The first rays of dawn barely kissed the skyline when Abhimaan's alarm blared at exactly 5:00 AM. His eyes opened instantly, no hesitation, no grogginess. He had trained himself to function on discipline, to rise with the sun without fail.
His body, honed through years of dedication, glimmered in the dim morning light as he slid out of bed. Six-pack abs, perfectly sculpted chest, and shoulders that could carry the weight of the world — all that was visible was strength. Every muscle on his body was a product of hard work and sacrifice, sculpted with the precision of an artist, each line and curve defined by his unwavering commitment to perfection.
Abhimaan didn't just wake up early to get fit — it was part of his identity. It was the foundation of everything he had built: an empire, a reputation, a life free of compromise.
No time for indulgence, no room for weakness. His diet was calculated, precise. Every meal was a performance, fuel for the machine he had created. No junk, no sugar. Only the purest form of sustenance. He wasn't just a fitness freak. He was obsessed. Obsessed with staying at the top, obsessed with control.
By 6:30, he was in the gym, his personal trainer barely able to keep up. His body was a machine, every movement deliberate and powerful. Each set, each rep, a reminder of his superiority. He wasn't just lifting weights — he was lifting expectations. His workout wasn't about fun or enjoyment; it was about maintaining the image of invincibility he had carefully built.
By the time he finished his routine, his muscles were slick with sweat, his breath steady. It wasn't about looking good; it was about being in control.
After a quick shower, Abhimaan dressed in one of his tailored suits — midnight blue, silk threads that cost more than most people's yearly salaries. The fabric hugged his lean frame perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Everything about him screamed power, from his perfectly styled hair to the cold, calculating gaze in his eyes.
The moment he stepped out of his penthouse, the world shifted. The sharp scent of his cologne lingered in the air, and his presence commanded attention, even from the street. His aura was unshakable. He had everything anyone could want, but he didn't care for any of it. Not the fame, not the wealth, not the admiration. What he valued above all else was control. And no one, especially not some woman, was going to take that from him.
There was a reason for the tight security that followed him everywhere — six bodyguards shadowed him, eyes scanning every corner of the street, ready for any threat. The wealth, the power, the enemies — all of it demanded constant vigilance. And Abhimaan welcomed it.
As he sat down for breakfast in his penthouse, the familiar sound of the kitchen bustling around him, he couldn't shake off the conversation he'd had with his Dadu, his grandfather, just this morning.
"You don't have to find a girl for yourself, Abhimaan," Dadu had said gently, his voice full of understanding. "If you can't trust any woman, then I will. I'll find one who will stand by you."
Abhimaan hadn't replied immediately. He'd only taken a sip of his black coffee, his gaze drifting to the view outside. The idea of his grandfather picking a wife for him was laughable.
Marriage? It was a business transaction to Abhimaan — nothing more. The women he had encountered in his life had all had one thing in common: they saw him as a means to an end. His money. His name. His power. He had no intention of letting anyone use him. Not for their own gain. Not again.
He remained silent, his thoughts turning inward. Love? It was a weakness. Trust? A vulnerability he couldn't afford. He had seen the truth behind the facades too many times. And he would never let himself fall prey to it again.
His Dadu, who had seen the world change with time, seemed to think differently. But Abhimaan wasn't like other men. He had built his empire alone, from the ground up. He didn't need anyone — not even for companionship.
His fingers absently traced the pendant around his neck — a small, silver trishul, the symbol of Lord Shiva. It was the only thing in his life that had remained constant, a reminder of his devotion to the god who represented destruction and rebirth. Every morning, he prayed — not for wealth, not for love, but for strength. To keep his mind clear. To keep his heart impervious to the distractions of the world.
He closed his eyes for a moment, offering a silent prayer. The rest of the world could wait. It always did.
But as his family continued to push for marriage, the pressure began to build. He had been taught from an early age that the family name, the legacy, was sacred. His parents had their own desires for him — expectations that he'd long learned to ignore. But his Dadu? His Dadu was a different story.
The old man was patient, kind. But Abhimaan wasn't sure how much longer he could resist.
For now, though, he would continue to walk the path he had chosen: one of solitude, power, and control. After all, in a world full of people who only wanted a piece of him, who could he trust?
The world outside his penthouse beckoned, but Abhimaan knew one thing for certain — no one was going to take what was his.
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