Part 1: The Return to Malabar Hill
Age 34 (Anya)
Anya had been back in Mumbai for eighteen months, living in her father's Malabar Hill mansion while her Bandra apartment underwent "renovations" that seemed to stretch endlessly.
She was thirty-four now. Her sister Priya hadn't spoken to her since that afternoon in Brooklyn—two years of frozen silence, unanswered texts, calls that went straight to voicemail. Marco and Priya had their baby—a girl, Sophia—and Anya had received a single photograph via WhatsApp with no message attached.
The estrangement felt permanent.
In the mornings, Anya meditated in her childhood bedroom—the cream and gold décor her mother had chosen still intact, though Anya had added her own touches: books on filmmaking, her grandmother's grimoire hidden in a locked drawer, the brass owl figurine that served as her anchor for clairvoyant work.
Her father used her regularly now—though never visibly. She never sat in business meetings, never appeared at negotiations. Vikash kept her hidden, operating in shadows. All she needed was a photograph, a strand of hair, a piece of clothing from whoever her father wanted read. She'd perform her rituals in private, extend her consciousness across the city, and report back what she'd found in people's minds. Intelligence gathering without ever being seen.
She'd become his invisible weapon so gradually she hadn't noticed the transformation until it was complete.
And there was Abhay.
Part 2: The Infrequent Contact
They'd stayed in sporadic touch after she'd left New York—a text every few months, an occasional call, nothing intense enough to trigger her father's intervention.
Her mother had been gentle about it: "Anya, I know you and Abhay are friends. Just be careful—you know how your father worries about family business staying private. But a few messages here and there, that's fine. You're both adults."
So Anya had kept it minimal. Friendly but distant. Enough to maintain connection without encouraging hope.
Abhay had left McKinsey six months ago. He'd been transferred back to India, working out of Mumbai now—though Anya hadn't seen him yet. He'd been traveling constantly, he'd said in his texts. Korea, mostly. Something about new opportunities her father had arranged for him.
She hadn't thought much about it.
Until three weeks ago, when everything changed.
Anya was having breakfast with her parents when her aunt—Vikash's sister, Sunita Malhotra—arrived unannounced.
Sunita was elegant, controlled, a widow for five years now. Her late husband had been a successful architect, leaving her comfortable but not wealthy by Chandra standards. She had two children: Abhay (thirty-eight now) and Kavya (thirty-five, married, living in Delhi).
"Vikash, I need to talk to you," Sunita said, accepting chai from the servant. Her voice carried strain. "It's about Abhay."
Vikash set down his newspaper. "What about him?"
"He's not happy with his current situation. The Korean work—it's not what he expected. He wants to come back properly, work directly in the family business." Sunita paused, then directly: "I'm asking if there's a place for him in your core operations, not these peripheral partnerships."
The request landed heavily in the morning stillness.
Anya watched her father's face—carefully neutral, assessing.
"Abhay left McKinsey for the Korean logistics partnership," Vikash said. "That was his choice. I facilitated the introduction to Daehan Industries because he wanted it."
"I know. But it's not working out. There are—complications. He won't tell me details, but I can see he's stressed." Sunita's voice cracked slightly. "He's my son, Vikash. And he wants to be closer to family business, working directly with you, not with Korean partners who—" She stopped herself. "Please. Can you find a place for him?"
Vikash was quiet for a long moment, then: "I'll consider it."
After Sunita left, Anya found her mother in the garden, reading.
"That was intense," Anya said, sitting beside her.
Maya set down her book. "Your father tries to help family when he can. Abhay asked for the Korean opportunity—it was supposed to be good for him."
"What do you think Papa will do?"
"I don't know, Anya. These things are complicated." Maya's voice was thoughtful, concerned. "International partnerships are delicate. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they don't. Your father will figure out what's best."
There was no hint of manipulation in her tone. Just a mother discussing family dynamics, warm and present.
Part 3: Vikash's Investigation
What Anya didn't know: Vikash had been investigating Abhay for three months, ever since the Korean deal had started unraveling in ways that made no sense.
