By fall, I knew I'd marry her, even if I had nothing to offer but a promise. She said yes anyway, on that same pier, with the tide roaring and the stars bright above us."
"We built a life," he said, his voice low and rough as tide-worn stone, from scraps of hope beneath that coastal star. I worked the shipyards, hands split raw and red, while she sketched dreams for children who saw none. Her laughter filled the cracks of our thin walls—that rented room, salt-stained and small, yet bright. The world she drew in strokes of blue and gray.
He paused, the rain a quiet hush between them.
Eleanor dreamed of galleries, of light—of teaching eyes to see the art in driftwood, in the way the waves could fracture dawn. I swore I'd build that life for her. So, I climbed. From greasy docks to glass-faced towers, each rung I scaled, I thought was for her. But the nights grew long. Her sketchbooks gathered dust. Her quiet hopes corroded in my rust."
A tremor passed through his hands. I was blind. Too busy chasing what I'd designed—some hollow monument to prove my worth. She never left. Not even when the pain came. Not even when the doctors said…
Three months, Vihaan. Three months, and then the sea took her. And I—His breath hitched. I was in Tokyo. Signing papers. When she died, I was arguing over stock percentages. The wind curled around them, damp and heavy. Gotham's voice dropped to a whisper.
Now here I stand, with months or less to spend. No empires left to want. No deals to make. My daughter. You think I don't love her? She has her mother's eyes. Her mother's heart. And I… He swallowed. I let my pride carve canyons between us. Don't make my mistakes. Don't lose her light in shadows of your own. Let me go knowing…
…knowing I left something warm behind.
The hills held their silence. The rain blurred the world beyond the two of them—a veil of falling silver, of time running thin.
Vihaan said nothing. There were no words sharp enough to cut this open, no wisdom to stitch shut a wound so old. So they walked on, the umbrella between them, the truth hanging heavy in the air—unspoken, but understood.
Like this, they reached the car. Vihaan opened the door, letting his father-in-law in. As the car pulled away, he watched it disappear down the winding road, the distant hills swallowing Gotham and his silent plea. Then, Vihaan turned back towards his house.
In the doorway stood his wife, her silhouette rigid, caught in a trance of grief. Her eyes, shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting the hospital report's cruel verdict. Her hands clutched the frame, as if anchoring herself against the storm within.
Vihaan slowed, his heart aching to bridge the space between them. He wanted to hold her, to wrap her in words or warmth, to ease the raw sorrow etched across her face. But his tongue felt leaden, his arms too weak for the weight of her pain. No gesture seemed enough. So he passed by, silent, a ghost brushing past her in the dim light, unable to meet her gaze.
The night passed like a shadow over both of them. Morning brought no rest, only duty. Without speaking of it, Vihaan and his wife found themselves walking side by side into Summit Group's towering headquarters—the empire Gotham had spent a lifetime building. Now, it stood not as a monument to his power, but as the weight of his farewell.
Inside, the transition unfolded quietly. Gotham had already set the path. Papers were signed. Protocols followed. And before the morning sun crept too high, the company that once bore his name now belonged to his daughter. He stood there to witness it.
Gotham's face, worn and thin, carried something rare that day—peace. In that moment, Vihaan saw not the man hardened by boardrooms and profit margins, but a father watching his last promise finally take form.
News spread fast. By midday, it was public: Summit Group would merge with Pinnacle group. Two giants becoming one.
In the corridors and conference rooms, reactions stirred like wind before a storm. Some faces masked unease. Others whispered doubt. A few smiled, their eyes sharp with the scent of opportunity—or envy. Friends disguised as well-wishers, rivals hidden in plain sight. But for now, the surface held. Until the envelope arrived. Thick. Unmarked. A legal notice, placed deliberately where it couldn't be missed.
Everything, in that instant, shifted.
The office held a silence thicker than any argument. Gotham sat motionless, staring at the legal notice laid before him, his face carved from something harder than age. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice flat, without emotion."He came back." The name followed like a sentence, heavy and inevitable. "Raghav." Vihaan said nothing. There was no comfort to offer. No answer Gotham would accept. The old man's fingers tightened on the handle of his cane, his breathing controlled but thin, as if holding back something heavier than anger. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, eyes still fixed on the paper that now ruined everything. His voice, when it came again, was cold. Let me speak to him.
Later that evening, in the private office, the air between the two brothers was sharp, the past hanging heavier than any accusation. Raghav stood waiting, older, thinner, his face hardened by years of resentment. He looked dangerous in the way a man with nothing left to lose often is. His clothes didn't hide the damage. Neither did the smirk playing at his lips as Gotham entered. His first words cut straight through the silence. Why did you come now of all time..?
The kind that comes when a man knows words won't be enough—and still, he lets the silence speak for him. Both men understood: this wasn't a reunion. This was unfinished business.
To be continued...😊😊