"The problem with good men, is that women like me become obsessed."

I have always wondered what kind of women men met. Because softness was never born inside me. Not even as a child.

People often wonder how monsters are created.As if cruelty appears suddenly one morning like illness.It does not.

Monsters are built slowly.Carefully.Piece by piece.

And perhaps mine began the day I realized the world only respects power when it comes wrapped inside men.

I was born into royalty, but even as a child, I understood something deeply insulting about kingdoms.

Princes were raised to rule.

Princesses were raised to decorate thrones beside them.

I hated it immediately.

My name is Samyukta Rajyashri Vikramsinh Deshmukh.

Thirty-two years old.
Firstborn of Sinhsthali.
The true ruler of a kingdom powerful enough to make empires kneel carefully before speaking our name. I was born with skin pale as fresh milk beneath moonlight, emerald green eyes cursed enough to make men forget their own names, and beauty dangerous enough to weaken kingdoms without lifting a sword.

And before you wonder...

yes.

The throne belongs to me.

In Sinhsthali, crowns are not given to sons simply because they are men. The throne belongs to the firstborn strong enough to carry it.

Boy or girl does not matter.

Power does.

And unfortunately for the fragile men surrounding royal courts...

I was born powerful.

My mother was a warrior long before she became Maharani. Maharani Rajyashri Deshmukh once rode beside soldiers while carrying me inside her womb and slit a traitor's throat during political negotiations without trembling once.

That woman raised me like herself.

She taught me how to wield swords before jewellry. How to spot lies hidden beneath smiles. How to survive rooms full of men who mistake femininity for weakness.

And my father?

Gods.

Maharaj Vikramsinh Deshmukh loved me with terrifying pride.

While other rulers desperately prayed for sons, my father looked at me like destiny itself had chosen our bloodline specially.

At six,  he allowed me inside war meetings.
At eight, he handed me military maps instead of dolls.
At thirteen, he watched me kill a man for the first time and felt pride instead of horror.

An assassin had entered the palace disguised as a servant.

He believed royal girls frightened easily.

Poor creature.

I still remember how warm his blood felt against my hands after I slit his throat.

No fear touched me.
No guilt.
No shaking.

Just annoyance that he stained my clothes.

That was the day my father stopped trying to protect me from warfare.

Instead...he raised me for it.

And my younger brother, Abhinandan...

that man became the backbone beneath everything I am.

He is twenty-seven now. The visible prince of Sinhsthali. Warm where I am cold. Diplomatic where I become dangerous.

But never weak. Never.

He understood me better than anyone else alive.

Perhaps because he grew up watching the real Samyukta before kingdoms buried her beneath rumors.

You see, after the age of ten...

I disappeared.

No royal festivals.
No public appearances.
No court celebrations.

The world stopped seeing me completely.

Some believed I had become ill. Some believed I was deeply injured in the assasination that i am barely surviving. Others whispered that the future queen of Sinhsthali had gone mad.

The truth was simpler.

Men should always fear me.

Not because I was cruel.

Because I was intelligent.

There were ministers who could tolerate a woman sitting beside the throne...

but not a woman capable of ruling it better than them.

Especially not one whose mind moved faster than experienced generals.

So my father made a decision.

If kingdoms refused to kneel before a ruling woman openly...

then we would rule them from shadows instead.

Officially, Abhinandan became the face standing beside the throne.

But behind every alliance...
every military movement...
every political strategy...
every war victory...

stood me.

Always me.

And somewhere inside those shadows, a legend or should we say a monster ? was born.

The Black Lion.

A faceless commander feared across Hindustan. A war machine powerful enough to end battles before sunrise. A strategist kings still fail to understand completely.

No one knows who the Black Lion truly is.

Not kings.
Not enemies.
Not even the soldiers fighting beside him.

And absolutely no one imagines the monster terrifying entire kingdoms could possibly be a woman hidden beneath silk sarees and emerald jewelry.

