Morning arrived without softness.
Singapore was bright, sharp, indifferent.
Kashvi stood in front of the mirror fastening the last button of her charcoal blazer. Calm. Structured. Controlled.
Inside, however, her thoughts were not still.
Marina Bay Financial Tower.
11 AM.
Come alone.
Alone was a flexible word.
She opened the drawer of her travel case.
A compact handgun rested inside. Legal. Registered under corporate security clearance. She checked the magazine with mechanical precision. Loaded. Safety on.
From another compartment, she removed a second backup — smaller, lighter. Slid it into the inner lining of her bag.
Not paranoia.
Preparation.
She picked up her phone and sent one scheduled message to her security head in India.
"If I don't check in by 1 PM IST, activate protocol Delta."
No explanation.
He wouldn't need one.
As the elevator descended from her suite, her reflection in the mirrored walls looked untouched by tension.
But her mind replayed fragments.
The wedding fire.
The gunshot.
Ved falling.
Krish shouting.
The perfect confusion.
Who had been watching?
Who had preserved evidence?
The car stopped outside the tower.
Glass. Steel. Silence.
She stepped out alone.
Security scanners. Reception desk. Corporate stillness.
No sign of threat.
Which made it worse.
Her phone buzzed once.
"Level 27."
She didn't reply.
The elevator ride up felt longer than it was.
Twenty-seven floors.
Twenty-seven seconds of stillness.
Her thoughts sharpened with each passing number.
If this was blackmail, she could negotiate.
If this was legal leverage, she could suppress.
If this was personal—
That was unpredictable.
The doors opened.
A nearly empty floor.
Minimalist interior. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay.
A conference room at the far end.
Door slightly open.
Her hand brushed lightly against the inside of her blazer — confirming the weapon's position.
Steady breath.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each heel click echoed too clearly.
She paused outside the glass door.
Inside, a single chair faced away from the entrance.
Someone was already seated.
Still.
Waiting.
She pushed the door open.
It made no sound.
The chair turned slowly.
And whatever she saw—
It wasn't what she had prepared for.
For the first time since the wedding night—
Kashvi Mehra's composure fractured.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But undeniably.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her bag.
Her pulse didn't race.
It dropped.
Cold.
Because this—
This wasn't an audit.
This wasn't media.
This wasn't simple revenge.
This was something far more dangerous.
And she hadn't calculated it.
The door behind her clicked shut.
And Kashvi stood there—
Shocked.