AAKARSH'S POV
My mother thinks I’m in love.
That’s how she phrases it-in love. As if I’d willingly hand over my agency in exchange for some overpriced floral arrangements, decorations and venue arrangement.
I let her believe it. Let her plan the wedding like it’s a royal function. She wants legacy. I want leverage. We both get something out of this.
The name on the card: Kyria Agarwal.
I've seen the file.
No photographs. No real address.
Just a codename burned into memory:BLACK SABER.
The most efficient operative Virenx has ever trained. Knife work. No loose ends. A trail of dead men and pristine gowns.
They’re marrying me off to my executioner.
Ironic, isn't it?
The office is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes with wealth too old to need validation.
The walls are lined with art I didn’t choose but were chosen for me. The whiskey is untouched. I don’t drink on days like this.
A message pings on the encrypted console.
“Assignment confirmed. Codename Black Saber. Location: New York. Eliminate on confirmation.”
Confirmation.
She’ll be in my apartment by next week.
Eating breakfast. Slipping off heels. Making casual conversation about linen colors and floral arrangements.
And one day just one day she’ll try to kill me.
I’m not sure what they think will happen.
That I’ll be caught off guard?
That I’ll hesitate?
They’ve forgotten something.
I asked for this.
The last time I saw her, she didn’t see me.
Paris. A gala. Late March.
She moved like she belonged-one hand resting delicately on the stem of a champagne flute, the other trailing across velvet as if taking inventory. Her back was straight. Spine steel. Eyes like smoke.
Then someone dropped dead on the ballroom floor.
No one connected it to her. No one ever does.
But I saw the flick of her wrist. The way she pressed two fingers to her pulse right before the man collapsed. A ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
She wasn’t admiring the chaos.
She was timing it.
That’s when I knew.
She wasn’t just real. She was exquisite.
A masterpiece of violence, dressed like desire.
And now they expect me to marry her.
The thought doesn’t scare me.
It intrigues.
In chess, it’s not the queen you watch. It’s the player who knows how to use her.
And Kyria Agarwal?
She’s not here to be kissed or kept.
She’s here to kill me.
Which makes this next part amusing.
The phone’s vibration cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
My mother.
“Have you seen her designs?” she asks, voice breathless like she’s the one getting married. “Her work is art, Aakarsh. And her face—God. Your children are going to be absurdly good-looking.”
I murmur something noncommittal. She won’t notice.
“You’re lucky,” she adds, as if I didn’t already know.
Yes.
I’m marrying a woman trained to cut throats with piano wire and walk away before the body hits the floor.
Lucky is one word for it.
She’ll look beautiful in the red lehenga our mothers were so fondly discussing about.
But I know better than to mistake the dress for innocence.
RED- the colour of love, passion, and desire, but it also signifies anger, danger, and aggression
And most importantly its the colour of blood.
Another material for her, like satin or cotton.
Kyria Agarwal likes blood the way an artist likes his paint.
She just prefers to not get it on her hands unless necessary.
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