In the kitchen Rishi squirmed, but the grip tightened. His ears burned red. That same cryptic smile returned to the writer's lips. Rishi shrank, like prey sensing the predator's breath.
"If you want to know me, you'll have to read. How else will you understand me? Shall we begin again? Together?"
He spun Rishi around. Their eyes met. Rishi felt a chill crawl down his spine. The writer released his hand, and Rishi stumbled back, pressing himself against the granite slab.
"What... what are you trying to say?"
The writer stepped forward. Rishi clung to the slab like a leech. The writer reached behind him and picked up a drink, his eyes never leaving Rishi's.
Now you'll ask who drinks after a meal. Let me tell you, Rishi Thakur, in the writer's empire, all rules run in reverse. And now, you're part of this empire. And don't misunderstand—when I said "read," I meant my library. That's where all my written works are kept. The books that were never published. The ones still waiting for their reader. The reader who is you.
Saying this, the writer took a sip and walked away. Rishi glanced around the kitchen once, then ran after him. After all, he didn't want to be left alone in this haunted mansion.
Inside the library, the writer sat at his desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. Rishi stood behind him, staring. The writer's hands moved with a strange rhythm, and Rishi couldn't take his eyes off him.
"What is this man?" Rishi whispered to himself, unable to make sense of the writer. He took a deep breath and turned toward the shelves, scanning the books. The writer's fingers paused, and that same mysterious smile returned to his lips.
"Rishi... ah, I've waited a long time for this," he murmured to himself, then resumed typing.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit hall where the walls seemed to absorb every word, a secret negotiation was underway. Kabir sat across from a senior leader of the ruling party. What made the meeting truly mysterious was the proposal, one that had come from the opposition.
The opposition, currently in power, had invited Kabir to a secret meeting. Only one aide from each side was present. No cameras. No recordings. Just silence, strategy, and the invisible tension that hangs in the air during high-level political talks.
Kabir faced Kamal Kishore Bansal, a senior leader of the ruling party.
"Mr. Kabir, you know as well as I do that your party has almost no funds. You have public support, no doubt, but without resources, it's nearly impossible to keep the party afloat. You're a businessman yourself—you understand that no businessman wastes even a single rupee. Most of your candidates are broke. Do you really think you can sustain your party with them?"
Kabir's face remained calm, his lips curled into a soft smile.
"Mr. Bansal, you're absolutely right. I agree with you. Now tell me clearly. what's the deal? I don't have the habit of beating around the bush."
Kabir's words brought a faint smile to Bansal's face.
"You seem very sharp," said Bansal.
"I don't just seem sharp. I am," Kabir replied with a smile.
"Our party will support you financially in every way. We'll fill your offers. We'll shower your poor candidates with money."
"And in return, you want me to nominate you for the Chief Minister's post?" Kabir asked, and for a moment, Bansal was taken aback. Kabir's smile deepened.
"I'm ready."
Bansal was stunned again.
"What do you think? That we were born to serve the people? I want to grow the kind of crop on my land that suits my temperament. I'm no fool sacrificing my youth. Who doesn't crave power? Everyone wants the throne."
A thin, greedy smile spread across Bansal's lips. Kabir raised his hand, and his right-hand aide placed a set of documents in it.
Kabir handed the papers to Bansal. Bansal looked at the first page, then at Kabir.
"What is this?"
"It's a bond. What if you back out tomorrow?"
Bansal smiled. "You truly are a cunning politician."
Kabir laughed. "It's clearly written here. You will cover organizational expenses, human resource expenses, public relations and promotions, travel and logistics, election-related costs, legal and administrative charges, policy and research, and yes, financial support for our candidates. My price? One thousand crore."
Bansal's eyes widened.
"That much?"
"Did I quote too little?" Kabir smiled sweetly.
"That's excessive."
"And what about the eight and a half lakh crore that will flow over only one years? Out of that, you people easily swallow ten to twenty thousand crore through collusion. And I've only quoted two percent. You know better than anyone how much you can consume. Consult your senior leaders, because not a rupee less will be accepted. And yes, if you delay the response by even a day, there will be a penalty of one hundred crore."
Kabir stood up, buttoned his coat, and walked out.
Bansal and his aide watched him leave in silence.
Bansal's aide leaned in and whispered, "Sir, I don't trust Kabir at all. What if he's playing some game?"
Bansal took a deep breath.
"Whatever the game is, right now he's our only option. If we don't shut his mouth with money, he'll snatch the Chief Minister's seat. And if he gets that chair once, we won't even get the chance to kick him off it."
The aide nodded. They had reached the parking lot.
That seventy-story building was Kabir Sinha's own property. Kabir entered his room and began preparing for the next rally.
Meanwhile, in the room directly above the hall, standing near the switchable glass wall, Vedant had heard everything. He was stunned.
"Kabir turned out to be just another corrupt politician."
Until now, he had held a sliver of trust for Kabir. But now, it was shattered completely.
He had made up his mind. Even if it cost him his life, he would expose Kabir's true face to the public.