The days after Arahan's death felt like one long, painful nightmare.
The women did not cry quietly. They took action.
Sabiha was the first to move. While the others were still weeping in the bedroom, Sana rocking back and forth holding her belly, Bushra staring at the wall with empty eyes, Anshika and Suhani hugging each other in shock.
Sabiha stood up calmly. She went to Arahan's study, locked the door, and started checking files, hard drives, secret phones, and hidden messages. She stopped crying. Her sadness had turned into cold anger.
Anisha arrived the next morning. Her eyes were red, but her face was strong. Using her power as District Magistrate, she contacted people in intelligence, checked secret highway camera recordings, and got early police reports.
In just two days, they discovered the truth.
The attackers were not random thieves. The rocket launcher, the quiet guns, and the fast escape matched the style of a rival security company. That company had lost a big army contract because Arahan's better guns replaced their faulty ones. Their mistake had killed three soldiers and cost them billions.
Sabiha did not want a court case.
She wanted revenge.
Anisha—still pregnant with Arahan's baby, still hurting from memories of him—agreed immediately. She used every connection she had: listening to phone calls, freezing bank accounts, sending police raids at night (pretending they were normal checks), spreading secret tips to criminal groups, and offering hidden rewards.
Sabiha matched every rupee—using factory money for secret funds, hiring former special forces soldiers, and buying information from contacts across many cities.
The revenge was quick and hard.
In three weeks, every person they could find was removed.
The gunmen who carried out the attack were found in hidden houses, dark alleys, and cheap hotels. Some were shot while sleeping. Some were strangled. Some disappeared so completely that their families never found anything.
The managers above them died next—car explosions, poisoned drinks, accidents made to look real. The rival company's fake businesses were searched, money taken, and properties taken away using strict laws.
The women watched everything from the house—through video feeds, blurry photos sent to safe phones, and reports from nervous messengers.
Sana sometimes said quietly, "He would have liked this," while rubbing her belly gently.
Bushra nodded without speaking, tears falling on her ultrasound pictures.
Noorzadi and her mother worked together, Anisha using official power, Noorzadi moving money and people through the family business.
But the real leaders, the boss of the rival company, his brother who ran operations, and their secret money-man who paid the killers, disappeared completely.
No trace in banks. No one saw them. No online sign after the attack. They had vanished, probably to another country with new names and deep hiding places.
Anisha tried harder—asking Interpol for help, requesting satellite photos, putting pressure on other countries' spy agencies. Nothing worked.
The trail ended.
They had destroyed the small helpers and broken the visible parts of the enemy.
But the men who planned Arahan's murder were still alive, somewhere far away.
The women knew it. The revenge was not over. It had only just started.
---
One night, three months after the attack, the babies began to arrive.
Sana delivered a healthy boy. Bushra gave birth to a girl. Sabiha had a son. Anshika and Suhani both welcomed daughters.
The house filled with the sound of new cries, tiny hands, and exhausted, joyful mothers. But the joy was quiet, shadowed by the empty space Arahan had left.
Late that night, Sabiha sat alone in Arahan's study. The room still carried the faint trace of his cologne. She held the last photo they had of him: laughing at a factory event, arm around her waist, unaware the camera had caught the moment.
She stared at his face until her eyes stung.
Then she whispered to the empty room:
"They think they escaped. They think time will hide them forever."
She set the photo face-down on the desk.
"But I have time too. And children who will grow up asking why their father isn't here."
She stood slowly.
"And I will teach them how to hunt."
Anisha, Noorzadi, Anshika, Suhani—they all felt the same cold certainty settle inside them.
The revenge was not finished. It had only paused.
The main leader and his family were still alive somewhere.
Every woman in that house, mothers of Arahan's children, had learned the same silent lesson he once taught them without words:
When someone takes everything from a king, the queen does not kneel.
She sharpens the blade.
The babies cried softly in the nursery down the hall, new life, new heirs.
But in the study, the silence was heavier than grief. They would find them. No matter how many years it took.
---
Meanwhile, the scene shifted far from the blood-soaked highway of Uttar Pradesh to the humid, shadowed heart of Calcutta.
In a sprawling, half-forgotten mansion on the outskirts, once a colonial-era zamindar's residence, now stripped of its grandeur and rebuilt into something darker, a throne-like carved teak chair dominated the central hall. Shaista sat upon it like a queen carved from midnight.
She was in her mid-twenties, tall and statuesque, with smooth, rich burnt-caramel skin that glowed warmly under the low amber lighting. Her face was strikingly beautiful—sharp yet soft cheekbones, full lips painted a deep berry red, and large, expressive black eyes lined with dramatic kohl that made her gaze feel endless and piercing.
A small red bindi sat perfectly centered on her forehead, and her long, straight black hair cascaded like silk past her waist, with a single bold streak of silver running through the temple like a mark of quiet defiance.
She wore a deep maroon silk saree, the fabric heavy and luxurious. The blouse was absent; instead, a heavily embroidered, gold-embellished bra-style choli hugged her full, rounded breasts, the intricate golden beadwork and stones catching the light with every breath, accentuating her deep cleavage.
