Back at the Verma estate, Aarya paced the living room as Janhavi handed her a sealed envelope.
"This just arrived. No return address."
Aarya opened it, unfolding a single sheet of paper. The typed message was brief:
There's a leak inside Verma Industries. Someone close to you is feeding the media.
Her eyes scanned the words twice, then again. Her expression remained unreadable, but Janhavi saw the flicker of something colder than fury—disappointment.
Aarya sat down, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.
"I expected Karan to play dirty," she said softly. "But this is calculated. Timed leaks. Media manipulation. Someone wants to discredit me before I regain full control."
Janhavi frowned. "Should we shut down internal access temporarily? Run surveillance sweeps again?"
Aarya shook her head. "That'll only alert them. No... we let them think they're winning." Her voice grew firmer. "Track the next leak. Monitor all communications, but discreetly. I want the mole to feel comfortable—until they trip."
"And when they do?"
Aarya's eyes gleamed. "We make an example of them."
----
Later that night, alone in her study, Aarya pulled out an old photo—her father, smiling beside her younger self on the grounds of the Verma estate. There was no hatred in her heart. Only purpose. She placed the photo facedown.
Her mind drifted—unwillingly—to Shaurya.
The way he'd looked at her. Not with contempt, but with conflict. He was dangerous, yes. But not reckless. He was thinking, calculating... watching her.
And something else. She'd seen it in his eyes.
A flicker of doubt.
Whatever his grudge was, it had cracks.
Good, she thought, as she rose and poured herself a drink.
Let him come close.
Let him see who she really was.
Let him fall.
Because once he stepped too far in... there would be no way out.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
----
The chandeliers of the Oberoi Grand Ballroom gleamed like falling stars, casting a golden glow over the sea of power suits and designer gowns. Cameras flashed, glasses clinked, and the buzz of elite conversation filled the air. The charity gala was more than a social event—it was a stage, and tonight, Aarya Verma was center of it.
She stepped onto the red carpet in a midnight blue saree with intricate silver embroidery, each thread a statement of elegance and strength. Her presence stole the breath from the room. The media surged forward as if drawn by gravity.
"Aarya Verma, how does it feel to be back in the spotlight?" one reporter called out.
She paused, offering a serene smile. "It feels like home."
With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving the press with only sound bites and speculation—just as she intended.
But across the hall, eyes sharper than any lens followed her every move. Shaurya Singh leaned against the marble column, dressed in a crisp black suit that clung to him like second skin. There was danger in his stillness, elegance in his quiet dominance.
He hadn't planned to attend the gala. In fact, he despised these social charades. But when he heard that Aarya Verma would be the guest of honor, something unspoken drew him here.
"Didn't expect to see you at a charity ball," Aarya's voice cut through the space between them.
He turned to find her already by his side, a flute of champagne in her hand, eyes glinting like obsidian.
"And here I thought I'd be the surprise of the evening," he said smoothly, eyes raking over her with open admiration. "But clearly, you stole the show."
"Flattery doesn't suit you, Mr. Singh," she replied, taking a small sip. "Though the suit does."
There was a beat—a charged silence. Then a smirk curled on his lips. "Tell me, Aarya… Do you always mix charm with threat, or is it just when I'm around?"
She leaned in slightly, her voice low enough only for him to hear. "That depends. Are you here to flirt or to spy?"
Shaurya chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You're sharper than the gossip columns give you credit for."
"And you're exactly the kind of danger they warned me about," she replied.
Their eyes locked. The tension wasn't hostile—it was magnetic, unspoken, electric. Somewhere between suspicion and curiosity, something else flickered.
Before either could say more, a burst of applause drew attention to the podium where the host announced Aarya's name. She turned to leave, but not before giving Shaurya one last glance over her shoulder.
"Enjoy the show," she whispered.
----
On stage, Aarya's voice rang clear, her speech equal parts gratitude and subtle declaration of power.
"I stand here tonight not as a guest, but as a woman rebuilding—not just her home, but a legacy. And legacies, like people, rise from ashes."
The room erupted into applause.
Hidden among the crowd, Karan Malhotra watched with clenched jaws. She was winning hearts, headlines, and influence. Again.
He slipped into a corridor, where a man in a gray hoodie leaned against the wall, tapping away on a tablet.
"Specter," Karan greeted him.
"You have the files?" the hacker asked without looking up.
Karan handed over a flash drive. "Fabricated banking statements, falsified offshore accounts—everything to soil her father's name. I want them to go viral within 72 hours."
Specter slid the drive into his laptop.
"Consider it done."
"Make her bleed," Karan said darkly. "Not with guns. With headlines."
----
By the time the gala ended, Aarya was exhausted but radiant. As she stepped into her black sedan, Janhavi texted to confirm that the press coverage was overwhelmingly positive.
"Looks like your gamble paid off," Janhavi wrote.
But the glow of victory dimmed the moment the driver pulled out of the venue.
A black SUV, its headlights off, surged from a side alley.
"Look out!" Aarya shouted, just as her driver slammed on the brakes.
The SUV skidded past them, missing by inches, before disappearing into the night.
Aarya's pulse pounded. Her driver cursed under his breath, shaken but alert.
"Was that... an accident?" he asked.
Aarya looked ahead, her voice icy calm. "No. That was a message."
She gripped her phone and stared at the blank screen, thinking of Karan. But her mind, unbidden, drifted to someone else—someone whose smile tonight had unsettled her more than the near-collision.
Shaurya.
Was he watching now? Was he part of this?
Or… was he just as caught in the storm as she was?
As her car melted into the city night, Aarya Verma knew one thing with certainty—this war wasn't just about power anymore. It was about masks, motives, and magnetism.
And some enemies wore suits so well, they felt almost... dangerous to the heart.