ABHAY'S POV:

I've pulled Ankur's record. The man has been in the Samaj Party since I was one year old. Ignoring his advances would be foolish—he's one of the party's pillars, once even a central minister. A man of that station doesn't compromise easily; he protects his reputation as fiercely as his power.

He's excellent at his job—his word settles arguments before they start. But he must understand one fact clearly: I can end his career if I choose.

Seizing my shipments of liquor and the consignment with my brand's mark wasn't a failure of planning. Business is just a set of doors; some I open, some I close. People make decisions when the right keys turn. If money and influence don't persuade, pressure does. If pressure doesn't work, leverage does.

Ankur Srivastav is on the brink. He has always tolerated grey areas—land deals, illicit liquor—but never open drug trade. If he walks away now, his departure will splinter public support and hand opponents ammunition. He knows the party's seams; he can exploit them if he defects.

That cannot happen.

"We'll make him feel indispensable," I told Suraj, low and deliberate. Suraj is the one I trust with the dirty turns, the one who knows how to make whispers become roars. "Make people protest in Pali and Sojat. Make it loud and ugly. Tie it to the ship—whatever the locals claim. Keep it local, keep it visual."

I tapped the phone to my ear. "I want a full background check on Ankur Srivastav. Every loose thread, every old favour, every debt—on my table in fifteen minutes."

He is braver than I first assumed. Walking away after thirty years isn't an impulse. He thinks he can rebuild—maybe join another party, maybe return to business. He underestimates what I can do with a reputation.

"Sir, the file you asked for." Suraj set a slim stack of papers on the table without looking up. I nodded.

The file was neat, the way I like things when they're useful. I sifted through names, dates, transactions—small things he'd assumed were buried. Cracks he thought were filled. Bloodlines of influence. Photographs.

I smiled, cold and patient. If he valued his standing, I'd show him how fragile it was—and then make him feel grateful that I'd chose to save it.

I picked up the photo.

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He was having a peaceful evening with his family in the garden.
Until I arrived.

This was the first time I'd seen her.

Sanjana Srivastav — the girl in the shadows.

Her sweatpants bore a hint of paint; her hair was pulled into a ponytail that revealed the line of her slender neck. She kept watching me as she slipped inside. I let my gaze follow her for a beat, then took my seat opposite Ankur.

"You should have asked for me. I would have come to meet you," I said. Ankur smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He already knew I was the bad news.

"Of course. You're not acting on the commotion in your villages," I replied, crossing my legs.

He blinked, confused. I showed him the video: crowds, placards, people chanting outside his constituency offices.

"Tch." I made a soft noise of disappointment. "Clearly you didn't know."

He picked up his phone with slow, controlled movements—too measured, and I knew he was fishing for an excuse. Then he barked into the line, "Why was I not informed of the fights and protests?"

Good. He was losing his cool.

He ended the call curtly, jaw tight. "Look, Ankur. You have to deal with this. It's not just your reputation at stake—it's the party's," I said, as if I were scolding him for a personal oversight.

"How is this my fault? Your people were caught and—" He removed his glasses and leaned his head in his palm, fatigue creasing his face.

"The business may be on our side," I said, "but you need to suppress those protests in the areas under your control. Divert them. Make it someone else's fight."

He sighed, the kind of long, tired exhale of a man who knows what he's being asked to do but hates the cost.

I rose, palms joined in a perfunctory farewell, about to leave. And then I felt someone watching me.

She was at the window. She stared straight at me for a single second, then turned away.

SANJANA'S POV

Every word he spilled into the yard had been grinding at my father all evening. That man—he's a menace. My father had done everything to keep me away from politics: from rallies, from public events, from the cameras. "Never, ever cross paths with Abhay Thakur," I remember Dad saying once. Now I understood why.

Chief Minister at thirty-two. Family pedigree helped, sure—but there was more: a force, a magnetism. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes.

Those eyes. Damn.

I picked up my phone and looked him up. Apart from the usual bios and glossy success stories, there wasn't a single credible rumour tarnishing him. Of course, government influence over media explains something—but still. Not even the opposition had anything solid? It felt engineered.

He's polished as a politician. And the comments—teenage girls swooning—made me roll my eyes. His speeches on Instagram showed a voice that could move crowds. His promises sounded half-true because they were delivered with conviction.

Dad and Abhay were in the same party. That should mean cooperation. So why did Abhay look like he had something on my father? Internal party fights, maybe. I shrugged and scrolled on.

Then I found the clips of protests—people claiming drugs were washed ashore, and somehow my father's name tied into it. Dad? Involved in drugs? I didn't believe it.

A knock on the door broke my thoughts.

"It's open."

"Why is it so quiet in the house—arghh!" Dheeraj burst in, clutching his head in mock drama.

He's six years older but performs like a kid in front of Mom and me—and turns into the family's responsible man when Dad needs him. He fell across my bed, sprawling and making a mess.

"Hello to you too, drama queen," I said, keeping my head on the bedrest and staring at the ceiling.

"Abhay Thakur came home," I said slowly.

Dheeraj lifted his head and, for the first time tonight, looked like someone who had heard more than I'd thought. "I don't know what happened, but Papa looked stressed," I added. He gave me that blank-but-reassuring look he always does when business matters are involved—like he'd quietly sort it out.

"Can you press my head, please?" he asked, dropping a pillow onto my lap. I kept the oil bottle handy and started my little ritual.

"Bless your hands," he sighed, eyes closing, comforted by the familiar motion.