“I learned to hate his name before I learned how to spell mine.”

                                - VIHAN MATHUR

_____________________________

The chaos around us fell silent the moment the door opened.

And then they walked in.

The Randhawas.

Their name didn’t need an introduction.

It came with a legacy, a warning.

And then I saw him.

Reyansh Randhawa.

He followed behind his father—calm, composed, and infuriatingly perfect, like always.

His eyes scanned the room slowly, like he was above it all.

Then they landed on me.

Locked.

I didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

I wanted him to see it—the hate burning in my eyes.

The promise that I’d rather die than submit.

And I think he did.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Small.

Too small for most to notice.

But I did.

Because he was testing me.

They walked to the main seat at the negotiation table.

He sat down beside his father like the world belonged to him.

It does.

To everyone but me.

Because I would never bow to him.

Not now. Not ever.

We’ve known each other since childhood.

Our rivalry didn’t begin with bullets.

It began with names.

Not by choice.

Not by fate.

But by blood.

Randhawa.

I learned that name before I learned to spell my own surname.

“You were born to destroy them,” my father told me.

Over and over.

Until it carved itself into my bones.

And sitting across from him now—his smirk, his silence, his unbearable calm—I believed it.

We weren’t raised to coexist.

We were raised to ruin each other.

The room filled with men in suits and whispers, but all I could hear was the thud of my own pulse.

My father took his seat beside me, his presence as suffocating as ever.

He didn’t look at me.

He didn’t have to.

I already knew the rules.

Don’t speak unless told. Don’t blink first. And never—never—look weak.

Across the table, Reyansh leaned back, legs crossed, one hand casually draped over the armrest like he owned the damn world.

His expression was unreadable—sharp eyes, smooth mouth, spine straight like a blade.

I hated how easily he fit into this world.

Like he was born with it carved into his veins.

“You’re late,” my father said coldly.

Mr Virendra chuckled. “We prefer the term ‘fashionably superior.’”

His words earned a few forced laughs around the table.

Reyansh didn’t laugh.

He just stared.

Right at me.

Like this was all for show and I was the only one who mattered.

I clenched my fists under the table.

Focus. Breathe. Do not let him win.

“Let’s begin,” my father said, snapping his fingers for the assistant to bring out the contract.

They were negotiating a temporary alliance. Territory sharing. Trade routes.

All things that would probably end in blood anyway.

My job was to sit still and look like the heir I was raised to be.

But Reyansh made that impossible.

Every time he spoke, his voice curled through the room like smoke.

Calm. Icy. Perfectly in control.

I hated that about him.

I hated how he never stuttered, never hesitated.

How his father praised him like he’d hung the stars himself.

And I hated how I noticed every damn detail.

“Mr. Mathur,” Reyansh’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Is your heir not participating in this discussion, or is he just here to decorate the chair?”

A few eyes turned to me.

I looked up slowly, my smile razor-sharp.

“I was waiting for the clowns to finish performing,” I said. “So the men could talk.”

The silence was heavy for a second.

Then Reyansh let out a quiet laugh—short and low.

“I forgot how sharp your tongue is,” he said, folding his hands. “Too bad your mind doesn’t keep up.”

My father’s elbow brushed against mine.

A silent warning.

I bit back the reply forming in my throat.

Not here. Not now.

But this wasn’t over.

Because the war between us wasn’t just about families or empires.

It was personal.

And one way or another, I’d make Reyansh Randhawa bleed for every smirk he dared to throw my way.

I stormed out the moment the meeting ended.

No words. No nods.

Just the door slamming behind me like a scream I couldn’t release.

The second I was out of sight, I yanked at my collar, tugging until it felt like I could finally breathe.

My phone buzzed. Ignored.

My driver called out. Ignored.

I needed space. Air. Silence.

I slipped into the back corridor of the building, leaning against the cold wall like it could hold me up.

Weakness.

That’s what they’d call this.

My father, the men at that table, the entire damn world.

And maybe they were right.

Reyansh had humiliated me. Again.

And worse?

I let it get to me.

I could still see the smirk on his face.

Could still hear that infuriating, controlled laugh.

He always got under my skin — always knew which cracks to press.

I hated him.

I hated how easily he played the role I was still trying to grow into.

And I hated that part of me that didn’t want him to stop.

The marble wall was cold against my back, but not colder than the silence I sat in.

For once, I didn’t care how pathetic I must’ve looked—legs pulled up, jacket wrinkled, head tilted back as I stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

I should’ve been in control.

I should’ve had a comeback, a strategy, a performance.

But I was tired.

And tiredness is dangerous in our world.

I didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

But I felt the shift in the air.

My body knew before my mind registered it.

Him.

“Is this what you’ve been reduced to?”

His voice slashed through the quiet like glass against skin.

I straightened too fast, wiped my face on instinct—even though I hadn’t cried. Yet.

Raghav Mathur.

My father.

My personal god of disappointment.

He stood in the hallway, arms folded, watching me like I was gum stuck to his expensive shoe.

“I thought I raised a leader,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “Not a sulking child hiding in a damn corridor.”

“I wasn’t hiding—”

“Don’t insult me by lying,” he snapped.

“You let Randhawa humiliate you. Again. You looked like a kicked dog at that table.”

I swallowed. My jaw tightened.

“I was holding back—for the deal—”

He scoffed. “Holding back? That’s your excuse now? You're weak, Vihan. Soft. Emotional. Just like your mother.”

I flinched.

He knew exactly where to hit.

Exactly which ghosts to pull from the grave.

“I’ve given you everything,” he continued.

“This empire, this legacy, and you repay me with shame? You looked like a broken toy out there.”

I stood up slowly, hands curled into fists.

Not to fight him.

Just to keep them from shaking.

“I’m not broken,” I said, quietly.

“Then prove it,” he barked. “Because right now, all I see is a mistake wearing my name.”

I used to count how long I could stay in a room with him without flinching.

The record was six minutes.

Today, I didn’t last thirty seconds.

He looked me over one last time—like I was something he regretted building.

“Fix yourself, Vihan. Or I will.”

And with that, he turned.

Left me standing in that hallway with my chest cracked open and no one to blame but myself.