Kartavya Raizadaa pov

The cabin felt too quiet after she left.

I loosened my grip on the pen in my hand only when the door shut behind her. The silence annoyed me more than her tears had.

I hated tears.

They were weapons people used when logic failed.

I stood up and walked toward the glass wall, looking down at the city. Cars moved like obedient ants, punctual, disciplined. The way things should be.

Five minutes late.

One lie.

People thought these were small things. They never were.

On my first day as CEO, I had arrived early. Not because I wanted to impress anyone, but because discipline was the first currency of power. If I bent once, the system would rot slowly from the inside.

Still… her voice echoed against my will.

Please don’t fire me.

I clenched my jaw.

Everyone had a reason. Everyone had a story. If I listened to all of them, I would drown in excuses.

Yet something about her refusal to meet my eyes lingered. Not defiance. Not arrogance.

Fear.

I turned back to my desk and glanced at the termination file. Her name stared back at me.

Dharini.

Five months of clean work history. No complaints. No delays. No warnings.

My fingers tapped once on the desk.

She hadn’t known who I was in the lift.

That much was clear.

The insults replayed in my mind uninvited.

Khadoos. Arrogant janwar.

A muscle in my jaw twitched.

If she had known, she would have been silent. People always were. Respect born from fear was cheap, but effective.

She hadn’t feared me.

She had feared being late.

That irritated me more than it should have.

I picked up my phone, paused, then put it back down.

Rules were rules.

If I bent them for one person, tomorrow ten more would expect mercy. And mercy was expensive in a company this size.

Still… using mothers’s name.

That had struck a nerve I rarely allowed myself to feel.

My mother’s face surfaced in my memory for half a second before I shut it out. I despised lies because I had grown up buried under them. Promises. Apologies. Excuses.

I had sworn I would never tolerate them.

Not from anyone.

“Sir?” my assistant asked cautiously from the door.

“What?” I said, sharper than intended.

“The termination process is complete.”

I nodded without looking at him.

“Good.”

When the door closed again, I exhaled slowly.

For a brief, unwelcome moment, I wondered if she would survive without the job. Whether desperation had pushed her more than dishonesty.

I dismissed the thought immediately.

Survival was not my responsibility.

Discipline was.

Still, as I sat back down, my gaze lingered on the empty space in front of my desk, where she had stood trembling but unbroken.

For the first time that day, the silence did not feel victorious.

It felt… unsettled.

As all these thoughts circled my mind, my phone buzzed.

I glanced at the screen.

Maa.

I picked up the call immediately.

“Kavi, did you have lunch?” she asked, her voice soft but firm, the kind that never really asked a question.

“Haan,” I hummed, even though I knew she could hear the lie in my silence.

She sighed lightly.

“Kavi, Prapti called me. She wants you to come to her place for dinner today. You have to come early, okay?”

It wasn’t a request. It never was.

“Hm,” I replied again.

Before I could say anything else, she disconnected the call.

I stared at the phone for a second longer than necessary before placing it back on the desk. Even now, even after everything I controlled, Maa’s voice still had the power to rearrange my evening without asking.

“Sir,” Shesh said from behind me, breaking my thoughts, “the meeting starts in ten minutes.”

I looked at him and gave a small nod.

This meeting wasn’t just another formality.

It was for a major business proposal with a Russian company, one of the reasons I had personally flown in. The deal was crucial. It would affect both sides of my empire.

The legal one everyone knew about.

And the illegal one no one dared to speak of.

Yes. Illegal.

That part of my world needed precision, loyalty, and silence. One wrong decision, one weak link, and everything I had built could collapse like a house of cards.

For this, I needed the best team.

That was why this meeting had been arranged.

As I walked toward the conference room, my steps steady, my face unreadable, I reminded myself of the rule I lived by.

Emotion stays outside the room.

Inside, only strategy survives.

When I entered the meeting room, all the senior members were already present. Men and women who had earned their positions through years of relentless work, sleepless nights, and unspoken sacrifices.

They stood up as I entered.

I acknowledged them with a brief nod and took my seat at the head of the table.

