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Taking the final sip from my coffee cup, I placed it gently back onto its saucer. The bitter warmth lingered on my tongue, blending with the faint aftertaste of cocoa. Today had been nothing short of exhausting.
The morning began with a formal invitation I couldn’t refuse — a speech at one of Jaipur’s most prestigious law colleges, where I had been invited as the special guest. Standing before a sea of eager young faces, I had delivered a long, uncompromising address on justice, power, and the realities the textbooks didn’t dare teach. Applause had filled the auditorium, but it was the silent awe in their eyes that told me I had left my mark.
From there, my day had moved swiftly into a high-stakes meeting. Now, at last, I was free.
Free — and at peace, at least for now. These past few weeks had been uncharacteristically light on tension. The reason for my ease was simple: after signing a dark alliance agreement with Mr. Mehta, one of the most influential political leaders in the region, my profits had surged to unprecedented levels.
Mr. Mehta was a man with ambition that reeked of decay. He had killed his own brother — not merely for property, though that was part of it, but because he harboured a sick obsession with his brother’s wife. Being a public figure meant he needed spotless hands, at least in the eyes of the masses. And when the blood wouldn’t wash off, he came running to me.
My price was simple: silence. In exchange, he opened doors into realms of politics that most could only dream of touching. His dirty secret bought me a clean path for my underground business.
I had kept my end of the bargain. And the profits had been sweet.
A low chuckle escaped me as I thought about the irony of people’s sins — their hunger, their greed, the way they’d pay any price to bury the truth while clutching the illusion of innocence.
But none of this — not Mehta, not the power, not even the money — was what truly pleased me today.
My real anticipation rested elsewhere. With someone else.
Tonight, I had a date. Not just any date — dinner with one of Paris’s top models, Ms. Anika Roy Chowdhury. My soon-to-be wife.
A slow smirk spread across my lips.
Anika was… dangerous. She carried the beauty of a goddess sculpted from fire and stone, the allure of a siren, and the storm of thunder in her presence. She moved like temptation itself, and the aura she exuded could make even the most disciplined man falter.
