The next morning did not feel fresh. It did not feel like a new beginning, nor did it carry the softness mornings usually brought into large houses after long nights. The sunlight that filtered through the tall windows of Rathore Mansion felt pale, almost distant, as if even the day itself had entered cautiously, aware that too much had changed inside these walls for brightness to belong here naturally anymore. Yet something had changed. Not peace. Not comfort. Not relief. But direction. For the first time since Armaan's grandparents' deaths, and perhaps for the first time since Kamini Kashyap's murder all those years ago, they finally had something concrete in their hands — not enough to solve anything, not enough to identify a face, not enough to understand motive — but enough to say with certainty that these deaths were not separate tragedies. They were connected. And the symbol they had found was not random. It was a thread. And now they had no choice but to pull it.
By ten in the morning, everyone had gathered once again in Armaan's room. The large room, which had now unofficially become the centre of their investigation, looked far less neat than it once used to. The coffee table was covered in open files, printed photographs, handwritten notes, scribbled theories, water glasses no one remembered drinking from, and pens that had rolled into corners after being dropped mid-thought. The air smelled faintly of paper, coffee, and lack of sleep.
Aradhya sat on the edge of the couch near the centre table, one leg folded under the other, a notebook resting in her lap. Though she had returned the previous night and had finally spoken to Armaan properly in the garden, she was still quieter than usual this morning. She was present, focused, and composed — but there remained a distance around her, a thin emotional wall that had not completely fallen yet. And everyone could feel it. Armaan noticed it the most. He had noticed everything about her since morning — the way she avoided long eye contact unless necessary, the way her voice remained steady but softer than usual, the way she answered others properly but kept her own feelings tucked far behind her expression. It wasn't hostility anymore. That had lessened after last night. But the ease between them had not returned fully either.
Yuvaan was standing near the table with his arms crossed, his posture carrying the same protective tension it had carried ever since Aradhya expressed her feeling about their mother's death. Nitika sat beside him with a file open in her lap, reading the same line twice because her mind was clearly elsewhere. Myrah was sitting cross-legged on the rug with two pens tucked into her hair and a notebook open before her, though for once she looked more serious than dramatic. Rithik sat beside her on the floor, leaning back against the bed, occasionally correcting or adding to whatever she scribbled. Nadya was on the armchair near the bookshelf with her chin resting against her hand, thinking deeply. Reyansh sat near the balcony door, one ankle resting over the other knee, quieter than everyone else but listening to every word carefully. Aahan stood near the side table, casually holding a mug of coffee but very clearly paying more attention to Nitika than to the mug in his hand. Shaurya leaned against the wall with his usual unreadable calm, though his eyes drifted toward Nadya more often than he probably intended.
The room was full. But the mood was sharp. No one was here for comfort anymore. They were here for answers. Armaan picked up the photograph again — the one with his grandparents' bodies and the symbol barely visible near the side — and placed it beside the sketch Aradhya had made of the same mark from the alley.
"It's the same," he said, though everyone already knew that.
"Which means," Rithik replied, running a hand through his hair, "we stop looking at this as two murders and start looking at it as one pattern."
"Exactly," Aradhya said quietly.
Her voice made everyone look toward her. She lifted her gaze from the notebook in her lap and continued, more steadily now. "If this symbol was present both where my mother died and in the photographs from Armaan's grandparents' murder scene, then the person who left it either belongs to this brand, has access to things from this brand, or is using it intentionally as some kind of signature."
"Signature?" Nadya repeated, disturbed. "Like... the killer wanted it to be found?"
"Not necessarily," Aradhya said. "But people who believe they'll never be caught often get careless. Sometimes arrogance leaves more clues than fear does."
"That sounds very comforting," Myrah muttered under her breath.
"It wasn't meant to be," Aradhya replied dryly, and though the line was simple, it carried enough of her old sharpness that several heads turned toward her with the faintest flicker of relief.
Even Armaan's expression softened a little.
Aahan, however, looked thoroughly unimpressed. "Okay, brilliant detective energy aside, how exactly are we supposed to investigate a banned luxury logo from, like, the prehistoric rich people era?"
"It wasn't prehistoric," Shaurya said flatly.
