January 20, 1986, London, England*
The roar of jet engines faded as Raj Mehra stepped off the plane at London's Heathrow Airport, the crisp January air a sharp contrast to Mumbai's humid warmth. His tailored suit, a deep charcoal grey, drew glances from fellow passengers as he navigated the bustling terminal, his mind buzzing with the prospects of his two-week London adventure. The ROI system, his secret weapon from his 2025 life, had guided him to a 7-crore fortune in India, and now he aimed to test its precision in London's high-stakes casinos and sports betting arenas. As he scanned the crowd, a man in a crisp black suit held a sign reading "Mr. Raj Mehra." Raj approached, extending a hand.
"Mr. Mehra, a pleasure to meet you," the man said with a polished British accent. "I'm Allen Walker, your driver and liaison for the trip."
"Likewise, Allen," Raj replied, shaking his hand firmly, his confidence radiating. They walked toward a gleaming Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit, a luxurious car befitting Raj's newfound status, its polished exterior glinting under the airport lights. Inside, the leather seats enveloped them in comfort as Allen navigated the 10-mile drive to central London. The city unfolded in a blur of red double-decker buses, grey stone buildings, and the distant chime of Big Ben. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the Langham Hotel, a grand Victorian edifice with ornate chandeliers and marble floors. Raj had booked a suite in advance, ensuring every detail of his stay matched his ambitions.
At the check-in desk, a concierge with a practiced smile handed Raj his key. "Welcome to the Langham, Mr. Mehra. Your suite is ready." Raj nodded, tipping generously, and headed to his room—a spacious haven with velvet drapes, a four-poster bed, and a view of Regent Street's bustle. Exhausted from the long flight, he indulged in a steaming bath, the hot water soothing his travel-weary muscles. After a two-hour nap on crisp linen sheets, he woke refreshed, his mind sharp for the evening ahead.
At 6 PM, Raj emerged from the hotel, his tailored blazer accentuating his lean frame. He slid into a rented Bentley Mulsanne, a 1985 model costing £200 per day, its walnut dashboard and roaring V8 engine a symbol of extravagance. His destination was a high-profile modelling show at the Royal Albert Hall, for which he'd secured a £500 ticket—a sum equivalent to three weeks' salary for the average Londoner. Raj settled into his front-row seat, the hall's opulent red-and-gold interior buzzing with anticipation. The show began, and a parade of models glided across the stage, their sequined gowns catching the spotlight. Raj watched, captivated by the elegance and poise, his mind briefly drifting from his business empire to the glamour before him.
Thirty minutes later, the show ended with a flourish of applause. Raj lingered, savoring the atmosphere, before stepping outside into the chilly London evening. As he adjusted his scarf, he noticed a model from the show exiting the building, her face etched with stress. Her auburn hair was slightly disheveled, and her eyes, though striking, were clouded with frustration. She wore a simple coat over her stage outfit, clutching a small bag as she paced near the entrance.
Raj, ever attuned to opportunity, approached casually. "Hello, miss," he said, his voice warm but measured. "I enjoyed your performance, but you seem troubled. Perhaps I can help?"
The woman turned, her expression initially sharp with annoyance, as if ready to dismiss him. But her gaze softened as she took in Raj's confident demeanor and tailored attire, recognizing that anyone who could afford a £500 ticket was no ordinary spectator. She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I'm Claire Evans," she said, her British accent tinged with exhaustion. "It's been a rough night. The show's owner, Mr. Hargreaves, expelled me because I refused his… inappropriate advances. He's got a reputation, and I heard he contracted AIDS last year. I couldn't risk it."
Raj listened intently, his face sympathetic but his mind calculating. Claire's poise and beauty were undeniable, and her predicament sparked an idea. "That's unfair," he said. "You deserve better opportunities. How about spending two weeks with me? I'm here on business and could use a companion."
Claire's eyes narrowed, wary. "What do you mean, exactly?"
Raj smiled, his tone direct but not unkind. "I'll be blunt to save time. Spend two weeks with me—day and night, as my companion, including intimacy—and I'll pay you £1000 per day."
Claire's jaw dropped, not at his boldness but at the staggering sum. Her monthly earnings as a model barely reached £600–700, and £1000 a day was life-changing. She hesitated, then asked, "That includes sex?"
"Yes," Raj replied, his gaze steady. "But it's your choice. No pressure."
Claire weighed her options, her dreams of breaking into bigger modelling gigs clashing with her pride. The money, though, was impossible to ignore. "Alright," she said finally, her voice firm. "I'll do it."
They climbed into the Bentley, the engine purring as Raj drove toward the Ritz Casino, one of London's most luxurious gambling dens. The casino's facade glowed with neon lights, its marble interior filled with the clink of chips and the murmur of high rollers. Raj, with Claire at his side, felt the thrill of the game ahead, his secret calculations already scanning for winning bets. Inside, the roulette tables and blackjack dealers awaited, but so did the unpredictability of London's elite circles—a new arena for Raj's ambitions.