December 23rd, 2029. Mumbai.
The message didn't come in a file. Or a phone call. Or a manila folder left anonymously on a desk.
It came as fire.
At 3:27 AM, the alarm system at Rathore Tech's Colaba data substation lit up red. Internal control lost. Heat sensors triggered. Emergency dispatch was already too late.
By 3:34 AM, the servers had melted. Redundant backups were corrupted. The fire suppression system had been bypassed before it even triggered.
Aanya was notified at 3:35 AM.
By 3:40, she was standing in the rain, watching her men fight flames with foam and metal.
Dev stood beside her, silent.
No one said arson.
No one needed to.
The fire was surgical.
It hadn't destroyed everything.
Just the servers containing five years of legal correspondence, archived client records, and most notably, a closed-door merger file Aanya had personally locked away last year.
That file alone had cost six billion rupees in acquisition bluffing.
And now, it was gone.
Or worse—taken.
"You said they'd send a message," she said as they sat in the back of her bulletproof car an hour later.
"I didn't say how loud it would be."
"They didn't touch the head office. Why this site?"
Dev leaned back. "Because this one had no press coverage. No witnesses. No noise."
"Then what was the point?"
"They wanted you to know they're close."
Aanya stared at her reflection in the black glass.
"They could've just called."
"They don't call. They act. And they don't want ransom."
"No?"
"They want surrender."
By morning, her executive board had been informed.
Publicly, it was framed as an isolated system failure caused by illegal construction nearby damaging coolant lines. Internally, the crisis protocol was activated. Her CTO began system audits. Her CISO recommended isolation of the central vault.
Rathore Tech looked calm from the outside.
Inside, it bled quietly.
But Aanya didn't flinch.
She showed up at every meeting. Controlled the narrative. Took heat from investors, media, and her own senior advisors.
And when it was done, she walked into her private conference room and locked the door.
Dev was waiting inside.
She sat down. Removed her heels.
"They're not here for control," she said.
"No."
"They want collapse."
Dev nodded. "You represent disruption. New power. Global alignment without old bloodlines. That scares them."
"And you?"
He tilted his head. "I represent history that didn't die like it was supposed to."
Aanya exhaled slowly.
"This isn't just about me, is it?"
"No."
"They'll hit you next."
"They already have."
Dev pulled out his phone. Opened a secure folder. Showed her a list of coded strings and file dumps.
"What am I looking at?"
"My network. Or what's left of it."
Names. Contacts. Funds. Ghost addresses. All scrubbed. One by one.
"Only three of us are left," he said. "And one of them won't survive this week."
"Who are you really?"
"I was a prototype."
"Of what?"
"Of what they feared most."
They didn't speak again until late evening.
When the penthouse lights were low and the city looked asleep, Aanya poured two drinks and walked to the balcony.
Dev followed.
The rain had stopped. But the scent of wet metal still lingered in the air.
She handed him the glass.
"I need to know something," she said.
"Ask."
"If I walk away from all of this—this empire, this fight, everything—what happens?"
"You survive."
"And them?"
"They replace you. Quietly. Slowly. Efficiently. The world won't notice until it's too late."
"And you?"
Dev looked at her.
"I die anyway. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually."
She stared at him.
"You're not just a threat to them," she said.
"No."
"You're a reminder."
He nodded. "That someone once escaped."
"And now they want that story erased."
"Yes."
She took a sip.
"I don't care about symbols. I care about survival."
"So do they."
"Then they'll come again."
"Always."
Aanya set the glass down.
"Then we need to change the story."
Dev tilted his head. "How?"
"We make them fear losing more than they fear letting go."
That night, Aanya opened a confidential call with her grandfather. A video connection, no recording allowed.
She stared at his weathered face. Not old. Just tired.
"They burned Colaba," she said.
"I know."
"You didn't warn me."
"I hoped you'd never need the warning."
She narrowed her eyes. "Tell me what I'm really fighting."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, "Legacy."
"What?"
"They don't kill people. They erase legacies. Rewrite them. Shape the future by curating the past."
"And Dev?"
"He's not the past. He's the future no one approved."
"Why did you keep him alive?"
"Because he reminded me of you."
She didn't blink.
Her grandfather leaned forward.
"They'll make you choose. Between the crown and the cause."
"I want both."
"Then prepare to lose everything."
At 3:00 AM, Aanya sat alone in her study.
Dev was asleep. Or pretending to be. She didn't ask anymore.
She stared at her reflection in the black screen of her powered-down laptop.
The burn marks from the Colaba fire had already reached the gossip blogs. Speculation was rising. She had two days before the narrative turned from corporate accident to scandal.
She picked up her pen.
Wrote:
"They didn't send a warning. They sent a mirror. To show me what I could lose."
She underlined it once.
Then circled it.
Then tore the page out.
She walked to the fireplace and dropped it into the flame.
She didn't need reminders.
Only resolve.