They had just entered the vibrant heart of Coonoor-where the air was cold enough to kiss your bones, and tea gardens stretched like emerald velvet across the hills.
The wind whooshed in as she sat beside Abhimanyu, arms folded, her nose pink.
"Achoo!"
"Six," he smirked, keeping his eyes on the winding road.
"Achoo!"
"Seven. Congratulations, madam," he said with mock gravity.
"You've officially completed one round of sneeze yoga."
"Shut up, Abhi"she sniffled, rubbing her nose.
"Let's not waste time. We have to find him first."
He suddenly slowed the Jeep & pulled up beside a small hillside tea stall with blue plastic chairs and steel kettles steaming like little dragons.
"What the-Abhi!"
He was already out & walking around to her side.
"Come Out, Rida."
"No. This is wasting time!"
"You've sneezed seven times. I'm not walking into some luthier mystery with a half-sick partner who sounds like a kazoo."
"I do not sound like a kazoo."
"You kinda do..,"he chuckled.
" Come on. One cup of hot coffee. Two minutes."
Reluctantly, she climbed out, rubbing her arms. The tea stall smelled like roasted spices and cardamom. He ordered two cups of tea ,strong enough to wake the ancestors.
"Drink it," he said, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. "Doctor's orders."
"You ain't a Doctor" ,she said as she took the steaming tumbler from him.
"I watched three seasons of Grey's Anatomy-I'm practically certified."
She sipped shooking her head..
He watched her, his voice softening. "You're always rushing headfirst. Just... breathe for two seconds. Right now, your health's with me. And I refuse to let you get sick in a town that sells more tea than tissues. Moreover If Avi finds you bought me here and I let you , he will kill me."
"Don't worry ", she said softly-but the tension still sat tight across her jaw, impossible to miss.
It had only been hours ago-11 PM, when the guitar was thrown into the pool in a flash of rage. She'd knotted the end of her saree to the pool railing & bring it out herself, soaked and shivering. Then she called Abhimanyu. Within hours, they were on a two-hour flight to Coimbatore, followed by a winding 3.5-hour drive into the hills-toward the only man who could restore what felt beyond repair.
Abhi drained the last of his tea and without a word, started the engine.
He drifted the jeep through the winding lanes, his eyes sharp, locked on the path ahead.
"This is the place he used to live," he muttered as they slowed to a stop near a moss-lined trail.
They asked around for nearly an hour and a half.An old vendor. A local music teacher.
A gardener who vaguely remembered hauling crates of exotic timber to the old workshop.
But every trail ran cold.
Every mention of Lucian felt like speaking into the wind.
Rida's resolve didn't falter-but her calm did. Restlessness clawed at her ribs.
She stood near the jeep, fingers tightening around her shawl, eyes fixed on the horizon. The air was turning sharp, and yet a heaviness sat in her chest like unfinished notes.
"Maybe..." she whispered, almost to herself, "maybe I won't-"
And then-like the universe waited for her to reach that exact edge-someone spoke.
"Are you looking for Sir Lucian?"
The voice belonged to a boy, not more than twelve, carrying a bundle of firewood.
Rida's head snapped toward him. "Yes" she breathed. "Do you know him?"
The boy nodded, eyes curious. "Not much. But my uncle used to work with him. Uncle Arvind."
Abhimanyu stepped forward. "Where can we find him?x
The boy lifted a finger toward the far hills.
"He lives beyond the tea fields-near the wildflower hill. The place with white butterflies. My mother calls it the silent end of the village."
Rida's heart skipped. For a moment, she forgot how tired her feet were.
"Thank you!" she smiled, placing her hand softly on the boy's shoulder.
And just like that, the universe shifted.
Lucian still felt impossibly far. But this time, she wasn't walking blind anymore.
The boy's directions weren't on maps-just words wrapped in wonder :
"Follow the tea fields until you see wildflowers. When the road narrows and the trees start whispering louder, you'll know you're close."
So they drove.
And the world around them shifted like a moving painting.
The road twisted through rolling tea estates, the bushes neatly trimmed like emerald waves. Sunlight poured through tall eucalyptus trees & bursts of wildflowers lined the edges-white, lavender, yellow-swaying like they were whispering secrets to the wind.
Rida rolled down the window, letting the breeze tangle her hair.
"There," she pointed suddenly.
