Chapter 8
1707 Words
His Power
**Alex’s POV**
The night air outside Ananya’s apartment was still, but inside me, nothing was calm.
After dropping her off, I drove away without a word. My hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. Anger pulsed through me—sharp, unfamiliar, and annoyingly personal.
*How could she think so low of me?*
I had never—ever—taken advantage of any woman. They threw themselves at me, flirted, leaned close, fed off my power and status, but I never crossed a line. I played clean. I respected boundaries. I didn’t manipulate. I didn’t deceive.
Yet she looked at me like I was some predator.
She was the first woman—outside my blood—whom I actually cared about. And she thought I was capable of something filthy.
That stung more than I wanted to admit.
By the time I reached the company tower after the long drive, my jaw was clenched, and my temper had only worsened. Staff lined the lobby, greeting me politely as always, but I walked past them without a single nod. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
I headed straight to my cabin.
Mrs. Charles, my secretary—sharp, disciplined, and loyal for nine years—followed with her tablet.
“Good morning, sir. Your schedule—”
“Read it,” I ordered flatly.
She did. Meetings. Contracts. Approvals. Calls.
I pushed through every task like a machine—detached, mechanical, ruthless. Signed papers. Shut down proposals. Ended calls. My patience was thin. My voice was colder than usual—enough that even senior directors kept their distance.
When the final meeting wrapped, I didn’t stay a second longer. I left the building before darkness settled, wanting silence. Space. Anything that wasn’t her voice echoing in my head.
But peace didn’t last.
That evening, my phone rang.
Nick.
His tone was hard. Serious.
“We got information on the man who’s been tailing us the last few days,” he said. “Basement. Now.”
My anger shifted instantly—away from Ananya, into something sharper, lethal. Business. Threat. Control. This was my arena.
Within minutes, I arrived at the underground base.
Most people knew nothing about it. They believed I was just a billionaire, a businessman, a cold-faced heir. They had no idea that beneath the city’s polished surface, there existed a facility we built and ran in secret—a place designed not for crime, but for eliminating it.
We didn’t deal illegally. We hunted the ones who did.
We worked with government officials—only the highest, most trusted level. Undercover agents, special operatives, classified units. The public never knew. They didn’t need to.
We were the line criminals couldn’t cross.
When the law failed—when rules and red tape allowed monsters to slip through—*we handled it our way.* Permanent. Efficient. Unquestioned.
Some called us ruthless.
But we kept streets clean. We shut down trafficking routes. We erased threats the legal system couldn’t touch.
And government—though silent—followed our lead. Because in the end, results mattered more than methods.
As I descended the concrete steps into the basement, the metallic scent of blood hit me. Harsh lights glared across the floor. A man sat in a chair, tied with iron restraints, a spreading pool of red beneath him. His face was bruised, swollen, cut open in places where rods had landed.
Guards circled him, striking, demanding answers.
But he stayed silent.
I stepped forward.
Everything in the room paused—not because I demanded it, but because my presence did.
Nick approached. “He’s not said a word in an hour. You need to take over.”
I nodded once.
When I take the lead, there are no emotions. No mercy. No hesitation. Feelings only distract—and in my world, distraction means weakness. Weakness means vulnerability. Vulnerability means death.
I crouched in front of the man, meeting his trembling eyes.
“What is your mission?” I asked quietly. Too quietly.
No reply.
I tilted my head, expression blank. “Why were you following us?”
Still silence.
Fine.
I signaled the guards. They obeyed instantly.
Minutes later—after methods I never hesitate to use—the man finally broke.
“I—I was sent here by our head,” he gasped.
“Who is your head?”
He hesitated. A fatal mistake. His pupils shrank as he watched my cold stare.
“Mr… Al… Albert Lin,” he stuttered. “A powerful mafia lord from England.”
A ripple of recognition shot through me.
“And why does he want to attack us?”
He swallowed. “Last week… you blocked our shipment from England.”
I exhaled slowly.
I remembered.
I’d personally checked a series of shipments coming into our ports. One seemed off—mislabelled, heavier than declared. When the head of port security resisted my order to inspect it, I reminded him of a truth everyone in power knew:
No one says no to me.
When guards opened it, they found crates of illegal goods. We contacted government, signed over the evidence, and initiated an investigation.
Initial statements were messy—lies, excuses, claims it was a shipping mistake—but special agencies traced the route.
