The cozy corner of the coffee shop buzzed with a gentle hum—soft clinks of ceramic cups against saucers, the low murmur of conversations blending with the aroma of freshly ground beans. Ishaan, Neha, and Simi sat around a small round table, their coffee cups steaming in the late afternoon light filtering through the shop's large windows. The mood was light, a rare respite after the intense modeling shoot at TOABH Talent Management. Simi sipped her latte, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she recounted a funny anecdote from her father's business dealings, while Neha scrolled through her phone, reviewing the preliminary shoot photos with a satisfied nod. Ishaan leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day's success—a ₹1,00,000 advance and a potential long-term contract—settling into a quiet pride. The mask of 'Modern Ninja' was no longer just a YouTube gimmick; it was becoming a brand, a shield, and a source of power.
The moment of calm shattered as Ishaan's phone vibrated on the table, the screen flashing with an unfamiliar number. He picked it up, his instincts sharpening, and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"
A gravelly voice cut through, thick with respect yet edged with urgency. "Boss, it's Basu Bhai." The underworld don's tone carried a deference that turned heads at the table—Simi froze mid-sip, Neha's scrolling paused, their curiosity piqued by the name. Ishaan straightened, his expression hardening into a mask of focus. "Hello, Boss," Basu continued, his words deliberate. "I called because I've been digging into your uncles and the family business, like you asked. Got some dirt that could turn the tide."
Ishaan's grip tightened on the phone, his mind flashing to the Ahuja joint family—the uncles who had stripped Madhura of her inheritance, the cousins who'd tormented him. "Go on," he said, his voice low but commanding.
Basu Bhai cleared his throat, the sound like a rumble of distant thunder. "Started with the eldest uncle—Aarush Ahuja. Turns out he's got a little affair going on the side. Woman from his office, some clerk named Meena. Discreet at first, but I've got eyes everywhere. Threatened her yesterday—told her to get pictures of them together or face consequences. She caved. Just now, those photos landed in my hands—clear shots of Aarush and Meena in compromising positions, dates stamped from. Solid leverage."
Ishaan's jaw clenched, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his mind. Aarush, the self-righteous patriarch, undone by his own indiscretions. "Good work," he murmured.
"That's not all," Basu pressed on, his voice gaining momentum. "Your second uncle, Divit Ahuja—his son, Vivaan, was caught by the police a few months back. Reckless driving after some high-society party, crashed into a street vendor's cart. Divit settled it with a fat bribe, scrubbed Vivaan's name from the records. Thought he was clean. But I've got connections—bribed a crooked cop to pull the original files. Got the arrest report, witness statements, even a dashcam video from a bystander. Proof Divit's hands are dirty, and Vivaan's a liability."
Ishaan leaned forward, the coffee shop fading into the background as Basu's words painted a picture of vulnerability. The uncles, so smug in their control, now teetered on the edge of exposure. "What's your plan?" he asked, his tone measured.
Basu Bhai's voice dropped to a conspiratorial growl. "I'm meeting them separately—Aarush first, then Divit. I'll lay out the evidence. Tell Aarush his affair's public if he doesn't hand the business back to your mother. Same with Divit—threaten to leak Vivaan's arrest to the media, maybe the cops too, unless he complies. But I wanted your permission first, Boss. Is that okay? Can I proceed?"
Ishaan paused, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. This was no small move—blackmailing the uncles could ignite a firestorm, but it was a chance to reclaim what was rightfully Madhura's. His father's dying wish echoed in his mind, a promise he couldn't break. "Yes," he said finally, his voice firm. "Do it."
Basu Bhai's relief was palpable, even through the phone. "Understood, Boss. I'll handle it with care. I'll keep you posted on the progress—every step. Expect an update by tonight." The line clicked off, leaving a charged silence in its wake.
Ishaan set the phone down, his mind racing. Neha broke the quiet first, her voice cautious. "That was… Basu Bhai? The underworld guy?" Her eyes widened behind her glasses, the implications sinking in.
Simi set her cup down, leaning forward with a mix of awe and concern. "Ishaan, that name carries weight. He's not just a thug—he runs half of Mumbai's shadows. What's going on?"
Ishaan met their gazes, weighing how much to reveal. "He's helping me with a family matter," he said, keeping it vague. "Nothing to worry about. Just business."
Neha exchanged a glance with Simi, both sensing the undercurrent but respecting his boundary. "Well," Neha said, shifting gears, "if you're tied up with someone like that, you'll need to keep your modeling schedule tight. Ravi as your manager will be key."
Simi nodded, her curiosity lingering but her support unwavering. "Dad's always said Basu Bhai's word is law in the underworld. If he's on your side, that's… impressive. Just be careful."
Ishaan offered a faint smile, the weight of Basu's loyalty and the uncles' impending reckoning settling into his bones. "I will. Thanks." He sipped his coffee, the bitter taste grounding him as he processed the call. The photos of Aarush—intimate, damning—flashed in his mind, followed by the grainy dashcam footage of Vivaan's crash. Basu's network had unearthed gold, and Ishaan intended to use it to pry the business from the uncles' greedy hands.
The coffee shop's ambiance returned—baristas calling out orders, the clatter of spoons against cups—but Ishaan's thoughts were elsewhere. Aarush's affair could shatter his moral high ground, the family's respect for him crumbling under the scandal. Divit, protective of Vivaan's spoiled reputation, would fold under the threat of police re-opening the case. Ishaan's fingers traced the rim of his cup, calculating. If they resist, Basu can escalate—leak it to the press, tip off rivals. But I want it clean—business back, no blood.
Neha's voice pulled him back. "You okay? You zoned out."
"Yeah," Ishaan said, forcing a nod. "Just planning the next move." He glanced at his watch—2:30 PM. The shoot had taken the morning, and now this call had shifted his focus. "I need to pick up Ari soon. We're celebrating tonight if this job sticks."
Simi smiled, sensing the shift. "You deserve it. Let us know how it goes—and with Basu too."
"Will do," Ishaan replied, finishing his coffee. They lingered a bit longer, chatting about the shoot's potential—Neha predicting a viral ad campaign, Simi suggesting her father's contacts could boost it further. But Ishaan's mind kept drifting to the uncles, the business, and the leverage Basu was about to wield. Aarush's mistress, Vivaan's crash—perfect pressure points.
As they prepared to leave, Neha gathered her things. "I'll follow up with Priya on the edits. You focus on your celebration." Simi hugged him briefly, her support a quiet anchor. "Take care, Ishaan. You're doing amazing things."
Ishaan nodded, stepping out into the fading daylight. The Royal Enfield awaited, its engine a promise of motion. He mounted it, the leather seat cool against his jeans, and rode toward Ari's office, the city's pulse syncing with his own. The call from Basu Bhai replayed in his head—Aarush's infidelity, Divit's cover-up, the meticulous gathering of evidence. Basu's network was a double-edged sword, but in this fight, it was his ace.
At Ari's office, he parked and waited, the bike's chrome catching the late afternoon sun. His phone buzzed again—a text from Basu: Meeting Aarush at 6 PM. Divit at 8. Will update. Ishaan pocketed it, his resolve hardening. When Ari emerged, her tired smile greeted him, and he forced a matching one, the day's complexities tucked away for now.
"Ready to go?" she asked, climbing on.
"Yeah," Ishaan said, starting the engine. "Got a lot to tell you tonight."