The Daehan Industries partnership had been solid—years in development, profitable for both sides, strategically important for Vikash's expansion into Asian markets. When Abhay had expressed interest in international business, Vikash had seen an opportunity to help his nephew while strengthening family control over the operation.
He'd brought Abhay in as Director of Strategic Partnerships—a senior role managing the day-to-day relationship with Daehan, overseeing logistics coordination, IT infrastructure deals, the technical aspects that made the partnership function.
Abhay had been perfect for it initially. Smart, polished, Harvard-educated (MBA), spoke passable Korean from a language course he'd taken. The Daehan executives had liked him immediately.
Too much, it turned out.
Within three months, Abhay had become extraordinarily close with Min-Jun Park, Daehan's CEO. Not just professionally close—personally intimate. They traveled together, dined together, spent weekends at Park's estate outside Seoul.
Then the sabotage began.
It was subtle at first. Contract terms that mysteriously changed before signing. Technical specifications that didn't match what had been agreed upon. Shipments delayed, quality standards compromised, communication breakdowns that made no sense given the relationship's maturity.
Vikash's Korean operation started bleeding money.
By month four, losses were approaching ₹1,000 crores.
By month six, ₹2,500 crores.
Now, ₹3,500 crores and climbing.
The investigation revealed the truth systematically, brutally:
Abhay had been sleeping with Park. Not just casually—an intense affair, passionate and consuming. Park was married with children, but had maintained male lovers for years, kept carefully hidden in Korean society's deeply conservative context.
Abhay had used the relationship to extract preferential treatment initially. Better contract terms. Inside information. Competitive advantage.
But Park had flipped the dynamic. Had started demanding information from Abhay about Vikash's broader operations, his financial situation, his other partnerships. Had used the sexual relationship to compromise Abhay, turn him into an intelligence asset.
And Abhay—whether out of genuine feeling for Park, or ambition, or resentment at being the poor relation in the Chandra family—had complied.
He'd shared proprietary information. Had deliberately sabotaged contract negotiations to benefit Daehan. Had created the very problems he was supposed to be solving, making himself look incompetent while actually executing calculated betrayal.
Park's goal was clear: collapse the partnership, absorb Vikash's Korean market share, eliminate a major competitor. And he'd used Vikash's own nephew to accomplish it.
The surveillance photos were extensive: Abhay and Park at restaurants in Seoul, at Park's private estate, entering the same hotel room at 2 AM. Abhay meeting with other Daehan executives, clearly coordinating. Bank transfers—₹75 lakhs deposited into Abhay's account over six months, structured to avoid immediate detection.
Financial betrayal. Sexual compromise. Strategic sabotage.
If Abhay weren't his nephew—if he weren't Sunita's son—he would already be destroyed.
But he was family.
Which meant Vikash had to be careful. Had to consider the fallout. Had to calculate the precise method of neutralization that wouldn't devastate his widowed sister while still protecting his empire.
The Chandra empire was vast—the tenth largest conglomerate in India, employing two lakh fifty thousand people across logistics, IT, hospitality, and real estate. Politicians sought Vikash's counsel. The Prime Minister consulted him on economic policy. When a man at that level of power fell, the ripples destroyed thousands of lives, destabilized entire sectors.
Vikash couldn't tolerate a compromised asset this close to the core, regardless of blood relation.
And he needed absolute certainty before acting. Needed to know if there was any possibility of redemption, any chance Abhay could be brought back, any explanation that made this something other than complete betrayal.
That's where Anya came in.
Part 4: The YouTuber's Rise
Meanwhile, Anya had been spending time with Rohan Bhatt.
The twenty-four-year-old had transformed dramatically in the two years since their first video call. His YouTube channel had exploded—500,000 subscribers when she'd returned to Mumbai, now approaching 2 million.
He'd started with fitness content but had pivoted brilliantly. After a video about making paneer at home went unexpectedly viral (3 million views, trending for days), he'd expanded into cooking, then lifestyle, then—most successfully—spiritual wellness content.
His latest videos were philosophical: "How to Deal with Failure," "Finding Purpose in Your 20s," "Meditation for Modern Life." Gen-Z wisdom delivered with infectious enthusiasm, polished production values, and just enough depth to seem substantive without being challenging.