Aahan looked at him. "You got the point."
"I hate that I did."
That would normally have earned at least three sarcastic responses, but this morning only Myrah huffed a quiet laugh before returning to her notes.
Armaan looked toward Aradhya again. "Do you have something in mind?"
She hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"Yes."
That got everyone's full attention.
"I know someone who might be able to help."
The room stilled.
Yuvaan frowned slightly. "Who?"
"A friend," Aradhya said.
Armaan's eyebrows drew together almost immediately.
"What kind of friend?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Aradhya turned her head toward him and looked at him for exactly two seconds too long to be innocent.
Then she said, in a tone so calm it was suspicious, "A useful one."
Myrah's head snapped up so fast it was almost comical.
"Oh?" she said, instantly interested. "Useful how?"
Aradhya ignored her.
"He works in digital archives, old databases, restricted auction records, discontinued luxury labels, black-market resale history, elite event access logs — basically anything that ever existed and was quietly buried, he can usually find traces of it."
Now everyone was interested.
"Why have you not mentioned this human Google before?" Rithik asked.
"Because until yesterday," Aradhya replied, "I wasn't aware we'd be hunting down dead luxury brands linked to possible serial murder."
"That is... fair," Reyansh said quietly.
Yuvaan frowned. "Can we trust him?"
Aradhya nodded once. "Yes."
Armaan didn't like how fast that answer came. And he liked even less the strange, tiny flicker of something unpleasant in his chest at the idea of her saying yes that confidently about another man.
He folded his arms. "Then we should go."
Aradhya looked at him. "We?"
"Yes, we."
"I can go alone."
"No."
The refusal came too quickly and too firmly. Several people in the room exchanged looks.
Aradhya raised an eyebrow. "Armaan—"
"No," he repeated, this time more calmly but no less firmly. "You're not going alone anywhere related to this case anymore. If this symbol is important enough to connect two murders, then we don't know how dangerous this actually is. So if you're going to meet this... useful friend, I'm coming with you."
The room fell into a very suspicious kind of silence. Myrah slowly looked between the two of them with dangerous amusement. Aahan sipped his coffee with the expression of a man about to enjoy a show. Nitika lowered her face to the file in her lap, though the corner of her mouth twitched. Even Nadya looked like she had just discovered temporary entertainment in the middle of murder. Aradhya noticed all of it and sighed.
"Fine," she said finally. "You're coming."
Myrah leaned back dramatically. "How romantic. Investigation date."
"It's not a date," Armaan and Aradhya said at the exact same time.
That, unfortunately, made it worse.
Mayank lived in a modern apartment in the older but wealthier part of the city, where polished glass buildings stood between older colonial structures and the roads always looked too clean to belong to the same world as the rest of the city. The drive there was mostly quiet. Armaan drove while Aradhya sat beside him, staring out the window at first, but her mind was clearly running through possibilities faster than the city passed outside. For the first ten minutes, neither said much.
Then Armaan, still keeping his eyes on the road, asked as casually as he could manage, "So... how long have you known him?"
Aradhya did not even look at him.
"Long enough."
Armaan's jaw tightened just slightly. "That doesn't answer the question."
She finally turned toward him, one eyebrow lifting. "Why? Are you interviewing him?"
"No."
"Then why do you sound like you are?"
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You literally do."
Armaan exhaled through his nose. "I'm just asking."
Aradhya looked at him for a second longer, then turned back toward the window with the faintest trace of satisfaction in her expression.
"Since college," she said.
That did not help.
Armaan gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "And he just... does all this archive hacking luxury-history thing for fun?"
"He doesn't hack."
"He sounds like he hacks."
"He researches."
"Illegally?"
She looked at him again, and this time there was actual amusement in her eyes.
"You're jealous."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
"Very convincing."
He shot her a look. She almost smiled. And for some reason, despite the irritation, the heaviness in the car eased just a little.
Mayank opened the apartment door before they could ring twice. He was tall, sharp-featured, dressed in a black t-shirt and loose grey trousers, with glasses perched carelessly on his nose and the unmistakable expression of a man who knew exactly how attractive he was and enjoyed weaponizing that knowledge. The moment he saw Aradhya, his face lit up dramatically.
