Hello, my Rosies! 🌹

The first chapter of His Forgotten Forever is finally here... and I'm so excited (and a little nervous) to share it with you. 🖤

Read till the last line, because that's when the real story quietly begins.

And when you're done... don't leave without telling me your theories. I read every single comment. 🤍✨

HAPPY READING.💋

Midnight.

The kind of midnight that swallowed sound before it could exist.

An abandoned highway stretched endlessly beneath a sky bruised with storm clouds. The street lights flickered every few seconds, throwing fractured pools of pale light across the rain-soaked asphalt before surrendering to darkness again.

Cold wind swept through the empty road, carrying the metallic scent of fresh blood. Thunder rolled somewhere far away—not loud enough to be frightening, only distant enough to remind the world that something terrible had already happened.

Two black SUVs stood several meters apart. Their engines were dead. Their headlights were shattered. Their windows were painted crimson from the inside.

Between them… Blood crept across the wet road in slow, uneven streams, disappearing into tiny cracks in the asphalt as though the earth itself was drinking it.

A handgun lay abandoned near the divider. A cracked phone blinked weakly in the darkness.

Someone had fought here. Someone had lost.

But the silence...

The silence was the most terrifying witness of all. It didn't mourn. It didn't accuse. It simply watched. As if it already knew what came after.

A faint groan disturbed the silence. A man lay sprawled across the rain-soaked asphalt. His clothes were torn. Blood clung to his skin. One hand trembled as it searched desperately for something to hold onto. His leg refused to obey him. He has been shot in the leg. Pain shot through his body every time he tried to move.

He gritted his teeth. Not because he believed he could escape… But because giving up felt even more terrifying. With every ounce of strength left inside him, he dragged himself forward.

His fingers scraped against the wet road. His breathing came in broken, uneven gasps. Rain washed over him without mercy, soaking his clothes and blurring his vision until the world became nothing more than shadows and distant lights.

He blinked hard. Stay awake. Just… Stay alive. He didn't know how long he had been crawling. Minutes. Maybe hours. Time had stopped making sense the moment everything had gone wrong.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Every sound felt louder than it should. Every shadow looked alive.

Then… He froze. Something had changed. Not the wind. The silence. It had become… heavier. As though the darkness itself had started watching him. His breath caught in his throat.

Slowly… Painfully… He lifted his head. The deserted highway stretched endlessly before him. Empty. No headlights. No passing vehicles. No one coming to save him. Only the storm.

Then... A Whistle.
Somewhere in that endless silence… A soft whistle drifted through the night.

Soft. Lazy. Almost... amused.
It drifted through the empty highway with the wind, so calm that it felt horribly out of place.

Not the whistle of a frightened man.
Not the whistle of someone running.
The whistle of someone who wasn't surprised by blood anymore.

The injured mens entire body went rigid. 

No. Not that whistle.

Please… Not him. The sound grew closer. One measured step after another echoed through the deserted highway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Polished leather shoes stopped inches from his trembling hand. The man squeezed his eyes shut. As if refusing to look could somehow change reality.

Another heartbeat. Then a shadow fell over him.

Polished black Tom Ford Oxford shoes stopped inches away from his bloodstained hand. His gaze slowly travelled upward.

Perfectly tailored black trousers. A custom-made three-piece Brioni suit that fit as though it had been stitched onto his body itself. A crisp white shirt. A matte black silk tie. The cuff of his sleeve shifted ever so slightly, revealing a Patek Philippe Grand Complications wrapped around his wrist—a timepiece worth more than most people would earn in a lifetime.

One hand rested casually inside his pocket. The other lazily adjusted the cuff of his suit. Effortless. Controlled. Untouchable. The stranger stood well over six feet four, his mere presence enough to make the empty highway feel impossibly smaller.

Some men were handsome. Some were attractive. And then… There were men who looked as though the gods themselves had sculpted them with impossible patience.

Broad shoulders stretched beneath the expensive fabric with quiet confidence, tapering into a lean, perfectly defined frame built through relentless discipline rather than vanity. Every movement hinted at restrained strength. Not the kind that needed to be displayed… The kind that never had to.

His forearms, faintly veined beneath rolled cuffs, carried the subtle marks of years spent mastering both violence and control. His jawline looked carved from marble. High cheekbones. A perfectly straight nose. Dark brows. Long lashes that softened nothing about the storm-grey eyes beneath them.

Those eyes… Cold. Still. Unreadable. Like an ocean moments before a hurricane. Beautiful enough to steal your breath. Dangerous enough to become your last mistake.

Dark, slightly tousled hair fell carelessly across his forehead, while a neatly trimmed beard sharpened an already devastating face. His skin carried a warm bronze glow beneath the pale streetlights. The faint scent of cedarwood, leather, and impossibly expensive cologne lingered around him— Quiet. Refined. Unforgettable.

