The silence in the study lingered long after Vikram had left.
Shaurya leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. Parineeti stood at her desk, her fingers still hovering near the edge of the folder Vikram had placed. The tension that had filled the room didn’t dissolve with Vikram’s exit—it thickened, a fog of things left unsaid.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Parineeti finally said, turning to face Shaurya. Her voice wasn’t angry, just... tired.
“I had to,” Shaurya replied. “You need to know the kind of people Singhania Industries is dealing with. This shipment case—it's not just corporate smuggling. There are whispers about arms, offshore networks, and connections that go deep.”
Parineeti folded her arms. “And you think I can’t handle that?”
Shaurya’s jaw clenched. “I know you can. That’s what scares me.”
She looked at him, her expression softening for a brief second. “He suspects you, doesn’t he?”
Shaurya nodded. “He hasn’t said it outright, but his eyes... he’s watching.”
Parineeti moved closer, lowering her voice. “Then be careful, Shaurya. He’s not the kind of man who forgives betrayal, even if it’s from blood.”
There was a pause. A weight in the air neither could shake.
“Do you still think he’s involved in your friend Rohan’s disappearance?” she asked.
Shaurya hesitated. “I used to. But now… I think he tried to protect him. It cost him. Maybe more than I understand.”
Parineeti looked down at the folder again, her mind racing. The case was opening doors she wasn’t sure she was ready to walk through. But she would. She always did.
—
Elsewhere, at the Singhania Estate
Vikram sat alone in his study, a glass of scotch untouched on the desk. The fire crackled softly, throwing flickers of light against the dark paneled walls. A faint trail of classical piano music played in the background—Meera's favorite piece. She used to say it kept the house from swallowing itself in silence.
His gaze was fixed on the corner of the room where an old photograph stood—his father, Rajveer Singhania, smiling beside a much younger Vikram. It had been years since the old man’s death, yet questions still clung to it like a curse. Questions that no police report, no forensic file could answer.
His mind drifted—not to business, not to the case—but to Shaurya.
He’s hiding something.
And Parineeti… sharp, confident, and now entangled deeper into the shadows Vikram called home.
There was a knock. Aaryan entered without waiting.
“You were right,” Aaryan said, tossing a slim file on the table. “Rishi Mehta. Fresh out of NALSAR. Honors all through. Works under Parineeti. Shows up at every meeting, every coffee run. Thinks he’s subtle. He’s not.”
Vikram didn’t even glance at the file.
“Keep an eye,” he said flatly. “But don’t interfere. Not yet.”
Aaryan raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s into him?”
Vikram didn’t answer. But his silence was colder than any denial.
—
Later that night, in Parineeti’s apartment
Rishi had dropped off a file earlier, some updates she had asked for. He lingered longer than necessary, smiling a bit too much. And Parineeti, though polite, kept glancing at the clock.
Now, alone in her living room, she went over the files Shaurya had handed her—covert shipments, coded communication logs, whistleblower names blurred out. It was dangerous, messy, and exactly the kind of case that brought out the fire in her.
Her phone buzzed.
Message from Vikram: “Tomorrow. 10 AM. We’re meeting the board. Be ready.”
No pleasantries. No warning. Just a command.
Parineeti stared at the screen for a long moment before typing:
Reply: “I always am.”
She didn’t send it.
Instead, she locked her phone and stood by the window, watching the lights of the city. Somewhere out there, a war was being fought—and she was already in the middle of it.
---
The polished glass doors of Singhania Industries gleamed under the soft morning light, casting reflections of the city’s pulse. Parineeti adjusted the sleeve of her blazer as she stepped into the lobby—heels clicking against the marble floor, each step measured and firm.
The receptionist, a poised woman named Meenal, looked up with a courteous smile. “Good morning, Ms. Gupta. Mr. Singhania is expecting you. May I escort you to the Chairman’s cabin?”
Parineeti nodded. “Thank you.”
As she was led through the sleek corridors of power, she felt it—the tension, the eyes. She was no stranger to powerful spaces, but Singhania Industries carried a quiet dominance in its very walls. And at the center of that dominance sat Vikram Singhania.
The door to the Chairman’s office opened with a gentle push, revealing Vikram seated behind a sprawling desk, dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit. The morning light danced along his sharp jawline, highlighting the curve of his lips as he glanced up from the documents before him.
“You’re late, Counselor,” he said smoothly, but his voice held the hint of a smirk.