A gentle slope blanketed in wildflowers came into view-just like the boy had said. Butterflies fluttered everywhere, and beyond them, a narrow dirt path led into a quiet clearing.
Abhimanyu slowed the jeep.
"This must be it."
Rida exhaled slowly, her chest tightening.
A home stood between trees, not grand but alive with character, vines creeping across the stone walls. It felt like a soul's retreat.
They knocked.
After a long pause, an old woman opened the door. Her silver hair was neatly tied back, her eyes sharp despite her age, scanning them with careful interest.
"Yes?"
"Namaste... we were told this place belongs to someone named Arvind? Arvind Bhat?" Abhimanyu asked.
Her gaze lingered on him a second, then on Rida.
"He's my son," she said. "But he's not here."
Rida felt the sting of disappointment in her ribs again, but she spoke softly, respectfully.
"Ma'am... please. I'm searching for someone... Lucian...Master Luthier & Guitar Restorer- Lucian Moreau."
The name seemed to ring through the old woman like an old hymn.
"You know him?", Rida added.
She nodded, slower this time. "My son did. They worked together for years. Lucian trusted him like a brother. But he left Coonoor long ago."
Rida's lips parted. Her gaze flickered between Abhimanyu & that lady. Her voice quivered.
"I need to find him. He customized a guitar... for my family. It's damaged now. I just... I just need to find him."
"To Restore It ", she added with quite ache..
The woman studied her-maybe it was the way Rida's hands trembled or the way she was clearly holding back more than just words.
She stepped aside, "Come in."
Inside was warm and lined with photographs-old black-and-whites, a few musical instruments gathering dust. She poured them tea, motioned toward a seat by the window where the plantation spread like a green sea.
"Drink it. You have sneezed Enough," Abhimanyu said playfully, handing her the cup again.
Rida took it & stared..
"Ho jayega theek!," he whispered, his smile anchoring her like always.
The old woman came back & pulled out something wrapped in brown paper-weathered, carefully preserved.
She opened it gently. Inside was a handwritten letter.
"This came a few months ago, she said, placing it on the table.For my son... from Lucian."
Rida leaned forward, eyes scanning the faded ink.
The address in the corner made her breath hitch.
"Mistpine Forest Route, Coorg."
Abhimanyu caught it too. "That's... Coorg."
The woman nodded. "That's in Karnataka. He left Coonoor quietly. Didn't tell many. But he trusted my son. This was the last thing from him. My son left a while ago."
Rida's fingers brushed the letter like it held a piece of her heart. And though her chest ached at the thought of another long journey-she smiled, softly.
He wasn't lost.
Just... waiting to be found in a different place.
"If Lucian hasn't changed his ways... he might still be there. Arvind said it's a quiet little retreat-he calls it the Woodhaven Workshop."
Rida's breath caught.
"But," the woman added, her voice tinged with warning, "Lucian... isn't the same man he once was. He's... reclusive. Doesn't meet people easily anymore. Let's hope he hasn't moved again.."
Still, something lit in Rida's eyes-hope.
"Even if there's the smallest chance... I have to try."
Abhimanyu met the old woman's eyes. "Thank you. Truly."
The woman nodded. "Tell Arvind, if you see him... his mother still makes the best tea in the Coonoor."
They smiled..
They left Coonoor , driving through misty stone hills toward Coorg...
Coonoor has no airport.It's a hill station nestled in the Nilgiri Hills - beautiful but small. Coorg is another secluded hill station in Karnataka, so they took the road - winding, wild, and stretched across six long hours of forests, sleepy towns, and mist-thick valleys.
Neither of them complained. Not even when the path narrowed or the silence in the jeep got heavier..
Hill to hill. Tree to tree.
He was no longer a fading name
They reached the Mistpine Forest Route just as the last light folded into mist.At 5:38 PM
Their footsteps echoed against wet stones slick from the gentle stream that tumbled down the hillside.
The path had narrowed canopied by tall silver oaks. Wild orchids hung from branches. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang once-sharp and faraway. Nearby, a stream murmured quietly over smooth stone. Butterflies drifted without rush. Birdsong faded into the hush of dusk.
It felt like the world had paused here.
At the top, a house appeared-part wood, part stone, tucked into the slope like it had grown there. The porch was layered in flowerpots and old wind chimes made of glass & bark that sang when touched by wind. Its windows were open, but still.
