AUTHOR'S POV

It wasn't a new day in Abhimaan's life. His mornings always began the same way — intense workouts in his penthouse gym. His body glistened with sweat as he pushed through another set of bench presses, the droplets sliding from his chest down to his abs before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

Just as he finished his set, his phone buzzed. With a sigh, he carefully racked the weights and reached for his earphones. The moment he answered, a familiar voice greeted him.

"Good Morning sir, sir, you have a meeting with the Das's this afternoon," his assistant, Rajeev, informed him.

Abhimaan merely hummed in response, his attention divided between Rajeev's words and the protein shake he was gulping down. Without much interest, he listened to the rundown of his schedule, then strode out of the gym and into his living room — a stark contrast to the heat outside.

The AC was set to a chilling 16°C, making the space feel like a slice of Antarctica in the middle of humid August Mumbai. Most people would have fallen sick living like this, but Abhimaan didn't care. Comfort and health were secondary to him.

At thirty, Abhimaan was a man who looked every bit the young, powerful tycoon he was. His mother, Mrs. Anita Greyson, who lived in New York, had tried countless times to fix his marriage with eligible women, but he always refused. Outwardly, he claimed he didn't want to marry. In truth, he had never found someone who could give him that feeling of pure, selfless love.

Some women chased his wealth and status.

Some craved his body.

But none had ever touched his heart.

Speaking of his body... Abhimaan was a walking work of art. At 6'1", with broad shoulders and a sculpted physique, he was the kind of man who turned heads wherever he went. His biceps measured a solid 17 inches, his triceps carved and bulging, and his eight-pack abs a testament to his relentless discipline. His shirts clung so tightly around his arms that after every brutal bicep day, a sleeve was bound to rip.

A successful businessman, Abhimaan's empire stretched across India and America. In the stock market, he was a name to reckon with — his investments could single-handedly make a sector soar. Yet, no matter how high he rose, his face remained unreadable, locked behind a poker expression that rarely gave away what he truly felt.

Back in the present, as Rajeev continued talking, Abhimaan suddenly cut him off.

"Didn't the cook come today, or is he on leave?" he asked coldly.

There was hesitation on Rajeev's end before he replied, "Sir... he quit. Said he couldn't handle how you scolded him over the way he cooked."

Abhimaan groaned, frustration evident in his tone.

"So, that fool couldn't even learn how to make a proper English breakfast?"

Rajeev, already used to his boss's temper, spoke carefully. "Don't worry, sir. I'll appoint someone new immediately."

Abhimaan didn't bother responding. He simply ended the call and headed to his master bedroom to shower.

His penthouse was massive — seven rooms in total, including his luxurious master suite. After a long, steaming shower, he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and began dressing for the day ahead, his expression as impassive as ever.

Abhimaan got ready in his signature black suit — the only color he ever wore. To him, other colors were unnecessary distractions. He often joked, half-serious, that he was allergic to colors. Even his coffee was always black, no sugar, no cream — just like his life: strong, bold, and bitter.

He slipped into the tailored suit effortlessly, buttoning it with precision. Every movement was practiced, controlled. With a single click, he summoned his private elevator.

The entire skyscraper belonged to him. The top floor was his luxurious penthouse, while the rest of the building was filled with high-end apartments — just a small fraction of his wealth. The private elevator was his own little world, untouched by anyone else.

As the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, Rajeev was already waiting, iPad in hand. Without a word, he handed it to Abhimaan, displaying the day's packed schedule. Abhimaan gave a brief nod and walked toward the entrance.

Outside, the Mumbai skies poured relentlessly, monsoon rain flooding the streets. But Abhimaan's steps never faltered. Not a single drop dared touch his polished shoes — his driver was there instantly, umbrella in hand, shielding him perfectly. In moments, Abhimaan was seated in the backseat of his luxury car, already flipping through a stack of papers as the vehicle glided smoothly through the rain-slicked roads.

Half an hour later, they pulled up to his office building. Without breaking stride or expression, Abhimaan exited the car, entered the building, and headed straight to his cabin — his face as unreadable as ever.

Rajeev, trailing behind, knew the signs.

Abhimaan hadn't had breakfast yet.

Which meant... today, someone was going to get burned alive.

The staff exchanged wary glances as he walked past. When Abhimaan was hungry, his temper became lethal.

Sitting at his massive mahogany desk, Abhimaan began reviewing reports. Barely five minutes in, his sharp eyes caught a tiny error — a mistake so minor that anyone else might have overlooked it. But not him.

His jaw tightened. His fingers drummed once against the desk.

