Rathore Palace
Rathore Palace its magnificence was enough to mesmerize anyone from afar. It wasn't just a grand structure, but the residence of one of Delhi's wealthiest and most powerful families. The palace had stood tall for generations, a silent witness to both glory and grief. Though it had been renovated and given a modern look over time, its soul remained untouched steeped in legacy, pride, and whispers of its past.
Countless generations had come and gone within the walls of Rathore Palace. Among them was the esteemed patriarch, Rana Rathore, who had two sons Abhimanyu Rathore and Rajeev Rathore. The family once overflowed with happiness and unity, wrapped in the warmth of tradition and affection. But fate, as always, had its own plans.
One fateful day, a bomb blast changed everything.
Rana Rathore, along with Abhimanyu and his entire family, perished in that tragic explosion. The reins of the entire Rathore estate its wealth, its power, its legacy fell into the hands of Rajeev Rathore. And from that moment on, began the era of destruction at the hands of the Rathores.
Abhimanyu and his wife Diya had left behind their young daughter, unknowingly placing her in the hands of Rajeev. Where she disappeared, no one knew. No one, except Rajeev and his family. The secret of the lost heiress was buried deep within the walls of their mansion, guarded by silence and time.
Rajeev and his wife Reema belonged to a lineage of royals, descendants of ancient kings and emperors. Their eldest son was settled in America, while their younger son still lived in India. Their two daughters were studying at Delhi University, admired and envied by many.
And today, Rathore Palace was once again bathed in lights and flowers. The grand hallways echoed with footsteps, laughter, and the flashes of the media. A crowd had begun to gather, the air buzzing with excitement for Rajeev and Reema's elder son, Chetan Rathore, was returning home after years abroad.
Girls from across the city waited eagerly, dreaming of even a glimpse of him. After all, he wasn't just any man he was the heir to the Rathore Empire, the prince of a forgotten throne, and the symbol of power wrapped in charm.
Inside the palace, Reema sat like a true queen on her ornate throne, draped in an expensive silk saree that shimmered under the chandeliers. Around her stood a battalion of servants, heads bowed in obedience. Her eyes, lined with kohl and pride, burned with anger and disdain. Striking the marble floor with her jewel-encrusted cane, she hissed with barely contained emotion:
"My son is returning after so many years... And the world dares to forget what a Rathore means?"
And you're still thinking about her?"
Reema's voice sliced through the air like a knife dipped in venom.
Her grip tightened on the heavy golden cane, her knuckles white with fury.
"If she refuses to eat, then make her. I don't care if you have to beat her black and blue do it! drag her, hurt her if you have to, but that girl must swallow every damn drop and every bite. Do you hear me?!"
CRACK!
The cane hit the marble again, loud enough to shake the chandeliers.
"The day we've kept her alive for... it's almost here."
Her voice dropped to a growl now.
"I want her ready. Perfect. No excuses. No mercy."
There was silence for a beat and then chaos.
Servants scrambled, their heads low, bodies trembling, vanishing into corners like shadows scared of light.
But Reema Rathore stood tall in her royal silk, seething like a storm in a velvet cage.
Her eyes weren't just angry... they were dangerous.
Fifth floor. Rathore Palace. A place untouched by sunlight, or kindness.
The corridors were abandoned here too high for voices to reach, too dark for footsteps to echo.
Just... forgotten air, and locked doors.
One door, though, wasn't completely silent.
From inside, a faint, trembling glow peeked through the cracks of an ancient wooden frame a dying candle, its flame shrinking, struggling to survive like the soul inside.
On the cold floor, under a thin, torn blanket, lay a body too fragile to be called alive, yet too stubborn to die.
She shifted.
The candle flickered wildly, then almost died.
And the girl's eyes fluttered open.
She gasped, pulling the blanket away from her face. Her skin was porcelain too pale, too delicate. The kind of face you'd find in paintings, not prisons. Her lips were dry, but her breath was heavy, like every inhale took effort. Her long hair was tied up in a messy bun, though a few strands had escaped and stuck to her damp cheeks.
But it was her eyes green, haunted, almost unreal that told the real story.
Eyes that had only seen the world through a tiny window.
Eyes that had forgotten what freedom felt like.
Eyes that carried twenty-one years of silence.
This... was Kiara Rathore.
The lost princess.
The heir no one spoke of.
The secret that could ruin empires.
They'd hidden her here since she was five.
Before that just a blur of memories, faces, warmth that died with her parents in the blast.
And after that?
Only this room.
Only this bed.
Only this candle.
The world outside had moved on.
And Kiara?
She didn't even know what life was.
She'd learned to talk by whispering to herself.
She'd learned the seasons by watching the tree outside her window lose and grow its leaves.
And she'd learned pain every time footsteps echoed outside her door... but never came in with love.
