Chapter 13
The gray, humid sky over Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport was thick with unshed rain as Akhil’s private Gulfstream jet touched down on the tarmac.
Inside the quiet cabin, the hum of the descending engines slowly died away.
Shruti sat rigid in her leather armchair, her eyes fixed blankly out the oval window at the familiar Mumbai skyline.
Ten hours of nonstop flying from Milan had passed in absolute, agonizing silence.
She had not spoken a single word to Akhil.
She had ignored the meal trays the flight attendant brought, rejected his quiet offers of water, and kept her distance at the far end of the cabin.
Across the aisle, Akhil stood up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket. He looked hollow. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his sharp jawline was set in a tight, pained lock, and his usual commanding presence was heavy with silent grief.
"Shruti," Akhil spoke softly, his deep voice thick with exhaustion. "We're on the ground. Mark’s team has three armored SUVs waiting outside the private terminal."
Shruti didn't look at him. She simply unbuckled her seatbelt, picked up her shoulder bag and camera case, and walked past him towards the cabin exit, her posture stiff and unyielding.
Akhil swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, following two paces behind her as the aircraft stairs lowered into the warm, heavy Mumbai air.
The moment they stepped onto the tarmac outside the private hanger, a blinding wall of camera flashes exploded in their faces.
"Mr. Raheja! Mr. Raheja! Is it true that the Raheja Group is facing criminal fraud charges in Italy?!"
"Akhil sir! Are the reports true about your secret engagement to Sonia Kapoor?!"
"Miss Malhotra! Why were you in Italy with Akhil Raheja?!"
"Is Malhotra Logistics involved in money laundering with European firms?!"
Shruti froze, blinking against the sudden, aggressive barrage of flashing camera lenses and shouted questions. Dozens of news reporters, paparazzi photographers, and media crews were pressed against the security perimeter fence outside the hanger, waving microphones frantically.
Before the media horde could overwhelm her, Akhil’s broad frame stepped directly in front of her.
"Keep those cameras out of her face!" Akhil roared, his dark eyes flashing with a terrifying, protective fury that made the front row of journalists recoil.
Mark and eight armed security guards immediately formed a tight, impenetrable human wall around Shruti, clearing a path through the shouting reporters towards the waiting black SUVs.
Akhil kept his broad hand planted firmly against the small of Shruti’s back, shielding her head from the flashing lights as he guided her into the back seat of the lead vehicle.
The moment the SUV doors slammed shut, cutting off the deafening noise of the press, Shruti pulled her body away from Akhil’s touch, pressing herself flat against the opposite door window.
"Don't touch me," Shruti said, her voice quiet, cold, and razor-sharp.
Akhil’s hand hovered in the air for a painful second before he slowly pulled it back, clenching his fist against his knee. "I was shielding you from the press, Shruti."
"I don't need your protection," she shot back, staring out the tinted window as the SUV glided out of the airport gates onto the congested Mumbai highway. "I never asked for it."
***
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the media scandal in Mumbai had exploded into an unprecedented, nationwide firestorm.
Reyansh Khanna’s corporate smear campaign was operating at full force.
Every major Indian news channel, financial newspaper, and social media tabloid was running high-priority breaking news stories about Akhil Raheja and the Malhotra family.
Reyansh’s media operatives had released carefully edited corporate documents claiming that Akhil’s Lake Como resort venture was built on illegal European land permits.
Worse yet, they had leaked fabricated shipping invoices falsely implicating Devendra Malhotra’s shipping logistics company in international smuggling.
But the real sensation driving the entertainment tabloids was the personal scandal.
On every television screen in Mumbai, high-resolution photographs of Akhil Raheja and Sonia Kapoor from the charity gala two weeks ago were being broadcast continuously. The photos showed Sonia leaning intimately against Akhil’s arm, laughing beside him at the terrace table.
Framed by malicious media headlines, the tabloids declared:
'“MUMBAI’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR OFFICIALLY TAKEN? AKHIL RAHEJA AND HEIRESS SONIA KAPOOR SECRETLY ENGAGED IN EUROPE!”'
To make matters infinitely worse, Sonia Kapoor had given an exclusive, live television interview from her family's South Mumbai mansion just one hour prior.
Dressed in a designer white dress, holding a glass of champagne, Sonia had smiled coyly into the news cameras when asked about the engagement rumors.
