They spent the entire week at Anisha's official residence in Prayagraj.
Arahan fucked them every day—sometimes separately, sometimes together. Mornings in the sunlit study with files pushed aside; afternoons on the shaded veranda, curtains drawn tight against prying eyes; nights in Anisha's wide bed, mother and daughter side by side, legs spread, taking turns riding him slow and deep, licking each other clean when he finished in one.
Anisha taught Noorzadi new ways to please him—how to swirl her tongue just under the head, how to squeeze her inner walls at the exact moment he bottomed out.
Noorzadi showed her mother how to beg filthier—voice low and broken, words shameless: "Fill me again, Arahan… breed me like you bred my daughter."
They shared him without jealousy—only hunger, only gratitude.
By the end of the week, both Noorzadi and Anisha discovered they were pregnant.
The tests came back positive almost simultaneously—two pink lines each. They stood in the marble bathroom of the residence, holding the sticks side by side on the counter, staring in stunned silence.
Then soft, tearful laughter bubbled up. Noorzadi touched her still-flat belly first, whispering, "It's really happening."
Anisha placed her palm over her daughter's, then over her own. "We're both carrying his child," she said quietly, voice thick with wonder and awe.
They were happy. Truly, deeply happy.
Back at the main house, the other women were entering the final stretch.
Sabiha, now heavily pregnant, rubbed her enormous belly with both hands and smiled every time the babies kicked. Delivery was only days away; the midwives had already set up in the guest wing.
Bushra and Sana were both in their seventh month, bellies round and low, constantly teasing each other about whose baby would come first—"Yours is definitely a girl, look how she's sitting high," Sana would laugh, while Bushra retorted, "Yours is a footballer, feel these kicks!"
Anshika and Suhani—further along than expected—were already on light duty at the factory, waddling between meetings with proud, tired smiles, hands cradling their swollen middles.
Delivery dates loomed—some within days, others within weeks. The house had become a maternity sanctuary: midwives on call, cribs being assembled in every spare room, endless trays of nourishing food prepared by Sahil and the staff.
Arahan watched it all with quiet satisfaction.
He didn't say it aloud, but he knew the truth in his bones: he was living like a king. A harem of devoted women, all swollen with his seed.
A legitimate business empire growing by the day. An illegal-turned-legal arms operation funneling crores into their accounts. Respect, fear, lust, loyalty, all orbiting him. He felt invincible.
And yet, a restlessness stirred.
After the births, after he held his children, kissed their exhausted mothers, ensured everyone was safe and settled, he planned to leave for Calcutta.
To meet Shaista.
He had promised her he would return after graduation. He hadn't completed it yet, life had pulled him in too many directions.
But the promise still burned in his chest. She deserved to see him. And Aryan… his son… had grown two years old already.
That evening, after dinner, Arahan slipped into the quiet study and placed a video call.
The screen flickered to life. Shaista appeared first, hair loose, wearing the same simple salwar she'd worn the last time he saw her, eyes lighting up the moment she saw his face.
"Arahan…" Her voice cracked with emotion. "Please come fast as soon as possible, I am missing you."
Behind her, a small boy toddled into frame—dark curls, his father's eyes—clutching a toy truck. "Abbu!" Aryan squealed, waving chubby arms.
Arahan's throat tightened. He smiled—soft, genuine, the kind he rarely showed anyone else.
"Hey, beta," he said quietly. "I'm coming home soon."
Shaista's hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled. "When?"
"After the babies are born here. A few weeks. I promise."
She nodded, wiping her eyes. "We've waited this long. We can wait a little more. Just… come back to us."
Aryan climbed into her lap, pressing his face close to the camera. "Abbu coming? With gifts?"
Arahan laughed—low, warm. "With the biggest gifts, champ. And I'll bring stories too."
They talked for nearly an hour—small things, everyday things. Aryan showed him his new drawings; Shaista told him about the garden she was tending; Arahan listened, heart aching in a way it hadn't in months.
When the call ended, he sat in the dark for a long time, staring at the blank screen.
The king had an empire here. But in Calcutta, his most precious person.
He stood, walked back to the bedroom where Anisha and Noorzadi slept curled together, bellies already showing the faintest curve.
He slipped between them, arms wrapping around both.
They stirred, murmured his name in sleepy contentment, and nestled closer.
He closed his eyes.
---
Today, Arahan prepared meticulously for a critical gun delivery to the Indian Army: the first batch of fifty prototype automatic rifles with enhanced penetration rounds—high-velocity, low-recoil, modular design—capable of punching through a tree trunk at 200 meters and still killing the target behind it. Hand-selected for field trials with an elite para-commando unit in the northeast.
He insisted on personal delivery to oversee the handover and ensure zero errors.