Everything about him spoke of control. The way he stood. The way he breathed. The way silence itself seemed to obey him. He never demanded attention. Attention surrendered itself to him. Power wasn't something he carried. It was something that surrounded him.

The underworld whispered his name with caution. Business empires respected it. Enemies prayed they would never hear it. Because men like him weren't born every generation. They were forged. By betrayal. By loss. By years that taught survival before compassion.

He rarely raised his voice. He rarely smiled. And when he did… Someone usually regretted being there to witness it. He did not need a crown to look like a king. Nor a weapon to look dangerous. His silence was threat enough. His presence… A sentence no one dared interrupt.

The injured man's pupils shrank in terror. His lips trembled as a broken whisper escaped them.

"...I-Ishvaan..."

Ishvaan Malhotra.

The man who ruled empires in daylight… and nightmares after dark.

The injured man's lips trembled. His voice cracked before another word could leave his mouth. "P-Please..."

He wasn't begging for his life. He already knew it was beyond saving. He was begging because he knew exactly… who had come for him.

The whistling finally faded. Silence returned. A silence so complete that even the rain seemed afraid to interrupt it.

Then— A deep, composed voice broke the darkness. "You know what disappoints me?" Not loud. Not angry. Just... calm. He slowly crouched before the broken man, meeting terrified eyes that refused to blink. "It wasn't the betrayal." A faint smile touched his lips. "It was how carelessly you planned it."

The injured man shook uncontrollably. "I... I had no choice..."

For the first time… Ishvaan smiled. Not warmly. Not cruelly. Simply... knowingly. "Everyone says that." His storm-grey eyes held no rage. No hatred. Only quiet certainty. "They always remember they had no choice..." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "...right before they expect mercy."

A pause. Long enough for the silence to become unbearable. Then he rose to his full height, the rain tracing silent lines over the shoulders of his black coat. His gaze shifted toward the endless darkness ahead. "I stopped expecting loyalty a long time ago."

Another slow whistle escaped his lips as he began walking away. Without looking back. Without another word. The injured man stared after him, his eyes filled with the kind of fear that only legends could create. Because everyone in the underworld knew one thing. Some monsters announced their arrival with bullets. Others… with a whistle.

The injured man couldn't breathe. His heartbeat pounded louder than the thunder above. He watched the black figure walk away… Each step slow. Measured. Unhurried. As though the night itself belonged to him.

No...

No...

He couldn't let him leave.

Not before—

"W-Wait..." His broken voice barely escaped his lips. The footsteps never stopped. His trembling fingers dug into the wet asphalt. He forced himself forward another inch. Blood. Rain. Pain. Nothing mattered anymore.

"I..." His voice cracked. "I know..." The man in the black suit continued walking. Not even a glance. The injured man's eyes widened with desperation. If this didn't stop him… Nothing would. He gathered every last fragment of strength left inside him. Then screamed—

"SHE'S ALIVE!"

Silence. The whistle died. The footsteps stopped. Even the wind suddenly felt too loud. For a long moment… Nothing moved. The injured man stared at the motionless figure standing several feet away.

Then… Very slowly… Ishvaan turned. Not completely. Just enough. The faint smile that had rested on his lips all night… Vanished. The calm in his storm-grey eyes fractured.

Only for a heartbeat. Only enough to prove… He had heard. He took one slow step back toward the injured man. Another. Then another. This time… There was no whistle. No amusement. No smile. Only silence. He stopped beside him once again. The air itself felt heavier.

His voice came out low. Controlled. Almost... dangerous. "...What did you say?"

The injured man swallowed painfully. A weak, trembling smile appeared on his bloodless face. For the first time that night… He had succeeded in making the devil stop.

"I... I wasn't lying..." He coughed, struggling to breathe. "S-She..." Another painful breath. "...she's alive."

The words hung between them. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The storm rumbled somewhere far away. Ishvaan's gaze never left the broken man before him.

Years. An entire lifetime… Buried beneath silence. One sentence had just unearthed it all. His jaw tightened. His hands, usually still as stone, curled into fists inside the pockets of his coat. Not in anger. In fear. A fear he had forgotten he was capable of feeling.

His voice was barely more than a whisper. "...Where?"

Another silence.

Long.

Heavy.

Endless.

The injured man smiled weakly. "I'll tell you… he whispered, struggling to breathe. "But promise me... my family will never pay for what I did."

Ishvaan remained silent. His storm-grey eyes never left the broken man. After a long pause, he spoke in a voice as cold as the rain. "They were never my target."

The injured man closed his eyes in relief. Then, with his last remaining strength, he whispered— "...She's alive." Dead.

He simply stood there, staring into the darkness beyond the highway. For the very first time that night… The devil sounded afraid. 

"...Where is she?" 

Before you leave, my Rosies...

If you've reached the end of chapter 1, thank you for giving this story a chance.🤍

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See you in Chapter 2, My Rosies... 🌹🫶

With Love,
Heaven rose 🖤