Part 1: Shifting Alliances
December 13th, Morning - Breach Candy Hospital
Anya sat in the visitor's chair beside her father's hospital bed, exhausted from a sleepless night.
Vikash was stable now—the angioplasty had been successful. Dr. Kohli had inserted two stents, cleared the blockages, declared the immediate crisis over. But he'd also been clear: this was a warning. Lifestyle changes mandatory. Stress reduction critical. Six weeks minimum recovery.
She reached out to Dilip through their connection.
Images flowed from her: The hospital room. Vikash stable. Surgery successful. Recovery ahead.
What came back through their bond hit her like a wave—pure, undiluted joy. Celebration. Victory.
Through their telepathic link, she felt him dancing in his apartment. Actually dancing. Arms raised, spinning, laughing alone in that rathole SRA building.
He's dying, came the emotion radiating from him, electric with excitement. Finally fucking dying.
More images reflected back through their connection: Vikash's empire. The wealth. The power. All of it flowing to Anya—heir to a billion-dollar empire. And through her, to Dilip.
I'm going to be the king, his feelings crystallized, clear as thought. There's no other male. If I marry her, I rule everything.
Then darker fantasies rippling through: Since Vikash fucked my wife— meaning Anya —I'll fuck his wife too. Maya. That beautiful, elegant woman. And Priya. Both of them. That's how power works.
Anya rolled her eyes, sending back mild amusement rather than shock. She understood power. Understood that men fantasized about domination, about taking what belonged to other men. It didn't disturb her—it was just the nature of ambition.
Papa's stable, she sent back calmly. Surgery went well. He'll recover.
The deflation from Dilip was immediate. The dancing stopped. The victory evaporated.
She felt his question form: How long until he's back?
She sent images: Six weeks minimum. Wheelchair. Weakness. But Vikash's stubborn determination already showing through.
His disappointment hit her like a physical thing. But underneath it, hope still simmered. Because Vikash was weakened. The absolute control had cracked.
And Dilip still believed he had a chance.
What Dilip didn't fully grasp—what Anya had been carefully planting through their connection over weeks—was that she'd given him this vision deliberately. Shown him the empire, the wealth, the position he could occupy. Made him see himself as the next king.
Because a man who believed he could be king was easier to manage than one who knew he'd always be a pawn.
She sent him one more image: patience. Waiting. The game still unfolding.
Then withdrew her focus from the connection and returned her attention to her father, who was watching her with those calculating eyes even from his hospital bed.
"Who were you thinking about?" Vikash asked quietly.
"No one. Just tired."
He didn't believe her. But he was too weak to push. For now.
December 15th - Malabar Hill Mansion
Vikash came home on a wheelchair, Dr. Kohli's discharge instructions extensive: no stairs for two weeks, no stress, cardiac rehabilitation starting next week, medications precisely timed.
The mansion had been modified—a temporary bedroom set up on the ground floor, ramps installed, equipment brought in.
And Anya became his primary caretaker.
Not the servants—he didn't want them helping with personal care. Not Maya—she had Nexus Models obligations she couldn't fully abandon. Anya.
It was exhausting. Helping him to the bathroom, managing his medications, assisting with the physical therapy exercises the hospital had prescribed. He was demanding—not cruel, but exacting. Wanted things done precisely, on schedule, correctly.
"Left arm higher," he'd direct during exercises, his voice still carrying authority despite weakness. "Count to fifteen, not ten."
Or: "The medication is at 8 AM sharp. Not 8:05."
By the third day, Anya was worn down. By the fifth, she was irritable. By the seventh, she understood this was deliberate—Vikash regaining control through dependence, making her essential to his recovery, binding her closer through obligation.
But she also saw him vulnerable. Saw him struggle with tasks that had been effortless. Saw the frustration when his body wouldn't cooperate, the anger at his own weakness.
And despite everything, she felt protective. This was her father. Damaged, controlling, impossible—but also her lover. The man who possessed her completely, in ways no one else ever could or would.
The intimacy of caregiving blurred with the other intimacy they shared. Helping him dress, touching his body during exercises, the closeness that carried echoes of their nights together at Alibaug, the secret that bound them more tightly than any wedding vow ever could.
Through her connection with Dilip, she shared fragments of this. The exhaustion, the intimacy of caregiving, the complex emotions.
What came back from him wasn't concern for her wellbeing. Just impatience radiating through their bond.
She felt his question without words: When will he be weak enough? When can this actually happen?
She didn't respond to that feeling, just continued helping her father exercise, touching him with the familiarity of both daughter and lover, the two roles now impossibly intertwined.
December 18th - Priya's Arrival
The silver Audi Q7 pulled up to the mansion at 3 PM.
Priya emerged first—forty-two now, taller and fairer than Anya, still beautiful. Behind her, Marco carried their daughter Sophia, who was eight years old with dark curls and Marco's eyes.
Anya stood in the doorway, and for a moment, the sisters just looked at each other.
They hadn't spoken in six years. Not since that afternoon in Brooklyn when Priya had thrown Anya out, convinced she was trying to steal Marco. Six years of frozen silence, unanswered messages, a rupture that had seemed permanent.
"Priya," Anya said quietly.
"Anya." Priya's voice was careful, controlled. "How is Papa?"
"Recovering. Come in."
The air between them was thick with unspoken history. Six years of estrangement, six years of Priya building her life in New York while Anya remained trapped in Mumbai, six years of sisterhood suspended.
They moved into the living room where Maya waited, warm and graceful, embracing her elder daughter with genuine affection.
"Darling, so good to have you home. And Marco, Sophia—welcome."
Vikash was in his temporary ground-floor bedroom. They went to see him—Priya first, tears starting when she saw him in the wheelchair, diminished in ways she'd never witnessed.
"Papa."
"Priya." His voice was warm, genuine. "You came."
"Of course I came." She knelt beside the wheelchair, took his hand. "You scared us."
