The city of Mumbai stood still that evening.
Skyscrapers pierced the fiery orange dusk, and the sea wind whispered secrets through the streets. But none of it could mask the electric jolt that ran through every household, office, and phone screen. Breaking news screamed from televisions and radios. Social media exploded. There were tears, disbelief, and frantic calls.
"Trillionaire Industrialist Saksham Sharma Found Dead."
The headlines sprawled across every screen, every platform. The photos that followed showed a familiar man, handsome and dignified, always in control. A genius entrepreneur. A self-made titan. The man who built a multinational empire from scratch, whose name was a brand, a dream, and a force of nature.
And now, he was dead.
The official statement said he had fallen from the rooftop of his flagship building — the sleek black tower that bore his name. It was the headquarters of the empire he had built. Some reporters called it irony. Others called it fate.
The world called it suicide.
But one woman knew otherwise.
In the heart of the city, inside a sprawling glass mansion perched on a hilltop, Aditi Sharma sat alone in a cold room that once felt like a palace. The walls bore portraits of smiling faces — vacations in Italy, dinners in Paris, anniversaries and birthdays. But tonight, those smiles mocked her. Tonight, the house echoed with an unbearable silence.
She stared at the large painting of Saksham above the fireplace. His eyes, full of life and ambition, seemed to look right through her. It had only been a few hours, and the warmth of his presence already felt like a memory from another lifetime.
The media had descended upon the gates like vultures. The company's board was already in chaos. Investors demanded answers. The police investigation was superficial at best. And through it all, people whispered:
"Was he depressed?"
"Maybe the pressure finally got to him."
"It's not unusual for geniuses to be lonely."
But Aditi knew better. Saksham was not a man who gave up. He wasn't reckless, not even impulsive. He calculated everything — even the weight of his silence. He had been worried lately, yes, and more secretive than usual. But depressed? No. He had plans, dreams, visions. He was supposed to unveil the new line of AI-integrated products next week. He had just signed a deal with the German government. He was talking about starting a school for orphaned children.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
She stood up, her knees shaking, and walked to the antique drawer beside the bar. Inside, amidst some old journals and a few photographs, lay a simple phone. Not her regular phone — this was his.
Saksham's private phone.
The one he never let anyone touch. Not even her.
With trembling hands, she unlocked it. There were only three recent calls.
One was to her. One to his lawyer. And one… from a private number.
It was a recording.
Her finger hovered over it. Then she tapped "play."
The audio crackled.
Then came two male voices.
"You think you're still in control, Saksham?" said the first voice, cool and mocking.
"It's over," said the second. "The company is changing. You're obsolete."
There was silence.
Then Saksham's voice, calm but firm. "You're making a mistake. I have everything recorded. If anything happens to me—"
Laughter. "Please, this isn't a movie. No one will believe a dead man."
The recording ended abruptly.
Aditi's heart pounded in her chest. She played it again. And again. Each time, she recognized more details — the arrogance in the men's voices, the tension in Saksham's. But the names weren't mentioned. Still, she had a gut feeling.
She picked up her own phone and stared at a contact she hadn't dialed in years.
Dushiant Rajput.
Her finger hovered. Her breath caught.
They had been like brothers once — Saksham and Dushiant. Co-founders. Friends since childhood. One had the business mind; the other had the tech genius. But Dushiant had walked away five years ago. Said he was done with the corporate wars. Went to Germany to teach, to live in peace.
But she knew one thing. If anyone could uncover the truth — if anyone could protect what Saksham built — it was him.
She tapped the call icon.
It rang.
"Hello?" The voice was calm, familiar, but caught off guard.
Her throat tightened. "Hello… bhaiya. Dushiant."
A long silence. Then a shift in his tone.
"Aditi?"
"He's gone," she whispered.
"I know," he said after a pause. "I saw the news."
"It wasn't suicide."
"I never believed it was."
"I need your help."
"I'll be on the next flight."
And just like that, something shifted in the universe.
The wheel had started turning.
---
The next day, Aditi stood at Mumbai International Airport, her face hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. A thin scarf shielded her from the press, but nothing could hide the storm in her eyes.
The sliding doors opened, and through the crowd, he emerged — taller, leaner, but with the same unshakable presence. Dushiant Rajput.
He wore a simple black coat, his expression unreadable. But when he saw her, something in his eyes softened.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'm glad you came."
They drove in silence through the city, memories swirling in every street corner. When they reached the mansion, Dushiant paused outside the main gate.
"Does it still smell like jasmine in the garden?" he asked, almost absentmindedly.
She blinked. "You remember that?"
He smiled faintly. "I remember everything."
Inside, they sat in the study. Aditi handed him the phone and played the recording.
He listened. Eyes closed. Face still.
When it ended, he opened his eyes.
"Ranjan," he said. "And… Pandey?"
She looked shocked. "You recognized their voices?"
He nodded slowly. "I've heard them enough times in board meetings. I'd never forget the way Ranjan laughs. But…"
He trailed off.
"But what?"
He frowned. "Why would they let him record them? These guys are cunning. They wouldn't make such a mistake. Not unless…"
He stood, pacing the room. "Not unless it wasn't real. Not a real call, I mean."
Aditi frowned. "You think it's fake?"
"I think it was designed to provoke. Someone wanted Saksham to panic. Someone wanted him to feel cornered. Maybe even… to go to the rooftop."
She gasped. "You think someone staged everything?"
He turned to her, eyes sharp. "I think someone wanted him dead. And made it look like suicide."
Silence settled between them.
Then, she said quietly, "What do we do now?"
He looked out the window, at the skyline he once helped design.
"We go back to the place it all started."
---
Later that night, Dushiant stood outside the towering black building, once a symbol of their shared dream. He remembered the first day they opened it. They were nobodies then. Two boys from small towns, wearing oversized suits, laughing in the face of impossible odds.
He entered under a false name, with forged documents. A new identity. No one recognized him now — the press barely had photos of him. That had always been the plan. Saksham was the face. He was the shadow.
As he walked past the receptionist, his mind was already spinning with calculations. He would have to get close to the board members. Earn their trust. Find out who was pulling the strings.
He didn't know yet how deep the rabbit hole went.
But he would find out.
Because this wasn't about revenge.
It was about loyalty.
And justice.
And keeping a promise to the only brother he ever had.
[Chapter One Ends — Word Count: ~2000]