Chapter 2 — Cracks in the Foundation
Rishit
The rain followed Rishit back to the Chauhan Estate, streaking the car’s tinted windows as the wipers swept furiously to keep up. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and foreboding, reverberating through the weighted silence inside the vehicle. The acrid stench of smoke and destruction still clung to Rishit’s torn and singed charcoal suit, a physical reminder of the devastation he had just witnessed. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, the sharp edges of his thoughts cutting through him. The Sapphire Lounge wasn’t just a loss—it was an insult, a calculated move meant to destabilize everything he had built.
The gates of the estate groaned open, the sound a jarring contrast to the muffled patter of rain. Lanterns along the garden path cast a muted glow on the polished stone driveway, their golden light falling on the sprawling mansion that loomed against the stormy sky. The estate, once a symbol of unshakable power and legacy, now felt like an oppressive reminder of how easily foundations could crack. As the car rolled to a halt, Rishit stepped out with purpose, his head of security trailing silently behind like a shadow.
Inside, the tension was palpable. The staff had been dismissed for the night, leaving only the family to confront the fallout. In the main study—a room steeped in the weight of tradition and countless decisions that had shaped their empire—his brothers awaited. The rich scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, but it failed to mask the unease that had settled within the room. The mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier’s golden light, its surface spread with documents and a map of the city. Red markings crisscrossed the map, stark against the soft glow of the room, highlighting their key assets. The Sapphire Lounge, now struck through with an ominous red line, stood out like an open wound.
Rishit pushed the double doors open with a sharp shove, his presence dominating the space as his piercing black eyes swept over the room. Abeer sat at the table, his lean frame composed but his warm brown eyes betraying a depth of concern. Vardaan stood by the rain-streaked window, his silhouette sharp against the stormy backdrop. His tousled hair and rolled-up sleeves reflected both his idealism and defiance, though the tension in his posture—his clenched fists and the way his jaw tightened—was unmistakable.
“Close the door,” Rishit ordered, his voice cold and cutting. The head of security complied, the heavy thud of the closing doors amplifying the weight of the moment.
Abeer was the first to speak, his tone measured. “We heard about the Lounge. Are you hurt?”
Rishit ignored the question, his focus narrowing to the map spread across the table. His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone, which he tossed onto the table. The screen still glowed with Shaurya’s parting taunt: *Checkmate.* The single word burned into him like a brand, a reminder that his past had come back to haunt him.
“This wasn’t just an attack,” Rishit said, his voice slicing through the room like tempered steel. “It was a message.”
Vardaan turned from the window, his brow furrowing as he stepped forward. “And what are we supposed to do now? Retaliate with more violence? Keep feeding into this endless cycle?” His voice dripped with disdain, sharp and unyielding, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—guilt, perhaps, or doubt.
Rishit’s jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to his youngest brother. “This is not a cycle—it’s a war. And wars aren’t won by walking away.”
Vardaan let out a bitter laugh, pacing near the window as if trying to contain the storm within himself. “A war? Is that the excuse you’re using now? Because from where I stand, this is just you dragging us deeper into a pit we should’ve abandoned years ago.” He stopped, turning sharply to face Rishit. “Is this how we honor what Father built? By using fear as our only currency?”
Rishit’s voice dropped to a steely calm, his fury pressing against the edge of control. “The pit you speak of is the foundation you stand on, Vardaan. Your education, your comforts—everything you take for granted was built on sacrifices you didn’t have to make. Don’t talk to me about walking away.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Vardaan shot back, stepping closer. His voice rose with barely restrained emotion. “You think I don’t feel the weight of it every day? But I don’t want to spend my life playing executioner to preserve a legacy that doesn’t deserve to exist.”
“Enough,” Abeer interjected, his voice calm but carrying an authority that cut through the rising tension. His hand rested on the edge of the table, his knuckles white, betraying the effort it took to maintain his composure. “This isn’t the time for this argument. Shaurya’s already made his move. We need to figure out our next steps.”