Rajeev immediately stepped forward, attempting to diffuse the storm. "Sir, should I... get you something to eat first?"

Abhimaan's head snapped up. The glare he shot Rajeev was enough to make him go silent.

"Call the person who prepared this file," Abhimaan ordered, his voice cold and cutting.

Within minutes, a young woman walked in, visibly trembling. The entire office knew her fate was sealed — everyone did when that tone entered Abhimaan's voice.

"You call this work?" Abhimaan's voice boomed like a thunderclap.

"You're careless. Absolutely careless. Are you brainless, or do you just enjoy wasting my time?"

Each word struck like a whip. The girl's eyes welled up, her hands shaking as she tried to speak, but no words came out.

"You will fix this," Abhimaan said, his tone lethal calm now. "And listen carefully — this is your last chance. If I see even a single mistake again..." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp as a blade. "...you're done."

The girl nodded rapidly, murmured a shaky "Sorry, sir," and bolted out of the cabin, practically stumbling in her rush to escape.

As if on cue, the peon arrived with his breakfast — a perfectly plated English spread. A half-fried egg, a poached egg, a golden croissant, and his essential black coffee.

Abhimaan ate silently, eyes glued to the stock market graphs on his screen. Rajeev stood by, fully aware that a single decision from this man could either skyrocket the market or cause it to crash into chaos. But Abhimaan didn't care about the frenzy outside. He moved only when he wanted to, never when others expected him to.

Once breakfast was done, he prepared for his afternoon meeting with the Das family. However, they were late. Very late.

Abhimaan didn't wait around for anyone. Instead, he spent the time productively — holding internal meetings, signing contracts, and reviewing high-stake deals. Two hours later, the receptionist called to inform him that the Das family had finally arrived.

Abhimaan didn't even glance at the clock. He continued working for another three hours, intentionally making them wait.

By now, Anil Das — the patriarch of the family — was seething with rage. Ignoring the receptionist's frantic warnings and his own associates' pleas, he stormed past security and burst through the doors of Abhimaan's office.

It was a reckless move.

Everyone knew the rule: without Abhimaan's explicit permission, not even a fly was allowed to enter his cabin.

And this man had just kicked open the lion's den.

The heavy office doors swung open with a loud thud.

Abhimaan didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his eyes at first, continuing to sign the document in front of him with deliberate precision.

Anil Das stormed into the cabin, his face flushed with anger. The man seated near Abhimaan's desk instinctively began to rise, but Abhimaan subtly lifted a hand — a simple gesture that made the man freeze and sit back down immediately.

The message was clear: No one moves unless Abhimaan allows it.

Anil stood there, chest heaving, glaring at Abhimaan.

"I have been waiting for three hours, Abhimaan!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the luxurious cabin.

Abhimaan finally lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Anil's with an unnerving calm. Then, in a voice far louder and sharper, he thundered:

"I am the only one who raises his voice in this building!

Don't you ever dare to talk to me in a high pitch at me again, or you know the consequences which you and your family will face "

The sheer authority in his tone made the entire room fall silent. Even the air seemed to grow heavier.

Anil's bravado instantly crumbled. His anger melted into fear as he stammered, "S-sorry, Mr. Greyson... I didn't mean—"

Abhimaan's expression remained cold, unmoved by the apology. At that moment, the door creaked open again, and Anil's son attempted to step inside.

Abhimaan's voice cracked like a whip.

"Don't. You. Dare."

The young man froze mid-step, his face pale.

"Sit down there," Abhimaan ordered, gesturing to the chair near the door. His voice carried the kind of authority that allowed no room for argument. The boy obeyed instantly, lowering himself into the chair without another word.

Only then did Abhimaan turn back to Anil.

"Give the presentation," he said, his tone flat and businesslike, as if nothing had just happened.

---

The next three hours passed with Anil and his team painstakingly explaining their proposal. They laid out every detail, every calculation, every projected profit. By the end, Anil was drenched in nervous sweat, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

Their idea was solid. Their numbers were strong.

This deal had to go through.

Abhimaan leaned back in his chair, completely unreadable.

"Your theme is good," he said finally, his tone calm. "Your margins are decent. By all accounts, you should get this project."

Relief flooded Anil's face. He exchanged a glance with his son, both men silently celebrating. The three-hour wait, the stress — it was all worth it.

But then...

Abhimaan's voice turned colder, like ice cracking under pressure.

"But you won't."

The words cut through Anil like a blade.

"What... what do you mean?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Abhimaan's face remained a perfect poker mask.

