Chapter 1 -- Riya

Chapter 1

Riya

Another letter.

Of course it had to come today.

The bank had already called three times. The landlord’s notice was still taped to the front door like some kind of bad joke. Dad could barely get a full breath without that oxygen machine hissing in the next room.

And now this thick cream envelope was sitting on the kitchen counter, staring at me.

I didn’t open it right away.

I just stood there in the narrow hallway of our Queens apartment, arms crossed, staring at the damn thing like it might grow teeth.

My stomach already knew.

Whatever was inside wasn’t good news.

It never was anymore.

When I finally tore it open, the numbers hit me harder than the words.

Seven million.

Not seven hundred thousand.

Not one million.

Seven fucking million dollars.

That was what we still owed the Rajvansh Group.

Dad had borrowed it five years ago. Quietly. Desperately. He'd been trying to keep Kapoor Imports from drowning.

Five years of interest and penalties had turned that loan into a fucking noose, and now the noose was ready to snap.

I set the letter down carefully.

My hands were shaking.

I hated that they were shaking.

From the bedroom, I could hear the soft, wet sound of Dad’s breathing. The machine clicked and hissed, keeping the same miserable rhythm it had for weeks.

I walked over and pushed the door open a little wider.

He looked smaller every day.

The hospital gown hung off him, making it hard to remember the man he'd been before the cancer. My dad. The man who used to fill every room with loud laughter and bigger plans.

Now he looked like the hospital bed might swallow him whole.

His eyes found me the second I stepped inside.

“You saw it,” he rasped.

“I saw it.”

“I’m sorry, beta.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I thought I could fix it before—”

“Don’t.”

I kept my voice flat.

If I let anything else into it, I was going to break right there in front of him.

“Just rest.”

He reached for my hand.

His fingers were cold and too light.

I squeezed them once and let go before the lump in my throat could turn into something worse.

I left the room.

Back in the kitchen, I opened the old laptop. The company still technically owned it, just like Kapoor Imports technically still existed.

The spreadsheet was open from last night.

Red numbers.

Deadlines.

More red numbers.

No miracles.

I already knew every line by heart. Looking at them again felt like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurt.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

Almost.

“Miss Kapoor?”

The voice on the other end was smooth, expensive, and completely empty of warmth.

“This is Kabir Singh, legal counsel for the Rajvansh Group. Mr. Rajvansh would like to meet with you. Today.”

My stomach dropped.

“I’m busy.”

“I suggest you make time. The alternative is less pleasant. Four o’clock. The Rajvansh Tower, Midtown. Ask for the private elevator.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen.

Of course.

Why wouldn't they come after me now?

I looked at the hospital bills.

Then the eviction notice.

Then the letter that had just ruined whatever was left of my day.

Two hours.

That was all I had.

---

Rajvansh Tower looked exactly like the kind of place that ate people like me for breakfast.

Black glass. Steel. Forty-eight floors of money sitting in the middle of Midtown like it owned the damn city.

I stepped out of the cab in the only decent dress I still owned and walked through the revolving doors like I belonged there.

I didn’t.

Not even close.

A man was waiting by the private elevator.

He didn’t introduce himself.

He just swiped a keycard, pressed the button, and stood there.

I stepped inside.

The doors closed.

Nobody said a word during the ride up.

The higher we went, the tighter my chest felt.

Forty-eight floors.

Fantastic.

By the time the doors opened, I was already regretting coming.

The elevator opened onto white marble and floor-to-ceiling windows that made Central Park look like some rich man's private backyard.

A woman in a gray suit looked up from her desk.

“Miss Kapoor. He’s ready for you.”

No smile.

No small talk.

Just a turn and the click of her heels as she led me down a long hallway.

The walls were covered in abstract art that probably cost more than our entire apartment building.

I tried not to stare.

Double doors waited at the end.

She knocked once and pushed them open.

“Miss Kapoor, sir.”

I stepped inside.

The office was huge.

One entire wall was glass.

The desk was a slab of black stone.

And behind it sat the man whose name had lived in my father’s nightmares for five years.

Aryan Rajvansh didn’t stand.

So this was him.

He looked younger than the stories made him sound.

Early thirties, maybe.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes the color of cold whiskey.

Black suit. No tie. Top button undone like even the idea of trying too hard bored him.

A heavy watch sat around his wrist.

His hands rested loosely on the desk.

Still.

Calm.

Too calm.

I had spent five years hearing stories about Aryan Rajvansh.

Businessmen whispered about him after midnight meetings. Dad had warned me never to provoke him or anyone carrying that last name.

And according to every bitter story I'd overheard, his family had lost something because of mine ten years ago.

So this was the man behind all those stories.

He didn't look like the monster I'd imagined.

That was probably the fucking problem.

He looked at me like he'd already figured out exactly where to press.

“Sit,” he said.

His voice was low and controlled.

The kind of voice that didn't need to be raised.

I stayed standing.

“I’m not here to waste time, Mr. Rajvansh. My father is dying. Your company wants seven million dollars we don’t have. Say what you came to say.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

Amusement, maybe.

It was gone before I could be sure.

“Direct. Good.”

He leaned back.

“Your father signed a contract. The deadline is in twenty-three days. At midnight on the twenty-third day, every remaining asset in the Kapoor name becomes mine.”

My jaw tightened.

“Including the apartment where he is currently dying.”

The words hit me straight in the chest.

“You’re going to throw a dying man out of his home?”

“I’m going to collect what is owed.”

His gaze never left mine.

“Unless you give me a better option.”

“What option?”

He reached into a drawer.

For some reason, my shoulders tightened.

He pulled out a thin black folder and slid it across the desk.

It stopped right at the edge.

“Open it.”

I stared at the folder.

What the hell was this going to be now?

With shaking hands, I touched it, wildly guessing what kind of explosive shit could possibly be inside.

CUT.