The room fell silent.

Business awaited.

And with it, decisions that would decide far more than profit.

The conference room settled into silence as I took my seat.

Nine members. One empty chair.

I let my gaze rest on that absence for a brief second before looking back at the team.

I took my seat at the head of the table, my gaze sweeping across the room. The silence tightened instantly.

“There are supposed to be ten members in this meeting,” I said calmly. “Why is one seat vacant?”

Nishant straightened slightly.

“Sir, the tenth member was supposed to be Dharini Shekhawat.”

The name hit the room like a muted strike.

“She was terminated today, sir,” Nishant replied.

I leaned back slowly in my chair, interlocking my fingers, my expression unreadable.

“I see.”

“This meeting,” I said calmly, “is not routine.”

A few brows furrowed. They hadn’t been briefed. That was intentional.

I turned my head slightly.

“Shesh.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, stepping forward.

Shesh activated the screen behind him. A map lit up, lines stretching across borders, pausing deliberately over Russia.

“What you are about to hear,” Shesh said evenly, “is classified. Everything discussed in this room stays in this room.”

The weight in the air thickened.

“This is a proposed collaboration with a Russian conglomerate,” he continued. “On the surface, it is a legal joint venture involving infrastructure technology and data logistics.”

On the surface.

I watched their reactions carefully.

“But,” Shesh added, pausing just long enough, “there is a deeper layer. One that requires precision, silence, and absolute control.”

Netra leaned forward slightly. Nishant’s expression sharpened.

“This deal,” Shesh continued, “will affect not only our legal business operations, but also… parallel channels.”

No one spoke, but everyone understood.

I interjected calmly, “If even one channel is exposed, everything collapses.”

Shesh nodded and continued.

“The Russian firm is extremely cautious. Every data exchange will be monitored. Cyber surveillance will be constant. One inconsistency could raise suspicion.”

That was when Netra spoke.

“Sir,” she said carefully, “then cyber security becomes the backbone of this deal.”

I nodded once.

Nishant straightened.

“Sir… the tenth member was Dharini Shekhawat.”

The name caused a subtle shift.

“She was heading cyber security,” Nishant added. “And she was meant to secure the digital layer for this project.”

Netra didn’t hesitate.

“She wasn’t just heading it, sir. Dharini designed our entire cyber defense architecture. For a deal like this… she was critical.”

Silence.

Then I spoke.

“Critical does not mean irreplaceable.”

I turned slightly.

“Shesh, bring him in.”

The door opened and a man walked in, composed and alert.

“This,” I said, “is Aditya Khurana. He will be handling cyber security for this operation.”

Aditya nodded briefly.

“I’ve worked on international cyber defense, counter-intrusion systems, and data masking for over eight years. I’ve reviewed the Russian firm’s surveillance patterns.”

Netra studied him.

“How long will it take you to understand our internal framework?” she asked.

“Forty-eight hours for stabilization,” Aditya replied. “Two weeks for full control.”

Nishant frowned slightly.

“Two weeks is risky. The Russians don’t give second chances.”

Two weeks is a long time in this deal,Dharini built this system from scratch. She knows its pressure points.”

Aditya met his gaze.

“Systems don’t depend on people. They depend on logic.”

I tapped the table once. The sound cut cleanly through the tension.

“That risk is mine to carry,” I said.

“Dharini Shekhawat was an asset,” I said evenly. “But no one is irreplaceable.”

A pause.

“That said,” I added, my tone sharpening, “this project leaves no margin for error.

Aditya, you’ll coordinate with Netra and Nishant directly.”

I looked around the table, my voice low but firm.

“Understand this clearly. This deal decides our future. If cyber security fails, no amount of planning, presentation, or legal cover will protect us.”

My gaze drifted once more to the empty chair.

Replacement filled the position.

But absence still filled the room.

And for the first time that day, power felt… cautious.

.

.

.

After the meeting concluded, I left the conference room and returned to my cabin.

The door closed behind me with a soft click.

And that was when she came back.

Dharini.

Uninvited. Unasked for.

