The room hummed with dead screens, their glow reduced to static snow. The man leaned forward, pressing the call button again. Nothing. He tried once more. Silence.
His jaw tightened. The line was dead.
For the first time, the stillness broke. His fist slammed against the console. "Damn it!" His voice cracked like thunder.
"What's going on?" he shouted, the fine lines on his face sharpened.
The heavy door groaned open. A flood of corridor light spilled in as a subordinate hurried inside, head bowed.
The man rose too fast this time, not with his usual cold composure but with urgency. Almost rushing, he strode toward the door, eyes sharp, breath clipped. His face finally left the shadows.
It was Mr. Sidharth.
His voice was a growl, laced with panic he couldn't mask. "Why the hell isn't Shubham picking up? And how did the surveillance feeds go off—at the same time?"
The subordinate swallowed hard. "Sir… Mr. Singh… he left. To the farmhouse. With his entire protocol team."
Mr. Sidharth froze. His expression cracked. Fear bled through the fury. "What…?"
He grabbed the man by the collar, jerking him close, fury spilling into every word.
"Get me the information about that farmhouse. I want to hear they're dead—do you understand me? Dead!"
Then—ring.
The sound sliced through the room. Mr. Sidharth's grip faltered. Slowly, he looked at the phone vibrating in his palm.
Caller ID: Brother Anurag.
His breath hitched. His hand trembled. For once, the man who had always controlled the game from the shadows wasn't sure if he was still in control.
This wasn't a good sign—and he knew it.
---
[Flashback]
In the dim office, shadows crawled across the walls—long, stretching things, thrown by a single monitor screen that glowed like a secret.
Mr. Sidharth sat behind his desk, the deep mahogany polished to a gleam, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm. The screen before him cast a faint, bluish hue on his face, outlining the sharp planes of a man who had long since learned the art of restraint.
Across from him, Shubham stood stiff in his blazer, his fists clenched at his sides. His face still held the flush of humiliation—or perhaps confusion—the kind that comes not from public insult, but private betrayal.
"They didn't even call once to discuss," he muttered, his voice brittle. "They announced everything. The heir positions. Voting. Like we didn't even exist. And you just… sat silent."
Mr. Sidharth didn't move. Didn't look at him. His gaze remained locked on the black screen, the flicker of light catching the edge of his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Unhurried.
"It's always like this. Nothing new. I'm used to it now."
Shubham blinked. The words hit harder than he expected. "But Papa… it's unfair." A pause. "It's our family business. We hold enough shares. Our opinion matters too."
That made Mr. Sidharth turn. The chair creaked slightly, but the man's face remained unreadable—carved from ice and patience. Eyes like flint. A mouth shaped by decades of silence.
"Family," he repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. Then, softly—too softly: "Being family doesn't mean they give you what's rightfully yours. Not in this family. Not when they hold everything we don't."
Shubham's breath hitched. "What do you mean, Papa?"
Mr. Sidharth rose.
He didn't need height to dominate the room—he carried power in how still he stood. Measured. Composed. He crossed the distance to Shubham and placed a hand on his son's shoulder—firm, but not warm.
"They always ignored me, as if I never existed. My brothers… Anurag Singh, their golden face. Aaditya Rawat, their loyal sword. And I?" His tone lowered, silk over blade. "I was like any other servant they needed, but never named."
Shubham's eyes flickered. The pieces shifted in his mind. Slowly. Painfully.
"Others act kind to me. Smile. Say my name with politeness," he continued, voice darkening with each syllable. "But listen closely—behind those smiles is not respect. It is mockery. A reminder… we are not one of them. We never can be."
A pause. "They never let me hold power. They won't let you hold it either."
Shubham looked away, his throat tight, the room spinning slightly. The light from the screen glinted off the side of his face. "Then… I'll earn it," he said, almost to himself. "I'll earn it all. I'll make them see that I'm worthy."
A quiet inhale from Mr. Sidharth—approval, veiled in silence. His fingers pressed just slightly harder into his son's shoulder—an anchor, a pact.
Then, he let go.
He walked back to his desk like a judge returning to the bench.
"This family doesn't reward loyalty and hard work," he said, gaze flicking back to the screen. "It rewards power and position. To be seen. To be worthy."
He looked directly into his son's eyes now—not as a father, but as a man who had lived too long on the edge of inner hatred. And now passing it.
"Your grandfather chose them over me. Used the excuse that I was just a naive kid," Mr. Sidharth muttered, rage evident in his tone. "But you—you must make the world choose you… at any cost."
The words dropped like stones into a still lake. Something broke beneath the surface. Shubham's jaw tensed.
"But how could I do that?" he asked. Quiet. Honest. Hesitant.
Mr. Sidharth's lips curled—almost a smile. But it was the smile of a man who had already imagined the worst.
"We are fighting for our existence. And even if this fight costs our own blood, we shouldn't hesitate."
The room fell silent.
Outside, the wind softened, brushing the windows like breath. But inside, the air had thickened—tight with something unsaid, unspeakable.
...
[Later—Singh mansion]
The body lay in the center of the room, shrouded by silence heavier than the scent of blood that still lingered. Subordinates stood in a half-circle, their faces pale, eyes lowered.
Mr. Singh stood near the corpse, his expression carved in calm authority. Mr. Raj lingered just behind, sharp-eyed, arms folded. Arun hovered close too, his jaw clenched, his hand resting unconsciously on the cabinet at his side.
The atmosphere was brittle. No one spoke.
Then the door opened.
Mr. Sidharth stepped in. The light from outside framed him for a moment before he crossed the threshold, his eyes falling on the body.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then his knees buckled as though the weight of the sight broke him. He stumbled forward, voice raw.
"Shubham…"
He sank to the floor beside the corpse, trembling hands reaching out but not quite daring to touch. His shoulders shook with heaving breaths. The performance was almost flawless—the grief, the guilt, the anguish of a father who had lost not only his son but the honor of his house.
Around him, the men shifted uneasily. Subordinates exchanged looks heavy with sympathy. A few lowered their gaze, moved by the sight. Even Mr. Raj's hard eyes flickered with the faintest restraint.
Mr. Sidharth pressed a hand to his face, muffling a sob. "I should have guided him better. A father's failure—"
His voice cracked, and his grief painted the silence raw.
Mr. Singh finally moved. He approached slowly, his steps calm, his gaze steady—not soft, not hard, but deliberate. His hand came to rest lightly on Mr. Sidharth's shoulder.
"We cannot change what has happened," Mr. Singh said, his tone steady but not unkind.
"Shubham lost his way… and in doing so, he turned his hand against us. It was his choice, not yours, Sidharth. Do not carry his sins as your own."
Mr. Sidharth looked up at him and nodded. "Yes… you're right, Brother. Betrayal—that is the truth."
His eyes wet, every line of his face etched with believable sorrow. The room saw only a father broken.
But Mr. Singh's calm gaze lingered on him a moment too long—watching, weighing. Consoling his younger brother.