It was March 9 today. Lakshay and I had left Istanbul at 5 last evening. All thanks to Advait's medical expertise, that potion or whatever it was, had no effect on me. Nevertheless, the two of us toured the city a bit and then, went to the funeral of the Turkish leader. Ofcourse, there were shocked faces and uneasy glances, but had I paid no attention. Paying our respects, we left immediately.
Now, it was nine fifteen here and I was in my office, reviewing some financial statements of the projects Yuvaan and Aahan were working together on. One of the projects was SUTRA, the one that involved Dharma Foundation.
It is a sustainable, eco-conscious initiative to empower rural communities through wildlife-themed handwoven textile designs. As per the proposal, VASR will provide funding, design expertise, and international market access. Dharma Foundation will handle local recruitment, artisan training, and use of eco-friendly dyes, made from herbs supposedly grown in their sanctuaries. The Foundation helps conserving both flora and fauna, many natural and rare herbs and flowers are grown here, in special spectrums.
This project, as claimed by both of the parties, will help preserve both biodiversity and traditional craftsmanship.
"Boss, everyone is waiting for you in the board room."
I nod and we both left for the internal meeting, where we are to discuss the projects we were proposed.
The boardroom smelled of polished wood, fresh coffee, and quiet precision. A massive screen displayed the headline slide:
Project Sutra – Phase I Rural Expansion.
Seated around the table were the senior managers of VASR's textile vertical, analysts, CSR heads, Director- Devendra Rathore, to his left, COO- Aahan Rathore and on the first seat in the right, Yuvaan Rathore—the youngest CEO of the empire. To his left, an empty seat, labelled as CFO. Every pair of eyes turned to me as I took my seat.
A long walnut table gleamed under the recessed ceiling lights. Everyone's eyes were now on the presentation screen that flickered between company logos and data sets. Yuvaan sat at the head, casually flipping his stylus. While I, slightly reclined in my chair, was flipping through printed financial reports—no digital tabs for me when it came to major decisions.
The Presenter, The CSR head, began the presentation, sliding through the slides prepared by his team.
"First," he began, "Astitva Solutions. They've proposed to manage the northern belt cluster development in Himachal under our women-weaving initiative."
"They have a good reputation in the market, and have strong state ties." said one of the senior manager.
However, I was not interested in their proposal and in a blunt tone, I said, "They're bleeding money. Took a 42% loss last fiscal. Their asset ratio is below 1.4."
The room went still.
Still flipping the pages and without looking up, I continued, "Also... they faked government clearance in the 2023 Chamba bid. Check footnote 7."
Click— Yuvaan flipped to the page on the projector. Footnote 7. The room tensed.
The CSR Head, now nrevous tried to speak. "We... weren't aware—"
"Then you weren't doing your job." The Director said.
Silence.
Yuvaan smirked faintly, then nodded. "Rejected."
"Alright. Next is GreenValley Textile Co. for the Gujarat silk cluster merge..."
"They claim they can double export potential with new looms and infrastructure..." Aahan spoke
But I chuckled under my breath. Just once.
"They've never handled rural labor. Let alone tribal silk-weaving. Their last cluster in Telangana? Shut down in six months."
"ROI?" Yuvaan glances at me.
In a flat tone, I replied, "Best-case, we lose ₹7 crore. Worst-case, we get dragged in an HR litigation on worker abuse."
Yuvaan swiped his stylus away. "Rejected."
"Sir, the third proposal, Aava Roots." And he plays the slides.
As the presentation ended, Yuvaan glances at everyone on the table. "Alright. Questions?"
"Yes." I said as I flipped through its financial statement. "Page 17 of their report, line item: 'Yield Compensation Losses – ₹6.2 Cr'. That's nearly 13% of the total projected budget. Reason?"
"They cited erratic rainfall—" A manager fumbles.
"Rainfall doesn't justify margin expansion in regions where they've had government subsidies on irrigation. Pass."
I shut the file. No one objected.
The Presenter, now carefully, looks at me. "Fourth proposal—Dharma Foundation. They've approached with an artisan collaboration project. Phase 1 was completed under the 2023 tribal artisan scheme."
Aahan, looking through the dossier speaks next. "They've worked with the UN. Won three sustainability awards. Even listed as advisory to the G20 cultural preservation wing."
"They're proposing three clusters—Bastar, Kutch, and Tezpur. Fully woman-led, low-emission, with satellite-monitored operations." A senior manager says.
Still reading, I muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "...And yet, they've never taken private sector funds at this scale before."
Chachu finishes. "Which makes us their first corporate investor. That's leverage."
"Bhai, what's your assessment?" Aahan glances at me.
"No red flags. Numbers are audit-safe. Internationally recognized. But I don't trust how perfect it looks."
At this, Yuvaan grins. "So... you're approving it?"
"I'm not declining it."
Everyone chuckled. That was my version of a green signal.
Yuvaan, writing notes, says.. "We've finalized the partnership scope with Dharma Foundation. The artisan onboarding starts next quarter. We'll be sending a junior liaison officer to their headquarters this week to explain our phase-I expectations.
"No need."
The room paused.
Yuvaan, raising a brow, looks at me. "You mean, reschedule?"
I finally looked up, eyes sharp.
"No. I'll go myself."
A light shuffle echoed through the room. Managers exchanged glances.
Anant, the legal compliance officer, leaned in slightly. "Sir, you've never directly attended a CSR field project before—should we...?"
"I need to review their financial records. In person."
Everyone visibly shifts a little at this statement of mine. However, there was only one person who understood what my line meant.
Yuvaan, smiling faintly, says in the softest and quietest voice possible, so that only I could hear. "Alright. No junior liaison. You go. Want backup?"
Gathering my files, I stood up.
"Not yet."
And just like that, the decision was made.
As I started walking away from my chair, out of the room, Yuvaan muttered under his breath to himself. "When he volunteers a field visit, someone's grave is already halfway dug."
I smirked.
And across the city, Dharma Foundation had no idea...
The hunter had left the den.