That is my favorite part.

People think women equal softness.How laughable.

I could slit your throat while speaking gently enough to calm you first.

And you still would not realize danger touched you until your blood reached the floor.

That is the privilege beauty gives women like me. People stare too long to notice death standing before them.

And perhaps that is why killing became easy.

At first, I remembered faces.

Then only blood.

Then eventually not even that.

War changes people strangely. 

Or perhaps it simply reveals who they truly were all along.

And me? I was never born gentle enough for this world.

Still...

despite all the bloodshed, despite becoming the hidden ruler of Sinhsthali before adulthood fully touched me...

People say obsession belongs to villains.

How unfortunate for them.

Because the man I love is good enough to be worshipped like a God...

and I am cruel enough to ruin him exactly the way I want. 🩸

nothing has ever controlled me the way Yatharth Devendra Singh Rathore does.

That man is my greatest weakness.

My greatest obsession.

And perhaps the only thing capable of ruining me beautifully.

I met him when I was nineteen years old at the Gurukul beside Abhinandan.

One afternoon.

One stupid, cursed afternoon.

And somehow my entire existence wrapped itself around him afterward.

He was twelve then.

Dusky skin warm as melted chocolate beneath sunlight. Broad shoulders already carrying discipline naturally. Wooden practice swords resting over one shoulder while sweat rolled slowly down his throat after sparring.

I still remember every detail. That is the problem with obsession. It remembers too much.

But what ruined me was never his appearance.

Though honestly, Gods clearly sculpted that man with unnecessary perfection.

No.

What destroyed me was his goodness. like if men became villain and obsessive then they are perfect? nahhh when they aree so strong, perfect but innocent that's what make it the perfect combination.

Yatharth is good in ways this world does not deserve.

The kind who keeps promises even when they destroy him. The kind who would bleed quietly before burdening someone else with his pain. You know the soft kind who women hate because they are not villain. but why I am more than ok to be villain if he is the prize.

Even now at twenty-five, he remains painfully disciplined.

No alcohol.
No smoking.
No meaningless indulgence.

Only sweets weaken him.

That man can survive war discussions calmly and still lose all royal composure over hot gulabjamun's.

And perhaps another woman would have loved him gently for that.

I did not.

Because what I feel for Yatharth is not soft enough to become love.

Love sounds harmless. but how can two soft people survive together. One needs to be crazy.

What I feel is possession sharpened into obsession.

I know the rhythm of his footsteps. I know how his jaw tightens when angry. I know he becomes quieter after difficult battles because he hates appearing weak before others.I know he secretly eats sweets late at night when stress becomes unbearable.

I know him too deeply.More than anyone should.

And every passing year only made my obsession worse.

While other women dreamed about marrying him...

I watched him like devotion itself had taken human form.

Sometimes women stare at him during royal gatherings and something ugly tightens inside my chest. Not jealousy. Ownership.

Not because I am insecure.

Because I am possessive.

At twenty-five, Yatharth has become devastatingly handsome in ways women lose dignity over regularly.

I understand them. Unfortunately.

Because Yatharth Rathore does not feel temporary to me.

He feels mine. Mine long before he ever realizes it himself.

And the cruelest part?

Yatharth only knows the Black Lion as the greatest war machine Hindustan has ever seen.

Nothing more.

He admires the commander's brilliance. Trusts his strategies. Respects the faceless monster responsible for countless victories.

If only he knew.

If only he realized that every battlefield where death mysteriously failed to touch him... was because somewhere beneath black armor stood a woman obsessing over him violently enough to destroy kingdoms.

Me.

And perhaps one day Yatharth will finally discover the truth.

Perhaps one day he will realize that the woman hidden from the world for twenty-two years...

has spent every single one of those years wanting him possessively enough to become ruin itself.

After all...

good men inspire devotion.

But men like Yatharth Rathore?

They inspire madness. 🩸