WOUNDED HEART

CHAPTER 4

The ballroom of The Oberyn Hotel shone under a soft, golden glow, the perfect setting for an evening of elite indulgence. Crystals glimmered from the chandeliers above, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the sleek, immaculately dressed guests. Classical music floated delicately through the air, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication. In every corner of the room, tall glasses of drinks swirled, exchanging hands between the high-society crowd, while servers glided silently between conversations with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

Women in silk gowns clinked glasses of champagne, their laughter tinkling like bells. Men in tuxedos stood in huddles, discussing mergers and stocks with affected charm. It was the annual charity gala hosted by Sehgal Enterprises.

It was a night that promised glamour, wealth, and power. But beneath the surface, one man's presence overshadowed all.

Abhimanyu Sehgal had not yet arrived, yet his name echoed through the whispers of every attendee.

"Did you hear? Abhimanyu Sehgal's company just made a billion-dollar deal with the government." "I heard he's been buying up property all over Dubai smart investments."

"They say he's expanding into London next... tech, real estate, pharmaceuticals he's untouchable."

No one knew how he built his empire. They only knew not to ask.

The rumours and whispers only intensified with each passing minute.

Then, as though the world itself shifted, the massive doors at the entrance creaked open.

A hush fell over the room.

A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the carpeted entrance. No reporters were allowed, yet a hush fell over the crowd the moment he entered. Clad in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo, Abhimanyu moved through the room like a monarch surveying his kingdom. Sharp jawline, stormy eyes, and an unreadable expression—it was impossible not to look at him.

"That's Abhimanyu Sehgal," someone whispered.

"The youngest self-made billionaire in the country."

He wore a black tuxedo, custom-tailored to his powerful frame, sharp and unyielding, like the man himself. His jet-black hair was perfectly styled, and his face was carved from stone. His eyes cold, obsidian, and intense, scanned the crowd, almost as if evaluating each individual. Every guest who dared to meet his gaze felt an involuntary shiver down their spine, though they couldn't quite explain why.

Abhimanyu moved through the crowd like a shadow, taking no notice of the murmurs that followed him. The air around him thickened, as though the room could feel the invisible weight of his empire. He was not just a billionaire, not merely a businessman. He was power personified.

Abhimanyu offered a small nod to the chairman of the stock exchange and a brief handshake to a foreign ambassador. He smiled when necessary, charmed when expected, but there was always a wall behind his eyes. No warmth. No soul. Just a carefully constructed facade.

He did not engage in small talk. His gaze moved from one face to another, occasionally offering a curt nod or a cool smile, but never staying too long. He did not need to prove himself. His presence alone was enough. His reputation preceded him—whispers of his wealth, his brilliance, and his cruelty travelled faster than anything he could ever say.

No one in that room knew the truth about him. The darkness that hung just beneath the surface.

Two hours later, the gala was over.

The mask was gone.

The Maybach now sped through the dark outskirts of the city, past the glimmering lights and into the bones of the abandoned industrial district. His driver, Raghav, didn't speak. No one spoke in Abhimanyu's presence unless asked. Silence wasn't uncomfortable with him—it was demanded.

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They stopped outside an old factory—its rusted gates yawning open like the jaws of a beast, revealing the eerie emptiness inside.

Abhimanyu stepped out of the car, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

He walked in with quiet authority, the kind that didn't need noise to be felt. His footsteps echoed across the concrete floor, every click of his polished shoe slicing through the heavy silence.

Inside, a man was chained to a chair. His body was battered and broken. Blood dripped from his nose and lips, the unmistakable scent of fear and sweat filling the air.

The Chained man is a mid-level arms dealer who thought he could double-cross him, and now began to tremble.

"P-please... I didn't mean to mess with your shipment, I swear... I was forced," the man sobbed, trying to lift his head.

Abhimanyu said nothing at first. He just stared.

That stare was cold, patient, and devoid of mercy and was enough to unravel even the strongest. The man collapsed into a fit of pleading, his words dissolving into blubbered nonsense.

Abhimanyu finally spoke. "You were warned not to deal with the Russians."

"I—I was desperate. My family—"

"You had a choice," he cut in, his voice calm but final. "You chose wrong."

He took off his tuxedo jacket slowly, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

he reached out, grabbing the man's arm and wrenching it behind his back with a single swift motion, the snap of bone echoing in the room.

The man screamed, but the sound was quickly muffled by the sharp crack of a slap across his face.

The man tried to raise his head, blinking through swollen eyes. "P-please... I have children."

Abhimanyu's hand moved like a whip.

CRACK.

The back of his ringed hand split the man's cheek open, blood spraying from the corner of his mouth.

Abhimanyu didn't raise his voice. He never did. His actions spoke louder than words ever could.

