The Deceit

CHAPTER 35

ZAYED (ZANE)

Past

My father was my world.

For as long as I could remember, my bond with him had been unshakable, shaped by years of cherished moments together. Growing up in the U.S. with my mother, Monica, I learned early on that my parents’ relationship was a chapter neither of them liked to revisit. Whenever I asked, my mother’s lips would press into a thin line, and my father simply waved it off as a reckless mistake during his youthful days. They had met during her trip to India, fallen in love, rushed into marriage, and just as quickly, fallen apart—not because of the cultural differences, as everyone assumed, but because my father couldn’t remain faithful.

Yet, despite their separation, my father continued to be a constant presence in my life. While Mom built a new life with her second husband in the U.S., I lived for those precious visits from Dad. I lived two lives through two names—Zane for the world and Zayed for my father.

Zane was the name my mother gave me, a name that fit neatly into their American life. And Zayed? That was the name that mattered. The name my father called me, the name that connected me to him and the legacy he carried.

I never got along with my stepfather. He came into my life when I was already ten years old, old enough to have bonded deeply with my real dad. My memories of my dad, even in those early years, were vivid—his larger-than-life presence, his powerful voice, and his unshakable confidence. No matter how kind or well-intentioned my stepfather was, he could never measure up to the man I already idolised… my real father, Qureshi.

My mother and stepfather never had children of their own. So, I believed the only reason my stepfather cared for me so much was because he had no child of his to call his own. He loved me out of obligation, not choice.

He was gentle, patient, and, by all accounts, a good man. But that was exactly why I couldn’t accept him. He was everything my real dad wasn’t. My stepfather may have been the man of the house, sure, but he wasn’t a man who commanded the world beyond it. My real dad, on the other hand, was a man of dreams and ambitions. He knew how to fight for what he wanted, to take what he believed was his. My stepfather may have been present in my day-to-day life, but he didn’t have the fire that my dad Qureshi had.

Blood speaks, they say, and I believed it. I had my dad’s traits—his ambition, his temper, his determination. When I measured the two men in my life, even my dad’s worst flaws always overshadowed and outweighed the best traits of my stepfather. Always. The ruthlessness of my dad, Qureshi, his refusal to take no for an answer, his passion for claiming his place in the world—it all resonated with me.

One incident from my school years solidified my loyalty to my real dad over my stepfather. A group of seniors had started bullying me, and I had confided in my stepfather first. His advice? “Ignore them, Zane. Stay calm, and make peace with it.” I hated it. Ignoring them didn’t stop the bullying—it only made it worse. I kept my head down for weeks, enduring the taunts and shoves, but nothing changed.

Finally, I complained to my dad, Qureshi. His response was immediate. He flew to the U.S. and personally visited the school’s management, demanding that the senior boys be expelled. But that wasn’t all. Outside the school gates, he and his men confronted those bullies. I still remember how they towered over the seniors, threatening them with such force that they never dared to look in my direction again.

That was the moment I realised what true power looked like. My stepfather’s peacekeeping approach had failed miserably. But my dad’s strength and his ability to impose his will had solved the problem in no time. That was the day I realised that my real father was the only one worthy of the title, Dad.

He would fly in from Mumbai frequently, bringing with him the scent of Indian spices and political ambition. Those moments were sacred—just us, father and son, away from his political drama and scandalous affairs that occasionally made headlines in Mumbai’s local press.

I knew my father wasn’t a saint. He had carved his place in politics through sheer ruthlessness, and I’d heard the rumours of the extreme measures he’d taken to achieve that power. But he was my father, my idol. And despite everything, I had blind faith in him. Whatever he did—no matter how extreme or questionable—was to fulfill his own ambition, and I believed there was nothing wrong with that. Power wasn’t simply handed over to men like him; it was taken, fought for, and defended at all costs. That was the reality of his world.

When we were together, he wasn’t the shrewd politician making headlines or the man his enemies cursed behind closed doors. He was just my father. And no matter how much the world judged him, I never did. He was my everything—the one person who could never be wrong in my eyes.

At eighteen, I started making solo trips to India. Our bond grew stronger with each visit, nurtured in the privacy of his Panvel farmhouse, away from prying eyes and political circles. Very few knew about me—the American-born son from a marriage that barely lasted six months. Dad preferred it that way, keeping me shielded from the gossip that often surrounded his life. But I didn’t care about his public image or his affairs. To me, he was more than a politician with a playboy image. He was my hero, my connection to a heritage that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. To me, he was a lion—flawed yet regal—who loved me in a way that rose above his imperfections.

At twenty-two, I came to Mumbai again, eager to spend a few weeks with him before starting my master’s degree back in New York. We’d just returned from a horse-riding session, our faces flushed from the exercise and laughter. I remember teasing him about his riding posture and him laughing it off, telling me I was still years away from matching his skill.