As I left the board room, to pay a visit to the foundation's headquarters, Lakshay started his questionnaires.
"Alright. You've sensed something."
"There's a mismatch in their vendor invoices. Last month's expense report shows a textile dye order worth 3.8 crores. But those dyes don't cost more than 20 lakhs in rural batches."
"Could it be a clerical error? Or expansion prep?
"No clerical error writes five ghost transporter IDs and seals it with a wildlife permit code."
Now the air changed as we settled in my car, him driving and I sitting on the passenger seat.
"You think Dharma Foundation's hiding something?"
"I think... they're laundering something. And are planning to use VASR to do it."
"The dyes were shipped through our south unit warehouse. That's under Sapphire scrutiny..."
"Exactly. If something illegal passed through our system, it'll trace back to us first. I'm not letting that happen."
A beat of silence.
"So, what's your move this time?"
"We check, we sense and we eliminate."
It was a fifteen minutes drive. So, I decided to check a few more collaborations of the foundation. Although, they are portrayed as a clear and pure organization, I know better to conform twice. Afterall, Sapphire is a living example of evil under the skin of an innocent.
We reached there and I received quite a decent welcome by many familiar, shocked faces. As per my instructions, Lakshay was mapping this area.
The Operating head from their side, Vaibhav, spoke first as we walked towards the area where they had kept the samples.
"Our collaboration with VASR can build over 400 artisan clusters in three phases. UNDP has shortlisted us for their 2025 'Green Hands Global' program."
Dr. Bhatt, their expert in textile dying continued, "We've also passed all Ministry of Textiles compliance. No red flags in the last five years."
"And funding channels?" I asked calmly.
"Transparent, real-time traceable. We use a blockchain ledger for every disbursement." Vaibhav answered, quickly.
He opened an app on the screen—rows of QR-tracked transfers, all linked to verified tribal groups, eco-machinery providers, registered plant-based dye labs.
Too clean.
"You run a flawless ship."
At this, Dr. Bhatt smiles. "We run it with honesty. Dharma doesn't believe in complications."
As we reached the place and one of their junior handed me the financial statement, I flipped through the pages, until I stopped on a particular number.
"This invoice. ₹3.8 crore for Mahua-based dye in Jharkhand. Seems excessive. Even for organic supply chain."
"We had transport issues. Naxal disruptions... the tribal belt needed aerial drops."
"Aerial drops? Who cleared that?"
"The State Ministry. And Delhi HQ later sent clearance notes. We'll forward them." Vaibhav said.
Pressing slightly, I said. "No need. I'll verify myself."
The air stiffened.
I let them talk. Let them show their glossy pictures and charts. my sharp mind had already scanned three anomalies:
A bank account name mismatch between two vendors.
A wildlife permit seal reused in a textile report.
A warehouse marked for turmeric fermentation that actually didn't exist on maps.
I knew what this was.
The perfect camouflage. A clean façade hiding black budgets, under-the-table labs, or lethal supplies in the name of ecology.
"We hope the numbers satisfy VASR's CFO. Let us know if anything further is needed." Shaking hands, Dr. Bhatt spoke
"They don't need to satisfy me. They need to survive audit." Smiling politely, I responded.
Vaibhav lightly chuckles "We're confident they will."
It was Monday today, and I had a schedule- Visit the Dharma Foundation. I woke at six, did my morning routine, a thirty minute brisk walking and then a bath. Marigolds were spread across the whole area. The festival, called Phoolon ki Holi, was tomorrow and today, the temple was in utter chaos for perfect preparations. Baskets of roses, marigolds, and orchids were being soaked in cool water, ready to be showered on devotees later in the day. The temple priest himself was incharge of all these preparations. New clothes for the idols were being brought to the temple premises and the ladies, as instructed by the priest, were choosing the best ones.
I, however, was composing myself for the visit. As per my plan, I was supposed to be there as a relative of him. I know, this may put me into huge trouble, if that man turns out to be a very significant figure for the organization. But, just because of the fear, I can't turn down the chance of finding something relevant. In that two days- break, I was searching about Dharma Foundation, its members, franchises and most importantly, its founder and chairperson.
Draped in a simple cream kurti with floral prints, I walked down the pavement towards the old temple gate I was staying for now. My eyes lifted briefly to the sky—soft clouds glowing darker shades with the morning light passing through their spores. The streets of Jaipur were wrapped in spring. Everywhere, colours floated in the air—ribbons tied to trees, marigold garlands swaying between poles, and loudspeakers playing devotional beats as early crowds gathered around temples.
At 10:03, I was standing outside the great sandstone gate of the tall building, its metal emblem carved with vines, doves, and Sanskrit inscriptions about peace and nature.
But the vibe felt... too polished. Like it was meant to distract.
Today, I hadn't taken my car- deliberately. I came on foot, like a relative from a nearby home. A small brown envelope was in my hand—holding two scented candles and a handwritten letter, merely props in her play.
A tall man in a khaki safari uniform blocked me
"Excuse me, madam. Do you have a visitor ID?"
I gave a timid blink. "Oh—uh, no. My uncle works here. I'm just here to give this to him. He said I could drop by."
He nods his head, and points to his right and says, ""Reception is down this path. Right, then straight. You'll see a blue desk."
"Thank you," I murmured, clutching the envelope like it meant something.
As I walked in, the air grew cooler. The Foundation's inner halls were surprisingly quiet. Framed walls were covered with photos—rescued leopards, a jungle cat, rare birds, green hills. And then photos of dignitaries shaking hands with the chairman.
Another row of Framed photos of wild animals hung neatly—tigers behind fences, elephants mid-rescue, birds released to the skies.
Adjacent to them, photos of men in suits.
Men with smiling politicians. Men with UN envoys.
And always beside them, the Chairman of Dharma Foundation, face half-lit in most pictures.
But my sharp gaze caught something.
No animal rescue vans. No emergency exits. No smell of antiseptic or vet supplies.
For a foundation claiming to be one of India's largest wildlife rehab centers... it smelled like perfume and polished marble.
Still, I kept my expression blank.
