Harsh strode across the empty corridor, his shoes stomping on the marble with a rhythm too loud in the echoey silence. Each echo bounced back at him as his chest heaved with labored breaths, his hands trembling as he wiped away tears that refused to stop. His jaw clenched tightly as his bloodshot eyes swept over the royal portraits lining the wall. His lips twisted into a bitter snarl.

He glared at each painted face.

Every single one of them made him.

Weakling.

He was a weakling?

No. They were weaklings. Cowards who buried the innocent to mask their own sins.

He came to a stop before Viraj Rajvansh's portrait. His breath caught in his throat. The ex-Yuvraaj's painted gaze bore into him, dark, magnetic and unrelenting as it peirced through his soul. It wasn't cruel. Just consuming.

Harsh's fists curled at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.

How many like him had been erased, discarded in the name of reputation? How many were sacrificed so these walls could stay clean and silent?

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Even Viraj... who had been erased for the throne.

His eyes stung. His heart twisted with grief and rage.

He stared harder at the portrait until his own warped reflection on the glass became visible. At first, he saw himself. Then someone else.

His breath hitched. Eyes wide, he spun around quickly.

A man stood in the shadows, staring up at the portrait in a haunting silence.

Harsh's pulse pounded in his ears. His body went rigid, heat rushing up his neck and into his cheeks.

"Woah," he whispered, clutching at his chest, trying to steady his erratic heartbeat. His fingers twitched. His body burned with adrenaline. He suddenly felt too hot that his skin crawled under his shirt. It slowly curled into a flush of arousal low in his stomach.

Fuck.

He glanced away, cheeks flaming.

Damn it. The guy wasn't even his type. Tall, sure. Dark, mysterious. Still, fear had a sick way of turning him on. Sex was the only time someone was willing to hold him, ground him with their touch. He knew it was pathetic but it was the only way he felt wanted and... not alone.

His lips thinned in irritation as he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. A flicker of shame burned in his throat. His face tightened, brows drawing together as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Who are you?" he snapped, facing the guy.

The man didn't look at him. His deep, tired gaze stayed fixed above Harsh's head.

Harsh glanced at the portrait, then again at the man. "Are you obsessed with him or what? He won't jump out of a painting to talk to you."

Still nothing.

Harsh shifted his weight, arms crossed tight over his chest, trying to suppress the nervous shiver in his leg. "Are you another illegitimate spawn like me? Because those lovey-dovey eyes you're giving a dead guy. Either he's your brother. Or your lover."

The man's dark eyes cut through Harsh's honey eyes as he briefly regarded him. He turned and walked away without a word.

Harsh stared after him, body tense. He could still feel the man as he shivered.

"Creep," he muttered, but his voice cracked mid-word. His breath quickened.

Was that look a threat?

Or was he out of his mind like his mother?

He pressed his palm hard against his forehead. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, his temples pulsing. He felt like he was about to split apart.

His gaze flitted toward Viraj's portrait once more. He looked away, chest aching with loneliness.

           Harsh recalled the last time he slept with someone. It was three days ago when his mother had gone on a two day rendezvous trip with some businessman. 

He was bored and lonely, only empty walls staring back at him when he joined the club under a fake ID. The high of sex was short-lived and came to an end when his mother abruptly arrived back home and wept as she lost her client. It was becoming more frequent- losing clients and then crying in misery. He would have consoled her more sympathetically  had she not thrown her broken heel at his head and almost stabbed him in the eye.

"Tina! I get it you're an old, ugly bitch but you don't have to stab my eye to prove that!" Harsh exclaimed, ducking behind the sofa.

"Why were you born, you rascal! You are the reason my hole's too loose now!" Tina cried and grabbed the vase.

Harsh scurried under the sofa and ran off to the door.

"Because you wanted to guilt trap my sperm donor and live off my child support, but that bastard turned out to be worse than you and gave me no penny!" He reasoned, raising his arms in surrender but Tina had fucking lost her mind.

"I hate you!" She gritted, throwing the vase at the floor. Shards flew in all directions, some cutting her waxed legs. But she was far too gone in her hysteria to register pain. "You worthless piece of scum! You made me a hag!" She cried. "My breasts are sagging because of you!"

"They're sagging because of old age," Harsh deadpanned. 

