City D—An Morning, A pale mist, reminiscent of a dream, clung to the avenues of Lutyens' City D, veiling the colonial architecture. A black Mercedes S-Class moved smoothly along Janpath, its progress deliberate. A security detail of black SUVs maintained a respectful distance, a silent testament to the passenger's importance.
The city awakened around them: honking cars, street vendors, and distant news broadcasts filled the air. Within the Mercedes, Ira N.K. remained composed, seemingly impervious to the rising cacophony.
The city's sounds—horns, camera flashes, radio chatter—washed over her without effect. Her dark, close-cropped hair accentuated her cheekbones, lending her an air of vulnerability and strength. Her monochrome trench coat draped elegantly around her, its simple lines contrasting with the city's vibrant chaos.
She carried nothing—no phone, no diary—only the weight of memory, shaping her every movement. The past clung to her like the morning mist, a constant reminder of her journey.
Beside her, Rayan El-Basri, impeccably dressed in a dove-grey suit, fidgeted, tracing his tablet's edges as he reviewed a presentation. The screen's faint glow illuminated his anxious features. "I still believe we should have provided the press with more information," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "A carefully crafted statement, perhaps, addressing some of the rumors…"
Ira inclined her head slightly, acknowledging and dismissing his concern. "Let them work for it, Rayan," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "I'm not here to provide fodder for their speculation. My work will speak for itself."
K Market Studio Launch, the afternoon sun filtered through the tall French windows of the City D country I, flagship studio, casting long geometric shadows across the marble floors. The whitewashed interiors, minimalist yet warm, echoed softly with footsteps and hushed commentary.
In the center of the studio, Ira N.K stood motionless before a mannequin draped in a sari stitched from recycled zardozi panels — remnants from forgotten family trunks and border towns. The piece was called "Resurgence."
Her arrival in country I had been a quiet thunder — no official press release, no social media announcement. Only a single line printed in City D's internal memo three weeks ago:
"Effective October, Ms. Ira N.K will take creative helm of our country I division."
It had been enough.
The Press Preview Begins, A select group of journalists and editors circled through the space, notebooks clutched, expressions intent. None dared interrupt her too quickly. She was known for giving very little — and meaning very much.
Rayan El-Basri stood nearby, his expression professional but vigilant.
Finally, a voice broke the polite hush.
"Miss N.K," a young reporter from the country I design Review asked, "you've launched in country T, city B, city P... Why Country I now?"
Ira turned slowly, her eyes steady. "Because the silence here is louder."
Another journalist followed, hesitantly: "Does 'Reclaimed' mark a shift in your design philosophy?"
"No. It marks a reckoning," she said. "Not everything broken must be discarded. Sometimes, you re-stitch the wound — not to hide it, but to wear it."
A pause. Pens scribbled. Cameras clicked softly. But no one dared press further.
Private Viewing Room | Later That Day
Ira and Rayan entered the inner salon — an elegant room paneled with raw teak and softened by jute curtains. Two chai glasses waited on a brass tray.
Rayan exhaled. "You know, I think you actually terrified the Vogue editor. She just whispered something about 'haunted minimalism' and walked out."
Ira smirked faintly. "If they want sequins and metaphors, they're in the wrong studio."
He paused, watching her carefully. "You're doing well. But there's something… different today."
She took her coffee and looked out the window, watching the pigeons settle on a power line across the road.
"It's the dust," she said. "This city. It never forgets you. Even when you try to forget it.
Nightfall | Back at the Studio,
The last guest had left. The staff had packed away champagne flutes and folded chairs. Ira stood alone in the collection room, barefoot now, heels discarded at the foot of a display stand.
Rayan reappeared, holding a folded linen shawl.
"There's one more visitor," he said softly. "No press. No camera. Said she's a patron from Calcutta."
Ira raised a brow. "At this hour?"
"She insisted on five minutes. Her card just says—"
He handed it to her. A slim ivory card. Engraved in soft gold serif: "Reena S. Mahajan – Archivist, Textile Histories Collective."
Ira paused. Her lips curved faintly.
"Send her in."
Five Minutes Later | Private Salon
The woman who entered was in her sixties, draped in a handloom cotton sari of dark indigo, with silver temple borders. She wore no makeup, just a large ring shaped like a crow's feather.