Parineeti arched a brow, stepping in. “By three minutes. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“I almost didn’t,” Vikram murmured, rising to his full height. “These walls get painfully dull without someone intelligent to argue with.”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, she moved to the edge of the desk, her eyes scanning the open folder already waiting for her.
“These are the revised terms from the Shanghai vendors,” Vikram said, voice shifting slightly into business. “We’ll be addressing this in today’s board meeting, along with the legal implications of our halted shipments at the Suez checkpoint.”
Parineeti’s brow furrowed as she flipped through the documents. “This clause here—if this is enforced, your losses would triple in the event of another delay.”
He stepped closer, looking over her shoulder. “Which is why I need you to kill that clause during the discussion. They’ll challenge us. You’ll win.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Confident.”
“I don’t bring knives to gunfights, Parineeti,” he said quietly, voice dipping with something heavier than charm. “I bring you.”
She set her bag down and pulled out her notepad. He handed her a folder—one thicker than the last time. Her eyes skimmed the front. Project Tesseract: East Africa Route Compromise.
“They hijacked the logistics,” Vikram said, coming around the table. “One of our Eastern shipping vendors sold our manifests to a third party—likely connected to the PetroNova conglomerate. They’ve rerouted nearly sixty percent of our humanitarian-grade industrial fuel shipments.”
“Why haven’t you gone legal?” she asked, flipping through the papers.
“We’re still trying to confirm the breach internally before bringing in regulators,” he said. “If this leaks, shareholders will panic and the East Africa contract—worth ₹800 crores—will be torn apart.”
“And this ‘third party’,” she said, tilting her head, “you believe it’s PetroNova?”
His jaw tensed. “They’ve been circling our contracts for years. Vyom tracked one of their informants in Mombasa. This isn’t random.”
She nodded, her mind already forming the legal boundaries. “What about whistleblower protection? Any leaks?”
“One. A junior logistics analyst sent an encrypted message to an anonymous compliance blog,” he said. “We’ve traced him. The board will discuss how to contain it.”
She snapped the folder shut. “Let’s go then.”
He paused, watching her with something unreadable before opening the door for her. “Let’s give them a show.”
For a second, the air between them shifted—thick with the weight of things unsaid. But then she closed the folder with a soft click and stepped back.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then, with practiced grace, Vikram gestured toward the door.
“After you.
The boardroom was all glass, steel, and nerves. The directors had already arrived—seven in total, including Aaryan Singhania, who gave Parineeti a respectful nod. Two senior advisors looked up from their tablets. Coffee steamed in porcelain cups. Tension hung like fog.
Vikram walked in first, flanked by Parineeti. All conversations ceased.
“Let’s begin,” he said.
The CFO launched into the numbers. “As of last week, 38% of our outbound East Africa shipments have either been delayed, lost in rerouting, or redirected entirely. We estimate a current loss of ₹112 crores.”
One director leaned forward. “How did this happen under our radar?”
Parineeti, already flipping to the right page in the report, answered before Vikram. “The vendor contracts were renewed without full cross-checks. The IT department flagged unusual download patterns, but the red flags were buried in backlog.”
Another board member, a stern-faced woman in her sixties, frowned. “So it’s a systems failure?”
“Not entirely,” Vikram cut in. “It’s betrayal. Someone on the inside enabled this. And I intend to find out who.”
The room went quiet.
Then Aaryan spoke. “Parineeti will walk us through the containment strategy.”
She stood, calm and precise. “Step one: Lock all logistics vendor access. Initiate a temporary firewall lockdown on all East-bound manifests. Step two: Launch an internal audit in compliance with Section 43A of the IT Act. Step three: Frame a non-disclosure legal cage around all internal parties privy to the breach.”
“And what about PetroNova?” a director asked.
“I’ll need 72 hours,” she said, her voice cool. “I’ll file a court injunction to freeze any of their East Africa acquisitions pending our evidence. It’ll create pressure. If they’re behind this, they’ll blink.”
“And the leak?” the CFO asked.
Vikram’s voice was a razor. “Handled. The whistleblower will be privately interviewed and offered two options: protection—or a lawsuit.”
There was silence again.
Then, slowly, the board nodded. Respectfully. Uneasily. But they nodded.
—
As the meeting ended and people filed out, Vikram lingered. Parineeti was still gathering her notes.
“Efficient,” he murmured.
She glanced up. “You expected otherwise?”
“No,” he said, then added softly, “but watching you command a room like that… it’s dangerous.”
She smirked faintly. “You’d know a thing or two about dangerous.”
