WebNovels

Chapter 35 - Chapter 35 Emerald Legacies

City D Construction Site (UDC Mall)

The towering crane, a skeletal silhouette against the City D skyline, stood motionless, a stark reminder of the recent tragedy. Frayed lengths of yellow caution tape, dulled by dust, stirred listlessly in the breeze. Media vans, remnants of the initial surge, remained parked around the site's perimeter, their antennas like a silent array.

The air, heavy with the scent of concrete and unanswered questions, hung oppressively over the scene. Yet, within the unfinished atrium's steel skeleton, a quiet resolve was emerging.

Rishika Upadhyay stood at the atrium's center, the dust-covered concrete cold beneath her boots. She gazed upward at the empty dome, a symbol of aspirations temporarily dashed.

The planned architectural marvel of glass and steel now felt like a hollow echo of the incident that had halted construction. Only the whisper of the wind and the distant city hum broke the silence.

Veer approached Rishika, a thick file in hand, his expression somber. "We've received clearance from the Environment Tribunal," he reported, his voice resonating in the stillness. "The building's structural integrity has been fully certified. The police have officially confirmed that the… remains discovered were not connected to the land acquisition process." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

Rishika, still gazing upward, spoke without turning. "And the FIRs?" she inquired, her voice calm but firm.

"The markets have been closed," Veer confirmed. "There is no direct liability on our part. However, the damage to our public image is proving persistent." The media's intense scrutiny of the incident had negatively impacted the project's reputation.

Rishika nodded slowly. "Then we rebuild," she stated firmly. "We rebuild not just with physical materials, but with trust. We must regain public confidence, demonstrate our commitment to safety and transparency, and prove ourselves a responsible member of this community."

Riyansh arrived, appearing tired but resolute. His creased shirt evidenced a long night spent reviewing legal documents and emergency equity terms. He exchanged a knowing glance with Rishika.

"We are ready to recommence," Riyansh affirmed. "This time, we don't just build the Living Market. We embody its principles—openness, honesty, and transparency. We will engage with the community, address their concerns, and demonstrate our commitment to ethical practices. We will build not just a marketplace, but a space where people can connect, thrive, and trust our vision."

Aakash joined them, carrying a binder filled with social inclusion models. "We have incorporated an artisans' cooperative into the foundation," he announced. "They will have a 5% equity stake in the mall's retail wing, granting them a direct voice in its operation and ensuring they benefit from its success."

Veer smiled faintly, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "That will certainly get the union's attention," he remarked. "Not necessarily because they trust us yet, but because we have empowered them. We have provided them with a tangible stake in the project, a reason to collaborate with us."

On that quiet Thursday afternoon, amidst the dust and the remnants of the past, the cranes began to move again. Their slow, deliberate movements symbolized not just the resumption of construction, but the alleviation of a burden, the resurgence of hope, and the restoration of faith in the UDC Mall project.

Two Weeks Later — International Luxury Auction, Florence

The opulent halls of Palazzo Viviani, a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, resonated with the hushed murmurs of affluent attendees. Conversations in English, Italian, and the discreetly whispered tones of billionaires from around the globe filled the air. Heavy velvet curtains separated the preview chambers, each concealing treasures of unimaginable value. 

A 17th-century Pahari miniature, its intricate details a testament to the artistry of a bygone era. A Burmese ruby, the size of a pigeon's egg, bearing the distinctive seal of a Mughal emperor. A rare Zardozi palanquin, its exquisite embroidery shimmering under the soft lights, once owned by the legendary Begum Hazrat Mahal.

Rishika Upadhyay, elegantly draped in an ivory cape-dress, her signature gemstone cuff adding a touch of understated glamour, moved quietly through the throngs of attendees. She wasn't there for the publicity, nor was she seeking to acquire any of the showcased treasures. She was there for a deeply personal reason, a quest driven by family history and a desire to reclaim a lost piece of her heritage. 

She was there for Savitri Devi, her grandmother, who had often whispered captivating stories of a magnificent emerald choker, a family heirloom that had mysteriously vanished from the Upadhyay family's ancestral vaults decades ago. The choker, a symbol of her family's legacy, held immense sentimental value, and Rishika was determined to find it, no matter the cost. Lot No. 63. Up next.

The voice of the auctioneer echoed lightly through the marble-walled bidding room at Sotheby's Florence. Under the soft glow of chandeliered light, a velvet box was unveiled with the reverence of a relic. Inside lay the legendary emerald choker of Kumaon—once worn by a rebel queen who defied colonial forces and disappeared into smoke after a palace fire over a century ago.

