Reyna :-
The alarm clock screamed like it had a personal grudge against me.
I groaned, grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and squinted at the screen - Maya calling.
Of course. My best friend, my human alarm, and the reason I'm never late enough to actually skip college. I picked up the call and heard her screaming on the other side,
"REYNA RATHORE!!! Don't tell me you're still in bed!" Her voice was sunshine and chaos rolled into one.
"Five more minutes," I mumbled into my pillow.
"Five minutes, my foot! Get up, brush your face, and move. We've got Professor Sharma's lecture today - and you know how much that grumpy grandpa loves failing people for fun."
I sighed, throwing my blanket off dramatically. "Fine! You're worse than my mom. Fuck You."
"Thank you, bitch. Now, up!"
The call ended with her trademark chirpy 'love you, loser!' and I dragged myself to the mirror.
The reflection staring back was the same girl everyone thought they knew - Reyna Rathore, People say Mumbai never sleeps. I think it just pretends to be awake - half of it chasing dreams, the other half hiding crimes.
And right in the middle of it all stands my father - Rajveer Rathore, the man people whisper about in the kind of voice that makes the air heavier..
To the world, he's a "businessman."
To the people who actually know, he's the man who built an empire out of blood and fear.
I've grown up around guns disguised as gifts, and bodyguards who smile like shadows. I know what power looks like, and honestly? I'm sick of it.
Every deal, every handshake, every so-called 'business meeting' that happens behind closed doors - I've seen it all. The threats, the money, the respect born out of fear and everytime I see it, I remind myself - this isn't the life I want.
But being a Rathore means your choices are luxuries, not rights.
The only reason I still have my sanity is Maya - my best friend since we were five, my partner-in-survival. Her father, Rohit Mehta, is a big-time industrialist and my father's closest ally - the kind of man who knows how to make legal things look illegal, and illegal things look polished enough to pass.
Together, our fathers own half of South Mumbai and apparently, that includes our college too.
So even in the one place that's supposed to be normal, I can't escape the Rathore shadow. Every corridor, every security camera, every luxury car parked outside - all of it screams, you belong to the empire.
Freedom? I've only tasted it in small moments - in stolen drives, in loud music, in pretending for a while that I'm just another girl on her way to class.
Then I rolled my eyes, took a shower and got ready, and tried to ignore the weight of the world I was born into.
I tied my hair up, then changed my mind and let it fall loose - soft, wavy, and rebelliously perfect. White shirt, blue jeans, paired with So kate 120 black pumps and my favorite silver chain. Nothing too flashy, just... enough.
When I opened my purse, the gleam of cold metal met my eyes - a small gun, hidden beneath my iPad and wallet. Not for show. Not for power. For survival.
In the Rathore household, you didn't carry lip gloss for protection.
I slung the purse over my shoulder and walked downstairs. The scent of fresh coffee and buttered toast filled the air - warm, domestic, almost enough to make you forget who we were.
When I walked downstairs, the house was awake.
Dad's voice carried from the study, calm but commanding. Mom was at the breakfast table, elegance wrapped in silk. Aarav, my younger brother, was flipping through his phone, probably checking out cars he wasn't allowed to buy yet.
"Morning, Reyna," my mom said without looking up from her cup. Her saree was perfect, her expression calmer than it had any right to be. "You're late again."
"Good morning to you too, Mom," I said, reaching for the toast.
Aarav, my younger brother, was sprawled across the couch with his phone. "Nice outfit, didi. Planning to break hearts at college again?"
"Planning to break your face if you don't shut up," I shot back.
He grinned, unbothered - typical Rathore.
Dad looked up from his newspaper, sharp eyes softening just a little when they met mine. "Be careful today. Don't take the main road - there's been some commotion near the market."
"Noted," I said. "And yes, I'm carrying... you know."
He nodded once - the unspoken understanding between a father who built his empire with blood and a daughter who wanted to live without it.
Maa came over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear the way she did when I was ten. "Call me when you reach, okay? And eat something before your coffee kills your stomach."
"Always the same lecture," I teased, kissing her cheek. "I'll call. Promise."
My phone buzzed again - Maya. A string of angry emojis. I grabbed my keys and slipped my gun back into its place, zipping the bag tight.
Outside, the morning light spilled across the marble floor. The air was heavy with the smell of wet earth and diesel - Mumbai's strange version of perfume.
Maya was already waiting by my car, tapping her foot. "Finally! I thought I'd have to drag you out."
"Relax, I'm here." I slid into the driver's seat, turning the ignition. The engine purred like it recognized me - fast, dangerous, familiar. I love my BMW M8 competition more than most people.It's loud, rebellious, and unapologetic - everything I wish I could be. When I'm behind the wheel, I don't feel like a Rathore. I feel like Reyna.
Maya smirked and said"Well, at least we own the college. Perks of being the boss's daughters, right?"
"Right," I said flatly, pressing down on the accelerator. "Except being the boss's daughter means the boss is always watching."
As we drove off, the city was already alive - horns blaring, vendors shouting, sunlight bouncing off glass buildings. The same streets, the same faces.
But inside, I felt something different. Like the air had changed.
"Reyna," Maya said suddenly, breaking my thoughts. "You ever think we're living in a movie? You know... drama, secrets, hot people, tragic endings?"
I smirked. "Maybe. Except I'd rather be the one writing the story - not the one bleeding in it."
She laughed, tossing her hair. "Typical Reyna Rathore line."