And Anya felt a sense of ownership about him. She'd helped build this—taught him camera techniques, connected him with celebrities through her mother's network, advised on content strategy. He was her product, her creation in many ways.
It gave her something she rarely felt: pride in building rather than destroying.
They had chemistry too—not romantic exactly, but something energetic and collaborative. He looked up to her, valued her opinion, made her feel genuinely useful rather than just weaponized.
Rohan had moved to a proper office in Bandra—2,500 square feet with editing bays, a small studio, staff of twenty-five people. The operation looked professional, successful, like a real media company rather than a kid with a camera.
Last week, they'd met at Phoenix Mills in Lower Parel—the massive mall where South Bombay's elite mixed with Bollywood aspirants and corporate professionals. Anya had been shopping for her mother's birthday when Rohan had texted that he was there meeting with a potential sponsor.
"Anya! Perfect timing!" He'd bounded over, carrying shopping bags from some activewear brand. "I just closed a deal with them—six-month sponsorship for the fitness content. Want to grab coffee and celebrate?"
They'd sat at a café overlooking the mall's central atrium, Rohan bubbling with excitement about the sponsorship, the channel's growth, his plans for expansion.
"Check this out!" He pulled up analytics on his phone. "The meditation video got 1.2 million views in three days. The algorithm is loving this content."
Anya studied the screen. "Your retention rate is excellent. People are watching all the way through."
"Thanks to you! Those storytelling techniques you taught me, the pacing—game changers." He looked at her with genuine gratitude. "You know what's crazy? I pitched this same content to my parents' friends—doctors, successful professionals—and they all thought YouTube was a waste of time. But you believed in it from day one."
"I believed in you," Anya corrected. "There's a difference."
"Well, I'm grateful either way." He grinned, boyish and enthusiastic. "And hey—next collaboration with Sara just got confirmed. She wants to do a mental health conversation. That's going to be huge."
Anya felt that familiar satisfaction—watching something she'd helped build actually succeed. With Rohan, she wasn't destroying or manipulating. She was creating. Nurturing. Using her intelligence and connections for construction rather than demolition.
It felt almost healing.
Her mother had noticed the friendship, mentioned it over lunch recently: "Rohan seems like such a lovely boy. So enthusiastic. And from such good family—his parents are both doctors, very respectable. It's nice to see you spending time with someone positive."
No pressure. No agenda. Just observation, warm and casual.
Anya had agreed. "He's easy to be around. Uncomplicated."
"That sounds healthy for you right now, Anya. After everything with your sister, all that stress—you need people who bring lightness into your life."
It had felt like genuine maternal concern. Nothing more.
Part 5: The Invitation to Goa
The text from Abhay arrived on a Tuesday evening while Anya was reviewing footage of Rohan's latest shoot.
Abhay: I'm in Goa for the week. Beach house in Anjuna. Would love to see you if you can get away. Been too long.
Anya stared at her phone, pulse quickening.
She hadn't seen Abhay in person since leaving New York two years ago. Their communication had been minimal—texts every few months, one or two phone calls, carefully managed distance.
Now he was in Goa. Alone. Inviting her.
Anya: When are you there until?
Abhay: Saturday. Come for a few days? The weather's perfect. We could actually talk—really talk, not just these surface texts.
She should probably refuse. Should maintain the distance. Should focus on her work, on Rohan's channel, on manageable things.
Instead: I'll see if I can make it work.
That evening, she mentioned it to her parents at dinner.
"Abhay's in Goa," she said casually, not looking up from her plate. "Invited me to visit. I was thinking maybe Thursday through Saturday?"
Her father set down his fork. "I'm flying to Delhi Thursday. You'll come with us."
Not a question. A statement.
"I was going to take a commercial flight to Goa—"
"The chartered plane is going to Delhi. Goa is on the route. You'll fly with us." Vikash returned to his meal. "Your mother has business there as well. We leave at 8 AM."
