The number echoed in the silent office. ₹8,17,500. It was a siren's call, a shimmering mirage in the desert of his legitimate struggles. For a long time, Harsh just sat there, the plastic receiver of the phone growing warm in his hand, the two realities warring inside his skull.
In one reality, he was Harsh Patel, Director of a failing logistics company. He wore cheap shirts stained with sweat and diesel. He argued over paise with tyre-wallahs. He laid off skilled workers and watched the light die in their eyes. He lost sleep over a ₹35,000 monthly shortfall.
In the other reality, he was Arun Patel, Ghost Investor. He did nothing. He made no product. He employed no one. He simply knew the future, and with a few phone calls, he had made ₹3,17,500 in pure profit. It was clean, effortless, and utterly dishonest.
The ghost of his past life was effortlessly outperforming the man he was trying to become.
A corrosive thought began to form: What if Agarwal is wrong? What if the world doesn't reward good products? What if it only rewards good bets?
He could solve everything. Right now. A few more transfers. A few more well-placed bets on the names he knew would soar. He could inject a million rupees into Patel Holdings. He could reopen the plant, rehire the workers, give Deepak a blank check for the best components, and tell Sanjay to sell without ever mentioning price. He could build his empire not brick by brick, but in a single, glorious, fraudulent explosion of capital.
The temptation was a physical ache. It was the easiest thing in the world.
He stood up and walked to the window. The city below was a circuit board of light and shadow, a vast machine running on a currency of hustle, hope, and corruption. He had tried to build a clean node in that machine, and the machine was rejecting him, grinding him down.
His eyes fell on the scooter parked below, the same one he'd bought with his first "clean" money. It was old now, a little rusty. A tangible thing.
And then he thought of Rahim's face when he'd handed him the severance pay. Not anger, but a profound, weary disappointment. He thought of Deepak, quietly studying truck engine manuals instead of circuit designs. He thought of Priya, and the respect in her eyes when she'd held the "Bombay Groove"—a respect earned, not bought.
The ghost could give him money, but it could never give him that.
A different plan began to form. Not a surrender to the gambler, but a harnessing of it. A dangerous, tightrope walk.
He wouldn't raid the ghost account. Not yet. That was the nuclear option, the end of his attempt at legitimacy.
But he could use its existence as a shield. The knowledge that it was there, growing in the shadows, gave him a terrifying new form of courage. It meant that the slow, painful, honest grind of Patel Holdings wasn't a life-or-death struggle anymore. It was a choice. He was choosing the hard path not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant something.
The fear of total failure—the fear that had been choking him—evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, calculated resolve.
The next morning, he gathered the team. The mood was still somber, expecting more cuts, more retreats.
"We're changing our strategy," Harsh announced, his voice different. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a calm, unnerving certainty.
Deepak and Sanjay exchanged a glance. Lina looked up from her ledger, wary.
"The logistics business is our foundation. We will make it strong. But it will not be our ceiling." He turned to Sanjay. "I'm unfreezing sales. But you're not selling to just anyone. Find me one client. Just one. Not a store. A corporate client. A big one. Like Agarwal, but bigger. Someone who needs a hundred, two hundred units a month for promotions, gifts, incentives. We will be a boutique, business-to-business manufacturer. No more retail."
He turned to Deepak. "You and Rahim have a new project. The 'Bombay Groove' Model B. I don't care if the faceplate is plastic. I don't care if the sound is 5% less perfect. I want it reliable. I want it costed to the paisa. I want a profit margin of 30% at a ₹1,999 price point. The ghost of Swami is in that plant, Deepak. Exorcise him. Find the efficiencies."
The commands were clear, direct, and devoid of the desperate energy that had characterized their previous efforts. It was the calm of a man who was no longer betting his entire life on a single hand.
The change was electrifying. The pressure, once a suffocating blanket, was now a focused laser. Sanjay immediately started chasing leads for corporate gifts and employee incentive programs. Deepak drove to the Kandivali plant, not with a sense of dread, but with a new mission for Rahim: to tear apart their beloved creation and rebuild it as a soldier, not a artist.
Harsh had made a pact with himself. The ghost account was his emergency fund, his insurance policy. It was the thing that would allow him to take the bold, risky bets in his legitimate business without the fear of total ruin.
He was no longer just an architect or a gambler.
He was a man playing two games at once, using the winnings from the hidden game to fund the visible one. It was a dangerous, duplicitous balance. But for the first time since he'd won Swami's assets, he felt like he was in control.
He was building his walls, just as Agarwal had advised. But one wall was made of brick and mortar, of sweat and principle.
The other was made of shadows and secrets, and it was getting taller every day.
(Chapter End)