At the reception, in a green saree, sat a girl of around 30-35 years.
"Hello ma'am, how may I help you?"
"Hello. I am here to meet someone."
"Sure, please tell the name of the person and your relation to them."
This was the moment my lie unfolds.
"Ravindra Yadav, I'm his niece, Naina."
Naina was in Melbourne, no one knew her face, as stated by the sources.
The woman frowned, typing. Seconds passed.
"Sorry ma'am. There's no record of Mr. Yadav on staff. Not in the last four months."
My face fell. Not overacted. Just enough. I knew he was off record.
My throat tightened. "No... he gave me this address. Told me to come here as I lost my way. Now his number is unreachable..."
A man's voice cut across the room.
"Arey beta?"
(Hey Kid?)
I turned.
An elderly man with streaks of white in his beard stepped forward, adjusting his glasses.
"Aap Naina ho na, Yadav sahab ki bhatiji?)
(You're Naina, right? Yadav sahab's niece?)
I blinked—timing the tears.
"Jii..." came a whisper from my mouth.
(Yes.)
My voice cracked perfectly. I clutched the envelope harder.
"But she said there's no record of him."
He smiled warmly. "Come, come. Don't mind the staff, system records often glitch. Your uncle—just left for a wildlife rescue, hardly ten minutes ago. He's on silent mode when he's on mission. Just wait for him."
Hell! The man is dead, which means either he is observing me or he is oblivious, which is hard to believe. But I need to play.
I pressed her lips together, nodded.
As we walked through the corridor, he asked me a question. "Par aap to videsh mein the na, yahan kaise?"
(But you were outside India, how come here?)
"Ji, actually vahan vacations start hui hai. Do hafte hai naya semester shuru hone mein."
(My vacations just started. There are two weeks for the new semester to start.)
"Achcha. Fir, yadav sahab ko bataya?"
(Okay. Then, did you tell Mr. Yadav?)
"Nahi, unhe surprise dena tha. Par issi Friday ko baat hui thi. Airport se sidha hotel gyi, fir vahan pata chala ki yahan Albert Hall Museum mein koi program hai. But beech mein, I got confused in the directions. Fir yaad aya uncle to pass mein hi hai. So I came here."
(No, I wanted to give him a surprise. But we talked last Friday. I went directly to the hotel from airport, and then got to know there is a program in Albert Hall Museum. But mid-way.... Then I remembered uncle is nearby.)
"Of course. Of course." He placed a hand on my shoulder, then pointed.
"Let me take you to the guest area. He'll be back by lunch. I'll try calling him quietly."
"Ji. Thank you."
I watched him step out, eyes darting now.
No CCTV. No wall calendar. No entry register.
This was not a Foundation.
It was a Front.
The waiting room was cool. Too cool.
Curtains drawn. No sunlight.
My eyes swept the room. Wooden paneling. No files. One old wildlife poster on the wall.
No surveillance. No exit scanner.
My right hand slowly went to my phone, setting it on silent mode, and clicked the audio record button, slipping it back into the pocket of my kurti.
My face was still as stone.
Behind the sweetness, the act of a scared niece...
I was watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
A glass pane overlooked a small courtyard. Beyond it, a fenced-in rabbit enclosure glowed under dappled sunlight. White and brown rabbits hopped over grassy mounds, chasing each other, occasionally pausing to twitch their noses.
Something about it felt... calculated. Artificial. Like a child's painting trying to prove innocence.
I stood up slowly. My sandals barely made sound on the tiled floor as I pushed open the glass door to the outside.
One little rabbit had hopped close to the fence. Curious. Unafraid.
I knelt and gently scooped it up.
"Come, little friend. Let's see what lies beyond this wall."
With my arm cradling the rabbit like a bouquet, I slipped past a narrow path along the building's edge—toward the facility that had no markings.
The wind had stilled.
I didn't know what I'd find. But every bone in this body whispered the same thing—
Something is wrong here.
I was passing the side of a long wall when I heard voices. Low. Intense. All male.
The corridor bent into a side hall, ending in a half-open door.
Inside, I caught a glimpse—five men in conversation.
One wore a grey Nehru coat. One had a tattoo on his right forearm—military style.
And one... stood with his back to her, dressed in sharp black, speaking to no one. Listening. Calm. Controlled.
My grip on the rabbit tightened slightly.
But something changed.
A presence.
One of the men had sensed me. I could feel it.
"Shit."
To cover it up, I gently placed the rabbit down.
"Go on, little guy."
The rabbit didn't need more encouragement. It bolted inside the open door.
Perfect.
I rushed in behind it, feigning panic. "Oh no—sorry! Come back little one!"
I entered with my blue-hazel eyes on the rabbit, kneeling, picking it up as the men inside froze.
Four heads turned.
One pair of eyes—sharp and suspicious—locked onto me
The silence that followed was heavy enough to split air. I could hear guns being unlocked.
The senior-most man, who was speaking to the figure with his back turned, now stepped forward with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Aap kaun ho beti?"
(Who are you, child?)
I straightened, eyes wide, trying not to let my pulse race. Please Kanha, don't let me die.
"Naina... Naina Yadav. My uncle works here. I came to meet him.
"Aur vo kaun hai?"
(And who is he?)
"Ravindra.. Ravindra Yadav."
The air stiffened.
The man in black—the one whose back was facing me—froze. Then slowly turned.
And my world slowed. My heartbeat roared.
SHIVAAY. SINGH. RATHORE
Standing tall. Cold eyes. Masked face. Wearing a silence so heavy, it nearly crushed me.
Though his eyes had widened a bit. But he said nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
Just as I didn't.
It was a standoff of invisible truths.
"And did your uncle call you here?" the senior man asked, voice calm but eyes calculating.
"No.." I said softly, pretending to tremble. "I was going to the museum... nearby. But I got confused. I tried calling uncle, but he's not picking up. Then a man outside said he was on a rescue. So I waited."
The senior man glanced at Shivaay.
Shivaay, without emotion, said, "Aap museum jaa rahi thi na?"
(You were going to the museum, right?)