She had already seen them.
From the shade of hanging vines, the woman had watched their careful ascent. Her expression didn't change but something in her chest had tightened the moment she sensed the shift in air. Something was arriving that didn't belong to noise.
When her gaze fell on the girl below-feet sinking slightly into wet stone, soaked hair tucked behind one ear, hands wrapped tightly around an old guitar case-she paused.
She noticed her eyes.
There was a softness there. An innocence untouched by selfish want. A quiet desperation. Not the kind that begged-but the kind that remembered.
She stepped out before they could knock.
Rida looked up, startled-but not afraid. There was something too quiet, too peaceful here to fear.
The woman didn't greet them. Didn't ask their names. Her eyes, steady as still water, rested on Rida's face for a long beat.
Her gaze dropped briefly to Rida's hand, where she clutched the old guitar case.
Right there, near the handle-the mark glinted faintly in the light.
A small flame above a crescent. Etched into the leather like a secret not meant for strangers.
The woman's expression didn't change. Her skin soft with age, but her eyes-sharp. Still. Deep like they'd seen decades of sound and silence.
And in that moment, the woman understood-not where they'd come from, but why.
Then, calmly, softly-without suspicion, without emotion-she spoke the only thing that needed saying,
"You're here for Lucian?"
Rida's heart thundered. Her palms were damp. She clutched the case tighter-the guitar that carried a soul, a memory, a mark no one else could understand.
Rida nodded.
The woman stepped aside, said nothing, but walked ahead, placing a clay cup near the hearth, where the flames flickered low.
They followed in silence.
She didn't ask who they were. She didn't ask why they'd come.
The mark had said everything.
Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of dried vetiver, old pine, and something like sandalwood smoke.
The wooden door creaked softly, as if even it had grown used to silence.
The walls were built of polished timber. There were no clocks, no photos, no mirrors.
On a low table rested bundles of dried herbs, a wooden kettle gently steaming, and small stone bowls filled with things like rose salt, wood shavings, and crushed jasmine buds.
Rida stepped in slowly, almost afraid to make a sound.
She placed the guitar down on a clean woven mat-delicately, like setting a child down to sleep.
The woman poured two cups of tea. Placed them on the table without speaking & sat across from them.
And finally, looked at Rida.
"He's gone.To silence [Meditation] ", she finally spoke.
"Deep in the forest."
Abhimanyu stirred, about to ask-but Rida touched his hand. Not now.
Rida didn't ask when he'd be back. She simply looked around the room again eyes catching on a workbench at the far end. On it sat half-finished instruments, old carvings, scraps of parchment. The whole space felt like someone had just left mid-breath.
Still living. Still echoing.
And yet so... alone.
~
Actually Lucian Moreau didn't live here from the start. He was born in France. He had once been the soul of luthiery- studied under masters..
And in France, he had found his First love.
A woman whose name he never speaks now.
His fiancée...
Élise Anglade-cellist, dreamer & the only woman Lucian Moreau ever loved enough to carve silence into music.
Together, they had designed a dream -a conservatory of music and healing in southern France to build a life of harmony, both literally and soulfully, where wood and string would meet soul and silence.
Their symbol was something quiet, chosen late one night in candlelight ,
🌙 A crescent, for the night.
🔥 A flame, for the passion they vowed to never let die.
She had sketched it with ink-stained fingers onto a napkin. They swore it would be carved into the wall of their first classroom.
But before they could build it- fate tore that dream into silence on a rainy spanish highway.
She died. Her cello was found in pieces on the roadside. Lucian buried it with her. And with that his will to create.
He stopped crafting.
He left France with nothing but his tools & the grief that turned him into a ghost. He wandered through South America, then came to India, where he found the Coonoor Hills quiet enough to hold his sorrow..
He started living in solitude in the green stillness of the Nilgiris..
Years later a man arrived him..
Not a musician. Not a collector.
A Corporate & Estate Law Specialist.
Vikram Thakur.
Mild-mannered. Eyes too soft for his profession. Holding an old, tired guitar.
He said little.
He only asked Lucian, gently, to make a guitar-for his wife.
"Not because she needs it. But because I want her to feel the love i don't always know how to say & i want her to feel it in sound. I want this guitar to hold my devotion-without words", he said, voice steady.