The convoy left Prayagraj at dawn: three armored SUVs, two escort jeeps, six armed guards from Sabiha's detail, and Arahan in the middle vehicle with the prototypes in reinforced cases. The pre-cleared route was flanked by highway patrols.
Halfway along a desolate rural highway bordered by dense sugarcane fields, the ambush hit without warning.
The lead jeep exploded in a fireball from a precise shoulder-fired RPG. Gunfire erupted from both sides—at least fifteen masked men in black tactical gear, moving like professionals.
Arahan's security returned fire instantly. He drew his 9mm Glock, kicked open the door, and rolled out low.
The fight was short and savage. Bullets ricocheted off armor. Guards fell—one clutching his neck, another firing until he slumped dead. Arahan dropped two attackers with clean headshots, but the odds were overwhelming.
A grenade landed near the middle SUV. The blast flipped it sideways.
Arahan was thrown clear. Ears ringing, vision blurred, blood in his mouth, he crawled toward the prototype cases on instinct.
A tall masked man stepped forward, calm and deliberate, raising an AK-47.
Arahan looked up. No fear—only quiet acceptance. He thought of the women at home, pregnant with his children; of Shaista and two-year-old Aryan still waiting; of the empire he had built… and how every kingdom falls.
The man fired three rounds, center mass.
Arahan's body jerked once from the impact of the three center-mass rounds, then went still.
He lay face-down in the dirt, blood spreading in a slow, dark pool beneath his chest. His eyes—still open—stared blankly at the sugarcane swaying in the breeze, as if waiting for something that would never come.
One hand reached halfway toward the overturned case containing the prototypes he had personally overseen—the very weapons meant to prove his empire's strength. His fingers twitched once, then stilled forever.
The attackers worked efficiently: they loaded surviving cases into their vehicles, set the convoy ablaze for cover, and vanished into the sugarcane fields.
By the time police and army arrived, the road was a smoking graveyard. Thick black smoke rose like a funeral pyre into the pale sky.
The attackers were gone. The crates lay smashed open, rifles stolen. Arahan's body cooled in the dust.
The king was dead.
The empire he had built—women, children, wealth, power, now hung in fragile silence, waiting for the world to discover what it had lost.
---
Word reached the house before noon.
Sabiha was in the nursery, folding tiny clothes with mechanical care, when her phone rang. The voice on the other end was clipped and official.
"Mrs. Sabiha… there has been an incident on the highway. Your husband… Arahan is dead."
The phone slipped from her hand. She did not scream. She simply sank to the floor, one hand pressed to her swollen belly where the twins kicked frantically, as though they already sensed the loss. Tears came silently at first, then great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body.
Bushra and Sana were in the living room, laughing over baby names, when Sahil burst in, face ashen, phone still clutched in his hand.
"He's gone," he whispered.
Bushra froze, hand on her round stomach. Sana's laughter died mid-breath.
"No," Sana said softly, as though the word could make it untrue.
Then the room filled with wails: two pregnant women collapsing into each other, clutching bellies that now carried fatherless children.
Anshika and Suhani arrived from the factory minutes later, summoned by frantic calls. Anshika dropped to her knees in the hallway, vomiting from shock and morning sickness combined.
Suhani stood frozen, arms wrapped around her own pregnant belly, staring at nothing.
"He promised… after the births…" she whispered. "He said he'd be here."
Noorzadi was at her mother's house when the news came. Anisha answered the call, then slowly lowered the phone.
Her daughter looked up from the sofa, smile fading.
"Ammi?"
Anisha could not speak. She walked to her daughter, knelt, and pulled Noorzadi into her arms.
"He's dead, beta."
Noorzadi's face crumpled. She clutched her own belly, still barely showing, and began to rock back and forth.
"No… no… he can't… the baby needs him…"
The house that had once rung with laughter, moans, and the promise of new life became a tomb of grief.
That night, all the women gathered in the master bedroom, Arahan's bedroom. They lay together on the enormous bed where he had once claimed them. No one spoke much. They simply held each other, hands resting on bellies, tears soaking pillows, feeling the kicks of children who would never know their father's face or hear his voice calling them by name.
Sabiha stared at the ceiling, one hand stroking her belly.
"He always wanted to go to Calcutta…" she whispered. "To meet Shaista and his son Aryan. But because of me, he stayed here. This time, after our delivery, he was going to meet them."
No one answered. There was nothing left to say.
The guns, his final pride, were gone.
The empire would survive. Sabiha would make sure of it, ruthless now, fueled by grief and vengeance.
The children would be born strong.
The women would raise them together, bound by love, loss, and the memory of the man who had given them everything and taken everything away in the same breath.
But Arahan would never hold his sons or daughters. Never kiss their mothers again. Never reach Calcutta. Never meet Shaista and Aryan.
And in the end, all that remained was silence, swollen bellies, and the quiet, endless weeping of women who had once screamed his name in ecstasy, now whispering it in grief.