Years had passed.
The skyline of New York City no longer looked like a foreign land to Rudra Mehra. It had become his empire.
Towering above Midtown in a glass fortress bearing the logo of Mehra International Corp., Rudra ruled the business world like a silent storm. People called him ruthless, calculating, unshakable. His decisions were sharp, his strategies brutal. In boardrooms, he was feared. On the stock market, he was revered.
But beneath that polished suit, past the cold glint in his eyes and the walls of prestige, lived a heart that never stopped missing home.
A heart that still beat with the echoes of a name once called Bhai, and the memory of a girl in red wedding attire.
Reyansh.
Akira.
Two names he never uttered again—not out of bitterness, but out of love.
He had cut ties for their sake. So no shadows of his silent love or scandalous revelations could taint their sunshine.
No one in this glitzy world knew the story of Rudra's past. Not even Jiya Sharma.
Jiya—the woman who stood beside Rudra like a shadow cast in gold. His assistant, confidante, right hand. She was the first person he met when he stepped foot in New York all those years ago. A Jaipur girl with grit in her bones, class in her posture, and loyalty running deeper than blood.
She had become his armor.
But even she never pried into his scars.
She only polished the crown he refused to wear.
One cold winter afternoon, Rudra sat in his corner office, wrapped in silence as thick as the glass walls around him. Snow trickled lazily outside, a soft contrast to the memory storm raging in his mind.
A dusty memory of two boys running through palace corridors barefoot. Of a garden swing where secrets were shared. Of a diary sealed shut with love never spoken aloud.
His fingers grazed a cufflink that Reyansh had once gifted him in college.
He closed his eyes.
And suddenly—
Knock knock.
Jiya walked in, dressed in her usual crisp navy suit, clipboard in hand, hair tied in a sleek bun. "Sir," she said, gently placing a file on his desk. "Signature needed for the Wexler acquisition."
Rudra didn't respond.
He was still lost in that garden swing.
"Sir?" Jiya repeated, this time a little softer, concern in her voice.
Rudra blinked, snapped out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. He signed the document without a word and passed it back.
Jiya didn't move. She studied him for a second, then asked, "Everything alright, sir?"
"Yes," he replied quickly, too quickly.
And that was all he said.
Not because he didn't trust her.
But because the past hurt less when buried six feet under.
Jiya gave a small nod, knowing better than to push. Still, her eyes lingered a moment longer before she slid a card across his desk.
"A new event on your radar," she said, straightening. "An invitation from Mr. Jain. A gala. He insists you attend."
Rudra glanced at the invite. Gold-embossed, annoyingly fancy.
"Should I confirm?" Jiya asked.
"Yes," he replied, setting the card aside. "Make the arrangements. Add it to tomorrow's schedule."
"Very well," she said, tucking the file under her arm. "I'll prep your briefing, wardrobe options, and—"
"Thank you, Jiya."
She paused, smiled faintly, then exited like a ghost with purpose.
---
The next night arrived dressed in velvet. A luxury hotel glittered with lights and champagne, the air thick with perfume, power, and political deals.
Rudra stepped out of the car, dressed in a sleek charcoal suit, presence like gravity. Cameras clicked like lightning. The media stirred—Rudra Mehra sightings were rare. But tonight, the lion had left his den.
Beside him, Jiya held her calm like a sword. Together, they walked through the marble halls, every eye turning.
Businessmen crowded around Rudra, eager to shake the hand that moved markets. Mr. Jain, their host, came bustling in excitement.
"Ah, Mr. Mehra! The honor is ours!" he said, embracing him. "Please, meet my special guests."
Rudra nodded politely. Another parade of names and faces began. But none registered—until one did.
"Mr. Mehra, meet Ms. Akansha Singhania—one of the finest legal minds in the country."
He turned.
And saw her.
She was grace carved in confidence. A woman in a maroon saree, minimal jewelry, yet every inch of her radiated strength. She greeted him with a polite, controlled smile.
"Mr. Mehra," she said with a slight bow of her head.
"Ms. Singhania," Rudra replied, eyes scanning hers for the story they didn't tell.
They stood quietly for a few seconds. Then, surprisingly, they started talking. Not networking fluff—but real conversation. About law. Ethics. Business. Justice.
It wasn't flirtation. It was something rarer—mutual respect.
Something stirred in Rudra that hadn't stirred in years.
By the end of the night, he was distracted in a way that meetings and mergers never could manage.
Back in the car, Jiya drove through the sleepy city.
Rudra sat silently in the back, eyes focused on the blurred lights, yet clearly elsewhere.
Jiya smirked. "Should I pull up background checks?"
He looked up, caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.
They both smiled.
She understood—again—without a word spoken.
---
The next morning, as always, Jiya was ahead of schedule.
She slid a slim file across Rudra's desk.
"Details you didn't ask for," she said. "But you were thinking about."
He opened the file.
Name: Akansha Singhania
DOB: June 11
Birthplace: Jodhpur, Rajasthan
Background: Orphaned at birth, raised in an NGO
Education: Completed through scholarships; Gold Medalist in Criminal Law
Career: Renowned criminal lawyer in New York; known for pro bono work
Marital Status: Single
Rudra traced a finger over the details. There was something poetic in how she had risen—not unlike him—from loss into legacy.
"She's impressive," he murmured.
Jiya smiled. "Like attracts like."
He looked at her. "You're awfully encouraging today."
"Don't mistake efficiency for emotion, sir," she smirked.
They both laughed softly—a rare sound in this office of war rooms and legal wolves.
But behind the banter, something was shifting.
For the first time in years, Rudra didn't return to his usual silence after a meeting. He asked about Akansha. Googled her interviews. Watched one of her court cases on YouTube late at night.
And in every word she spoke, every time she fought for the innocent, he found pieces of himself.
They were both warriors. Just in different arenas.
---
Days passed.
Akansha and Rudra crossed paths again—once at a networking event, once in a charity board meeting, once outside a courtroom by coincidence.
Every meeting was longer than the last.
Every conversation deeper.
And every night, Jiya noticed the change in Rudra.
He worked the same, led the same—but the quiet in his eyes was starting to lift. Slowly. Like dawn.
Yet he said nothing directly.
Old habits die hard.
But Jiya knew.
She always did.
---
One evening, as they walked out after a press conference, she turned to him and asked, "Planning to stay silent forever, sir?"
Rudra looked at her.
"About?"
"Her. About life. About how you stopped living when you left home."
He paused.
Then said, softly, "Some wounds… heal only when someone stops trying to fix them."
"And what if someone already has?" Jiya asked.
Rudra looked away, but his silence this time wasn't defensive—it was hopeful.
For the first time in a decade… he wasn't haunted by memories.
He was curious about tomorrow.
Because somewhere in the city that never sleeps… someone had finally made him want to dream again.
To be continued…