Vijay opened the glass door for me.

The lobby beyond was blindingly bright—white marble floors polished to a mirror shine, glass walls reflecting light like a trap meant to disarm men with comfort. It smelled of money, disinfectant, and arrogance. Everything here was designed to look clean, untouchable, innocent.

Nothing ever was.

The security guard at the desk stiffened the moment we stepped inside.

His spine straightened too fast. His eyes flicked to our shoes first—custom leather, expensive but understated—then traveled upward. His gaze lingered on Vivian a fraction longer than necessary.

“What are you—” the man began, startled.

The words died in his throat.

Vivian lifted his gun.

Not dramatically. Not fast.

Just enough.

The guard froze.

His eyes dropped to Vivian’s fingers wrapped around the grip—and then he saw it.

The flame-Phoenix tattoo.

Black ink curling around Vivian’s knuckles, sharp wings etched with precision. The mark of the Rathore Syndicate. A symbol that didn’t need introductions.

Fear drained the color from the man’s face.

“Let us through,” Vivian said quietly.

There was no raised voice. No threat in the tone.

Authority didn’t need volume.

The guard hesitated, instincts warring with survival. Vivian stepped closer, pressing the cold muzzle of the gun against the center of his forehead.

“Let us through,” Vivian repeated softly, “or find out what your death looks like—your damaged brain displayed like decoration.”

The guard swallowed hard.

I watched his throat bob.

His hands shook violently as they hovered near the desk. Fingers fumbled beneath it, searching blindly until they found the hidden button. A small green light flashed.

The lock clicked open.

“Keep this quiet,” Vijay said as we stepped past, voice low, lethal. “Say one wrong word, and you’ll find yourself dead before you finish it.”

The guard nodded frantically, stepping aside. His face had gone completely pale, sweat beading along his hairline.

We didn’t look back.

Vijay pressed the elevator call button, completely ignoring Vivian’s earlier threat like it was background noise. Typical Vijay—focused only on what mattered next.

“Shaan,” he said calmly, “you have to marry someone outside the syndicate.”

I snorted.

The elevator doors hadn’t even opened yet, and already my patience was thinning. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“You need to make it clear you’re putting roots in Mumbai,” he continued, unbothered. “Permanent ones.”

I scoffed. “She’d never survive me.”

Vivian chuckled behind me. “True. He’d scare her off in a week.”

“My world is dark,” I said flatly. “I don’t need a wife. She’ll slow me down.”

“You don’t have to live with her,” Vijay insisted. “Sign the papers. Stage a honeymoon. Attend a few events together. It’s a performance.”

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside.

Metal walls closed us in.

I chewed on his words, jaw tightening. Cold. Calculating.

“And you think any woman would agree to that?” I asked sharply.

Vijay met my gaze in the mirror, his expression steady. Unflinching. “These women aren’t like ours. Whichever one you choose will prefer silence in a big house outside the city over watching you bathed in blood.”

Vivian smirked. “Luxury prison. Not a bad deal.”

“And besides,” Vijay added, almost casually, “no one said she has to agree. If you want her—just take her.”

I grunted, ending the conversation.

The elevator hummed as it ascended, filling the silence with mechanical noise. I stared straight ahead, arms crossed, mind racing despite my refusal to show it.

Deep down, I knew Vijay wasn’t wrong.

Marriage meant protection. Alliances. Stability in the eyes of men who only understood symbols. A wife would strengthen the syndicate, make my enemies hesitate.

Still, something in me resisted.

I didn’t want the weight of another life tied to mine.

Since I arrived in Mumbai, I’d thrown myself completely into business. No distractions. No attachments. The last time I slept with a woman had been a forgettable encounter—empty, mechanical, meaningless.

Most of them wanted power.

I wasn’t interested.

Maybe someday, I would find someone I wouldn’t let go.

The elevator slowed.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

Vivian grinned. “Let me know if you want help selecting a wife, boss.”

I ignored him.

The doors opened onto the executive floor.

We stepped out and moved toward the CEO’s office. I followed a step behind them, mind still half-occupied—

Then it hit me.

A scent.

Rose.

Not artificial. Not heavy. Soft, warm, intoxicating.

My body reacted before my mind did.

I froze.

My pupils flared, breath hitching as the aroma filled my senses. I inhaled slowly, instinctively, eyes flickering across the lobby.

I didn’t get distracted easily.

Ever.

But this—this was different.

I saw her.

She was walking across the lobby, moving away from me. Her back was to me, her face hidden, but the way she carried herself—unhurried, graceful—pulled at something deep inside my chest.

The air seemed to cling to her.

I could feel her presence like a current.

She wore a pink saree, soft fabric flowing with each step. Not flashy. Not trying.

It drove me insane.

She glanced sideways toward a coworker just as I caught her profile.

Hazel eyes.

Dark, finely shaped eyebrows.

Just a glimpse—and my breath left me.

Beautiful wasn’t enough.

She was gorgeous.

Who the hell is she?

I took a step forward, drawn without thought—

“Shaan.”

Vivian’s voice cut through me.

I blinked, tension snapping tight in my body. Vivian stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching me with curiosity. Vijay was nowhere in sight.

“Are you coming or not?” Vivian asked.

I turned back—

She was gone.

The lobby swallowed her whole, like she had never existed.

I cursed under my breath, popping a mango candy into my mouth, the sweetness grounding me. I straightened, forcing control back into my limbs.

I strode past Vivian without another word and threw open the door to the CEO’s office.

The man behind the massive desk looked up sharply.

Fear flashed across his face before he masked it with a weak, professional smile. His hands tightened around the armrests of his chair.

Sanjay Kapoor.

He knew.

They always knew.

Vijay leaned against the doorframe, smirking as he read me perfectly.

“Sanjay Kapoor,” Vijay said smoothly, “ready to meet your maker?”

The room went very, very quiet.