The long mahogany table gleamed under dim pendant lights, but tonight it bore no luxury — only evidence and war.
Maholi sat across from Abir, the entire top floor of his penthouse transformed into a battlefield of paper and grief. Her mother's letters — written with urgency, soaked in the ink of fear — lay spread before them like open wounds. Abir's stack — hidden ledgers, irregular trust withdrawals, forged scripts, and unsigned legal statements — completed the mosaic of betrayal.
A soft rain began, brushing against the tall glass walls like whispers from the past.But inside — only the sound of unraveling.
Abir leaned forward, eyes pinned to the ledger columns."All these years," he said, voice flat, "Ruchika's family wasn't producing films — they were producing smoke. Shell studios. Phantom scripts. Films that never released because they were never meant to."
Maholi's fingers tapped on one page, eyes dark with clarity."You're saying the flops were covers?"
He nodded."Covers for laundering. Through fake budgets. Overstated property investments. All of it flowed through one source—" he lifted a page — "my mother's trust fund. The one she created to support first-time directors, new voices. They turned it into a pipeline for crime."
Maholi slid another file toward him.Her voice was quiet, laced with fury."My father handled logistics for one of those 'studios.' Sunview Entertainment. Look — these contracts were signed by your stepmother and Suraj Sen."
Abir's jaw tensed until it ached.
"I remember Sunview," he murmured. "My mother was so proud to support it. Said it would bring rural stories to the screen."
Maholi met his eyes."But it was never about the stories."
They sat in weighted silence — the kind that grows in the marrow.Not just betrayal.Legacy desecrated.Love manipulated.Dreams buried under falsified expense sheets.
Abir spoke again, voice slicing through the quiet."They used her name. Her money. Her belief in good. And when she resisted—"
"They killed her," Maholi finished. "And my mother tried to warn her."
She opened her mother's journal, flipping to the last entry."They were supposed to meet. She begged Rina not to go alone. But neither of them came back."
Abir rose suddenly. Something lit in his mind — like a door unlocking.
He strode to the safe behind the bookshelf and retrieved a slim flash drive — the one Mira, his mother's trusted legal aide, had pressed into his hand years ago.
"Keep it," Mira had said then. "You'll need it when you're ready."
He had never been ready.
Until now.
They plugged it in.
The screen flickered.A folder appeared: Kaveri Tapes.
Dozens of files bloomed on the screen — documents, surveillance clips, emails, contracts, voice memos.
Maholi leaned closer as an audio file auto-played.
"Rina's asking too many questions," came Sulekha's voice. Cold. Exact."She's going to ruin everything. If Suraj doesn't handle it, I will."
Abir froze.His hands curled into fists.Her voice. Her intent. Her guilt — right there, recorded.
But it didn't end there.
Another folder. "Kaveri Final Draft."Inside — a letter dated one week before Rina Sen's death.
"If something happens to me, Sulekha Bose, Suraj Sen, and an unnamed third party are responsible. My husband is unaware. My son must not know unless it is safe. Please protect him."— Rina Sen
Abir's body folded forward with a shudder.The words tore something open.Maholi rushed to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, holding him through the storm of revelation.
"They killed her dreams," he choked."But they won't bury her truth."
Later — In the Stillness of Rain
Rain traced the windows like slow tears.
Maholi sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in silence. Her knees drawn up, her eyes unfocused, but her spirit — lit with purpose.
Abir stepped out of the shower. The steam clung to him, hair damp, towel riding low across his hips. His body bore the strength of survival — but his gaze, when it found hers, was soft. Awed. Grateful.
He walked to her. Didn't speak.
Just knelt.
Took her hands.
"You've brought me back to life more than once," he said, voice raw."But this time… you gave my mother justice."
Maholi touched his face gently."Not yet," she whispered. "But we will."
Their kiss was slow, anchoring. Not lust, but reverence. Not escape, but promise. It was two survivors choosing each other, again and again — despite the fire.
The Next Morning — The War Begins
Sunlight pierced the gray clouds as if truth itself was clawing back space.
They stood side by side, two warriors born of legacy and pain — and now, of clarity.
Maholi's fingers flew over her phone as she contacted Ananya Ghosh, a once-brilliant investigative journalist forced into retirement after her exposé on studio corruption was shut down mysteriously.
Abir called Mira, his mother's old aide — one of the last people he trusted.
They didn't plan a press conference.They planned a reckoning.
A truth summit.Names. Dates. Audio. Letters.Every thread spun into a net they were about to cast.
Maholi looked out toward the horizon, her voice strong.
"They buried our mothers.But now… we carry their fire."
Abir looked at her — his woman, his comrade, his salvation — and whispered:
"Let the masks fall."