The "pressure" did not pass. It crystallized. The one hundred crore became a wall between Harsh and the world he had built. His interactions at Patel Holdings grew increasingly transactional, his patience for the mundane complexities of manufacturing worn thin by the abstract, exponential growth of his shadow wealth.
A week after his conversation with Priya, Sanjay bounded into his office, buzzing with excitement. "Bhaiya! We got it! The contract with National Telecom! For five thousand custom-branded players for their executive gift program! It's our biggest order ever!"
It was a monumental achievement. A year ago, this would have been a cause for celebration, a validation of their quality and reputation. Sanjay stood there, expecting a smile, a handshake, a shared moment of triumph.
Harsh looked up from his financial news digest, his expression neutral. He did a quick mental calculation. The order was worth roughly ₹80 lakh. A solid, legitimate profit of maybe ₹20 lakh. It was a number that now felt microscopic.
"Good work, Sanjay," he said, his voice flat. "Send the details to Deepak and Rahim. Make sure the production line can handle the volume without compromising the corporate orders we already have."
Sanjay's excitement deflated like a punctured balloon. "Yes, Bhaiya," he said, the energy draining from his voice. He hesitated, expecting more. "This... this puts us on the map with a PSU. It's a huge reference."
"I know what it is," Harsh replied, not unkindly, but with a finality that closed the subject. He returned his gaze to the newspaper, to an article speculating on the soaring prices of cement stocks. Sanjay stood for a moment longer, then turned and left, the door clicking shut with a sound of profound disappointment.
Harsh barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere. The National Telecom order was a cage of responsibility. It meant months of being tied down, managing production, dealing with quality checks, and appeasing bureaucrats. It was a cage he had once fought to get into, but now the bars felt like they were closing in.
The true cage, however, was the one of his own making. Mehta called later that afternoon, his voice hushed and urgent.
"The journalist, sir. Sujata Desai. She's been asking questions. Not about the big players, not yet. But about the smaller fish. The ones who showed... uncanny timing."
A cold knot tightened in Harsh's stomach. "What kind of questions?"
"She's been seen at the Registrar of Companies, looking at records for foreign-owned entities. Mauritius-based funds. She's a bloodhound, sir. She found a connection between a fund that invested heavily in ACC and a shipping company that... well, that has links to Mr. Varma's brother-in-law."
Harsh closed his eyes. The web was intricate, but it had threads. And a determined journalist could start pulling them.
"What is your advice, Mehta?"
"The prudent move would be to start deleveraging. Take the profit. A significant amount. Reduce our exposure. Make the portfolio... quieter."
It was the sensible thing to do. The safe thing. But the market was still roaring. The Sensex was charting a vertical line upwards. To step away now felt like leaving a feast while still hungry.
"And if we don't?" Harsh asked.
"Then we pray that Ms. Desai loses the scent, or finds a bigger rabbit to chase. And we hope that when the music stops, we are not the ones left without a chair."
That evening, Harsh found himself at his new Malabar Hill apartment. It was spacious, luxurious, and utterly empty. The silence was deafening. He stood on the balcony, looking down at the city sparkling like a bed of jewels. From up here, the chaos of Bhuleshwar, the grime of the factory, the worried faces of his team—it all seemed small and distant.
He thought about Sanjay's deflated expression. He thought about the warning in Mehta's voice. He thought about Priya's plea for him to remember what was real.
He had all the money he could ever need. He had political protection. He had crossed the Rubicon.
So why did he feel so trapped?
The gilded cage was not made of money; it was made of secrets. Every crore he has accumulated was another bar, locking him away from the simple satisfaction of a deal well-made, a product well-built, a friend's shared success.
He had wanted to build an empire. But he had instead built a fortress, and he was now its sole, lonely prisoner. The only way out, he realized with a sinking heart, was to go deeper in. To amass so much power, so much wealth, that the cage itself would become the world, and he would forget there had ever been an outside.
He picked up the phone and dialed Mehta.
"Don't deleverage," he instructed, his voice quiet but firm. "Double the leverage. Use the Mauritius fund as collateral for a new loan from the Singapore entity. I want to increase our position in Tata Steel by fifty percent."
There was a long silence on the other end. "Sir... the risk..."
"Is calculated," Harsh finished for him. "The storm is coming, Mehta. I'd rather be the one holding the lightning rod than hiding from the rain."
He hung up, the decision made. He was no longer just riding the tiger. He was whipping it to go faster.
The reckoning was coming. He would meet it not with caution, but with fire.
(Chapter End)