UK → USA.
Trafficking. Weapons. Drugs.
It wasn’t a mistake.
It was a threat.
I turned back to the man. “Where were these goods supposed to go?”
“To Africa,” he said quickly. “Wrong direction. Your government misunderstood.”
Nick leaned close to me. “He’s lying. Agencies confirmed the shipment was meant for our state. Someone here is helping them.”
I didn’t need the confirmation. His trembling eyes, his hesitant tone—it all reeked of deception. And I was very, very good at recognizing lies.
Eventually, under pressure, he confessed the truth.
The shipment was intended for our region. And yes—someone from our side was collaborating. Someone inside our borders was supporting them.
I ordered full PI investigation. Every call trace. Every transaction. Every link.
---
The next morning, a confidential meeting was held with all four of us—my closest circle—and the top authorized officials. Hours passed as we strategized how to expose the traitor aiding Albert Lin’s network.
This wasn’t just business. It was war. And in my world, wars are won by eliminating every root of danger.
We ended the meeting with a single conclusion:
We would find the collaborator. And when we did—they would not survive.
---
**Third-Person POV**
Across the city, in a sleek glass office, a man rushed into another’s cabin—panic all over his face.
“Sir—there’s a problem!” he blurted. “The man sent by Mr. Lin… he was caught by Mr. King’s guards. What do we do?”
The man seated in the head chair leaned back slowly, lips curling into a dark smile.
“Don’t panic,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Albert will handle it.”
He stood, straightened his suit, and murmured under his breath, “You’re finished, Alexander Black King. Once Albert is done with you, I’ll take your place. I’ll rule this country. No one will stop me.”
His personal PA, Jack, stepped forward nervously.
“Sir—Mr. Johnson—you know we can’t go against Alex. He’s more powerful than all of us. If he finds out, we’re ruined. Our company’s reputation—”
“Relax, Jack,” Stephan Johnson snapped. “I have everything under control.”
But Jack knew the truth.
Stephan never listened.
Stephan lived in his father’s shadow—always second to the King family. Always humiliated by comparison. And resentment had poisoned him long ago.
Stepping into his car, Stephan dialed a private number.
Albert Lin.
The call connected.
“He’s caught your man,” Stephan said smoothly. “We need to accelerate our plan.”
His eyes gleamed with vengeance.
"My father lost everything to yours, Alex. But I won’t. I’ll destroy you. I’ll take back everything."
---
**Alex’s POV**
The following day, in a classified conference hall, we gathered again.
Documents were placed before me.
“Sir, we completed investigation on Albert Lin,” the agent said, pushing a file forward.
I opened it.
Albert Lin—publicly, a respected UK businessman. Privately, a global trafficker of weapons and narcotics. Powerful. Secretive. Untouchable. He avoided confrontation, never crossing borders he couldn’t control.
Which meant one thing:
He would never dare step into our territory without help.
“Find the collaborator,” I ordered. “Someone here opened the door for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
This would take time. Precision. Patience.
And I wasn’t afraid of any of it.
But for now, I had a priority.
The Maldives project.
And Ananya.
---
Saturday night, I drove to my parents’ estate. Fiona and Zack were already there.
Dinner was loud, cheerful, filled with business debates and family jokes. Normal. Almost peaceful.
As everyone dispersed, I noticed Zack sitting alone, sulking.
I approached him. “Why do you look like someone stole your wallet?”
He sighed dramatically. “We’re newly married, man. And your sister ditched me for a girls’ night out.”
I raised a brow. “New friends?”
He nodded miserably. “She went to Ananya and Jenny’s place.”
A strange pull tightened in my chest.
Her name.
That stubborn woman.
My lips pressed into a thin line. I excused myself, said my goodbyes, and drove home.
But sleep didn’t come easily.
Her voice. Her arguments. The fire in her eyes. The way she challenged me—fearless, unafraid of my power.
Every memory replayed, tightening something in me I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I shouldn’t think about her.
I didn’t get distracted. I didn’t get attached.
Yet she lingered in my thoughts like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
"Next week, we will discuss the project," I reminded myself.
Strictly professional.
Clean.
Controlled.
But deep down, I knew the truth:
No matter how hard I tried, Ananya Khanna was becoming a complication I couldn’t ignore.
And complications… were dangerous.
Especially for a man like me.
- Writer
