King Veer Pratap was never taught to share. Since childhood, every one of his desires was fulfilled unconditionally power, praise, even affection. If he wanted something, it became his. And once it was his, the world was expected to stay away. No one was allowed to touch it be it fabric, horse, or woman.

So when he married the queen, he didn't just gain a wife. He gained something that belonged to him. But something felt off. Queen still kept a smile that was never directed at him. A soft laugh that never bloomed in his presence, and glances that, from time to time, drifted toward a man at the end of the royal guards' line Commander Karan Thakur.

They thought the king didn't know, but Veer always knew. He didn't shout, didn't curse, didn't rage. He simply watched from a distance, like a lion waiting for the perfect time to strike.

That night, Veer was still awake in their chamber. The oil lamp beside the bed burned dimly, casting thin shadows on the walls. The air felt dense, too silent for an ordinary night. On the small table, the hourglass was nearly empty, marking that the night had long passed the acceptable hour.

Soon, the door creaked softly. The queen entered, her steps light but deliberate. When she saw Veer sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his inner robe and not lying down, her body tensed for a split second. Surprised, but she quickly masked it.