The room murmured in anticipation. Riyansh Madhvan entered like a silhouette drawn in quiet precision—dark suit, signature pocket square, flanked by his executive assistant and a discreet European appraiser. The catalogue had flagged Lot No. 63 as a "private heritage piece of unrecoverable lineage." But Riyansh knew better. It was real. And it was valuable in ways no ledger could hold.

He stepped forward, only to pause at the threshold. Because someone else had already arrived.

Rishika Upadhyay. Her presence was like silk across stone—effortless yet commanding. In a soft olive trench, hair pinned back, her gaze settled on the choker with a calm intensity. She turned as if sensing him.

"Didn't expect to see you in Florence," Riyansh said, his eyebrow lifting.

"I could say the same, Mr. Madhvan."

"Here for business?"

"Family."

There was no time for more.

The auctioneer lifted his gavel.

The Bidding War

€300,000.

€500,000.

€720,000.

The room sharpened like a blade.

€850,000. Riyansh's paddle.

€1 million. Rishika, her posture straight, eyes steady.

A murmur rolled across the room. Several collectors dropped out. Riyansh leaned in, his voice low.

"This isn't even your aesthetic."

Rishika's gaze didn't waver.

"It's hers."

He paused. The weight of something unseen passed between them.

Then he lowered his paddle.

Silence. She had won.

Later, beneath the stone colonnade, with flutes of chilled champagne in hand, Rishika approached him.

"You could've taken it. You always go for the win."

He sipped. Cool. Measured.

"That necklace... belongs to a matriarch. I know one when I see one."

Their eyes held—not as rivals, but as two children of legacy, finally seeing one another clearly.

Something shifted that night.

City D – The Upadhyay Estate

The estate grounds were transformed into a scene from royal legend. Canopies of jasmine and silk lanterns floated overhead. Silver peacocks adorned the gates. Echoes of live classical music threaded through the air, played by musicians flown in from Mysore and Vienna.

The guest list read like a who's who of India's power elite—ministers, Supreme Court judges, Padma Shri-winning artists, startup founders, Ambani cousins, and foreign diplomats.

Inside the floral courtyard, the party wives gathered beneath a carved marble awning. Meera Singhania wore Sabyasachi silk and a necklace older than Partition.

Mrs. Oberoi, draped in Mughal-era pearls, whispered about the auction in Florence.

Ananya Madhvan, effortlessly modern in emerald satin, adjusted a seating chart and sent a live update to Vogue Country I.

Gayatri Devi, Riyansh's grandmother, sipped Italian white wine, silently assessing the choreography of legacy unfolding before her.

"She bid against Riyansh?" Meera raised a brow.

"And won," Ananya said, half-proud, half-curious.

"For the matriarch, no less," Gayatri murmured. "Then she deserves every stone on that choker."

As twilight melted into velvet night, the crowd gathered around the central dais.

Savitri Devi was wheeled in, glowing in a deep green Benarasi saree, hands adorned with heirloom rings. Despite her frailty, her gaze held steel and wisdom.

"Are these lights for me?" she asked with playful grace.

Rishika knelt before her, holding a velvet box in her hands.

"They're for your legacy," she whispered.

When she opened it, the world stilled. The emerald choker, reborn, gleamed with stories unspoken.

Savitri Devi's breath caught. "Where did you find this?"

"Florence. And a little luck."

She didn't need to say whose luck. As the necklace was gently clasped around the matriarch's neck, the entire garden rose in ovation—from billionaires to bureaucrats. The press cameras, held back behind antique brass partitions, flashed once and then respectfully lowered.

From a distance, Riyansh stood beneath the neem tree, silent. He watched as Rishika stepped back and let her grandmother rise as the evening's true sovereign.

He didn't need applause.That moment... was enough.

Veer Upadhyay stepped forward with effortless poise.

"Tonight we don't celebrate a number," he said. "We celebrate a woman who built kingdoms out of kindness, and dared to stay rooted when the world asked her to bow."

Then, as if rehearsed for decades, "I don't need legacy," she said, voice clear, "because it already lives in you. In the emeralds we restore, and the homes we rebuild. But tonight… you gave me back a piece of my past. And I thank you."

After the Party, The music softened. Lanterns dimmed. Conversations grew quieter.

Rishika stood with Riyansh near the koi pond, discussing the next cultural restoration project in City U.

Riyansh remained near the marble balustrade, nursing his drink, exchanging subtle glances with Gayatri Devi. The party wives sat around a charpoy laid with silk cushions, trading stories and one-liners.

"That girl is dangerous," Mrs. Oberoi whispered with pride.

"In all the right ways," Gayatri Devi smiled.

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