PROLOGUE

“Main tujhe mangkar nahin loonga, Noori.
Main tujhe jalaakar apna banaunga.
Aur tum dekhogi…
Tum khud hi iss aag mein chal kar aaogi.”

(I will not take you by asking, Noori.
I will burn you into being mine.
And you will see…
You yourself will walk into this fire.)

Dhawalgarh was a village of whispers.
Whispers of fields too dry, men too drunk, women too tired.
Whispers of temples where gods slept, and havelis where devils ruled.

At the highest point of that village stood the Raizada Haveli—white stone, iron gates, and a shadow that fell across every mud house below. The villagers said the Raizadas owned not just their land, but also their lives. A family with blood on their hands and gold in their vaults.

And at the heart of it, there was him.

Zahir Singh Raizada.

The elder son of Thakur Rudra Pratap Singh Raizada.
Rich, arrogant, untamed. A man who carved his power not with his father’s wealth but with his own fists, knives, and sins.
He ruled the city rackets, bloodied his hands in deals too dirty to be named, and yet… he never bowed to the man who sired him.
He was ruthless.
He was feared.
He was untouchable.

But even wolves bleed when it comes to love.

Not a queen.
Not a courtesan.
Not even a fighter.

A widow.

Noori Vishal Sehrawat.
The child bride left behind.
The girl who was widowed at seventeen, her husband denying her name and bond.
Since then, she lived with the ashes of marriage tied around her throat—a white dupatta, no sindoor, no bangles. A teacher in the dusty government school, her voice rising above broken walls, teaching children that numbers and hope were the same thing: infinite if you dare to believe.

She had no family. No shield but her honesty. No weapon but her conviction.
And still—
she stood against men when they mocked.
She stood against tradition when it choked her.

That day, when the men ran back humiliated and whispered of a widow who dared to defy Raizada power, Zahir heard.

He should have laughed.
Ignored.
Crushed her quietly.

But when her name reached him, it struck like an old wound.
That day, Zahir hadn’t been able to look away.
That day, something feral inside him had chosen her.
And Zahir Singh Raizada never forgot what he chose.

Now fate had given him his excuse.
A widow.
A woman who thought she could challenge Raizada blood.

She had slapped the wrong man.
She had woken the wrong wolf.

And Dhawalgarh was about to witness a love story not written in roses—
but in blood, ashes, and fire........