"Well, well," he said, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. "If it isn't the most beautiful woman in the city gracing my miserable apartment with her presence."
Armaan's expression froze. Aradhya, unfortunately, looked entirely unbothered.
"Hello to you too, Mayank," she said dryly.
Mayank placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me. Not even a hug after disappearing for ages?"
"You'll survive."
"I survive everything, darling."
Armaan's eye twitched.
Mayank finally noticed him properly and blinked. "Oh."
His gaze moved from Armaan to Aradhya and back again. Then a slow, deeply annoying smile spread across his face.
"And who," he said, stepping aside with great interest, "is this extremely intense-looking man glaring at me like I personally offended his ancestors?"
Aradhya stepped inside. "This is Armaan."
Mayank looked delighted. "Just Armaan?"
"That should be enough."
"Hmm," Mayank said thoughtfully, clearly deciding it was not enough at all. "Interesting."
Armaan entered with all the warmth of a locked vault.
"Mayank," he said flatly.
"Armaan," Mayank echoed, grinning. "Welcome to the chaos."
His apartment looked exactly how one would expect a man like Mayank to live — bookshelves overflowing with old files and technology, multiple computer screens glowing on one side of the room, half-open cartons of papers stacked in corners, expensive coffee equipment on the kitchen counter, and enough scattered evidence of brilliance and disorder to make the place feel simultaneously impressive and unbearable. Mayank gestured dramatically toward the couch.
"Sit. Explain. And if this is about murder, corruption, black-market history, or ruined reputations, I'd like to state in advance that I'm emotionally available."
"It is about murder," Aradhya said.
Mayank blinked. Then he straightened. And just like that, the flirtation dropped enough for seriousness to settle in.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Tell me everything."
So they did. Not everything. But enough. The logo. The alley. The file. The repeated symbol. The suspicion that it belonged to a discontinued luxury brand. Mayank listened without interrupting, which in itself was a miracle. Then he turned toward one of the monitors, rolled his chair closer, and began typing rapidly.
"Do you have a sketch?" he asked.
Aradhya handed him the notebook.
He studied the symbol for a few seconds and muttered, "...Oh, that's not good."
Armaan immediately stepped forward. "What?"
Mayank didn't answer right away. He opened multiple windows, searched through what looked like archived catalogues, private auction databases, discontinued luxury resale forums, old scanned fashion magazine issues, and something that Armaan was fairly sure no normal person should have access to.
"You weren't joking," Armaan muttered.
Mayank glanced at him over his shoulder. "About being useful?"
"About being mildly terrifying."
Mayank smiled. "Thank you."
Aradhya sat beside the desk, leaning slightly forward as the search progressed. Armaan remained standing near her, arms crossed, watching the screen and trying very hard not to notice every time Mayank casually leaned closer to Aradhya while explaining something. Which he did far too often. And unnecessarily. And with entirely too much confidence. After nearly twenty minutes of searching, Mayank finally found something.
"There," he said, opening an old archived page.
The logo appeared on screen. Sharp. Clear. Undeniable. Aradhya leaned in. Armaan stepped closer.
Mayank tapped the screen. "This belonged to an old elite luxury label called Virello Noire."
The name alone sounded expensive and secretive.
Armaan frowned. "Never heard of it."
"You wouldn't have," Mayank said. "It wasn't a mass-market brand. It catered to the obscenely wealthy. Invitation-only clientele. Private fittings. Limited access. Most of their pieces never even hit public stores. If you were wearing Virello Noire fifteen years ago, you were either very rich, very connected, or both."
Aradhya's eyes sharpened. "And why was it banned?"
Mayank clicked open another file.
"Scandal," he said. "A very quiet one. Officially it was shut down due to illegal imports, black-market luxury trafficking, tax evasion, and links to high-profile private circles that the media was... strongly encouraged not to discuss too much."
Armaan's face darkened. "Private circles?"
Mayank nodded slowly. "Not just fashion. Social circles. Wealth circles. Political circles. Think private galas, invitation-only parties, closed-door gatherings. Rich people nonsense, but the dangerous kind."