"I scared myself." A faint smile. "But I'm stubborn. Recovering faster than the doctors expected."
Over dinner that evening—Maya had arranged everything beautifully, keeping it simple per doctor's orders—Vikash retired early, exhausted from the day.
And for the first time, the three women were alone together: Maya, Priya, and Anya.
The conversation turned inevitably to Anya's situation.
The Women's Conspiracy
"So," Priya said once they were certain Vikash was asleep in his ground-floor room, "Maa mentioned on the phone. Papa wants you to marry someone named Dilip?"
"Yes," Anya said quietly.
"Tell me about him."
Maya spoke first. "Dilip Shrivastava. Fifty years old. Runs a hyperlocal news website called Mumbai Pulse. Lives in an SRA building in Bandra—that's government housing for slum rehabilitation."
Priya's eyebrows rose. "Papa wants Anya to marry someone from slum housing?"
"He's not from a slum originally," Anya said. "His family had wealth—inherited factories. But he sold everything, lost status. Now he lives in this small apartment in an SRA building."
"And Papa approves of this?" Priya's voice carried disbelief.
"Vikash selected him specifically because he's controllable," Maya said bluntly. "Powerless, desperate, grateful for whatever scraps we offer. The perfect paid husband who'll never threaten Vikash's control over Anya."
"That's horrifying."
"That's Vikash," Maya said with resigned honesty. "He investigated Rohan Bhatt—that was our first choice. Rohan has a successful YouTube channel, eleven million subscribers, built a real team. But Vikash showed us Rohan's finances: massive debt, no assets, spends every rupee he earns. Doesn't even own his own house."
"So neither option is good?"
"Rohan's problems can be solved," Anya said. "Papa could buy him a house, restructure his business, create actual assets. Rohan's issues are financial—fixable with money."
"But Dilip's problems?" Priya asked.
"Are fundamental," Maya finished. "His status, his background, the way people will see him. And…" she paused, glancing at Anya.
"And what?"
Maya's voice became very careful. "There are family dynamics that make Dilip… concerning. Your father has certain… appetites. Having a weak, controllable man living under our roof could create complications."
Priya understood immediately. Her face shifted. "Oh god. You think Papa would—"
"I think it's a risk we can't ignore." Maya's voice was firm. "Vikash is attracted to power, yes. But he's also attracted to… vulnerability. To possession. Having Dilip here, completely dependent, completely under his control—" She stopped. "I won't allow that to happen."
Priya was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "Maa, I need to ask you something. When I was in New York, I got this Instagram DM. From someone claiming to be Dilip. It said…" She paused, visibly uncomfortable. "It said Papa was raping Anya. You told me on the phone it was fake, just some obsessed person making wild accusations. But I need to hear it from you both in person. Is there any truth to that?"
The room went very still.
Maya and Anya exchanged a brief glance—so quick Priya almost missed it. They'd known this was coming. Had prepared for this moment.
Maya spoke first, her voice carrying perfect balance of concern and dismissal. "Darling, we dealt with this months ago. This Dilip person became obsessed with Anya. Started making increasingly wild accusations when she didn't return his feelings. The Instagram message was part of that pattern."
"But how would he even know to contact me?" Priya pressed. "How would he have my Instagram?"
"He researched the family," Anya said, her voice steady. "Spent years following us online, gathering information. When I rejected him, he tried to create drama by contacting family members with insane stories."
"So there's nothing…" Priya couldn't quite finish the sentence.
"Nothing," Maya said firmly. "Your father and Anya have a close relationship—you know that. She works with him on business matters, uses her gifts to help with negotiations. But that's all it is. This Dilip twisted that closeness into something sick in his imagination."
Anya added, "He's possessive, Priya. Like Papa in some ways—that need to control, to own. When he couldn't have me, he invented this narrative to explain why. It's easier for him to believe Papa is some kind of monster than to accept that I simply wasn't interested."
Priya searched their faces. Both women looked back with expressions of concern mixed with faint exasperation—the look of people who'd dealt with a tiresome problem and were frustrated to have it resurface.
"You're sure?" Priya asked. "Because if something was happening—"
"Nothing is happening," Maya said, her voice carrying maternal authority. "I live in this house, Priya. I see everything. Your father is many things—controlling, yes, demanding, absolutely. But what Dilip accused him of? That's fantasy. Sick fantasy from an obsessed man who couldn't handle rejection."
The conspiracy worked perfectly. Mother and daughter presenting a unified front, their lies so seamless they carried the weight of truth.
Priya wanted to believe them. Needed to believe them. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
"Okay," she said finally. "I just… I needed to hear it from you both. In person."
"Of course you did," Maya said warmly. "You're a good sister for checking. But trust me, darling—if something like that was happening, I would know. And I would stop it."
After a moment, the conversation shifted back to the marriage question.
"So Rohan is still the better option?" Priya asked.
"Significantly better," Maya confirmed. "Though there is one thing…" She paused. "He made a joke on his podcast once. About incest. Said it should be legalized, that consenting adults should be able to do what they want. It was clearly meant as edgy humor, but it shows questionable judgment about what's appropriate to say publicly."
"That's… concerning," Priya said.
"It is. But it's fixable with better PR guidance." Maya's voice remained balanced. "The financial issues are fixable too, with proper management. What's not fixable is Dilip's fundamental unsuitability."
The three women sat in silence for a moment, processing the implications.
Then Priya spoke, her voice carrying determination. "So we go with Rohan. That's obvious."
"Papa won't agree," Anya said. "He's already fixated on Dilip. Already told me to contact him, set a date—December 31st. Dilip is supposed to move in permanently that day."
"December 31st," Priya repeated thoughtfully. "That's two weeks away."
Maya leaned forward. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Priya said slowly, "that sometimes you have to present people with accomplished facts rather than ask permission."
The sisters looked at each other.
"You mean—" Anya started.