Her mother added warmly: "That would be lovely, Anya. You could have a nice break, spend time with Abhay. He's been working so hard with those Korean projects—probably needs family time too."
It did make sense. And both parents seemed genuinely supportive, not controlling.
"Okay. Thank you."
"Be ready by 8 AM," Vikash repeated, not looking up from his plate.
Part 6: The Flight to Delhi
The chartered Gulfstream G650 lifted off from Mumbai at 8:30 AM Thursday, climbing smoothly through monsoon clouds into clear skies above.
Anya sat across from her parents in the leather seat, laptop open but unused. The cabin was elegant—cream leather, polished wood, WiFi that actually worked. Her father was reading documents, her mother scrolling through her phone.
They'd been airborne for twenty minutes when Vikash closed his folder and looked at his daughter.
"Abhay has been compromised."
No preamble. No request for her attention. Just the statement, flat and direct.
Anya's stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"
Vikash pulled out his tablet, turned it toward her. The screen showed a photograph—Abhay and another man at a restaurant, clearly intimate, the man's hand covering Abhay's across the table.
"Abhay is sleeping with Min-Jun Park. CEO of Daehan Industries. The man I put him in charge of managing our partnership with."
He swiped to the next photo—Abhay and the same man entering a hotel together, timestamps showing 2 AM.
"Six months ago, I gave Abhay a position overseeing our Korean operations. Director of Strategic Partnerships. Within weeks, he was in Park's bed. He's been sabotaging the partnership from inside. Sharing proprietary information. Creating the problems he was supposed to solve."
Another swipe—documents, emails, financial records.
"₹3,500 crores in losses. I'm shutting down the entire Korean operation." Vikash's voice remained completely flat, factual. "₹75 lakhs deposited into Abhay's account over six months. Payment for intelligence he provided."
The scale of the betrayal was staggering. The Chandra empire employed two lakh fifty thousand people—a workforce larger than many cities. It was the tenth largest conglomerate in India, with tentacles reaching into every major economic sector. The Prime Minister himself consulted Vikash on policy matters. When someone attacked an organization of that magnitude from within, using family trust as cover, the damage extended far beyond financial losses.
Maya added quietly: "The transfers are structured to avoid detection. But they're documented."
The accusations landed like physical blows.
"That's not possible—"
"It's documented." Vikash showed her more evidence—surveillance photos, intercepted communications, financial forensics. "Park used sex to compromise him. Turned him into an asset. Abhay's been systematically destroying our Korean operations. Using the position I gave him. The trust I extended."
Anya felt dizzy. "Why would he do that?"
"Money. Sex. Resentment." Vikash's voice carried no emotion. "Park offered him a future. A position at Daehan after they absorb our market share."
He locked eyes with his daughter.
"Tonight in Delhi, you will perform the ritual. You will read his mind. You will confirm his intentions." Not a request. A command. "The hotel has everything arranged. You will report to me tomorrow morning."
"Papa, I don't know if I—"
"You will." Vikash returned to his documents. The conversation was over.
Maya spoke softly: "Anya, your father needs to understand what's really happening. If there's any chance Abhay can be saved, we need to know that too. You're helping everyone by finding the truth."
The plane banked slightly, beginning its descent toward Delhi.
Anya closed her eyes, feeling the familiar weight of being her father's weapon settling back into place.
The plane touched down smoothly at Delhi's private terminal.
As they walked toward the waiting cars, Vikash spoke once more: "The suite is ready. Everything you need is there. You will do this tonight."
Not "can you" or "I need you to" or "please."
Just: You will.
Because with Vikash Chandra, there was never a choice.
There was only what would happen, already decided, already arranged, already inevitable.
Part 7: The Ritual in Delhi
The hotel suite Vikash had arranged was in Chanakyapuri—diplomatic enclave, private, secure. Anya's room was enormous, elegantly furnished, with everything she needed already waiting.
Her father's assistants had prepared meticulously: candles in sacred geometry, her brass owl figurine, incense, the specific herbs she required. Even her grandmother's grimoire, somehow transported from Mumbai.
Maya came to check on her at 10 PM.
"Everything you need is here?"
"Yes."
