Chapter 9: The Cage and the Fire
Vikram Sharma stood alone in his once-mighty mansion, its chandeliers darkened, its corridors cold and silent like tombs. The house no longer felt like his. Power had fled from these walls like rats from a sinking ship. Where once his name commanded loyalty and fear, now it only drew silence... or contempt.
He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, eyes fixed on the growing pile of newspaper clippings that speculated on his downfall. He could hear the whispers rising—probes into his offshore accounts, the buried crimes of his past. The police would come. So would the press. The ones he couldn't buy now belonged to whoever had taken everything from him.
But they wouldn't get her. Not Anya.
She was the only clean thing in his tainted world. And he wouldn't let her be devoured by what was coming. If she had to be caged to stay safe, then so be it.
That night, he made the call. Bhola "Bhaisaab" Thakur answered from a palace of red sandstone in Patna, draped in silk and filth.
The line crackled with static before Bhola Thakur's greasy voice slithered in, soaked in arrogance and paan.
"Bhaisaab bolat hain. Kaun hai? Sharma ji? Lagta hai billi ke gale mein ghanti bandhne aaye ho?"
Vikram's voice was steel. "We had an understanding."
You're offering her to me?" Bhaisaab's voice dripped with disbelief and lust.
Vikram exhaled a plume of smoke. "She'll be safe in your shadow."
Bhaisaab laughed, slow and dark. "She'll be more than safe. She'll be silent."
Bhola laughed, a guttural, vile sound.
> "Samajh gaye the, Sharma ji. Samjha bhi diye the. Ab hum aapki bitiya ka dekhbhaal karenge. Photo dekhe hain. Chhori toh ek dum firangi item hai. Bilkul cinema wali lagti hai. E body curve... uff, jaise madua ke daat pe chadh jaaye toh utaarna mushkil."
Vikram stayed silent, rage simmering under his calm.
> "Aur kaun sa angrezi college mein siksha mili hai madam ko? Par hum sikha denge—ghar ke andar kaun kaise rahe, palang par kaun upar kaun neeche, sab samajh jaayegi. Hum toh patni ke mooh pe na parda rakhte hain, na zyada zubaan. Sirf hukm aur haazri."
"Enough," Vikram said sharply. "You'll treat her properly."
"Properly?" Bhola spat. "Aurat humare ghar mein hoti hai jaisan haandi mein bhat—kabhi kabhi upar se dekho, lekin sirf jab bhukh lagti hai."
Vikram exhaled slowly, then his voice dropped, deadly calm.
"I wonder," he said, "how your people in Patna would react if they found out where your brother-in-law went missing in 2016. Or what really happened to DSP Ratan Singh's daughter."
Silence.
Not a breath from the other end.
"I've kept those files sealed. Out of courtesy," Vikram continued, every word a scalpel. "But if you touch a single hair on Anya's head, Bhola, those secrets will crawl back out. Into the hands of Delhi Police, CBI... even the press. I'm sure the video files are still time-stamped."
A long pause. Then Bhola's voice, for the first time, was subdued. Measured.
"Arey... Sharma ji... baat gusse ki naahi hai. Hum toh bas... masti mein bol diye. Ab aap itna purana hisaab le aayenge toh... theek hai. Cham... Anya madam ka poora khayal rakha jaayega."
Vikram didn't reply.
"Palang bhi sheesham ka banega. Pari jaisan treat karenge. Aap toh hum par bharosa rakhiye."
More silence.
"Good," Vikram said flatly, and cut the call.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. He had sold his daughter's fate—but at the very least, she wouldn't be brutalized. Not if Bhola wanted to stay alive.
-------------------
Thousands of miles away, snow hammered the windows of a secluded Russian estate, but inside, the air felt molten. Viktor Volkov stood in the middle of a room where obsession had become architecture.
Drawings of Anya covered every wall. Pencil sketches of her laugh. Charcoal smudges of her bare back, her parted lips, her delicate fingers clutching that green gown. The curves of her hips traced over and over in thick, angry strokes—as if trying to summon her from paper. Every angle of her face was committed to graphite.
She haunted him.
Her innocence wasn't weakness—it was a defiance of his entire existence. In a world of rot, she bloomed untouched. Pure. Soft. Unspeakably beautiful.
And now, she was being sold to a dog.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Boss," Mikhael said, snow dusting his shoulders. "We've got a situation."
Viktor didn't turn. "Speak."
"The group that took over Sharma's operations—they want to collaborate. But there's no data on them. Every IP address bounces back to Vikram's mansion. Even his bedroom router. They've ghosted every file, deleted every trail. As if they'd been inside his system from the beginning."
Viktor finally turned, his face expressionless. "The leaders?"
"Nothing. Rohan and Sia? No official identities. School records—wiped. Digital trails—nonexistent. They're phantoms."
Silence.
"And Vikram?" Viktor asked, voice low.
Mikhael hesitated. "He's arranging Anya's marriage."
Viktor froze.
"To who?"
"Bhola Thakur. Bihar don. Orthodox. Cruel. Known for... keeping women as pets."
For a few seconds, everything was still. Even the snow outside seemed to hold its breath.
Then, something inside Viktor broke.
With a roar that tore from deep in his chest, he grabbed the nearest table and hurled it across the room. It crashed against the wall, shattering into splinters. The framed sketches of Anya tumbled and ripped, glass slicing through their edges. A chair flew next, then another. His fist went through the mirror. Blood sprayed across the floor.
"NO!" he bellowed, voice ragged with a pain so sharp it came out as hatred.
"She's mine! MINE!"
He stormed to the far end of the room where her portrait—a large one, lovingly unfinished—hung like a shrine. He stared at it, breath heaving, chest soaked in sweat.
Her eyes. Her lips. The softness in them. The purity.
He ripped it from the wall and smashed the frame over his knee. Canvas and wood bent, tore, disintegrated beneath his hands like everything else in his life that dared disobey him.
"She was mine!" he screamed again, falling to his knees among the wreckage.
His hands, bloodied and shaking, clutched at scraps of her image as if he could put her back together.
"Send men," he growled through clenched teeth. "I want Bhola Thakur's estate under surveillance. Every camera. Every servant. Every car. I want to know when he breathes. And Vikram—"
He stood, taller than the fury shaking the room.
"—I want his world drowned in fire. No wedding. No cage. She doesn't belong in a kennel. She belongs—"
He caught himself, chest heaving.
With me, his mind finished.
But he wouldn't say it aloud. Not yet. Not even to himself.
Mikhael backed out, nodding. "Yes, boss."
As the door closed, Viktor stood alone amidst the ruins of his obsession. Torn sketches littered the floor. His hand bled freely. Somewhere beneath his boot, her smile lay cracked in half.
She was his mirror. His salvation. And now, his trigger.
Whatever game this hidden gang was playing... they had made one fatal mistake.
They'd touched his girl.
And the world would soon burn for it.
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