"Get married to Rohan first," Priya said clearly. "Before Papa can stop it. Before Dilip arrives. Present it as done."
"Vikash would be furious—" Maya began.
"Vikash is recovering from a heart attack," Priya interrupted. "The doctors said no stress. If we present it as already accomplished, he can't fight it without risking another cardiac event. He'd have to accept it."
Maya was quiet for a long moment, her strategic mind working. "It would have to be secret. Completely secret. No one can know until it's done."
"December 31st," Anya said, understanding dawning. "We get married the same day Dilip is supposed to arrive. But earlier. Morning ceremony."
"Before Papa even knows what's happening," Priya agreed. "By the time Dilip shows up, you're already married to Rohan. Accomplished fact."
"This is insane," Anya whispered.
"This is necessary," Maya corrected. "Darling, your father is about to trap you in a marriage to someone who can't protect you, who'll be socially embarrassing, who might become a target for your father's… complications. We can't let that happen."
"But going behind his back—"
"Is what he does to all of us constantly," Priya said firmly. "He manipulates, he controls, he arranges circumstances. For once, we're doing the same to him."
Maya stood, pacing slightly. "We'd need to move fast. Contact Rohan immediately. Arrange everything quietly. Get the legal paperwork handled. The ceremony would have to be minimal—just what's legally required."
"What about Papa's surveillance?" Anya asked. "He has people everywhere."
"He's weak right now," Maya said. "Focused on recovery. His network isn't as tight as usual." She looked at her daughters. "If we move carefully, quickly, we can do this."
"And when he finds out?" Anya's voice carried fear. "When Dilip shows up and I'm already married?"
"He'll be angry," Maya admitted. "But Anya, he'll also be facing accomplished fact. You'll be legally married. Rohan will have protection—financial agreements, legal standing. Papa won't be able to simply destroy it without causing massive complications."
Priya added, "And more importantly, the stress of fighting it could trigger another heart attack. The doctors were clear—he needs to avoid extreme stress. He'll have to accept it, even if he hates it."
The three women looked at each other, a conspiracy forming.
"We do this?" Maya asked.
"We do this," Anya confirmed.
"Then we start tomorrow," Maya said. "Contact Rohan. I'll handle the legal arrangements quietly. Priya, you help coordinate. December 31st, morning ceremony. Done before Vikash even wakes up. And Rohan—he can't tell anyone. Not his family, not his mother. This stays completely secret until it's done."
After Priya and Maya left, Anya sat alone in the living room, processing what they'd just decided.
A secret wedding. Behind her father's back. The ultimate rebellion wrapped in practicality.
She reached out through the connection to Dilip, carefully.
Images flowed: Her father's determination. The date set—December 31st. The command given.
She sent the vision clearly: You're to come here. Move in. That day. Papa has decided.
She felt Dilip's excitement surge through their bond. The victory dance resuming with desperate intensity.
She sent another image: Bring what you need. You won't go back to your apartment.
The images she sent him were true—Vikash had set that date, had made that plan. She just wasn't telling him what else would happen that morning.
In his Bandra apartment, Dilip was already dancing again, already fantasizing about his transformation.
Completely unaware that by the time he arrived at the mansion on December 31st, everything would have already changed.
The game was being played on multiple levels now.
And for once, the women were making their own moves.
December 20th - Vikash's Recovery
By the fifth day home, Vikash was already pushing boundaries.
Light cardio under doctor's supervision. Upper body exercises. Physical therapy that left him sweating but satisfied.
"The doctor said no stress—" Maya tried.
"The doctor doesn't run my empire." But his voice lacked its usual edge. The heart attack had shaken something fundamental in him.
By December 22nd, he was standing without the wheelchair for extended periods. By the 24th, he was walking short distances. Still weak, still recovering, but with that stubborn Chandra determination that refused to stay down.
And as his physical strength returned, so did his authority.
"About December 31st," he said to Anya one afternoon while she helped him with exercises. "You've contacted Dilip?"
"Yes, Papa."
"And he understands? He's moving in permanently. Trial arrangement, but serious."
"He understands."
"Good." Vikash completed another rep. "I want him here where I can see him. Evaluate him properly. See if he can function in our world. We'll deal with clearing out his apartment later—after we've had time to assess the arrangement."
His voice carried that absolute certainty—not aggression, but the kind of authority that made resistance seem pointless.
"He'll come," Anya confirmed.
What she didn't tell him: that she and her mother and sister were coordinating something else entirely. That the morning of December 31st would unfold very differently than he expected.
Vikash had taught her well: don't fight opposition directly. Redirect it. Make people think you're complying while actually positioning yourself exactly where you want to be.
For once, she was using his own methods against him.
December 27th - Final Preparations and The Call to Rohan
Maya had been working quietly, efficiently.
The marriage paperwork was arranged through a lawyer she trusted—someone outside Vikash's usual network. The ceremony would be minimal: just the legal requirements, a registered marriage, done quickly and quietly.
That afternoon, Anya called Rohan.
The phone rang three times before he picked up. Background noise—buzzing, music, voices.
"Anya! Hey!" His voice was bright, energetic. "Sorry, I'm at a tattoo parlor. Getting my sixth one."
"Your sixth?" She could hear the smile in her voice despite everything.
"Yeah! It's an Om symbol. Right here on my inner forearm. I've been feeling really spiritual lately, you know? Like I need to connect more deeply with… with something larger." The buzzing intensified. "Hold on, he's working on the outline. Fuck, that stings."
"Rohan, I need to talk to you about something important."
"Sure, sure. Give me a sec." Muffled sounds, then his voice came back clearer. "Okay, stepped outside. What's up?"
"How would you feel about getting married? To me. Soon."
Silence on the other end.
"Rohan?"
"Are you serious?" His voice had shifted—excitement mixed with disbelief. "Like, actually married? Legal and everything?"
"Yes. December 31st. Morning ceremony. Just legal paperwork, minimal witnesses. It has to be secret—my father can't know until it's done."
