Chapter 5
The First Move
The coffee shop was almost empty, just the quiet hum of the espresso machine and the soft clink of cups behind the counter.
Vedika sat near the window, her nerves buzzing under her skin.
Across from her sat Deepak — a mid-level accounts officer from Rathore Enterprises, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?” Vedika asked quietly.
Deepak wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and nodded jerkily.
“I think so. I parked two streets over. Took an auto here.”
Vedika leaned in slightly, voice low but firm.
“You said you have documents. Proof of illegal land seizures.”
Deepak nodded again, fumbling with a battered laptop bag.
He pulled out a thin, battered folder, hands shaking.
“These are copies,” he whispered. “Transaction records. Ghost companies used to buy land… under threat, sometimes. It’s all there. I kept backups. If they find out—”
“They won’t,” Vedika cut him off sharply. “I’ll protect you.”
But even as she said it, she knew the truth.
Against someone like Abhimaan Rathore, no one was truly safe.
She slipped the folder into her satchel quickly, heart pounding.
This could be the smoking gun she needed.
Enough to drag Rathore Enterprises into court — to force a trial under the glare of the media.
Enough to finally rip away their armor of power and fear.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Deepak swallowed hard and nodded, but fear still clung to him like a second skin.
Vedika stood, pulling her scarf tighter around her shoulders.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, and turned toward the door.
She could already feel the walls closing in.
If Deepak was brave enough to come forward, someone inside Rathore Enterprises would notice the missing files soon — if they hadn’t already.
She needed to move fast.
Outside, the city was alive with late evening chaos — honking cars, shouting vendors, the smell of rain and diesel.
Vedika tightened her grip on her satchel and headed toward the metro station, blending into the crowd.
She didn’t notice the black SUV crawling slowly along the curb behind her.
Not yet
Meanwhile, in another part of Delhi, Abhimaan Rathore sat in the backseat of a sleek black car, staring out at the city with cold calculation.
Aadesh sat in the front passenger seat, his phone pressed to his ear.
“They met,” Aadesh said. “At a coffee shop near Patel Nagar. We have the man’s name — Deepak Sinha. Mid-level finance.”
Abhimaan’s lips curled into a slow, almost indulgent smile.
So she thought she could gather an army of rats and bring down a lion.
Admirable.
Stupid, but admirable.
He tapped his finger lightly against the leather seat.
“No more intermediaries,” he said softly. “Prepare the suite.”
Aadesh turned, frowning. “You’re meeting her?”
Abhimaan’s smile widened — sharp, predatory.
“I’m inviting her.”
Vedika barely made it into her building before the storm broke.
Thunder rumbled over the city as she climbed the stairs, head bent against the sudden gusts of wind.
Inside her apartment, she locked the door, double-bolted it, and leaned against it for a moment, breathing hard.
Kabir was asleep.
Her mother sat hunched over her sewing machine, stitching quietly.
Vedika managed a smile for her before slipping into her room.
She placed the folder carefully on her desk, her fingers lingering over it.
This was it.
The beginning of the end for Abhimaan Rathore.
A small, grim smile tugged at her lips.
She was close.
So close.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
“You’re invited. Room 1703, The Imperial. Tonight. Come alone.”
Vedika stared at the screen, heart lurching.
No threats.
No demands.
Just an invitation.
But she knew who it was from.
Abhimaan Rathore.
And every instinct she had screamed that walking into his territory was suicide.
Yet she also knew one thing for certain:
He wasn’t going to stop.
He was escalating.
If she didn’t face him now, he would find another way — one she might not survive.
Slowly, she grabbed her bag and the pepper spray hidden inside her drawer.
She wasn’t walking into the lion’s den unarmed.
The Imperial loomed against the stormy sky, its lights reflecting off the wet streets.
Vedika marched through the gleaming lobby, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure the receptionist could hear it.
No one stopped her.
No one even looked twice.
She took the elevator to the seventeenth floor, feeling the walls close around her like a steel trap.
Room 1703.
She hesitated outside the door for a heartbeat.
Then she knocked once, sharply.
The door swung open almost instantly.
And there he was.
Abhimaan Rathore.
Tall.
Dark.
Beautiful in a brutal, unforgiving way.
He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, the top buttons undone.
No tie. No jacket.
Power clung to him like a second skin.
Vedika lifted her chin.
“You wanted to see me,” she said, voice cool.
Abhimaan stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in.
Vedika entered carefully, eyes flicking over the room.
It was luxurious but minimalist — leather furniture, gleaming dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
No guards.
No witnesses.
Just the two of them.
Abhimaan closed the door with a soft click that sounded almost ominous.
For a moment, they simply stood there, measuring each other.
“You’re braver than I thought,” he said finally, voice low and smooth.
“I’m not here for your compliments,” Vedika snapped.
His mouth quirked in amusement.
“Then what are you here for, Ms. Sharma?”
“You sent for me.”
“I invited you,” he corrected, moving closer.
Vedika held her ground, even as her pulse skittered wildly.
“I don’t take orders from criminals.”
Abhimaan laughed softly — a sound that somehow made the room feel smaller, heavier.
“You should,” he said. “It’s safer.”
Vedika met his gaze fiercely.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” he murmured.
He stepped closer again, until they were barely a foot apart.
Vedika could see the faint scar along his jawline now, the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
Danger radiated off him like heat.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Abhimaan said softly. “Digging where you shouldn’t.”
“I’m seeking justice,” she shot back.
He reached out — slowly, deliberately — and brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek.
Vedika flinched but didn’t move away.
“You’re passionate,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “Determined. Rare qualities.”
“Qualities you want to destroy,” Vedika hissed.
Abhimaan’s hand lingered near her face for a heartbeat longer before dropping.
“I don’t want to destroy you,” he said, voice almost gentle. “I want to understand you.”
Vedika shook her head, anger flaring through her.
“You think you can seduce me into silence?”
His eyes darkened.
“I think you and I are more alike than you admit,” he said quietly.
“You’re wrong,” Vedika snapped, stepping back.
Abhimaan watched her, the smile slipping from his face.
“No,” he said, deadly serious. “I’m never wrong.”
For a moment, the air between them crackled — hate, fascination, fear, something darker neither wanted to name.
Then Vedika turned sharply on her heel.
“This conversation is over,” she said.
“You’ll be back,” Abhimaan said calmly behind her.
Vedika yanked the door open, heart pounding, and fled down the corridor.
She didn’t look back.
But she could feel his gaze burning into her the whole way.
In the silence of Room 1703, Abhimaan Rathore poured himself a glass of whiskey.
He stared at the door she had slammed behind her, a slow smile curling his lips.
The first move had been made.
And the game was far from over.