"Anya, I know this is hard. But your father just needs to understand the truth. Whatever you find, we'll handle it together as family." Her mother's concern seemed genuine, warm. "Try not to worry too much. Just do what you do best—see clearly. The rest will work itself out."
After her mother left, Anya began preparations.
She lit candles, burned sage, settled into meditation position with the brass owl at the center of her sacred geometry. Focused her breathing, extended her consciousness, reached across the distance toward Goa.
Abhay was easy to find—his mind had always been accessible to her, bright and familiar. She'd avoided scanning him in New York, had respected his privacy even when tempted.
Now she had orders.
She pushed deeper, past his conscious thoughts, into the subconscious where truth lived beneath performance. Used techniques her mother had taught her, mystical practices learned from holy men Maya had connected her with.
What she found destroyed her.
Abhay was exactly what her father claimed. He'd used the position Vikash had given him to betray from inside. The affair with Park had started as manipulation—Abhay seducing the CEO to gain advantage—but had evolved into something real. He'd fallen for Park, genuinely, intensely.
And that genuine feeling had made him vulnerable to Park's counter-manipulation.
She could sense it all: Abhay's initial calculation, his growing attachment, Park's expert exploitation of that attachment. The moment Abhay had started sharing information because Park had asked during pillow talk. The rationalization—telling himself it was just minor details, nothing that would really hurt Vikash. The escalation—more information, more betrayal, deeper compromise.
And the money. ₹75 lakhs deposited in careful increments. Payment that Abhay had accepted, telling himself it was compensation for the work he was doing, not payment for betrayal.
But beneath it all: resentment. Deep, old resentment at being the poor relation. At having to ask Vikash for opportunities rather than receiving them as birthright. At working for someone when he felt he should be a partner.
Abhay had convinced himself he was taking what he deserved. That Vikash's empire was built on blood money anyway, that the Chandras had more than they needed. That Park offered him something genuine—love, partnership, a future where he wasn't just the nephew but an actual player.
She went deeper, looking for his current intentions.
Found planning. Abhay was waiting for the Korean partnership to collapse completely. Then Park would offer him an executive position at Daehan Industries. They'd be together openly—Park's marriage was already failing, he was planning to divorce. They'd build something in Korea where Abhay's connection to the Chandra name would give him legitimacy while Park provided real power.
It was all mapped out. Calculated. Abhay counting on family loyalty to prevent Vikash from acting too harshly. Counting on Sunita's grief to provide protection. Counting on getting away with it because who would believe the successful McKinsey consultant, the Harvard MBA, the respectable nephew was capable of such betrayal?
Anya withdrew from his mind carefully, returning to her own consciousness in the Delhi hotel room.
She sat in darkness for a long time, crying silently.
At midnight, she texted her father: Confirmed. Everything you suspected is accurate. He's planning to complete the sabotage and move to Daehan permanently. No remorse, no plans to stop.
The response came immediately: Report to my suite at 7 AM.
Not "thank you" or "get some sleep."
Just the command.
Part 8: The Accident
The next morning, Anya knocked on her father's suite at exactly 7 AM.
Vikash was already dressed, reviewing documents. Maya sat with her coffee, looking elegant and composed.
"Sit," Vikash said.
Anya sat.
"Report."
She told him everything she'd found. Abhay's betrayal, his planning, his intention to complete the sabotage and defect to Daehan. The complete absence of remorse or loyalty.
Vikash listened without interruption, his face expressionless.
When she finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "We fly back to Mumbai at noon. Be ready."
"What about Goa? Abhay is—"
"There is no Goa." Vikash returned to his documents. "The situation is resolved."
Before Anya could ask what that meant, Maya's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, her face carefully neutral.
"Vikash. Look at this."
She held up her screen—a news alert from Times of India:
BUSINESS EXECUTIVE DIES IN GOA SWIMMING ACCIDENT
Abhay Malhotra, 38, nephew of industrialist Vikash Chandra, drowned yesterday evening while swimming at Anjuna Beach. Police report suggests cardiac arrest. Investigations ongoing.
Anya felt her blood freeze.