He reached for his whiskey bottle, pouring himself a glass. I frowned, snatching the bottle from his hand.

“You drink too much, Dad,” I scolded, switching to Hindi as I always did with him. “Doctor ne mana kiya hai na? Liver damage ho raha hai aapka.” (Enough, Dad. Didn’t the doctor told you not to have this? Your liver is getting damaged.)

He waved me off, chuckling. “One drink won’t hurt, Zayed. I’m fine.”

“No,” I insisted, taking the bottle from his hands. “I want my father to live longer. Aaj aap wahi piyenge jo main banaunga.” (Today, you’ll only drink what I make.)

“Aur woh kya hai?” (And what’s that?) His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Chai,” I said with a grin. “It’s good for your health. That’s what we both need after our ride.”

He settled into his favourite armchair, a proud smile playing on his lips. “Theek hai, beta. Main wait karta hoon tumhari chai ka.” (Alright, son. I’ll wait for your tea.)

“It’s going to be the best tea you’ve ever had.”

“Par jab tak chai aati hai, ek chhota peg ho jaye,” (But until the tea arrives, I’ll have a small peg) he winked at me, laughing—that warm, booming laughter I loved so much.

Smiling, I shake my head and turn toward the kitchen. I had to hurry, or else that ‘one peg’ would definitely become two.

Within minutes, the smell of fresh ginger and cardamom filled the air as I prepared the tea. Just then, out of nowhere, a thunderous voice roared through the house, shattering the quiet.

“QURESHI!”

The cup I had just removed from the cupboard slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor. My heart stopped. That voice wasn’t just angry—it was venomous, filled with an unrestrained fury that made the hair on my neck stand up.

Silently, I moved toward the kitchen door to peek into the living room. A glass wall separated it from the rest of the house. For the onlookers, it was just a mirror, but for the one standing on the other side, where I was, it gave a clear view of what was happening in there.

I wanted to burst into the room, stand by my father’s side and show whoever this man was that no one raised their voice at him without consequences. But I didn’t.

Dad had always made one thing clear: I was never to interfere in his political matters. And I had respected that, always staying in the background unless he called for me.

Even now, as that thunderous voice echoed through the air, I stayed rooted in place. My dad was no ordinary man. He was Qureshi—the man who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. There wasn’t a person alive he couldn’t handle.

Still, as I watched him step into the living room with his whiskey glass in hand, I couldn’t shake the unease creeping over me.

I didn’t know it then, that this was the moment that would change everything.

A tall man stood there, brimming with anger. When Dad walked out, whiskey glass in hand, he looked calm—but for a split second, I saw it. Beneath his casual demeanour, I caught a flicker of fear.

“Aren’t you Pratap Walia’s watchdog Vishnu? His bodyguard?” Dad chuckled darkly, his tone dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be glued to your precious boss, shielding him from harm? He needs all the protection he can get these days.”

But this man, Vishnu, wasn’t intimidated. He stepped forward, his eyes burning with fury. Then came the accusation that made my blood run cold.

“You and I both know exactly who he needs protection from,” he sneered. “I know you’re the one who hired a sniper to kill Pratap Walia.”

My heart nearly stopped. Kill? Had Dad really plotted someone’s murder? Before I could even process the thought, he confirmed it himself—admitting to Vishnu that he had tried to kill some Walia, and I froze. I watched, paralysed, as he continued to vent his frustrations about his relentless struggle to be at the top of the political race and how Pratap Walia was his strongest competitor who had overshadowed him and became the Deputy CM of the state that my father had worked so hard for.

Vishnu heard it all, but when Dad threatened coldly that he would try to kill Pratap Walia again in the future, Vishnu grabbed my father’s collar, yanking him forward, stating that he would never succeed. Their argument continued until Vishnu could no longer control his anger. He even threatened that he would have killed Dad the moment he stepped in here, but the only reason he hadn’t done it yet was because he had promised his boss, Pratap Walia, not to take the law into his own hands. As if I would have let him hurt my father.

Blood boiled in my veins. I gripped the knife I had used to cut the ginger for tea harder, resisting the urge to step into their fight and stab Vishnu with this same knife.

Then, suddenly, Vishnu made a video call to someone. The confession from the sniper in Malaysia. I pressed my palms over the glass wall so hard that my fingers turned white as I watched the colour drain from Dad’s face.

Rage simmered within me as Vishnu continued his threats. How dare he speak to my father this way? The media exposure, the police, the destruction of everything Dad had worked for—each word from Vishnu’s mouth felt like a personal attack. The urge to kill Vishnu grew stronger and stronger. How dare he come into our home and tear us apart?

I wanted to burst out, to stop this nightmare, to grab Dad and run far away from here before he got into trouble.

But then, Dad opened the drawer, pulled out a gun, and everything changed. My initial fear and anger was replaced by a smug smile. If he shot Vishnu right here, right now… it would all be over, wouldn’t it?

