she'd rehearsed her courage before walking up.

She was the same tiny girl from yesterday, the one who clung to the girl that haunted him now, and for reasons he couldn't explain, Rajbeer froze.

"...Yes?" he asked, voice softer than he expected.

She stepped forward a little, then hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around the rabbit's ears.

"I... I just wanted to say..." She peeked up through her lashes, "Thank you for visiting. Sister says guests are angels if they bring good intentions."

His brow quirked. Angels? If only she knew.

"I'm not an angel," he said dryly.

She blinked. "Then maybe you're one of the grumpy angels?"

He choked on an unexpected laugh.

"I don't think those exist."

She tilted her head, serious. "I think they do. Maybe you're just hiding your wings."

Rajbeer crouched slowly, coming to her eye level. "What's your name?"

"...Meera," she whispered, and then after a moment, added, "I'm Aroohi Didi's friend."

There it was. That name. That echo.

"You follow her everywhere," he guessed.

Meera nodded solemnly. "She smells nice. Like books and rain and cake."

He couldn't help it—his lips twitched upward.

"And you smell like..." She scrunched her nose in innocent concentration. "Like soap. But the angry kind."

Rajbeer stared at her.

He exhaled—was that a laugh?—quiet, sharp, almost startled by its existence.

"Well, Meera," he said, standing up again, "maybe I'll bring the happy soap next time."

Her eyes sparkled. "What is your name?"

He hesitated. He never told the children his name. What was the point?

But something in her wide brown eyes made him murmur, "Rajbeer."

She narrowed her eyes like a suspicious grandma. "You don't look like a Rajbeer. You look like a Raj-bear."

He stared dumbfounded at her.
And laughed.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't familiar. But it was real.

"And you don't look like a Meera," he said, smirking faintly. "You look like Trouble."

She giggled, dropping her toy rabbit just to clap her hands. "Aroohi says I am trouble!"

The name hit him like a strike of lightning again.

Of course.

Of course, the child belonged to her—if not by blood, then by heart.

He glanced past her at the window, half-hoping to see Aroohi standing there again, but it was empty now.

Meera picked up her toy bunny and looked up again.

"Are you a bad man, Raj-bear?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

Rajbeer looked at her—this tiny creature who had no idea of the wars he'd fought, the darkness he carried like armour. And he couldn't lie. Not to her.

"I might be," he said softly.

Meera thought for a second, then leaned closer and whispered, "It's okay. My bunny bites people, too, sometimes."

Before she could respond, Sister called from inside, and Meera turned towards the garden where she was collecting flowers.

But then she spun back, ran up to him, and gently pressed something in his hand.

A crumpled wildflower and a little white petal.

"For you and this petal for your pocket," she said shyly. "In case your wings forget where home is."

Rajbeer crouched instinctively, something inside him shifting—like the tectonic plates of a long-dead volcano cracking, just slightly.

He studied her face, the stubborn arch of her brows, the stubborn tilt of her chin. It was oddly...familiar. There was a hint of her in this one. And then, just like that, she skipped away, leaving behind wet footprints and a stunned silence in her wake.

Rajbeer stared at the petal, stunned. It was barely a sliver of colour. It shouldn't have meant anything.

But somehow, it did.

He pocketed it without thinking, then looked back at the window, half-expecting to see Meera there, searching for her tiny shadow.

But the curtains remained still.

Rajbeer stood still—something lodged in his chest. Not quite regret. Not quite pain.

Just...a flicker of something human.

He turned toward his car, fingers twitching at his side, that damn name echoing in his mind again.

Aroohi.

The girl who made even the shadows pause.

He got into the car and whispered to no one—

"...Books, rain, and cake, huh?"

Nikhil looked at the wildflowers in his boss's hand but didn't comment. He simply started the engine, unaware of the thoughts spiralling in his boss's mind and drove away.
.

.

The city lights flickered outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, but Rajbeer's gaze was fixed inward, burning with cold fire.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. His mind raced—no, it wasn't just racing; it was weaving a web, cold and precise.

They think they can stop me? He chuckled darkly. A sanctuary for lost children... a shield to hide behind. But every shield has a crack. And I will find it.

He swirled the glass, savouring the bitter burn as he leaned back.

"Reputation... protests... delays," he muttered. "I'll turn them all to my advantage."

His fingers drummed on the mahogany desk as he outlined his strategy in his mind:

First, the Sister. She was tough, but not invincible. Everyone has a price. He'd find hers.

Next, the media. A few well-placed stories to muddy the water—paint the orphanage as outdated, poorly managed, a burden on the community. Sympathy would wane.

Then the social workers and activists. Intimidation, subtle threats—enough to fracture their unity without making headlines.

And the children? The innocents caught in the crossfire? Collateral damage, he mused coldly. Sacrifices for a greater goal.

Afternoon bled into the evening as the city outside his penthouse pulsed with lights and traffic. Rajbeer stood by the glass window, the bouquet of wildflowers still fresh in a small glass tumbler on his desk — a strange softness against the cold minimalism of his office.

The knock was soft.

"Come in," Rajbeer said, not turning around.

Nikhil entered, holding a plain brown folder. "As requested, sir. Her full profile."

