Dev, still seated at the head of the table, raised a brow as he picked up on the sharp current between his sons."Toh tum dono ja rahe ho? You two are the assigned seniors?" he asked casually, already knowing the answer.
Ravi nodded once."Yes, sir. I got the briefing. Janvi Sharma and Anaya Singhaniya are the delegates from design and outreach."
Dev leaned back, a slow smile spreading on his face.
"Mujhe yaad hai, maine kal raat ko woh approval sign ki thi."(I remember. I signed the approval last night.)
Aarav groaned and slouched in his chair."Dad! At least mujhse pooch toh lete… I would've loved to add a few changes."
Ravi chuckled."Ab sir tumse bhi puchenge kya? Kab se board ka HR ban gaye ho?"
Dev raised his hand to quiet them, but the amusement was clearly showing in his eyes.
"Ravi, you're working here with me for four days. Not in Mumbai. Here."
Ravi blinked. "Sir?"
Before he could say more, Rudra cut in, straight to the point.
"Wait. He's coming with me on the trip, right?"
He wasn't asking.He was commanding.
Dev, unfazed, interrupted him with a flat tone.
"Nahi Rudra. He's working here. For four days. And both of you"—he gestured to Aarav and Rudra—"will take care of the business trip operations."
There was silence. The shift in control was subtle, but it was there.
Dev, the ever-sharp chess player, had just moved a pawn off Rudra's board.
"Sir," Rudra said tightly, "do they even know we're the seniors assigned?"
"No," Dev replied smoothly. "They think it's a standard regional meeting. They'll find out on the ground."
Aarav smirked."Surprise, surprise."
Rudra's hands folded calmly on the table, but something flickered beneath the surface. He didn't like being out of the loop—especially when it involved Anaya. Especially when someone else knew more than he did.
Dev leaned back in his chair, completely at ease, and sipped from his tea.
"Now both of you, go. Pack your things. The flight's in five hours. You'll land ahead of the girls. Settle in. Handle reception, itinerary, security. The usual."
Aarav stretched his arms dramatically.
"And who are the ladies again? Janvi Sharma and…"
"Anaya Singhaniya," Ravi replied, eyes flickering toward Rudra briefly.
"Confirmed. They're flying first class. You two are in business class."
There was a short silence.
And then Rudra's voice, low and clipped:
"Change the seats. I want them with us."
Ravi stayed quiet. He knew that tone. Everyone in the room did.
Dev exhaled, placing his cup down with a soft clink.
"Change their seats," he said to Ravi. "Let's keep this trip smooth."
Aarav stood suddenly, patting both shoulders with mock energy.
"Main done hoon, boss. Going home. Mujhe packing karni hai… and maybe a haircut. Delhi heat is ruining my vibe."
He strutted toward the exit, grabbing his phone, already on a call to his stylist.
Dev chuckled. Ravi followed Aarav out, giving Rudra a small nod—one that said this isn't over, and I know it.
Now Rudra remained alone with Dev.
For a few seconds.
.______..______.💕.______..______..______.
The world outside The Lux Heaven glittered like a diamond-coated lie. Traffic moved in orderly chaos, cameras flashed from tourist hands, and the city of Delhi breathed as if nothing had changed.
But inside the hotel?
Power had shifted.
The Singhaniya Mansion was not just a home.It was a kingdom carved in marble, drenched in tradition, power, and privacy.
Its corridors carried whispers.Its windows held reflections of men who didn't speak unless their silence said enough.And its walls?They listened more than they echoed.
4:00 PM | Singhaniya Mansion | Delhi
Rudra stood still just inside the main doorway, his digital watch lighting briefly as he checked the time again. The numbers blinked calmly—4:02 PM. He exhaled once, quietly. Everything was on track. For now.
Beside him, Aarav twirled his car keys around one finger, his mouth quirking into a smug half-smile as he looked around the vast entrance hall.
"Home sweet palace," Aarav muttered. "Now don't glare at me if I forget socks and pack three perfumes instead."
Rudra didn't respond. His eyes didn't even flicker.
Just a flat, unamused side glance that said, don't test me today.
Aarav smirked harder.
Rudra's voice came low, sharp, without a drop of humor.
"Go. Pack your things. And don't spoil my plan."
That made Aarav chuckle. "Am I spoiling it, or making it more interesting?"
Before Rudra could respond, Ravi emerged from the hallway behind them, heading toward his own room on the lower floor—his signature cool-headed stride giving away nothing but his relaxed self-awareness.