Vishnu didn’t even flinch on seeing the gun.

“Don’t be a fool, Qureshi,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk. “Those files—the proof of your corruption, the evidence of your attempt to murder Pratap Walia—they’re are already in the hands of the media. As we speak, every journalist across the state is heading to your doorstep, and the police? They’re not far behind.”

My father’s hand shook, the gun wavering as he aimed it at Vishnu. For a moment, I thought he might actually pull the trigger. But then, the police sirens wailed in the distance, and I saw Dad’s eyes dart to the mirror behind Vishnu—straight to where I stood, hidden in the kitchen doorway.

Our eyes met in the reflection, though technically, it wasn’t even possible. He couldn’t see me, couldn’t even be sure if I was watching this entire scene or not. Yet, somehow, it felt like he knew—like his eyes saw right through the reflection, piercing through the glass and locked with mine, as if he knew I was there. As if he knew I had been standing there the entire time. There was something deliberate in his eyes. It was not just a glance, but a knowing, intentional stare. It was as though his eyes weren’t just looking at the reflection but peering into my very soul.

And then, without warning, he started laughing.

It was the kind of laugh I had never heard from him before. It wasn’t the mocking chuckle he reserved for his rivals, nor was it the light-hearted laughter from our rare moments spent together as father and son. No, this was something else entirely. A laugh clouded with madness and despair, with fury and finality.

“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” he hissed. “Just because you have some evidence against me, because you’ve cornered me here, you think you’ve beaten me? Don’t fool yourself, Vishnu. Don’t ever underestimate a man who has nothing to lose. That’s the kind of man who becomes unstoppable. So go ahead. Show the evidence to the world. Bring the police and the media. Get me arrested. But none of it will matter anymore, except for one thing.”

The police sirens outside grew louder. They were almost here. I held my breath, waiting to know what Dad would do now. Shoot Vishnu? If he did, would he be able to escape with the police just moments away?

“You and the Walia family will be wiped off the face of the earth. You hear me? This is Qureshi’s promise,” he added. “Count your days, and count Pratap Walia’s too. My blood will take the revenge.”

Blood? What did Dad mean by that? Before I could even think about his words, the police barged in and surrounded Dad, asking him to drop his gun and surrender.

“Put the gun down, Mr. Qureshi,” one of the officers ordered firmly, closing in on him.

But Dad didn’t move. He neither lowered his gun nor broke his gaze from Vishnu.

“My eyes will always be on you,” he said again, his voice icy cold.

Vishnu scoffed and turned to leave, dismissing his threat. And then—before anyone could react—Dad turned the gun on himself.

“Dad, no!” I wanted to shout, but my voice was trapped in my throat. What was he doing?

Everything happened so fast. I was still processing Dad’s final words when the gunshot rang out, echoing through the room. It was too late. I froze, watching in horror as Dad’s body collapsed on the floor. Blood spread across the hardwood floor—the very same floor where we’d sat drinking tea countless times in the past. And now, my father—my hero—lay there like a fallen king.

I wanted to scream. To shout his name so loudly that it would reach him and pull him back. I wanted to run into the living room, to throw myself at his side, to shake him awake, and demand that he return back to me. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stood there, staring at him through the glass, unable to do anything but watch the nightmare unfold before my teary eyes.

The police sirens were still wailing when Shasha, Dad’s most trusted and loyal bodyguard, grabbed me from behind, his hand clamping over my mouth to muffle my screams. It was then that I came out from the shock and fought like a wild animal, desperate to get back to Dad’s lifeless body lying in a pool of his own blood, but Shasha’s grip was iron-strong as he dragged me through the back door and shoved me into a waiting car.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. My fists pounded against the windowpane, wanting to get back to the house where Dad was.

“Your mother’s orders,” Shasha cut me off, his voice gruff but carrying a hint of sympathy. “We’re taking you back to New York.”

My father’s blood was still fresh on that floor, and yet they were shipping me off like a piece of cargo. The car sped away, leaving behind the farmhouse where my father lay lifeless.

And then it hit me. My dad was no more. He’d left me.

I finally screamed his name, my voice cracking as I thrashed against the men who pinned me down in the backseat. Their hands smothered my cries, their faces grim as they carried out the orders given to them. My mother, Monica, had arranged everything—my escape, my flight back to New York. It wasn’t until we reached the airport that I realised the enormity of my mother’s actions. Somewhere during the confrontation between Dad and Vishnu, she had tried calling me. I hadn’t heard my phone ring amidst the chaos, and when I didn’t pick up, she called Dad next.

But Dad, embroiled in his standoff with Vishnu, hadn’t answered either. That’s when, in her growing panic, my mother dialled Shasha, desperate to find out what was going on.

And Shasha had told her everything—the police closing in, the confrontation, the inevitable arrest of my father. That’s when she made her move.

My mother, had no love left for her ex-husband, Qureshi, and she wasn’t about to let his sins drag me down with him.