"Holy shit." She could practically hear him processing. "Why the secrecy?"
"Because my father wants me to marry someone else. Someone completely unsuitable. And if we present him with accomplished fact—me already legally married to you—he'll have to accept it. His health is too fragile to fight it."
"This is insane."
"This is necessary." Anya's voice was firm. "Rohan, I know this is fast. But I need you to understand—this is real. I want to marry you. I want to build something with you. Are you in?"
Another pause. Then: "Yes. Fuck yes. I'm in."
"There's one critical condition," Anya said. "You cannot tell anyone. Not your family, not your mother. No one. If word gets out before it happens, we're all in danger. Can you do that?"
"I can do that." His voice carried determination now. "Anya, I've wanted this since… since before, when we were together the first time. I'll do whatever it takes."
"December 31st. 8 AM. My mother will send you the address."
"I'll be there." A pause. "Hey, should I finish this tattoo? Or is Om a bad sign for starting a marriage?"
She laughed despite everything. "Finish your tattoo, Rohan. It's perfect."
After the call ended, she found Maya and Priya in the garden.
"He's in," Anya confirmed. "And he understands—complete secrecy."
"Good," Maya said. "The legal arrangements are almost complete. We move forward as planned."
The plan was set: December 31st, 8 AM. Small ceremony at a lawyer's office in South Mumbai. Minimal witnesses. Rohan and Anya would sign, make it legal, be done before 10 AM.
Dilip was scheduled to arrive at 2 PM.
By then, everything would be accomplished.
Meanwhile, through her connection with Dilip, Anya continued to send encouraging images. The mansion. The date. His imminent transformation.
She projected the vision clearly: December 31st. Afternoon. You're coming home.
His excitement through their bond was pure, undiluted. Ten years of hope, finally vindicated.
What she didn't show him: the morning ceremony. The marriage to Rohan. The fait accompli that would greet him when he arrived.
Some information was too dangerous to share. Even telepathically.
Because if Dilip somehow sensed it, he might do something rash. Might try to contact Vikash. Might ruin everything.
Better to let him believe until the very last moment.
December 30th - The Eve - Vikash Discovers
That afternoon, Vikash's phone rang. It was the assistant to the lawyer Maya had hired—the one she'd thought was outside Vikash's network.
"Sir, you asked to be informed of any unusual activity involving family members. Mrs. Chandra has arranged a marriage ceremony for tomorrow morning. 8 AM. The paperwork is all prepared."
Vikash listened quietly, his face expressionless.
"Thank you. That will be all."
He sat in his study, processing this information. So they'd planned a rebellion. A secret wedding to present him with accomplished fact.
He could stop it. One phone call, and the entire plan would collapse.
But something made him pause.
He'd fought Anya's choices her entire life. Controlled every relationship, destroyed every man who got too close. And now, recovering from a heart attack that had nearly killed him, he had to consider: was this battle worth fighting?
Not because he'd softened. But because fighting all three women—Maya, Priya, and Anya—while weak from cardiac surgery seemed unwise. The doctors had been clear about stress.
And more importantly: Rohan was controllable. His finances were a disaster, his independence illusory. If Anya married him, Vikash would still maintain ultimate control.
It might even be better than Dilip. At least Rohan looked successful from outside, even if the reality was different.
By evening, Vikash had made his decision.
He'd let it happen. Let them think they'd won. And reveal later that he'd known all along.
That evening, Vikash called Anya to his study.
"Tomorrow, Dilip arrives. I want you to greet him personally. Make him feel welcome. This is a trial, but it needs to start properly."
"Yes, Papa."
"Once he's settled in, we'll evaluate. See how he adapts to our world. Later, we can arrange to clear out his apartment—no rush on that. I want to see how he functions here first." Vikash's voice was calm, certain. "This is his chance to prove he can be useful."
"I understand."
"Good." He looked at his daughter—his daughter who was also his lover, the woman he possessed in ways that defied every boundary. "Anya, I know you had hopes for Rohan. But this is better. Dilip is manageable. Controllable. Someone I can trust not to threaten what we've built."
She said nothing, just nodded.
After leaving his study, she found Maya and Priya in the garden.
"Tomorrow morning," Maya confirmed. "Eight AM. Everything's arranged."
"Is Rohan ready?" Anya asked.
"Terrified but ready," Priya said with a slight smile. "He knows what this means. Both the opportunity and the risk. And he's been warned—no telling anyone, especially not his family."
"And Papa suspects nothing?"
"Nothing," Maya confirmed. "He's focused on Dilip's arrival. On his plan. He has no idea we've arranged something else entirely."
The three women stood together in the garden, the Arabian Sea visible beyond the walls, Mumbai's lights glittering in the distance.
"Tomorrow changes everything," Priya said quietly.
"Tomorrow we take control," Maya corrected. "For once."
And in his study, Vikash Chandra sat alone, confident in his decision to let them proceed.
Tomorrow would be instructive. They'd think they'd won through rebellion.
They'd learn later that everything had still unfolded within his control.
Part 2: The Unraveling
December 31st, 8:00 AM - The Secret Wedding
The house was unnaturally quiet at dawn.
Vikash slept in his ground-floor bedroom, his medications keeping him in deep rest until mid-morning. The servants had been given minimal instructions for the day—keep routines normal, don't disturb anyone.
Maya, Priya, and Anya had left the mansion at 7 AM in Maya's white Range Rover, dressed simply but elegantly. No fanfare. No announcement.
The lawyer's office in South Mumbai was small, discreet, chosen specifically because it existed outside Vikash's usual network of surveillance.
Rohan was already there, pacing nervously in a simple white kurta. When Anya arrived, he looked at her with a mixture of excitement and terror.
His inner forearm was still wrapped—the fresh Om tattoo healing beneath the bandage.
"Are we really doing this?" he whispered.
"We're really doing this," Anya confirmed.
