01

--※※--Shadows of the Legacy--※※--

Raghav Malhotra stood by the floor-length window of his study, perched on the top floor of the ancestral Malhotra mansion. The estate sat on the outskirts of Chandigarh, removed from the chaos of the city but still rooted in tradition. The mansion—grand and stoic—bore the weight of a legacy that stretched back generations. This house, these walls, were steeped in old-world pride and silent expectations.

The Malhotras were not just wealthy; they were old money. Their empire, Malhotra Group of Industries, had started with textiles in Ludhiana and grown into a sprawling Mumbai-based conglomerate. Raghav had always known that someday it would fall to him. He just didn't expect the crown to feel so heavy.

At thirty-four, Raghav was CEO. Not by choice, but by blood. His father, Devendra Malhotra, had been a lion of a man—sharp, unrelenting, and larger than life. But his sudden passing seven years ago left behind more than an empire. It left a son still reeling under the expectations of a name that never let you breathe freely.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence.

"Come in," he said, eyes still fixed on the skyline.

His mother, Anjali, entered, carrying the scent of sandalwood and home. Dressed in a pastel salwar kameez, she looked every bit the graceful matriarch the world expected her to be. But Raghav knew better. Behind her warmth was a spine of steel. She had held the family together when everything else had shattered.

"You missed dinner again," she said gently, setting down a small steel plate covered in a napkin. "I saved some makki di roti and sarson da saag."

Raghav turned, his expression softening. "Was caught up in work."

Anjali crossed her arms, eyebrow raised. "Kaam roz hunda hai, puttar. Maa di roti roz nahi." (Work is an everyday thing, son. A mother's cooking isn't.)

Raghav gave a tired smile. "Tussi vi na, maa." (You and your lectures, mom.)

She walked over, placing the plate near his desk. "Tu bahut kuch chhupake rakhda hai. (You keep too much inside.) You may be running a business, Raghav, but don't forget you're still my son."

He didn't answer, but she didn't expect him to.

"Bas itna kehna hai... vi tu saans vi leya kar." (Just remember to breathe too.)

With a light touch on his shoulder, she left the room. Raghav stood there a moment longer, the food untouched, his thoughts far too tangled to eat.

The next morning, the grand dining room buzzed with the quiet clinking of cutlery and the clatter of cups. Portraits of Malhotra ancestors stared down from the walls, their gazes a mix of pride and disapproval.

Raghav sat at the head of the table, scanning a folder between sips of black coffee.

His uncle Rajan Malhotra entered, followed closely by his overly peppy wife Kavita. Rajan, Devendra's younger brother, had once played a key role in the business but had since been sidelined. It was something he hadn't quite come to terms with.

"Good morning, Raghav beta," Rajan said with forced cheer.

"Morning," Raghav replied without looking up.

Kavita settled beside her husband with a smile that reach her eyes. "You're always so busy these days. Don't you ever take a break?"

"It's not really an option right now," Raghav said flatly.

Just then, Anjali walked in, her presence soothing as always. "Where's Ishaan?" she asked, glancing around.

Raghav's brow twitched. "Probably still hungover or just coming home. Same old."

Anjali frowned. "He's young, Raghav. He'll grow out of it."

"Hopefully before he grows out of his inheritance," Raghav muttered.

Before the conversation could spiral, footsteps echoed down the marble hall. Ishaan strolled in—shirt half-tucked, hair a mess, phone in hand. "Morning, fam," he said, sliding into a seat.

"You're late," Raghav noted without emotion.

"Didn't realize breakfast had an RSVP," Ishaan shot back with a grin.

Kavita opened her mouth to defend him, but Rajan quickly said, "At least we're all here."

The tension at the table was thick, but Anjali, ever the peacekeeper, filled the silence with warm glances and soft questions. Raghav, however, was already lost in his own world.

Later that evening, Raghav stepped into his Mumbai office—sleek, towering, and efficient. It was the beating heart of Malhotra Group of Industries, nestled in the chaos of the city's financial district.

His assistant, Aditi, was waiting just outside his cabin. "Your schedule, sir," she said, falling into step beside him. "Board meeting at three, client call with Singapore at five. And your lunch is on the desk."

Raghav nodded. "What about that journalist from Business Today?"

"She's still digging into your father's legacy. Wants to trace every deal he signed in the nineties."

"Block her access. I don't want our past making headlines."

Aditi paused. "Sir, she's very persistent."

"So am I," Raghav replied, stepping into his glass-walled office.

He dropped his briefcase on the desk and noticed something new. A sealed envelope, unmarked, sat on top of a pile of merger contracts.

He opened it slowly, cautiously. Inside was a single sheet of thick cream paper.

"You built your empire on lies. Now, watch it crumble."

Below the line was a photograph.

Raghav's breath hitched.

It was his father—Devendra Malhotra—standing beside a woman Raghav had never seen before. They looked close. Too close. Both smiling like they shared something more than just a memory.

Raghav stared at the image, his jaw tightening. A dozen questions screamed in his head. Was this real? A fake? His father had never once shown signs of disloyalty. Not to the business. Not to the family.

His mind spiraled. Who sent this? What was their goal?

He folded the letter back and slipped it into a drawer. No one could see this—not yet.

Whoever was behind this wasn't just poking at secrets—they were digging for blood.

Raghav stood at the window, Mumbai's skyline burning orange in the fading light.

He thought of Anjali. Of Ishaan. Of every board member waiting for him to fail.

No.

He wouldn't fall.

Not without a war.

And certainly not without knowing who was coming for his crown.