'"Akhil and I have always shared a deeply intimate, private bond,"' Sonia had purred into the microphone with a sly, practiced smile.
'"Our families have been discussing our future for a long time.
While Akhil prefers to keep his personal life private during his corporate expansion in Italy, I can assure everyone that our relationship is stronger than ever.
A formal announcement will be made very soon. "'
Sonia hadn't explicitly lied, she had simply manipulated her words so brilliantly that the entire country now believed she and Akhil Raheja were getting married.
***
Inside the living room of the Malhotra family residence in South Mumbai, the large television screen was muted, but the glittering headlines of the engagement news ticker continued to scroll across the bottom of the display.
Shruti sat on the leather sofa, her packed luggage trunks sitting near the hallway closet.
She had refused to return to Akhil’s mansion in Worli. The moment the airport convoy reached South Mumbai, Shruti had demanded that the driver take her straight to her parents' home.
Sitting across from her were her parents, Devendra and Kavya, as well as her elder brother, Raghav.
Devendra Malhotra was pacing near his study desk, his face pale with stress as he spoke heatedly into his cell phone with his corporate legal team, defending his shipping firm against the false money laundering allegations.
Kavya sat beside Shruti, gently stroking her daughter's dark hair, her warm face filled with maternal anxiety.
Raghav stood near the window, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his jaw set in a tight, remorseful line.
"Shruti... please talk to me," Raghav spoke softly, stepping towards the sofa. "I know you're angry at me, "
Shruti raised her dark eyes, looking at her brother with a cold, heartbroken expression that made Raghav’s sentence die in his throat.
"Angry, Raghav?" Shruti asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to stay composed. "I am not just angry. I am disgusted."
"Shruti, listen to me!" Raghav pleaded, dropping to one knee beside the sofa.
"Akhil and I... we didn't mean to hurt you! When Akhil told me about Victor Romano’s threat in Italy, we realized that exposing Romano in Venice was the only way to cut off Reyansh’s power!
Akhil had thirty armed guards in that ballroom!
He swore to me on his life that you would be safe! "
"And you let him use me!" Shruti yelled, tears of raw betrayal springing to her eyes as she stood up from the sofa.
"You are my brother, Raghav! You are supposed to protect me and respect me!
Instead, you and Akhil sat in a room together like two puppet masters, deciding what I should know, deciding how to use me, treating me like a brainless piece of cargo! "
"Shruti, beta, calm down," Kavya pleaded softly, holding her daughter's trembling hand.
"No, Mom! I will not calm down!" Shruti sobbed, her voice breaking. "For eight years, I thought Raghav respected my independence! For eight years, I thought Akhil Raheja was the most honest, honorable man in the world! But both of them lied to my face! Both of them treated me like an object!"
Raghav looked down at the floor, the heavy weight of genuine guilt bowing his head. "I'm sorry, Shruti. God help me, I am so sorry. I thought I was keeping you safe."
"You weren't keeping me safe, Raghav," Shruti whispered bitterly, wiping her tear-stained cheeks. "You were just helping Akhil keep control."
Suddenly, the loud sound of screeching tires echoed from the front driveway outside.
Through the large glass living room windows, a sleek black sports car slammed to a halt near the entrance fountain.
The driver's side door flew open, and Akhil Raheja stepped out.
He had ignored his corporate public relations team. He had ignored the dozens of media vans trailing his car across South Mumbai. He had driven straight to the Malhotra residence, his mind focused entirely on the woman whose heart he had broken.
Akhil shoved open the front door of the house, stepping into the hallway.
His suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and his dark hair was wild from the wind. He looked completely wrecked, a man pushed to the absolute edge of his sanity.
When Akhil stepped into the living room, his dark eyes instantly locked onto Shruti.
"Shruti," Akhil breathed, taking two fast strides towards her.
"Stop right there, Akhil," Devendra Malhotra spoke, stepping between Akhil and his daughter, his voice stern and cold. "You have brought enough chaos to my house today."
"Uncle Devendra, please," Akhil begged, his deep voice cracking with a raw, desperate vulnerability that shocked everyone in the room. "I need two minutes with Shruti. Please."
Raghav stepped up, placing a supportive hand on his father's arm. "Dad... let them talk."