The retirement party was grand, filled with politicians, high-ranking officers, and men who thought they controlled the city. But the moment Vikram Dhanush walked in, the true power had arrived.

6’2, broad-shouldered, and draped in lethal authority, Vikram moved like a king among pawns. Eight bodyguards flanked him, six black Mercedes-Benz lined up outside—because where Vikram went, fear followed. His sharp-cut sherwani reflected his roots, an effortless blend of tradition and dominance.

And then there was you.

The daughter of Bollywood royalty, the shining star of Mumbai’s elite, and yet, you belonged to him—the only woman who could soothe the fire in his veins. No one dared to cross him, but you? You could place a hand on his chest, whisper his name, and pull him back from the edge.

But tonight, even you weren’t fast enough.

As the DGP turned to him with a polite nod, he made a mistake.

"It was nice of you to come, Dhanush."

The room froze. The music, the chatter—everything faded.

Vikram’s eyes turned black, his fury swift and merciless. His jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides, a storm brewing inside him.

"How dare you speak my name?!" he roared, voice shaking the walls.

Tension gripped the air. His men straightened, hands itching toward their weapons. Every soul in the room knew—when Vikram Dhanush was angry, blood was spilled.