Aradhya and Armaan exchanged a look. Mayank noticed it instantly.
Then he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied them both. "Tell me I'm not looking up the accessory brand of a murderer."
Silence.
Mayank groaned. "Fantastic. Of course I am."
He turned back to the screen and continued digging.
"Wait," Aradhya said suddenly. "Can you check if there were any major Virello Noire events around the date of my mother's death?"
Mayank glanced at her. "Date?"
She gave it to him. He typed. Searched. Opened archived event logs. Scrolled. And then stopped. The air in the room changed instantly.
"...Oh."
Armaan's stomach tightened. "What?"
Mayank looked at the screen for a few seconds longer before saying slowly, "There was an elite private gala hosted by Virello Noire that night."
No one moved. Aradhya's fingers slowly tightened around the arm of the chair.
"What night?" Armaan asked, though he already knew the answer.
Mayank turned the monitor slightly toward them.
"The exact same date as your mother's murder."
Silence crashed into the room. Aradhya stared at the screen as if it had just struck her. Her voice came out smaller this time.
"Show me."
Mayank opened the guest archive. And there it was. An old luxury gala guest list. Private. Exclusive. Elegant in formatting. Deadly in meaning. Aradhya stood up so abruptly the chair moved back with a scrape. Armaan stepped beside her. And together, they began reading the names. One by one. Then both of them froze. Because there, among the guest list, were names they knew.
Kamini Kashyap.
Mr. and Mrs. Rathore
Aadarsh Rathore
Aratrika Rathore
And below them, a few other names neither of them recognized immediately but which sounded wealthy enough to matter. The room felt suddenly too small. Armaan looked at the screen again, as though rereading it might somehow change what he was seeing. It didn't. His grandparents had attended that gala. His parents had attended that gala. And Kamini Kashyap — Aradhya's mother — had attended that gala too. The same night she died. Aradhya's face had gone pale. A memory clicked into place so sharply it almost made her dizzy. That day. That exact day. She had been at a relative's house with Yuvaan and her mother. And now, suddenly, she remembered something she had never truly understood as a child. Kamini had disappeared for a few hours that evening. At the time, no one had questioned it deeply She had simply said she had some work to attend to and would return soon. Aradhya had been too young to think much of it then. But now— now it fit.
"She went there," Aradhya whispered.
Armaan looked at her. "What?"
"She went to the gala," Aradhya said, staring at the screen like it had reached into her childhood and rearranged it. "That day... she left for some time. I remember it now. Yuvaan and I were at our relatives' place. She told us she had to go somewhere and would come back. She was gone for a few hours."
Mayank slowly turned in his chair. Aradhya's breathing had become shallow.
"She went there," she repeated. "Mom was there."
And suddenly the murder no longer looked like a coincidence at all. It looked planned. Deliberate. Targeted. Armaan looked at the guest list again, his voice low and dark.
"Then whatever happened that night... started there."
No one said anything for a few seconds.
Then Mayank quietly said, "You need to take copies of all of this."
Aradhya nodded immediately.
"Everything," Armaan added. "Guest list, brand history, scandal records, event host details, names, archived mentions — everything."
Mayank got up and began printing and transferring files.
As he worked, he looked over at Aradhya once more and said, in a tone softer than before, "Whatever this is... it's bigger than you think."
Armaan did not appreciate how gently he said that to her. Nor did he appreciate the way Mayank lightly squeezed her shoulder while handing her the printed pages. Nor the fact that Aradhya let him. His jealousy by now had become so unreasonable that even he was beginning to hate himself for it. Mayank, of course, noticed. And being Mayank, he enjoyed noticing. As Aradhya gathered the documents into a folder, Mayank leaned casually against the desk and said, "If you ever need help again, you know where to find me."
Armaan's expression darkened.
Aradhya, without missing a beat, replied, "Hopefully I won't need to drag myself into your apartment again anytime soon."
Mayank sighed dramatically. "Cruel. Beautiful, but cruel."
Armaan opened the door before Mayank could say anything else.
"Thank you," he said flatly.
Mayank grinned. "You're welcome, jealous man."