The ceremony took twenty minutes. Legal paperwork signed. Witnesses provided by the lawyer—people who owed Maya favors, people who could be trusted to keep quiet. The marriage registered officially, stamped, sealed.
By 8:30 AM, Anya Chandra was legally Anya Bhatt.
They returned to the mansion by 9:45 AM. Rohan was brought inside through the side entrance, settled in the living room with instructions to stay calm, stay quiet, wait.
At exactly 10 AM, Vikash's alarm went off.
10:15 AM - The Revelation
The three women entered Vikash's ground-floor bedroom together.
He was sitting up in bed, having just taken his morning medications, looking stronger than he had in weeks.
"Good morning, Papa," Anya said quietly.
He looked at them—his wife, his elder daughter, his younger daughter—all standing together with expressions that carried a mix of determination and apprehension.
"What have you done?" he asked. Not anger in his voice. Just recognition.
Maya spoke first. "Anya got married this morning. To Rohan Bhatt. It's legal, registered, done."
Vikash was quiet for a long moment. Then, to their surprise, he smiled slightly.
"I know."
The three women froze.
"You… know?" Anya managed.
"I have eyes everywhere. Always have." His voice was calm, almost amused. "The lawyer you used? His assistant is on my payroll. I knew about your plan yesterday."
Maya's face went very still.
"Then why didn't you stop it?" Priya demanded.
"Because I realized something." Vikash shifted in bed, moving with increasing ease. "I can handle one of you. I can even handle two of you. But all three of you, coordinated and determined? That's a different calculation."
He looked at Anya specifically. "You wanted Rohan. Your mother and sister supported you. Fighting all three of you while recovering from a heart attack seemed… unwise. The doctors were clear about stress."
"So you just… let it happen?" Anya's voice carried disbelief.
"I didn't let it happen. I made a strategic decision not to prevent it." His voice carried that familiar authority. "There's a difference. I wasn't backing down—I was choosing my battles."
He stood carefully, reaching for his wheelchair. "Where is he? The new husband?"
"Living room," Maya said quietly.
"Then let's meet him properly." Vikash's voice was measured. "Since he's now family."
They moved to the living room where Rohan sat, looking terrified. When Vikash entered, Rohan stood immediately.
"Sir, I—"
"You married my daughter behind my back." Vikash's voice was flat. "Congratulations."
Rohan didn't know how to respond to that.
"But we have a more immediate problem now," Vikash continued, settling into a chair. "Dilip Shrivastava. Anya, you and I need to discuss this. Alone."
10:30 AM - The Private Discussion
Maya and Priya left, taking Rohan with them. The living room door closed.
Father and daughter sat across from each other—the man who was both her father and her lover, the woman who belonged to him in ways that defied every law and boundary.
"Dilip is arriving at 2 PM," Vikash said. "Expecting to move in permanently. Expecting to become part of this family. What exactly do we tell him?"
"The truth," Anya said. "That I'm married. That the situation changed."
"The truth." Vikash's voice was thoughtful. "The man who spent ten years obsessed with you. Who sent messages to our family accusing me of rape. Who knows too much about how we operate. We just tell him 'sorry, plans changed' and expect him to accept it quietly?"
The room went silent.
"He knows things," Vikash continued. "Things he gathered over years of writing to you, of following our family from a distance. He knows about your gifts. About how I use you for business intelligence. About family dynamics that should never be public."
He looked at Anya directly. "He's a security risk. A significant one. And we need to eliminate that risk."
"What are you saying?" Anya's voice was careful.
"I'm saying we need to get rid of Dilip Shrivastava. Permanently." Vikash's voice remained calm, matter-of-fact. "Kill him. Make him disappear. Make sure he can never be a threat to this family."
"Papa—"
"This isn't negotiable." His authority returned fully now, weakness replaced by that familiar command. "He knows too much. He's demonstrated obsessive behavior. He's contacted family members with wild accusations. He's a liability that needs to be removed."
"How?" Anya asked quietly.
"Financial destruction first. Cut off his income sources. Make survival impossible." Vikash was already planning. "Then social isolation. Make sure no one believes anything he says about us. Then…" His eyes locked on hers. "Then we use your gifts. Break him. Torture him until he understands that speaking about this family means death. And if he still doesn't get the message, we arrange something permanent."
The word hung in the air. Permanent. Not exile. Death.
"You're talking about murder," Anya said, her voice shaking.
"I'm talking about eliminating a threat to this family's security." Vikash's voice remained clinical. "He knows too much. He's demonstrated obsessive behavior. He's contacted family members with wild accusations. He's a liability that needs to be removed."
"He's just a lonely man who fell in love—"
"He's a security risk who needs to be neutralized." Vikash cut her off. "And you're going to help me do it. Not because I'm asking. Because this is what it means to be my daughter. My partner. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice carried layers—father, lover, master. All three roles speaking as one.
Anya felt the weight of it. The man who'd shaped her entire life, who possessed her body and soul, who controlled everything she was and would ever be, was giving her an order.
And she would obey. She always did.
"Yes, Papa."
You're right - I need to include the Rohan section on January 6th. Here's the revised sequence:
January 5th - The Torture Begins
"It's not enough," Vikash said to Anya that evening in his study.
"Dilip is financially destroyed," Anya said. "What more—"
"He still has his knowledge. Still could talk to people, create problems." Vikash looked at his daughter. "We need to make him understand the cost of knowing our secrets. Make him suffer enough that if he survives, he'll never speak."
"How?" Anya asked, though she already knew.
"Through your gifts." His voice was calm. "The voodoo doll. Start tonight. Let him feel what happens to people who threaten this family."
Anya's stomach churned. "Papa, he's already destroyed—"
"He's financially damaged. That's not the same as broken." Vikash's eyes were cold. "Break him completely. And if he still doesn't learn, we'll arrange something more permanent."
