Shivyansh

I never thought silence could be this loud. It seeps into the corners of the room, into the cracks of my chest, and it gnaws until all I hear is her absence. Nights used to feel endless because of work, now they stretch because she isn't here. No laughter slipping past my defences. Just the memory of her voice, soft as a prayer, replaying until I don't know if I'm clinging to her or driving myself insane.

I told her to leave. Pushed her out of this city, out of this house, because I thought distance would keep her safe from the mess I was born into. But God, Mariam, what do I do with the emptiness you left behind? Every victory feels like ash when I don't get to see your smile. Every plan I make tastes hollow without your hand steadying mine.

I miss her, not in passing or in fragments, but in a way that splits bone from marrow. I miss her like a man suffocating misses air. And still, I don't run to her. Because the war isn't done. And until it is, I can't let her come back.

I can hear the same emptiness in her voice every time we call. She tries to hide it, but it clings to her words like dust on something ancient, impossible to ignore. She knows why she has to stay away. She knows it's the only way. Because the moment my father senses what I'm building against him, he'll use her as a weapon. And in front of her, I'm nothing but a devotee of love and sacrifice.

So we make do. Short calls. Stolen texts. Most of the time, it's her filling the silence, telling me about her day, her plans, the little things she wants me to know. Once, she even tricked me into speaking with her mother. And I didn't mind, because her mother didn't call me by my name. She called me beta, as if Mariam had already stitched me into their family with her words.

These exchanges, thin as they are, are all that hold me steady. They are the rope anchoring me while I wade through this ocean of work and investigation.

But love alone won't win this war. Affection doesn't dethrone tyrants. Every time I hear her voice, I remind myself why I'm doing this, why I can't stop until he's gone for good.

When the company was passed down to me, the world assumed the old man had stepped aside gracefully. They clapped for the heir, toasted my name, and called it succession. But what they didn't see was the string still tied to my hands. My father never left. He stayed, nestled into the board of members like a viper in the grass, whispering in corners, pulling his levers. A puppet master disguised as an advisor.

On paper, I'm the CEO. In practice, he's the shadow running everything I try to build. Every project I propose, every contract I negotiate, he twists with his allies on the board. My vision becomes his tool, my success his disguise. And I'm done being his mask.

So I'm creating something he can't corrupt, a project strong enough to stand on its own, too lucrative for the board to deny, yet built so carefully it cuts him out of every equation. Once it's in motion, once I've secured the majority, I'll move to remove him formally. Strip his influence. Take his seat. Dethrone him where the world can see.

It isn't just business. It's reclamation. Of the company. Of my life. Of the future I promised Mariam.

But caution is everything. One misstep, one slip of paper left on the wrong desk, and he'll smell the rebellion. My father has lived his whole life on manipulation and control; he knows how to dig for weakness, how to weaponise silence. And if he discovers what I'm planning before it's ready, he won't come at me in boardrooms or through contracts. He'll come at me through the people I love. Through Mom. Through Ishaan. Through this house. Through her.

That's why I bury myself in the details, why every move I make is calculated to the decimal. No leaks. No whispers. Nothing that could tip him off until the blade is already at his throat.

A sharp knock breaks my train of thought. My gaze flicks to the door of my bedroom. Before I can say Come in, it creaks open, and there he is, my younger brother, hair a little too messy, grin a little too smug. Of course. Ishaan.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, already feeling the headache coming.

"Do you enter every room like it's your own?" I snap, not bothering to hide my irritation. "You didn't even wait for me to say Come in."

He just shrugs, strolling in without a care, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. He doesn't stop at the threshold either, no, he goes straight for the armchair by the window, dropping into it like he's earned the right to sit wherever he pleases. One leg swings over the other, his arms folding behind his head, utterly at ease in my room.

"Relax, bhai," he says, flashing that infuriating grin. "If I waited for your royal permission every time, I'd be standing outside half my life. And anyways, you're the one who taught me to own every room I walk into, so here I am."

