Morning – UDC Mall Groundbreaking Site
A golden sun broke through the City D haze, casting long, hopeful shadows across the cleared site. Scaffolding framed the skyline like unfinished verses. Marigold garlands swayed from bamboo poles. Incense smoke curled through the crisp morning air.
Distinguished individuals from the city, including the mayor, government ministers, members of the media, and key stakeholders, were assembled.
However, the attention of all present was directed towards the true locus of power: Mr. Riyansh Madhvan and Ms. Rishika Upadhyay. They stood adjacent to one another, flanked by their respective teams, maintaining a dignified silence.
Mr. Veer was positioned nearby, arms folded, exhibiting a contemplative yet subtly proud demeanor. Ms. Kavya Thakur diligently recorded notes, while Mr. Aakash Mital remained at a distance, his gaze fixed upon the layout sheets he held.
A priest recited sacred verses as Ms. Rishika Upadhyay gracefully knelt before the foundation stone, holding a silver kalash containing water from the Ganga River.
"Shall we commence?" Mr. Riyansh Madhvan inquired, briefly glancing at Ms. Upadhyay.
"Let us proceed with the construction of that which was committed," Ms. Upadhyay responded, directing her gaze towards the ground they were poised to consecrate together.
Upon the coconut making contact with the stone, a resounding cheer erupted, accompanied by a flurry of camera flashes.
The earth had been blessed, and a project that had been delayed for years had finally been inaugurated.
Later – Inside the Temporary Site Office Cabin
Numerous blueprints and digital models were present. Site engineers intermittently entered and exited the cabin.
Ms. Rishika Upadhyay stood before a large board, reviewing revised elevation plans and soil integrity reports. She remained unmoved as Mr. Riyansh Madhvan entered.
"I recall your assessment of this project as impossible," she stated, her arms folded, her focus remaining on the design.
"I recall your disapproval of my financial structuring," he replied, positioning himself beside her.
A faint smirk briefly appeared on Ms. Upadhyay's lips. "My disapproval persists. However, I acknowledge the favorable outcomes."
Mr. Madhvan shrugged. "Certain legacies are financially supported. Others are resolutely defended. And some embody both."
Their gazes met—composed and understanding.
"I observed your gaze on stage last night," Ms. Upadhyay remarked. "Your address was not directed towards the audience."
"Indeed," Mr. Madhvan conceded, "I was addressing the individual who would genuinely hold me accountable."
Ms. Upadhyay nodded. "Commendable. For I shall."
Mr. Madhvan leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And it is my desire that you do so."
Evening – Rooftop Overlooking the Site.
The skyline was ablaze with an orange hue as workers dismantled the ceremonial tent. Below, machinery resumed its activity. Miss. Rishika Upadhyay leaned against the railing, partaking of ginger chai from a paper cup.
Mr. Riyansh Madhvan joined her with his own beverage. "We commenced construction today. However, I believe something more profound has been initiated."
Miss. Upadhyay remained silent.
Mr. Madhvan continued, "You once conveyed to me that the past constituted a burden."
"It continues to do so," she murmured. "However, perhaps it now also serves as a blueprint."
Riyansh smiled. "Then let us collaboratively draft the remainder."
Rishika turned to face him. "This transcends mere business, Mr. Madhvan. If we proceed with this—construct this—there will be no possibility of withdrawing midway through."
He returned her gaze directly. "That is the intended course of action. There will be no deviations."
A moment of silence followed.
"And what of the extraneous matters? The media speculation, the internal political maneuvering, Mr. Riyansh's strategies, the rumors concerning the Upadhyay-Madhvan situation?"
"We maintain our current position," Rishika stated. "We allow these distractions to dissipate. We focus on development."
As the sun began to set, she extended her hand—not for public display, not for the benefit of the press—but as a gesture of collaboration. Authentic. Resolute. Merited.
Mr. Riyansh accepted her gesture, his fingers closing around hers.
"A toast to establishing a strong base," he remarked.
She offered a smile. "And to maintaining composure when faced with adversity."
Cut to: Few days later,
Venue: Palazzo Fiorelli, Florence
An exclusive art-fashion auction in a 15th-century palazzo, restored in quiet opulence by private Italian funds. The evening is intimate—no press, no social media, only legacy names and silent scouts.
The palazzo walls still breathed frescoes. Gold leaf had faded at the corners, but elegance remained like a perfume that never left. Sculptors, silent investors, textile historians, and the heads of European ateliers whispered in corridors once walked by cardinals.
Rajat Madhvan stood near a sun-warped window, listening half-heartedly as a Parisian hedge fund rep explained the rise of ethically crafted couture among Gen Z buyers.
He was here on assignment—sent by Madhvan Capital's luxury vertical to evaluate European artisan startups. What he hadn't expected was to feel… removed.
He'd been in dozens of boardrooms, but Florence felt heavier. Realer. Honest in a way that made him suspicious.
And then the room shifted. Not because of applause. Not because of lights.
But because the designer walked in—not introduced, not accompanied. She simply entered through a side door, wearing an asymmetrical ivory coat-dress with hand-painted charcoal strokes that danced like calligraphy. No jewelry. No PR smile.
Only presence.
"Who's that?" Rajat asked the woman beside him.
The woman smiled. "That's Ira N.K. The ghost the country I press never mentions."
Rajat blinked. "IRA…?"
"She's from coutnry I. Changed her name years ago. She's the one tonight's auction is built around. Every garment is hers."
Later – The Auction Floor
He watched from a distance as Ira presented her collection. Her words were measured, but her voice carried something ancient—like she was remembering rather than selling.
"These textiles are made from forgotten looms. Hand-dyed using techniques lost after the 1940s. They're not garments. They're returns."
The room was spellbound. Rajat, for once, couldn't calculate.
Outside – A Cloistered Courtyard, Midnight
The event had dwindled. Some guests had left. Others stayed for wine and cigars. Rajat stepped into the courtyard, needing air and clarity.
She was already there.
Ira, sitting on a stone bench under the orange glow of a wall lamp, sketchbook balanced on her knee, boots tucked under her.
She looked up, not startled. Just quietly amused.
"Let me guess," she said. "City D? Legacy investor circuit?"
He arched a brow. "That obvious?"
"You flinched at the word textile but stared during the auction. You're curious. But wary."
He stepped closer. "You're… not like most designers I've seen."
"I'm not seen at all. That's the point."
A silence fell. And then he said, "I'm Rajat."
"I know," she replied, eyes not leaving his. "Madhvan. Second son. Or cousin? The reports differ."
He almost laughed. "I am Mr. Mahesh Madhvan's son."
She nodded. "And you're here to invest?"
"Evaluate," he said. "We don't invest in ghosts."
That made her smile. A real one. "Good. I don't design for vampires."
Their eyes held.
Something was happening. Neither of them had language for it. Not yet.
"You don't belong here, do you?" she asked, gently.
"I belong everywhere, technically," he replied. "But lately, nowhere… honestly."
She closed her sketchbook, stood up, and looked him straight in the eye.
"Then maybe you're finally in the right place."
She walked past him, coat fluttering like a forgotten flag. He watched her go, something in his chest unmooring quietly.