Kartavya’s POV

The next evening, I stood in the conference room watching Aditya explain the updated framework.

Slides moved across the screen. Clean diagrams. Fast workflows. Confident voice.

It looked impressive.

Too impressive.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Explain this section,” I said, pointing to the architecture diagram.

Aditya hesitated for the first time.

“We’ve consolidated the authentication gateways,” he said. “It reduces latency and makes the demonstration seamless.”

“Seamless,” I repeated.

“Yes, sir. The Russians value efficiency.”

I walked closer to the screen.

“And redundancy?” I asked quietly.

He paused.

“It’s… reduced for speed, sir. But still manageable.”

The word reduced echoed in my mind.

I turned toward him fully.

“You removed layered security?”

“It slows down real-time demos,” he replied quickly. “And honestly, the previous structure was… overly cautious.”

Something sharp stirred in my chest.

Overly cautious.

For a moment, I saw Dharini’s file again. Her detailed risk reports. The warnings she had written in margins no one else noticed.

I folded my arms.

“If they stress-test the system live,” I said slowly, “what happens?”

Aditya’s confidence flickered.

“It should hold.”

Should.

I hated that word.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

I looked at the screen again, noticing what I hadn’t before — elegant design hiding fragile bones.

My jaw tightened.

“Who approved these structural changes?” I asked.

Aditya straightened.

“I did, sir.”

Silence.

The team watched cautiously.

I finally spoke, voice colder than intended.

“This project cannot afford mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly.

I turned away, but my mind refused to settle.

A thought slipped in quietly, unwanted yet undeniable.

She wouldn’t have taken this risk.

I hated that the comparison came so naturally.

I hated even more that it felt true.

.

.

The room emptied slowly after the review session, but my mind stayed fixed on the screen long after everyone left.

Aditya’s model looked clean.

Too clean.

Systems built for perfection often failed first under pressure.

I returned to my cabin, closing the door behind me. The silence felt heavier than usual.

Without thinking for long, I pressed the intercom.

“Shesh.”

He entered almost immediately.

“Yes, sir?”

I didn’t look at him right away.

“I need something,” I said.

He waited.

“Retrieve Dharini Shekhawat’s original project files.”

For a second, he didn’t react — as if he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

“Sir… her files?” he repeated carefully.

I lifted my eyes to him.

“Did I stutter?”

“No, sir,” he said quickly. “I’ll arrange it.”

He turned to leave, but I stopped him.

“This stays between us.”

Shesh nodded once, understanding the unspoken weight behind the order.

When the door closed again, I leaned back in my chair.

I told myself this wasn’t personal.

This was risk assessment.

Nothing more.

Yet the truth lingered like a whisper.

I trusted a dismissed employee’s system more than the one currently in front of me.

And that realization irritated me deeply.

Later That Night

Shesh returned with a secured drive.

“These are her original architecture files, risk assessments, and simulation reports,” he said softly.

I opened the folder.

The structure was meticulous. Layered defenses, fallback routes, contingency plans marked in red.

And then I saw a heading.

Possible Client Behaviors — Russian Security Testing Patterns.

My eyes narrowed.

She had predicted scenarios.

Detailed ones.

I leaned forward.

One note stood out:

Client may request live intrusion simulation or adaptive penetration testing during demonstration. System must sustain multi-node stress without exposing internal topology.

I froze.

A knock interrupted the silence.

Shesh stepped in again, holding his tablet, his expression tight.

“Sir… we just received an update from the Russian side.”

“Speak.”

“They’ve added new technical requirements.”

I gestured for him to continue.

“They want a live adaptive cyber-security demonstration,” he said. “Real-time stress testing during the presentation.”

The words landed like a hammer.

Exactly what she had predicted.

I slowly looked back at the screen in front of me.

Dharini’s file.

My jaw tightened.

Aditya’s simplified system would struggle under that kind of pressure. If it cracked—even slightly—the Russians would see everything.

Not just weaknesses.

Exposure.

I stood up abruptly.

“Call Aditya,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

As Shesh turned to leave, I spoke again, quieter this time.

“Did anyone else see these files?”

“No, sir.”

Good.

Because for the first time since I fired her, a thought settled heavily in my mind.

I might have removed the very person who could save this deal.

And power, no matter how absolute, didn’t erase mistakes.

The night had settled deep into the building, but my cabin lights were still on.

Dharini’s files remained open in front of me.

Every note. Every contingency. Every warning.

She had seen this coming.

I closed the folder slowly.

“Shesh,” I said into the intercom.

He entered within seconds.

“Yes, sir?”

I kept my voice even.

“Find out where Dharini Shekhawat is.”

Shesh blinked once — a rare crack in his composure.

“Sir… should I contact her directly?”

“No,” I said immediately. “Just find out where she is. Quietly.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

As he turned to leave, I added, softer than intended, “No one else needs to know.”

The door closed.

I stared at the empty chair across from me.

This wasn’t about apology.

It was strategy.

I repeated that to myself, though it sounded less convincing each time.