Mumbai—The City of Illusions.
They call it the city of dreams, of stardust and skyscrapers. But those who live beneath its neon glow know better. Here, dreams are currency, and blood is cheap. Every alley whispers the names of the men who tried to rule it… but only one name makes the streets shiver.

Sameera Sherawat.

She isn't just a name. She’s a legend carved in bullet holes and betrayal. In a city swarming with self-proclaimed kings, she rose alone—a queen who didn’t need a crown, only a loaded gun and a ruthless will.

But before we talk about her power, let’s talk about fear.
Let’s talk about the sound of footsteps slamming into pavement, the air thick with heat and desperation.

Flora Fountain.

Midday. The sun hung like a burning coin in the sky, unforgiving and merciless. A man—sweating, staggering—ran through the crowd like a hunted animal. His breath was ragged, his shirt soaked, and behind him, shadows chased him—three men, armed, furious.

The street came to a sudden, breathless halt when a sharp sound cracked the air.

Bang.

Birds flew into the sky, wings scattering like broken prayers. The crowd froze. Silence fell—thick, uneasy, expectant.

The man fell to his knees, blood blooming from his thigh. His scream echoed through the street like a curse. But no one moved. No one helped. They had seen the shadows approaching.

And they had seen her.

She walked like sin dressed in silk.

White shirt—its top button open, revealing just a hint of flawless skin. Black trousers hugging long legs that knew power in every step. A silver pendant lay at the hollow of her throat, catching the sunlight like a talisman. Her hair—midnight black—kissed her shoulders, whipping around her face with the wind.

And in her hand, a smoking gun.

Sameera didn’t walk. She arrived. And the city held its breath.

With a casual flick of her fingers, she blew the smoke from the barrel and slipped her free hand into her pocket. Her lips curved into a smirk that made men sweat and women ache. A black pair of shades shielded her eyes, but you didn’t need to see them to know—they could freeze fire.

She crouched near the wounded man, one knee pressing into the blood-warmed concrete.

He tried to crawl back, his eyes wild with fear.

But her man stepped forward, grabbed the traitor by the collar, and snarled, “You think you can outsmart the Queen of Mumbai? Lost your f***ing mind, Gajra?”

The man whimpered, “Please… I was wrong… please, Bhau… I’ll be loyal. I swear. I’ll be your dog if I have to.”

Sameera didn’t flinch. “You committed a crime,” she whispered, her voice colder than steel, “against me.”

Her name alone was a death sentence.

Sameera Sherawat. The woman who ruled Mumbai with lipstick-stained bullets and ice in her veins. Politicians bowed. Cops avoided her shadow. The poor worshipped her. The rich feared her. And the city itself? It belonged to her. Every heartbeat, every drop of blood on these streets… beat for her.

She tilted her head at the man still begging on the ground. “Gajra,” she echoed with a soft laugh. “What a name. All it takes is one yank of your hair, and you start crying like a child. A single bullet, and you’re on your knees. You thought you could cross me and walk away?”

Her tone was playful, but her smile was venom.

Then she stood, turned, and waved a dismissive hand. “Let him go,” she said coolly. “Poor thing’s still wet behind the ears.”

Gajra blinked in disbelief. “Really? You mean it, Sameera? You’re letting me live?”

He was already halfway to his feet, a giddy grin of gratitude blooming on his face.

Then the second shot rang out.

His body hit the ground like a felled tree. Blood pooled beneath his throat where the bullet had found its mark—clean, brutal, final.

Sameera didn’t even look back. She adjusted her sunglasses, brushed imaginary dust off her shoulder, and murmured, “No one calls me by name unless I allow it.”

Then, turning slightly toward the lifeless corpse, she added, “You thought you were playing games with me. You thought I wouldn’t know. But this isn’t your little stage, sweetheart. This is my empire. And I’m no woman enchanted by the scent of jasmine in your hair. I’m the storm that tears the flowers from their roots.”

Two of her men stayed behind to erase the scene—every drop of blood, every trace of rebellion. The others followed her as she strode toward a steel-grey Jeep that rolled up like a loyal beast.

She climbed into the front passenger seat, shut the door with a practiced flick, and smirked.

“This city,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “belongs to no god. No man. No king. This city is mine.”

The Jeep roared to life and disappeared into the chaos.

The auditorium was packed—rows upon rows of velvet seats, eyes burning with anticipation, hearts clutched in fists of hope. Over a thousand people sat in breathless silence, all fixated on one gleaming stage. The atmosphere was thick with electricity, the kind that crawls over your skin before a storm.

Every eye waited. Every soul leaned forward.

