Ugh. My silk kurta was sticking to my back again. The Delhi heat was relentless, even in the relative cool of our house. It was supposed to be a soft, luxurious comfort, a gift from Papa, but right now it just felt like another layer of the gilded cage I sometimes forgot I was living in. Twenty years old, and my biggest decisions of the day usually revolved around which flavor of lassi to have and whether to water the potted marigolds on the balcony before or after breakfast. Pathetic, right?
My name is Anya Sharma. And yes, my father, Vikram Sharma, is a very successful businessman, a man everyone in our part of the city seems to know and respect. He owns a network of logistics companies, or at least that's what he tells me. The "Golden Chain Logistics", he calls it, with a proud glint in his eye. Papa likes to paint himself as a visionary entrepreneur these days, all fancy offices and polite handshakes.
Hema Aunty, Papa's wife – she's only seven years older than me, which still feels weird sometimes – glided into the living room, a picture of serene elegance in a crisp cotton saree. Honestly, how did she manage to look so composed when the temperature was threatening to melt the furniture?
"Anya, beta, have you had breakfast?" Her voice was always calm, like the gentle chime of temple bells.
"Not yet, Aunty," I mumbled, fiddling with the delicate embroidery on my sleeve. "Was just thinking about it."
Thinking was something I did a lot of. About the world outside our high compound walls, about the hushed conversations I sometimes overheard between Papa and his... business partners. They often spoke in veiled terms, using words like "territory" and "influence" in a way that sometimes made my brow furrow. But mostly, I thought about silly things, like the street vendor who sold the most amazing jalebis near the market, or the stray puppy I saw with one blue eye and one brown. Papa and Aunty tried to shield me, I knew that. They wanted me to be happy, innocent. And most of the time, I was. Truly. But there were these little cracks, these glimpses into a world I wasn't supposed to see, that made me wonder... made me feel like a delicate butterfly in a very beautiful, very secure net.
Papa always made sure I had everything I could possibly want – beautiful clothes, expensive books, even a personal tutor for subjects he deemed "suitable for a young lady." He'd ruffle my hair, his booming laugh filling the room, and tell me I was his pari, his little fairy. And I loved him for it. But sometimes, when his eyes held a certain hardness, a look that vanished as soon as he turned to me, I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite name. Curiosity? Maybe just a longing for something more, something beyond the familiar comfort of our home.
This morning, though, the usual comfort felt a little heavier. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the way Papa had left for his "business trip" earlier, his jaw tight, his good-bye kiss a little too quick. Whatever it was, a restlessness had settled in my bones, a faint whisper urging me towards something I couldn't yet define. I sighed, the silk of my kurta rustling softly. Another day in the sunshine of my privileged ignorance.
Across the sprawling metropolis, in a minimalist office that commanded a panoramic view of the city's chaotic energy, Viktor Volkov leaned back in his leather chair, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the relentless hum outside. He was a man who exuded an aura of controlled power, his sharp, angular features betraying nothing of the intricate web he meticulously managed beneath the veneer of his legitimate businesses. At thirty-five, his intense grey eyes, the color of a winter sky over the Russian steppes, held a perpetual coolness that could make even the most hardened executives falter.
The headlines on the holographic display on his desk lauded his latest tech acquisition, painting the picture of a visionary entrepreneur. The reality, however, was far more intricate, far more dangerous. He was the silent hand behind the Veiled Hand Consortium, a network that reached into every shadow of Delhi, unseen by most, feared by those who knew its true reach.
His eight younger brothers were scattered across the city, each a vital cog in his complex machine. Lev, the pragmatic strategist, was currently overseeing a delicate negotiation in the southern districts. Mikhail, impulsive and quick-witted, was his eyes and ears in the bustling markets. Dimitri, the ever-observant analyst, sifted through data, anticipating threats before they materialized. Andrey, with his disarming charm, smoothed over any potential conflicts. Ilya, the tech wizard, kept their communication channels secure and their digital footprint invisible. Sergei, a master of infiltration, moved through the underworld like a ghost. Nikolai, the fiercely loyal protector, was always a step behind him. And young Yegor, still honing his skills, was eager to prove his worth.
Viktor's world was one of calculated risks and unwavering control. Sentiment was a weakness he had long since purged. Yet, as he reviewed the latest intelligence reports, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossed his features. Vikram Sharma's logistics company, Golden Chain Logistics, was becoming... problematic. Their recent expansion into territories he considered his own was a blatant disregard for the established order.
He tapped a finger on the sleek surface of his desk, the gesture sharp and decisive. Sharma was a predictable player, driven by old-world sentiment and a surprising level of... softness, especially where his daughter was concerned. Viktor had learned long ago that vulnerabilities were leverage. And in the intricate game he played, every piece, no matter how seemingly insignificant, had the potential to shift the balance of power. He had dismissed Sharma as a minor annoyance for too long. It was time to remind the fly who owned the web. A cold smile touched his lips, a hint of the storm brewing beneath the polished surface. The game was about to get
interesting.
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