CHAPTER 32
The Jogra palace office was quieter than the city.
No traffic. No distant machinery. Only the mountain wind pressing against the glass in slow, measured intervals and the occasional shift of the fire in the grate.
Bharat and his brothers settled into the leather seating area by the fireplace. Ram to Bharat's left, Samar across, Viraj in the chair angled slightly back from the group.
“The protests have spread to three more plants,” Bharat said. “The pattern is coordinated. Same funding structure, different front organizations.”
Ram was quiet for a moment. “This isn't opportunistic.”
“No,” Bharat said. “It isn't.”
“Protest coverage is suppressed across all major channels,” Samar said.
“Regional media is manageable. Social amplification is slower than they expected.” A pause.
“But they adapt. Every channel I close, they find another within forty-eight hours.
Their response time shouldn't be possible without someone who understands our media infrastructure from the inside.”
“Former employee?” Ram said.
“Possibly. I'm running the list.” Samar's jaw tightened slightly. “Whoever this is, they are not operating alone, and they are not operating cheaply. This level of coordination requires serious capital.”
“The same capital funding the protests,” Bharat said.
“Almost certainly.”
Viraj had been sitting with one ankle crossed over his knee.
“The chief minister is still unhappy his daughter got fired,” Viraj said. “But he will not interfere with Jogra operations, and he will not allow his network to be used against you. He knows what’s good for his career.”
Bharat nodded.
“But his daughter might not let it go,” Samar said. “She has motivation to act independently of her father if she thinks the only thing standing between her being the Jogra maharani is bhabhi.”
Until then, Tina Mehta hadn’t been a variable in his mind. Beyond the political implications, the chief minister’s daughter wasn’t of any significance to him. But he knew people weren’t above acting impulsively when personal ambitions were thwarted.
“Security around Yamini was increased after the Gulwama incident,” Bharat said. “It remains in place.”
Samar nodded. “I’ll have my team check on any suspicious activity directed towards bhabhi from the chief minister’s office or home.”
There was silence as Bharat noted that Samar’s expression had shifted from the harsh skepticism he had carried into every conversation about Yamini since the wedding.
There were flashes of surprise from Ram and Viraj as they looked at Samar.
“She stood up,” Samar said.
Bharat knew the precise moment Samar was referring to.
Samar looked at Bharat. “When you rode the stallion, she stood up, clutching her necklace. She was worried about your safety.”
Bharat didn’t say anything.
He had already noted the moment. He had filed it under variables with no existing category, where it had stayed.
“You have the most exposure right now,” Ram’s tone carried the weight of the eldest brother rather than a business partner. “Between the plants and the announcement tomorrow,” Ram added. “Watch your perimeter.”
“I will.”
A brief silence passed when his brothers rose.
“I’ll see you all in the morning,” Samar said.
Viraj bid him goodnight with a smile hovering. “It’s going to be an interesting evening tomorrow. The chief minister is arriving with his daughter for the announcement.”
Bharat didn’t say anything. He had already scanned the guest list and noted it.
Samar and Viraj stepped out of the office, turning left towards the guest wing bedroom suites.
Ram followed behind, but he paused at the threshold. “Are you okay?”
Bharat knew Ram was asking about the valley event. The sounds. And the crowd.
“Yes.”
Ram gave a nod. And then, the door closed.
Bharat remained seated.
The day had been long in the specific way that high-input days were long. Not in hours, but in accumulated data that had not yet been processed.
He began with the straightforward catalog.
The valley. Approximately four hundred people in the meadow at peak gathering.
The Dumhal drums, each beat landing lower in the chest than the ears, which had required brief recalibration when they began.
The cold, which had been manageable. The crowd noise shifted when his mother spoke. He had known it would.
As a child, noise had pressed too close—bells layered over chanting, voices overlapping without pattern, faces shifting faster than logic allowed. By thirteen, he had adapted, learned not to retreat and recalibrate.
It was easier to manage when anticipated.
He had anticipated the stallion.