After their discussion, Anya went to her room and opened the locked drawer where Dilip's voodoo doll waited.
She'd made it about a year ago—when she'd first been ordered to monitor him, when her father had wanted intelligence on the man who kept writing. Hair collected during one of Vikash's surveillance operations. A thread from clothing. The binding paste with her dried menstrual blood.
The doll was complete, perfect, waiting.
She set up the sacred geometry in her room. Lit candles. Positioned the brass owl at the center. And began the ritual.
She picked up the first pin.
Started gently—small pricks in the doll's back, just enough to cause discomfort.
In his Bandra apartment, Dilip jerked awake from an uneasy sleep, feeling phantom pain he couldn't explain. Sharp stabs in his back, like someone was sticking him with needles.
That pressure on his forehead intensified. He knew. The voodoo had begun.
She continued. Chest. Legs. Small, precise pains.
In Bandra, Dilip cried out, clutching his arm where sudden sharp pain had appeared from nowhere.
Then Vikash's voice came from her doorway. "The pain you're inflicting is too gentle. He needs to really feel it. Really understand."
"Where?" Anya asked, though she knew what he'd say.
"Groin. Anus. The most sensitive areas." His voice was clinical. "Make it unbearable. Break him completely."
Anya hesitated, then positioned the pin carefully and pushed it into the doll's groin area.
In his Bandra apartment, Dilip screamed.
The pain was unlike anything he'd experienced—worse than the kidney stones he'd suffered in college, a burning, throbbing agony centered in his most vulnerable area.
He collapsed on his floor, writhing, unable to do anything except endure.
Anya held the pin steady for thirty seconds, then moved it slightly.
Dilip vomited from the pain.
"Good," Vikash said. "Now the other area."
She repositioned the pin, pressed it into the doll's anal region.
Dilip's screams intensified.
After two minutes, Vikash nodded. "That's enough for tonight. We'll continue tomorrow. Every night until he breaks completely. Then we'll decide if he needs to disappear permanently."
January 6th, Morning - Rohan's Crisis
Rohan had spent the night at his apartment in Bandra—the same building that housed his studio. He liked working from home, found the creative environment more comfortable than his formal office.
The marriage had happened so fast. One day he was filming content, the next he was Anya Chandra's husband.
But last night, unable to sleep, he'd gone to the Chandra mansion to talk to Anya. He'd been let in quietly, found her in her room.
And seen things he couldn't unsee.
The ritual setup. The candles in sacred geometry. The brass owl. And the doll—a crude human figure with pins stuck in it.
He'd watched, frozen in the doorway, as she'd positioned another pin. And somewhere in the city, he knew, a man was screaming.
Vikash had appeared behind him. "This is what we do to threats, Rohan. This is what happens to people who know too much. Remember that."
Rohan had fled back to his apartment, his hands shaking.
At 6 AM, he called his mother.
"Mom, I need to talk."
Dr. Shobha Bhatt—dermatologist, practical woman, loving mother—had been worried about her son since she'd received his call two days ago informing her of his secret marriage.
"What's wrong, beta?"
"Mom, I got married. New Year's Eve. To Anya Chandra." His voice was shaking. "I couldn't tell you before—it had to be secret. But now… this family is insane, Mom. Last night I saw Anya torturing someone using black magic. Actual magic. He was screaming somewhere in the city and she was just… sticking pins in a doll. And her father was instructing her where to hurt him most. And then he said they might kill him if he doesn't break."
Silence on the other end.
"Mom?"
"Beta, listen to me carefully." Her voice was firm. "Your life is more important than a marriage. More important than a billion dollars. More important than any of this."
"But I'm married now—"
"Marriage can be annulled. Divorce is possible. Death isn't." She paused. "Don't go back there. Stay away from that house. Come home to us."
"But—"
"Beta, I'm prohibiting you from returning to that woman. Do you understand? As your mother, I'm forbidding it."
After the call ended, Rohan sat in his apartment, processing his mother's words.
She was right. Whatever wealth and status came with being Anya's husband, it wasn't worth witnessing what he'd seen. Wasn't worth being threatened with the same treatment if he "stepped out of line."
And it definitely wasn't worth being complicit in murder.
He sent Anya a text message: I can't do this. I'm sorry. I need time.
Then turned off his phone.
January 6th-8th - Dilip's Nightly Agony
The torture continued every night for Dilip.
By morning of January 6th, Dilip could barely walk. The pain from the night before had left him exhausted, traumatized, terrified. His entire body ached. The groin and anal pain had been so intense he'd lost consciousness at one point, only to wake up with it continuing.
That pressure on his forehead was constant now. A presence. A connection. The voodoo doll actively working on him.
Another night of torture came. And another. Each night the pains going to the most sensitive areas, held there for agonizing minutes.
By January 8th, Dilip was barely functional. Couldn't sleep except in brief, pain-filled intervals. Couldn't eat without vomiting. His mind was fragmenting from the constant agony.
He decided he had to try to get help.
January 9th, Morning - The Bandra Police Station
The Bandra police station was busy when Dilip arrived that morning, looking haggard and desperate.
The officer at the desk—a middle-aged man with tired eyes—looked up as Dilip approached.
"I need to file a complaint," Dilip said, his voice shaking. "A serious one."
"What kind of complaint?"
"Rape. And financial destruction for knowing about it."
The officer's expression shifted to attention. "Sit down, sir. Tell me everything."
Dilip sat, pulling out a handwritten letter he'd prepared. "This is my formal complaint. The Chandra family—Vikash Chandra of Malabar Hill—is raping his daughter Anya. I know this because I was in contact with the family. And when the situation changed, when I became inconvenient to them, they destroyed my business systematically to silence me."
The officer took the letter, read through it carefully. His expression became increasingly uncomfortable.
"Sir, these are very serious allegations. Against a very prominent family. Do you have evidence?"
