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Delhi, India
Delhi was restless that morning. The air was heavy, smog curling like secrets over skyscrapers and old streets, the city thrumming with impatience as if it knew two storms were about to land on its soil.
One carried a name that made politicians twitch, mafia bosses shiver and businessmen tremble—He wasn't just a king, but a conqueror, the man who was self built, who was cruel to the world, he was everything a common man should be scared of.
His aura depicts coldness, dark and mysterious, every step every plan he makes is accurate. He doesn't like to be touched, he doesn't like to be seen in the limelight more than a second, the person who doesn't even like to do even things. He was made to do odd things. Every odd thing in the world which could make him more dangerous, powerful.
His gun doesn't ask the status or the value, it asks the blood, who has killed the people more than the days of his life he has lived.
Aakarsh Singh Mehrotra.
The ruthless heir to the Mehrotra empire. Son of Anil and Priyanka Mehrotra, raised in fire, sharpened by betrayal, and now returned to India not as a man but as a weapon.
The tarmac of Indira Gandhi International Airport shimmered under the September sun as a private jet rolled to a stop. Inside, silence ruled. Aakarsh sat back in leather, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, cuffs rolled like he was ready to strangle the world. Beside him, Vishal Narang flipped through dossiers, his easy smirk failing to hide the tension in his jaw.
"Delhi," Vishal muttered, leaning back. "I can count the times you have come here, why now ?"
Aakarsh didn't look up. His gaze was pinned to the skyline beyond the oval window, as if he could already see the Singhania headquarters glowing in arrogance. His lips curled.
"To take something which belongs to me," his voice low, dangerous.
"And what is it?"
"The long thirst of revenge," his eyes sharpened, wolfish, "—they give me their daughter, thinking I'll bend?"