Then, the anchor’s voice—silken, deliberate—split the silence.

"So, the Best Actress Award goes to..."

She paused, letting the moment ripen like fruit on the edge of rot. You could hear a thousand heartbeats pounding in rhythm, a thousand breaths caught in throats.

And then—

"Amisha Mehta!"

The crowd erupted like a dam breaking. Cheers. Whistles. Applause so thunderous it felt like the ceiling would collapse.

From the edge of the stage, she emerged.

Amisha Mehta.

She didn’t walk. She glided. Draped in a sleek, midnight-black gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, she was a portrait of grace and quiet sensuality. A slit ran daringly up one leg, revealing ivory skin that shimmered under the spotlight. Her heels—obsidian stilettos—clicked like a countdown with every step she took.

Dark red lips. Kohl-drenched eyes. A single silver bracelet dancing on her wrist.

She owned the stage before even reaching it.

As she reached centerstage, she blew a flying kiss to the crowd, her smile dripping charm and command. The anchor, a bit breathless herself, turned toward her with the mic.

“Miss Amisha, please say a few words—how do you feel winning this award tonight?”

Amisha took the mic with poise, her voice smooth as velvet, but layered with fire beneath.

"This… is an honor. But more than that—this is a promise. To every girl who’s ever been told her dreams are too big for her city. Thank you for your love… and for believing I belonged here."

The crowd roared again, and the lights seemed to shine brighter just for her.

Then the chief guest walked onstage—a tall, stoic figure holding the golden trophy in his gloved hands. He stepped forward, lifting the award in offering.

Amisha’s breath caught. Her heart thudded, wild and raw in her chest. She reached out.

And then—

A deafening horn blared.

The world shattered.

She gasped awake.

The sound of a train platform replaced the glamour. Heat. Noise. Chaos. Amisha blinked into the harsh daylight, her dream disintegrating into Mumbai’s furious morning.

No glittering gown. No award. Just dust, sweat, and a restless crowd at Mumbai Central.

“Damn it,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “Girl, you’ve barely stepped into Mumbai and you’re already living in technicolor fantasies?”

Dragging her bag from under the berth, Amisha stepped off the train. Her heels—now scuffed flats—hit the grimy platform. She barely had time to take in her surroundings when—

A blade flashed past her.

So close it could’ve sliced her cheek open.

It whizzed just past her and embedded itself in a man’s arm behind her. Blood bloomed instantly. He screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his limb.

Amisha froze.
The air around her thinned. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted to escape.

She clutched her chest and exhaled shakily, her lips parting in disbelief.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she jerked around, a startled cry tearing from her lips.

“Chill, girl! It’s just me,” said a voice—Jia—Amisha’s childhood friend and one of the few people she trusted in the world.

Jia jumped too. “Jesus, Amisha! You scared the hell outta me.”

Amisha exhaled, laughing nervously. “Yeah, well… you just nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Suddenly, a group of men rushed past them, shouting furiously, chasing after the man who’d been stabbed.

Amisha and Jia flattened themselves to the wall, letting them pass. Their presence was like a gust of violent wind—fast, dangerous, gone.

Amisha turned wide eyes toward her friend. “Who the hell were they?”

Jia looked around cautiously before whispering, “Sameera Tai’s men.”

The name landed like a grenade in Amisha’s chest.

She frowned. “And who the hell is Sameera Tai?”

Jia gave her a look that said You’ll learn.
Then she laughed, smacked Amisha’s shoulder lightly, and said, “Leave it. You just got here. Let’s not ruin the magic. First, taste Mumbai. The rest… it’ll find you.”

Amisha chuckled, but unease lingered behind her smile.

Together, they walked out of the station.

Above them, in bold letters, Mumbai Central loomed like the entrance to a kingdom built on ambition, crime, and broken dreams. The station thrummed with life—trains screeching, voices clashing, dreams colliding.

This was Mumbai.
The city that never slept. The city that never forgave.

Amisha looked up, stretched her arms wide, and shouted into the madness,
“Aamchi Mumbai! I love you!”

But somewhere in the shadows, far from the sparkle of stardust and dreams, a woman in white lit a cigarette on a high-rise balcony.

Sameera Sherawat.

Her gaze was fixed on a photograph.

Amisha’s photograph.

A ghost of a smile curled her lips.
She took a slow drag and whispered,

“Let’s see how long your love for Mumbai lasts, little star. The city you adore… belongs to me.”

What happens when a girl chasing dreams collides with a woman who buries them?
One lives in the light. The other… commands the dark.
And fate?
Fate is already pulling their strings.

TO BE CONTINUED...!