The reply didn't come immediately.
Three minutes.
Seven.
Ten.
Kashvi didn't pace. She didn't frown. She simply stood at the window, watching the reflection of the skyline against the glass — steady lights over dark water.
Then the phone vibrated.
An attachment.
Not a ledger this time.
A photograph.
She opened it.
Grainy. Cropped. Zoomed in.
Wedding mandap.
Sacred fire in the center.
Her silhouette in bridal red.
Krish beside her.
And just beyond the circle of guests—
Ved.
Standing.
Watching.
Alive.
Timestamped.
The exact second before the final phera.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
The next image loaded automatically.
Blurred motion.
A flash.
Chaos breaking formation.
Guests turning.
Someone falling.
The final frame—
Ved collapsing.
The white of his sherwani blooming dark at the chest.
Kashvi's breathing remained even.
But her mind sharpened.
The official report had concluded crossfire confusion. A weapon recovered near Krish. Panic. Misfire. Tragedy.
Open-and-shut.
But this—
These angles weren't from media.
They were internal security captures.
Restricted.
Sealed.
Her phone buzzed again.
"Ballistics never matched Krish's licensed firearm."
Her eyes didn't widen.
But something recalibrated internally.
That detail had been buried.
Intentionally.
Another message followed.
"The bullet extracted from Ved Oberoi's body was .32 caliber. Krish's weapon was .38."
Silence filled the suite.
The sacred fire.
The sound of chanting.
The smell of marigolds.
The moment she had calculated perfectly.
She had known the distraction would be maximum during the final phera.
She had ensured Krish's weapon would be traceable.
She had ensured panic would distort memory.
But she had also ensured—
No one would question the ballistics.
So who was questioning them now?
She typed carefully.
"What do you want?"
The reply was immediate.
"Truth."
She almost smiled.
Truth was never free.
Another message appeared.
"You positioned Ved directly within range."
Her fingers stilled.
That was no guess.
That was observation.
She had moved slightly during the fourth phera.
A subtle shift.
A redirection of line of sight.
No one had noticed.
Or so she had believed.
The phone vibrated again.
"There was a second shooter."
Her gaze hardened.
Not "you shot him."
Not accusation.
Just a fact.
Second shooter.
Which meant—
The sender wasn't speculating.
They had either accessed sealed forensic files.
Or they had been present.
A final message followed.
"And that shooter was not Krish."
Across the city, in her own suite, Anvi stared at her laptop screen.
A paused frame from the same wedding footage.
Zoomed.
Enhanced.
A flicker of metal visible beyond a pillar.
Not from Krish's direction.
Anvi closed the file slowly.
"She won't deny it," Anvi murmured to herself.
"She'll calculate."
Back in Kashvi's suite, her phone buzzed once more.
"There's another copy of the full footage. Unedited. With audio."
Audio.
Her mind replayed the memory.
The chant rising.
Her whisper.
The signal word.
Just one word.
Soft.
Disguised as ritual repetition.
But deliberate.
If audio existed—
That was risk.
Significant risk.
She typed:
"Meet. Tomorrow. Location?"
The typing dots appeared.
Then:
"Marina Bay Financial Tower. 11 AM. Come alone."
She didn't ask how they knew her schedule.
Of course they knew.
Anyone who had dug this deep knew everything.
Her gaze drifted back to the photograph.
Ved falling.
For five years, the narrative had held.
Krish unstable.
Jealous.
Weapon discharged.
Motive plausible.
Case closed.
Empire stabilized.
But if ballistics were reopened—
Krish's conviction could be challenged.
Which meant retrial.
Which meant testimony.
Which meant—
Exposure.
Her phone buzzed again.
One final message for the night.
"Krish has filed a petition."
That.
That shifted something.
She hadn't anticipated movement from him.
He had accepted silence.
Or at least appeared to.
But petitions required counsel.
Resources.
Information.
She typed one last question.
"Who is funding him?"
The response came after a pause.
"You are."
Her expression didn't change.
But her mind moved fast.
If financial transfers weeks before the wedding had been traced—
If shell accounts were connected—
If someone linked pre-wedding withdrawals to post-wedding silence payments—
Then the motive wouldn't be jealousy.
It would be orchestration.
Another message arrived.
"You underestimated who was watching that night."
Slowly, Kashvi placed the phone down on the table.
Five years ago, she had eliminated two threats with one bullet.
Ved — who had begun to doubt her.
Krish — who had become the perfect scapegoat.
It had been clean.
Efficient.
Strategic.
But strategies age.
And secrets decay.
Outside, the city shimmered peacefully.
Inside, she began rebuilding the board in her head.
Identify sender.
Contain audit.
Assess Anvi's knowledge.
Stabilize India.
Neutralize petition.
She picked up the phone again.
Typed only three words.
"I don't lose."
The reply came instantly.
"No. But you bleed."
The screen went dark.
And for the first time in five years—
The wedding fire felt unfinished.