Mr. Gupta was the first to break the stunned silence. A muscle twitched in his jaw as his dark gaze flickered from Ruhi's placid face to Siya's panicked one.
"Disastrous," he thought, the word a cold stone in his gut. She knows. And the old, pliable Ruhi is gone. Coaxing won't work on this sharp, unfamiliar creature.
He visibly wrestled his anger under control, his shoulders tightening before he forced them to relax. A new strategy was needed. He manufactured a tone of gentle concern, the one he used for nervous board members.
"Daughter," he began, layering his voice with false warmth. "You might not know this, but after your grandfather died,
Many people in the company have become… restless."
Ruhi took a slow sip of water before responding. She tilted her head, a parody of innocent curiosity.
"Oh?" she said, her voice flat. "If you can't handle them,
Then just sell the shares. You might recover some of your losses."
The insult was so precise, so brutal, it sucked the air from the room. He can't run the company without Grandfather. The unspoken words hung in the air, and everyone heard them.
Her second brother slammed his palm on the table. Silverware jumped and clattered. "What nonsense are you spouting?!" he roared, shooting to his feet.
Ruhi didn't even flinch. She merely lifted her finger to her temple, massaging it gently as if plagued by a minor headache.
"Why does everyone in this family like to shout so much?" she uttered, her voice barely above a murmur, yet it cut through his rage with surgical precision.
Mr. Gupta's face darkened like a thundercloud. The urge to backhand the insolence from her face was a physical itch in his hand. But he curled his fingers into a fist against his thigh. The shares. Get the shares first.
He took another visible, steadying breath. The smile he plastered on his face was a strained, ghastly thing. "I mean to say, this problem can be solved if you were to transfer your shares to me. What do you think, daughter?"
Ruhi's lips curved into a smile, but it was a cold, lifeless gesture that never touched her eyes. "Oh," she said, the single syllable dripping with feigned revelation. "Why didn't you just tell me that you wanted my shares?"
A collective, almost imperceptible sigh of relief traveled around the table. Her calm tone was deceptive. They mistook her clarity for compliance. Across from her, Siya's shoulders loosened. A flicker of disdainful triumph crossed her features. I knew it. She hasn't really changed. A few gentle words from Father and she folds.
Mr. Gupta's smile became genuine, transforming his face. The victory was his.
"That's good. I'm glad you agree."
He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a neatly folded document, sliding it across the table toward her with a flourish. "Just sign the share transfer, and we can put this all behind us."
Ruhi looked at the document, then at each of their eager, relieved faces. She let the silence stretch, watching their certainty begin to fray at the edges.
"Wait," she said, her tone one of pure, confused logic. "Before I sign, shouldn't you transfer the money to me?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The relief on their faces shattered, replaced by pure, uncomprehending shock.
Everyone stared, utterly stunned.
"What," her oldest brother finally choked out, his face a mask of bewildered disbelief, "do you mean?"
Her third brother, emboldened by the second's outburst, chimed in with a whine.
"Yeah! How can you be this mean?"
The second brother didn't speak again, but he didn't need to; he looked at her as if she were something foul he'd scraped off his shoe.
But Ruhi ignored their theatrics. Their words were like rain against a fortified window—a noise that signified nothing. Her voice was crisp and clear, cutting through the familial disapproval.
"Oh, I haven't told you before. Many other shareholders have also called me, offering to buy the shares."
The color drained from Mr. Gupta's face. The casualness with which she said it—as if discussing the weather—sent a jolt of pure panic through him. His carefully constructed plan was crumbling. He couldn't let those shares fall into a competitor's hands. He made a snap decision.
"Alright," he bit out, the word tasting like ash. "How much do you want?"
"How much are you willing to give?" she countered immediately, her gaze unwavering. "And if it's lower than ten billion dollars, I will not agree."
Mr. Gupta slammed his fist on the table, making the china rattle. A vein throbbed dangerously at his temple. "Impossible! Ruhi, how can you do this? I am your father! You'd agree to sell the shares to outsiders and even ask for money from your family?"
"Family?" Ruhi sneered, the word a venomous curse on her lips. She let her cold gaze sweep over every single one of them—her father's rage, her mother's disdain, her brothers' hostility, and Siya's smug satisfaction. "Did you really ever treat me like family?"
Hearing those words, he was left utterly speechless. There was no lie he could tell that would refute the truth she had just laid bare.
"I will give you one week. Before the holidays end, you can call me and tell me your decision. If not, I will sell it to one of the other shareholders."
Without waiting for a response, she stood up, pushed her chair back, and walked out. She didn't look back. The sound of the front door closing behind her was the period at the end of the sentence of her old life.
After reaching her apartment, she finally let out a sigh of relief. It was a deep, shuddering exhale that released all the tension coiled in her shoulders. She leaned against the door, the cool wood solid and real against her back. It's done. The break is final.
Checking the time, she saw it was already 11 PM. Her eyelids felt like lead weights. She didn't even change her clothes. She simply stumbled toward the bed and sank into the soft mattress, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
The next morning, she woke with the dawn. After an hour of vigorous exercise, testing the new limits of her body, she ate a simple breakfast of fruit and eggs. The ordinary routine was grounding.
Then, she got down to business. She opened a fresh notebook and uncapped a pen. At the top of the page, she wrote a single word: SURVIVAL.
Her mind, sharpened by a lifetime of scarcity in the apocalypse, began to categorize effortlessly. She wrote in clear, decisive blocks:
FOOD: Grains, staples, spices, oils, preserved goods, seeds, and livestock.
WATER: Filters, storage, and purification tablets.
CLOTHING: All seasons, all weather, durable fabrics, layers.
MEDICINE \& FIRST AID: Antibiotics, painkillers, antivirals, surgical supplies, chronic medications.
DAILY NECESSITIES: Soap, shampoo, feminine hygiene, and cleaning supplies.
ENERGY: Generators, solar panels, batteries, fuel (gasoline, diesel, propane).
SECURITY & TOOLS: Weapons, ammunition, locks, axes, shovels, wire, nails.
KNOWLEDGE: Books (medical, mechanical, agricultural).
This is for now, she thought, her pen tapping the paper. I can add more later.
Her first target was the largest wholesale market in the country—the same hub that supplied her own supermarket. It was vast, anonymous, and could handle the scale of her orders.
Disguised once more as the unremarkable middle-aged man, Mr. Ram, she entered the cavernous building of the largest grain wholesaler. The air smelled of dust and dry wheat. It was still early morning, and the place was quiet, with only a few shopkeepers opening their shutters. The emptiness was perfect.