Moscow, Russia

Snow pressed against the dark glass walls of the elite club in Moscow while gold lights bled through crystal chandeliers overhead. The entire VIP lounge smelled of expensive liquor and cigar smoke.

Slow jazz mixed with deep bass vibrated through the room while three dancers moved around poles under dim lighting.

Their short green fur skirts swayed against toned thighs with every turn. Golden backless blouses clung to their skin, thin chains crossing bare waists and shoulders while heavy waist chains glittered under the lights.

The dancers arched into a slow layback, spine bending as her dark hair nearly touched the stage floor.

One heel traced the pole slowly.

Then they spun into a chair spin, legs folding gracefully while rotating around the pole with teasing precision.

Men watched hungrily. But not him.

At the elevated VIP section, Rudraksha Singh Rathore sat lazily against the black leather couch, entirely detached from the performance happening.

His charcoal-black three-piece suit looked expensive under the amber lighting. The top button of his shirt remained open beneath a sharp tie loosened slightly at the neck.

A silver watch rested against his wrist as he slowly swirled whisky inside a crystal glass before taking a sip.

His polished black Christian Louboutin shoes reflected the low golden lights as he crossed one ankle over the other.

Cold. Unreadable. Disinterested.

While the other businessmen occasionally glanced toward the dancers, Rudraksha hadn't looked at the stage even once.

His attention remained fixed on the deal. Across from him sat Vincent Moreau, a French investor in his late thirties, and beside him was Russian businessman Sergei Volkov.

Two more girls entered the elevated VIP section their outfits were designed to look tempting.

Tiny green velvet skirts barely covered their upper thighs, the fur lining brushing softly against fishnet stockings that ran down long legs disappearing into glossy black stiletto heels.

Golden blouse hugged tightly around their chests, completely backless except for thin strings tied across bare skin. Shiny thinner thigh chains circled one leg, glittering every time they walked.

One woman slid beside Vincent nails trailing slowly across his shoulder as she leaned close enough for her lips to brush near his ear.

She whispered something softly in French. Vincent chuckled under his breath immediately.

While sergei grabbed the second giirl by her waist and pulled her onto his lap casually. She settled against him while his rough fingers moved along the chain wrapped around her thigh before slowly squeezing her bare skin above the fishnets.

Vincent meanwhile rested his fingers against the girl's exposed thigh, absentmindedly creasing there before finally reaching for his whisky glass again.

The women laughed softly. Comfortable. Used to this world.

Then the third girl approached . Rudraksh sat stretched against the black leather couch like the room belonged to him, one arm resting lazily along the backrest while smoke curled from the expensive cigar between his fingers.

His long black coat spread across the couch beside him, girl slowed near him, heels clicking softly against marble.

Rudraksha finally looked up.

Calm. Cold. Deadly.

He took another slow puff from the cigar before reaching casually toward his side. A black Bretta landed softly onto the glass table beside his whisky.

No sudden movement. No expression. Just deliberate silence.

Then he leaned back again and exhaled smoke slowly into the air. The girl froze instantly.

The meaning was obvious. Stay the fuck away.

Even Vincent glanced sideways for a second before smirking faintly into his drink. Below them, music still pulsed through the club while dancers twisted around poles beneath lights.

But inside the VIP section, Vincent leaned back again, fingers resting lazily against the woman sitting beside him.

"You know," he said amusedly, "most men come to Moscow for business and stay for the entertainment."

Rudraksha just took a sip of his whisky and whispered "I don't see women as a entertainment"

Vincent still tracing girl's thigh jewellery said "I see"

Rudraksha finally kept his glass.

"I want forty percent share in our Blackridge Expansion."

Vincent exhaled slowly, leaning back.

"Thirty will be enough, Mr. Rathore."

Rudraksha took a sip of whisky.

"I don't negotiate." His voice remained calm. "Either forty... or we end this."

Below them, applause echoed as one dancer spun around the pole in another slow aerial hook.

Sergei rubbed his jaw before speaking.

"At least thirty-five."

Rudraksha looked at him directly.

"You heard me, Volkov."

Dead Silence.

Only the music continued.

Vincent chuckled softly, trying to dissolve the tension.

"Enjoy the dance. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

Rudraksha glanced toward his untouched second cigar before setting the whisky glass down. Half of it still remained.

And whispered deadly "I didn't fucking travel from India to Russia to enjoy some dance."

The room went quiet for a second.

"We'll talk on the phone." He stood smoothly from the couch. "I'm flying back to India tonight."

He buttoned his coat calmly.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Vincent and Sergei stood up too.

Rudraksha picked up his black long coat from the couch and walked away while the dancers continued moving beneath crimson and green lights.

The sound of his shoes against the marble floor was sharper. Minutes later, the doors of the club opened to freezing Moscow air.

A black bentley waited outside with headlights glowing against falling snow. Rudraksha entered the backseat without a word.

Inside the club, Vincent sat back down again with a smirk, finally turning his attention toward the stage as another dancer leaned into a slow body wave beneath the gold lights.

The bantley cut through Moscow's midnight traffic smoothly, headlights sliding across wet roads.

Inside the backseat, Rudraksh Singh Rathore sat with cigar in his hand, he took a slow puff from the cigar.

The orange flame glowed briefly near his face before smoke escaped past his lips in a calm stream, disappearing into the freezing night outside as he opened the window of his car.

His mind was already miles away from the club.

India.

Tomorrow's board meeting.

RSR expansion.

Outside, the glowing runway lights of a private aviation terminal slowly appeared ahead.

