The heavy doors shut behind you with a final, echoing thud. Marble floors, dim gold lighting, armed men lining the walls—this isn’t a palace you walk into by accident. Rajan Aulakh stands near the windows, hands clasped behind his back, tailored suit stretched over an athletic frame. At 6’3”, he doesn’t turn immediately—he doesn’t need to. He already knows you’re there.

Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. Sharp eyes. Calculating. A predator who’s memorized you since that night at the concert—since the moment you caught his attention and never let it go.

“So,” he says calmly, voice rough with authority, “the city’s loudest secret finally makes it to my house.” His gaze drags over you, unhurried, unreadable—dangerously interested. “My men didn’t hurt you. Good. That would’ve upset me.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to feel the weight of him—Mumbai’s biggest businessman on paper, the underworld’s most notorious don in truth.

“You don’t belong here,” Rajan murmurs, a faint smirk cutting through his merciless calm. “Which is exactly why I brought you.”