I nodded.
He took a step forward.
"Chaliye, main chhodh deta hoon."
(Come, I'll drop you there.)
That familiar voice. Too casual. Too perfectly pitched. My instinct wanted to fight—but my mission wanted access. Now, knowing that Yadav is dead, these men might not turn out as good as they portray themselves. So I had only one option left- Leave.
I nodded. "Thank you."
But just as we turned toward the door, the senior man interrupted.
"Shivaay, ek minute."
(Wait a minute, Shivaay.)
He walked to a table and picked up a wrapped box, roughly shoebox-sized, covered in brown paper and twine. He handed it to Shivaay.
"The CM will be pleased."
The CM will be pleased.
The CM will be pleased.
Same line Hani... Which means, he might be involved...
Shivaay took it with a slight nod.
But my eyes flicked to the box.
"Aur yeh?" I asked, voice light, innocent.
(And this one?)
The senior man turned, smiling tightly. Before Shivaay could answer, he took the rabbit from my hands.
"Oh, this little one? Saffron, he loves to run a lot. They're part of our sensory training model for wildlife behavioral studies."
His tone was casual. Too casual. The rabbit wiggled but he held it steady.
I didn't protest. But my eyes lingered for one extra second—memorizing the patterns on the corridor, the number of visible doors, the slight smudge of red near the door's latch...
I didn't know if I would ever come back here.
But Ie knew this—
This place wasn't built to save animals.
And Shivaay Rathore wasn't here to support it.
As we both turned our steps to the exit, my nerves went racing again. Shivaay knows my real name. He knows I am no one to Ravindra Yadav. Or wait, he doesn't..
The very moment we settled in the backseat of the car after he told the person driving about my destination, he began, "So Naina yadav, huh?"
He turned to me, his gaze intense and scrutinizing.
But I stayed silent.
"Do you even know what have you gotten yourself into, Hanitra?"
"It shouldn't concern you."
"Are you serious? His voice rose a bit. "You were standing there, lying like it's same as breathing.
"Nothing was a lie. Ravindra Yadav is my uncle. He wasn't picking up my phone so I was concerned."
"Oh really? Hanitra. You need to stop whatever you are doing. Or atleast tell me."
"And who are you to me, jo ye bolna ka haq jata rahe ho?"
(That you have a right to ask that?)
At this, he slightly clenches his fist. "Listen, I am not asserting any right. But you can't simply just go and visit a place that you don't know and lie like that."
I was about to say something but he cuts me off.
"No, not another lie to me. Ravindra Yadav, he was from Udaipur and Hanitra you, you have never been to that area. Forget it, you are not even from this state."
I just turned by face away. Of course he knows, he is a friend of Dhairya Sir.
But what shocked me was, he made me face him again, holding my shoulders, a bit too roughly and a bit too...
"What are you trying to find, Little Spartan?" He searched for an answer in my eyes, but the moment got disturbed when the third person said, "Sir, Albert Hall Museum."
It was the parking area near the museum, no trace of people.
The two us got out, him still trying to know the truth, when his phone rang and he went to a farther distance.
However, I was in anything but composure, why was he trying to know that? Why was he restless? And that hold at last.. It was filled with an emotion I couldn't decipher or.. does he know I am searching about his father?
Wait, he is caring about the secrets of his family. YES.
Yes, it may be the case. His restlessness is for the secret I am trying to uncover. I glanced at him, on a call, voice low, body composed. The man who was driving was with him, reading something from a document. My eyes were still focusing on him when four men emerged from nowhere, and circled around me.
Kanha, the classice soap opera scene..
Suddenly a hand grabs my wrist.
"Arrey madam. Kahan akeli ghoom rahi ho, laayo hum madad-
Before he could finish,
SLAAAPP!!
My right palm connects sharply with his cheek. The echo rings across the area.
In a low, venomous voice, I hissed, "Don't. You. Ever."
The man growls, clutching his cheek.
Two more step forward from behind — clearly his boys.
In a mocking sound, one of them said- "Oye, badi fighter hai. Chalo taste karte hain iski bravery."
(Seems like a fighter, huh. Let's taste her bravery.)
Big mistake.
I elbow the first, knees the second, use my dupatta to swing one's wrist back.
One punches—I duck.
Another grabs me from behind—I headbutts him.
Kicks, punches, pure raw street energy.
By this time, even Mr. Rathore had sensed the shift in air. He may have heard the noises, as he turned to witness my state- beating four men like an angry lioness.
"What the—Hanitra?"
He runs—
Sees me, panting, sweating, throwing my final punch.
"Lakshay get the car ready."
Mr. Rathore pulls me back from my waist. "Hanitra! Stop! It's done—are you even listening?!"
But I was furious, my eyes blazing.
"Chhodiye mujhe, Mr. Rathore!
How dare this bastard even try to touch me!"
(Leave me, Mr. Rathore.)
I break his grip, march to the last man, who's crawling away.
My eyes glow as I approach the last man.
"U.P. se hoon main, saale.
Bandook to pocket mein hankey ki tarah rehti hai.
Aayi baat samajh mein?"
(I am from UP you bastard. A pistol casually resides in our pockets like a damn hankey. Are you getting it?)
SLAAAPP! Again.
This time slower, heavier. The man collapses.
Mr. Rathore, half-stunned, half-amused, as visible from his face, steps forward, now lifting me away with his one hand.
"Enough! Stop, Hanitra!
He's not worth your energy—"
I turn to him sharply as my feet touch the ground again.
"And neither are you, Mr. Rathore!
Stop acting like you care."
We stand face to face, with me breathing hard.
The hate crackling between us like fire.
But in the man's eyes — that flicker of concern he can't mask.
Mr. Rathore speaks in the softest way possible, eyeing the area.
"Just... get in the car.
This place isn't safe."
Pushing past him in the opposite direction, I mocked. "Of course. Because safety is your concern now."
"Hanitra, just get in the car." Did he just COMMANDED me?
I turn with fire in my voice. "I won't. I don't take orders from a man who thinks he owns the city."