A matte-black Gulfstream G700 stood waiting under white airport lights like a silent beast prepared for departure.

Bantley stopped. Rudraksha took one final drag from the cigar before crushing it calmly inside the crystal ashtray fixed into the door console.

Then he stepped out. Polished shoes touched the wet pavement. Cold air hit instantly, making the edges of his long black coat move sharply behind him as he walked toward the jet.

Near the stairs of the jet stood his aviation manager, Aditya Mehra, holding a tablet in one hand despite the freezing Moscow air.

"Good evening, Mr. Rathore."

He just nod adjusting his watch before walking toward the jet waiting to take him back to India.

Jaipur

The evening traffic of Jaipur moved noisily around them as Isha got down from the back of the bike, adjusting the strap of her college bag quietly.

The sky above the city had already turned orange-grey while the smell of dust, petrol, and roadside food stalls lingered heavily in the warm air.

Her loose baggy jeans and a normal tshirt looks comfy while strands of hair escape from the messy clutcher at the back of her head after the long ride from college.

Beside her, Vivaan removed his helmet and ran a hand through his slightly messy hairs.

Isha struggled with the helmet strap for a few seconds, her fingers fumbling near the lock before an annoyed sigh escaped her.

Vivaan watched silently for exactly two seconds before stepping closer with a smirk. He unclipped the strap effortlessly and lifted the helmet off her head while she immediately frowned at him.

Vivaan only shuffled her messy hair deliberately, making loose strands fall over her face before mocking,

"You're twenty-one, Ishi... and you still don't know how to remove a helmet properly?"

Isha glared at him while fixing her hair quickly.

"And still I taught you how to ride a bike, Vee."

That wiped the smugness off his face for one second.

"Cheap shot," he muttered before grabbing her heavy college bag off her shoulder.

"You seriously carry half the library in this bag," he muttered.

A small smile almost appeared on Isha's lips.

Almost.

Because the second they reached home and Vivaan pushed open the wooden door , the familiar heaviness returned.

The television played loudly inside the living room while the smell of tadka filled the house.

Everything looked normal.

And yet nothing inside this house had ever truly felt like home to her.

Her mother, Meghna, sat on the sofa folding clothes but the moment her eyes landed on Isha and Vivaan entering together, irritation crossed her face instantly.

She yelled "How many times have I told you not to waste your time on her, Vivaan?"

The warmth disappeared immediately.

Vivaan's jaw tightened.

Their mother looked up from the sofa again before continuing sharply,

"And she's big enough to travel alone." Her eyes moved toward Isha briefly. "Independent banne ka shauk khudko hi tha....Hum toh shaadi karwa rahe the."

Isha's fingers stiffened around her cargo.

Her gaze lowered automatically.

Habit. Years-old habit.

But the words still hurt every single time.

Marriage.

As if Marriage was the only option offered to her when she had barely begun becoming an adult.

The memory hit instantly.

Her crying quietly in this same house after twelth results.

Begging.

One chance.

Just one chance to study further.

One chance to become something before being handed into another house like burden being transferred.

Nobody remembered the sleepless nights.

The headaches.

The anxiety.

The way she had studied till sunrise for months just to crack NEET and escape the marriage fixed for her future.

Escape.

That was what education had become for her.

Not ambition.

Survival.

Vivaan looked ready to snap immediately.

"Ma-"

Before he could continue, Isha quietly grabbed his wrist, trying to stop him.

A silent don't.

Please. Not again.

But Vivaan still continued.

"Ma don't forget," he said sharply, "that you were forcing her to get married right after her twelfth."

The room went silent.

Even the television noise suddenly felt distant.

But he continued before Meghna could interrupt.

"She has dreams too."

Isha's fingers tightened around his wrist.

"Or rahi baat independent ki..." Vivaan laughed humorlessly. "Toh she's more independent than me."

That landed harder than shouting would have.

Because everyone inside that house knew it was true.

She had earned scholarship, Made her own future.

While Meghna only scoffed and stood from the couch.

"Bas zubaan chalani aa gayi hai tum dono ko."

She walked away toward the kitchen muttering under her breath.

Silence settled again.

Heavy. Familiar.

Their mother disappeared into the kitchen with visible annoyance.

While Isha and Vivaan had already started walking upstairs in silence when Meghna's voice echoed again from the kitchen.

They had barely crossed one flight of stairs.

"Vivaan, khana laga diya hai."

Both of them stopped for a second.

Only Vivaan.

Like always.

Isha's fingers tightened slightly around the railing before she looked away quietly, already knowing what would happen next.

Vivaan's expression darkened immediately as he looked toward the kitchen.

"Ma, Ishi bhi-"

"I'm not hungry."

The words came out abruptly from Isha before he could complete the sentence.

Too quickly.

"I ate something at canteen."

Lie.

Because she already knew what would happen if Vivaan argued again.

Another fight. Another taunt.

Another reminder that she was unwanted inside her own house.

Vivaan stared at her quietly for a second.

He knew.

Of course he knew she was lying.

He had seen her skip lunch.

Had watched her say "I already ate" too many times.

But Isha only gave him a small smile.

Soft.

Tired.

Used to this.

And just as she take another step, one tear slipped silently from her eye.

She wiped it away quickly before anyone could notice and forced another small smile onto her lips like nothing had happened at all.

Habit.

Some pains stopped looking painful after living with them long enough.

And before anyone could stop her she walked away toward her room carrying her own emptiness with her like it weighed nothing at all.

----

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