The air in the Oberoi penthouse didn't just smell of money; it smelled of *conquest*. It was a thick, cloying mixture of expensive Cuban tobacco and the kind of French perfume that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. From the sixty-eighth floor, Mumbai looked like a scattering of diamonds on black velvet, but inside the ballroom, the real predators were far more dangerous than anything in the streets below.
In the center of the madness stood Vikram Singh. He was a mountain of a man, his laughter booming like a cannon shot against the glass walls. He moved with the heavy, unearned confidence of a king who had forgotten what a revolution felt like.
And then, there was Sia.
She stood exactly three paces behind him—a ghost in a peach-colored suit. At seventeen, Sia was a haunting study in contradictions. Her face was a masterclass in "classic beauty," possessing a soft, baby-innocent roundness that made older investors want to pat her on the head and offer her a soda. Her skin was a startling, pale white—clear as fine bone china and just as fragile-looking.
But it was her hair that gave her away. It was pulled back into a high ponytail so tight and sleek it looked like a whip of black silk. It was a hairstyle of war, not a debutante ball.
The Art of the Invisible
Sia didn't speak. She didn't have to. To her mother, Meera, she was a decorative vase. To her father, she was a quiet legacy. To the room, she was invisible.
And being invisible was Sia's greatest achievement.
"Smile, Sia," Meera whispered, gliding past her daughter like a swan on a poisoned lake. "You're a Singh. Act like you aren't calculating the cost of the wallpaper."
Sia didn't smile. Instead, she let her gaze drift to the waiter across the room. She wasn't looking at his face; she was looking at the angle of the bottle he was pouring.
Vintage Krug, 1996, the label claimed. But as the liquid hit the crystal, the bubbles died too quickly. The viscosity was off. A 12% markup fraud by the catering manager, hidden behind the chaos of a three-hundred-person guest list. Sia logged it into her mental ledger—not because she cared about the money, but because incompetence was a sin she could not forgive.
The Serpent in the Silk
Her eyes shifted, landing on her brother, Aryan. He was leaning against the mahogany bar, his tie loosened, looking every bit the "Reckless Heir" the tabloids adored. He was deep in conversation with Julian Vane—a man whose smile had too many teeth and whose hedge fund was built on the bones of dying companies.
Sia watched Aryan's lips. She had learned to read them years ago, a silent predator eavesdropping on the world's secrets.
"...the old man is blinded by the legacy, Aryan's lips moved, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He won't notice the Singapore transfers until the shell is locked. By Q3, I'll be out from under his thumb."
Sia took a slow, measured breath. A flicker of something cold and sharp ignited behind her dark eyes. It wasn't anger—anger was a luxury for the weak. It was the thrill of the hunt. Her brother wasn't just stealing; he was carving out the heart of the family empire to buy himself a playground in the Maldives.
The Taste of Control
She retreated to a small, marble-topped table in a corner draped in shadows. A single bowl of **Rasmalai** sat there, the creamy saffron milk glowing under the dim lights. It was her ritual. Her anchor.
She picked up the silver spoon, the cool metal a contrast to the heat of the room. As she took a bite, her left hand slipped into her peach blazer, her fingers finding the smooth, cool surface of a copper-toned disc.
With a ghost of a touch, the biometric sensor hummed. A faint, holographic interface shimmered just above her palm—invisible to anyone more than two feet away. This was her "Shadow Terminal," the bridge between her innocent face and the digital graveyard where she buried her enemies.
Query: Singapore Registry. Shell: Vane-Singh Acquisitions.
Status: Active. Assets: Singh Tech IP.
"You're doing it again, Sia."
The voice was low, gravelly, and far too close. Sia didn't flinch. She closed the holographic display with a flick of her thumb and turned.
It was Kabir, her father's Chief of Staff. He was the only man in the building who looked at Sia and saw something other than a child.
"Doing what, Kabir?" she asked. Her voice was a soft melody, but it carried the weight of an approaching storm.
"Observing the world like you're deciding which parts of it to burn," Kabir said, leaning against the railing. He looked at the bowl of Rasmalai. "Is it good?"
Sia looked down at the sweet, her face returning to that deceptive, baby-innocent calm. "It's a bit too sweet tonight. It lacks balance. Much like this room."
"Your father thinks the danger is the market," Kabir whispered, his eyes scanning the crowd. "He thinks he's fighting lions."
Sia stood up, the high ponytail swaying behind her like a pendulum. She smoothed her peach suit, her pale skin looking almost ethereal in the moonlight streaming through the glass.
"My father is wrong," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that made the hair on Kabir's neck stand up. "The lions are already dead. He's surrounded by vultures. And the thing about vultures, Kabir... is that they don't notice when the smallest bird in the nest is actually a hawk."