Armaan froze. Aradhya nearly coughed. And then Mayank shut the door in their faces before Armaan could decide whether murder would actually solve one of their problems. The ride back was much less quiet than the ride there. Mostly because Aradhya kept trying not to laugh. And Armaan kept pretending he had nothing to be embarrassed about.
"I was not jealous," he said for what had to be the fifth time.
"You absolutely were."
"I absolutely was not."
"You looked like you wanted to strangle him with a laptop wire."
"He was flirting with you."
Aradhya turned toward him fully now, openly amused. "So?"
Armaan glanced at her, then immediately back at the road.
"So nothing."
She smiled. Actually smiled. A real one. And somehow, despite the darkness of everything they had just uncovered, that smile stayed with him all the way back to the mansion.
The atmosphere inside Rathore Mansion shifted the moment Armaan and Aradhya entered with the folder in hand. Everyone was already waiting in his room. The second they walked in, all eyes turned toward them.
Yuvaan stood first. "What happened?"
Aradhya placed the file on the table. And for the next half hour, the room filled with stunned silence, overlapping questions, and rising disbelief as she and Armaan explained everything they had learned. The name of the brand. Its elite status. Its scandals. Its connection to private wealthy circles. And finally— The guest list. When Armaan placed the printed sheet in the middle of the table, the room went completely still. No one spoke at first. Because the names were enough.
Kamini Kashyap.
Armaan's grandparents.
Aadarsh Rathore.
Aratrika Rathore.
And two other names written lower on the list:
Dev Malhotra.
Suhani Oberoi.
Unknown to them for now. But not unimportant.
Nitika stared at the page in disbelief. "Your parents were there too?"
Armaan nodded slowly.
Yuvaan looked toward Aradhya. "And our mother..."
"She went there before coming back to us," Aradhya said quietly.
That sentence changed everything. Now the timeline was no longer vague. Now the luxury gala had become the centre of the night.
"Then whatever happened at that event is what triggered all this," Reyansh said, his voice low but certain.
"Or what was discovered there," Shaurya added.
"Or who was seen there," Rithik said.
"Or what was overheard there," Myrah added quickly, already writing it down.
"Or what was stolen there," Aahan said.
Nadya looked between all of them, overwhelmed. "This means the murders could be linked to a secret from that night."
"Yes," Aradhya said.
And then, after a pause—
"And it means the people involved may still be around."
That silence that followed was colder than the previous ones. Because that thought made the danger immediate. Alive. Present. They spent hours discussing possibilities after that. Every small theory suddenly felt more important than before. They built timelines. They listed questions. They circled names. They wrote down everything suspicious:
Why did Kamini attend the gala secretly?
Why had no one ever mentioned it?
What happened there?
Why were Armaan's grandparents also present?
Why were Armaan's parents there?
What were Dev Malhotra and Suhani Oberoi connected to?
Was the killer someone from the guest list?
Or someone who attended unofficially?
At one point, Aradhya stood by the desk flipping through the event records while Armaan sat beside her making notes, and every now and then their hands brushed over the same paper. Neither of them commented on it. Neither of them moved away too quickly either. Across the room, Yuvaan and Nitika were working through company records together, their heads bent over the same notebook. At one point, Nitika leaned closer to point something out, and Yuvaan looked at her for one second longer than necessary before quietly clearing his throat and pretending to focus on the page again.
Myrah and Rithik argued over theories every five minutes, but for once it was more helpful than irritating. She insisted emotional motives mattered more; he insisted money and power always mattered more. Somewhere in between, they accidentally made sense together. Nadya and Reyansh were going through printed names and archived articles, and though the work was serious, every time Nadya got frustrated and pushed her hair back, Reyansh quietly handed her the next file before she even asked for it. Small things. Invisible things. The kind that mattered most. Aahan hovered around Nitika more often than the investigation required, while Shaurya, though outwardly focused, noticed Nadya's every expression from across the room whether he wanted to or not. And yet beneath all of that — beneath the almost-love, the quiet glances, the warmth that still survived between them — danger continued to grow. They just didn't know how close it already was.