Tina wailed and dropped on her knees atop the very shards with a sick crunch. Harsh hissed but Tina only cried in her hoarse, raw voice about her lost youth, scrambling for drugs on the table. "I'm so ugly!"

"All that whining is not going to make you young again," he muttered and rolled his eyes. "C'mon Tina, get your act together. Your days of whoring can't end this soon. I'm sure. God is merciless and he would love to see a real slut becoming of you."

His mother inhaled the poison between her cries, mascara running down her glossy cheeks.

Harsh frowned and shifted on his other leg, not knowing how to console her. He thought for a long while about it. 

However by then, Tina had stood up on wobbly legs, quieter and calmer.

"Where... are you going?" He asked, side stepping for her as she limped like a zombie from all the bleeding and her broken heels.

"To die..." she murmured.

"Or you can wait till I impregnate a rich heiress and let's just say.... she's an emotional fool who will cling to us for the sake of her baby and fund our family trauma," Harsh spoke hopefully. "Just because you failed at my turn doesn't mean it can't happen. We can hope, Tina."

"I won't force you," she whispered, opening the door.

Harsh froze, before rage twisted inside him.

"Oh please! Force? Don't try to act mother of the year by giving me a 'choice'. Where were you when I was used for three years behind your back? The only reason I'm letting it slide is because he almost killed you."

"Blame your sperm donor if you want to blame someone," she hissed, glaring at him with her teary, blood shot eyes. "He knew what kind of life I live. I told him I'm not strong enough to protect myself,  let alone you. He knew it and yet... look at that piece of scum who left you to rot with me. You could have been a prince. A real prince. Now, look at you. You're just as ruined as me. Blame him, honey. Your mother has worse things to worry about."

Harsh glared after her as she shuffled out of their flat. "How about you really die for once!" He yelled after her, chest rising and falling, eyes burning with tears he refused to shed.

Unfortunately for Harsh she didn't die that day. She died a night after that, not even giving him a heads up. Harsh deserved to be warned.

Now, Harsh sat slouched on the floor against his bed, fingers tangled in his hair, legs sprawled out. His body sagged with exhaustion.

He missed her.

The realization froze him.

She wasn't superficial like these people, especially not for him. She was simple.

Predictable. 

Ans honest.

He stared at the floor with empty eyes, his breath barely there.

After entering his room, he had taken care of his needs. But the aftermath of his lust was always the same.

Hollowness.

A harrowing hollowness. One that festered his soul and mind with a plague like feeling. He felt rotten inside out and didn't know how to deal with it. If his mother had been alive, he would have argued with her, fought with her, hated her, then laid beside her once she had passed out, whispering dumb hopes into the darkness.

He stared at the ceiling, chest rising in slow, strained breaths. His hands lay limply on his stomach. 

At least the word 'weakling' wasn't hurting him anymore.

He laughed, a self depreciating grin on his face.

His phone buzzed.

He groaned, rolling over. He had totally forgotten to deactivate his old SIM card since he had a new one now.

Up? 

He glared at the text message from one of his mother's clients, eventually his. Harsh needed pocket money for that one time extravagant birthday party he threw for himself and that was how he made a... sugar daddy.

The guy was decent when it came to showering money but equally annoying. He would blabber like a drunken kid about sexism, politics, terrorism and a bunch of other stupid things. 

According to him, rape was faulted to a victim's clothing. In that case, when Harsh was wearing an oversized crocodile printed shirt and knee length zebra shorts, that was sexy and provocative.

Okay.

That noble man also believed terrorists were real men because they had guts to blow... well... guts?

Harsh had to nod along to all his rants about his mother-in-law while he had sex with him.

Apparently, that fuctard had zero sense of intimacy. 

Harsh smirked, thumb hovering over the screen as sick satisfaction curled in his chest. 

His days of slavery were finally over.

Listen, mf.

U r only 1.5 inches big. Barely there.

Just like your tinnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyy brain cells.

F. U. 

Bye.

/btw your mum-in-law is right. You're a chickenshit/

He sent the message, blocked the number, deleting all chats between them and brushed back his hair with a sigh.

His shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. He tossed the phone aside after sending the deactivation request, and flopped on the bed, grinning to himself as his face sank into the pillow.

He could pretend he's on a free, luxurious vacation and squander all of Agney's money!

He chuckled, his mood instantly uplifted. Now time would tell them who's the weakling...