She had shipped me away to shield me from the inevitable backlash of being a Qureshi. She knew the police and media would come for me and hound me relentlessly, trying to uncover any information I might have about my father’s dark deeds—deeds that I had no part in. She didn’t want me tangled up in the fallout, didn’t want the authorities digging into my life simply because I was his son. So, she had ordered Shasha to isolate me, and to get me out of the farmhouse before the police arrived. But now, there was no arrest. My dad was dead. He was gone. Forever.

And it was all because of the Walias and this man—Vishnu. They all had driven my father to this end. They had destroyed everything. Dad’s last words kept echoing in my head on loop: “My blood will take revenge. My eyes will always be on you.”

‘His blood’… ‘His eyes’… He had meant ‘ME’.

He wanted me to avenge his death. That day, I swore that I would destroy them. Every single one of them. And I would begin with the one who pushed my father to the brink, leaving him with no way out. The one my father had called the Walia’s watchdog—Vishnu!

Dad’s dream had died today, but from its ashes, a new dream was born—a dream of vengeance, of making the Walias pay for every drop of my father’s blood spilled on that floor.

They probably didn’t know about me yet. They didn’t know that Qureshi’s legacy lived on in his son.

I couldn’t even perform his last rites. Couldn’t say goodbye. Couldn’t tell the world that the man they were about to crucify in the media was more than just a political scandal.

Back in New York, I locked myself in my room for days. My mom tried to coax me out, but how could I explain to her that every time I closed my eyes, I saw that scene play out before me again and again? Vishnu’s smug face. Dad’s desperation. The gun. The blood.

My phone buzzed incessantly with news updates, each headline more damning than the last.

‘Traitor in the NEP Party Exposed: Qureshi’s Dirty Secrets Come to Light.’

‘Failed Assassination Attempt on Pratap Walia Shocks the Political World.’

‘Qureshi’s Corruption: From Money Laundering to Murder.’

‘The Fall of a Politician: Uncovering Qureshi’s Ties to Smuggling and Human Trafficking.’

‘Was Qureshi Behind More Assassinations? Media Questions Past Murder Attempts.’

‘Pratap Walia Escapes Deadly Attack—Bodyguard Hero Foils Deadly Plot.’

‘A Corrupt Politician’s Dramatic End: The Truth Behind Qureshi’s Suicide.’

The reports were relentless, each new revelation dragging my father’s name deeper through the mud. They painted him as a monster, a man who would kill, exploit, and manipulate to climb to the top. They dug into everything—his ties with smuggling rings, the human trafficking networks he allegedly backed to fund his campaigns, and the offshore accounts linked to his name.

The media spun the narrative, questioning whether the attempt on Pratap Walia’s life was truly his first—or merely the one that had been exposed. Had there been others in the past? Unanswered disappearances, unexplained deaths of political rivals? They speculated endlessly, connecting dots that might not even exist, all to dismantle the legacy he had built.

Each accusation felt like a personal attack. But I wasn’t blind to the truth—I knew my father wasn’t a saint. He had to forge dark alliances and play the dirtiest of games to survive and thrive in the treacherous world of politics.

So what if he laundered money? So what if he made deals with smugglers or traffickers? So what if lives were destroyed along the way? He did it all to survive. To keep his ambitions alive.

They called his actions unforgivable sins. But to me, those weren’t crimes—they were the marks of a man who refused to kneel, who refused to let the system break him. They were the marks of survival, of ambition, of the sacrifices necessary to build a legacy and seize power.

And no matter what the world thought of him, no matter how loudly they shouted the word ‘suicide,’ I knew the truth.

It wasn’t suicide.

It was murder.

And Vishnu Walia was the murderer.

The world could call it whatever they wanted, but I knew better. My father’s death wasn’t an act of cowardice—it was a carefully calculated result, driven by Vishnu’s relentless provocation. He pushed him. Cornered him. Tore away every ounce of my father’s dignity and left him no choice but to pull that trigger.

Pushing a man to the brink and forcing them to take their own life is still murder. And for that, Vishnu would have to pay.

No amount of time or distance could change that fact. No amount of righteousness in his actions could erase what he had done. He took my father away from me, and for that, I would make him suffer.

***************

Six months after his death, people had already forgotten about him. But I couldn’t forget. The rage simmered within me, turning my blood to acid. At university, I picked fights, violent ones. One day, during a casual debate, someone dared to call my father a criminal, a ‘disgrace to politics.’ I saw red. Before I even realised it, my fists were pummelling the guy’s face. I beat him so savagely that it took three men to pull me off him. He was hospitalised for weeks, and I came dangerously close to being expelled.

But I didn’t care. My anger was justified. I was his son, after all—a Qureshi.