Lucian turned away denying sharply. Rage sparked behind his ribs like a blade but the man didn't waver. He placed the guitar down & said quietly,
"I've told her I love her a thousand times... but somehow, it's never felt enough. This-this might."
Lucian's jaw locked. His breath went shallow. His hand twitched at his side.
That sentence-so simple-cut too close.
Not because it was wrong...
But because they were too right-
and he didn't get to live them.
He was ready to throw the man out because he hadn't made a guitar since her but his eyes caught it.
There, faint and childishly drawn on the worn surface of the old guitar.
The crescent🌙 & The flame.🔥
It was the same mark.The exact crescent & flame that was once drew in candlelight by his beloved...
His breath snagged. His anger paused mid-thunder.
He moved closer-slowly from recognition.
The room blurred & then he remembered the dream that had come weeks after her death that felt more real than breath.
She was standing beneath a silver tree, in a place that didn't exist-but somehow always had.
Her cello on her back. Wind in her hair. That familiar calm in her eyes.
She looked at him with a kind of love that hurt to be seen by.
And she said just one thing-
"Love doesn't die, Lucian... it finds new hands to hold it."
Lucian stared at the symbol. And suddenly... something shifted inside him.
Everything, actually.
And maybe-just maybe-that mark was his sign. That their love, unfinished in one life, had whispered its way into another.
That night-when the forest had curled into silence & the stars were tucked behind clouds-Lucian sat at his workbench.
And he carved.
Not just for the woman he never met,
but for the woman he lost.
Not just with fine wood & perfect strings.
He carved into it his own grief...
For the echo of her voice.
For the mark they once created together
and the devotion the lawyer had for his wife.
Two men.
Two women.
Two love stories-separated by oceans, joined by a single symbol.
He etched the mark-real this time, not chalk, not imagination-into the body with reverence. Like sealing a prayer.
And the symbol-🌙🔥-became his seal of silence.
He simply placed down the tools, folded the cloth over the guitar...
and made a silent vow -
"Never again"
When he was done. He didn't weep.
He chose restoration over creation because after losing his beloved, after pouring everything-his love, his grief, and his unfinished forever-into that one guitar... there was nothing left to create.
He crafted it because for him-his beloved had sent the mark back into the world through someone else's devotion.
And his love?
It remained incomplete.
But eternal.
~
They didn't expect him to return soon and just then he appeared-barefoot, moving slow across the moss-lined stone steps as if the ground had memorized him.
Lucian.
Clothed in muted, earth-toned robes.
A brown shawl rested on one shoulder.
His long hair was half-tied, half-forgotten.
And in his hands-beads, smooth and worn by years of quiet.
His skin had the tan of someone who lived beneath trees. His eyes were deep, unreadable. But not cold.
Not anymore. His fingers, long and steady, moved the prayer beads one by one, the way silence breathes.
The wooden wind chimes stirred once when Lucian set the beads in a shallow brass bowl by the entrance.They hit the metal with the faintest sound-clink-then settled. He stepped inside the open doorway where the house met nature. His shoulders still marked with the quiet of the forest.
Rida instinctively rose, but the woman placed a gentle hand on her arm, asking for stillness-without saying a word.
Lucian's eyes hadn't yet met theirs. He was unhurried, washing his hands with water from a copper bowl.
Only then, the woman finally spoke.
Her voice was low-grainy like dried leaves, but full of calm.
"They waited."
No name. No question.
Just those two words.
Because in this house of silence, even acknowledgment carried weight.
He bowed faintly to the woman in respect..No questions, no words. Just a deep calm that wrapped around the room like incense.
He turned slowly, his gaze falling first on Abhimanyu, then resting-unreadable-on the girl with the eyes full of questions.
Rida.
Lucian stepped further .
He moved no closer, only sat down across from them, folding his legs like it was a practice-his ochre robes whispering against the mat.
His hands rested lightly in his lap.
Waiting.
The woman didn't speak again. She had already said enough.
It was Rida who finally let the silence break.
Her voice was soft-careful. Almost unsure if it belonged in this stillness at all.
He sat across from them on the floor-still, composed.
Rida, respectfully, lowered her gaze for a moment.Then, gently, she spoke.
"Thank you for letting us sit here," she said softly.
"I know silence is sacred. We won't keep you long."
He didn't respond.
But he didn't leave either.
