The world was burning, but from the sterile silence of a rented office in Nariman Point, Harsh watched the flames with the cold detachment of a scientist observing an experiment.
Mehta's voice, when it finally came over the secure line, was a cracked whisper, a mix of awe and terror. "It's… it's a bloodbath, sir. The market is in freefall. The article… it was the spark. The leverage… everyone was over-leveraged. They're all selling. There are no buyers."
Harsh stared at the blinking numbers on the computer screen—a private feed not tied to his company or his name. The Sensex line wasn't just dipping; it was plunging off a cliff. "Our position?" he asked, his voice emotionless.
"The long positions… they're gone. Wiped out. The paper profit of one hundred crore… vanished." Mehta sounded like he was describing the death of a loved one. "But the short… sir, the short…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the numbers.
"How much?" Harsh pressed.
"The initial investment from the Singapore loan… has multiplied. Seven times. In a single day. It's… it's unreal. We've made over three hundred crore from the collapse."
Three hundred crore. The number was so vast it was meaningless. A negative had become a positive through sheer, brutal arithmetic. He had incinerated his paper castle and mined a fortune from the ashes.
"Start closing the short position," Harsh instructed. "Slowly. In small lots. Don't attract attention."
"But sir, it could fall further!"
"We are not gamblers, Mehta. We are strategists. Take the profit. Now." The authority in his voice was absolute. He had been right. The parachute had opened.
But outside this financial fortress, the storm raged. His secretary called again, her voice now hysterical. The Income Tax officers had seized the servers at Patel Holdings. They had frozen the company's bank accounts. They were demanding his personal presence for questioning.
He didn't respond. Instead, he made another call. To Mr. Varma's private secretary.
"I need to speak with him," Harsh said, dispensing with pleasantries.
"He is unavailable," the secretary replied, his tone clipped, formal. "He is in meetings all day regarding this… unfortunate market volatility. He asked me to convey that it would be best if you handled your… regulatory matters… through proper legal channels."
The message was clear. The political umbrella had been retracted. Varma was cutting ties. Harsh was now a liability.
He expected to feel anger, betrayal. Instead, he felt a grim validation. This, too, he had anticipated. It was why he had built layers between himself and the politician. The donations to the foundation were untraceable. The meetings were in shadows. Varma could deny everything, and he would.
The personal betrayal, however, cut deeper. He drove not to his office, but to Priya's college. He saw her walking out of the physics department, her arms full of books. She saw him and stopped, her face a mask of stone. She didn't run, but she didn't come closer either.
He got out of the car. "Priya. Please. Five minutes."
"What is there to say, Harsh?" Her voice was flat, exhausted. "The whole city is talking. The 'Chipman of India' is now the 'Scamman of Mumbai.' My friends ask me if I knew. My professors look at me with pity."
"It's a panic! A market correction! I had nothing to do with the scam!" The lie tasted bitter, but he had to maintain the facade.
"Don't!" she snapped, her composure breaking. "Don't insult my intelligence. I see the pattern. The sudden wealth, the political friends, the secrecy. You were at the center of this, Harsh. You swam with these sharks, and now you're surprised that the water is full of blood?"
She hugged her books tighter, a defensive gesture. "I loved the boy who fixed radios with his hands. I don't know who you are anymore."
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing on the street. Her words were a different kind of margin call, one for which he had no collateral.
Returning to the empty apartment that night, Harsh did not feel like a victor. The three hundred crore was a number in a hidden account, a phantom victory. In the real world, his company was under siege, his political allies had abandoned him, and the woman he loved saw him as a monster.
He had navigated the financial hurricane, but he was now adrift in its silent, devastating eye. He had saved his fortune, but he was losing everything else. The hardest part was not the crash; it was the emptiness that followed.
He had won the bet. But as he stared into the darkness, he realized he had forgotten what the prize was supposed to be.
(Chapter End)