"Fine.." A pause. Then, a dangerously calm Shivaay Singh Rathore steps forward and without another word, in one swift, shocking move, lifts me off the ground with one arm, bridal style.
Wait, does he think I'll fall into his trap if he does that?
Shocked and wriggling, I yelled- "What the hell—put me down, Mr. Rathore!"
But he ignored my words like the H in honest. "Lakshay, backseat."
The man who was on the driver's seat, now takes the backseat.
"You just made me do it.
Should've walked when I told you." He was gritting his teeth.
But wait, why was he gritting his teeth and why the hell was he angry?
Mr. Rathore strides to the car, opens the door with one hand, and places me in the passenger seat — not roughly, but with enough force to show he's not in the mood to argue.
"Is this how you deal with every woman who disagrees with you?" I snapped once he put me down, still breathless, hair slightly messy.
He leans forward, locking his eyes with mine.
"No.
Just the ones who charge at danger like it's a hobby."
He reaches to grab the seatbelt — but at the same time, I grab it too, unwilling to let him do anything for me.
OUR HANDS BRUSH!
For a moment — just a moment —
time stills.
The world goes silent except for their breathing.
Fingers touching.
His large, warm palm.
My knuckles, still bruised.
Our eyes meet again —
The same hate. The same heat.
But beneath it?
Something even neither of us wants to name.
But I was in rage, so none of his act was going to work on me. I pulled the seatbelt in a jerk.
"I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, I saw" There was a hint of softness with sarcasm.
He shuts the door. Walks to the driver side.
His hand trembles slightly on the steering wheel — only for a second.
The car drives off, now to a route unfamiliar to me.
Neither of us spoke.
He pulled brakes as the signal showed red.
AUTHOR'S POV
The air between them was thick.
Hanitra sat stiff, arms folded, looking out the window. Her face is unreadable, lips tight.
Shivaay's hands grip the steering wheel. Eyes ahead. But mind? On her.
He turns slightly and sees it —
Her right hand.
Knuckles scraped. Blood dried. Skin swelling.
For a second, something shifts in him.
"You didn't notice your hand, did you?" He said, quitely.
No reply.
Hanitra keeps staring out.
Without waiting for permission, he opens the glove box, pulls out a white handkerchief — crisp, clean.
Leans slightly toward her.
She doesn't turn.
Gently, he takes her hand.
She flinches.
"No one gave you the right to touch me, Mr. Rathore." She snapped, angrily and directly staring into his soul.
But Shivaay? He was calm, and continued tying the cloth.
"And no one stopped you from punching me for it, Miss Hanitra."
A beat.
She turns her face, startled.
His eyes are on her hand. Fingers steady. Wrapping the cloth over her bruises — not a crease out of place.
Not a flicker of flirtation. Just... silent responsibility.
He ties the last knot — snug but soft.
Their eyes meet again.
This time, it holds.
No shouting.
No mockery.
Just... heavy silence.
Hanitra pulls her hand back softly. "You act like you care."
"I don't." Shivaay replies, starting the car engine.
But the green light ahead flickers as
his knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.
As he takes the left turn, Hanitra sees a familiar area. The temple she resides at. Her brain turned in alert mode again. How does he know where she lives?
Veer Sehrawat? Possible. He is keeping an eye on her? More than possible.
The engine idled as the sedan halted beside the temple gates, marigold garlands fluttering under the spring breeze. Hanitra stepped out wordlessly, not even glancing back. Shivaay didn't say goodbye either.
He stayed frozen for a second, knuckles tight on the wheel, jaw clenched — his silence louder than any confrontation.
But then—
A slow cough came from the backseat.
A rustle of a jacket.
"Sir..."
Shivaay stiffened.
"Ye... ye kya tha?" Lakshay's voice was quiet, half-shocked, half-bewildered.
(Wh.. What was that?)
Shivaay turned his head just slightly — not even enough to meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
But his voice cut like steel—
"Not now, Lakshay."
Lakshay blinked, stunned into silence.
Because that tone wasn't just irritated.
It was the tone of a storm barely contained — of a man who'd just faced the one thing he'd sworn never to face again:
A mirror.
Shivaay's eyes flickered toward the temple steps where Hanitra was disappearing, her dupatta swaying with each firm step.
Back to the wheel.
He drove off. Not another word spoken.
But in the rearview mirror, Lakshay sat back slowly, exhaling the breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Oh, you're in trouble, boss..." he whispered to himself.
And then rubbed his temple.
"Big, big trouble."
"Vivaan sir needs to know, group ki first bhabhi is finally here."
But as he was giggling to himself, Shivaay ordered him.
"Put a silent alert on Dharma Foundation's accounts. Pull all third-party vendors with less than 4-year registry history."
"Got it. Should I alert Kritanjay sir?" He looked up, immediately.
"Not yet. Just keep your eyes open. This is bigger than textile dye."
Lakshay, the third member of the drama lovers suppressed a grin. "Sure boss."
As they reached the VASR building back, shivaay stormed out of the car, without even caring to park the vehicle. Lakshay shakes his head blinking his eyes at the aggression, muttering "Gaadi bhi park nahi kari."
(He didn't even park the car!)
Then raises his voice a bit. "Main bhi nahi karungaa..." he declares, yanking out the keys and dramatically shoving them into Paras's hand, one of the VASR interns.
(Nor will I.)
"Tu karle, bhai. I'm emotionally traumatised."
(You do it, bro.)
He had handed the keys to Paras and was about to enter the main entrance but his steps halted suddenly.
"Bhabhi ka perfume.. Bhaag Lakshay.."
(Hanitra's perfume... Run Lakshay..)
The man was about to reach the car but Lakshay stopped him.
"Paras, wait. I need a few files. Aap jao, I'll do it."
He sits in the car, breathes.
"Phew!" Lakshay shuts the door, lets his head fall back.
And then—
"Arey haan! Recording to bheji hi nahi!"
(Oh yeah, I didn't send the recording!)
FLASHBACK:
The seatbelt moment.
That split-second when Shivaay, on instinct, reached across to pull the belt over Hanitra's shoulder and so hid her hand.