Rishit turned back to the table, his hands bracing against its edge as he exhaled sharply. His voice, quieter now but no less resolute, carried the weight of his conviction. “We’ll find the mole. Someone gave him access to the Lounge, and they’ll answer for their betrayal.”
Vardaan shook his head, his posture defiant. “And then what? Kill them? That’s always your solution, isn’t it?”
Rishit’s patience snapped, though his tone remained measured, his fury contained within the precision of his words. “Do you think this world runs on ideals, Vardaan? Do you think you can sketch your dreams and walk away from the blood that built them? You stand here, under this roof, benefitting from everything our father left behind, and yet you act as though you’re above it all.”
Vardaan’s voice cracked with emotion. “Maybe I don’t want what he left behind. Maybe I’d rather build something that doesn’t destroy everything it touches.”
“Both of you, stop,” Abeer said, louder this time. His calm voice carried an edge of frustration, his brown eyes pleading for reason. “This isn’t about ideals or legacies right now. It’s about survival. Shaurya’s not going to stop until he tears everything apart. If we’re not united, he wins.”
Rishit’s fists clenched at his sides before he straightened and met Abeer’s gaze. His voice, quieter now, carried a heavy weight. “You don’t understand what’s at stake. This isn’t just about us—it’s about everything our father built. Everything I’ve spent my life trying to protect. If we falter now, it’s over—not just for us, but for everyone who’s been waiting for a chance to tear us apart.”
Abeer leaned forward, his voice softening with compassion. “You’re not alone in this, Rishit. You don’t have to carry it all. We’ll find the mole, but we need to face this together—as a family.”
Rishit’s piercing gaze lingered on Abeer before flicking to the map. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered to the Crimson Dagger resting on the nearby mantle, its ruby catching the light like a drop of blood. The weight of legacy pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. But the moment passed, and his resolve returned.
The tension in the room was interrupted by the sound of faint footsteps outside the study. The doors opened, and Siya stepped in, her presence immediately commanding attention. Dressed in a simple yet elegant saree, her almond-shaped eyes burned with determination. The faint scent of jasmine preceded her, cutting through the lingering scent of smoke clinging to Rishit’s suit.
“We need to talk,” she said, her voice calm but edged with urgency.
Rishit inclined his head toward his brothers. “We’re done here. I’ll reconvene once I have more information.”
Vardaan opened his mouth to protest, but Abeer placed a steady hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, silently urging him to let go of the argument. The brothers exchanged one last glance with Rishit before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind them.
Siya crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering as it met Rishit’s. “How much longer do you plan to keep me in the dark?”
Rishit’s shoulders tensed further. “Siya, this isn’t the time—”
“No,” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her voice, though steady, carried a tremor of frustration. “This is exactly the time. I’ve seen the victims of tonight’s attack—the burns, the broken bones. I’ve seen what this fight is doing to you, to your family. And yet you refuse to tell me the truth.”
Rishit’s lips pressed into a thin line, his black eyes hardening. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Siya shot back, her voice rising slightly. “You dragged me into this world the moment we got married. You don’t get to decide whether I face the truth.”
Rishit stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. Yet Siya didn’t waver. If anything, her determination seemed to grow. “This isn’t about control,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “It’s about keeping you alive. One misstep, Siya, and it’s over—for both of us.”
“And what about trust?” she asked, her voice softening but no less intense. “Do you trust me enough to let me help you? Or am I just another liability?”
The words cut deep, drawing the faintest flicker of vulnerability in Rishit’s gaze. He stepped back, his composure slipping for a brief moment. “I trust you,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. “But trusting you doesn’t change the danger.”
“Then let me share the burden,” Siya said, her voice resolute. “I’m not asking for protection. I’m asking to be your partner.”
Rishit hesitated, his walls cracking as her words pressed against him. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “We’ll talk. But not tonight.”
Siya held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding and leaving the room. As the door closed behind her, Rishit exhaled, his shoulders still heavy with the weight of responsibility. The cracks in the foundation were growing, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold everything together.
