Location: Bansal Group HQ, City D
Time: after the engagement party
The air in the executive tower of Bansal Group was unnaturally still.
Ira Neel—now officially Ira Bansal—sat at the head of the long walnut conference table. Dressed in a structured indigo saree handwoven in Assam, her face was calm but unreadable. Her return as Chairwoman of Bansal Group had triggered tremors across business news channels. Shareholders had responded with cautious optimism. The old guard, however—Ravina Chaudhary Bansal, chief among them—had declared war.
The door burst open.
"You're occupying a seat built by political sacrifice and generational duty," Ravina hissed, striding in uninvited. Her crimson lipstick, her pearl-set bangles, the oversized diamond ring—everything about her screamed legacy and calculation.
Ira didn't flinch. "And yet, the board elected me. Legally. Unanimously. Perhaps they sensed something new was overdue."
"You are a stylist with a scandal," Ravina snapped. "You think being a daughter gives you the right to rewrite legacy? That name took three decades of clean headlines to protect."
Ira rose, her calm unnerving. "I'm not interested in protecting what was rotten beneath the polish."
"Careful," Ravina's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "You don't know what you've walked into. I built the Bansal empire's second innings ? Fine. But don't steal what isn't yours."
"Funny," Ira said quietly, "I thought your marriage was the original theft."
For a moment, the silence in the boardroom was thunderous.
Ravina's eyes narrowed. "You are making enemies you don't even understand. I'll bury your headlines by tomorrow morning. PR, legal, investor relations—all under my thumb."
"I don't need headlines," Ira said. "I have the board. And unlike you, I don't fear the truth."
As Ravina stormed out, her heels clicking like gunshots, Ira turned to her assistant. "Get me tomorrow's press releases. Full veto power. And call legal—she's going to try something underhanded."
Later that day, in a discreet corner office, Ravina met with an old ally—a retired PR executive turned fixer, on her payroll for decades.
"Leak her mother's file to the gossip columns," Ravina ordered. "Academic scandal. Emotional instability. Anything to tarnish her credibility."
"Make it look like embezzlement. Let the media ask if Ira funded her fashion brand from stolen inheritance."
The man hesitated. "She has goodwill now. You might lose sympathy if you hit too hard."
"She's a distraction," Ravina said coldly. "And distractions must be removed before they become a reckoning."
Now, it made sense. The chill. The ambition. The rage.
By dawn, Country's I business media woke up to confusion.
Two contradictory narratives dominated:
Business Line: Ira Bansal Appointed Youngest Chairperson in Bansal Group History
Evening Pulse: Bansal Secrets Exposed: Fashion Mogul or Inheritance Hijacker?
On social media, a new trend had started— #WhoIsIraBansal
Ravina's campaign had started.
But Ira stood at the window of her 18th-floor office, hands behind her back, face impassive.
She knew this war wouldn't be won in boardrooms or gossip pages.
It would be won in strategy, legacy, and staying power.
The sun had not yet broken through the smog-laced skyline of City D when Ira Bansal arrived at the Bansal Group headquarters.
Her car was mobbed by reporters flashing cameras and thrusting mics against the glass.
"Ira, are you hiding your mother's embezzlement records?"
"Did your startup receive illegal seed funding?"
"Is your brand a front for personal enrichment?"
Her driver paused.
"Keep going," Ira said coolly, eyes fixed ahead. "Let them scream. Eventually, they'll listen."
Inside the War Room | 7:30 AM
The glass-encased executive suite had been transformed into a command center.
Four screens displayed live analytics: trending hashtags, investor sentiment, press coverage, and—most importantly—internal employee chatter.
Kritika Bose, Ira's chief of staff, tapped her tablet.
"Damage is sharp but narrow. Retail division is panicking. Share price dipped 3.2%. Fashion subsidiary holding firm. Your statement is due in thirty minutes."
Ira nodded, pouring herself a cup of black coffee. "Draft it:
'Bansal Group will not be derailed by weaponized rumors.
My mother's academic history is irrelevant to our fiscal present. The board trusted me because I built real value—not because of my surname. We will announce new projects this quarter. The future is in building, not baiting.'"
Kritika typed, then hesitated. "They're saying your designs were funded with laundered family assets."
"Then let them audit me," Ira said. "I've kept everything clean. But—let's give them a new story."
She turned to the window, voice calm but glacial. "Set up a press conference. Noon. At our new textile plant. I'll walk the media through the upcoming ₹600 crore green-fiber line myself."
Meanwhile, At Ravina's Estate | 9:00 AM
Ravina Bansal was dressed in ivory silk, reading the paper over jasmine tea. The Evening Pulse cover gleamed on her tablet.
She had expected satisfaction.
Instead, irritation bloomed. Ira had not crumbled.
"She's absorbing the fire," Ravina murmured. "Turning backlash into leverage."
Her assistant stepped in. "Ma'am… there's a problem."
Ravina: "What?"
"Her team just invited every major journalist to the new Bansal GreenFiber facility. Full access. Transparent books. Projected employment of 7,000 workers."
Ravina's fingers tightened around her cup.
"She's using the scandal as fuel."
The GreenFiber Plant Site | Noon
A converted warehouse gleamed in the midday sun. Ira stood before a sleek podium, flanked by sustainability banners and detailed project boards. Her indigo saree had been replaced with a tailored, minimalist suit. Behind her, engineers and young women from rural co-ops stood in silent support.
"My name is Ira Bansal," she began. "And I will not waste your time defending what I did not do. I'll spend it showing you what I will do."
She pointed behind her. "This is where Bansal Group reinvents itself. Zero-waste fabric lines. 68% women-led teams. Global patents in fiber tech."
One journalist called out, "What about the allegations?"
Ira smiled slightly. "They come from a past that fears the future. Let the record show: every rupee that built my brand came from legal sources. I've signed an open audit. Meanwhile, those trying to silence me—ask them why they never opened their books."
Applause broke out—not overwhelming, but steady. Intentional.
Late Evening | Ravina's Private Study
Ravina's phone buzzed.
Incoming Call: "Adv. Shalini Mahajan"
She answered. "Tell me something useful."
Shalini's voice was clipped. "You should have waited. Her audit cleared. Fastest forensic turnaround in years. No misused funds."
"She's spinning gold from disgrace."
"You don't understand," Shalini said sharply. "She's not playing defense. She's laying a trap."
"What do you mean?"
"She requested full access to the old family trust records. Including the marriage merger files. She's looking into your acquisitions."
Ravina froze.
"She's digging into the Bansal Educational Trust's 2002 land deals."
"You mean…"
"Yes. The one you transferred to your brother's shell company. If she finds the bearer bonds..."
Silence.
Then: "Call Mahesh Madhavan. Now. Tell him we need a favor. And a firewall."
Midnight | Ira's Apartment, Central City D
The city below was restless. Horns, heat, headlines.
Kritika sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open. "Press support has shifted. Social media's now 58% in your favor. Even the skeptical ones admire your composure."
Ira nodded, slipping off her earrings. "It's not about admiration. It's about momentum."
Kritika looked up. "You really think Mrs.Bansal will escalate?"
"She already has." Ira opened an old file from her private locker. Inside: her mother's original handwritten letter. Not embezzlement—but a cover-up of something else.
"Ravina buried more than stories," Ira said quietly. "She buried people. Relationships. Even truths that could destroy this empire."
Kritika's eyes widened. "You're not stopping?"
"No," Ira whispered, folding the letter back. "I'm just beginning."