CHAPTER 1: THE COLD CROWN
"The higher the throne, the harder the fall."
He never touched the ground unless he wanted to.
Ishan Malhotra's day didn't begin with an alarm. He didn't need one. His life was so perfectly timed, the world adjusted to his wake-up routine.
As dawn's golden light spilled over the skyline of Dubai, a silent symphony began.
Maids in white gloves tiptoed through the glass palace of his penthouse — dusting, polishing, aligning every surface to perfection. His personal butler stood at the foot of his 30-foot king-sized bed, watching the second hand of his platinum Rolex.
At 6:00 AM sharp, he gave a small nod.
That was the signal.
Three attendants moved forward. One drew back the silk blackout curtains. Another pressed a button to initiate his morning playlist — soft violin crescendos. The third gently tapped a crystal bell.
And just like that… Ishan's eyes opened.
Grey. Sharp. Emotionless.
Not like a man waking from rest — more like a predator scanning for threat.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The staff moved like clockwork. One servant extended a silver tray bearing a handcrafted toothbrush from Japan. Another unwrapped a fresh robe of Egyptian cotton. Two others knelt silently at his bedside, ready to slide custom-designed slippers onto his feet the moment they touched the floor.
He never thanked them. He never looked at them.
To him, they were part of the furniture — perfectly oiled parts of his living machine.
Born with a silver spoon? No.
Ishan Malhotra was born with a diamond one, carved from legacy and sharpened by power.
His father, Richard Malhotra, was a Wall Street legend with Indian blood and American fire — the man who merged banks like they were Lego blocks. His mother, Meera Shen, had Indian roots and Chinese discipline — a spiritual woman who faded too early into silence, her soft values buried under skyscrapers and spreadsheets.
By the time Ishan was twelve, he could read a financial statement faster than a comic book.
By sixteen, he spoke five languages.
By twenty-three, he launched an AI empire that predicted global market crashes before they happened.
And by thirty-one, he was a walking God in the world of money, tech, and politics.
His penthouse was the kind of place people didn't live in — they dreamed of.
The walls? Glass — three floors of uninterrupted views of the Dubai skyline.
His breakfast? Organic eggs flown in from Switzerland, plated with edible gold flakes, served on Meissen porcelain.
His wardrobe? Curated weekly by stylists flown in from Milan and Seoul.
Even his mirror was programmed with facial analytics. Each morning it reported how well he slept, how clear his skin was, and how many micro-emotions his face showed. (Usually, zero.)
"Ishan sir," a voice said, "your board meeting is scheduled at 9:00. Kai has prepared the talking points."
He didn't answer. He simply walked — barefoot for now — toward the indoor pool, where the water was heated to precisely 39.2°C, just the way he liked it.
He didn't swim. He stood at the edge, looking down at his reflection.
His body was perfect. Sculpted. Maintained by the finest personal trainers, nutritionists, and biotech routines.
And yet… it meant nothing.
Just another asset.
Just like the private jet. The offshore accounts. The 11,000 NFTs he never looked at. The global media network he owned — and never watched.
After his routine — workout, sauna, green injection of vitamins, and two quick meetings — he finally walked toward the helipad.
Kai was already waiting beside the chopper.
"I shifted your Shanghai meeting to Thursday," Kai said. "And the Saudi delegation will meet you at the gala tonight."
Ishan simply nodded.
Kai followed.
He was the only one allowed to walk beside Ishan.
Everyone else walked behind.
In the boardroom of Malhotra Global, silence fell the moment Ishan entered.
He didn't shake hands. He didn't offer greetings. He sat at the head of the obsidian table, eyes scanning the room like radar.
"Why are we underperforming in Southeast Asia?" he asked. His voice wasn't loud. But it landed like a bullet.
One man fumbled with his tablet. Another stammered.
Ishan leaned back, bored.
"You had six months," he said, coldly. "You're fired."
The man's face crumbled. He had a family. A mortgage. A sick wife.
Ishan didn't blink.
Kai slid the termination papers across the table before the man could even protest.
"That's why we're better than anyone else," Ishan said to the rest of the board. "Because I don't blink."
That night, he attended a gala hosted in his own honor. He didn't stay long.
The speeches were full of praise. The guests full of flattery. The women full of desire.
He barely listened.
He sipped his scotch. Listened to jazz. Watched the city lights from the rooftop.
He didn't feel joy. Or satisfaction. Or even pride.
This world was his — and it was boring.
He was driving home when it happened.
He had told his driver to take the scenic coastal route. Rain had just started to fall. The windshield wipers ticked a slow rhythm. He leaned back in the Maybach's leather seat, eyes half-closed.
Until the car jerked sideways.
Skidded.
Fell.
Glass shattered.
Water rushed in.
He heard the driver scream.
Then silence.
Then—
His mother's face.
Not as she looked when she died, but as he remembered her in childhood — gentle, loving, holding a diya during Diwali, whispering blessings.
He reached for her.
Darkness took him.
But darkness didn't keep him.
Somewhere between life and death, someone intervened.
"You were given everything. And learned nothing."
"Your bloodline carries light. Your soul, shadow."
"Your ancestors gave food to the poor, healed the sick, built schools for the forgotten. You built towers for yourself."
"They bought you one last chance."
"Go. Live again. But this time, learn what it means to be human."
When he awoke…
There was no silk bed. No violin music. No servants kneeling to place his slippers.
Only pain.
Heat.
The stench of a leaking ceiling.
And a girl's soft sob.
"Bhaiya… please wake up…"
Her voice was shaky. Afraid. Her tiny fingers clutched his shirt, damp with sweat and dirt.
He blinked.
The ceiling was cracked. Molded. The fan above him swung loosely, making a screeching noise.
"Ma! He moved!" the girl screamed.
A woman rushed in, breathless, her eyes wet with fear and relief.
"My son… oh, thank God… the fever's breaking…"
She placed her palm on his head.
It was warm.
Not clinical.
Not professional.
Warm. Human. Real.
"Who... are you?" Ishan whispered.
Her face fell. "Oh god… did the fever damage your mind?"
The girl hugged him again, tiny fingers trembling.
"You're my bhaiya! Don't forget us…"
And just like that…
Ishan Malhotra, the man who had everything… realized he had nothing.