Their eyes held for a second too long—something unspoken crackling in the space between professionalism and something far less manageable.
And then it passed. Cleanly. But not quietly.
“You’ve earned yourself lunch,” he said simply.
She glanced up from her folder. “Is that a reward or another strategy meeting disguised as one?”
His lips quirked. “Maybe both. Come.”
They didn’t take the elevator down. Instead, he led her through a private corridor that opened into a secluded rooftop patio—glass-walled on three sides with a panoramic view of Mumbai’s skyline. The city stretched beneath them, its pulse distant but insistent.
A table had already been set—white linen, chilled water, and two covered plates waiting under silver domes. It was too meticulous to be spontaneous. Vikram Singhania never did anything unplanned.
“You keep a rooftop table ready for boardroom survivors?” she asked as she sat.
“Only the ones who don’t flinch under fire,” he replied, pulling out his chair. “And there haven’t been many.”
A waiter emerged discreetly and removed the lids—grilled salmon, sautéed greens, and a tangy citrus risotto. Parineeti blinked. “This wasn’t from the company canteen.”
“No,” Vikram said, pouring her water. “This is from a place in Bandra. I had it brought up.”
“And here I was, thinking I impressed you only professionally.”
His gaze lingered on her over the rim of his glass. “You did. That’s precisely the problem.”
She cut into the salmon, hiding the flicker of something behind her eyes. “So tell me, what’s the real fire we’re walking into with PetroNova?”
He leaned back, fingers steepled. “They’ve bought their way into half a dozen governments in the East African bloc. If they manage to sabotage our deliveries and prove we’re unreliable, they’ll replace us in the tendering process for the infrastructure contract next month. That’s a $4 billion pipeline.”
“Sabotage, bribery, espionage,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “And yet, I’m having lemon risotto while we talk about it.”
“That’s the world I live in,” he said, his voice low. “You learn to eat with your enemies in mind, and sleep with one eye open.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “And where do I fall in that world, Vikram?”
The air shifted between them.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Parineeti stilled, fork suspended halfway.
Then, smoothly, she set it down. “I’m your legal advisor. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“For now,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught—just for a fraction of a second. But she masked it with a sip of water.
“Finish your lunch,” he said, his tone returning to neutral. “We’ve got another meeting at four. And you’ll need to be sharper than ever.”
Parineeti smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry. I don’t blink under fire.”
___________________________
After the rooftop lunch, Parineeti excused herself under the guise of reviewing new case files. But instead of heading to the temporary workspace Vikram had assigned her, she stepped into an empty lounge on the executive floor—modern, sleek, and filled with too many mirrors.
She stood still, fingers gripping her folder like a shield.
It had been just a lunch. Just a meeting. Just more talk about strategies and enemies and damage control.
So why the hell was her heart still beating too fast?
She walked over to the window and stared out, watching the city hum far below. Her reflection hovered beside the glass—a perfectly composed criminal lawyer in a tailored blazer. Hair neat. Voice steady. Expressions calculated.
But inside… something had shifted.
That moment at the table. The way Vikram had looked at her—like she wasn’t just a strategist in his war but something more, something he hadn’t quite decided whether to protect or consume. The way his voice had dipped when he said, “That’s what I am trying to figure out.”
She closed her eyes.
No. No, no, no.
This wasn’t part of the plan. She didn’t let herself get entangled with clients, especially not clients with more shadows than sunlight. Especially not someone like Vikram Singhania—mysterious, dangerous, intoxicating in all the ways that spelled trouble.
And yet…
She remembered the way he had silently watched her during the board meeting—how he hadn’t interrupted when she tore through their legal defense with precision. How he’d leaned forward, a quiet smirk curving at the edge of his lips as if impressed. Proud, even.
He was sharp, calculating, ruthless—but he listened to her. He trusted her judgment.
And there, in the silence between their words, something unspoken had started to bloom.
Parineeti inhaled sharply, pulling herself away from the window. She wasn’t a teenager. This wasn’t a romance novel. She was here to win a case, not lose her composure.
But as she picked up her phone to check the time, she saw a new message light up.
Vikram Singhania: “I had them send you a digital copy of the East African correspondence. Check section 9—something’s off with the contract timestamps.”
She stared at the message longer than necessary.
And then, despite herself, she smiled.
A small, dangerous smile.
Because somewhere in the middle of this high-stakes game, Parineeti Gupta had started falling—not for his empire, not for his case.
But for him.
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