Volume 1: The AccidentChapter 3: Fractures in the Glass
December 17th, 2029 – Mumbai
The boardroom lights buzzed faintly overhead.
White. Cold. Perfect.
Like always.
But Aanya wasn't really there.
She sat at the head of the table—poised, polished, unmoving. The room around her moved in soft chaos. Voices layered over voices. Paper rustled. Fingers tapped on glass tablets. Someone coughed.
Her team was in sync, as they always were—rehearsed, rehearsing, afraid of missteps.
Yet to her, it all felt like watching a film behind soundproof glass.
Muted.
Removed.
Distant.
Her mind wasn't on revenue growth or Q4 reports.
It was still caught somewhere between a corner booth in Dadar and a man who didn't belong in her world.
Dev.
He had walked into her life like a footnote. Quiet. Casual. Too casual.
And he had walked out the same way.
Like it meant nothing.
And maybe it hadn't.
But it felt like it had.
And she hated that.
"Ma'am?" someone said, voice cautious.
Aanya's eyes shifted, barely. The head of PR. Nervous. Sweating.
"We're waiting on your approval for the Diya Singh acquisition," she said, trying to sound calm.
Aanya blinked.
Then: "Approved. But no press release until I say so."
"Yes, ma'am."
The woman exhaled, subtly.
The meeting moved forward again. Projections. Investor rounds. Reorg plans.
But a part of Aanya had already stepped out of the room.
Later that evening – Malabar Hill, Old Haveli
The air was thick with winter quiet.
Fog clung to the edges of the garden. The bougainvillea vines sagged heavy with dew. In the distance, the sea could be heard murmuring against the rocks.
On the verandah of the Rathore family haveli, her grandfather sat with a mug in his hand. The same battered blue ceramic one he'd used for over a decade. A small transistor radio played Jagjit Singh, softly, like a half-remembered lullaby drifting on smoke.
Aanya stood behind him.
Arms crossed.
He didn't turn.
"You met him," he said.
Statement. Not question.
She said nothing.
He took a sip. "You didn't expect it to be him."
"No," she admitted.
"You wouldn't have gone if I'd told you."
"You should've told me anyway."
"You needed to meet him as a stranger. It's the only way you'd feel anything."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't feel anything."
That got him to turn.
Slowly.
One look.
Old. Sharp. Merciless.
"You're lying," he said.
She looked away, irritated by how easily he still saw through her.
Always had.
Even when she was twelve and hiding report cards behind furniture. Even when she was twenty-one and silently crying behind bathroom doors.
He always knew.
"You planned it," she said quietly.
"I did," he replied. "Just like I planned to keep you alive after the crash. Just like I planned to build this empire around your silence. Just like I planned to turn you into a woman who could kill companies with a look."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
The silence between them was heavy. Thick with years.
"I don't need him," she said.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"No. You don't need anyone. And that's exactly the problem."
10:37 PM – Aanya's Penthouse
The skyline glittered like distant frost.
She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. Her reflection layered faintly over the city. In one hand, a glass of water. Untouched.
On the table, her phone lay face-up.
Still. Waiting.
She replayed the dinner. Every second of it. His voice. His calm. His refusal to be bent or broken by her silences.
Most men either cracked under her presence… or tried to conquer it.
Dev had done neither.
He had just… sat there. Calm. Unshaken.
And somehow made her feel like she was the unpredictable one.
She didn't like it.
But she hadn't walked away either.
Not really.
She put the glass down.
Picked up the phone.
Typed: Dev Khurana.
Search.
Nothing.
No LinkedIn. No articles. No family mentions. No tags. No digital footprint at all.
No Twitter. No Instagram. No interviews. No photos.
Just…
Nothing.
Her fingers hovered. She narrowed the query.
Dev Khurana Mumbai. Dev Khurana hospital accident. Dev Khurana + Rathore.
Still nothing.
She frowned.
Everyone left something behind. A trail. A shadow. A piece of data. Especially in her world.
But Dev had left no trace.
And that's when the chill crept down her spine.
Who the hell was he really?
And why had her grandfather brought him into her life?
She opened a secure terminal. An internal company database. She typed the name again. Checked against suppliers. Contractors. Legal associates. Political donations.
Still nothing.
It didn't make sense.
People didn't just… not exist.
Unless they were trained to disappear.
Somewhere Else – Unknown Location
Dev sat in a dim room, a black coat slung over the chair behind him.
He scrolled slowly through something on his phone. Stopped. Tilted the screen toward the light.
Aanya Rathore – 7 Most Ruthless CEOs of 2029.
He smirked.
Then locked the phone.
Across the room, a small manila envelope sat open. A single photo lay inside—blurry, taken from a distance.
Aanya. In her car.
Pre-crash.
He didn't touch the photo.
But he looked at it for a long time.
Back at the Penthouse – Midnight
Aanya closed the laptop.
Stood up.
Walked to her bedroom. Switched off the lights.
But sleep didn't come.
Instead, she lay in bed, eyes open, listening to the low hum of the city far below.
Her grandfather's words looped in her head.
"You don't need anyone. And that's exactly the problem."
She hated that he might be right.
Worse—she hated that Dev had entered the cracks in her silence so easily.
Without effort.
Without permission.
And now, she couldn't stop wondering—
Was he planted? Or was he just the beginning of something else?
She didn't know.
And Aanya Rathore hated not knowing.
Almost as much as she hated losing control.