"Hey Aarav," Ravi called out with a smirk. "If you don't pack in the next ten minutes, you'll end up with Rudra's cufflinks and your own towel. That'd make for a really fun press conference, huh?"
He winked. Aarav flipped him off half-heartedly. But Ravi paused, turned slightly toward Rudra, and nodded once—the way soldiers acknowledge their general—before disappearing down the western stairs.
Ravi's room, unlike the rest, was situated in the old west wing—stone floors, long corridors, and directly connected to the ancestral library and Dev Singhaniya's private archive. The kind of place a man chose when he wanted to live surrounded by knowledge... or ghosts.
As Ravi vanished from sight, Rudra lingered for a second longer, his eyes fixed ahead but his thoughts slipping into a silent prayer.
A rare one.
"Soon, Ravi..." he muttered under his breath."...I hope you find happiness. Not just in what people see—but what you feel when no one's watching."
Then he turned.
And climbed.
.______..______..______.(^///^).______..______.
The steps were dark wood—real mahogany. Each one wide, solid, and so perfectly cut that not even air could slip between them. Paintings of their ancestors watched him from both sides, oil eyes set in gilded frames. Among them was the one he always slowed in front of—Raghuveer Singhaniya, his grandfather.
There was something about the way Raghuveer was painted: stiff posture, hand resting on a globe, face half in shadow, eyes like a warning etched in brushstrokes.
Even in paint, his presence was absolute.
Rudra passed him, eyes narrowing slightly.
He didn't need to be reminded of the legacy.
He was the legacy.
By the time he reached the top floor, silence had settled completely. The corridor here was softer. The lights were warm, low—strategically placed to reflect off brushed-gold wall panels. A small indoor fountain hummed at the end of the hall, giving the illusion of serenity.
But Rudra wasn't fooled.
Serenity was often just disguised tension.
He reached the double doors of their master suite. One of them was already slightly open, just enough to suggest someone had come and gone... or never really stayed.
He pushed it wider and stepped in.
.______..______.⁘⁘.______..______..______.
The room was immaculate.
Too immaculate.
Every corner tucked with precision. The pillows stacked as if by blueprint. The beige silk throw draped exactly at the foot of the bed. The curtains, drawn halfway, let in the last gold rays of a Delhi sunset that streaked across the marble floor like cuts—sharp, perfect, almost violent in their silence. The soft hum of the AC above whispered like breath held too long. The air smelled faintly of linen spray and polished wood, but not of her. Not of Anaya. There was no trace of the perfume she wore when she wasn't trying to impress anyone. No hairpin forgotten on the dresser. No lip balm on the edge of the sink. Just the sterile emptiness of space... and her absence.
And Rudra stood there. Hands at his sides. Posture loose but unreadable. His eyes, though—his eyes scanned like radar, taking in every quiet clue. A man who didn't ask where she went. He watched for where she'd been. And that's when he saw it.
A tan suitcase. Medium-sized. Propped upright near the chaise by the window. Half-zipped. Just visible from the corner of his vision. One glance at the luggage tag confirmed it—her name, in crisp cursive: Anaya Singhaniya.
He moved toward it slowly. Not hesitating. Just... deliberate. Like a man who already knew the answer but still wanted to hear the lie. His feet moved soundlessly across the rug. He knelt in front of the bag with military ease, his fingers curling around the zipper and dragging it open—not roughly, but not gently either. Just enough to make the moment feel surgical.
Inside: neatness.
Too neat.
A few cotton blouses. A cream-colored kurta. Two slacks, folded perfectly. A stack of delicate scarves in muted colors. Neutral, safe, professional.
Too professional.
Not a single bold color. No lipstick red. No sapphire blue. No black lace or soft silk or heels that whispered seduction. Nothing that said, I'm more than what this itinerary allows.
Just practicality.
And that annoyed him.
Because Anaya wasn't practical. Not with him. She was softness wrapped in steel. She was grace laced with defiance. And this suitcase? This suitcase felt like a stranger's.
He pulled out one blouse, unfolded it slowly, smoothed out the creases, then folded it again with quiet reverence. Not because he cared about the cloth. But because she had touched it.
He laid it across the bed.
Then another.
And another.
Each movement precise.
Each silence louder than the last.
But his mind wasn't on the shirts.
It was on the gap. The space between what she chose to show... and what she was still hiding.
His gaze lifted to the wardrobe.
He stood.
And walked.