The Pakhan and the CEO

Niran She finally killed him. That was the first thought that crossed my mind when I pushed open his bedroom door and saw him hanging from the ceiling, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. Not the hurt of losing a father. Not the panic of being left alone in the world. Not the fear that my only family was gone. He looked… peaceful. I stood there for a full minute, staring at him the way a daughter should never look at her dead father. Even with hollow cheeks and dark circles, even reduced to half the man he once was, he was still devastatingly handsome—the kind of man who could make women half his age fall for him with a single breath. The thought made me chuckle—a small, broken sound that quickly spiraled into full-blown laughter. A warm drop slid down my cheek. I touched it. A tear. My hand trembled. The bag slipped from my shoulder and hit the floor. And then the dam broke. The pain came like fire beneath my skin—so hot that it felt like my whole being was melting. I fell to my knees. I tried to scream—but no sound came out. It lodged in my throat, blocking my windpipe, suffocating me. I couldn’t breathe. Gasping, I shot upright in bed, fingers fisted in my pillow so tightly I could have torn it apart with my long, manicured nails. Just a nightmare. I repeated it silently, like a rhythm I could anchor myself to, forcing my breaths into something steady instead of sharp and fractured. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. At this point, I had grown accustomed to waking up like this—heart racing, sheets twisted around my legs, the taste of fear metallic at the back of my throat. I feared no one in the world, yet these haunting memories had the power to make me tremble in my sleep. Years of practiced control had taught me how to surface from one without slipping into a full panic attack. They were worse before. Not more frequent—more violent. More detailed. They lingered long after I opened my eyes, clinging to my skin like something alive. Sometimes they were so excruciating that I wouldn’t speak for days afterward. I would scream in my sleep—loud enough to tear my throat raw—and wake up unable to force sound past the damage. I would become desperate to do anything to drown it out. The sting of a blade against skin. The dull shock of my skull striking something solid. The sharp flare of heat pressed against my arm. Pain was immediate. Controllable. It pulled me out of the past and into the present. It reminded me that I was still here. Finding some sense of calm, I glanced at the clock. 5:30 a.m. I got an hour of extra sleep. Usually, I managed three hours at most. Insomnia had become a permanent tenant in my life, so sleep was a luxury I had stopped expecting. I tied my hair into a messy bun and threw the blanket aside, walking toward the bathroom. The marble floor was cold beneath my feet. The kind of cold I preferred. After completing my morning routine—a two-hour gym session, a long cold shower, and a cup of black coffee while I read the news on my iPad—I dressed for work. Stepping into the elevator, I pressed the only button. It was my private lift, connecting the penthouse directly to my underground parking. As the doors slid shut, I caught my reflection in the polished steel. Sleek bun. Tailored charcoal suit. High heels that elevated my five-foot-seven frame. I looked every bit the woman I had worked my ass off to become—powerful, confident, unbreakable. I had started from nothing and built a name people across the globe bowed to. I managed properties, enterprises, and hospitality ventures worldwide. Real estate wasn’t just business. It was my f*****g territory. Governments negotiated with me. Investors waited months for a fifteen-minute slot on my calendar. How ironic. There had been a time when I begged people for their time—when life was so cruel that death had seemed like the only option. The easy way out. But I chose to stay. I chose to fight. I earned my dignity the hard way, and I swore I would never be that powerless again. Driving to the office, I stopped at a red light. New York moved as it always did—unaware, indifferent. I had moved here from a small town when I was barely old enough to understand what starting over meant. Viterbo was nothing like the romantic kind people wrote poetry about. No vineyards. No rolling hills bathed in golden light. Just narrow streets, old stone buildings, and people who believed your future was decided before you could spell your own name. Mine had been decided too. I wouldn’t have fought to change it if ambition—and vengeance—hadn’t pushed me beyond my limits. The light turned green. I pressed the accelerator. I had barely crossed the intersection when something slammed into the left side of my Mercedes. The world exploded. Metal shrieked. Glass shattered. My body jerked violently as the car spun, tires screeching against the asphalt. My breath whooshed out of me on impact. Then—the airbags deployed. A violent burst against my face. Powder. Pressure. Silence ringing in my ears. For f**k’s sake. Some blind motherfucker had just plowed straight into my car. What a perfect way to start the day. The vehicle finally lurched to a stop at an angle across the road. Smoke curled from somewhere—the hood, maybe the engine. I couldn’t tell. My chest burned. My ribs screamed. Pain radiated down my left arm, sharp and nauseating. I tried to move. Big mistake. Everything hurt. The smell hit next—burnt rubber, deployed airbags, gasoline… and something metallic. Blood. My vision blurred at the edges. Sound returned in distorted waves—distant shouting, a horn stuck on repeat, footsteps running. I tasted copper. “f*****g i***t…” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure the words made it past my lips. The world tilted. Darkness closed in. And then there was nothing.