My Days in Vikram’s House – Part 1

My name is Meera Sharma. People used to call me the Verdict Machine. For 13 years now, I ruled a part of this government city, not on paper, but in the shadows.

I handled the files, the permissions, and the big money that moves through infrastructure. I am Bold, still single, untouchable. That’s what I sold. That’s what I was.

But being bold in Delhi means you have bigger enemies. I always knew my life was a high-risk job. You don’t live in a 4,000 sqft apartment and drive a German SUV on a government salary without cutting corners.

I didn’t steal truckloads of cash, not like some. I was smarter. Insider tips, early clearances, undeclared foreign accounts for ‘consultation fees.’ It was clean, untraceable, and it paid for the life I deserved.

Then the suspension notice hit one day. It wasn’t about the real crimes. That was the irony. They got me on a fake charge, a ridiculous set of emails and ledgers. It said I took a massive kickback for a land deal that hadn’t even gone through me.

Political powers and corporate giants wanted to discard a smart, untouchable officer like me. They knew my weakness, the gap between my salary and my life.

The day they froze my assets, it felt like the floor disappeared below me. My office keys, my ID, and even my access card to the executive lounge are all gone. I was sitting in my own designer living room, surrounded by proof of my success. But suddenly I couldn’t even buy groceries.

The public inquiry started immediately. The media had a field day. The headlines were savage. I was a thief, a public enemy. If they convicted me on this fake charge, I’d go to jail, and every real piece of dirt on me would come out. It was total ruin.

I fought for a week. I tried to hire the best defence lawyers, the corporate fixers. They all said the same thing: the data on the server looked real, and the fake files were put in too expertly. And anyway, they could not help me; that was the conclusion.

I need a genius. Someone who can digitally undo an attack this clean. That’s when the name, the only name that mattered, dropped into the silent panic of my mind: Vikram.

Vikram was a ghost. He was a shadow from my past. We had worked side-by-side years ago in a unit. He was a genius. But he was strange. I always sensed a dark, cold current beneath his competence, and I kept my distance from him.

Our connection ended years ago, right where my rise began. It was a major infrastructure project we oversaw. It had a massive technical flaw, the kind that would expose the Minister and bring down our whole department.

And it wasn’t a mistake. You know how the system works; those flaws are intentionally overseen by everyone. Corruption it is!

Vikram, in his rigid integrity, had discovered the flaw and meticulously documented it. I couldn’t argue with his evidence. To save the Minister and my career, I did the only thing possible: I made Vikram the scapegoat.

I stood in the high-level inquiry. I publicly presented a counter-report, stating that the entire technical flaw was due to Vikram’s professional negligence and unstable data handling.

I used my sharp wit to suggest his devotion to “code and truth” was actually a symptom of delusions of data. It was a psychological flaw making his findings unreliable.

I tore his professional standing to shreds with these brutal sentences. I ended his career. It was only Vikram’s technical mistake. Everything was covered up.

And the bench didn’t argue with me. Why would they? They were part of a system where I operate. They enjoy some chunk of this corruption too. To me, it was a necessary piece of administrative cleanup. To him, it was a personal, professional assassination at the start of his career.

Vikram lost his job, his reputation. The rumours about his unstable, obsessive personality were spread by my office to ensure his permanent silence.

But I knew one chilling fact. Vikram was the person who could not only find the tiny digital fingerprint of the external insertion. He also, and critically, once cracked the key to deciphering (decrypting) the file structure here without destroying the evidence needed to clear me.

I buried my pride and found his private contact; a number tied to an encrypted network. I called. “It’s Meera Sharma,” I said. I was trying to project authority, but my voice was shaking.

He answered instantly, no surprise, no emotion. “I know, Meera. I’ve been watching your performance. Quite the downfall.”

“I need you to look at my server. They framed me. I’m innocent of the charge, but I need you to prove it.” I briefed on the situation.

“Why me? Your firm can hire anyone.” He replied.

“Because you’re the only one who won’t expose the real trail while you clear the fake one,” I admitted, the words tasted like ash.

“I’m not clean, Vikram. But I’m not guilty of this. If I hire anyone else, they’ll find what the real picture is, and it’s going to be dangerous for all. I need you to protect my past while saving my present and future.” I continued.

There was a long silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. “I don’t deal in money. Your money is dirty. Your career is filthy. But I will deal with what you value most, your autonomy.”

I knew what was coming. I knew his reputation for total command, the rumours about his mental sickness. “I will clear your name. I will find the proof of the rival insertion, and I will erase the trace that links it to you.” He paused.