She didn't know who she was anymore.
Only that she was someone they were keeping alive... for a reason.
And that reason was getting closer.
She didn't know...
She didn't know that Abhimanyu Rathore and Rana Rathore her father and grandfather had named the entire Rathore estate, empire, and wealth in her name before they died.
Because Rana Rathore, in the twilight of his life, had seen through the mask.
He had begun to sense what others couldn't dare to whisper:
Rajeev Rathore was not a good man.
Not a protector. Not family.
A traitor wearing a brother's skin.
But Rajeev had learned the truth only after both Rana and Abhimanyu were dead. And by then, it was too late to reverse what had already been sealed in ink and blood.
The will was real.
Kiara Rathore was the true heir.
And killing her would mean legal war, exposure... collapse.
So he did the next worst thing:
He kept her alive. Locked away. Forgotten.
A prisoner within her own kingdom.
And so, for the last sixteen years, Kiara had lived in the shadows of Rathore Palace buried beneath chandeliers, marbles, and lies.
But she didn't know any of that.
To her, the world was simple.
The world was the size of one small, dusty window.
And her sky?
It was just that one tree outside, the one that changed colors with the seasons.
And that tree... had a friend.
A tiny bird with silver feathers and a red throat, who came every morning and chirped like it was singing only for her. Kiara named her Chini when she was six, and since then, that little bird had been her only escape from loneliness.
Today, the candle in her room began to flicker again weak, uncertain.
Instinctively, Kiara walked to her window, the hem of her faded gown brushing against the cold floor. She pulled aside the heavy curtain, and smiled faintly.
There it was.
The tree.
The light.
And that tiny silver bird chirping, dancing on a branch like it knew she was watching.
Her green eyes softened, and for a moment... just a moment... the darkness around her didn't feel so cruel.
But then
A sound.
A voice.
Soft. Familiar. Like a lullaby from another life.
"Kiara beta... your lunch."
The words floated into the room like sunlight through broken glass.
Kiara turned quickly.
There, standing by the door, was the only face she had ever truly trusted.
An old woman, her eyes tired but kind, holding a tray with trembling hands.
She was the only one who ever spoke gently.
The only one who never raised her hand.
Everyone else who came... came to hurt her.
To shove food down her throat.
To leave bruises.
To remind her she wasn't free.
But this woman this face was different.
She'd been there since the beginning. Since before Kiara could speak. Since she still had dreams.
Kiara's eyes welled up.
Without thinking, she ran.
Ran across the room and threw her arms around her, burying her face into the folds of the old woman's shawl.
No words. Just breathless silence.
The kind that says:
Thank you for being the only one who didn't forget me.
This woman... her name was Uma.
She wasn't just a caretaker.
She wasn't just a servant in Rathore Palace.
For Kiara she was everything.
It was Uma who had cradled her when she cried for her parents.
It was Uma who had taught her how to speak, to smile, to hope in a place where hope had no meaning.
It was Uma who told her tiny stories about the outside world just enough to keep her dreams alive, but not enough to make her rebel.
In Kiara's innocent, starved heart, Uma was her mother. Her father. Her entire universe.
And today, just like every day, Kiara hugged her tight, sobbing like a lost child.
"Maapi..." she whispered between sniffles,
"Look... it's dark again. It's getting dark again... Kiara is scared of the dark."
She closed her eyes tightly, as if shutting out the darkness with her lashes.
Uma's face melted into a bittersweet smile.
She looked at the girl in front of her the child she had raised in shadows.
So fair, so delicate.
A sharp nose, soft pink lips, and those rare, gleaming avocado green eyes—eyes that shouldn't belong to someone so broken.
Her limbs were thin.
Her skin was pale.
Her body bore the silence of years.
And yet... she was beautiful. Like a ghost in silk. Like a princess torn out of her fairytale and locked in a dungeon made of memories.
"What have they done to you..." Uma thought, tears welling in her own eyes.
She couldn't say it aloud. Couldn't scream. Couldn't protect.
All she could do... was try.
Uma gently held Kiara's face in her hands, her thumbs wiping away the tears from those terrified eyes.
"Alright, my doll..." she whispered softly, tilting Kiara's chin up,
"First we eat. Then I'll bring the light back, okay? Will you eat for me, just a little?"
There was a pause.
Then, quickly, Kiara nodded.
Uma didn't waste a second. She began feeding her with her hands, one small bite at a time her fingers trembling as she did.
She knew what would happen if Kiara refused.
They'd come.
The whips would come.
And her fragile girl wouldn't be able to take it again.
The thought alone made Uma's soul shiver.
Her hands paused for a moment as she looked down at Kiara's thin arms arms that bore marks that no one should carry.
"How long...?"
How long would she be able to protect her like this?
