Location: City D, Mital Mansion — Late Evening
Dev had called the number ten times. No answer.
He tried WhatsApp. Blocked.
He even DM'd on old handles. Nothing.
Finally, in frustration, he cornered Aakash near the Mital offices one evening.
Dev (desperate): "Please, just tell me where he is."
Aakash (quietly): "He left the country, Uncle. He's gone. Said he needed to disappear… finish his degree… be far away from this drama. From you."
The words cut deeper than expected.
Vivaan had left without a goodbye.
Days passed. Then, Akash called.
Akash (on phone, calm): "Riyansh sir gave me Keys, that vivan left for you. He wanted you to have it... if you ever decided to change."
Dev moved in that same night. Left the Mital house without a word.
The apartment was stark, quiet. But to Dev, it felt like Vivaan.
On the desk, there was a sealed envelope.
He opened it.
Inside:
– Relocation documents
– A basic fund
– Access to a shared studio space downtown
– A simple note: "Make something real." —Riyansh
Dev stopped going outside. He bought a second-hand MacBook, borrowed a MIDI keyboard, and turned Vivaan's notes into structure.
He named his underground label: EchoVerse Studios — in honor of Vivaan, who always believed music was more than sound — it was memory.
He enrolled anonymously in a 12-week production course. Learned from scratch. Sound design. Mixing. Digital mastering. He was no longer "Dev Mital." He was Dev, the student.
He created his first EP: "Second Drafts of Me" — five tracks, raw and vulnerable.
TK HQ, Three Weeks After, (Hq Shifting to City M to City D.)
The City D skyline shimmered under the dying heat of dusk. Inside TK Jewellers' headquarters, calm had vanished.
Red alerts flashed across the war room's massive screens.
TikTok Trend: #TKFake — Viral Scandal Accuses TK's Legacy Line of Using Imitation Stones.
Cyber Breach Detected: Server Access Traced to Foreign Network via Istanbul.
Luxury Daily: Glarious Casts Doubt on Provenance of TK Heritage Diamonds.
The room buzzed like a hornet's nest.
At the center of it stood Rishika Upadhyay, her gaze sweeping across data storms and mutinous murmurs.
She didn't flinch.
Behind her, Riyansh Madhvan stood stiff, his voice sharp.
"They've weaponized every vertical. PR. Logistics. Social media sentiment. Even vendor compliance chains. This isn't competition. This is a corporate assassination."
Rishika's response was cold, deliberate.
"Good," she said. "That means they underestimated us."
In the main hall — teak-paneled, hung with decades of photographs and memories — the TK board gathered for what was meant to be a vote of strategic restructuring.
Instead, it became war.
Padma Sethia, the eldest director, banged her carved sandalwood walking stick.
"This girl is burning our legacy. Glarious has discredited us globally. Your 'social-luxury pivot' is failing, Rishika!"
Mr. Jaideep, sharp-suited industrialist with eyes like stone, chimed in:
"Dubai's pulled listings. Paris boutiques want a refund. Half of City's M elite are whispering. I say—reinstate the legacy board structure. Bring in Rajat. He understands market power."
The name hung heavy in the air.
From the far end of the table, Rajat Madhvan gave a slow, satisfied smirk — not overt, just enough.
Rishika rose. Her voice was glacial. Unhurried. Calculated.
"Rajat understands power," she said. "But not loyalty."
Murmurs.
"He sold internal documents to a shell distributor—just days before the Living Line breach. Glarious didn't guess our designs. They were handed over."
A tremor passed through the room. Rajat's smile faltered—but only briefly.
He leaned forward, voice mild. "Accusations without conviction. Sounds like paranoia, Miss Rishika."
"And yet your fingerprints are on half a dozen NDA violations," Riyansh added smoothly.
But Rishika stepped back. PR firms were fired. Campaigns were canceled.
Instead, Rishika called a different army.
"Bring the artisans," she told Riyansh, late one night, standing before a whiteboard scrawled with chaos.
"All of them?" he asked.
"All of them," she confirmed.
Not in suits. Not in glass offices. In villages. In studios. In quiet corners of the country where gold was still melted in iron pots and designs were whispered through hands, not PDFs.
Location: Éclat Luxe Mall, City D – Level 3 Bridal Wing
Time: 3:47 PM
The marble corridor of Éclat Luxe Mall glistened under soft skylights, echoing the hum of violins playing faintly from a high-end speaker system. Mirrors lined the walls beside glowing storefronts: each one a designer label, each one worshipping a different kind of woman.
Ira N.K. walked alone — her steps measured, her mind elsewhere. She wore slate grey wide-leg trousers, a cream blouse tucked with a subtle knot at the waist, and carried nothing but her phone and a small soft leather clutch.
She wasn't here for anyone.
She had just left a boutique — flipping through bridal zardozi with mild curiosity. Not for herself. Not yet. Just… imagining.
And then the air shifted.
Footsteps — sharp, synchronized — echoed like a drumroll from behind.
