Delhi. The capital always smelled of power—old, stale, and suffocating.
Raj's private jet landed at Palam Air Base before dawn. Black SUVs waited on the tarmac, engines humming like restless beasts. He stepped out, sunglasses hiding his sleepless eyes, coat swirling around him like a shadow.
"Sir," Sameer said carefully, "the meeting with the unknown messenger is tomorrow at midnight. Until then—"
Raj cut him off. "Until then, I'll meet the bureaucrat."
Sameer blinked. "But sir, the official inspection isn't scheduled—"
Raj's smirk was razor-thin.
"Do you think I wait for permission? If she wants to inspect my empire, let's see if she survives me first."
Scene Shift: Ministry of Commerce – Morning
Meera strode through the marble corridors, crisp white blouse tucked into her navy skirt, heels echoing with authority. The Rathore file weighed in her hand, but her expression was sharper than any document.
She entered her temporary office only to find someone already waiting.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black suit. Eyes that looked like they'd dissect a soul before breakfast.
Raj Rathore.
For a split second, silence.
Predator met predator.
Meera recovered first, her voice cool.
"Mr. Rathore. You weren't invited."
Raj's smirk didn't falter.
"Invitations are for guests. I'm not a guest. I'm the storm you're supposed to regulate."
Her brows arched. "Storms pass. Regulations remain."
Raj stepped closer, lowering his voice, his words deliberate.
"Regulations are written by people who think power is on paper. I don't. Power is in who signs the paper… and who tears it apart."
Meera tilted her head, unfazed. "Careful, Mr. Rathore. Threatening a government officer isn't very wise."
Raj's tone was silk wrapped around steel.
"Who said it was a threat? It's a promise."
The tension crackled like a live wire. Officials passing by slowed, pretending not to listen, but every word felt like a duel.
Meera finally sat, opening his file with deliberate calm.
"Your acquisitions in Mumbai, Dubai, and Singapore—suspiciously fast, suspiciously cheap. Offshore accounts that scream money laundering. Ties to people who disappear conveniently. Do you want me to go on?"
Raj leaned on her desk, his shadow falling across her.
"Do you think I hide skeletons in closets? No, Miss Chauhan. I bury them so deep, even the devil forgets their names."
Her pen froze mid-note. His audacity wasn't just arrogance—it was a declaration.
But instead of fear, Meera smiled faintly.
"Good. Then when I find your graveyards, it'll be all the more satisfying."
Raj straightened, studying her like she was a rare chess piece he couldn't immediately categorize. He'd faced ministers, mafia dons, CEOs… but this woman? She didn't flinch.
Most would either be intimidated or bought.
She was neither.
Interesting.
Scene Shift: Outside the Office
Sameer waited anxiously as Raj exited.
"How was she, sir?"
Raj's reply was quiet, almost amused.
"Sharp. Dangerous. The kind of woman who thinks she can win against me."
Sameer frowned. "And… can she?"
Raj's smirk returned.
"She wants to play by the rules. I write the rules."
Scene Shift: Meera's Office – After Raj Leaves
Meera exhaled slowly once Raj was gone. Not fear. Adrenaline.
She muttered under her breath,
"Arrogant. Ruthless. Exactly what they warned me about."
But her hands, resting on the file, trembled—not from weakness, but from the thrill of finally meeting an opponent worth her ambition.
She looked at his picture on the file cover.
"You may own your empire, Raj Rathore. But this city… this country… that's my battlefield. And you just stepped into it."
Scene Shift: Raj's Delhi Safehouse – Night
Raj sat in a dimly lit room, sipping whiskey, Sameer beside him. The city skyline glowed through bulletproof glass.
"She's not like the others," Sameer said cautiously. "If she digs too deep—"
Raj cut him off. "Then she'll find nothing… or everything I want her to find."
He swirled his glass, his tone low, dark.
"Meera Chauhan wants to play watchdog. Let's see what happens when the dog realizes the wolf bites back."
Raj's phone buzzed again. Same unknown number.
This time, not a text.
A video.
He opened it.
On screen—grainy CCTV footage.
His father, Vikram Rathore, arguing with two men in a dark warehouse.
One of them turned, face visible.
Raj's hand froze. His eyes widened.
It wasn't a stranger.
It was a politician currently in power.