Vidhwan sat alone in his office, the dim light of the lamp casting long shadows across the room. A cigar rested between his fingers as thin curls of smoke drifted slowly toward the ceiling.
Tonight there were no women.
No loud music.
No clubs.
Only silence.
Anyone looking at him might have thought he was grieving his son—sitting there like a father broken by loss, lost in his thoughts. As if he had nothing to do with the pain that had swallowed that child’s life.
He took another slow drag of the cigar, his expression unreadable.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. A maid came running and knocked on the door urgently.
“Come in,” he said without looking up.
The maid stepped inside, breathless and trembling.
“Sir… ma’am… ma’am—”
Her words stumbled over each other, fear and hesitation choking her voice.
Vidhwan frowned slightly and stood up, sensing something was wrong. Without another question, he walked past her and headed straight toward the bedroom.
The door creaked open.
And there she was.
Sakshi lay on the floor, motionless, her body unnaturally still against the cold tiles.
For a brief moment, the room fell silent.
Vidhwan walked over to her and crouched down, gripping her shoulder as he tried to shake her awake.
“Sakshi.”
No response.
He shook her again, a little harder this time.
Still nothing.
Realizing what had happened, he slowly stood up. His face did not twist with grief, nor did panic cloud his eyes. Instead, a cold calm settled over him as if he were already calculating the next step.
He turned toward the maid, who stood frozen near the door.
“Take care of it,” he said flatly. “Cremate the body… and make it look like an accident.”
His voice carried no hesitation. No regret.
Just a command.
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