Day 1
They mistook her silence for surrender. But she was only gathering the storm.
~Ritvika Roy
I must have blacked out at some point between the third audit report and the fifth rejected proposal.
When I opened my eyes, the documents were still stuck to my body like spirits, my forehead was pressed against a pile of budget sheets that had a coffee ring stain from last night, my back was hurting, my breathing was not normal. There were papers under my arm, one was pressing into my ribs, and a sharp pain behind my eyes that made me remember that sleep was a luxury that I wasn't allowed to have that night.
But I needed to know.
And now I did.
Every route I traced, every transaction, every numbered trail, every questionable detour in the Defense Funds allocation of '92 - kept folding back into one single name.
Harshvardhan Roy.
My father.
The man who raised me with silence full of strength and hands that never trembled, even when the world crumbled around him. A man who once walked out of a courtroom carrying me in one arm and dignity in the other.
And now?
Every line of ink screamed that he was the centre of this mess.
But I knew better.
There was more. There had to be. Something hidden, something twisted, and until I found it, I would not stop. Because I've seen lies wear the face of truth before, and I refused to let them use my father's face this time.
"Beta, Ritvika..." a familiar voice said gently.
I blinked hard, sat up, and looked up to find Dhruv Singh standing beside me. My uncle by blood, my shield in every storm. Younger brother to my late mother - Rajshri Devi, the firebrand of Indian courts, whose name could still make older politicians pause mid-sentence.
"Saari raat tum documents read kar rahi thi," he said, brushing a paper off my shoulder like I was still that ten-year-old girl who couldn't sleep without her mom's shawl. "Take a break now. You even slept on the table. And see- it's already 9:50."
My eyes widened. "Shit. No- no no no. It can't be!"
He smiled softly, with that quiet patience that only the truly brave possess. "Don't worry, beta. I called him here."
I froze. "You did??" My voice came out sharp, ice over fire. "I hate him."
"I know that."
"I hate him so much that I don't even want him to be allowed to step foot in the empire's building, the one that my father built. Why would you let him do that? "
"Because," Mama ji said, stroking my head with his hand in a soothing way, "I was pretty sure you wouldn't get there in time. You were putting in an awful lot of effort. And I've known you ever since you were little, since your voice cracked when you first read your mother's courtroom notes and said 'I want to fight like her'. You're way too much like her to just give up like that. But even your mother used to take a break."
I swallowed hard.
"Thank you, Maamu," I said, my voice finally softening. "After Papa... I can only rely on you."
I pressed a kiss to his hand, then rushed to the washroom to scrub the ink from my skin and the fatigue from my eyes. My reflection looked like a battlefield - dishevelled hair, swollen lids, jaw locked in grief and fury. But there was no time to weep.
I had to face him.
When I returned, the door to the office creaked open just as I touched the handle. And there he was.
Aksh Raghuvanshi.
Tailored to perfection, rage simmering behind his eyes, folder in hand - and a cold coffee perched lazily in the other.
"Thought you'd like a taste of how it feels to be stood up. I waited for thirty minutes at the archives. And then you called me here," he said coldly, "and then made me wait. Again. Classy."
"You hate cold coffee, don't you?" His smirk deepened, deliciously evil. "Feel it as karma."
And before I could offer a single breath in response, he threw the coffee.
Right at my face.
The chilled liquid slapped against my skin, dripping down my cheek, soaking into my shirt and for a second, I just stood there.
Stunned.
And then I smiled.
And kicked him. With heels on.
Right at the spot where nature should've given him more protection. (His balls)
"My kids!" He came up against the wall, holding himself, while I simply wiped the coffee off my face with a file wipe, stepping back casually.
"Don't test me," I snapped, breathing hard. "I was raised in this building. You think I won't bury you under it?"
"You know," he croaked, "there's this popular video online... 'If you were my wife, I'd be poisoning your coffee.'"
I didn't even blink. "If you were my husband," I said coolly, "I'd drink it. And I'll prove it to you someday."
That brought him to a stop.
For a moment, some change passed through his eyes, not respect, no, not that, but recognition. As if he remembered that I don't bluff. Not in court. Not in war. Not in business. Not with him.
He dropped the folder on the table with the kind of finality that tasted like betrayal.
"Here are the documents you asked for," he muttered. "But don't forget one thing- I'm winning this last case of my life. No matter what you do."
He paused at the doorway, eyes cold steel.
"Because it involves my family."
And then he walked out.
No hesitation. No apology. Just the sound of expensive shoes over polished marble.
I didn't speak. Didn't scream. Didn't even breathe for a second.
Because I knew what he meant.
Winning meant proving my father guilty.
And even if Aksh Raghuvanshi had to burn the truth to ashes, he would light the match himself, as long as it meant protecting his bloodline.
But I?
I am not going to give up.
Because I am completely sure that my father is innocent.
And if I had to stand against the whole courtroom, the government, and even the Man I once loved,
Then let it be so.
He had his rage.
I had my truth.
And I would burn the world before I let them cage Harshvardhan Roy.
The coffee had dried cold against my skin, sticky like old guilt.
I didn't change. Didn't move. I just stood there in my office, staring at the folder Aksh had left behind - like it was a ticking bomb instead of paper and ink.
"Because it involves my family."
His words echoed like the crack of a gavel in a silent courtroom.
And mine?
"If you were my husband, I'd drink it."
Was I out of my mind? Maybe. But anger does strange things to love. It rots. Corrupt it. Turn it into something sharper than hate. Especially when that love turns into a sword pointed at your father's throat.
I picked up the folder, flipped it open. Receipts. Ledger statements. Inter-office memos. Hidden transactions. All things I'd already suspected, now just officially pointing toward my father as the primary accused.
It felt like holding a scalpel someone had used to carve my family's legacy into ruins.
The door creaked again. I didn't have to look.
"He's gone?" Dhruv Uncle asked softly, stepping in.
I nodded once, lips pressed thin. "He delivered the documents. And a promise."
He placed a hand on my shoulder - firm, grounding.
"You okay?"
"No," I admitted. "But I'm not broken either."
Shakti Exports Pvt. Ltd.
Panchan exports
VS industries
Legally, it looked just like any other document. It was neat. But there was something very... "perfect" about it that felt strange.
"Uncle?"
"Yes?"
"Get me everything on Shakti Exports. Founders. Directors. Bank trails. I want to know who started this company and how they got those defense contracts. I want a name."
"I'll get on it."
"And," I added, quietly, "don't tell Papa."
Uncle looked like he wanted to argue, but then just nodded and left the room.
I'll investigate panchan exports and VS industries by myself. I don't want to trust anyone completely.
I stood alone again, heart hammering louder now. This war wasn't just in courtrooms or coffee-fueled confrontations. It was in the shadows. Whispers. Old files and new threats.
And now... someone out there knew I was listening.
So I would listen harder.
And I would find them.
Whoever they were.
Before they buried my father in the same lies, they were trying to drown me in.
𓆩⚔🖤⚔𓆪