December 22nd, 2029. Mumbai – Somewhere beneath it.
The safehouse was cold.
Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The air didn't move unless you did. The walls were silent unless the screens came alive. Every sound echoed, even breath.
Aanya Rathore had never felt small in a room before. But down here, with no windows and no skyline, something about the world above seemed untouchable, and everything below... vulnerable.
She stood barefoot on the concrete floor, staring at the wall of monitors Dev had connected to a secure network.
"Still nothing from their end," he said, voice neutral.
"No digital noise?"
"None. Whoever they are, they're analog. Old-school."
"Which means?"
"Which means we're already too late if they want us gone."
Aanya folded her arms. "Then why wait?"
Dev shrugged. "They're watching for a reason. Pressure builds trust. Or chaos."
She didn't like either.
By noon, she was back in her office.
A calculated risk. But she couldn't afford to vanish. If the world suspected something was off with Aanya Rathore, stock prices would dip. Rumors would start. And someone on the board—someone hungry—would try to bite.
She wasn't going to give them teeth.
But the building felt different. Not visibly. But in the silence of the hallways. The stillness of staff when she passed. As if everyone was waiting for something.
At her desk, her assistant handed her a manila folder.
"This came for you. Internal delivery. No courier."
No name. No label. Just a folder.
Aanya opened it.
Inside: six high-resolution photographs.
All of her.
Some at work. One in her car. Two at her penthouse window. One at the safehouse.
The last one wasn't her.
It was Dev.
Outside the hospital. Bleeding. Smiling.
She looked up. Her assistant stood frozen.
"Who delivered this?"
"No idea. It was just on my desk."
"Security footage?"
"They checked. The camera went dark for seven minutes."
"Seven?"
"Exactly seven."
She placed the photos back inside the folder. Locked them in her drawer.
When Dev entered the office that evening, he knew something had shifted.
"You got something," he said.
She handed him the folder.
He didn't speak as he flipped through it.
When he reached his photo, he paused. Just a beat.
Then he said, "It's started."
Aanya tilted her head. "This wasn't the start?"
"No. This was the invitation."
That night, the air was too quiet in the penthouse.
She didn't play music. Didn't pour tea or wine. Just sat with him at the kitchen table, the photographs between them.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
Dev pointed to the picture of her in the car.
"This angle. This height. It had to be someone close."
"Inside the company?"
"Or inside your life."
Aanya felt the cold more than usual. She had designed her life to keep people out. But that also meant when someone got in, she had no idea how far they had reached.
She looked up. "Who would have access to this view?"
Dev leaned back. "Driver. Assistant. Housekeeper. Board members. Maybe even your grandfather."
She didn't flinch. "Not him."
"You sure?"
"I'm not a child. But I know who raised me."
Dev didn't argue. But he didn't agree either.
Two hours later, Aanya sent an encrypted message to her cybersecurity team.
Within minutes, they traced the blackout in her office surveillance feed.
"Someone looped the footage," her head of security explained. "It looked seamless. But they didn't account for the light shift. That's how we caught it."
She leaned in. "Who has access to override the feed?"
He hesitated.
"Say it," she ordered.
"…Only you."
"And?"
"…And Rishad. Head of Internal Systems."
She froze.
Rishad.
Her father's former protégé. Loyal. Steady. A man who had never once defied her order.
Which made him perfect.
Too perfect.
By midnight, she and Dev were in the Rathore Tech basement. Not the safehouse. The real one—beneath the corporate headquarters, buried three levels below the garage.
Rishad had built it himself, after the 2023 security breach.
She remembered the day clearly. He had told her:
"If anyone ever wants to watch you… make sure you can watch back."
Now she wondered who he meant.
The system control room hadn't been entered in weeks. But the logs showed activity.
Two nights ago.
Exactly seven minutes of untraceable access.
Dev scanned the backup drives. "He copied data. Nothing recent. Just old files. Movement logs, schedule backups, elevator ID records."
"Why old?"
"Because whoever he's working with already knows who you are. They're not learning—they're confirming."
Her voice dropped. "What happens next?"
Dev looked up.
"They'll come for leverage."
Aanya closed her eyes. "Then I need to give them none."
She stood.
"We go to him. Tonight."
Rishad lived in a three-story colonial home in Byculla. He had never married. Lived alone. Read historical war biographies and collected first edition books.
When he opened the door and saw Aanya, he didn't smile. But he didn't look surprised.
"I was wondering how long it would take."
She stepped inside.
Dev didn't follow immediately. He scanned the street. Waited. Then closed the door behind them.
Rishad led them to his study.
"Would you like to ask or accuse?" he said, sitting down.
Aanya stood. "Why?"
He looked tired. Older than he did a month ago.
"Because you stopped asking questions a long time ago."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"It's a reason."
Dev watched him closely. "Who are you working with?"
Rishad met his gaze. "You already know."
"I want to hear it from you."
"The Consortium."
Dev flinched. Not visibly. But enough.
Aanya turned. "Who are they?"
Dev spoke slowly. "Old power. Invisible stakes. They don't want control of the world. They already have it. They just want to keep it quiet."
"And you gave them access to me?" she asked Rishad.
"No. I delayed them. I misdirected them. For as long as I could."
"And now?"
He looked at Dev. "Now they're impatient."
Dev nodded. "Which means someone will die soon."
The room chilled.
Aanya stepped forward.
"If they touch my company, my people—"
"They won't," Rishad interrupted. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because they want you to turn him in."
Dev met her eyes.
Everything slowed.
Silence stretched.
Aanya said nothing.
She walked out.
Dev followed.
They didn't speak until they reached the car.
Then she said:
"I don't turn in what belongs to me."
And in the rearview mirror, Dev smiled.
For the first time, it wasn't because he was hiding something.
It was because he believed her.