My mother begged me to stop. She tried to make me understand that my father was wrong. She told me my father was not the man I thought he was—that he was a bad person who had hurt people, who had committed crimes far worse than I could ever imagine. She said that was why people and the media in India spoke about him with such contempt.

But she didn’t understand. She would never understand what my father meant to me and what it was like to watch him take his own life. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe without feeling the weight of injustice crushing my chest.

When things didn’t turn in her favour—when her attempts to reason with me only fuelled my anger—she resorted to desperate measures. She dragged me to therapists and psychiatrists, anyone who might be able to ‘fix’ me. I spent years at Riverside Haven Mental Health Center, trapped in endless therapy sessions where they analysed my anger, trying to tame it with words or numb it with medication.

But they didn’t understand—this wasn’t madness. This was my purpose. This was my destiny. No amount of therapy could douse the flames of my fury or the ache of my loss.

When I was alone in that cold, sterile room, staring at the ceiling while the world outside carried on without me, Dad’s voice would echo in my mind.

‘My blood will take revenge. My eyes will always be on you.’

Those words haunted me, looping endlessly in my mind, but they didn’t break me. Instead, they fuelled me. Those words became the fire that burned brighter in the suffocating silence. They reminded me of what was taken from me, of the man I’d lost and the revenge I owed him.

It was there, in that lonely room, that I began to plan. Piece by piece, I constructed the blueprint for what I had to do. Every therapy session, every evaluation became a performance. I learned to play their game. Smiled at the right moments. Said all the things they wanted to hear about ‘moving on’ and ‘healing.’

Nearly four years after my dad’s death, I managed to convince them—convince my mother—that I was ‘better.’ The perfect son, ready to rebuild his life. I smiled at her, kissed her cheek, and lied about a study program in London. And while she thought I was flying to London, I boarded a flight to Mumbai, India.

Shasha met me at the airport. Clearly, he hadn’t moved on either. Same as me. He was the only one who truly understood my pain.

“They need to pay for what they did,” I told him, no longer hiding the pain that I’d buried for years for my mother’s sake.

“They will,” he promised me.

Over the years, he had kept a watch over the Walias, collecting every detail, every weakness. My father might have been a devil to some, but to men like Shasha, he was a saviour. These loyal soldiers became my army, united in our mission for vengeance.

For six months, we worked in silence, tracking Pratap Walia and Vishnu. We studied their routines, their security measures, their every move. The fortress they lived in—Walia Mansion—seemed impenetrable, a place guarded by high-tech security, loyal guards, and a vigilance that made it impossible to strike without careful planning.

But I was patient. Revenge wasn’t something to be rushed. With each passing day, the hunger for revenge grew stronger, a living, breathing thing clawing at my insides. But we knew our plan had to be perfect. One mistake, and everything would be lost. And so, we waited. We prepared. Because there could be no room for error.

*****************

Then came the night that changed everything. While shadowing Vishnu, I found him at a club—Josh—a place reeking of sweat, alcohol, and temptation. I was there to fulfil my father’s last wish—to end Vishnu. And the crowd in Josh club provided the perfect cover for what I had to do.

I watched him from the corner, a glass of whiskey untouched in my hand. He was drinking more than I’d ever seen him drink in the last six months, his usual guarded demeanour replaced by a slouched, vulnerable figure. This was it. The perfect moment. Drunk and defenceless, Vishnu was at his weakest. It would be so simple to end it there, to watch him bleed just like my father had.

But fate had other plans. Just as I was about to make my move, she appeared—Simran. The woman who had unknowingly delayed my revenge. She slid into the seat beside him. I watched her speak to him in hushed tones. I strained my ears, eager to catch their conversation.

And then I heard it—the confession that froze me in my tracks. Vishnu was Pratap Walia’s illegitimate son.

His words hung in the air as he confessed to Simran, each syllable fuelling a fire I didn’t think could burn any brighter. Vishnu wasn’t just a loyal bodyguard. He was blood—Pratap’s blood. A Walia. Suddenly, everything made sense: his unwavering loyalty, his fanatical protection of the Walia name. He was protecting his own blood, his own father, even though Pratap Walia hadn’t yet publicly acknowledged him as his son.

The irony of it set my blood on fire. He was a man just like me—a son who would do anything for his father, for his family. But while I had lost everything, he stood there, still playing guardian to the family that had destroyed mine. The vengeance that had been burning in my heart exploded into an inferno.

Now, it wasn’t enough anymore to simply kill them. No, I would make them suffer first. Make them feel the pain of watching their world crumble, just as I had. And now, I knew exactly how to do it. For the first time in years, I felt alive.

When Vishnu and Simran headed out together, I trailed behind them, staying far enough not to be noticed. They got into her car, and I followed them, curiosity gnawing at me. What role did this woman, Simran, play in Vishnu’s life? Why had Vishnu, the man I’d heard kept himself away from any romantic entanglements, left with her?

