Location: Mital Residence – Studio Room, city D
The soft hum of the old record player filled the studio room with lo-fi jazz, mixing oddly well with the controlled chaos of paint-splattered canvases, rolls of uncut fabrics, and half-finished sketches pinned onto corkboards. Vivaan sat cross-legged on the floor, a pencil between his fingers, tracing the final outline of a concept piece.
Then his phone buzzed.
Riyansh.
He stared at the screen a moment, knowing this wasn't going to be a casual check-in.
"Pick up," he muttered to himself. Then he did.
"Hello?"
Riyansh's voice was sharp, clear, commanding.
"City M. TK exhibition. No excuses this time, Vivaan. You will come to the party. I'm sending the ticket details."
"Wait—"
"No wait. No debate. This isn't just a gala—it's a moment. Your moment, if you want it. Check your inbox in ten minutes."
Click.
Vivaan blinked.
There was no room for protest when Riyansh used that tone—the elder-brother-meets-CEO voice. And Vivaan knew better than anyone that this wasn't just about a party. It never was.
A knock at the door. Then it opened without waiting.
Dev leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, his shirt half unbuttoned, his hair tousled. The studio always smelled like turpentine, bergamot, and Vivaan.
"You look like you just got drafted into war," Dev said, stepping in.
Vivaan looked up, trying to act casual.
"I'm going to City M."
Dev raised a brow, walking closer.
"Why? What happened?"
Vivaan set his sketchpad aside.
"Nothing serious. Just… some important work."
But Dev didn't buy it. He walked over, pulled Vivaan up by the hand, and in one motion sat down on the low sofa, tugging Vivaan gently to sit astride his lap—face to face.
Vivaan's breath caught, the closeness sending a quiet shiver up his spine.
"Shall I come with you?" Dev asked, voice low, searching his eyes.
Vivaan smiled faintly, resting his forehead against Dev's.
"Sure. But you'll have to stay in a hotel."
Dev pulled back just an inch, confused.
"Why can't I go with you?"
Vivaan hesitated. His silence said more than any lie could.
"Vivaan…" Dev whispered, "are you hiding something from me?"
The question sat heavy in the space between them.
Vivaan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a long pause, he finally said: "There's so much I want to tell you. And I will. But not now. Not yet."
Dev exhaled, nodding slowly.
"I'll wait."
There was no accusation in his voice—just quiet belief.
Vivaan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Dev's lips. Dev kissed him back, hands firm at his waist.
Later that evening...
Vivaan stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Riyansh:
I'll land by evening.
He hit send.
Then, hesitating for a moment, he opened another chat—his brother's.
Hey bhai, I need a little help. Can you send me money? Want to book a plane ticket for a friend. Long story. I'll explain later.
He stared at the screen, then added one more line: And don't ask too many questions, please.
Location: The Imperial V, City M
Event: TK Jewellers Revival Gala
Evening
A fleet of matte-black Bentleys glided to a synchronized halt under the arched portico of The Hotel V—City M's most coveted gala venue, usually reserved for heads of state and global design royalty.
Doormen in tailored black jackets opened each door with precision, revealing guests in couture and power.
Inside, the ballroom was a cathedral of craftsmanship.
Gold chandeliers shimmered like constellations, suspended over a 200-foot mirrored runway. On either side, titanium and sandstone display walls showcased TK Jewellers' revival campaign in elegant serif font: "Truth. Craft. Timeless."
The branding was bold. Gone were the over-glossed commercial gems of yesteryears. This was quieter. Raw. Purposeful. Less sparkle—more soul.
At the far end, a custom onyx stage shimmered like oil under the lights. A giant screen looped a short film: Shot by Vivaan Madhvan, it was a haunting, poetic tribute—interwoven with 1960s black-and-white footage of Indian artisans, fragments of family-owned legacy, and a monologue from Rishika Upadhyay that ended not with a flourish, but with stillness: "We don't wear gold for wealth. We wear it to remember."