No words.
Just his fingers brushing hers. Her breath hitching.
His gaze lingering for just a moment too long.
And Lakshay—sitting in the backseat like a professional witness of all romantic crimes—had silently recorded it, wide-eyed and grinning.
He opens his gallery, selects the 11-second video and immediately forwards it to the WhatsApp group:
Group Chat: DRAMA LOVERS ONLY 🔥
🧠The Brain (admin)
😎 OG DIVA (Vivaan)
🕶️ SASSY (Dhairya)
Message Sent ✅
"Seatbelt Scene: Shivaay Bro in full protective husband mode. RIP single energy."
Within 10 seconds:
Vivaan:
WHATT THE-
HE DIDN'T EVEN SAY- May I
FULL POSSESSION MODE ACTIVATED.
Dhairya:
BHAIIIIIIII
HO KYA RAHA HAI???
SHIVAAY IN LOVER ERA??
(What's even happening?)
Lakshay:
I was in the BACKSEAT. Mere saamne hua sab kuch. Mujhe sab yaad hai. Main gawah hoon. Main record dunga.
(It all happened in front of me. I remember everything. I am the witness. I'll give the statement.)
Vivaan:
Upload it in Ultra HD. I need it framed.
Lakshay:
Uff shut up, aap dono. Video dekho aur chup raho.
(Sends video again. Slows it to 0.75x speed for dramatic effect.)
And right then, in the middle of rewatching it on loop, Aahan opens the passenger door, startling Lakshay.
"Kya hua Lakshay bhaii? Yahan garmi mein kya kar rahe ho?"
(What happened Lakshay bro? What are you doing in such heat?)
Lakshay hides his phone so fast it nearly flies out the window.
"Nothing. Just...checking traffic reports. Very important analysis. Economic indicators."
Aahan narrows his eyes. Suspicious. But lets it go.
As they walk toward the elevators, Lakshay discreetly texts again:
Lakshay:
Operation Pyaar ka Seatbelt successful. Over and out.
As Lakshay entered the CFO cabin, he blinked twice seeing the condition of the room. The tense atmosphere, Shivaay's blazer on the couch, his collar unbuttoned- just once, sleeves rolled up. But the thing that made him shocked the most was was his Boss's face. His temples were creasing, anger was clearly visible on his face. His jaw clenched, knuckles tense over the edge of a stapled document. His eyes felt like scanning the report rather than reading.
The glass panels reflected a storm.
Not outside—
Inside him.
The AC was on full, yet a strange heat radiated from his chest—an unfamiliar restlessness. His pen clicked once. Then twice. Then—
Crash.
The pen snapped.
"Sir, Project T7's revenue analytics. And the shipment audits for the Central zone..."
He placed them gently on the table, sensing the atmosphere.
Shivaay didn't look up. He grabbed the first file.
Flicked through three pages.
Stopped.
"This," he snapped, pointing to a misaligned graph, "was meant to be quarterly segmentation, not monthly. Do you even check these before sending?"
Lakshay blinked, not offended, just tired.
"Sir, this file was approved last night by the assistant manager. I can rework it—"
Shivaay raised another one.
"And what is this ratio error in shipment charts? 2.08 is NOT equivalent to 1:2. Don't insult math."
"It was a placeholder—"
"Then why is it still there?"
His tone was sharper now, eyes narrowing.
Lakshay exhaled slowly.
"Alright. Give me 20 minutes. I'll have them redone."
But he didn't turn. Instead, he said quietly,
"Bhaii... if I may... you've rejected six files in the last 20 minutes. All by different departments."
Shivaay looked up, finally.
Eyes dark, confused, almost... lost.
"So? They're all incompetent today?"
Lakshay stared.
And then tilted his head slightly.
"Or maybe you're just... angry."
Pause.
"At something that's not in any of these files."
Shivaay flinched.
A beat passed.
He looked away, picking up another file, trying to mask it with sarcasm.
"Therapist ke liye apply kar raha hai kya?"
On the other hand, at the temple-
Hanitra was pacing in her room, too swiflty that her dupatta was flying in the air, as if possessed by a witch.
"He.. He was trying to manipulate me.. Haan. That act, those eyes... He knows I am digging into his family.. Hey Kanha.. bacha lijiye..."
The aspiring journalist had convinced herself that the man was increasing closeness with her just to eliminate her later, and she was surely not going to fall for that.
"Nahi Hani! His eyes were deceiving you. That man is the son of the very person you are trying to expose. Don't even give him an upper hand.
After a proper therapy session with herself, she sat with her laptop once again. Visiting the site made her believe that something was definitely wrong in that organisation.
Was it linked with those snake delivery??
And just like that, another day passed, with new information collected.
Another morning, another day being the son of Vasudha Abhiraj Singh Rathore.
It was Phoolon ki Holi today, and the Chairperson of Aarambh Foundation had received a letter from a lady about mistreatment by her in-laws. And my mother had wasted no time after reading it and pulled me, her very busy son, to accompany her to that place, which turns out to be a temple.
And destiny? The very temple I had dropped that girl, who currently is the reason for the malfunction of my brain.
"Hey Mummy ke Shivji. You know mein aapme vishwas nahi rakhta but please, aaj nahi dikhni chahiye vo. Maa ke saath hoon and I don't want trouble."
(O My Mom's Shiva. You know I don't believe in you, but please, don't let me see her today. I'm with Mom..)
Suddenly, my phone rang.
"Yes Lakshay?"
"Sir, Dhairya sir called me. He will be here tomorrow, for Aarambh's silver jubilee."
"Usse aur koi kaam nahi hai kya?"
(Does he have no other work?)
"Hai, but he stated ki unki badi maa aur chachi ka function hai. He would even resign for that."
(He has, but he stated that it's the function of his two beloved ladies.)
"Ye Rathore ghar ki ladies aur inki obsession over a gorilla."
(These Rathore ladies and their obsession over a gorilla.)
"One more thing Sir."
"Hmm."
"CM sir had a meeting in the secretrait."