"I have knowledge that isn't public. Vikash Chandra had a heart attack on December 12th—you can verify with Breach Candy Hospital. His daughter Anya married Rohan Bhatt on December 31st—check the marriage registrar, though it's not public yet. I know these things because I was involved with the family situation."
"That's not evidence of rape or criminal destruction of your business."
"My consulting contract was terminated the same day the family situation changed. All my website advertisers canceled within hours. My technical infrastructure was sabotaged. Everything happened at once—the same day I was supposed to meet with them."
The officer set down the letter, his voice becoming careful. "Mr. Shrivastava, allegations of this nature require concrete evidence. Do you have medical records? Testimony from the alleged victim? Documentation of the business interference?"
"The timing proves—"
"Timing isn't proof." The officer's eyes were pleading now, even as his words remained professional. "Without hard evidence, we cannot file an FIR against someone like Vikash Chandra."
"Someone like him?" Dilip's voice rose. "You mean someone powerful enough that you're afraid?"
The officer lowered his voice. "Sir, I'm advising you as someone who wants to help. Without evidence, this complaint will go nowhere. It could make things worse for you. Much worse."
"So you won't file it?"
"I…" The officer glanced around, then back at Dilip. His eyes carried a message his words couldn't say: I'm compromised. We all are. Taking on the Chandra name without ironclad evidence is career suicide—or worse.
"We need substantial evidence to proceed with a case like this. What you've brought isn't sufficient. I'm sorry."
Dilip understood. The police were either bought or terrified. Either way, no help would come from here.
He took back his letter and left the station, understanding that official channels were completely closed to him.
January 9th, Afternoon - Advocate Srikanth Shelar's Office
Dilip's next stop was the office of Advocate Srikanth Shelar, the MLA for Bandra. A politician with a reputation for taking on powerful interests, someone who might actually listen.
The office was modest but busy, filled with constituents seeking help with various issues. Dilip waited for two hours before finally being shown into Shelar's inner office.
Srikanth Shelar was in his early fifties, sharp-eyed, with the bearing of someone who'd fought political battles and survived. He gestured for Dilip to sit.
"Mr. Shrivastava. My assistant said you have a serious complaint?"
"Yes, sir." Dilip handed over the same letter he'd given the police. "The Chandra family—Vikash Chandra—is involved in something terrible. Rape of his own daughter. And they've destroyed me financially because I know about it."
Shelar read the letter carefully, his expression neutral. When he finished, he set it down and looked at Dilip directly.
"These are explosive allegations. Why come to me instead of going through proper police channels?"
"I tried the Bandra police station this morning. They refused to file an FIR. Said I didn't have enough evidence. But their eyes told me they were too afraid to take on the Chandra name."
Shelar was quiet for a moment. "Mr. Shrivastava, I'll be frank with you. Cases involving prominent families require extraordinary evidence. Allegations alone, even serious ones, aren't enough."
"I have knowledge—"
"Knowledge isn't evidence. Do you have recordings? Medical documentation? Testimony from the victim herself?"
"No, but—"
"Then legally, this is very difficult." Shelar paused. "More than that, Mr. Shrivastava—pursuing this without solid evidence could be dangerous for you. Families like the Chandras have resources to defend themselves in ways that go beyond legal channels."
"So you won't help either?"
"I didn't say that." Shelar leaned forward. "What I'm saying is that the path you're describing—trying to bring down Vikash Chandra based on what you know—is almost impossible without the victim's cooperation. And from what you're describing, you don't have that."
Dilip's shoulders slumped. "So I'm just supposed to accept this?"
"I'm saying pick your battles wisely. And understand that sometimes the powerful remain powerful precisely because they know how to eliminate threats." Shelar's voice was not unkind, but firm. "Be careful, Mr. Shrivastava. That's my advice."
The meeting was over.
Dilip left Shelar's office understanding that even a politician known for fighting powerful interests saw this as too dangerous, too impossible to pursue.
January 9th, Late Afternoon - The Muslim Activist
Dilip's final attempt was to visit Farhan Qureshi, a well-known activist in Bandra and nephew of a powerful local politician. Qureshi had a reputation for taking up causes that others wouldn't touch, especially those involving abuse of power.
Qureshi's small office was in a building near the Bandra court complex. When Dilip arrived, exhausted and desperate, Qureshi was just finishing with another client.
"Mr. Shrivastava?" Qureshi was in his late thirties, energetic, with the intensity of someone who genuinely believed in fighting injustice. "Come in. My assistant said you have an urgent matter?"
Dilip handed over the same letter, now worn from being carried to multiple offices. "The Chandra family. Vikash Chandra. He's raping his daughter, and they've destroyed my life because I know about it."
Qureshi read the letter thoroughly, his expression growing more serious with each line. When he finished, he looked up at Dilip.
"You went to the police?"
"This morning. They refused to file an FIR. Said I didn't have evidence, but their eyes said they were too afraid."
"And Shelar?"
"Said it was too dangerous without the victim's cooperation."
Qureshi set down the letter and leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Shrivastava, I appreciate you bringing this to me. These allegations are extremely serious. But I have to be honest with you—without the victim coming forward, without medical evidence, without recordings or documentation, this is nearly impossible to pursue legally."
"So everyone just looks the other way?"
"I'm not saying that." Qureshi's voice was firm. "I'm saying that the legal system has requirements. And powerful families know how to use those requirements as shields. They know how to make allegations disappear, how to discredit accusers, how to ensure that cases never see the inside of a courtroom."
"Then what's the point of any of this?" Dilip's voice was breaking. "Police won't help. Politicians won't help. Activists won't help. The powerful just do whatever they want?"
"Often, yes." Qureshi's honesty was almost brutal. "Mr. Shrivastava, if you pursue this without concrete evidence, you won't take down Vikash Chandra. You'll only ensure your own destruction. And from what you've described, that process has already begun."
Dilip stood up, understanding that this was his last hope extinguished. "Thank you for your time."