By midnight, everyone was exhausted. The room had become a battlefield of evidence. The guest list remained in the centre like a silent bomb. Eventually, after deciding they would resume properly in the morning, everyone began leaving one by one. Armaan carefully gathered the most important documents — especially the guest list and logo records — and placed them inside a dark folder which he locked inside the drawer of his study table.
"We'll continue tomorrow," he said.
No one argued. They were too tired. One by one, the room emptied. The lights dimmed. Doors shut. Footsteps faded. And finally, sometime after one in the morning, Rathore Mansion fell silent. But silence, unfortunately, did not mean safety. It happened sometime around 2:17 a.m. The mansion was asleep. The hallways were still. The grandfather clock downstairs had just completed its heavy, echoing chime when a faint sound disturbed the silence on the upper floor. A soft scrape. Then another.
Inside his room, Armaan stirred in his sleep. At first, it barely registered. A dream shifting. A sound too distant to trust. But then, something fell. A very small sound. A click. Then a thud. And Armaan's eyes snapped open instantly. For a second, he lay still in the dark, listening. His heartbeat sharpened. Again. A movement. Inside the room. His entire body tensed. Someone was here. Without wasting another second, Armaan pushed himself up and reached for the bedside lamp switch. The light flicked on. And for one terrifying second, all he saw was movement near the desk. A shadow. A person dressed in black. His face covered. His gloved hand still on the drawer. Armaan moved before thought.
"WHO THE HELL—"
The figure jerked back violently and bolted. Armaan lunged after them. The intruder slammed into the chair, sending it crashing sideways, then darted toward the balcony instead of the door.
"Armaan!" someone shouted from outside — probably Yuvaan, awakened by the noise.
But Armaan was already running. The intruder shoved open the balcony doors and leapt outside just as Armaan grabbed at their arm. For one split second, his fingers caught fabric. Then it tore. The figure twisted free and jumped over the side balcony railing onto the lower ledge with terrifying speed. Armaan swore and climbed after them. By then, footsteps thundered through the corridor as everyone else woke up and rushed toward the room.
"Armaan!" Yuvaan shouted as he burst in.
"What happened?"
"There was someone here!" Armaan shouted back, already halfway over the balcony railing.
Yuvaan rushed to the edge. Below them, the shadowed figure sprinted across the garden lawn, cutting through darkness toward the side gate.
"Stop them!" Rithik yelled from behind.
But by the time Armaan made it down the stairs and ran outside, the intruder had already disappeared into the darkness beyond the estate wall. Gone. Just gone. The garden lights had come on by then, casting sharp white beams across the lawn, the hedges, the side pathway, the fountain, the iron gate. But the figure was nowhere. Armaan stood there breathing hard, fury and adrenaline burning through him. A few seconds later, the others joined him outside one by one, some barefoot, some half-awake, some panicked.
"What happened?" Nadya asked breathlessly.
"There was someone in the room," Armaan said, still trying to catch his breath. "They were at the desk."
Aradhya's expression changed instantly.
"The file."
All of them turned and ran back inside. The drawer had been forced open. The room was a mess. Papers scattered. The chair overturned. One file had fallen open near the bed. Armaan rushed to the desk and checked the drawer. His jaw tightened.
"They were looking for the guest list."
"Is it gone?" Nitika asked immediately.
Armaan searched quickly. Then pulled out the dark folder.
"No," he said. "They didn't get it."
A collective breath left the room. But only for a second. Because then Aradhya, who had been near the balcony door, crouched slightly and picked something up from the floor. Everyone looked at her.
"What is it?" Reyansh asked.
She straightened slowly. In her hand was something small. Dark. Torn. Armaan stepped closer. It was a piece of black fabric from the intruder's sleeve when Armaan had grabbed them. But attached to it, caught in the thread, was something else. A tiny metallic tag. Old. Elegant. And stamped onto it was the same symbol.
Virello Noire.
The room fell deathly silent. No one said a word. Because now there was no doubt left. No distance left. No pretending left. The killer — or someone connected to them — had not only known they were investigating. They had come to stop them. And they had been inside the mansion. Inside Armaan's room. Inside their space. Inside their safety. Aradhya looked down at the metallic tag in her hand, her face turning colder with every passing second. Then she lifted her eyes toward the others and said, very quietly—
"They know."