Chapter 2
The King Without a Crown
The first rule of power was simple: Never let anyone see you bleed.
Abhimaan Rathore knew that rule better than anyone.
He hadn’t just learned it — he had been carved by it.
From the twenty-fourth floor of the Rathore Towers, he stood by the wall-length windows, sipping black coffee, surveying the empire he had built brick by bloody brick.
Below him, the city sprawled — a beast made of glass and concrete, pulsing with hunger.
To most of the world, Abhimaan Rathore was a visionary.
A real estate magnate.
A ruthless but brilliant investor.
Men envied him.
Women desired him.
Politicians owed him.
But behind the polished press releases and smiling photographs was the truth that no one dared whisper too loudly — Abhimaan Rathore was also a king of the underworld.
Drugs. Weapons. Blackmail. Protection rackets.
Deals sealed with blood and betrayal.
And every cop who might have gotten in his way was either bought, broken, or buried.
Yet Abhimaan didn’t see himself as a villain.
He saw himself as the inevitable product of a corrupted world.
In a city where justice was for sale, where loyalty was a myth, he had simply played smarter, harder, meaner.
He had become the storm instead of drowning in it.
⸻
His phone vibrated once on the desk, drawing his gaze.
Aadesh Malhotra.
A snake of a man — middle-rung mafia, desperate for approval.
Abhimaan let the phone ring once more before answering.
“Speak,” he said, voice cold.
“Sir, we have a problem,” Aadesh stammered. “A lawyer — Vedika Sharma — she’s getting too close. She’s digging into our construction projects, the ones where we… you know… shifted the zoning permits.”
Abhimaan said nothing, letting the silence stretch and tighten around Aadesh’s throat.
“She’s dangerous, sir,” Aadesh rushed on. “If she files the PIL she’s drafting… it’ll drag half your name into it.”
Still silent, Abhimaan walked slowly to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself two fingers of scotch despite the hour.
He sipped it thoughtfully, the smoky fire filling his chest.
Vedika Sharma.
He rolled the name around his mind.
He had heard whispers of her before — the firebrand advocate who made a career out of dismantling corrupt deals.
Young, fearless, smart enough to make her enemies underestimate her until it was too late.
Most would have sent a warning shot across her bow — an anonymous threat, a little staged accident.
But Abhimaan was not “most men.”
He didn’t believe in threats.
He believed in ownership.
⸻
He set his glass down with a soft clink.
“Bring me her file,” he said quietly. “Family. Weaknesses. Friends. Every case she’s touched in the last three years. I want it all.”
Aadesh let out a breath of relief. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“And Aadesh,” Abhimaan added, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur, “if you handle this sloppily, I’ll have your tongue nailed to your own front door.”
The line went dead.
⸻
Abhimaan leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the city.
He thought of the times he had believed in justice — back when he was a boy, too young to understand that the world did not reward goodness.
His father had been a small-time businessman, running a modest construction firm.
Hardworking. Honest.
And utterly doomed.
When his father had refused to pay protection money to the local thugs, the police had looked the other way while his family was destroyed piece by piece.
First came the fire at the warehouse.
Then the “accidental” beating that left his father half-paralyzed.
And finally, the foreclosure notices that swept away everything they had.
His mother — once a proud woman — died three years later, with nothing but debt and broken prayers.
And Abhimaan learned the only truth that mattered: The world bowed only to fear.
He built Rathore Enterprises with bloodied hands and an unbreakable will.
He smiled at government officials while funding their enemies.
He toasted business partners while knowing exactly how they would die if they betrayed him.
There were no accidents in his life.
Only design.
Only control.
Until now.
Until Vedika Sharma — an unexpected variable.
A fire he hadn’t set.
Yet.
⸻
Later that evening, as the city drowned in a fresh wave of rain, Aadesh returned with a file thick enough to satisfy even Abhimaan’s appetite for information.
Vedika Sharma.
Age: 24.
Occupation: Advocate — High Court and freelance public interest cases.
Known for: Winning PILs against illegal constructions, corruption exposure, victims’ rights.
Family:
• Mother: Shanta Sharma — Homemaker.
• Brother: Kabir Sharma — 15 years old, school student.
Father: Rajeev Sharma.
Status: Deceased.
Circumstances: Shot dead during an “encounter” involving mafia-police collusion.
Abhimaan’s hand stilled on the page.
He reread that part again.
Rajeev Sharma.
Something twisted low in his gut — a strange, unwelcome stir of… respect?
The girl wasn’t just chasing the law for ambition or fame.
She had a vendetta.
A scar deep enough to fuel wars.
He flipped through photographs clipped into the file.
One caught his eye.
Vedika outside a courtroom, hair pulled back severely, black coat wrapped tightly around her frame, fierce defiance etched into every line of her face.
Not beautiful in the usual sense.
Something sharper than beauty.
A force.
A blade.
Abhimaan smiled slowly.
Maybe the universe had finally decided to entertain him.
It had been so long since he found a challenge worth bleeding for.
He leaned back, tapping the file against his thigh.
He didn’t want to simply neutralize Vedika Sharma.
He wanted to break her open.
Understand the fire inside her.
Claim it for himself.
And if she fought him — and she would — it would only make the conquest that much sweeter.
⸻
By the time midnight fell, Abhimaan had already set the next phase of his plan into motion.
Vedika would be invited — politely, formally — to discuss a potential legal consulting project for one of his shell companies.
It would be a lie, of course.
Everything would be a lie.
Because this wasn’t about contracts or courtrooms anymore.
It was about a woman who didn’t know she was already standing at the edge of a very steep, very dark cliff.
And Abhimaan Rathore?
He was the gravity that would pull her down.