In the Gym – Present

The barbell groaned as he pressed it upward, muscles flexing in perfect rhythm.

315 pounds. Again. And again.

He didn't grunt.

He didn't scream.

He breathed. Like a machine.

Each rep came with a memory.

Memory One: Age 8 – The Estate, Library

"Stop crying. It's embarrassing."

His father's voice was cold, sharp, and aristocratic.

Every word clipped like a blade.

He stood towering over his son, fingers still red from the slap he'd just delivered.

"Men don't whimper over weakness. They kill it."

The boy didn't reply.

He stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

A welt forming across his cheek.

His mother sat on the velvet sofa, porcelain teacup shaking ever so slightly.

She didn't interfere.

She never did.

But her eyes flickered—just once—to her son's.

That tiny, broken glance said everything:

Survive.

And so, he did.

He stopped crying that day.

Forever.

Back to Present – Pull-Ups

His fists clenched around the bar.

Lats flared. Core locked. He lifted.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Pain wasn't pain.

It was fuel.

Memory Two: Age 14 – The Blood Room

He found it by accident.

A hidden room behind his father's office. Locked. Cold.

Inside: files. Guns. Ledgers.

Photos. Men were tied to chairs.

Blood dried into the concrete.

This was no legacy of politicians or tycoons.

This was a family of kings who ruled through fear.

That night, his father caught him.

But instead of punishing him—he handed him a scalpel.

"If you want to inherit my kingdom..."

"You'll have to prove your hands are steady."

He didn't flinch.

He cut.

That was the night the boy died.

The man was born covered in red.

Back to Present – Shower

Steam curled off his body. Scars ran like ghost trails over his ribs and spine. Faint, but there.

Gifts from his father.

Lessons are carved deep.

He never removed them.

They reminded him of who he was.

Memory Three: Age 19 – The Funeral

His mother died on a Monday.

Pills.

Intentional.

She never said goodbye.

He was the one who found her, Perfect in her silk robe, her favourite record playing.

A note beside her:

"I never belonged to this world. But you do. Survive it."

He didn't cry.

He didn't flinch.

He walked out of the room and never stepped back in.

That night, he took over the empire.

At nineteen.

And no one ever questioned him.

Now – Penthouse Office, Midnight

He stood alone in the dark.

A photo sat in his desk drawer—one no one else had ever seen.

His mother—young, smiling.

Holding him as a baby.

The only softness he'd ever known.

He didn't open the drawer often.

Didn't need to.

The past was always with him.

Inside every cold stare. Every threat. Every deal is sealed in silence.

He didn't become a monster.

He was forged into one.

And now?

The world belonged to him, dressed in a Black Suit. Black Blood- RAJBEER SINGH AHLUWALIA

They said I only wore black.

Not because it suited me, though it did—But because blood never left a stain on it.

They called me a CEO.

But behind every title, every press photo, every sanitized Forbes article—

Was something else.

A killer.

A collector.

A ghost.

Empires didn't rise because I built them. They grew because I demanded them. And when they didn't?

They burned.

I didn't shout.

I didn't threaten.

I didn't need to.

Because power wasn't in the noise, it was in the silence.

The stillness of knowing I could end them with a glance.

That's how I entered every room.

Including this one.

Boardroom – Forty-Two Floors Up

Twelve years of building this empire with blood, sweat, and the quiet resolve of a man who knew no one was coming to save him.

AHLUWALIA BUILDINGS — the crown atop a city I owned, floor by floor.

The boardroom was glass and chrome. Cold.

Men in silk ties shifted in their chairs, trying to remember their lines.

They called this a pitch meeting.

But I called it what it was:

A test.

And they were already failing.

I didn't speak for the first five minutes.

Let them sweat.

Let them guess.

My suit was tailored. Jet black. Tie- razor straight. No smile. No emotion.

I sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled in front of my mouth.

The city lights flickered behind me.

The skyline was mine.

Finally, I spoke.

"You want my money." Flat. Icy. Undebatable.

"And you think you've earned it."

They fumbled open laptops. Slides flickered on the screen.

Graphs. Buzzwords. Bullshit.

One man cleared his throat. Tried to keep his voice steady.

"We're proposing a full acquisition of the Tri-Core steel plants in Gujarat—asset value under market, due to regulatory collapse. If we invest now, we control 40% of the raw supply chain before Q4."

I didn't blink.

Another leaned in, eager.

"We can use shell companies to keep the acquisition quiet. No public trail. No bidding war."

A third added, "With the steel control, we backdoor into government contracts. Military-grade alloy supply. Billions—taxpayer-funded."

I tilted my head slightly.

"Illegal?" I asked.

"No," said the first man, too quickly. Then, more honestly:

"Not... provably."

I gave a slight nod. Finally, something real.

"What else?"

"Eastern Europe," one offered. "There's a collapsing logistics firm in Ukraine. If we buy their routes and rebuild under your Company—Ahluwalia Co., right?—we can run discreet shipments through ten countries. No questions asked."

"Drugs?" I asked flatly.

"No. Weapons. Cleaner paper trail."

I tapped a finger once on the table.

The sound echoed like a trigger.

"Profit?"

"If done right, eight figures before winter."