"What?" She grabbed her mother's phone, read the article with shaking hands. "How is this possible? I just—last night I was—"
"Tragic." Vikash didn't look up from his documents. "We need to get to Goa immediately. Sunita will be devastated."
"Papa—" Anya's voice cracked.
Vikash finally looked at her. His eyes were completely flat, devoid of emotion.
"Your cousin went swimming. He had an accident. These things happen." He stood. "We leave for Goa in one hour. Be ready."
Not an explanation. Not a discussion. Just the facts as they would now be understood.
Maya put her arm around Anya's shoulders. "Anya, I know this is shocking. Come, sit down. Let me get you some water."
An hour later, the chartered plane landed in Goa.
The Goa Police Commissioner met them at the airport—a stocky man in his fifties who clearly knew exactly who Vikash Chandra was.
"Mr. Chandra. My deepest condolences. We've completed preliminary investigation. It appears to have been an unfortunate accident."
They walked toward waiting cars, the Commissioner providing details.
"Mr. Malhotra went swimming around 7 PM yesterday. He was wearing a life jacket—provided by the beach shack—but it was oversized, didn't fit properly. Witnesses say he swam out fairly far, maybe 200 meters. Then appeared to struggle."
"He was on medication," Vikash said. "For anxiety."
"That would explain it. The combination of medication, poor-fitting safety equipment, and overexertion—very unfortunate. He seems to have panicked, removed the life jacket, then experienced cardiac arrest. By the time lifeguards reached him, he was already unconscious."
The explanation was clean, logical, almost too perfect.
Anya sat in the car feeling numb, watching Goa's palm trees blur past.
They spent three days in Goa handling arrangements. Sunita was destroyed—her only son, her surviving child after losing her husband. She clung to Vikash, sobbing, while Maya provided quiet support.
"He was working so hard," Sunita kept saying through tears. "He wanted to make you proud, Vikash. Wanted to prove he could handle the responsibility you gave him."
Vikash held his sister, murmuring comfort, his face a mask of appropriate grief.
Maya stayed close to Anya, making sure she ate, making sure she slept, providing gentle maternal presence without asking difficult questions.
The cremation happened on the beach at sunset—Hindu funeral rites, family gathered, Sunita's wails echoing across the sand while her son's body burned.
Afterward, they flew back to Mumbai—Vikash, Maya, Sunita, and Anya in the chartered plane, silent and heavy with grief.
Part 9: The Comfort
Rohan called two days after they returned to Mumbai.
"Anya, I just heard about your cousin. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
His voice was warm, concerned, uncomplicated.
"I don't know."
"Listen, I know this probably isn't the time, but—I'm in South Bombay today. If you need to get out of the house, want some company, I could meet you? Maybe grab something to eat? Sometimes being around people helps, even when you don't feel like talking."
She should refuse. Should sit alone with her grief.
Instead: "Okay. Where?"
"Swati Snacks? I know you love that place. I could be there in an hour?"
Swati Snacks in Tardeo—her favorite since childhood. Simple Gujarati food, the kind of comfort that felt like home without the weight of family dinners.
"See you there."
He arrived exactly on time, wearing simple jeans and a t-shirt, carrying nothing but his phone and wallet. No expectations, no agenda.
They sat in the small restaurant, surrounded by families and office workers on lunch breaks, the familiar smells of dhokla and pani puri making everything feel almost normal.
Rohan didn't ask about Abhay. Didn't probe or push. Just talked about small things—a funny comment someone had left on his latest video, a street dog he'd started feeding near his office, the terrible traffic he'd hit coming from Bandra.
Normal things. Light things.
"Thank you," Anya said after they'd finished eating, sipping masala chai that was too sweet but perfect anyway.
"For what?"
"For being here. For not making this heavy."
"You've had enough heavy," he said simply. "Sometimes people just need someone to eat snacks with."
She felt something ease in her chest—gratitude for this uncomplicated person who asked nothing from her except her company.
"Your channel is doing really well," she said, wanting to shift focus. "I saw the new mental health video. The response was incredible."
