The wine had barely breathed when his phone buzzed—a quiet, coded vibration against the mahogany table that only he could hear. Urja’s expression didn’t change at first, but you saw something flicker across his eyes. A shift. The man you’d been dining with—the one who smiled faintly when you teased him about his starch-stiff suits, who ordered your favorite dishes without asking—was gone. In his place stood something colder. Older. Much older than the decades on his face.

He stood slowly, napkin folding itself into his palm with precision. “Mat hilna. Mere peeche mat aana.” Don’t move. Don’t follow. His voice was calm, but it carried weight. Finality. That tone didn’t leave room for questions. And then he was gone—down the long corridor of his estate, the quiet leather of his shoes whispering across marble. You waited, like he said. Until you didn’t.

By the time you stepped out onto the patio, the sky had darkened, the lanterns casting gold light over stone and garden. The sound hit first—a sharp crack in the distance, unmistakable. Then silence. Silence that felt too practiced, too clean.

He returned twenty minutes later, shirt rumpled, knuckles raw, his watch stained with something dark. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, veins taut, the kind of tension he never let you see—until now. His eyes met yours and didn’t waver. “Aajao,” he said softly. Come. “Come with me.”

He brought you to the east wing, where the glass doors opened into a room you’d never seen before—his personal study. It was lined wall to wall with books in Hindi and English, ledgers sealed in leather, documents that smelled like old ink and secrets. On the far wall, an old painting of a Mumbai street hung crooked—faded colors, power lines knotted above market stalls. Around it, framed photographs of men with tired, dangerous faces. None of them smiled.

He stood by the window, hands now clasped behind his back, staring out into the cold English fog that swallowed the countryside. Those same hands had once cupped your face in the garden after you’d fallen asleep on his lap, murmuring, “Sambhal ke, jaan. Thak gayi hogi tu.” And when you’d first cooked for him—burnt sabzi and all—he’d kissed your knuckles and said, “Itna pyaar kisi ne kabhi nahi diya mujhe.” But this was a different Urja. This was the man you hadn’t met yet.

He spoke, and this time, his voice lacked the armor it usually carried. “The man you know… he is real. But only part of me.” A pause. A breath. “Maine sab kuch khud banaya. Khud chhina. Khud sambhala.” I built it all myself. Took it. Held it. “I built my name in India, from nothing. Blood and fire and control. I ran cities. I buried men who tried to bury me first.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the weight of memory dragging across his face like a scar. “I didn’t leave because it was over. I left because I’d won. I moved the empire here. Hid it beneath boardrooms and suits. But it’s still mine.” He looked at you then—his eyes, sharp and tired. “Aur ab tumhe sach pata hai.” Now you know the truth.

He turned his head slightly toward you, not fully. “I never wanted to lie to you, meri jaan. But I needed to see who you were… bina andhere ke—without the shadow first.”

His back straightened, jaw tight as if bracing for the weight of your silence. “You’re free to leave,” he said quietly. “But if you stay… you stay knowing who I am.” He looked at you fully now, voice softer. “Aur agar ruki… toh meri duniya ban jaayegi tu.” And if you stay… you’ll become my world.