The boardroom was silent except for the sharp echo of Veeresh Rathore’s voice. His presence was enough to command attention; no one dared to interrupt when he spoke. Charts, figures, and nervous executives surrounded him, but his focus was unbreakable—until his phone lit up with an unfamiliar number.

He almost ignored it. Almost. But something in him stirred, and he answered.

“Mr. Rathore?” The voice was rushed, trembling. “This is City Hospital. It’s urgent—you must come immediately. It’s about Mr. Pavan Shekhawat.”

The pen slipped from Veeresh’s hand. For the first time in years, he didn’t finish the meeting. The man everyone feared, the one who never left a deal unfinished, was already storming out of Rathore Industries.

The hospital corridors smelled of antiseptic and fear. Veeresh’s footsteps were heavy, echoing down the sterile hallway as he demanded directions. When he pushed open the door to the emergency ward, his chest tightened.

On the bed lay Pavan Shekhawat—his brother in everything but blood, the boy he had grown up with, the man who knew him better than anyone else. Machines beeped frantically around him, doctors moved swiftly, but nothing could hide the blood, the weakness, the fragility of the man who had once been his equal in strength.

“Veeresh…” Pavan’s voice was faint, barely above a whisper. His hand trembled as he reached out.

Veeresh gripped it immediately, his sharp eyes now filled with something no one had ever seen in him—fear. “I’m here, Pavan. Don’t speak, save your strength.”

The doctor stepped forward, grave and cautious. “He had a terrible accident. Multiple injuries. We’re trying our best, but… you should prepare yourself.”

Veeresh’s jaw clenched. His empire, his power, his ruthlessness—none of it mattered here. This was his friend. His brother. And for the first time, Veeresh Rathore felt powerless.