"Mr. Shrivastava," Qureshi called as Dilip reached the door. "Be careful. Very careful. Men like Vikash Chandra don't just destroy businesses. They destroy lives. Permanently."
Dilip left the office completely alone, understanding that every avenue for help was closed.
January 9th, Evening - Amazon Order
Back in his apartment that evening, after another session of torture—pins in his groin, his anus, held for agonizing minutes—Dilip made his decision.
He couldn't live like this. Couldn't endure this nightly agony. Couldn't survive in a city where the most powerful family had decided he needed to be destroyed, and where every potential source of help was either compromised, too afraid, or too realistic about the impossibility of fighting back.
Death was better than this.
He opened his phone, went to YouTube, searched for how to tie a hangman's knot.
Found a video with clear instructions. Watched it three times, memorizing the steps.
He opened Amazon, searched for rope.
Found one: "Heavy-duty natural fiber rope, 10 meters, weight capacity 200kg."
Ordered it with his last remaining credit.
Delivery: Next day.
January 10th - The Failed Suicide
The rope arrived at noon.
Dilip sat in his apartment, holding the coarse fiber rope, following the YouTube video instructions carefully. The knot came together slowly—loop, wrap, pull through. A proper hangman's noose.
He stood on a chair, tied one end to the ceiling fan that hung in the center of his small living room, tested the strength. It held.
Put the noose around his neck.
The rough fiber immediately scratched his skin, uncomfortable but not unbearable. He tightened it slightly, feeling the pressure.
That presence on his forehead intensified. She was watching. Knew what he was doing.
He took a breath.
Kicked the chair away.
The rope caught his weight. The noose tightened.
But before he could pass out, the rope's fiber began tearing at his neck skin. Not a clean pressure—a burning, scraping agony as the rough natural fiber abraded his throat.
It hurt worse than anything from the nightly torture. Pure, physical, unbearable pain.
He grabbed the rope above his head, pulling himself up, scrambling to get his feet back on something, anything.
Managed to hook his feet on the fallen chair, get enough leverage to loosen the noose.
Collapsed to the floor, the rope still around his neck, gasping and crying.
He couldn't even kill himself successfully.
Fifty years old. Financially destroyed. Tortured nightly. Unable to get help from police, politicians, or activists. And too much of a coward to end it properly.
He lay on his floor, the failed noose still around his neck, and felt like the ultimate loser.
Through the connection, he felt Anya's presence. That pressure on his forehead throbbing with meaning.
The message came through clearly in images: Run. Leave Mumbai. Go far away. You can't turn this off. You can't escape the connection. But distance will make you less of a threat. Get out of the city.
He understood. Not safety—removal. They wanted him gone, powerless, unable to cause problems.
But it was better than death.
January 11th - The Escape
Dilip finally understood what he had to do.
He sold his MacBook for 8,000 rupees—a fraction of what it was worth, but he was desperate.
Sold his Bose speaker for 1,000.
Total: 12,000 rupees including what remained in his account.
Barely enough to survive for even a few weeks.
He looked up where to go. Somewhere far from Mumbai. Somewhere Vikash Chandra's direct influence wouldn't reach. Somewhere he could disappear into crowds.
The Mahakumbh Mela. Prayagraj. January 2025.
Millions of pilgrims. Complete chaos. The perfect place to disappear.
He packed a small backpack—clothes, some food, his phone, his remaining money.
Left his apartment without looking back.
Took a train from Mumbai to Prayagraj. Eighteen hours. Second-class sleeper. Surrounded by pilgrims heading to the Kumbh.
As the train pulled away from Mumbai Central station, he felt Anya's presence through that connection.
He couldn't turn it off. Couldn't close the bond. The voodoo doll ensured that. She would always be able to find him, always be able to reach him.
But maybe distance would make him less threatening. Maybe being far from Mumbai, powerless and broken, would be enough.
He sent his thoughts into the void, knowing she was listening: I haven't met you in person since we had coffee ten years ago. Ten years of building castles in the air.
Thank you for letting me run. I'm sorry I knew too much. I'm sorry I existed.
Goodbye, Anya.
But he couldn't turn off the connection. It remained, a constant pressure on his forehead, a reminder that he would never be truly free.
The train rattled through the night, carrying Dilip Shrivastava away from his ten-year fantasy, away from Mumbai, away from the family that had systematically destroyed him for the crime of knowing too much.
January 12th - Malabar Hill Mansion
At the Malabar Hill mansion, Anya sat in her room, the voodoo doll still on her altar.
Through their bond, she could feel Dilip—far away now, moving farther with every hour. The connection remained strong despite the distance. It would always remain.
She reached out, focused on him, saw through his eyes for a moment: the crowded train, the pilgrims, the desperate escape.
"Where is he?" Vikash asked, appearing in her doorway.
"On a train to Prayagraj. The Mahakumbh."
"Good. Keep monitoring him." His voice was matter-of-fact. "The connection lets you reach him anywhere. Distance doesn't matter. If he tries to contact anyone, if he becomes a problem again—you know what to do."
"I know, Papa."
Rohan hadn't returned. Had sent another message: I need more time. Maybe a few months. I'm sorry.
Her mother managing Nexus Models as always, warm and strategic and ultimately serving Vikash's interests.
Her sister Priya preparing to return to New York with Marco and Sophia the next day.
And Anya, forty years old, married but alone, trapped in the same mansion she'd been trying to escape her entire life.
The cage had just gotten more elaborate.
That was all.
She stood, walked to the window, looked out at the Arabian Sea glittering in the distance.
Somewhere in Prayagraj, Dilip was beginning his new life as a refugee from the family that had destroyed him.
The connection between them hummed with possibility—she could reach him anytime, anywhere, for the rest of his life.
He would never be free.
And neither would she.
Father and daughter. Lover and possessed. Controller and controlled.
The breaking point had come and gone.
And nothing had changed.
Nothing ever would.
END OF CHAPTER 12