The house was hushed when Arun returned—not peaceful, but the silence left behind after a storm.
In his study, Mr. Singh sat under the lamplight, phone pressed to his ear. Papers lay scattered across the desk, an untouched glass of wine beside them.
"Did you inform them about the voting?" His voice was low, controlled.
A muffled reply came from the other end. "Yes, Master, we've circulated the notice… But are you sure? I mean, Mr. Rawat—"
And the words died there.
Mr. Singh's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes… It's the only way to clear it all at once."
At the sound of the door, he didn't flinch, but his spine stiffened. Arun stepped inside.
Mr. Singh ended the call, setting the phone down as his gaze fixed on his son. He straightened in his chair, as though bracing for what was coming.
"Papa…" Arun's voice was steady, though his eyes searched his father's face with quiet urgency. "Where's the brooch you always carried?"
Mr. Singh's eyes darkened. "Why are you asking?"
Arun reached into his pocket, pulled out a transparent pouch, and slid it across the polished wood. The faint scrape filled the silence. "It's yours. Right?"
Mr. Singh's gaze dropped. For a moment, his jaw clenched, the lamplight catching the faint lines of age around his eyes. Then a flicker—recognition, immediate and sharp—crossed his face.
He reached out, slow and deliberate, and lifted the pouch as though it were fragile. The plastic crinkled softly in his grip.
"Yes," he murmured at last, his voice low, heavy. "Your grandfather carried it. A family crest. Custom-made. Only for his successors."
Arun's brow furrowed. Hesitation. "This was in Uncle Aadi's house. Did he have one too?"
Mr. Singh hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. But—" He slid the pouch back across the desk. "Look at the back. Carefully."
Arun turned the brooch in the light. A faint engraving—an S—gleamed on the backplate. His breath caught. He looked at his father, searching for shock or at least a shift. But there was nothing—except calmness.
"He is behind this all..."
"I was informed about it a few day ago... But I'm not sure yet…"
Silence stretched. Mr. Singh leaned back, his face composed, his voice worn with regret.
"I know I've let you all down. But this time, believe me—I won't let anyone hurt us again. I'll make up for what I failed to do back then."
Arun studied him. For a moment, anger held—but then wavered. He saw the glint in his father's eyes, the weight behind the words.
"I'm sorry to doubt you, Papa." Something old and aching stirred in those words. Hope.
Mr. Singh gave a slow, determined nod. "Be prepared for the voting tomorrow."
Arun gazed at him. Voting?
Resolve flickered in Mr. Singh's posture. The past couldn't be undone, but perhaps—together—they could still salvage what remained.
---
[Mr. Sidharth's room]
The room glowed dimly, lit only by a half-burned candle on a cluttered desk. Photographs lay scattered—some crisp, others curled with age—capturing the Singh Mansion and the Rawat household. Shadows wavered across the walls, trembling like the unrest within.
Mr. Sidharth stood in the center, his figure taut. A man who usually wore command like armor, tonight he looked worn—brows drawn, lips tight, fingers trembling as he held his phone.
"Are you sure they're safe?" His voice was low, urgent. "What about Brother Aadi and his sons? Have you found them?"
Static crackled on the other end. "Trusted sources confirm they're safe, sir. But we don't know where. Their side hasn't revealed anything. And it's unclear if they'll attend the vote tomorrow."
Mr. Sidharth froze mid-step. The silence pressed in. He exhaled slowly, the sound almost breaking him. His grip on the phone hardened.
He turned toward the desk. The photos no longer looked like keepsakes. They were relics. Ghosts on paper. No smiles—only silence and shadows of violence. "And no leads on the attackers?"
"None, sir. No chatter. No evidence."
His jaw tightened. He raked a hand through his hair, weary more than deliberate. For a long moment, he didn't move.
Finally—measured, deliberate—he spoke: "I'll be there tomorrow morning. Make the arrangements. Try to delay the vote… but don't push. We can't draw attention."
"Understood, sir."
"Good. Keep me informed. The moment anything changes, I want to know."
He ended the call. The screen dimmed, showing his own tired reflection. The candle hissed faintly.
"We can't afford another mistake." His words hung in the empty room. Slowly, he sank into the chair, the weight settling into his bones.
From the slightly ajar doorway, a shadow shifted. Shubham had been listening, pressed against the wall, silent as a wraith. His small hands curled into fists, knuckles pale in the candlelight.
He lingered long enough to hear his father's last words—"We can't afford another mistake"—and a flicker of something serious, tensed, passed over his features.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he slipped back into the hall, retreating without a sound, leaving only the candle's glow and the ghosts in the photographs behind.
...
[Later—Annaya's House]
The room was dim, the only light spilling from a lone lamp that threw long shadows across the walls. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the restless night beyond.
Annaya sat upright, her shoulders squared, not shrinking from the tension pressing in the room.
Mr. Raj leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate.
"Annaya," he said, his tone carrying the weight of an order, "no matter what happens, don't leave Arun alone. Not for a moment. He has to feel you're with him—always."
Annaya's gaze didn't waver. She gave a short nod. "You don't need to remind me of that, Papa."
But her reply was steady, firm. "Tell me—how long are we expected to do this?"
Silence stretched. Mr. Raj's eyes narrowed slightly. Then he exhaled slowly, leaning back.
"Not much longer," he said, calm but heavy. "We're very close to ending it."
Annaya held his gaze, searching for cracks in his calm, but he offered nothing more. The clock ticked between them, filling the silence.
This time, she didn't flinch.
---
[Next day—Head office]
The long oval table gleamed under harsh lights, polished to a cold, reflective sheen. Murmurs flickered—soft, restrained, uneasy. Officials in tailored suits shifted in their seats, eyes sharp as daggers.
At the head sat Mr. Singh—stoic, unreadable, calm as stone. Beside him, Arun sat rigid, jaw clenched, fingers locked white against one another.
Across the room, Mr. Sidharth leaned forward, gaze cutting like a blade. His voice was low, for Singh alone. "Brother. Where is Raj?"
Mr. Singh turned slowly, eyes still as fractured glass. He didn't blink.
"He's gone underground, he dared to work behind me..." he said, almost casual. "If he's with the enemy, we'll know soon enough."
The words fell heavy, rippling through the silence. Mr. Singh's gaze swept the table—brief, sharp, dissecting.
The quiet that followed wasn't tension. It was surveillance.
Whispers erupted—swift, frightened—like insects scattering at thunder. Mr. Sidharth's brow arched, composure slipping for a beat under the rising unease. He said nothing.
The seats were full, but the true names—the ones that carried weight—were absent.
The Rawats' chairs sat untouched. Heavy. Waiting.
A senior member cleared his throat, voice brittle.
"Given their absence, I propose we select a new heir to Mr. Rawat's legacy. We can't delay any longer."
Everyone shifted at that. Surprised. Uncertain.
"Sir," another interjected, "we should wait for signs of recovery. The situation is unclear."
Another sharper voice cut through. "Apologies, but it's been two months. We set a public timeline. Media, competitors—they're watching. More delay costs us everything."
Murmurs flared, pressure simmered. Divided opinions.
"Enough." Mr. Singh rose halfway. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Steel in a single word.
Silence crashed down, sudden and absolute. The air chilled. Mr. Singh glanced at his wristwatch, calm, patient—waiting. "We will wait for 15 more minutes..."
Suddenly—A creak.
The grand doors swung open. "I'll save you the trouble," a voice entered. Calm. Threatening.