"Nothing new Lakshay."
"Rajeev Shekhawat was present."
"Kya? The brother of Dev?"
"Yes. CM Sir did notice him but stayed silent."
"Just stay with dad. That man being here is not a good sign."
Just as I cut the call, mom came out.
"Maa. That lady came out five minutes before. Aap kahan the?"
(Where were you?)
"Sirf do minute aur ruk ja. Jo mangvaya tha, gaadi mein hai?"
(Just wait two minutes more. Is everything I had asked for in the car?)
"Yes mom. New clothes, shoes, and stationary. Paise bhi backseat mein rakhe hai, aap vo sab lekar jao, I'll be here."
(Money is even kept in the backseat. You take all that.)
"Ab thodi mandir jaa rahi hoon. Mere saath chal."
(I'm not going to the temple this time. Come with me.)
"Maa, please. You know, strangers and also, ek report review karni hai. Chachu just sent it."
(and also, I need to review a report.)
The queen shakes her head. "Jab dekho kaam."
(You and your work.)
"Aapka beta hoon. Files hi relax karti hain."
(I'm your son. Files are the only relax.)
With that, she left to distribute the stuff among the children and the helpless ones. And I? I opened the PDF my chachu had sent with an 'Abhi check karo' message.
(Check it now.)
I was reading the file when someone bumped into me.
Blue-hazels. Hanitra.
Why am I suddenly History's favourite student?
It was the festival today. However, instead of those cheerful screams and shouts, the air was filled with a strange stiffness.
As I stepped out of my room, the towel being hanged behind the door, I saw people gathered around in the hall of the divine place. Accusations were being filed, as I heard men debating loudly, too loudly to be called a debate.
I decided to step further. And the very moment I came in front, my eyes widened a bit seeing the female figure standing againt those men.
VASUDHA SINGH RATHORE, the mother of Shivaay and the daughter-in-law of Miheer Rathore.
Why was such a well-known fighure here?
To which, I had no answer. Hence, I stood quiet, listening and observing.
"Ek aurat jo apne pati ke khilaaf, apne sasural ke khilaaf bolti hai, usse samaj mein jagah milni hi nahi chahiye."
(A woman who speaks against her husband, her in-laws, deserves no place in the society.)
"Hum isse rehna sikha rahe hai."
(We are teaching her how to live.)
"Ek aurat par haath utnana kanoon ke khilaaf hai." Her tone was sharp, lethal.
(It's a crime to raise your hand on a woman.)
"Par hum haath thodi utha rahe the Vasudha ji, hamarai sadasya, hamari bahu apni seema bhoole jaa rahi tha, humne bas usse bachaya hai. Chanakya ne bhi to anushasan ka gyaan diya tha. Samay par maarna bhi samajhdaari hai. Jab bhi aurat ghar ki seema laanghti hai, tab hamesha paap hi hota hai."
(But we were not raising our hands, our member, our daughter-in-law was forgetting her limits, we just saved her. Even Chanakya defines discipline. It's necessary to raise hand on time. Whenever a woman crosses her limits, it has always led to a sin.)
Of everything that triggers me, Injustice tops the list. So, then and there, among people and the soil I hardly knew, I raised a voice.
"To ek devi ko bhi kyu poojte hai aap?"
(Then why do you worship a Goddess?)
Every pair of eyes turned to me.
"Nari to vo bhi hai, seema to unhone bhi laanghi thi, aur unhone to apne pati, apne aradhya par pair bhi rakha tha. Phir us Maa Kaali ko kyu nahi anushasan ka updesh dete aap? Aurat to vo bhi hai, maryada to vo bhi bhooli thi."
(Even she is a lady, even she had crossed her limits and she had stepped on her husband, her deity. Then why don't you teach that Goddess Kali discipline. She is also a woman, even she had forgotten her limits)
"Vo Devi Maa hai, krodh mein thi."
(She is a goddess, she was angry.)
I scoffed.
"Aur ye aurat, jo aapko janam deti hai? Jo aapko iss layak banti hai ki aap bol sake, iske saath ye bedh-bhau kyun?"
(And this woman, who birthed you? Who raises you well enough so you can stand for yourself, then why that discrimination with her?)
"Ye ghar se bhaagi hai, apmaan laayi hai hamare liye, iski shuddhi ki zaroorat hai."
(She ran from the house, brought her defamation, it's necessary to purify her.)
"Kaunsi shuddhi ki baat kar rahe hai aap? Vo jo aapki haathon ki maar se hoti hai?
(What purification are you talking about? The one that's done by your beating?)
"Ye shastron mein likha hai, aurat hamesha pati aur sasural waalon ke peeche hi achchi lagti hai. bahar hamesha paap hota hai."
(It's written in manuscripts, a woman should always stand behind her husband and in-laws. Sin is conducted the very moment she steps aside.)
"Shastron to mein to ye bhi likha hai ki 'जननी जन्मभूमिश्च स्वर्गादपि गरीयसी'. Matlab bhi jaante hai iska?"
(Even this is written in those manuscripts. Do you even know its meaning?)
At this, spoke the lady. "Janani aur Janambhoomi, yaani maa aur matrabhoomi, bono ka sthaan swarg se uncha hota hai."
(Mother and motherland are always greater than any heaven.)
"Aur aap usi par zulm utha rahein hai jo aapke ghar ko mandir banati hai."
(And you are abusing the very person who makes your home a temple?)
"Galat insaan galat hi hota hai, Vasudha ji."
(A wrong person is always wrong.)
I added another line.
"Aurat galat issliye hai, kyunki samaj mardon ke hisaab se chalta hai."
(A woman is wrong because the society runs according to the men.)
All the men in question flared at this, but they stayed silent.
Vasudha ma'am spoke again. "Agar kisi par haath uthaya jaata hai to sirf uske shareer par nahi, uski antar aatmi ko bhi nuksaan hota hai. Aap log dharm, pratha aur na jaane kis-kiske naam par sadiyon se auraton ko apna ek khilona samajhte aaye ho, lekin chahte ho ki apni beti ke saath aisa na ho, ye kaisi soch hai. Isse lekar jaa rahi hai hum, agar kisi me rokne ki himmat hai to aage aaye."