How long until someone came... someone strong enough, brave enough, desperate enough... to take Kiara out of this darkness?
Or would she grow old here...
Buried in a palace built on silence,
Living in a world that never even knew she existed?
Uma blinked away her tears and fed Kiara another bite, hiding the storm in her chest.
She had to believe.
She had to believe that someone, somewhere, was coming.
That fate hadn't forgotten Kiara Rathore.
SKY ISLAND
The room was silent eerily so.
Far above the city, hidden from the world, Sky Island wasn't just a mansion.
It was a fortress. A myth. A place no one reached unless they were summoned... or marked.
And in the heart of it
on a massive velvet sofa, two beasts rested.
Not ordinary animals.
One was a white snow leopard, eyes calm, breath slow.
The other, a sleek black panther, muscles coiled like shadows ready to strike.
Between them, lounging like a king among gods
sat a man.
One leg over the other.
Back relaxed.
Fingers tapping rhythmically on the leather armrest.
The predators on either side were quiet not out of loyalty, but fear.
Even they knew:
You don't interrupt a storm while it's thinking.
His name?
Aaron Warner.
The name itself made underworlds tremble.
Police departments went blind.
Ministers disappeared into silence.
And gangsters?
They prayed he never looked in their direction.
Fair skin.
Blue eyes that looked like they'd seen death, delivered it, and then forgotten it.
Sharp jawline, dark lips that rarely moved but when they did, someone bled.
His white shirt clung to his sculpted torso, faint abs visible beneath the linen, like a cruel tease of perfection.
Messy hair fell across his forehead, soft in contrast to the cold calculation in his stare.
His hands veined, strong, brutal wore two rings.
Both carved with lions.
The only hint of the kingdom he ruled in silence.
No one had seen him up close.
Not really.
To see Aaron Warner... was to kiss death.
He was known in the shadows as
The Violet Devil
the head of a syndicate so ruthless, so precise, it operated like a machine powered by blood.
No one knew his real name.
In the world of crime, he was the gang.
In the world of business, "Aaron Warner" wasn't a name it was a brand.
A brand that turned everything it touched to gold.
Or diamonds.
Or monsters.
Every year, without fail, he was crowned Businessman of the Year.
His rivals?
They would kill for just a glimpse of his face.
But Aaron never appeared. Never allowed the world to look back at him.
He didn't chase power.
He was power.
And today he was waiting.
His panther's ears twitched. The leopard exhaled softly.
They felt it too.
Something was coming.
Something... different.
And when Aaron finally lifted his eyes,
the room felt colder.
Like death had just entered to listen.
Even today...
Aaron Warner sat unmoved on his private island,
perched like a predator in silence, his gaze locked on the giant screen that covered the entire wall before him.
The room was dark.
Lit only by the pale light of that screen.
The footage played on loop
Chaos. Blood. Diamonds. Smoke.
The aftermath of a ghost no one could catch.
Behind Aaron, standing like soldiers before a war god, were his men:
Aryan. Ruhel. Simon. Raghav.
Each one deadly in his own right.
But today, none dared to breathe too loudly.
Their eyes weren't on the screen.
They were on his fingers.
Waiting for one twitch. One movement.
Because one movement from Aaron Warner meant someone... somewhere... was about to die.
On the screen, the news anchor's voice blared with forced enthusiasm
dramatic, breathless, and clueless.
"So once again, the Violet Gang vanishes with diamonds and narcotics without a trace. Who are the Violet Devils?
Will the authorities ever catch them?
Or are we destined to watch them disappear again into smoke?
How many more lives will be claimed before someone stops them?"
The anchor's words sliced through the tension like cheap plastic useless and hollow.
Then silence.
Just for a second.
Until
CRACK.
Aaron lifted his phone... and hurled it straight at the screen.
It hit. Hard.
The room froze.
But the screen? Not a scratch.
The phone? Still intact.
Aaron Warner didn't throw to break.
He threw to announce.
Someone's time had run out.
And his men knew it.
The devil was no longer amused.
Silence deepened.
And in that silence, every man standing behind him could feel it:
The calm before Aaron Warner decides who bleeds next.
Who is Aaron Warner?
A man with no past.
No weakness.
No mercy.
A name that silences rooms.
A devil in a tailored suit who doesn't follow rules he rewrites them in blood.
And Kiara Rathore?
A forgotten princess, buried alive by her own bloodline.
Caged for years.
Erased from the world.
But not broken.
Not yet.
When their worlds collide, it won't be a meeting
It'll be a war.
A war between the man who owns everything...
and the girl who was never meant to be found.
⸻
Who is Aaron Warner?
What ties him to Kiara Rathore?
And when they finally meet will it be revenge... or ruin?
Find out in
Darling, You're Mine.
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