The verdict didn't arrive with applause.
It came on an ordinary afternoon, folded neatly into legal language, balanced and restrained—just like the case itself. No dramatic acquittals. No handcuffs. No headlines screaming innocent or guilty.
And yet, by evening, the world was already on fire.
The Media Storm
By the time Mahi left the courtroom, her phone was vibrating nonstop.
She didn't look at it.
She already knew.
Outside, cameras waited like predators—microphones extended, questions overlapping, flashes blinding.
"Ms. Mahi, does this verdict prove the investigation was politically motivated?"
"Are the rumours about your family's old business connections true?"
"Was Advocate Nikhil Khanna—"
"No," she corrected sharply, before the reporter could finish. "Ask relevant questions or don't ask at all."
The crowd murmured.
Nikhil stood just behind her shoulder. Close enough to be seen. Close enough to matter.
That alone became a headline.
Senior advocate maintains silence as speculation grows about internal dynamics at the firm.
Is proximity influencing strategy?
Power, proximity, and perception.
The media didn't care about legal nuance.
They cared about stories.
And stories needed cracks.
Quiet Inside the Firm
The firm, once buzzing with victory, fell into an uneasy stillness.
Associates avoided discussing the case aloud. Everyone knew the eyes of the industry were on them now—not to praise, but to dissect.
Mahi sat in her cabin late that night, lights dimmed, the city outside reflecting against the glass. The case files were closed. There was nothing left to argue.
And yet, exhaustion settled into her bones.
A knock came—soft, familiar.
She didn't look up. "Come in."
Nikhil entered, holding two cups of tea.
"Thought you'd forgotten to eat again," he said quietly.
She accepted the cup without comment.
They stood by the window, side by side, sipping in silence.
"This is the part they don't warn you about," he said eventually.
"What part?"
"The aftermath. When winning doesn't feel like relief."
She nodded. "Because now everyone wants to decide what it means."
He glanced at her. "Does it bother you?"
She considered the question honestly. "It used to."
He waited.
"It doesn't anymore," she added. "Not when I know why I made every decision."
That was her way of saying I don't regret us.
He understood.
When the Backlash Turns Personal
The next morning, the headlines sharpened.
Speculation became accusation.
Opinion pieces questioned her neutrality. Anonymous sources hinted at internal conflicts. Some even suggested that Nikhil's temporary removal from the case had been proof of guilt, not caution.
It was cruel.
Calculated.
And effective.
Nikhil read every article.
Mahi read none.
But she felt it anyway—in the way conversations stopped when she entered rooms, in the careful tone of emails, in the silence that followed her name.
That afternoon, Roohi found her in the conference room, staring at a blank whiteboard.
"They're pushing a narrative," Roohi said carefully. "If you want, we can issue a statement. Distance you further."
Mahi turned slowly.
"No," she said.
Roohi blinked. "No?"
"I've spent my entire career proving I don't need anyone standing beside me," Mahi said calmly. "I'm not doing that anymore."
Roohi understood immediately.
And, for once, she didn't argue.
Choosing, Without Apology
That evening, the firm hosted a small press interaction—controlled, limited. Just enough to quiet speculation.
Mahi walked into the room with Nikhil beside her.
Not behind. Not ahead.
Beside.
Cameras clicked instantly.
A reporter asked the question everyone had been circling.
"Ms. Mahi, are rumours of internal discord and personal involvement within your legal team true?"
The room held its breath.
Mahi didn't look at the reporter.
She looked at Nikhil.
Just for a second.
Then back at the room.
"My legal team," she said evenly, "is built on competence, trust, and accountability. Anyone who contributed to this case did so on merit."
"And the personal involvement?" another voice pressed.
She didn't flinch.
"I don't believe professionalism requires isolation," she replied. "And I don't believe silence protects integrity."
The cameras went wild.
Nikhil didn't stop her.
Didn't interrupt.
He stood there—steady, unashamed.
That was the choosing.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Open.
After Everyone Leaves
Later that night, long after the reporters had gone and the firm lights dimmed, Mahi stood on the terrace alone.
The city stretched endlessly below—still loud, still indifferent.
She heard footsteps behind her.
"You didn't have to do that," Nikhil said softly.
"Yes," she replied. "I did."
He joined her at the railing. "You know this will make things harder."
She looked at him. "Everything meaningful already is."
A quiet settled between them—different from before.
No fear in it. No doubt.
Just certainty.
"I don't want us hidden," she said finally. "Not anymore."
He smiled—not wide, not dramatic. Just honest.
"Then we won't be."
They stood there as the city moved on around them—media narratives forming, opinions shifting, noise growing louder.
But for the first time, they didn't feel the need to brace.
They had chosen.
And that, quietly, was enough.