I stare at him, unimpressed, while he kicks off one sneaker and wiggles his toes like he's settling in for a full evening's stay.

"Out of all the things I taught you," I mutter, shaking my head, "teko ye hi baat yaad rahi hai?"

(You remembered only this?)

Ishaan shrugs like my glare is a breeze he can't be bothered with. He tilts his head, eyes scanning me as if trying to read a terrifyingly boring book. "Why do you look like you're about to murder someone?" he asks, voice amused, half-probing, half-mocking.

For a second, I let the question hang there, because the truth of it is heavier than his joke. The look in my face isn't an accident; it's the weight of plans and the taste of vengeance and the absence of the one person I would die to protect. But I don't soften for him. Not tonight.

He swings his leg off the armchair, leans forward, curiosity sharpening into a grin. "Seriously, Shiv. You look like you've swallowed a storm. Spill. Or are you finally going to go full dramatic CEO on me?"

The corner of my mouth twitches, not a smile. "If you don't shut up," I say cool, measured, the words deliberate as a blade, "then it'll be you whom I kill."

Silence drops like a curtain. For a heartbeat, he stares, then laughs, a short, incredulous sound that's half shock and half disbelief. He expects a laugh; he expects me to pull back. He expects the usual Shiv, who uses threats like toys and never means them.

He leans back, the grin gone a shade. "Whoa," he says, reaching for the banter like a life preserver. "A little intense, no? I was only talking, you know. Why do you look like a brooding vampire anyway?"

"Not all of us are dating our childhood crush now, are we?" I cut in, voice low enough that the walls seem to strain to hear.

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly smaller, and the rest of his bravado folds in on itself. "Alright, alright," he mutters, raising both hands like he's surrendering to a far scarier opponent than he expected. "Point taken. I'll keep my mouth shut. Although I'm sure you're dating your crush too."

"That's none of your business," I mutter.

He tsks, looking at me like I've committed one serious sin, "You're just being a hypocrite this. This is a serious offence, bhaiya."

"Will you shut the fuck up?" I sigh before looking back at my laptop.

But he doesn't leave. He watches me instead, the easy chair between us making the room feel smaller, more intimate and more dangerous all at once. I can see the worry in the set of his shoulders, the way his knee bounces under the chair, an unpracticed rhythm he thinks hides his unease.

"You always sound dramatic when you're hiding something," he says quietly, softer now. "Is it that bad, Shiv?"

"That's none of your business," I mutter.

He tsks, looking at me like I've committed one serious sin. "You're just being a hypocrite this. This is a serious offence, bhaiya."

"Will you shut the fuck up?" I sigh before looking back at my laptop.

He stares at me for a beat, then lets out a short, theatrical groan. "Wow, savage. Okay, okay, no more crimes against hospitality. But seriously, you look like you're planning something that involves fire and a dramatic soundtrack. Spill."

I don't turn. My fingers hover above the keyboard because admitting anything would make it real. "Not now," I say. "Just... don't make noise. Don't draw attention. Don't post anything important on socials. Don't bring friends home. Don't," I stop because the list is endless and because I can see the joke already forming on his face.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Since when did you become my life coach? What is this, private Shiv academy for survival tips?"

"Since the day I realised father would use whatever he could to hurt me," I say bluntly. "And that includes people who don't even know they are weapons."

His grin fades. For the first time tonight, he looks small in the armchair, less cocky, more careful. "What do you mean? Shiv, are you really planning to throw him off the board?"

"Yes." My voice is flat, practised. "He needs to go, Ishaan. It's his age to stay home and enjoy life without work. Let go of his obsession with control and money."

Ishaan runs a hand through his hair, the movement sudden and uncalculated. "But what if he doesn't back down easily? Then what?"

"He won't back done unless I corner him," I say. "I have a plan, a solid one at that. The board won't be able to say no, and the only way they're getting their hands on this is if they agree to trash Dad."

