CHAPTER TWELVE #2
Admiral Cyril Fernandes, the Chief of Naval Staff, brought a suave, authentic Goan charm to the table, contrasting perfectly with the fierce, proud bearing of Air Chief Marshal Harjit Sandhu, a Sikh officer from Punjab who commanded the skies.
Rounding out the table were the phantoms: Shyam Razdan, the sharp, intellectually Kashmiri Pandit who directed the Research and Analysis Wing (RAW), and Brigadier Neeraj Bose, the calculating Bengali head of Military Intelligence.
Rudraksh sat at the center of the table, commanding the space with ease, with Serena seated to his right. Shraddha and General Ranvir were playing the perfect hosts, ensuring crystal glasses were filled and the staff moved invisibly.
"I must admit, Rudraksh," General Chauhan boomed, leaning back in his chair with a cup of spiced tea. "When your office scrubbed the Cantonment summit this morning, half the Ministry thought you were initiating a coup. What spooked the Monarch into moving us to your family estate?"
"Yes, Ashmehr-Vohn," Admiral Fernandes chuckled, adjusting his crisp cuffs. "The secure facility was prepped. I had my aides running logistics for three days. To suddenly pivot a meeting of this magnitude... it is highly irregular."
Rudraksh’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, fully prepared to take the heat, to invent a localized security threat or a structural issue with the building. He would never, under any circumstances, expose his wife’s vulnerabilities to the top brass.
But Serena reached out beneath the table, placing her hand firmly over his knee, silently commanding him to hold his fire.
She would not let him look capricious or paranoid in front of his superiors. She was his equal, his partner, and she would carry the weight of this decision.
Serena sat up straighter, the pearl-grey silk of her saree catching the sunlight. She looked around the table, meeting the eyes of the most powerful men in the armed forces with the unbreakable composure of a seasoned intelligence officer.
"The Major General did not pivot the meeting on a whim, gentlemen," Serena stated, her British cadence cool and clear, silencing the ambient chatter of the sunroom instantly. "He relocated it because of me."
General Menon raised a grey eyebrow, his sharp eyes assessing her. "Because of you, Major?"
Serena swallowed the lingering, bitter taste of her own embarrassment, forcing her voice to remain steady.
"I woke up at three this morning in a state of inexplicable terror.
I had a nightmare regarding the Cantonment building.
It was... visceral. I could not explain the logic, nor could I justify the fear through any analytical means.
But the thought of my husband setting foot in that building today paralyzed me. "
She looked directly at General Chauhan, refusing to flinch.
"The Major General recognized my distress, and rather than dismiss it, he prioritized my peace of mind.
He scrubbed his schedule and relocated this summit so he could remain with me.
The irregularity is my fault. I apologize for the logistical inconvenience. "
A silence fell over the sunroom.
Serena waited for the judgment. She expected the dismissive, patronizing smiles of men who viewed emotion as a liability. She expected them to view Rudraksh as compromised.
Instead, the reaction was something different.
General Amarjit Chauhan, the battle-hardened veteran of countless border skirmishes, set his teacup down softly. The blunt amusement on his face was gone, replaced by a deep, solemn respect.
"Do not apologize, child," Chauhan said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
He looked at Rudraksh, offering a slow, approving nod.
"If my wife, after forty years of marriage, looked at me with that kind of terror in her eyes, I wouldn't just cancel a meeting.
I would mobilize a battalion to move the building.
A man who does not listen to the instincts of the woman who holds his heart is a fool. "
"Hear, hear," Admiral Fernandes agreed softly, raising his glass in a subtle salute to Serena. "The sea has taught us that sometimes the greatest threats do not appear on the radar. They are felt in the bones. We respect your instincts, Major Dhar."
Shyam Razdan, the RAW Chief, smiled thinly. "Indeed. I have known intelligence operatives who survived solely because they trusted a gut feeling over a dossier. We are perfectly content with the hospitality of Meherlyn House."
Serena let out a slow, silent breath, a wave of relief washing over her.
She looked at Rudraksh, who was watching her with an expression of such intense, blinding pride and overwhelming love that it made her heart ache.
He turned his hand over beneath the table, lacing his fingers tightly through hers, a silent vow of solidarity.
***
By 1:00 PM, the formal briefings were concluded. The lifting of national security had been accomplished over plates of saffron biryani, and the atmosphere in the sunroom had transitioned into a relaxed, post-lunch unwinding.
Mrinalini Ashmehr-Vohn had joined them, sitting near the windows, delighting in a spirited debate with Air Chief Marshal Sandhu regarding the history of the 1971 air campaigns. Serena was sitting on a plush settee, listening to General Menon discuss the nuances of strategic naval deployments.
The afternoon was peaceful.
And then, it was violently shattered.
The oak double doors of the sunroom did not merely open; they burst inward, slamming against the walls with a crack like a gunshot.
The elite security details in the hallway shouted in alarm, but they were bypassed.