He placed it on the desk, hesitating. "Took some digging, but we've got most of it. Family history, academic records, address, social connections... everything."

Rajbeer didn't reply. He turned slowly, picking up the folder with one hand and gesturing silently for Nikhil to leave.

The door clicked shut.

Alone, Rajbeer sank into his chair, cracking the file open like a man about to unearth treasure. His eyes roamed over the first page:

Name: Aroohi Randhawa
Age: 22
Occupation:  Post Graduate Student — MBA(last year).
Volunteer at: Astha's Orphanage
Lives in: Malviya Nagar, House (owned)
Family: Estranged father, mother- Radha Randhawa
Known associate: Shweta Sharma

His fingers drummed on the page.
MBA. That made him smirk.
So, she studies Business? Darling, you have no idea what you've walked into.

He flipped through the pages — photographs of her smiling with children, snapshots of her university events, her handwritten application letter to the orphanage.

His gaze froze on one candid photo — her in a simple white kurta, kneeling in the orphanage garden, a toddler in her arms, her laughter bright and real. Meera.

That warmth again.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening.

"Raj Bear," he whispered to himself, and then chuckled darkly. Even the kid sees it. Innocence always mistakes shadows for shelter.

He traced her name with his thumb. There was something pure in her — maddeningly pure — and yet, when he thought of her, it was never innocent.

She made you twitch, a voice inside him growled. She made your body remember it's alive.

He stood suddenly, throwing the folder onto the table and running a hand through his hair.

She lived in a house with her mother. She volunteered weekly. She was fiercely protective of the children. A fixer. A caregiver. A girl with too much fire in her soft frame.

And now she was a threat — not to his business, but to his control.

He walked to the window, staring out into the vast city lights.

"She'll come to me," he murmured. "On her knees, if that's what it takes. I will make her choose between the children... or herself."

A twisted smirk curled his lips.

"You just became my favourite problem, Aroohi Randhawa."

Rajbeer's smile deepened, predatory.

"This isn't just a land deal," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "It's possession. Control. And soon... she'll be mine."

"A fragile little fortress in the middle of my empire. If it falls, everything changes. She's in that fortress. And I want her safe, but not safe from me."

And without thinking twice, he took his coat that lay on the back of the chair, and left towards her home to catch a glimpse of her again.

The sky was dipped in violet hues. The city was bright as always, but the traffic had reduced moderately. His thoughts were still filled with HIS girl, Aroohi. Rajbeer leaned back in the car's leather seat, jaw clenched, fingers tapping impatiently against the door handle as his driver drove.

"Take the long route past the orphanage," he muttered.

He hadn't told his driver the real reason for this detour.
He needed... a glimpse just in case she was there. Just one look at her. The girl who had cracked something ancient in him. The girl who made him feel alive and cursed at the same time.

They turned a corner, the street mostly deserted. But the moment they neared the edge of the orphanage block, the headlights caught something—a figure stumbling onto the road. A girl.

The driver swerved and slammed the brakes.

Rajbeer lunged forward, heart dropping into his stomach. His door flew open before the car stopped fully. He was out in a blink.

The girl collapsed on the street, limbs trembling, breathing shallow, hair plastered to her face.

He took a step closer—
and froze.

That face. That mouth. That body.

The very girl he'd been dreaming of, fighting thoughts about, fisting himself to in the dead of night. And now—

Here she was. Broken open by something invisible.

She was moaning, lips parted, blinking as if the world was melting around her. Her clothes were damp, sticking to her curves, chest rising erratically. Her hand twitched like it sought something—something—in the air.

"Help... please..." she whispered.

His heart thundered.

He crouched beside her, brushing her hair back.

Her skin was flushed, too warm. Pupils dilated. She wasn't injured. But her body... it was reacting to something. Her breathing, the tremors, the glint in her unfocused eyes—not pain. Desire.

It hit him like a freight train.

"She's been drugged," he said tightly.
His voice didn't shake, but inside, he was in chaos.

An aphrodisiac.

His eyes sharpened. This wasn't an accident. She hadn't stumbled here by coincidence. Someone had left her. Someone had used her- or was planning to.

He grabbed her wrist, inspecting the skin- there it was, a faint needle mark near her forearm. Fresh. Sloppy.

"Who did this to you?" he asked coldly.

Aroohi giggled.

"I need something," she moaned."Anything...please..."

She clung to his shirt, pressing her heated body against his.

His eyes flickered to his driver, who stood frozen.

"Get back in the car," Rajbeer growled.

When the driver hesitated, he snapped, "Now."

He lifted her gently, and her fingers curled into his chest like she belonged there. Like she'd been waiting.

Her lips brushed his neck by accident—or instinct.

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching so hard he thought it might snap.
She smelled like rain and heaven and everything filthy he'd imagined.

This was a test. A trap. A fantasy. A goddamn nightmare.
___________________
Hey babies,
The update is here.
Do like, comment and share.
Which part do you like the most?
What will happen next?
Will he be able to control his desire
Or
Claim her as his?
Who drugged her??
Enjoy reading till then Toodless😉😉😉❤️❤️❤️