The TV on Devraj More's hospital bed flashed between newsreaders, their words colliding in a cacophony of justice being served. One of them called him a relic. Another, a monster. A third likened his downfall to emperors'.
Devraj sat through it all in silence.
Not anger. Not remorse.
Simply calculation.
The nurse who had brought him food had an earpiece. Not medical. Not typical.
"Tell them," Devraj breathed. "Phase Two starts now.
Meanwhile, in a crowded, varnish- and sweat-scented courtroom, Raghav Rao sat handcuffed, surrounded by officers carrying guns. Reporters occupied every available seat.
Judge Malik recited the charges.
"Conspiracy against the law. Abuse of authority. Multiple counts of murder, obstruction of justice, and treason."
Samruddhi and Karishma stood at the back. Unblinking. Unforgiving.
When the judge inquired of Rao's plea, he glanced up—not at the judge, not at her—but at Arpan, who was sitting in the gallery.
"I plead guilty," he responded.
Gasps.
Shock.
But Arpan knew.
Because guilt wasn't submission. It was tactics.
Later that night, as Samruddhi left the courthouse, reporters descended upon her.
"What's next?"
"Is the More dynasty finished?"
"Will you write a memoir?"
She remained silent.
But the silence became the headline: "The Woman Who Didn't Flinch."
Outside the penthouse of Arpan, the world felt like another world. The city screamed, but within the walls, it was only them. The couch. The quiet. The burden of survival.
He fixed them drinks. They neither touched theirs.
"Are we done?" she asked at last.
"With war?" he said. "Yes."
"With each other?"
He regarded her for a long while.
Then got up.
Migrated to a drawer.
Produced the lion ring.
Placed it on the table between them.
"I don't know if I can be anything but what made me," he said. "But I want to try."
She gazed at the ring.
"I'm not asking you to forget who you are," he said. "Just… to write the next part with me."
She took up the ring.
Turned it in her hand.
Then dropped it into her pocket.
"Not yet," she said. "But maybe someday."
He didn't smile. But something relaxed.
For the first time in years, there was no blood on their hands. Only ink on a new page.
Karishma spent the night alone in a rented room off CST. She saw the news play back the busting of her mother's assassins. Of Devraj's empire.
She took out Rina's diary.
Last page.
Written in hasty ink:
"If I die, let the truth outlive me."
Karishma closed the book.
And started writing her first chapter.
In a secret villa set in the hills, a dark-suited man received a message.
"Devraj's networks are reorganizing. The children aren't aware of the depth. New players are emerging. Old debts are still there."
The man smiled.
He raised a glass.
"To legacy."
To be continued.