I followed them to her apartment, parking a safe distance away, hidden in the shadows. Hours passed as I sat in my car, waiting for Vishnu to come out. My patience slowly wore thin as the night stretched on. But as dawn came, Vishnu finally emerged, and something about him had changed. His usual hardened expression was softer, almost reflective. Whatever had happened that night in that apartment, it had shifted something in him, and I hated it.

My plans had to wait because, as cruel as life always seemed to be, my mom fell gravely ill that same week. Cancer—stage four. The news shattered me, and despite my burning need for revenge, I couldn’t leave her alone in her final moments. I returned to New York, knowing my men in India would keep an eye on the Walias and Simran for me.

The next two months passed in a blur of hospital visits and whispered goodbyes. Mom, despite her pain, never showed her weakness. “Live your life, Zane,” she said to me once. But how could I? My life had ended the day my father pulled that trigger.

And as if fate hadn’t dealt me enough blows, in the midst of watching my mother wither away, another storm hit me. Pratap Walia, in a move that sent shockwaves through the nation, publicly acknowledged Vishnu as his son.

The news was everywhere—headlines, news broadcasts, social media. Pratap Walia had finally admitted to having an illegitimate son, and not just that—he embraced Vishnu openly, claiming him as part of the Walia legacy.

It felt like the universe was mocking me. Here I was, standing by my mother’s deathbed, losing the last thread of family I had left. And there was Vishnu, the man who had torn my world apart, not only thriving but being celebrated and embraced by his bloodline.

The hypocrisy burned through me. Pratap Walia, the man who had hidden Vishnu’s identity all these years to protect his precious political image, had now chosen to parade his son to the world like a badge of honour. My father was dead because of this man and his son. And now, Vishnu—the very person who had taken everything from me—was receiving recognition and acceptance from everyone.

That realisation fuelled me, burning away any remnants of restraint I might have had.

When Mom passed, I felt like I had lost the last piece of myself that was human. Her death left me empty, but it also reignited my resolve. It was then that my men informed me of a shocking development—Simran had moved to New York to expand her fashion business. It was just the opportunity I needed. If she was close to Vishnu—close enough for him to spend a night in her apartment, something so unlike him—it could only mean one thing. This woman wasn’t just anyone. She had a hold over Vishnu, a hold I needed to understand. If she could wield such influence over someone as guarded as him, then she couldn’t be ignored.

I had to keep this woman close to me.

This wasn’t just about understanding her connection to Vishnu; it was about using that connection to my advantage. She might not realise it yet, but she was going to be a key player in my plans.

Since she was looking for a fashion consultant in New York to help grow her business, I set my plan in motion, using my mother’s surname to create the identity of Zane Miller, an expert fashion consultant with fabricated credentials. I hired a legitimate team to back up my ruse, ensuring there were no cracks in the facade. Within weeks, I secured a position as Simran’s consultant and stepped into her world.

She was guarded at first but professional. I played the part of the affable consultant perfectly, earning her trust little by little. Playing the role of Zane Miller, the helpful fashion consultant, was exhausting. Every smile I forced, every friendly conversation I had with Simran felt like swallowing glass. Watching her business thrive, seeing her glow with happiness—it took every ounce of my control to keep my true identity hidden. She trusted me, confided in me, never knowing I was the son of the man her beloved Vishnu had destroyed.

Then came the moment I couldn’t ignore—her baby bump. I’d noticed it one day while she was discussing a new collection. My mind raced with questions. Was the child Vishnu’s? The thought alone filled me with renewed rage, but I needed confirmation. I stayed close to her, playing the supportive friend, waiting for her to slip and say something. But she never did.

When she finally gave birth, I knew I couldn’t rely on her to confirm my suspicions. So, I took matters into my own hands. I pulled strings, accessed the hospital records, and there it was—Father’s Name: Vishnu. The name burned into my retinas like acid, confirming what I’d suspected all along. That night in Mumbai, when I’d lost my chance to kill him—it had led to this. A child. His child. His bloodline would continue, and that thought alone made my blood boil.

Standing in my New York apartment, I could hear my father’s last words echoing in my head, as clear as the day he spoke them to Vishnu: “You and the Walia family will be wiped off the face of the earth. You hear me? This is Qureshi’s promise.”

The words that had haunted me for years now filled me with a savage purpose.

I crumpled the papers of the birth of Vishnu’s son in my fist and walked to my study, where the walls were covered with surveillance photos of Walias back in India—documents and newspaper clippings—my shrine to vengeance. My fingers traced the outline of Vishnu’s face in one of the photos, taken months ago by Shasha, outside some rally in Mumbai. His ever-present security team flanked him, and his father, Pratap Walia, stood by his side.

Touching the Walias in India was impossible. They were protected by layers of high-level security, and were surrounded by the walls of their influence and power. If I wanted to take them down, I had to draw Vishnu out of his fortress.

“You thought you could hide behind your security, didn’t you?” I whispered, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. “But you made one crucial mistake. You created a weakness. A family.”