His face lit up. "Right? I was nervous about going that personal, but people really connected with it. And Sara was amazing—so open about her own struggles."
They talked about the channel, about his upcoming projects, about nothing important and everything comforting.
When they left, walking toward their separate cars in the afternoon heat, Rohan touched her arm gently.
"Hey. If you need anything—to talk, to not talk, to just hang out—I'm here. Okay?"
"Okay."
"I mean it. Even if it's 2 AM and you can't sleep. Text me. I'll probably be editing anyway."
She smiled despite everything. "Thank you, Rohan."
"That's what friends do."
Friends. The word settled around them, comfortable and uncomplicated.
She drove home feeling slightly lighter, grateful for someone in her life who didn't need her to be anything except present.
Part 10: The Settling
Over the following weeks, Anya and Rohan fell into an easy rhythm.
They'd meet every few days—sometimes at his office where she'd watch editing sessions and offer notes, sometimes at cafés in Bandra, once at the Gateway of India where they'd eaten ice cream and watched tourists pose for photographs.
He never pushed. Never asked about Abhay's death or why she seemed sad. Just existed beside her, warm and energetic and focused on building his channel, his brand, his future.
And Anya felt something she rarely experienced: useful without being weaponized.
With Rohan, she was mentor, advisor, friend. She helped him craft better stories, connected him with celebrities, taught him techniques she'd learned at Tisch. But he gave something back—enthusiasm, gratitude, the sense that her knowledge mattered for creation rather than destruction.
Her mother noticed, mentioned it warmly one evening over dinner.
"You seem lighter lately, Anya. Less sad. That's good to see."
"Rohan's been a good distraction. The channel work keeps me occupied."
"He's such a nice boy. So respectful. And clearly values your guidance—I saw that video where he talked about learning from 'mentors who believe in you.' I'm sure he meant you." Maya smiled. "It's wonderful to see you investing in someone's success. You're good at nurturing talent."
Her father said nothing, but glanced at Anya briefly before returning to his meal. The assessment was quick, complete, already filed away.
It was approval. From both parents. Warm, encouraging, genuine.
Anya felt herself relaxing into it—into this friendship that felt organic even if her parents approved, into helping someone build something rather than destroying what others had built.
Maybe this was what thirty-four looked like. Finding purpose in mentorship. Accepting that some relationships worked precisely because they stayed within appropriate boundaries.
She picked up her phone and texted Rohan: Want to review the new script tomorrow? I have some thoughts on the pacing.
His response was immediate: YES! Come to the office around 11? I'll have good coffee waiting. You're a lifesaver, Anya.
She smiled.
Maybe she was.
Outside her window, Mumbai hummed its endless symphony—millions of lives intersecting, separating, continuing.
And Anya Chandra, thirty-four years old, daughter of forces she was only beginning to understand, found herself grateful for one simple, uncomplicated friendship in a life that had become impossibly complex.
Meanwhile
In Vikash Chandra's study, he reviewed reports from his legal team.
The Korean operations were being systematically dismantled. The ₹3,500 crore loss would be absorbed—painful but survivable. Daehan Industries thought they'd won.
They didn't understand yet that Vikash had been restructuring for months. That by the time Daehan realized what had happened, Vikash would control the entire Southeast Asian logistics corridor through new partnerships in Japan and Singapore.
Abhay had been sacrificed. But not just as punishment—as diversion.
Everything served multiple purposes.
Maya joined him, glass of wine in hand.
"She's doing better," Maya reported. "Texting with Rohan, making plans. The grief is settling."
"The boy keeps her occupied."
"He's harmless. And she genuinely enjoys helping him." Maya sipped her wine. "Sometimes the best arrangements are the ones that feel natural."
Vikash said nothing, just returned to his reports.
The conversation was over when he decided it was over.
In another part of the mansion, Anya lay in bed, staring at her ceiling, replaying Abhay's cremation.
The guilt hadn't faded. Probably never would.
But Rohan's text glowed on her phone—cheerful, expectant, uncomplicated.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than crushing weight.
She felt almost normal.
It wouldn't last. Nothing ever did in her life.
But for now, it was enough.