The next morning, Arohi returned to the café with quiet eyes and sore muscles. Her hands still ached from holding the training knife too tightly for too long, but her posture was straighter than yesterday. She walked in before opening hours and found Shruti sitting at the counter, wide awake, phone in hand.
Shruti looked up, face pale with urgency.
"Arohi... you're trending."
That got her attention.
Shruti turned the screen. It was all over Mumbai's chatter feeds, short-form videos, gossip blogs, even office WhatsApp groups. Clips from the gala had leaked—grainy footage of Arohi speaking calmly to troublemakers, defending herself near the parking lot, standing her ground with Rhea's clique in full view.
Photos of her in the emerald gown trended under the caption: *"Outcast Malhotra or Queen in Waiting?"*
Imaan Chaudhry's blog headline screamed:
**"From Runaway to Royalty? The Iron Cafe Queen Faces Mumbai's Eyes."**
Arohi let out a slow breath.
By midmorning, the café buzzed more than usual. Regulars came with cautious glances; strangers came with cameras. Some nodded respectfully, others stared too long.
Two rival café managers passed by the windows without coming in—one even pretending to check messages while filming discreetly.
Meera, the café's head barista, gave a little smirk while brewing coffee.
"Boss lady's famous now, haan. Don't worry. Old customers like us. New ones can get in line."
But just as the mood lightened, a courier slipped in quietly and handed over a bouquet—white lilies.
No name. Only a small card that read:
*"Impressed, but watching. Consider this a warning. — S"*
Shruti's smile vanished. Arohi said nothing, but her jaw flexed as she tucked the card into her pocket.
Around 2 p.m., her phone buzzed with a "Malhotra Family Video Call." She let it ring twice before answering.
Mini appeared first, anxious. Then Savita Chachi, lips pursed tight in a way only Chachi could manage.
Savita snapped the moment the camera focused.
"Enough stunts! Your name is everywhere—TV, reels, blogs. Do you think you're impressing people with this drama? You're humiliating us! Come home, apologize on TV if you must, but stop risking our family izzat!"
Mini's voice came through, quiet and urgent.
"Di, maybe just let this pass. You're becoming bigger than they can… control."
Before she could respond, another face appeared: a man in dark glasses—Malhotra family's hired legal advisor. He displayed screenshots of old property documents. It was subtle blackmail—an implied threat to cut her off legally.
Arohi didn't argue. She didn't promise anything.
She just clicked "end call."
Shruti stared.
"They'll go that far?"
Arohi didn't answer. She just walked to the kitchen, tied her apron slower than usual, and didn't say a word until her hands were covered in flour.
That evening, as they were closing, someone stepped into the dimly lit café: Aarav Roy.
He was dressed down—no glamour tonight. His expression was serious.
"You've upset the right people, Arohi. Do you know how many of Mumbai's fragile kings are panicking because a woman with no 'backing' is outshining them?"
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"Someone's pushing back. Carefully. I got anonymous threats at my company too—claims that I'm funding 'destabilization.' It's not just the family. Be careful."
He handed her a neatly folded card. It was an invitation.
"Private seminar. Security professionals only. You're not the only one being watched. Go. Train smarter now, not later."
Arohi gave him a half-nod, accepting it with a quiet thank you.
By nightfall, the café was locked tight. Meera triple-checked windows. Shruti pulled the curtains. Arohi sat at the bar counter, blade-training lessons replaying across her knuckles like muscle memory.
The city blared in the distance—sirens, laughter, secrets.
Her phone buzzed:
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Sign-in complete.]**
**[New Skill Line: Threat Detection (Passive). Enhanced perception unlocked in known danger zones.]**
She looked out the window. The world was cracking open one layer at a time. And she'd rather learn how to fight early—than run late.
She opened her diary.
*"When they tried to bury me, they forgot one thing. I'm made of roots, not glass."*
Tomorrow, she would choose her upgrade. Not for fame. Not for revenge.
But because someday, the real shadow might come. And she had no plans of falling twice.
—