The city was a living thing below him, all stone, glass, and restless motion. From the 67th floor of The Fortress, Lutyens’ Delhi stretched out in a patchwork of yellow streetlamps and the slow crawl of government convoys. The Yamuna River was a dull ribbon under the night, its dark surface broken by the glint of passing drones.

Rishaan sat at the end of the long obsidian conference table, fingers steepled, his attention fixed on the three men across from him. "Mr. Veerani," said Colonel Pratap Singh, his voice measured, "the Ministry will approve the next drone batch—but they're asking for a thirty percent discount on the stealth modules."

Beside him, Arman Kale, the corp's CFO, shifted uncomfortably. He hated government haggling. Rishaan's gaze cut to him for a second, silencing whatever excuse he was about to make.

"No," Rishaan said finally. His voice was soft but carried the kind of weight that ended conversations. "We don't discount invisibility. Anyone who wants to disappear pays full price."

There was a brief, uneasy silence before Colonel Singh nodded. "Understood."

Rishaan's phone vibrated against the table. Only one name made him pause mid-meeting. *Ma.* He answered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Haan, Ma?"

"Rishaan, beta," Devika Veerani's voice floated through, warm but threaded with command. "Hamare paas nayi mehmaan hai. Ek guest. Ek aurat... Bas abhi aayi hai. Tumhari behen use east wing dikha rahi hai."

Rishaan's brow flexed just slightly. Foreign guests were not unusual—Veerani Estate was more than a home; it was a high-security haven for visiting diplomats, VIPs, and international partners.

"Noted," he said simply, and hung up.

By the time he reached Veerani Mansion, the night had fallen heavy over the Yamuna coast. The estate loomed like a private kingdom—ivory walls, arched windows glowing gold, the private helipad lit like a beacon. Inside, the polished marble floors carried the faint echo of his slow, deliberate steps.

He passed the grand hall where Aaradhya was fussing over the guest, hands animated. Veer leaned against the doorway, grinning like he'd just spotted a rare comet.

And then he saw her.

She was standing beneath the chandelier's soft spill, the picture of composure and quiet curiosity, but her eyes tracked the details—like she could feel the weight of the house's history pressing around her. He slowed his steps, never rushing, each movement controlled. "Rishaan," his mother said, rising from the velvet settee. "Hamari mehmaan se milo. Woh do mahine yahin rahegi."

His eyes flicked to her, scanning, assessing, a predator dressed in a tailored black suit. "Two months," he repeated, voice even. "Then we set some rules."

Aaradhya frowned slightly. "Bhai—"

He cut her off with a look and turned back to her, switching to English for precision. "You are welcome here. But this house runs on discipline. You will not leave the estate without permission. You will not enter the restricted wings. And if you see or hear anything unusual—" he tilted his head slightly, a calm, deadly softness in his tone—"you keep it to yourself. Understood?"

The air tightened. Even the soft clink of Veer's glass stopped.