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Ayaan, still struggling to make sense of it all, shakes his head, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“But Vishnu,” he interjects, “if Qureshi is dead, then who is the masked man still troubling Simran?”

I take a deep breath, my gaze locking onto Simran’s again. The answer has been eating away at me ever since I pieced it together, and now it’s time to confront it.

“Qureshi’s son—Zayed Qureshi urf ‘Zane.’” I deliver the final piece of the puzzle.

Simran stumbles backwards as if physically struck by the name, her hand instinctively flying to her mouth.

“What?” she gasps.

I quickly move to her side, steadying her as she falters, before pulling out my phone to show her a photograph that my team in New York had sent earlier—the one that had helped me crack this whole mystery. The image shows Zane standing next to an elderly foreign woman, both of them smiling at the camera, unaware that this very picture would one day expose them in front of all.

“Do you know her?” I ask her.

Simran stares at the screen for a moment, her fingers shaking as she takes the phone from me. Her eyes dart to mine, a mix of shock and recognition on her face. She nods slowly, her hand trembling slightly as she points to the woman.

“Yes,” she whispers. “That’s Zane’s mother… Monica.”

I narrow my eyes, needing absolute confirmation. “Are you sure?”

She nods again, more firmly this time. “Yes, I’m sure. He once showed me a picture of his mother when I’d been at his home for a party.” Her voice falters as she looks at me. “This is her. This is Zane’s mother.”

“Zane’s mother…” I confirm, and then add the crucial detail that changes everything, “… and Qureshi’s ex-wife.”

Simran’s gasp fills the silence. I can see the final pieces clicking into place in her mind as she understands the true depth of the danger she’s been in—not from a stranger, but from someone connected to a vendetta that had been set in motion long before she even entered the picture.

CHAPTER 35

ZAYED (ZANE)

Past

My father was my world.

For as long as I could remember, my bond with him had been unshakable, shaped by years of cherished moments together. Growing up in the U.S. with my mother, Monica, I learned early on that my parents’ relationship was a chapter neither of them liked to revisit. Whenever I asked, my mother’s lips would press into a thin line, and my father simply waved it off as a reckless mistake during his youthful days. They had met during her trip to India, fallen in love, rushed into marriage, and just as quickly, fallen apart—not because of the cultural differences, as everyone assumed, but because my father couldn’t remain faithful.

Yet, despite their separation, my father continued to be a constant presence in my life. While Mom built a new life with her second husband in the U.S., I lived for those precious visits from Dad. I lived two lives through two names—Zane for the world and Zayed for my father.

Zane was the name my mother gave me, a name that fit neatly into their American life. And Zayed? That was the name that mattered. The name my father called me, the name that connected me to him and the legacy he carried.

I never got along with my stepfather. He came into my life when I was already ten years old, old enough to have bonded deeply with my real dad. My memories of my dad, even in those early years, were vivid—his larger-than-life presence, his powerful voice, and his unshakable confidence. No matter how kind or well-intentioned my stepfather was, he could never measure up to the man I already idolised… my real father, Qureshi.

My mother and stepfather never had children of their own. So, I believed the only reason my stepfather cared for me so much was because he had no child of his to call his own. He loved me out of obligation, not choice.

He was gentle, patient, and, by all accounts, a good man. But that was exactly why I couldn’t accept him. He was everything my real dad wasn’t. My stepfather may have been the man of the house, sure, but he wasn’t a man who commanded the world beyond it. My real dad, on the other hand, was a man of dreams and ambitions. He knew how to fight for what he wanted, to take what he believed was his. My stepfather may have been present in my day-to-day life, but he didn’t have the fire that my dad Qureshi had.

Blood speaks, they say, and I believed it. I had my dad’s traits—his ambition, his temper, his determination. When I measured the two men in my life, even my dad’s worst flaws always overshadowed and outweighed the best traits of my stepfather. Always. The ruthlessness of my dad, Qureshi, his refusal to take no for an answer, his passion for claiming his place in the world—it all resonated with me.

One incident from my school years solidified my loyalty to my real dad over my stepfather. A group of seniors had started bullying me, and I had confided in my stepfather first. His advice? “Ignore them, Zane. Stay calm, and make peace with it.” I hated it. Ignoring them didn’t stop the bullying—it only made it worse. I kept my head down for weeks, enduring the taunts and shoves, but nothing changed.

Finally, I complained to my dad, Qureshi. His response was immediate. He flew to the U.S. and personally visited the school’s management, demanding that the senior boys be expelled. But that wasn’t all. Outside the school gates, he and his men confronted those bullies. I still remember how they towered over the seniors, threatening them with such force that they never dared to look in my direction again.

That was the moment I realised what true power looked like. My stepfather’s peacekeeping approach had failed miserably. But my dad’s strength and his ability to impose his will had solved the problem in no time. That was the day I realised that my real father was the only one worthy of the title, Dad.

He would fly in from Mumbai frequently, bringing with him the scent of Indian spices and political ambition. Those moments were sacred—just us, father and son, away from his political drama and scandalous affairs that occasionally made headlines in Mumbai’s local press.

I knew my father wasn’t a saint. He had carved his place in politics through sheer ruthlessness, and I’d heard the rumours of the extreme measures he’d taken to achieve that power. But he was my father, my idol. And despite everything, I had blind faith in him. Whatever he did—no matter how extreme or questionable—was to fulfill his own ambition, and I believed there was nothing wrong with that. Power wasn’t simply handed over to men like him; it was taken, fought for, and defended at all costs. That was the reality of his world.