The winter breeze of te November carried a faint chill, brushing past Aritra's window as he stared at his ptop screen, the soft glow illuminating his sharp, calcuting eyes. The numbers danced before him—profits, investments, and market trends—but one number stood still, etched boldly at the top right corner: 30 million.

  He leaned back in his chair, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Just a few months ago, he was an ordinary Css 12 student cramming physics equations and dreading pre-board exams. Now? He was sitting on a fortune rge enough to fund a small country—or at least buy enough samosas to st a lifetime. But Aritra didn't care about samosas; he cared about power. The kind that didn't come from exam ranks or report cards, but from controlling businesses, assets, and people.

  His parents, blissfully unaware, were asleep in the next room, thinking their son was just another overachieving Bengali boy preparing for WBJEE. If only they knew, he thought, shaking his head with amusement.

  But wealth hidden under a mattress was just paper. It was time to build something real. Aritra's fingers flew over the keyboard, opening spreadsheets, maps, and property listings. He needed a company—a real one. A front that could under his success, not in the shady, illegal sense, but as a legitimate business empire. AN Industries, he decided, after a brief internal debate. Simple, professional, and most importantly, unassuming.

  The office had to be in Salt Lake Sector V—the IT heart of Kolkata. Its skyline dotted with gss buildings, buzzing with tech companies, and filled with people too busy to care about a teenage CEO. For the factory, Baruipur made more sense. It was far enough from the city to avoid prying eyes but close enough to manage logistics efficiently. Plus, nobody would expect a 17-year-old to own a factory nestled among farmnds and dusty roads.

  The next day, Aritra dressed the part. Gone were his casual t-shirts and faded jeans. He pulled on a crisp bck shirt, neatly tucked into formal trousers, topped with a bzer that didn't quite fit perfectly—because, well, it wasn't his. It belonged to his cousin, who had no idea it was missing. A quick gnce in the mirror, and he gave himself a nod. CEO vibes? Check.

  Sneaking out of the house was easier than expected. His parents thought he was headed to a friend's pce for "group study." Cssic excuse. Worked every time.

  By te morning, he found himself standing in front of a sleek, four-story building in Salt Lake Sector V. Gss windows gleamed under the winter sun, reflecting the bustling life of the IT hub. This would be the face of his empire.

  Inside, he met Pratap Sen, a real estate agent with a receding hairline and a mustache thick enough to hide secrets. Pratap gave Aritra a skeptical once-over, clearly trying to reconcile the idea of this teenage boy being a serious buyer.

  "So… you're here to see the property?" Pratap asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Yes," Aritra replied, his voice steady, oozing fake confidence. "Let's not waste time."

  Pratap led him through the building, rattling off details about square footage, fiber-optic connectivity, parking spaces—things Aritra pretended to care about. In reality, he was mentally calcuting how many employees he could fit into each floor.

  They eventually sat across from each other in a sterile conference room, the city's noise muffled behind gss walls.

  "The price is ?1.2 crores," Pratap said, steepling his fingers like a man used to negotiating with adults.

  Aritra tilted his head slightly. "I'll give you ?1.1 crores if we close today."

  Pratap chuckled, a condescending little ugh. "This isn't a candy shop, young man."

  Aritra leaned in, locking eyes with him. "And I'm not here to buy candy."

  Something about the boy's tone—or maybe the confidence in his gaze—made Pratap pause. After a tense silence, he finally nodded. "?1.15 crores. Final offer."

  Aritra smiled, transferring the down payment without blinking. Pratap's face shifted from skepticism to mild awe as he confirmed the transaction. Score one for the teenage CEO.

  Later that afternoon, Aritra found himself in Baruipur, standing in the middle of a dusty plot of nd, the potential factory site. The faint smell of earth mixed with the distant hum of traffic. The owner, Mr. Mukherjee, was a frail man in his te sixties, with kind eyes and an obvious attachment to the nd.

  "This plot has been in my family for generations," Mukherjee said, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

  Aritra nodded thoughtfully, though his mind was already calcuting potential production capacities. "And it will be the foundation for something great," he replied smoothly. "I'm not just buying nd—I'm investing in its future."

  Mukherjee chuckled softly. "You're a smooth talker for someone so young."

  Aritra shrugged. "Age is just a number. Vision is what matters."

  In the end, vision—and ?90 khs—sealed the deal.

  With the office and factory secured, Aritra's next task was to find someone who could manage operations. He needed a secretary—not the coffee-fetching type, but someone who could handle logistics, meetings, and paperwork while he juggled school, secret stock trading, and the occasional existential crisis.

  Enter Ishita Roy, a sharp, no-nonsense MBA graduate with eyes that could cut gss. They met at a café in Park Street, where Aritra was trying very hard to look older than he was.

  "So, you're the… CEO?" she asked, skepticism dripping from every word.

  "That's right," Aritra replied, sipping his coffee like it was a martini.

  "You look… young."

  Aritra fshed a disarming smile. "I prefer the term 'visionary.'"

  Ishita didn't ugh, but she didn't walk out either. After an intense thirty-minute interview filled with strategic pauses and carefully crafted responses, she agreed to the job—for ?70,000 a month plus performance bonuses.

  As he left the café, Aritra felt a rush of adrenaline. He was officially a CEO with an office, a factory, and a secretary. Not bad for a 17-year-old.

  By the time he got home, it was well past 9 PM. His mother was waiting at the door, arms crossed, wearing that universal Bengali-mother expression that said, "Expin yourself."

  "Where were you?" she demanded.

  "Group study," Aritra replied without missing a beat.

  "With whom?"

  "…Friends."

  "Names?"

  Aritra rattled off the names of cssmates he hadn't spoken to in weeks.

  His father peeked over his newspaper. "Did you at least eat?"

  "Yes," Aritra lied.

  His mother narrowed her eyes but let it slide. Barely.

  Safe in his room, Aritra colpsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day repying in his mind. He'd made deals worth crores, hired a professional, and built the foundation of his empire—all without missing a single school assignment.

  This is just the beginning, he thought, smiling to himself.

  And with that, the boy who controlled millions drifted off to sleep in his small, cluttered room—just another teenager with dreams far too big to fit between textbooks.