"You made me wait for two hours. Even then, I gave you a chance to redeem yourself by being patient. But you failed. You are reckless. Impatient. Unpunctual." He paused, his gaze piercing through Anil. "And I do not work with men who cannot respect my time."

Anil's face drained of color. The rejection hit harder than a physical blow.

"Mr. Greyson, please, just—"

"Get. Lost."

The command was cold and final.

Before Anil could even process it, Abhimaan snapped his fingers. Two towering bodyguards appeared instantly, like shadows materializing from nowhere. They seized Anil by the arms and began dragging him toward the door.

"Sir! Wait! I'll increase the margin by twenty percent!" Anil shouted desperately, struggling against their grip.

Abhimaan didn't even look at him. He simply picked up another file and began reading, completely indifferent.

"Thirty percent!" Anil yelled louder.

"Fifty percent!"

For the first time, Abhimaan paused. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at Anil.

A flicker of hope lit up in Anil's eyes. Maybe... maybe there was still a chance.

But then Abhimaan's voice cut through the air, merciless and absolute.

"Take this dirt out. Fast."

The bodyguards didn't hesitate. Anil and his son were dragged out of the office like criminals, their pleas echoing uselessly in the vast corridor. The door slammed shut behind them with a deafening finality.

Inside, Abhimaan calmly returned to his work as if nothing had happened. Papers shuffled, pens scratched across pages, and the storm he had unleashed moments ago was replaced by eerie silence.

---

Hours later, night fell over Mumbai.

Abhimaan finally rose from his desk, his long day concluded. In the parking garage, his driver hurried forward, but Abhimaan waved him off.

"Not tonight," he said.

Taking the keys himself, he slid behind the wheel of his sleek black car. This was his ritual — his one personal indulgence. A solitary night drive along the outskirts of Mumbai, away from the chaos, away from the noise.

Out there, under the quiet night sky and the hum of the engine, Abhimaan found the only thing that ever brought him calm — solitude.

The city lights faded behind him as Abhimaan drove toward the outskirts of Mumbai, where the roads grew quieter and the chaos of the world seemed to dissolve into silence. The salty scent of the sea filled the night air as he pulled over near a secluded stretch of beach.

Stepping out of the car, he shrugged off his black coat and threw it in the car's backseat . He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his crisp black shirt, rolled his sleeves up, and loosened his tie, letting himself breathe for the first time that day.

From his pocket, he pulled out a sleek silver cigarette case. With a flick of his lighter, the flame danced briefly before igniting the tip. He took a long, deep drag, exhaling slowly as he stared at the dark, restless tides before him.

The waves crashed and receded in an endless rhythm, the cool sea breeze carrying away the suffocating weight of his day. Out here, away from the glass towers and boardrooms, he wasn't the ruthless tycoon everyone feared. He was just... a man. A man quietly drowning in his own emptiness.

Abhimaan had everything most people could only dream of — power, wealth, influence. If he snapped his fingers, the world around him shifted to his will. People would bend, break, even destroy themselves just to please him or get a fraction of his favor.

And yet... none of it mattered.

For all his victories, his empire, and his control, there was one thing he didn't have — love.

Not the shallow flattery or lust that came with his status.

Not the calculated interest of those who saw him as a stepping stone.

But real, selfless, unconditional love.

He wanted someone who would see him — not his name, not his bank balance, not his body. Someone who could break past the fortress he had built around his heart.

But that person didn't exist.

At least, not yet.

This void gnawed at him every single day. No matter how many achievements he stacked or empires he conquered, he still felt... incomplete. Surrounded by people, yet utterly alone.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers as he took another drag, staring at the horizon like it held answers. One cigarette turned into two. Then three. By the time he stubbed out the fourth, the night had deepened into an eerie, quiet stillness.

A glance at his watch told him it was past 1 AM. With a sigh, he straightened his shirt and slipped his coat back on. There was no time to linger — he had a flight to catch in just a few hours. China awaited, along with another high-stakes meeting that only he could handle.

Sliding back into the driver's seat, Abhimaan started the engine and began the drive back toward his penthouse. The city skyline appeared faintly in the distance, glowing under the moonlight.

But what Abhimaan didn't know — couldn't possibly foresee — was that this night marked the end of the life he knew.

Somewhere out there, fate was already moving its pieces.

And soon, something — someone — was about to enter his world and turn it upside down.

And for the first time, Abhimaan Greyson — the man who controlled everything — would find himself completely powerless.

.・゜゜・

_________________________________________________________

Hello Everyone !!!!

Hope you all liked the chapter of my third book

Don't forget to comment down your opinion and which moment you liked the most .

Hope you all are happy and enjoying life

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Your author

CHRONIC

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