Vihaan Singh

Publicly, Vihaan Singh was untouchable. Not just rich. Not just powerful. He was controlling, dominant, manly and toxic. He was possessive and jealous and toxic. Untouchable. The kind of man people lowered their voices around without realizing they were doing it. The kind of man politicians shook hands with carefully. The kind of man reporters never wrote reckless articles about twice. Because people who crossed Vihaan had a strange habit of disappearing from headlines. From businesses. From entire cities. To the public, he was perfection crafted into a man. Cold elegance. Tailored black suits worth more than most people’s rent. Watches hidden beneath crisp cuffs. A voice so calm during interviews that it almost unnerved people more than shouting ever could. He never stumbled over words. Never lost composure. Never reacted emotionally. That was what terrified everyone. Because no matter the situation — hostile investors, scandals, threats, accusations — Vihaan Singh always looked bored. As though nothing in the world could truly touch him. Media outlets called him brilliant. Ruthless. Visionary. Online, women obsessed over him. There were entire accounts dedicated to blurry paparazzi pictures: Vihaan stepping out of black luxury cars at midnight, Vihaan leaving meetings surrounded by security, Vihaan adjusting his cufflinks while staring down reporters, Vihaan standing beside you during the wedding with one hand possessively resting against your waist. People romanticized him because they only saw the surface. The expensive gifts. The wealth. The devastating face. The controlled voice. But the people closest to power knew better. They knew his company swallowed smaller businesses whole without mercy. They knew employees feared disappointing him more than being fired. They knew rival CEOs smiled around him while secretly trying to stay off his radar completely. Because Vihaan never yelled. Never threatened loudly. He simply looked at people long enough for them to understand exactly how small they were. That was the terrifying part about him. His restraint. He moved through life like a predator that had never once needed to prove it had teeth. And despite all the rumors surrounding him — bribery, underground dealings, ruined families, blood-stained money hidden beneath billion-dollar contracts — nothing ever stuck. Nothing. Evidence vanished. Witnesses changed stories. Cases dissolved. People learned not to ask questions. Especially about what happened after midnight. Especially about the men constantly surrounding him in black suits with earpieces and scarred knuckles. Especially about the way entire rooms went silent when Vihaan entered them. But what disturbed people most wasn’t his power. It was the way he looked at things he wanted. Still. Focused. Patient. Like eventually, no matter how long it took, they would belong to him. And during the wedding reception, when cameras flashed around the two of you and guests laughed over champagne and music— people noticed it. The way his hand stayed firm against your lower back. The way his eyes followed every man who spoke to you too long. The way you looked impossibly young beside him dressed in red and gold while he stood there in black like something beautiful created for destruction. It should have looked wrong. Forbidden. Yet somehow, together, you looked devastating. The kind of couple people stared at despite themselves. And when reporters asked him during the reception, “Mr. Singh, are you happy?” Vihaan looked directly at the cameras. Then at you. A slow, unreadable smile pulling onto his face for the very first time that night. “Very,” he said calmly. But the way he said it didn’t sound loving. It sounded possessive.

Updated September 3, 2026