I poured myself a drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass, mirroring the chaos in my head. I downed it in one go, embracing the burn.

I walked to the window, looking out at the glittering New York skyline. I’d spent months playing the concerned friend to Vishnu’s precious Simran. I had watched his son grow in her womb. Vishnu probably had no idea he even had a son. The thought itself made me laugh.

What was the point of eliminating Simran and her son here in New York when Vishnu didn’t even know the boy existed? No, that wasn’t how this revenge was going to play out.

I wanted Vishnu to know. I wanted him to feel it—the crushing weight of knowing that the son he never knew existed would die before his very eyes. And not just his son. His father. His bloodline. Three generations of Walias, wiped out in a single, devastating blow.

That was the way to fulfil my father’s promise to Vishnu: to wipe the Walias off the face of the earth.

I started devising my plan. Simran was the key. I had already established myself as her friend, someone she could rely on in this vast, ruthless city. She wouldn’t suspect me, not yet. But I needed to push her buttons, to create enough fear within her that she would reach out to the one person she trusted above all else—Meher Walia, her best friend.

And if Simran called Meher, then Meher would definitely inform Vishnu. That was the game I was playing. Vishnu wouldn’t come to New York for Simran unless he had a reason, unless there was a threat he couldn’t ignore. And I knew, without a doubt, he still had feelings for her. Because after Simran had left for New York, I’d told Shasha to keep a close eye on him. As per his information, there had been no other woman in Vishnu’s life after Simran. No casual relationships, no whispers of romance. Nothing. He was still hers, even if he didn’t admit it.

I smiled to myself, the pieces falling into place. The plan was perfect. Threaten Simran. Make her fear for her life. She would go to Meher, and Meher would tell Vishnu. And once Vishnu came to New York, away from the safety of his empire, I would strike. I would take everything from him—his son, his father, and finally his own life.

This was it. The moment I had been waiting for—to fulfil my father’s promise, to destroy the Walia family. But I had to do it in a way that wouldn’t lead back to me. If this plan backfired, the police couldn’t know it was me who orchestrated it. I needed a pawn—someone to do my dirty deed. Someone to threaten Simran for me, someone I could easily manipulate, someone disposable.

That’s when I recalled the news article about Jack Thompson and the Riverside Haven incident that happened just a week ago. Jack, an old friend of mine, had been a man torn apart by his own vices. His overindulgence in drugs had led to a serious mental condition, but after years of relentless therapy, he was finally healing and nearing recovery. He was supposed to be released in three months.

But then, in an impulsive prank, he had terrified other patients at midnight by wearing a sinister joker mask. One of the patients, too fragile to handle the fear, died instantly from the shock. That single, senseless act destroyed any chance Jack had of starting over.

‘Fear’ was a powerful weapon, and I would use that to draw Vishnu out. Jack Thompson’s mask incident had given me the perfect cover. I could use Jack—or rather, his name—to carry out my plans. A scapegoat to deflect suspicion on me if the plan went wrong.

Thankfully, the law had shown mercy to him, ruling that Jack hadn’t intended to cause harm during the incident. He was spared from criminal charges, but society would never look at him in the same way again. When he was released three months later—lost, desperate, and in need of both money and direction—I saw an opportunity. I reached out to him, offering him a way to earn much more than he could dream of and rebuild his life. All he had to do was follow my instructions—without any question.

Jack agreed, eager for a second chance at life. I explained the task to him in detail. His job was simple: stalk Simran Thakkar. I coached him on how to be the unseen terror in Simran’s life, how to make her feel hunted without ever laying a hand on her. Jack followed my orders without question, his desperation to make money making him agreeable. I stayed in the shadows, controlling everything from a distance.

But fate had other plans.

Jack was hit by a car one rainy night. A stupid accident that took his life and almost derailed my plans. I remember standing in that hospital morgue, staring at his lifeless body, rage boiling within me. Months of effort, of manipulation, gone in an instant. Or so it seemed.

But I wasn’t one to let fate dictate my story. Jack may have been dead, but his identity, his history, and his possessions—they were all still very much alive.

I took what I needed: his joker mask, his car, his home, and picked up where Jack left off, determined to threaten Simran myself using Jack’s identity.

I began stalking Simran. At first, it was from a distance, collecting her photographs, learning her routines, and understanding her vulnerabilities. I wasn’t just observing her—I was laying the groundwork. I planted those photographs in Jack’s home, ensuring that if anyone ever came snooping, they would find a trail leading straight to him.

The joker mask became my signature. I used it to instil fear, to remind her that she was being watched. Every note I left, every message I sent carried the same phrase: ‘My eyes will always be on you.’ My father’s final words to Vishnu, a promise of vengeance that I carried for years.

At first, Simran brushed it off as nothing more than random harassment—a cruel prank by someone. She ignored the messages, dismissing them as empty threats, and carried on with her life as though nothing had happened.