"There's an old guitar," she added, more delicately now.
"It belonged to someone who played it with a kind of love I grew up hearing."
Her voice didn't shake.
But something behind her tone-like a ripple in still water-carried ache.
Lucian said nothing.
She reached to her side. The guitar case had been there the whole time. She gently placed it before him-like a prayer, not a request.
She unwrapped it slowly, and when Lucian saw the carved mark-the crescent and flame-his gaze fixed there.
His fingers didn't move, but something inside him had.
The woman's eyes flicked to him briefly, but still, she remained quiet.
Rida wasn't finished.
Her words weren't rehearsed. They rose from ache. From all the things she never got to say when it mattered.
He just... stared.
The mark.
The crescent. The flame.
He didn't speak. But his chest lifted, barely.
Something passed between the space of silence.
Then, Rida spoke again-quieter now. Like it wasn't just about the guitar anymore.
"My father used to play it for my mother. And I used to think that if I listened long enough... maybe I'd understand what love sounds like."
Her voice cracked-but only a little.
"I lost them both too soon. But it's the only sound of them I have left."
Rida didn't touch the guitar again.
She sat still, palms pressed lightly against her knees, gaze low-not in shyness, but in weight.
"I know restoring it won't bring them back..." she said quietly, her voice brushing the air like it almost wasn't meant to be heard.
A pause.
She blinked once.
Not to stop the tears-she'd learned how to hold those back long ago-
but like she was grounding herself, remembering something no one else could see.
Her fingers curled slightly against her thigh. A gesture of stillness. Of restraint.
Like if she moved too much, her own grief might spill over.
"But this was... something he held with love. And I couldn't protect it."
She didn't elaborate.
Didn't explain how it had been destroyed.
Didn't mention the guilt she still carried-not just for the guitar, but for everything.
But Lucian saw it.
In the way she clenched her jaw for a second.
In the breath she didn't quite take.
Because he knew that feeling.
Because both of them carry the same kind of ache -
The kind where you think... maybe it was my fault.
Where silence becomes guilt.
Where grief becomes a mirror.
Then her voice softened again. Not practiced. Not poetic. Just honest.
"I remember them every day... but maybe living in a way they'd still be proud of-is how we keep them alive."
Her words hadn't been meant to touch him. But they had.
Because in her quiet guilt, her effort to preserve what love had left behind,
he saw himself.
And for the first time in years, the grief didn't feel so solitary.
And something in his face... softened.
Not pity.
Not agreement.
Recognition.
Grief meeting grief-without a word exchanged.
He just stared down at the guitar, his fingers brushing the symbol-the crescent and flame, carved with devotion, once meant for the future that never arrived.
Rida had already looked away, unaware of the earthquake her words had left behind.
But inside him...
Something stirred.
A memory, not of music-but of her.
Elise.
The way she used to smile when he got lost in strings.
The way she'd tell him, "Stop making beauty only for others. Let it breathe through you."
And now... She unknowingly freed him. Just a little. Because deep down, he's never forgiven himself for surviving.
In that single line, he heard what Elise would've said if she'd been sitting across him right now.
She never wanted him buried with her.
Never asked for silence.
She would have wanted him to build beauty again.
To breathe deeply.
To let her live through creation, not mourning.
Lucian exhaled, eyes closed-softly, like he hadn't allowed himself in years.
He didn't says anything.
But his hand lifted-weathered, quiet-and gently rested on her head.
A touch of blessing.
Or maybe just... a silent thank you.
Because somewhere in her pain, she had unknowingly healed a part of him that still longed for Élise.
Because now, he knew- Elise hadn't died in the music.
She had always been waiting...
for him to craft or play it again.
******
2:27 AM - Mumbai
The city wasn't asleep, but it was quieter than usual. Streetlights blinked over half-empty roads as Abhi parked in front of Niyati's apartment building.
She was already there-standing at the door in a messy bun, oversized top barely hiding her yawn.
Eyes puffy with sleep, but wide with concern.
"Finally," she muttered, stretching an arm like she'd been guarding the gates.
"You people travel across dimensions?"
Rida let out a tired smile. She looked like sleep was brushing her shoulders but refusing to land.
Abhi stepped forward with a sheepish grin.
"I'll head home now. You both-"
"Yaa!! Step one foot toward that car and I'm throwing my slipper at your head."