“But I have a price. Until my work is complete, until the suspension is formally lifted, and your accounts unfrozen, you will pay me with your body and your time.”

I gripped the phone so hard. “What the hell are you asking?”

“This is not a financial contract. You will move into my apartment. You will live under my roof, as per my rules. No negotiations. No resistance. That is the cost of your escape.” He stated.

The boldness I projected, the pride I wore, all shattered. This was not a power play; this was going to be psychological and physical degradation. “Are you insane? You can’t ask that! I’m a senior officer! I will expose you!” I screamed, the professional in me fighting for its last breath.

“You will expose the man who holds the only solution that can save you from a prison sentence? Go ahead. I’ll make sure the real dirt comes out first, and you’ll go down for ten times the crime, you cheap fraud.” His voice remained dangerously calm.

“You stole my professional honour, Meera. Now I will steal your personal one. Under my roof, my rules. Send me your answer in the next 24 hours. After that, the offer is retracted, and I look forward to reading the public report of your conviction.” He stopped there.

He hung up. I sat there, shaking, staring at my Italian marble floor. Prison, or him? Public ruin, or private bondage? The Verdict Machine was broken.

I knew the answer before the sun rose the next day. The reputation, the power, the life I built—that had to survive. Twenty hours later, I sent the single text: “Address.”

Fast forward, I stepped out of the taxi. The bungalow was huge, surrounded by a high wall and an iron gate. The yard was green and neat, with a few statues here and there.

It was like a fortress, far from the noise and crowd of the city. There was hardly any neighbourhood except another mansion on the other side of the road. It felt like I was entering a different world, one where Vikram’s rules were the only law.

As I reached the front door. A woman in a simple sari stood there, her head covered with a dupatta. She was small and fairly thin, with a rigid face. A woman was waiting at the door. Her name was Laxmi. She was the maid. She didn’t look at me. She looked like a machine. She took my bag.

The house was all white walls and dark wood floors. It was too clean. No pictures, no personal things. It was not a home. It was a box. Laxmi led the way. We came to the huge glass doors that opened to the yard. Laxmi stopped. I looked out.

I glanced toward the high boundary wall. I noticed something outside the property. Far down the road, there was another big house. In the shadow of a balcony, I saw a woman standing quietly. She was just staring straight at Vikram’s house.

Her silent watch felt a bit strange. I followed the quiet woman’s gaze. Where was she looking? I tracked her eyes across the empty space. I got a shock, right there, secured to the heavy wheel of Vikram’s black car, was a dog leash.

At the end of that leash was a lady. Young, maybe just in her twenties. In the dirt, I saw her. Naked. Kneeling like an animal. Her hair was dirty, covering her face. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t even breathing right. A thick dog leash was around her neck.

She was shaking in intense afternoon sunlight. Her hands were in the dirt. Her knees had red welts and bruises.

I turned to Laxmi. “Who is she?”

Laxmi’s voice was flat. “She disappoints Vikram.”

I looked at the girl again. Her body was covered in red marks. Old and new. “What did she do?”

Lakshmi turned away without answering my question. But I stayed there for a moment, I was terrified thinking what could happen to me. The girl’s body jerked. A small sound came from her mouth.

“What is he doing to her?” I asked, following Lakshmi to the house.

Laxmi’s eyes were empty, but at least she replied this time. “She’s waiting.”

“For what?” I continued my question.

Laxmi’s smile was cold. “For him to decide if she can breathe.”

My stomach turned hearing this. The girl’s fingers dug into the dirt. She was trying to hold herself up, but her arms were shaking. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t run. She was trapped.

Then, suddenly, she lifted her head. Her face was swollen. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were tired. She looked at me. And then she licked her lips, slowly like a dog. Like she was hungry.

I turned to Laxmi. “How long has she been like this?”

Laxmi’s smile grew wider. “Since morning, when Sir went to the city.”

“Morning?” I gasped.

Laxmi nodded. “Yes mam.”

The girl was not even trying to move, nor trying to escape.

“She can’t even drink water. Neither can she piss; she has to hold it. Or else…” Laxmi whispered. I asked in surprise. “Or else what?”

In between, I looked at the girl again. She was still looking at me. Her eyes were empty. But her body was alive. She was shaking, she was trembling, she was waiting for Vikram. For his decision, for her fate.

And I knew, this could be my future too. Vikram didn’t just punish, he owned, he didn’t just hurt, he controlled. And now, I was his.

To be continued…The real madness will start now!

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