The saree pallu draped loosely over one shoulder, allowing the curve of her waist and the toned midriff to remain exposed. Gold bangles stacked on her wrists clinked softly when she moved, and a large diamond ring glinted on her finger.
In one hand she held a lit cigar, the thin trail of smoke curling upward like a serpent. Her other hand rested casually on the armrest, next to a glass of deep red wine on the side table. A small pile of cash, a revolver, and scattered jewelry lay nearby on the table—symbols of the life she now ruled.
She leaned back in the chair, legs crossed elegantly, posture relaxed yet regal. Her expression was calm and composed, eyes fixed straight ahead—not smiling, but steady and unreadable—as though she were waiting for someone who would never arrive, yet fully prepared to destroy anyone who dared interrupt her reign.
Behind Shaista stood Nazia—her shadow, her enforcer. She was once a class teacher and close friend of Shaista, and the former girlfriend of Arahan.
Nazia stands tall and poised just behind and slightly to the side of Shaista, her presence quiet yet unmistakably dangerous, like a blade kept close and ready.
She is in her mid-twenties, with a graceful yet athletic build—slender, toned, and carrying herself with the calm confidence of someone who has seen and survived too much. Her skin is a smooth, warm medium-deep tone that glows softly under the city's amber and twilight lights.
Her face is strikingly beautiful and intense: high cheekbones, a defined jawline, full lips painted a deep, rich berry-red, and large, captivating eyes framed by heavy black kohl liner and smoky shadow. The makeup accentuates her piercing gaze, which looks straight ahead with steady, unreadable focus. A small red bindi sits perfectly centered on her forehead.
Her long, straight jet-black hair flows freely past her shoulders and down her back in silky waves, catching the breeze and framing her face with natural elegance.
She wears a flowing olive-green saree with a subtle scattered black leaf or motif pattern across the sheer, lightweight fabric. The saree is draped classically, the pallu loosely over one shoulder, revealing her toned midriff and a hint of cleavage. Underneath is a simple black sleeveless blouse (choli) with a deep neckline that fits snugly and highlights her figure.
Accessories are elegant and understated: stacked gold bangles on both wrists that catch the light when she moves, a thin gold bracelet or chain, multiple gold rings (including on her ring finger), small gold earrings, and a delicate gold necklace.
In her right hand she holds a black pistol casually, smoke curling from the barrel as if it was just fired. Her left hand rests near her hip or slightly behind her back, posture alert and balanced—feet slightly apart, shoulders squared, head tilted just enough to look protective.
No smile. No softness. Just calm, lethal readiness—eyes fixed ahead, body language saying she is the unseen guardian who would kill without hesitation to protect the woman in front of her.
Together with Shaista, they look like twin queens of the night skyline: one in traditional elegance with quiet command, the other in modern lethality with silent loyalty.
To Shaista's right stood three more women—her inner circle, each distinct, each deadly in her own way:
Sneha is fair-skinned with a cool, almost porcelain complexion that stands out against the forest shadows. She has long, straight jet-black hair parted in the middle, cascading smoothly past her shoulders and down her back.
Her makeup is sharp and bold—dark, defined brows, intense smoky eyes, and deep berry-red lips.
She wears an open black pinstripe blazer with subtle silver threading, revealing a high-neck black bodysuit/top underneath that hugs her slim, toned figure.
Tight black leather pants cling to her legs, tucked into high black boots. A thick gold chain necklace rests against her collarbone.
She holds a black pistol casually in her right hand, fingers resting on the grip with restless energy, as though always ready to tap the trigger. Her expression is cool and brooding, eyes fixed straight ahead with a subtle, dangerous smirk.
Neha stood in center, she is fair-skinned and voluptuous, with a fuller, curvier figure that fills out her outfit dramatically. Her long, wavy brunette hair with warm light-brown highlights, falls in glossy, voluminous waves past her shoulders.
Her makeup is glamorous and seductive, defined brows, heavy lashes, smoky eyes, and glossy nude-pink lips. She wears an open black pinstripe blazer over a deep V-neck black wrap dress or blazer-dress combo that plunges low to show deep cleavage, cinched at the waist with a wide black belt and gold buckle.
A classic pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings add an elegant, almost old-money contrast to her edgy look. She stands with hips cocked, exuding quiet power and confidence, eyes locked forward with a knowing, sultry gaze and slight smile.
Payal is on right side, she is fair-skinned with warm undertones, athletic yet feminine build. Her long, loose blonde waves (shoulder-length to long, tousled and beachy) frame her face with soft, playful volume.
Her makeup is fierce and polished—arched brows, bold eye makeup, and glossy lips. She wears an open black pinstripe blazer over a black lace bralette/crop top that reveals deep cleavage and a toned midriff.
High-waisted black leather pants hug her legs, paired with layered gold chain necklaces that catch the light. In her right hand she holds a glass of amber whiskey casually, manicured dark nails and a gold ring visible.
Her expression is sultry and unbothered, eyes looking straight ahead with calm, confident intensity and a faint, teasing smile.