Abhi blinked.
"What-?"
Niyati folded her arms with full attitude.
"I have enough room for you to sleep in. Also, I ordered food, you fool. Real food. Not airport-air-fried nonsense."
"Now stop acting heroic and come in."
He sighed, but didn't argue.
Inside, her place was softly lit-lamps glowing golden, faint scent of lemongrass and chai still lingering in the air.
She handed them both water without asking.
"Eat. You both look like ghosts."
Rida sat down gratefully, warmth returning to her cheeks. The food smelled heavenly. Niyati didn't say anything for a minute. Just sat beside Rida, her gaze flicking from her face to her silence.
Then, softly-softer than her usual chaos-she said,
"I want to ask everything... but I'll let this breathe.For.Now!
She gave her a small smile that held a hundred emotions underneath.
"Eat & then Sleep, Idiots. You both look tired. "
They ate in silence first-the comforting kind. The kind that only exists between people who've earned each other through fire and time. Rida pushed her plate back with a sigh, her eyes already half-lidded.
Abhi sat with his elbows on the table, chewing slower now, like the exhaustion had crept into his bones mid-bite.
As Abhi yawned and turned to head toward the hallway, Niyati snapped her fingers like she'd just remembered.
"Wait!"
She sprinted-barefoot and returned with a brand new, slightly oversized black lower in her hand.
She tossed it at Abhi's chest with zero grace.
"Here. It's mine. Oversized. Perfect for your dramatic height. "
Abhi caught it mid-air, lifting a brow.
"Is this even men's wear?"
"It is now," she smirked. "Might be baggy. But it's clean and I haven't worn it yet. Not even once."
He looked at the waistband like it might be enchanted.
"Why do you have clothes this big?"
"Manifestation. I like to be prepared in case I adopt a stray man with no pajamas."
She winked, then shoved him toward the room.
"Go. Shower. Sleep. And if you snore, I will throw a sandal under the door."
Abhi chuckled, holding it like it was gold.
"You sure it's clean?"
"I'm sure you need a shower. Go freshen up before you emotionally infect my room."
Rida, watching them, giggled softly-like it was the first time in days her laugh didn't have pain curled inside it & stepped into Niyati's room.
As they disappeared into their rooms, Niyati lingered in the hallway a moment longer-looking at the space where her people just stood.
And smiled like a girl who finally had her heart under one roof.
*****
At 8:30 AM, just as Rida stepped out of the shower, a mail dropped in.
"Project Audit Preponed - 10:30 AM sharp."
She sighed, towel drying her hair, already calculating commute and caffeine.
Without a word, Niyati walked in, set a neatly folded outfit on the bed-a pale blue shirt and soft black trousers-and walked out with her coffee mug.
By 8:50, Rida was dressed & stepping out of the house, her phone in one hand, hair still slightly damp, purpose kicking.
She had made it through the project review-smoothly, professionally, without a hitch.
But exhaustion tugged at her bones.
With a file tucked under one arm, her free hand scrolled through her phone-about to call Kanak to say she was back in Mumbai.
She didn't notice Prakhar walking a few steps ahead, who just passed behind her, mid-call, jaw clenched, his tone sharp with restraint. Something about timelines, someone messing up.
He was already fuming.
And then-
And in that exact second, a staff member-apologetically rushing-bummed hard into Rida's shoulder.
It happened too fast.Her balance shifted, sharply.
She stumbled forward-slammed straight into his back.
The impact jolted him. His phone slipped from his hand-hitting the marble floor with a harsh, glassy crack. The sound sliced through the corridor like a blade.
Prakhar Rathod's phone smashed against the marble, shattering the screen into a spiderweb of glass.
Everything stilled for half a second.
Then he turned-Hard.
Prakhar's eyes flicked from his shattered phone to her-his voice low, menacing.
"Have you lost your mind?! Do you have eyes or just ideas of self-importance now?"
His eyes locked on her, and his face-already storming from the call-only sharpened.
Rida steadied herself instantly, heart thudding, words caught mid-breath.
"I'm sorry..Someone pushed-"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at her with those unreadable eyes, like she'd set something off inside him.
"You orbit around this floor like a satellite, hoping someone notices the gravity of your presence. Tell me, Rida-how long do you plan to circle until everyone knows you have strings tied to the Rathod name?"