9:02 PM – Suddenly, a hush spread across the ballroom.
A single name swept through the crowd like a whispered spell.
"The Upadhyays."
Veer Upadhyay, poised and thunder-steady, led the way in a minimalist black bandh gala. Behind him, Rishika descended the stairs like time paused for her.
She wore an ivory gown by Anamika K, the back low-cut, her neck adorned with a modernized polki heirloom choker that shimmered against her skin like history rethreaded. Her expression was unreadable—eyes calm, lips neutral.
From across the room, Riyansh Madhvan, sharp in a navy tux, stood unmoving—glass of whisky in hand, untouched.
His gaze locked on hers.
Vivaan (to Riyansh, teasing): "Careful. You'll start blinking Morse code again."
Riyansh: "Shut up."
9:17 PM –Suddenly, a tremor of murmurs ran through the ballroom.
Guests turned.
The central vault display, where the Maharani Legacy Set—a ₹120 crore emerald and diamond masterpiece once worn by Gayatri Devi Madhvan in 1959—was meant to sit, stood empty.
An audible gasp.
Security tensed.
Paparazzi lenses snapped up like weapons.
Mr. Oberoi (to his son): "That's what happens when you rebrand heritage with hipsters."
Mrs. Singhania (dryly): "God forbid it's a PR stunt."
Then—
Vivaan Madhvan walked onto the onyx stage. Calm. Certain.
Vivaan (into mic): "Ladies and gentlemen… the Maharani Legacy Set is not missing. It's just—in motion."
He turned. The room followed his gaze.
From the top of the grand central staircase descended Gayatri Devi Madhvan, silver hair swept in an elegant bun, wearing the original necklace.
Gasps turned to applause.
Gayatri Devi (at the bottom, steady): "What is heritage if not worn with pride?
This set survived a fire in '83,
Political exile in '99,
A corporate buyout attempt in 2015.
It deserves the light again."
Thunderous applause.
Half the room was in awe.
The other half texted their PR heads in panic.
9:40 PM – At the Bar
Aakash Mital, jacketed for once, nursed a mocktail.
Rishika (deadpan): "So you finally wore a jacket. Proud of you."
Aakash: "Thanks. It has buttons and everything."
Vivaan: "He also learned to smile. Just once. It cracked his face."
Aakash was about to reply, when he looked up.
Kavya Thakur had just walked in, draped in a wine-colored handwoven saree, her hair in a soft bun, eyes lined in kohl. The crowd blurred behind her.
Aakash subtly spilled his drink.
From afar—
Veer (to Rishika): "He's either in love or in cardiac arrest."
Rishika: "Let him die. Quietly."
9:55 PM – Vivaan & Aakash Chat
Aakash: "You really don't mind staying at my house?"
Vivaan: "No. After the renovation, it's kinda cozy. Even for music. And your Dev is helping me a lot."
Aakash, oblivious, nodded.
Aakash: "Uncle is good at helping people."
Vivaan: "Hn."
10:11 PM – Photo Booth Moment
A photo strip rolled out: Riyansh, Rishika, and Vivaan, mid-laugh.
A curious American investor picked it up.
Investor: "Are you the Indian Jonas Brothers?"
Vivaan: "Yes. And she's the angry sister."
Investor: "…Right.
10:30 PM— Lights dimmed. Riyansh took the stage.
His voice—calm, precise, with none of the forced dazzle of old family tycoons.
Riyansh: "We're not here to sell nostalgia.
We're here to rebuild trust.
TK Jewellers was nearly destroyed by its own success—and the people who abused it.
But the artisans… the stories… the legacy…
They were never broken. Just ignored."
He paused.
Looked at Aakash, then Vivaan, then Rishika.
"This isn't just a new chapter. It's a new pen."
Applause.
Veer Upadhyay nodded once, approvingly.
Investors whispered into earpieces.