Vikram Malhotra's voice nearly cracked as he shouted, his London-polished ego wilting under the Neon Nights' pulsing lights. The Gachibowli bar thrummed with DJ beats, the air thick with the spice of late-night biryani and the sharp edge of premium whiskey. Hyderabad's monsoon drizzle gleamed on the streets outside, catching the glow of Tollywood billboards and neon signs, casting the scene in a cinematic haze.
Aisha said nothing, her eyes darting between Vikram's bluster and Robin's cool detachment, her silence louder than the music.
Across the bar, Priya Reddy clinked her cocktail glass with Robin's, her simple white top and jeans somehow outshining the glittery crowd. She leaned in, her grin sharp as a freshly honed blade. "Vikram's playing the big shot, isn't he? All swagger to impress Aisha, but the man's clueless. Doesn't even know who he's crossed. Aisha's had it too easy, Robin sir, all because you shielded her from Hyderabad's underbelly."
Robin's smartwatch buzzed softly, his AI-driven Ayurvedic app tracking his steady pulse despite the chaos. "You know who runs this place?" Priya asked, her eyes glinting with mischief.
"Don't know, don't care," Robin replied, his voice dry as a Charminar sunset. "Tonight, we drink."
"To getting sloshed with you, Robin!" Priya laughed, inching closer, her perfume weaving through the bar's smoky air, a subtle invitation. Her heart raced—she'd waited years for a moment like this, ever since Robin's fists had shattered her captors in that rain-soaked trafficking den.
But the mood shifted as a chill swept through the bar. Arjun "AJ" Rao stormed back, trailing a sharply dressed man with a boxer's build—Vikrant "Vicky" Sharma, a name that made Hyderabad's underworld flinch. AJ pointed at Aisha and Vikram, his voice dripping with venom. "Vicky bhai, it's them! I can take a slap, but it's your reputation they've spit on!"
"Vicky Sharma?" a patron gasped, and half the bar's eyes swiveled to Aisha and Vikram.
Vicky was a legend, a thug in a tailored suit who'd clawed his way up Hyderabad's gritty ladder with ruthless precision. Once a top student, third in Telangana's state exams, he'd earned the nickname "Vicky the Scholar" on the streets—a moniker as feared as it was ironic. Behind him, a dozen hard-faced goons radiated menace, their presence screaming trouble's here.
Vikram, caught in their glare, felt sweat bead on his forehead, his legs wobbling like a bad biryani aftermath. He'd never faced this kind of heat. Forcing a grin, he extended a shaky hand. "I'm Vikram Malhotra, son of Sanjay Malhotra, Malhotra Group. Pleased to meet you."
Vicky adjusted his tie, ignoring the handshake. "So, the Malhotra heir graces us," he said, his tone smooth but icy. "My apologies for not rolling out the red carpet."
Vikram exhaled, thinking he'd dodged a bullet. Maybe his name still carried weight.
"But," Vicky continued, his voice hardening, "you slapped my guy. How do I square that? If word gets out, how do I hold my head up in Hyderabad?"
Vikram's bravado faltered. "Look, how about a lakh for medical expenses? Fair deal?" he offered, his voice tight.
"A lakh?" Vicky's laugh was sharp, like a knife through silk. "You think my reputation's worth pocket change? Anyone can disrespect me and toss a lakh to walk away? How do I run my business then?"
The air turned heavy, Vicky's goons closing in. Vikram's heart sank—he'd screwed up. The Malhotra Group wasn't what it used to be, and he was the family's black sheep, sent back to Hyderabad to snag Aisha's empire and prove himself. Stirring up trouble now could ruin everything.
"This isn't about money, Malhotra," Vicky said, his smile predatory. "Your friend here just wanted the lady's number—standard bar move. She says no, fine, we move on. I don't force anyone. But you? You slapped my guy without asking questions, messing with my business."
"It was a misunderstanding! I'm sorry!" Vikram blurted, his voice cracking.
"An apology doesn't cut it," Vicky snapped. "Here's the deal: kneel, kowtow three times to AJ, crawl between his legs, let him slap you back three times, and leave the lady with him for the night. Then we're square. Sound good?"
Vikram trembled, the weight of Vicky's words crushing him. "Vicky bhai, I messed up. Can you let it slide, just this once?" He glanced at Aisha, desperate to save face. "Even if you don't respect me, she's Aisha Seth, CEO of Fernandes Enterprises. No need to escalate, right?"
Crack! Vicky's hand shot out, slapping Vikram so hard he stumbled. "You talk too much, Malhotra. Since you won't show respect, I'll teach you some." He nodded to his goons. "Hold him down. Make him kowtow."
Two thugs grabbed Vikram's arms, forcing him to his knees. He thrashed, but their grip was iron. "Wait!" Aisha shouted, stepping forward. "Vicky, Vikram was wrong, but he's paid enough. Can we call it even?"
She handed Vicky her business card, her voice steady. "Maybe we can work together down the line."
Vicky glanced at the card, then flicked it away like a spent cigarette. "Aisha Seth, huh? Heard you've got Tollywood stars on speed dial at Fernandes Enterprises. Bring 'em here, boost my bar's clout. But today? No deal. I don't let my guys take hits without consequences. Hope you get that."
Aisha's face tightened. She hadn't expected Vicky to brush her off so coldly. Instinctively, she wanted to call Robin—back when she'd faced trouble, he'd always stepped in, and the other side ended up apologizing. But now? Robin was a stranger.
"Vicky, you want me to call the police?" Aisha said, her voice sharp.
Vicky laughed, a deep, mocking sound. "Police? My friends in the department aside, your boy started this. We're just defending ourselves."
Aisha bit her lip, out of moves. She thought of her old contact, Ravi Kumar, a big shot in Hyderabad's underworld. Robin had introduced them years ago, but she'd scoffed at his rough edges then. Now, Ravi was her only shot to save Vikram.
"I know Ravi Kumar," Aisha said. "Can you let Vikram go for his sake?"
Vicky's eyes narrowed, surprised. "You know Ravi? How?"
"Through a friend," Aisha said, meaning Robin but not naming him.
Vicky paused, weighing her words. "Fine, Aisha. You can walk. Ravi's name carries weight."
Aisha moved to help Vikram, still kneeling, but Vicky blocked her. "Just you. Malhotra stays."
"Aisha, save me!" Vikram pleaded, his voice breaking. He'd heard stories of guys like Vicky—broken bones, or worse, no sunrise.
"Vicky, please," Aisha tried again. "Can't we work this out?"
"No can do," Vicky said, pulling a sleek dagger from his jacket, twirling it before Aisha. "You're high society, Aisha, and I'd rather not cross you. But the streets have rules."
"What are you going to do to him?" Aisha demanded.
"None of your concern," Vicky replied, his tone final.
"Aisha, don't leave me!" Vikram wailed, visions of Hyderabad's back alleys flashing through his mind.
Aisha grabbed her phone, scrolling through contacts, but her network—mostly built through Robin—felt useless now. Vikram wasn't her, and he'd swung first. She hesitated, then marched straight to Robin's booth.
"Aisha di, what's up? Just catching up with Robin," Priya said, pressing closer to Robin, her smile teasing. The sight of their closeness twisted Aisha's gut, though she couldn't say why.
"Robin, tell Vicky Sharma to let Vikram go!" Aisha demanded, her voice sharp, almost commanding.