The rain didn't stop.
It poured like the sky itself was weeping, drowning the freshly dug earth where Vikram Rathore's coffin was lowered.
Raj Rathore stood still, his black suit soaked, fists clenched so tight the veins popped. He was just twenty-two, but his eyes carried the sharpness of a man who'd seen too much.
Around him, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Poor boy… his father was too honest for this world."
"They say it was an accident… but who believes that?"
"Business rivals, politicians, the underworld… everyone wanted Vikram dead."
Raj didn't flinch. He kept staring at the coffin, face blank, but his jaw tightened with every word. His mother, draped in white, trembled beside him. She had already stopped crying; grief had hardened into silence.
As the final rites were performed, Raj's uncle leaned close, his tone low but cutting.
"Your father was a good man, Raj. But good men don't survive in this world. If you want to live… learn to be ruthless."
Raj didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence was darker than any promise.
Later that night, Raj sat alone in his father's study. The house was quiet, relatives gone, the smell of incense still heavy. He opened the old mahogany drawer—inside lay Vikram Rathore's last balance sheets, letters, and one small envelope.
Inside: a bank statement.
His father had left him just 750k
That was it. A lifetime of honesty reduced to numbers that couldn't even buy the land their house stood on.
Raj laughed bitterly.
"So this is what honesty gets you. A coffin… and scraps."
His mother entered quietly, her voice calm but sharp.
"Your father died because he trusted too easily. Never repeat that mistake."
Raj looked at her, eyes burning.
"They took everything from him. I'll take everything from them."
It wasn't a cry of pain.
It was a vow.
Scene Shift: Three Years Later – Mumbai
The neon lights of Lower Parel reflected on glass towers. Inside one of those towers, chaos reigned.
"Sir, the stock prices are falling!"
"The board wants answers—if we don't act fast, the company collapses!"
At the center of the storm sat Raj Rathore. Now twenty-five, sharper, colder. His suit tailored, his stare unnerving.
He didn't panic. He sipped his black coffee and finally spoke.
"Sell the assets. All of them. At a loss."
His CFO stammered. "But sir, that would—"
"Do it." Raj's voice cut like ice. "Let them think we're weak. Tomorrow, we'll buy it all back—through shell companies."
The room fell silent. Ruthless. Calculated. Dangerous. That was Raj now.
Within a year of inheriting scraps, he had turned them into a small empire—real estate, tech startups, a few underworld contracts. He was still small compared to giants, but his moves were precise, like a chess master setting up checkmate five steps ahead.
And tonight, he was about to make his boldest move yet.
At the same time, in Delhi, a young woman adjusted her crisp government-issue blazer. Meera Chauhan. Twenty-four, sharp-eyed, ambitious, born into politics but tired of being underestimated because she wasn't a man.
She looked at her assignment file.
"Inspection Committee – Raj Rathore Enterprises."
Her lips curled into a half-smile.
"So the infamous Rathore thinks he can play outside the system? Let's see how long he lasts."
Back to Mumbai – Raj's Office
Raj stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass window, city lights behind him. His phone buzzed.
"Sir," his aide said. "The government has assigned a special officer to investigate your latest acquisitions."
Raj raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
The aide hesitated. "…Meera Chauhan."
Raj's lips twitched. Not into a smile, but something darker.
"I've heard of her. Ambitious. Clean record. Daughter of a powerful family."
"Should we… handle her?" the aide asked nervously.
Raj turned, eyes cold.
"No. Let her come. I want to see how long her ideals survive when she enters my world."
He poured himself a drink, voice dripping with challenge.
"And if she thinks she can destroy me… she's already lost."
The storm was set.
Raj Rathore—the man who vowed to never be destroyed again.
Meera Chauhan—the woman who vowed to never be ignored again.
Two predators, heading straight for collision.
As Raj took his first sip of whiskey, his phone buzzed again. A message flashed.
From an unknown number:
"Mr. Rathore, you don't know me yet. But I know you. And I know what really happened the night your father died."
Raj froze, glass in hand.
For the first time in years, his heartbeat skipped.