He had ridden such horses before. He knew their patterns, the specific resistance at the left rein, the tendency to drop the shoulder coming out of a turn. The crowd noise had agitated the animal beyond his prior calculations. Recalibration had taken approximately three strides.
The spear had been heavier than expected. He had adjusted mid-lean. The margin of error had been acceptable.
He moved through the afternoon's sequence.
Then he reached the moment after the horse reared, and his eyes had gone to the dais.
Yamini had been standing. He had registered this before anything else.
Not the ceremonial attire, not the jewelry, not the pendant catching the light. Simply the fact that she was standing, which had not been part of the event's structure and therefore registered as an anomaly.
Her hands pressed flat against her chest. Fingers closed around the pendant.
Her expression had not been the composed, chin-lifted expression she maintained through most of the day. It had been something else. Unguarded in the specific way her face rarely was when she knew she was visible.
She had not known he was looking.
Just like she hadn’t known, he observed other things. During the Rouf dance, before the drum pattern changed, he had been peripherally aware of a small repetitive movement beneath the hem of her pheran.
It was her feet. Moving with the rhythm. Small, contained movements, she had not appeared conscious of making.
She was unrestrained until she became self-conscious.
He was aware that he was frequently the reason she became self-conscious.
With an exhale, he stood and then went towards the concealed door.
The studio was the only room in the palace without a fixed schedule. He had built it for that reason specifically.
He stepped inside and changed into the clothes he kept here. Setting his watch on the table, he picked up where he had left off.
He painted in silence.
When it was thirty minutes before midnight, he stopped.
He cleaned the brushes. Capped the pigments in their order. Washed his hands at the basin, watching the color dissolve and run clear.
Drying his hands with a clean cloth, he turned off the lamp and then stepped out of the studio.
He walked toward the bedroom wing with steady steps.
When he reached his suite, he pushed the door open.
Moonlight washed across the room.
The bed was no longer symmetrical. The sheets were disturbed.
And then he saw her.
Yamini was in his bed.
Asleep.
For a fraction of a moment, he did not move.
He observed.
She lay diagonally across the center of the mattress, one arm resting above her head, the deep wine-colored fabric of her nightwear catching the moonlight in faint highlights along her dusky shoulder. Her hair spilled loosely over the pillow.
Her expression was unguarded—not defiant, challenging, or strategic. Just asleep.
Her breathing was slow and even.
He took in the details automatically. The broken symmetry of the sheets. The slight crease where she had shifted before settling. The connecting door behind him was left ajar. And on the nightstand, lying beside his alarm clock, was one bent hairpin.
She had used it as an improvised lock-picking tool.
She had broken into his room. Then she had waited.
And then, she had fallen asleep.
He noticed the faint tension still held in her shoulders even in sleep. Residual determination. She had come here with intent.
He moved to the side of the bed. She stirred faintly but did not wake.
The satin strap at her shoulder had slipped slightly, exposing more dusky skin.
His eyes registered it. He did not look away.
He stood over her for several seconds, taking in the disruption she had introduced into his controlled environment.
The room's order was no longer intact.
And yet, the disturbance did not irritate him.
His gaze traced the line of her wrist, the curve of her collarbone, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
She had come here to confront him. To negotiate. To provoke.
And exhaustion had overtaken her.
A faint, almost imperceptible exhale left him.
He reached for the edge of the blanket and drew it over her, restoring part of the displaced symmetry, not for her comfort alone, but because he disliked unfinished lines. His hand remained at the edge of the blanket for a moment longer than the action required.
He withdrew it.
The motion caused her lashes to flutter.
Her eyes opened slowly.
For one suspended moment, she looked disoriented, her gaze moving across the unfamiliar ceiling before it found him.
Then recognition sharpened her gaze. The softness vanished, and determination returned.
He held her eyes.
“You broke into my room,” he said.
It was not an accusation. It was an acknowledgment.
Her chin lifted slightly.
“I did,” she said. Her voice was low but steady. “And I'm not leaving.”