The city blurred around us as we sped down Marine Drive - sunlight bouncing off the hood, wind tangling through my hair, and the faint taste of freedom in my chest.
For a moment, I forgot everything - the family name, the legacy, the expectations.
Just me, my best friend, and the road ahead.
No guards. No rules. No lies..
"Reyna, slow down!" Maya's laughter floated beside me, half-terrified, half-thrilled.
I grinned. "If I slow down, I'll start thinking about my life again."
Freedom lasted exactly three traffic signals.
One moment I was flying down Marine Drive, the wind howling through my hair, Maya laughing beside me and the next, a Red Ferrari 458 cut across the lane like a shadow with bad timing.
I slammed the brakes. Tires screamed. My heart jumped to my throat.
And then...
CRASH.
Metal kissed metal, brutally.
The BMW jerked forward before halting, the seatbelt biting into my shoulder. For a few seconds, all I could hear was the angry hiss of my own breath and the city's stunned silence around us.
"Reyna!" Maya gasped, clutching her seatbelt. "Are you okay? What the fuck are you doing ?"
"I'm fine but it is not my mistake this motherfucker took a wrong turn" I said through gritted teeth, pushing open the door. My pulse was a drumbeat of fury. My car-my only love in this twisted mafia life- now had a scar.
I stepped out - the air hot, the scent of burnt rubber heavy and my eyes found him.
Tall. Composed. Dressed in black from head to toe- crisp shirt unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of defined chest, fitted trousers, wristwatch gleaming like command.
His hair, messy in a deliberate way, framed a face too sharp to be kind.
And those ice-blue eyes- they didn't just look at you; they assessed you, like deciding whether you were worth the effort.
He took one look at the dent in his car, then at me. His jaw tightened and said,
" Don't you know how to drive a car ??"
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered. "You hit me!"
He raised an eyebrow, voice low, calm, and infuriatingly controlled.
"You were over the speed limit, Miss BMW."
The way he said it not as an accusation, but as a fact - made my blood boil.
"Oh, so now you're a traffic officer?" I snapped. "You just crashed into me, and you're acting like it's my fault?" You think I'm scared of you because you drive a Ferrari and talk like a wannabe villain?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "No. You're scared because you should be."
Something in his tone froze the anger on my tongue. It wasn't loud, it wasn't cruel- it was true.
Every word carried weight, the kind that came from someone used to people obeying before asking why.
I forced a smirk. "You talk big for a guy who just dented my car."
He stepped closer, so close that the air between us shifted.
"I dented metal," he said quietly. "You're about to dent your reputation if you keep arguing with me in public."
His eyes - dark, unreadable, and too steady -flicked from me to my car, then back again. "If you can't handle speed, you shouldn't be driving something like this."
"A beauty like this isn't meant for a bitch who treats it like a toy."
The audacity. That line hit harder than the crash. My breath caught - a mix of shock and offense.
The nerve.
"Excuse me?" I stepped closer. "You don't even know me, and you think you can talk like that? Who the hell do you think you are? A jerk who thinks that he owns this road ??"
He moved then, faster than I anticipated. His hand shot out, fingers like steel clamps, closing around my face. My skin stretched taut beneath his grip, my mouth forced shut. His thumb pressed hard against my cheekbone, his palm cupping my jaw.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that," he warned, his voice a low growl, devoid of its earlier lightness. His blue eyes, now narrowed, were chips of ice. "Be in your limits."
Rage, pure and undiluted, surged through me, eclipsing the surprise. Immediately, I reached into my purse, my fingers brushing the cold metal of my gun. Not to use it- just to remind myself who I was. I pointed the gun on him.
His grip loosened, his hand falling away from my face. A slow, theatrical sigh escaped him. His hands rose, palms open, a picture of mock surrender.
A smile, slow and teasing, spread across his lips. " Awwww, You scared me, baby."
And then his gaze flicked to the movement instantly, sharp as lightning.
In one fluid motion, he reached forward and took the gun from my hand- not rough, not rushed-just precise.
It was almost insulting how easy it was for him.
He examined the weapon, the reflection of the sea glinting on its barrel. "Nice piece," he murmured. "Too bad it doesn't suit trembling hands. These are not toys," he spat, his voice a dangerous whisper. "And not made for a fragile, arrogant girl like you."
"Give it back."
He raised an eyebrow. "No."
I stepped closer, glare hard. "That's not yours."
He finally met my eyes again. For a heartbeat, something dark flickered there- interest, annoyance, something unnamed.
Then he smirked. "Now it is mine."
And before I could say anything, he slid the gun into his jacket, turned, and walked toward his Ferrari with that impossible calm.
"Wait!" I shouted, chasing a few steps after him. " You think this is funny?!"
He stopped by his door, looking over his shoulder, sunlight cutting across his face.
His voice was soft but carried like thunder.
"You'll learn soon enough, nothing I do is for fun."
Before I could reply, he was gone - the Ferrari roaring down the road, leaving behind the smell of smoke and something else I couldn't name curiosity.
I stood there in the middle of Marine Drive, the ocean wind whipping around me, my hands still trembling - not with fear, but with fire.
Maya ran up to me, still wide-eyed. "Who was that?"
I stared at the road where his car had disappeared, my pulse still uneven.
"I don't know, maybe an idiot. The beginning of a problem," I said quietly. "A very expensive problem. But whatever that was... it's not over."