The monsoon arrived in Mumbai with its typical fury, lashing the city with rain that turned streets into rivers. Inside the Dholera facility, the new television assembly line was taking shape, a testament to Deepak's relentless drive and Sanjay's marketing fervor. They had taken Harsh's disengagement not as a rejection, but as a challenge to prove their own mastery. The project, dubbed "Project Prism," became their obsession, a way to fill the leadership void their founder had left.
Harsh's physical presence in the empire became spectral. He would arrive late, leave early, his movements between his car and his office a swift, silent transit. He no longer ate in the canteen. Meetings were short, decisive, and devoid of the collaborative energy that had once defined them. He was a monarch holding court, issuing edicts from a throne that felt increasingly hollow to everyone but him.
The real court was his office after hours. The monsoon rains provided a percussive soundtrack to his nightly vigil with the markets. The BH-1 portfolio had swelled to over $18 million. The gains were now so large they felt abstract, numbers in a game whose rules only he understood.
A new, more dangerous idea had taken root in his mind. The leverage was intoxicating, but it was still tethered to the broker in Hong Kong, to the physical limitations of the margin system. He needed something faster, more direct, something that could harness the full, terrifying power of his foresight.
"Rakesh," he said one night, the rain drumming a frantic rhythm on the window. "The Hong Kong broker is a bottleneck. We need our own vehicle. A fund."
Rakesh, who had become the high priest of this shadow religion, nodded slowly. "A fund would give us direct market access. Greater control. But the regulatory requirements, the disclosure..."
"It won't be that kind of fund," Harsh interrupted, his eyes gleaming in the screen's light. "It will be a private partnership. Extremely exclusive. We will be the only limited partners. You and I. We will call it... the 'Aethelred Trust'." He used the old English word for "noble counsel," a name that sounded ancient, established, and impenetrably obscure.
"It would require a significant initial capital injection to be taken seriously by prime brokers," Rakesh cautioned.
"Transfer ten million dollars from the BH-1 account to establish it," Harsh commanded without hesitation. "Based in the Cayman Islands. I want it operational before the end of the year."
The scale of the move was staggering. He was planning to siphon off more than half of his secret fortune to create a new, even more secretive entity. It was the financial equivalent of building a spaceship to escape a planet he had already conquered.
The decision coincided with a pivotal moment for Bharat Electronics. The first prototype of the "Bharat" television was ready for review. It was a moment of immense pride for the entire company. Deepak and Sanjay, wanting to bridge the growing chasm, personally brought the prototype to his office.
They wheeled in the 14-inch set, its dark screen and sleek, Indian-designed casing a thing of beauty. Sanjay, beaming with pride, plugged it in. "Harsh Bhai, behold! The future of Indian entertainment!"
He switched it on. The screen flickered to life, displaying a crisp, clear test pattern, then switched to a live news broadcast. The sound was rich, the picture stable. It was a masterpiece of engineering and value, exactly as they had promised.
Deepak watched Harsh's face, searching for a spark, for the old fire. "We did it, Harsh Bhai. Just like you said we would."
Harsh looked at the television. He saw a product. A well-made, profitable product. He felt a distant, academic appreciation for the work they had done. But the emotional connection was dead. This box, this "future of Indian entertainment," felt like a relic from a past life. Its entire potential market value was less than the daily fluctuation of his Intel holding.
"It's excellent work," he said, his voice a monotone of approval. "You have both exceeded expectations. Begin mass production. You have my full authorization."
It was the ultimate praise, and it felt like the ultimate dismissal. They had wanted his passion, his shared triumph. They received a corporate approval code.
As they wheeled the television out, the light from the screen fading from the room, Harsh turned back to his terminal. The Aethelred Trust was a more compelling creation, a sovereign entity he could shape entirely to his will, unburdened by the messy realities of factories and workers and loyal lieutenants with their wounded pride.
The hollow throne of Bharat Electronics was a cage of his own success. The throne of the Aethelred Trust, waiting to be built in a sun-drenched tax haven, promised a different kind of power—pure, absolute, and utterly isolated. The monsoon outside was washing the world clean, but Harsh was building his ark not for the flood, but for a journey into a colder, darker, and infinitely more rewarding deep.