Voices. Laughter. Guards. She knew that sound.
Sanvi Bansal. And she was not alone.
Like a royal procession, Mrs. Bansal arrived first, draped in an emerald silk saree that shimmered with authority. Behind her, Sanvi strutted in dusty lavender—a coordinated co-ord set clinging to her curves like ambition. Her friends flanked her like bridesmaids of entitlement. And Meera walked silently behind, her expression unreadable.
They hadn't seen her yet. But fate had its own sense of theatre.
Because when Ira stepped aside to let a delivery cart pass—just one second too late—she turned straight into them.
Sanvi (loudly, freezing): "Well, well... look who's there."
Everyone stopped.
Sanvi (a smirk forming): "The Chairwomen of Bansal's."
Ira blinked. Then—without hesitation—turned her gaze away. She didn't acknowledge them. Didn't move.
Ira adjusted the strap on her bag and took a step sideways, as if the confrontation didn't exist.
Sanvi (to her friends, glaring now): "She's pretending again. So used to being ignored, she thinks it's a skill."
One of her friends, shorter but with too much lip gloss and too little sense, stepped forward with a sneer—and deliberately tried to shoulder into Ira's path.
But Ira was fluid—she stepped aside in time.
The girl lost balance—heels clicking wildly—and fell hard onto the polished floor.
The corridor went silent.
Sanvi (stepping forward, fire in her voice): "How dare you?!"
Ira (finally looking at her, cool as frost): "What did I do? If your friend can't walk straight, it's not my fault."
Mrs. Bansal (sharply): "Don't pretend you don't know anything, Ira. You've always had a talent for creating scenes."
Meera (coldly, to the guards): "Get her out of here."
The guards moved in. But Ira—graceful, composed—turned swiftly, catching one guard's forearm just as he reached toward her shoulder.
A swift wrist lock. He stumbled back in shock.
Ira (to all of them, voice like silk slicing through air): "Don't. Any of you. Dare. Touch me again… or I swear the next one who tries will land harder than your friend did."
Gasps echoed from shoppers watching from a distance.
But Sanvi wasn't done.
She laughed—a slow, theatrical mockery echoing against the corridor walls.
Sanvi (clapping once, sarcastic): "Ahahahaha… oh Ira, please. You've always had fight, but no ground to stand on."
She walked closer. Step by step. Until she was right in front of Ira.
Then, almost tenderly, she placed one hand on Ira's shoulder. Leaned in close.
Sanvi (whispering, venom in velvet): "Don't worry, babe. I'll crush you in some time. Just wait… and watch.The moment I become the daughter-in-law of the Madhvans... I'll crush you like a forgotten aunt — the kind we don't invite to weddings."
Ira didn't flinch. But her jaw clenched. Just slightly.
Sanvi turned with a smirk and strutted away—her guards following, her friends whispering, her mother silent but satisfied.
Only Meera glanced back.
Just once. Ira stood still.
The corridor emptied.
Her reflection in the wall mirror stared back — same face, same silence.
But behind the stillness, something sharp had awakened.
Ira's Penthouse – Late Evening
The skyline of City D glowed like embers behind the glass walls of Ira Bansal's penthouse. She stood by the window, draped in a grey silk robe, the city lights reflecting in her eyes as a familiar voice echoed from her phone.
Aarav (on video call): "You did it, Ira. The board stepped down. The stock prices are rising again. You showed them."
Ira (calm but fierce): "Today I encountered Sanvi and her associates. Sanvi threatened to ruin me after she becomes Madhavan's daughter-in-law. They also attempted to harm me, but I responded decisively. I warned them against any further actions targeting me or my family, stating that I would retaliate definitively and effectively."
Mr. Kapoor (her uncle, sharply): "You did it… yes. But this isn't the end, Ira. It's just the beginning."
Aarav (frowning): "What do you mean, Uncle? What's starting now?"
Mr. Kapoor: "Have you forgotten? The marriage. The Bansals and the Madhvans. Sanvi and Rajat. You think this storm is over? No. It's barely begun. You're celebrating checkmate, but the king is still breathing."
A cold silence settled. Ira narrowed her eyes.
Ira: "The Mahesh Madhvan still believe —Bansals—hold the proof. That's why they're going ahead with the alliance."
Mr. Kapoor: "Exactly. But here's the truth—they don't know we have the originals. They don't know we're bluffing. Once the marriage happens, the Bansals will ensure the Madhvans are their puppets. And if Mahesh Madhvan ever learns that you have the real proofs—the ones that can bury his legacy—he won't stop at threats. He'll try to end you."
Mrs. Kapoor (anxiously): "Then what should we do now?"
Mr. Kapoor (after a pause, looking directly at Ira): "It's not in our hands anymore. But she can do it."
Ira (flatly): "What do you mean?"
Mr. Kapoor: "I'll tell you when it's time."
The call ended abruptly. Ira stood still, the city's hum fading into the silence of her thoughts.