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The hypocrisy burned through me. Pratap Walia, the man who had hidden Vishnu’s identity all these years to protect his precious political image, had now chosen to parade his son to the world like a badge of honour. My father was dead because of this man and his son. And now, Vishnu—the very person who had taken everything from me—was receiving recognition and acceptance from everyone.

That realisation fuelled me, burning away any remnants of restraint I might have had.

When Mom passed, I felt like I had lost the last piece of myself that was human. Her death left me empty, but it also reignited my resolve. It was then that my men informed me of a shocking development—Simran had moved to New York to expand her fashion business. It was just the opportunity I needed. If she was close to Vishnu—close enough for him to spend a night in her apartment, something so unlike him—it could only mean one thing. This woman wasn’t just anyone. She had a hold over Vishnu, a hold I needed to understand. If she could wield such influence over someone as guarded as him, then she couldn’t be ignored.

I had to keep this woman close to me.

This wasn’t just about understanding her connection to Vishnu; it was about using that connection to my advantage. She might not realise it yet, but she was going to be a key player in my plans.

Since she was looking for a fashion consultant in New York to help grow her business, I set my plan in motion, using my mother’s surname to create the identity of Zane Miller, an expert fashion consultant with fabricated credentials. I hired a legitimate team to back up my ruse, ensuring there were no cracks in the facade. Within weeks, I secured a position as Simran’s consultant and stepped into her world.

She was guarded at first but professional. I played the part of the affable consultant perfectly, earning her trust little by little. Playing the role of Zane Miller, the helpful fashion consultant, was exhausting. Every smile I forced, every friendly conversation I had with Simran felt like swallowing glass. Watching her business thrive, seeing her glow with happiness—it took every ounce of my control to keep my true identity hidden. She trusted me, confided in me, never knowing I was the son of the man her beloved Vishnu had destroyed.

Then came the moment I couldn’t ignore—her baby bump. I’d noticed it one day while she was discussing a new collection. My mind raced with questions. Was the child Vishnu’s? The thought alone filled me with renewed rage, but I needed confirmation. I stayed close to her, playing the supportive friend, waiting for her to slip and say something. But she never did.

When she finally gave birth, I knew I couldn’t rely on her to confirm my suspicions. So, I took matters into my own hands. I pulled strings, accessed the hospital records, and there it was—Father’s Name: Vishnu. The name burned into my retinas like acid, confirming what I’d suspected all along. That night in Mumbai, when I’d lost my chance to kill him—it had led to this. A child. His child. His bloodline would continue, and that thought alone made my blood boil.

Standing in my New York apartment, I could hear my father’s last words echoing in my head, as clear as the day he spoke them to Vishnu: “You and the Walia family will be wiped off the face of the earth. You hear me? This is Qureshi’s promise.”

The words that had haunted me for years now filled me with a savage purpose.

I crumpled the papers of the birth of Vishnu’s son in my fist and walked to my study, where the walls were covered with surveillance photos of Walias back in India—documents and newspaper clippings—my shrine to vengeance. My fingers traced the outline of Vishnu’s face in one of the photos, taken months ago by Shasha, outside some rally in Mumbai. His ever-present security team flanked him, and his father, Pratap Walia, stood by his side.

Touching the Walias in India was impossible. They were protected by layers of high-level security, and were surrounded by the walls of their influence and power. If I wanted to take them down, I had to draw Vishnu out of his fortress.

“You thought you could hide behind your security, didn’t you?” I whispered, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. “But you made one crucial mistake. You created a weakness. A family.”

I poured myself a drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass, mirroring the chaos in my head. I downed it in one go, embracing the burn.

I walked to the window, looking out at the glittering New York skyline. I’d spent months playing the concerned friend to Vishnu’s precious Simran. I had watched his son grow in her womb. Vishnu probably had no idea he even had a son. The thought itself made me laugh.

What was the point of eliminating Simran and her son here in New York when Vishnu didn’t even know the boy existed? No, that wasn’t how this revenge was going to play out.

I wanted Vishnu to know. I wanted him to feel it—the crushing weight of knowing that the son he never knew existed would die before his very eyes. And not just his son. His father. His bloodline. Three generations of Walias, wiped out in a single, devastating blow.

That was the way to fulfil my father’s promise to Vishnu: to wipe the Walias off the face of the earth.

I started devising my plan. Simran was the key. I had already established myself as her friend, someone she could rely on in this vast, ruthless city. She wouldn’t suspect me, not yet. But I needed to push her buttons, to create enough fear within her that she would reach out to the one person she trusted above all else—Meher Walia, her best friend.

And if Simran called Meher, then Meher would definitely inform Vishnu. That was the game I was playing. Vishnu wouldn’t come to New York for Simran unless he had a reason, unless there was a threat he couldn’t ignore. And I knew, without a doubt, he still had feelings for her. Because after Simran had left for New York, I’d told Shasha to keep a close eye on him. As per his information, there had been no other woman in Vishnu’s life after Simran. No casual relationships, no whispers of romance. Nothing. He was still hers, even if he didn’t admit it.

I smiled to myself, the pieces falling into place. The plan was perfect. Threaten Simran. Make her fear for her life. She would go to Meher, and Meher would tell Vishnu. And once Vishnu came to New York, away from the safety of his empire, I would strike. I would take everything from him—his son, his father, and finally his own life.

This was it. The moment I had been waiting for—to fulfil my father’s promise, to destroy the Walia family. But I had to do it in a way that wouldn’t lead back to me. If this plan backfired, the police couldn’t know it was me who orchestrated it. I needed a pawn—someone to do my dirty deed. Someone to threaten Simran for me, someone I could easily manipulate, someone disposable.

That’s when I recalled the news article about Jack Thompson and the Riverside Haven incident that happened just a week ago. Jack, an old friend of mine, had been a man torn apart by his own vices. His overindulgence in drugs had led to a serious mental condition, but after years of relentless therapy, he was finally healing and nearing recovery. He was supposed to be released in three months.

But then, in an impulsive prank, he had terrified other patients at midnight by wearing a sinister joker mask. One of the patients, too fragile to handle the fear, died instantly from the shock. That single, senseless act destroyed any chance Jack had of starting over.

‘Fear’ was a powerful weapon, and I would use that to draw Vishnu out. Jack Thompson’s mask incident had given me the perfect cover. I could use Jack—or rather, his name—to carry out my plans. A scapegoat to deflect suspicion on me if the plan went wrong.

Thankfully, the law had shown mercy to him, ruling that Jack hadn’t intended to cause harm during the incident. He was spared from criminal charges, but society would never look at him in the same way again. When he was released three months later—lost, desperate, and in need of both money and direction—I saw an opportunity. I reached out to him, offering him a way to earn much more than he could dream of and rebuild his life. All he had to do was follow my instructions—without any question.

Jack agreed, eager for a second chance at life. I explained the task to him in detail. His job was simple: stalk Simran Thakkar. I coached him on how to be the unseen terror in Simran’s life, how to make her feel hunted without ever laying a hand on her. Jack followed my orders without question, his desperation to make money making him agreeable. I stayed in the shadows, controlling everything from a distance.

But fate had other plans.

Jack was hit by a car one rainy night. A stupid accident that took his life and almost derailed my plans. I remember standing in that hospital morgue, staring at his lifeless body, rage boiling within me. Months of effort, of manipulation, gone in an instant. Or so it seemed.