The air in Viktor Volkov's penthouse office was as sterile and cold as the steel desk Vikram Sharma was now facing. It wasn't the usual grand, opulent office Vikram preferred for his "business deals," but rather a minimalist, almost stark space that seemed designed to intimidate. Vikram, usually a man of booming confidence, felt the uncomfortable trickle of sweat down his back, despite the powerful air conditioning. He offered Viktor a broad, practiced smile, the kind that had charmed many a reluctant client.
"Viktor ji," Vikram began, his voice a little too hearty, "always a pleasure to meet such a forward-thinking individual. Golden Chain Logistics, as you know, is always looking for new avenues of collaboration."
Viktor simply inclined his head, his grey eyes unblinking, unreadable. There was no warmth, no pleasantries, just an unnerving stillness. On the table between them lay a discreet folder, slim but heavy with the weight of desperation. Inside, it detailed a proposed "partnership" – a substantial arms shipment from a rogue Eastern European source, a deal worth hundreds of millions. Vikram's legitimate businesses were crumbling, the Golden Chain fraying under years of overspending and bad investments. This deal, this dangerous, high-stakes gamble, was his last shot at solvency. He needed Viktor's network, Viktor's capital, Viktor's ruthlessness. He planned to play it smart, to leverage his knowledge of the local routes, to convince Viktor he was indispensable, even if he was on the verge of bankruptcy.
"Collaboration, Mr. Sharma," Viktor's voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection. "Or acquisition?"
Vikram chuckled, a nervous sound that died quickly in the silent room. "Acquisition? My dear Viktor ji, Golden Chain is not for sale. We are merely exploring synergistic opportunities. This particular... cargo... requires a certain finesse, a certain understanding of the local landscape. Something my network, unmatched in Delhi, can provide." He tried to project an air of command, of being in control, but he could feel Viktor's gaze dissecting him, stripping away the pretense.
Viktor picked up the folder, his fingers surprisingly delicate as he flipped through the pages. "The price is steep for 'finesse,' Mr. Sharma. Especially for a venture that, from my understanding, you are deeply invested in." He paused, those arctic eyes finally meeting Vikram's. "Or perhaps, desperate for?"
A muscle twitched in Vikram's jaw. He forced another smile. "Desperation is for the weak, Viktor ji. I operate from a position of strength. Always." He straightened his shoulders, trying to project the image of a titan, not a man whose carefully constructed world was teetering on the brink. He had a few contingencies, a few traps laid in the proposed terms, hoping to get a better cut, a way to wriggle out if things went south. He was a shark, he reminded himself, even if he was currently bleeding in the water.
Back at the Sharma residence, the afternoon sun dappled through the bougainvillea on the patio. Anya was curled up on a plush cushion, a dog-eared novel open on her lap, but her eyes were mostly on her best friends, Sia and Rohan.
Sia, with her sharp wit and even sharper eyeliner, was sprawled on another cushion, scrolling through her phone, occasionally snorting with laughter. She was the grounded one, the one who saw through the BS. "Honestly, Anya, you live in this bubble," Sia declared, without looking up. "Sometimes I wonder if you even know what a bus looks like."
"Hey!" Anya protested, though a small part of her knew Sia wasn't entirely wrong. "I saw one once! From the car window!"
Then there was Rohan. Rohan, with his perpetually animated expressions and a voice that could fill an auditorium. He was a force of nature, a walking, talking celebration of life. And yes, proudly, boisterously gay. He was currently demonstrating a new dance move he'd seen on a reel, nearly knocking over a potted plant.
"No, no, Anya, you're doing it all wrong!" Rohan giggled, then launched into a detailed, breathless explanation of the subtle hip sway required. "It's all about the sass! The drama! You need to feel the inner diva, darling!" He twirled, his colorful scarf flapping behind him. "My life is a constant Broadway show, and you two are my captive audience!"
Anya laughed, genuinely delighted. With Sia and Rohan, she felt normal, unburdened by the strange formality that sometimes permeated their home. They talked about university applications (something Papa was surprisingly vague about), crushes, the latest movies, and Rohan's endless stream of hilarious dating anecdotes.
Meanwhile, Hema Aunty entered the living room, a tray of freshly brewed iced tea clinking softly. She smiled warmly at Anya and her friends. "Such lovely company, Anya beta. Rohan, Sia, so good to see you both." Her voice was smooth, polite, and completely devoid of any genuine emotion, Anya noticed. Hema Aunty was always composed, always perfect. She managed the household with impeccable efficiency, handled the servants with a quiet authority, and maintained a flawless public image. Anya admired her, in a way, but also felt a strange distance. Sometimes, Anya wondered if Aunty felt anything deeply at all, beyond a cool, calculating efficiency.
As Hema Aunty gracefully left the room, Rohan leaned in conspiratorially. "Your stepmom is like, a human statue," he whispered, fanning himself with a hand. "Always perfectly groomed, perfectly polite. Never a hair out of place. It's almost... unsettling."
Sia snorted. "That's because she's made of money, darling. Or rather, she likes to be. Our Hema Aunty knows which side her bread is buttered on. She's too smart to break character."
Anya frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sia just shrugged, focusing on her phone again. Rohan, already distracted by a notification, started humming a pop song. Anya tried to shake off their comments, but a tiny seed of unease had been planted. Her perfect, idyllic world suddenly felt a little less solid, a li
ttle more... staged.
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