Rida blinked, stunned, face pale. Gasps were swallowed in corners.
She blinked-stunned. And then... the whispers:
"She had it coming."
"She really thought she could charm her way into the Rathod ranks."
"She wanted attention-well, she got it."
"Publicly crushed by the CEO. What could be worse?"
Rida hears it. Every word.
Not fully.
But enough.
A flash of humiliation turned her cheeks a warm red.
She bent to collect the scattered files.
Clap. Clap.
The sharp sound echoed-Prakhar's PA, Mr. Neil had arrived, clapping twice to snap the attention of the onlookers.
"Everyone, back to your work. This isn't a theatre. Move."
The corridor scattered.
Mr. Neil, stood at a respectful distance.
Rida rose again. Her arms full. Her spine straighter than steel.
Eyes met his. Fire met frost.
"I don't come here to orbit around you.
I come here to work.
If seeing me feels like facing your ghosts-deal with them.
You're not the sun & I'm not some helpless satellite."
A cold scoff twisted his lips.
"Right. That must be why you attract gossip like gravity.
No effort needed, right?
People just magically assume you're tied to the Rathod name."
"I never asked for this.
I don't want to be seen as special.
And I've never acted like I'm connected to the Rathods & I've said you that earlier too..I won't say it again..
But You need not Worry Mr. Rathod- I'll never speak about us..To Anyone.."
Her voice didn't tremble. But her words landed like ice on flesh..
He stepped closer, voice cutting, "Good. Because you're not. And stop playing victim. You're just like your parents-climbing where you don't belong."
That... was it. The match that lit the wildfire in her.
Rida stepped forward, voice like a flame dragged through glass.
"What did you just say?"
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't flinch.
His voice-deliberate poison.
"Your precious, golden-hearted parents-left scars on my family's name..You walk these halls carrying their sins like perfume and expect not to be noticed?"
eyes snapped up-no fear, only fire.
She didn't blink. Her voice sharpened, tone ice-laced steel,
"Oh really? You keep dragging my parents into everything like it's the only language you know-HATE.
I don't care what you believe about them-they're not alive to defend themselves.
But don't ever make the mistake of thinking I won't."
He stared at her like her very bloodline offended his bones.
But she didn't flinch.
Didn't shrink.
"You act like every step I take is a performance.
Like I walk these halls to haunt you.
But maybe it's not my presence that's loud-maybe it's your guilt that's screaming."
He stiffens.
Something sharp flickers in his eyes.
But she doesn't stop. Her voice lowers-calm, lethal.
"You spit hatred and expect me to carry it in silence.
But I won't."
And that's when his temper snapped. His voice was ice melting into acid.
"Don't think you're special. You're tolerated. And only because I've allowed it-until now."
Prakhar snapped almost venomous,
"Change her department..I don't want her seen on this floor again. Make sure it's done before lunch"
His PA, approached cautiously, voice low with hesitation:
"Sir... Mrs. Rathod is the one finalizing the core for the Phase-3 expansion board presentation.
She's been working closely with legal and finance. If we shift her now-"
Prakhar didn't blink.His tone flat, final,
"I said shift her."
"But sir-"
"Do as I said. Now", his voice dead calm.
He turned to Neil , voice devoid of emotion.
"And stop calling her Mrs. Rathod. She is an employee.
Treat her like one.
You're not a receptionist. You're my PA.
I expect you to act like it."
Neil realizing he overstepped, immediately bowed his head & backed off.
Then her voice rose-not broken. Not weak. But burning.
"You can shift me to a new floor.
A new building.
A new city..But your hate?
That's your prison.
Not mine."
She turned-measured and dignified.
Her chest rising and falling-not with fear, but restraint.
Every part of her screamed fury she chose not to unleash.
She walked up-slowly to the group standing near the corridor glass, the ones who had been whispering filth.
Mocking her worth. Her character. Her place.
Her eyes met theirs, calm, but cutting clean through the fake innocence on their faces.
Then she spoke.
"If your idea of 'ambition' is assuming every woman in a position got there on her back-
maybe that's just the only route you can imagine. "
"Your dirty assumption says more about you than it ever will about me. Next time you try to question someone's character- make sure you actually have one yourself."
Not a scream.
Not a scene.
Just a controlled detonation of every smug smirk around her.
And then-
she turned.
.......
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