Reena bowed her head. "Miss Neel. I was there today. I watched quietly. Your collection is… deeply disruptive."
"Is that a compliment?" Ira asked.
The woman smiled. "It's a warning."
She stepped closer to the centerpiece gown.
"This stitch," she murmured, pointing to the inner sleeve hem. "It's a Rajput technique — the ghost stitch. Meant to make the thread invisible unless held to firelight."
Ira tilted her head. "You know your work."
"I know yours," Reena replied. "I worked in the same archive your mother once donated fabric to."
Ira's expression shifted — a flinch, quickly concealed.
"And I know," Reena added gently, "what country I, did to women who spoke without asking."
Silence.
"I just came to say…" Reena said quietly, "you've re-entered the land not just with designs — but with memory. And memory is the only force that can dismantle power."
She handed Ira a wrapped package.
"This was once Neelima Kapoor's sketchbook. She left it with the Textile Collective two decades ago, right before…"
She didn't say it.
Ira accepted the parcel.
"Thank you," she whispered, and for the first time that day, her voice cracked.
K Market Rooftop, Ira sat alone under the City D sky, sketchbook on her lap. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.Inside were rough pencil sketches. Designs unfinished. Notes scrawled in margins.
"Sari jacket – black-on-black embroidery. For Ira's 10th."
On the last page: a quote in ink, fading but legible.
"If you can't inherit a legacy, design one." — Neelima K.
Ira closed the book and looked out over the sleeping city.
This was just the beginning.
City D – One Night After the Studio Launch
Location: Archive Vault, Textile Histories Collective (Off-Record Section)
Time: 11:47 PM,
The lights were dimmed in the underbelly of the Textile Histories Collective. Normally closed to the public by dusk, tonight the temperature-controlled vault had an unexpected visitor.
Rekha.
Wearing a nondescript jacket and carrying a canvas utility bag, she moved through the aisles like a shadow, her eyes scanning for the familiar beige folders once labeled Kapoor Collection — Confidential Holdings.
She found them where she knew she would: Third Row, Left Wing. Behind the locked archival door.
A click. A creak. The drawer slid open.
Inside: sketches, fabric fragments, unpublished letters, and photographs — some of which could, if exposed strategically, question the authenticity of Ira's newly launched "Reclaimed" line.
Photos of designs that looked eerily similar. Fabric samples bearing pre-dated timestamps. A few letters that could be distorted, edited.
Exactly what Mrs. Bansal needed. Rekha carefully pulled out the incriminating bundle and slid it into her bag, then opened a sealed envelope.
"To be presented only upon breach of archive ethics — Archive Committee Use Only."
Rekha smirked and stuffed it in too.
Bansal Mansion – Drawing Room
Early Morning, Mrs. Ravina Bansal leaned over a velvet-bound dossier, flipping through photos Rekha had just printed.
She studied them silently. One by one.
An early Neelima sketch. A design eerily similar to Ira's "Resurgence" sari. A letter between Neelima and an unnamed client in 2003. Another detailing concerns about corporate copying and betrayal inside the original Country I board.
Finally, she looked up.
"This..." Ravina said, voice cool, "...is not evidence. This is allegation disguised as nostalgia. But in the court of public opinion, that's more than enough."
Rekha straightened. "Should we leak it through an anonymous fashion blog? Or drop it into a rival publication?"
Mrs. Bansal (paused, calculating): "No. That's too obvious. We'll feed it to someone more... subtle."
She picked up her phone and dialed a familiar number.
"Hello, Shivani. I hear Draped & Damned is launching their new exposé series next week. How do you feel about becoming the woman who brought down country's I most mysterious design prodigy?"
She smiled as she hung up.
"Let's see how she handles being 'reclaimed' by scandal."
Later That Day – Rayan El-Basri's Apartment | Sundown
The TV played on mute. Rayan sat at his kitchen counter, reviewing social media metrics from the launch: muted praise, mysterious curiosity, a slow burn of interest.
Then his phone buzzed.
Anonymous Tip: You should verify whether the ghost stitch in "Resurgence" is actually an original technique. Records exist in Textile Histories Collective. Dig deep. — A Friend.
Rayan froze. His fingers hovered over the screen. Then another text came.
Also ask her: who really designed the unfinished 'black-on-black sari jacket'? The date on her mother's sketchbook doesn't match what the archive says.
He stood up, cold creeping into his spine.