The chandeliers in the sprawling penthouse suite of the Malik Empire Tower glittered like stolen diamonds under the dimmed lights. The victory party was in full swing. Siddharth Malik had just eliminated the last rival gang that dared challenge his ascension. At thirty-eight, he was the undisputed new king of the city's underworld—ruthless, charismatic, and always in control. His black Armani suit hugged his powerful frame, the top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of the gold chain and tattoos that marked his violent rise.

In the center of it all stood his trophy wife, Lara Mehra. Twenty-six years old, with long wavy black hair cascading down her back, fair skin that glowed under the lights, and a body that could make hardened criminals forget their names. She wore a deep red saree that clung to her curves, the blouse low-cut and sleeveless, exposing her smooth shoulders and the generous swell of her breasts. The pallu was draped loosely, barely covering her midriff. Siddharth had chosen this outfit himself. He liked showing her off.