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Before he can respond, something catches my eye and I gasp in shock—he’s holding a high-heeled leather footwear in his hand. And it’s not just any footwear by the looks of it; it’s a designer piece, sleek black leather with an intricate gold buckle. It’s a Louboutin if I’m not mistaken. Definitely not something you’d find just lying around. And this expensive, elegant piece seems entirely out of place in Raghav’s hand.

“Whose… whose footwear is that?” I ask, unable to hide my curiosity. For the first time since I’ve known him, Raghav looks almost... flustered? “Raghav Kundra, were you here with someone? A woman?”

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, quickly regaining his usual composure. “I’m not here with any woman. It’s just work.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Work? Okay. And the footwear?”

“Unrelated,” he says briskly, but I can see the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I say, shaking my head. “Who is she?”

“I’m flying back tonight,” he interrupts me, diverting the subject. “I have an important meeting at RK Estate tomorrow.”

“That’s not fair,” I protest. “Ayaan and Paapa won’t be happy. They will want to see you.”

“I’ll call them and explain,” he says dismissively, just as a sleek car pulls up to the back exit.

“Raghav, you can’t keep doing this,” I say, knowing I’m losing this argument. “You disappear for months and then show up without a word. And now you’re running off again?”

He doesn’t respond, and his silence only adds to my irritation. Something’s different about him tonight. He’s in a hurry. And wait… Is that a bruise on his neck… It looks fresh. Is it… a knife wound? It’s peeking out from under the collar of his black silk shirt.

I step closer, concern replacing my irritation.

“Raghav... what happened to your neck?” I ask softly, reaching out to examine it.

His hand shoots up, brushing over the fresh cut as if suddenly realising it’s visible. “It’s nothing,” he replies gruffly, stepping back.

“That’s not nothing,” I argue, worried. “It looks like a knife wound. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I said it’s nothing,” he repeats firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Without another word, he turns toward the sleek car, pulling up to the corner.

“Raghav, wait. At least come inside and say hello to Devika and Simran,” I try one last time.

“Next time,” he replies, already walking towards the car.

But then he stops and turns to my guards. His eyes harden as he commands them.

“Keep an eye on her. Don’t make me come back here to clean up your mess,” he orders them, his gaze locking on all of them.

The guards nod, visibly intimidated. He gets into the car without another word, the door shutting with a decisive bang. I wave goodbye, but my eyes are fixed on that heel he’s still holding as the car pulls away. I wonder whose footwear he had in his hand? And why did it matter enough for Raghav to carry it around? What is he hiding?

Raghav has always been a man of few words, but tonight, there had been cracks in his armour—glimpses of something he wasn’t saying. That bruise on his neck, the expensive footwear in his hand, and the urgency in his demeanour told me that something wasn’t right. Somewhere deep in my heart, I hope that this same mysterious heeled footwear might just be the first pageof his story.

But knowing Raghav, getting to the truth will be like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. He’s made an art form of keeping people at arm’s length—staying just connected enough to fulfil the family obligations while never truly letting anyone in. Even now, just when I caught a glimpse of something more, he slipped away like a shadow in broad daylight. Huh!

I turn back toward the pub, knowing Simran and Devika will be worried, but my mind is still on that heel, on the wound, and the subtle change I saw in my usually unshakeable brother-in-law. I just hope whatever it is, it might finally bring him out of the dark shadows he’s been hiding in.

VISHNU

Walia Mansion

I stare at the screen, my eyes scanning through the endless list of patients from Riverside Haven Mental Health Center. Ayaan sits beside me, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his laser-sharp focus as we both hunt for anything suspicious. Our wives are out, giving us the perfect window to dive deep into this investigation.

Suddenly, my gaze latches on a name, and my blood runs cold. No… No way. It can’t be... But there it is, clear as a day.

What the hell is ‘his’name doing here?!

As if the universe is confirming my worst fears, my phone pings at that exact same moment. I open the message from my New York team, and a series of photos fill my screen. They’re old, maybe taken two or three years ago. It shows a man—the same man whose name I just found on the patient list—standing beside an elderly woman. His mother, according to my team’s investigation.