Her presence lingered in my mind like a shadow refusing to leave. My thoughts began collecting details I hadn’t meant to remember. The quiet firmness in her voice when she tried to explain herself. The way her nose had scrunched slightly when she was nervous. The sharp glare she had shot at me in the lift, unaware of who I was speaking to.

That honesty. That defiance.

Even the way she had stood in front of my desk, trembling but still upright, refusing to completely fold.

I hadn’t noticed it then.

I was noticing it now.

I sank into my chair, my mind narrowing, zooming in on fragments that made no sense to keep. Her eyes. Not pleading. Hurt, yes, but proud.

I exhaled sharply and straightened in my seat.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Why was I thinking about her voice? Her glare? Her expressions?

I rubbed my forehead, irritated with myself.

Focus.

I reached for the past year’s budget file, forcing my attention onto numbers and projections. Safe things. Predictable things. Things that didn’t look back at you with wounded eyes.

Just as I began scanning the figures, there was a knock on the cabin door.

“Come in,” I said.

Shesh entered, holding a thick file. He walked to the desk and placed it in front of me.

The office file from the Russian company, sir,” he said. “All clauses, statements, and conditions are included.”

I nodded, opening it.

Then Shesh added, carefully, “They’ve made a request.”

I looked up.

“They want a cyber security demonstration,” he said. “One week from now.”

My fingers stilled on the page.

I picked up the intercom without another thought.

“Send Aditya Khurana to my cabin,” I said, my voice clipped.

“Yes, sir,” Shesh replied immediately.

Minutes later, there was a cautious knock.

“Come in.”

Aditya stepped inside, a tablet tucked under his arm. His posture was respectful, but I could see the tension behind his composed face.

“They want a cyber security demonstration,” I said, sliding the Russian file toward him. “One week.”

Aditya’s brows drew together.

“Sir,” he said carefully, “I’m already handling multiple internal reviews. And to be honest, a system of this scale usually requires at least two weeks. Rushing it could—”

I looked up.

Not just at him.

Through him.

The room went cold.

“Two weeks is not what they asked for,” I said, my voice low, measured. “One week is what they will get.”

He swallowed.

“Sir, I don’t want to overpromise and underdeliver.”

I leaned back in my chair, fingers interlocking slowly.

“If you can do it, do it,” I said quietly.

“If you can’t, say so.”

I paused, then continued, my voice turning sharper.

“There are many people outside this building who are dying for this opportunity.”

I held his gaze.

“Don’t waste my time.”

The silence stretched.

Aditya hesitated, his confidence flickering under the weight of my stare. He glanced at the file, then back at me.

“I… I’ll do it,” he said finally. “I’ll make sure the demonstration is ready within a week.”

“Good,” I replied, already dismissing him. “You may leave.”

He stood, nodded once, and exited the cabin.

As the door closed, I exhaled slowly.

Shesh was still standing near the door, his expression uneasy.

“Sir,” he began carefully, “you came all the way from the USA for this project. And the way Aditya was hesitating… I think we should keep a backup plan—”

I looked at him.

Not glanced.

Not acknowledged.

I looked at him with a fiery stare that cut his sentence in half.

The room went silent.

Shesh immediately stopped speaking. His shoulders stiffened as he took a step back.

“S-sorry, sir,” he said quickly, lowering his gaze.

I straightened in my chair.

“So now,” I said coldly, “you’re giving me advice?”

“No, sir,” he replied at once. “I didn’t mean—”

“Enough,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured again.

Without waiting for permission, Shesh turned and hurried out of the cabin, closing the door behind him a little too carefully.

Silence returned.

Thick. Heavy.

After some time, I was going through a few files, trying to force my focus back onto work.

Suddenly, the cabin door opened.

Without looking up, I was already prepared to snap at whoever had entered without permission.

But I stopped.

The man standing in front of me wore a blue tuxedo suit. Sharp. Impeccable. Too deliberate to be a mistake.

I slowly lifted my gaze from the files.

And froze.

Something about his presence demanded silence before words.

The air in the room shifted.

This wasn’t an interruption.

This was an arrival.