"I don't tolerate betrayal," he said calmly, as though he were explaining the rules of a game. The man trembled, his mind racing as Abhimanyu continued his slow, deliberate torture.

First, he broke the fingers. Then the kneecaps. Then the ribs. There was no hurry. The process was mechanical, cold.

The man passed out from the pain more than once, only to be revived with a splash of water before the process began again.

Minutes turned to hours as Abhimanyu worked methodically, never losing his cool, never once letting emotion cloud his judgment.

Finally, after nearly an hour of excruciating torment, Abhimanyu stood and wiped his hands, blood still splattered on his cuffs. He approached the man, who could barely lift his head.

"Do you understand the consequences now?" Abhimanyu asked.

The man could only nod, tears streaming down his face.

"You made a choice," he said softly, almost like a lesson to a child. "And in my world, choices have prices."

Without another word, Abhimanyu took the silenced gun his men had brought him, pressed it to the man's chest, and fired three precise shots two to the chest, one between the eyes. The man's body slumped, lifeless.

"Burn the body," Abhimanyu ordered as he turned away. "Make sure they know why."

He cleaned his hands at a basin near the door, blood swirling down the drain like dark wine. There was no emotion on his face. No remorse. Only silence.

He adjusted his sleeves, slipped his jacket back on, and walked out. Not a single drop of blood on him. Not a hint of guilt. Just a man who'd made a decision.

Then, without a glance back, he walked out into the cold night.

To the world, Abhimanyu Sehgal was a reclusive billionaire.

Here, in the dark womb of the underworld, he was something else.

They called him The Ghost King.

A legend. A myth. A phantom. No one had proof he existed. No CCTV ever captured him. No survivor lived to describe his face. Only rumors... and corpses.

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By 2:30 a.m., he was back in his penthouse, perched atop the tallest tower in the city. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered an uninterrupted view of the skyline which is beautiful, hollow, and meaningless.

He stripped off the bloodstained shirt and stepped into the steaming shower. As water flowed down his scarred back, he leaned his hands against the glass and closed his eyes.

This was his kingdom.

Built not on trust or hope, but on fear. Controlled by whispered threats and invisible chains.

No one ever saw him. Not really.

The press worshipped his genius. The rich envied his youth. The poor praised his charity.

But in the darkest parts of the city, when someone mentioned The Ghost King—voices fell silent. Guns were lowered. Deals were abandoned. Because even in the criminal underworld, no one dared speak his real name.

No one who crossed him lived long enough to describe his face.

That was how he liked it.

Anonymity was his greatest weapon.

Abhimanyu dried off, changed into a black shirt, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

He stood at the window, the city blinking below like a playground.

They thought he played by their rules.

But the truth was simpler.

He owned the board.

Abhimanyu took another sip of whiskey. The city below was still, the lights twinkling like scattered stars.

He thought of the gala.

The smiles.

The applause.

How easily they were fooled.

He picked up the remote and turned on the news.

"Mr Abhimanyu Sehgal hosted yet another successful fundraiser tonight, raising over twenty crore rupees for children's cancer treatment..."

He scoffed and muted the screen.

If they knew.

If the world had even the slightest idea who he truly was the blood on his hands, the empire built not just on numbers, but on silence, betrayal, and death they'd burn every magazine cover that bore his face.

But they wouldn't.

Because no one saw him.

He was the devil in Armani. A ghost in plain sight.

Abhimanyu turned to face his right-hand man, Kabir, who stood quietly in the doorway.

"The gala raised over ten crores," Kabir said. "And your name is trending across every platform. The media loves the mystery."

Abhimanyu glanced at him, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Let them love the mystery."

Kabir hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "We've been hearing rumours. Someone's been poking around the East Dock routes. Could be an independent faction, or a rival trying to make a move."

Abhimanyu's gaze did not falter. "Have Raghav trace everyone who has entered those docks in the last seventy-two hours. And pull the customs logs. I want names. Now."

Kabir nodded. "Yes, sir."

Abhimanyu's gaze shifted back to the city below, his thoughts lost in the labyrinth of power and control he had created. He didn't crave power—it was the world that had made him this way. He had been forced into a position where survival was the only option.

"There's something else," Kabir continued quietly. "There's a new face in the city. Someone who's been leaving a trail. We've lost track of them."

Abhimanyu turned slowly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, but it was cold, dangerous. "Find them. I want to know who they are, what they want."

Kabir nodded once more and began to leave, but Abhimanyu's voice stopped him.

"And Kabir," he called, his tone low. "Find me something interesting."

Kabir raised an eyebrow. "Interesting?"

Abhimanyu's lips curled slightly, a predator's grin. "Something that bleeds."

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NOTE :

Here is THE GHOST KING - THE ABHIMANYU SEHGAL