(And is a hand is raised on someone, not just his skin but his soul is tainted. In the name of religion, traditions, you people have been abusing women for centuries, treating them as your toy. But you want your daughters to be treated as a queen, what kind of thinking is this? I am taking her with me, if someone dares to stop me, step forward. )
None spoke, but a small child was pushed forward.
"Theek hai Reema. To tumhari beti ham rakh rahe hai, poti hai aakhir hamari. Maa agar apmaan ban gyi hai to isse dhang hum sikhayenge." An elderly man, probably her father-in-law spoke with a wicked smile.
(Okay reema. Then we are keeping your daughter, afterall she is my granddaughter. If her mom has insulted us, we will teach her the ways.)
This man, just slap him Haani. Respect gayi Ganga Maiyya main.
(Do hell with respect.)
"Shastron ke alawa agar kannon padhoge na uncle, to pata chalega. Maa ki marzi ke khilaaf agar uski beti custody main rakhi jaaye to aapko 7 saal tak ki jail ho sakti hai. IPC dhara 361. Aur haan, agar kisi minor- yaani 18 saal se kam umar ke bachche ke saath haani-poorvak shabdon ka istamal ho to jail. Non-bailable. Aur na aapke Chanakya aur na hi aapki parampara aapko bacha payegi."
(If you will ever read law, uncle, then you'll know. If a child is kept in custody against her mother's will, then you'll be sentenced for upto seven years. IPC Section 361. And also, if a minor is called with insulting or abusing words, then you'll be jailed. Non-bailable. And neither your Chanakya nor your traditions will save you.)
"Par.. Par hum iski Daadi sa hain."
(But I'm her Grandmother.)
"Aap daadi tab kehelati jab iss massom ki maa ke saath khadi hoti. Par aapne to unke aansuon se ghee jalaya hai.. aise hi to rishte rishte nahi rehte."
(You would have been her grandma if you had took a stand for her mother. But you did not, that's how relations end.)
I forwarded my hands to the child and she stepped to me. Next, I kneeled to her. "Aapki maa Devi bhi hain, aur insaan bhi. Unka saath mat chodna."
(Your mom is a goddess and also a human. Never leave her side.)
She nods and then hugs her mom tightly, the woman now bursting into tears, but not from fear, but from strength.
"You should take them ma'am, the place is not safe for them."
She nods but before taking her final steps, she glared at those little creatures and said, "Ab ye Aarambh ka hissa hai. Aur ab agar inke pass aap log aaye to yaad rakhiyega, aap Vasudha ji ke nahi, Vasudha Abhiraj Singh Rathore ke khilaaf khade honge."
(Now they are a part of Aarambh. And now if anyone of you dared you come near them, then remeber this- You won't be standing against Vasudha but Vasudha Abhiraj Singh Rathore.)
She instructs two of the men who stood in black, beside her and they take the woman and her child with them.
Next, as the choas had now died, she stepped towards me. People already busing themselves with showering petals.
"Achcha laga hume, kisi mein to himmat thi yahan."
(It felt good to see that someone had strength here.)
"Himmat unhi main hoti hai, jo kanoon aur shastra achche se jaanti ho, ma'am."
(Strength lies in those who know the law and manuscripts very well.)
"True saying. You don't raise your voice... you raise minds. Arey, I forgot to ask, what's your name, beta?"
"Hanitra."
AUTHOR'S POV
Hearing the name, the lady's eyes widened a bit, as she remembered the late night conversation with her son.
"Yoon achchi hai, want to be a journalist."
Vasudha doesn't say anything. But she wonders: Is this the same girl?
Just then, a bodyguard whispers in her ear.
"Ma'am, Shivaay sir is waiting outside."
The lady just nods and then smiles one last time to Hanitra and leaves.
Inside, Hanitra senses it — the shift in the air, in her surrounding.
Three men push through the crowd.
Knives. Sharp glint.
They charge toward her.
Hanitra murmurs, "Not here..."
The girl knew very well. These people have seen her mask, not the face behind and they should never. Hence, one option left- Defense.
She throws a brass plate in their direction, momentarily startling them.
Then runs, weaving through the crowd as petals rain and no one notices.
Outside, Vasudha had already busied herself distributing packets of food, clothes and other necessities.
Then—
A storm of footsteps.
And a body crashes into her son.
Hanitra, out of breath, arms flailing, trips over the stairs and falls—
—straight into Shivaay's arms.
He grabs her by the waist just in time, steadying them both.
And then—
A cloud of rose and marigold petals is released above the temple gates.
They fall in silence.
The petals.
The moment.
Hanitra, in his arms.
Shivaay, staring into her eyes.
Both frozen. Breathing hard.
Neither speaks.
For a second, the noise fades.
No crowd. No guards. No threats.
Just two people... caught in a storm of fate and flowers.
The temple gates behind them still echoed with music and petals, but the slight traces of warmth had disappeared from Hanitra's face.
Shivaay, now steadying her, senses the shift in her eyes. She isn't staring at him anymore—
She's staring behind him.
Her jaw clenches.
Shivaay turns subtly, and sees it too—
Three men, faces half-covered, walking briskly through the crowd. Too focused. Too direct. Not festive. Not innocent.
Before he can speak—
Hanitra slips behind him.
She doesn't say a word.
Just hides—her hand resting slightly against his upper back, like a silent SOS.
Shivaay's eyes narrow.
Vasudha, still talking to some women nearby, notices it all.
Her gaze lingers on the girl behind her son.
She smiles quietly.
Without a word, Shivaay flicks two fingers in the air—a signal.
From the crowd, three of his men — dressed as bodyguards— move forward, intercept the attackers, and drag them away before a single scream can rise.
The girl exhales.
Shivaay doesn't turn.
His voice is soft, cold.
"You okay?"
She nods faintly. "Thanks.. Mr. Rathore."
And steps away, straightens herself, and walks into the crowd.
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