He opens his mouth, then closes it. "And if he tries something with Mariam?" His voice drops, small and ugly with the thing he's trying not to say.

"I've made sure he can't," I answer, harder than I intend. "But you don't talk about her. Don't mention her name in front of anyone who breathes the same air as him."

He exhales slowly, like he's letting a weight settle into place. "Alright," he says, finally. "I'll be the suspiciously quiet brother. I'll disappear into my room and become a hermit. Happy?"

There's an edge of humour still in him, but the tremor in his fingers tells me it's only skin-deep. For once, I let myself believe him.

He shifts in the chair, then, almost on impulse, stands and crosses the room. He claps a hand on my shoulder, a crude, familiar reassurance.

"Promise me one thing," he says, oddly earnest. "When this is over, you come back to normal. You smile at stupid things again. You go out with me and eat the worst street pizzas."

The absurdity of it almost breaks me. I glance at him, then at the window where the city thrums indifferent and bright.

"I'll try," I say, because the alternative is to tell him exactly how afraid I am of what I might become.

He squeezes my shoulder and backs away, the theatrics returning as he grabs his sneaker off the floor. "Good. Because I'm not letting you die on me. Not before I get to steal your Netflix password."

He grins, heads for the door, and then pauses. "And Shiv?" he adds, softer, like a question folded into a dare. "If things get messy. Don't do this alone."

I want to say no, that I can handle it. I want to sound invincible so he won't worry. But the truth is heavy and honest in my chest. "I know," I say. "I won't let him win. I won't let him use anyone."

He nods, satisfied or perhaps relieved, and slams the door behind him with the practised drama of someone who's trying to shrug off fear with noise.

Alone again, the silence presses in, and the house feels both smaller and more fragile than it ever had. I close the laptop, breathe in, and let the plan line up in my head like soldiers. Outside, the night goes on.

. . .

The restaurant is quieter than I expected. A handful of tables are occupied, scattered with the occasional early riser hunched over a newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee, or a half-eaten plate of something bland. The faint clatter of cutlery drifts from the kitchen, but out here, the air is hushed, like even the walls are waiting for something.

I glance at the clock above the bar. 7:05. Too early for the world to be dressed in its noise, too late for it to still be sleeping. The hour between things, a strange twilight of its own.

My seat by the window offers a view of the street outside, and I watch as the city begins to yawn awake, rickshaws crawling by, shutters rolling open, the sky stretching itself out in pale strokes of blue and grey. My fingers drum against the table, slow, deliberate, betraying the impatience I'm trying to mask.

This place was chosen for a reason. Secluded, not popular enough to draw in crowds, yet respectable enough that anyone walking in would not raise suspicion. A safe house disguised as a breakfast joint. And for now, it works. I'm a man waiting for someone, nothing more, nothing less.

I shift in my chair, the leather creaking under the weight of my restlessness, and let my gaze sweep the room again. Every face catalogued, every movement noted. Old habits die hard, especially when the man I'm about to meet is the kind who could shift the balance of everything I'm trying to build, or destroy it before it takes root.

The bell above the restaurant door gives a dull chime, dragging my gaze upward. A man steps in, dark leather jacket clinging to his frame, biker gloves still on as though he hasn't been here long enough to shed his skin. He moves with the kind of confidence that belongs to predators, sharp-edged and unhurried.

His jawline could cut glass, clean and defined, but it's his eyes that make me sit straighter, golden brown, catching the dim light and bending it until they look almost molten. They scan the room once, precisely, before settling on me.

Of course.

He doesn't bother asking if the seat is taken. He slips into the chair opposite mine like the space has been waiting for him all along, leather creaking softly. There's no smile, no greeting beyond the subtle nod he gives me.

"Mr Khurana," he says, voice smooth, low, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

My fingers are still against the glass in front of me. I nod back once, deliberate.

"Mr Sharma, Thanks for making time."