That infuriated me. I hadn’t gone to such lengths to be ignored. Fear was my weapon, and if she wasn’t feeling it yet, I needed to turn up the heat.

It was time for a face off.

That night, when Simran was returning home after attending a glitzy award ceremony in Manhattan, I followed her, trailing her car as she drove home late at night. She stopped at a small store near her building, probably to grab something before heading home.

This was my moment.

I parked my car a short distance away and slipped on the joker mask, its eerie grin perfectly reflecting the darkness inside me. Pulling the hood of my jacket over my head, I entered the store quietly, blending into the shadows.

Simran was at the far end of the store, browsing through a shelf, completely unaware of my presence. The thrill of watching her, oblivious to the danger lurking mere feet away, was intoxicating.

And then, I stepped closer.

The sharp click of my boots against the tiled floor made her glance up, her brow furrowing when she saw me. I could tell she didn’t recognise me right away. I was just a man in a mask, shrouded in mystery. But as I moved closer, her expression shifted. Her breath hitched as she saw the message written across my jacket: ‘My eyes will always be on you.’

She immediately turned around and bolted out of the store. I followed her, keeping my distance, yet making sure she knew I was there. Her hands trembled as she grabbed her phone, desperately dialling the last number she had called that day. Meher.

And just as I had planned, she told her everything.

My plan had worked. Within 48 hours, the news reached me through my sources. Vishnu Walia had arrived in New York. He had taken the bait, just as I’d known he would.

Simran’s fear had been the perfect lure, drawing Vishnu out of his fortress in India to protect her. In the beginning, Vishnu thought he was simply protecting Simran, but soon, he discovered the truth: she had given birth to his son. Veer. The shock of learning about his son changed everything. He married her and took both Veer and Simran back to India, to the Walia Mansion. Just as I’d wanted him to.

Now, three generations of the Walia family were under one roof. The stage was set, and I was ready to play out the final act. To wipe off the Walias from the face of the earth, just as my father, Qureshi, had promised. And I would be the one to fulfil that promise.

Present – Somewhere in Mumbai

The small, dimly lit room reeks of damp wood and old cement, a perfect cover for someone who doesn’t want to be found. This place is far from luxurious, far from the world I once belonged to—but for now, it’s enough. I sit in front of a table cluttered with wires, monitors, and tools. The hum of machines fills the air as Shasha and my men work tirelessly around me. The latest shipment has finally arrived: the drones I’ve been waiting for.

I run my hand over the surface of one of the sleek machines, its matte black body a thing of engineering beauty. This isn’t just any drone—it’s a weapon, a harbinger of chaos. And with the modifications I’m making, it will be untraceable, silent, and deadly.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing lines of code to install the final configuration. I don’t stop. Each keystroke takes me closer to D-day, to the moment the Walia family will be wiped out for good. The network jammers are the last piece of the puzzle. Once activated, they’ll disrupt every line of communication around the target, creating confusion and cutting off any cries for help.

I finish the final line of code and test the commands. The drone responds perfectly, its lights blinking in acknowledgement.

I step back from the machine with a smirk.

“It’s ready,” I announce. Shasha nods from across the room, his hands busy assembling the last of the equipment.

I pick up the glass of oolong tea from the table—my father’s favourite. I always made it for him, even when he ignored the doctor’s warnings about his health. He used to laugh at my stubbornness, saying the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

I take a slow sip, letting the bittersweet warmth spread through me. But it doesn’t calm me. Nothing does. Not anymore.

Walking to the small window, I glance outside at the crimson-streaked sky. The sun is about to set, and the city glows in its golden haze. Mumbai is a city that never sleeps, but soon, even it will pause when my plan unfolds. Chaos will reign, and the world will witness the fall of the Walias.

I don’t just want revenge; I want annihilation. The Walia name, their legacy, their bloodline—I want it all reduced to ashes.

My father wasn’t perfect. I know that. But he was mine. The only man I ever loved. And they broke him, humiliated him, drove him to his death.

They thought they could tarnish the Qureshi name and forget about it, but they were wrong. I will erase every last one of them. Pratap, Vishnu, Veer—they will all fall. Their legacy will crumble, their existence wiped out from history.

“How’s the rest of the preparation?” I ask Shasha.

“All set,” he replies, not looking up from his work. “We’ll be ready to move when you give the word.”

“Good.” I glance at the drone once more. “Make sure everything is tested. There’s no room for error.”

“Yes, Zayed,” Shasha nods.

The room falls into a tense silence as my men continue their work. I lean against the window frame, staring at the horizon as the last sliver of sunlight disappears beyond the horizon. The darkness outside mirrors the one inside me.

They think they’re safe. They think they’ve won. But they have no idea about the storm that’s coming for them.

My eyes were on them. Always. And soon, they would know what it feels like to lose everything.