The car came to a smooth halt outside the glass tower.

The moment the engine went silent, irritation crawled down my spine like a familiar poison. I looked up at the building—steel and glass piercing the Mumbai sky, reflecting clouds it would never touch. Towers like these always made my skin itch.

Rich men and women loved places like this.

They only knew how to display their money. Not earn respect. Not bleed for loyalty. Not understand honor.

Everything here screamed excess—valet lines filled with cars worth more than entire neighborhoods, guards in tailored suits pretending they weren’t afraid, cameras watching everything except the rot inside.

I pushed the door open and stepped out.

The air smelled different here. Cleaner. Colder. Fake.

I straightened my jacket out of habit, fingers smoothing invisible creases. The crowd outside paused—subtle, practiced glances, eyes dropping just a second too late. Polished shoes clicked against marble floors. Perfume mixed with expensive cologne. Laughter sounded rehearsed.

Nothing about this place was real.

Behind me, Vihaan snickered.

Not even softly.

I didn’t turn, but I could picture his expression perfectly—the lazy grin, the amusement dancing in his eyes. He hated places like this even more than I did. Maybe because he couldn’t pretend. Maybe because he didn’t want to.

“Look at them,” he muttered. “If arrogance had a perfume, this building would bottle it.”

I exhaled through my nose.

“I know you hate being called here,” I said flatly.

“Hate?” Vihaan scoffed. “Boss, I want to hang half of them outside this building by their designer belts.”

I stopped walking.

For half a second, the thought tempted me.

Then reality stepped in.

“I want to hang you outside this building,” I replied without looking back.

Vihaan laughed openly now, the sound sharp and unapologetic. “You won’t.”

He knew.

That’s why he always pushed.

He enjoyed troubling me. Enjoyed testing where my patience cracked and where it held. And the worst part? He was good at it.

Vijay stepped up on my other side, eyes already scanning the surroundings. His gaze moved with purpose—faces, reflections in glass, security positions, entry points. While Vihaan mocked the circus, Vijay memorized it.

Always working.

Always alert.

The three of us moved toward the entrance, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Conversations dipped. Smiles tightened. Someone whispered my name like it was a rumor they didn’t want confirmed.

Boss.

The word followed me everywhere.

Just before we reached the revolving doors, Vijay spoke.

“Boss, have you made up your mind about what we talked about?”

I rolled my eyes, irritation flaring immediately.

Not now.

“Drop it, Vijay.”

He didn’t.

“You can’t keep putting this off,” he said calmly. “Your dad—”

I spun around so fast he nearly bumped into me.

Most men flinched when I did that.

Vijay didn’t.

He stopped inches from my face, steady as a wall. No fear. No challenge either. Just conviction.

“Do you work for me,” I asked quietly, “or for my father?”

The air around us tightened. Vihaan went silent, watching closely now. Guards shifted their weight. Somewhere above us, glass reflected three dangerous men standing too still.

“My loyalty is with you, boss,” Vijay replied without hesitation.

Good.

I held his gaze for another second, then turned back toward the building. “Then follow my lead.”

We started walking again.

“And with the entire Rathore Syndicate,” Vijay added evenly.

I forced a tight smile, jaw locking as I swallowed the anger rising in my throat.

“No more talk,” I said. “Not until we’re inside.”

The revolving doors swallowed us whole.

Inside, the tower was worse.

White marble floors. Chandeliers that cost more than lives. Walls of glass meant to show transparency while hiding everything that mattered. Rich men in suits discussed numbers like they were gods deciding fate. Women laughed behind manicured hands, eyes sharp enough to calculate weakness.

I despised every second of it.

We crossed the lobby, and people parted instinctively. Not because I asked them to.

Because power recognizes power.

The elevator doors opened, waiting.

As soon as they slid shut behind us, sealing us in steel and silence, Vijay spoke again.

“I didn’t bring this up lightly,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes at him in the reflection of the mirrored walls.

He had earned my trust.

That was the problem.

I knew he wasn’t speaking for himself. He was speaking for the future. For survival. For the empire we had built from nothing but blood and strategy.

“We have crushed the competition,” he continued. “Everyone fears you.”

“I know,” I said sharply.

“If you want to hold that power,” he went on, unshaken, “you have to marry.”

The word hit harder than a bullet.

I laughed once—short, humorless. “This again?”

“It’s not about stability,” Vijay said. “It’s about perception.”

Vihaan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes glittering with amusement. “Oh, this is my favorite topic,” he drawled. “Please continue. I love watching you squirm.”

I shot him a look that promised consequences.

Vijay ignored him. “It’s to show no one can harm us. Alliances matter. A family matters.”

“My family is unworthy,” I said coldly.

The elevator hummed upward.

Vijay met my eyes. “Your name is not.”

Silence stretched between us.

I hated that he was right.

In our world, marriage wasn’t love. It was armor. A declaration. A message to enemies that the Rathore line was protected, multiplied, untouchable.

Still, the thought made my chest tighten.

Glass floors rose past us, each level filled with people who had never fought for anything real. I imagined chains hidden beneath their silk ties. I imagined fear buried under their wealth.

I imagined Anaya.

And anger followed close behind.

“We’re here for business,” I said finally. “Not matchmaking.”

“For now,” Vijay replied.

The elevator slowed.

As the doors opened onto the upper floor, I stepped forward, shoulders squared, expression carefully neutral. The Rathore Syndicate moved with me—Vihaan’s grin dangerous, Vijay’s focus sharp as a blade.

I left my anger in the elevator.

Or at least, I pretended to.

Because in a tower built of glass and lies, everyone was about to remember something important:

Power didn’t belong to money.

It belonged to men willing to burn everything to protect it.