Another added, "We'll launder it through your art galleries in Prague and Toronto. Modern art is the perfect wash."

I leaned forward, gaze hard.

"I'll fund you. But if you lie to me, your family will need dental records to ID you."

No smirk.

No threat.

Just a promise in ice.

They nodded, swallowing.

One man reached for the contract, hands trembling.

I watched him sign it.

Bloodless. But close.

After the Meeting – The Bathroom

The meeting ended like all his meetings did.

With handshakes. Forced smiles. Men walking out slower than they walked in.

But he stayed seated for a moment longer, sipping his bourbon, eyes fixed on the signature on the contract. One name stood out.

Samar Bhalla.

Too eager. Too smooth. Too loud.

He didn't belong in that room, and definitely not on that deal.

The problem with men like Samar?

They talked.

And men who talked didn't walk far.

The assistant—the poor bastard—was the mistake.

He'd slipped once already, leaking numbers to a competitor.

He thought no one noticed.

But he forgot who sat at the head of that table.

Ten minutes after the boardroom cleared, the assistant excused himself to the executive restroom.

He never came back.

The bathroom was dimly lit.

Marble floors. Polished chrome. Silence thick as cement.

He stood at the sink, checking his reflection—maybe wondering how close he'd come to greatness.

Too close.

The door clicked shut behind him.

A shadow moved.

The lights flickered.

And then—

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

A blade slid clean across his throat.

No scream. Just the sound of breath escaping a dying body.

He hit the marble like a sack of money.

His blood pooled fast, quiet, like everything else in this empire.

The killer leaned down, wiped the blade clean with the man's silk tie.

Checked his pulse.

Unnecessary—but precise.

Then he left, unnoticed.

No panic. No alarms.

Just a locked stall. A silent warning.

Penthouse – Minutes Later

He stood by the window, watching the city sprawl beneath him.

A phone buzzed once.

Text: Done.

He didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

Instead, he sipped his drink, cool and unbothered, as if the murder had been a meeting agenda item.

Because to him, it was.

A message.

A reminder.

This empire wasn't built on numbers.

It was built on fear.

And tonight, everyone remembered why he wore black.

Because blood never left a stain on it.

The Next Morning – News Headlines

CNBC | Breaking News

"Top Executive at Ahluwalia Business & Co. Found Dead in Corporate Tower Restroom.

Authorities suspect cardiac arrest, though sources indicate signs of foul play.

No official comment from the company CEO."

The Economic Times

"Corporate Death Shrouded in Mystery: "No Cameras, No Witnesses."

Samar Bhalla, 32, was part of a controversial acquisition deal hours before his death.

Experts say high-stress environments may have contributed."

The Whisper (Underground Blog)

"Murder Disguised as a Heart Attack?"

"Everyone knows who runs that tower," an anonymous source said.

"No one dies in that building unless he wants them to."

Ahluwalia Buildings – PR Response

By 9 AM, the official company statement was released:

"We are saddened by the sudden passing of one of our associates.

Ahluwalia Business & Co. will cooperate fully with authorities to ensure transparency and truth."

— Signed, Executive Office

But the office was silent.

And the CEO didn't attend the press conference.

He never did.

Media Room – News Anchor Voice (TV playing in background)

"While the official cause of death remains uncertain, what's clear is that Ahluwalia Business & Co. isn't just another company—it's an empire built in silence, ruled by a man no journalist has ever interviewed. A man who doesn't appear in photos. Doesn't speak at summits. Doesn't give quotes."

"People say he only wears black.

People say he built his fortune on steel, silence, and blood.

People say... too much."

The screen cut to a stock image of the building.

And then back to the anchor:

"We'll continue to follow this story—if we're allowed to."

Penthouse Office – Present

He stood in front of the massive window.

The TV in the background played the segment again.

He didn't turn around.

Didn't mute it.

He just listened.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

"They're learning," he murmured.

His voice—quiet. Amused.

Cold as a scalpel.

There was a knock on the door, and moments later, his secretary, Mr. Nikhil Verma, entered with a stack of files in hand.

"Sir, all the documents you requested are here. These are the ones that need your signature."

I gave him a subtle nod in acknowledgment.

He had been by my side since the beginning—twelve years in this life. His loyalty was always to me, never to my father. He had proven himself, and I had rewarded him. He would be taken care of, always.

In my world, loyalty isn't a trait. It's currency.

"Sir," he continued cautiously, "the site visit is scheduled for this evening. We may face some trouble—it's located directly across from the orphanage."

I looked up at him slowly.

"Trouble?" I repeated, voice low.

He shifted. "There's already talk. Journalists. Social workers. Some trustees from the city council are nosing around. They say demolishing the adjacent building will 'traumatize the children'—"

"Children have to learn early," I said, cutting him off. "The world doesn't care about their innocence."

He said nothing. He knew better.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled.

"The orphanage isn't the problem, Nikhil. It's the people who use it as a shield. And I enjoy breaking shields."

A beat passed.

"Let's see who dares to stop me."
_________________
Finally, the update...
What's your opinion?
What will happen next??
Will the sparks fly
or
The threat comes first?

Enjoy reading...
Toodles😘😘😘❤️❤️❤️