He leans back in his chair, gloved fingers drumming once against the polished wood before going still. "You've got something I want to hear. And I've got something you want—time and money. Let's not waste either."

Typical. Straight to the marrow.

I clear my throat and slide the folder across the table toward him. The sleek black leather of his gloves makes a dull sound as he flips them open, golden-brown eyes scanning the neat graphs, projections, and timelines I've stayed awake too many nights perfecting.

Minutes pass before he shuts it, eyes finally lifting to mine.

"You're ambitious," he says. "Risky, but not reckless. I like that."

"And?" I prompt, unable to keep the edge from my tone.

"And I'll put my money where your mouth is." He pulls off one glove slowly, revealing lean fingers, precise movements. "I'll back this project of yours, but I want five per cent of the net from whatever it generates. Clean cut. No arguments."

I blink. Five per cent. That's too clean, too small for the kind of returns this project promises. No investor walks in with that little stake unless there's another hook somewhere.

"What's the catch?" I ask, leaning back slightly, my eyes narrowing. "Because five per cent for what I'm offering is either charity or a trap."

The faintest flicker of a smirk touches his mouth. He folds his bare hand under his chin like he's been waiting for me to ask.

"No trap. Just a favour."

"A favour," I echo.

"One," he says, holding up a single gloved finger. "Whenever I wish to call it in. You'll do it. No questions, no delays. That's the deal. Five per cent of the profits and my support, in exchange for one favour, whenever I decide to collect."

He says it like he's ordering coffee, but the weight of the words sits between us like a loaded gun.

I stare at him for a beat, my pulse slow and steady, calculating. This is the kind of deal you take only if you're certain you can stomach the cost of what's owed.

Finally, I reach for my glass, my voice low. "You know, most men who walk into my life leave with less than they came in with."

He smiles, slow and wolfish. "I'm not most men."

He doesn't press further. Instead, he slips the glove back on, movements deliberate, and pushes his chair back. The legs scrape softly against the floor, a sound that feels louder than it should in the quiet restaurant.

"One favour," he reminds me, voice low but steady, and stands.

Just then, my phone buzzes against the table, screen lighting up. Kyra. Her name flashing with her picture, smiling, bright, that familiar warmth that never quite leaves me, no matter how deep I bury myself in work.

For a moment, I hesitate, thumb hovering over the green button. Then I press decline. Not now.

When I glance up, the man's eyes are on the phone, sharp and unreadable, something flickering across his golden-brown gaze. Longing, maybe, or something colder pretending to be. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, his mask slips, if only by a fraction.

"Who is she?" he asks, the question casual on the surface but heavy underneath.

I slide the phone into my pocket. "My best friend."

His lips part like he's about to say something else, but he swallows it down, muttering something under his breath I can't quite catch. Then he tips his chin at me in a wordless farewell.

"Mr Khurana."

And with that, he turns and walks out, the leather of his jacket whispering with each step until the door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone with a cold glass of water and a deal that feels more dangerous than it should.

The phone buzzes again before the silence can settle, her name flashing across the screen once more. This time, I swipe green.

"Kidhar tha?" Kyra's voice spills through the speaker, sharp but familiar, laced with that mix of demand and comfort only she manages.

(Where were you?)

"I was making a deal," I reply, leaning back in my chair, fingers rubbing at my temple. "Bol, kya hua?"

(Tell me, what happened?)

"Kuch nhi," she says, softer now. "I was missing you. Come see us all when you can. Who were you making a deal with?"

(Nothing.)

I huff a quiet laugh. "Someone."

"Whooo?" she drags out the word, teasing, insistent. "Bata na."

(Tell me.)

"An-" The name is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can finish, she gasps.

"Shit, fuck, sorry Panda, I gotta go, okay? I'll call you later, Dad is calling me!"

And just like that, the line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone, her question hanging unfinished between us. The answer lost, caught at the edge of my mouth and gone before it could be spoken.

I sigh and get up from my place, ready to return to the relentless trail of work and planning that waits for me.