Three days ago: Mumbai
Presidential Suite, Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, Mumbai
The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Presidential Suite like a thousand accusations. Mumbai was drowning under one of its worst monsoons in years — the same merciless downpour that had flooded the roads back in Chandigarh, stranding Ravi in his office and leaving Simran alone in the house with Bhola for the very first time. While lightning cracked across the sky outside, inside the dimly lit suite only the soft glow of a single table lamp and the city lights far below illuminated two women locked in a conversation that would change everything.
Meera Irani sat on the deep velvet sofa in a sleek black cocktail dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her posture was perfect, legs elegantly crossed, a crystal glass of aged single-malt whisky resting lightly in her manicured fingers. Across from her, Nimrat — Simran’s mother — sat in a chair of equal luxury, one long leg crossed over the other, her wine-red saree dbangd with the effortless elegance only a seasoned fashion designer could manage. The pallu had slipped slightly off her shoulder, but she made no move to adjust it. Her face, usually composed and regal, now carried the faintest shadow of strain.
Meera took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.
“There is a person who can solve your problem, Nimrat,” she said finally, her voice low, calm, and deadly serious. “I hope you know exactly what I am talking about.”
Nimrat’s fingers tightened around her own glass — a delicate gin and tonic she had barely touched until that moment. Something in Meera’s tone made her sit a fraction straighter. She did not answer. Instead, she lifted the glass to her lips, took a deliberate sip, and stared into the pale liquid as if the answers were floating there. How did she know? The thought sliced through her mind like the lightning outside. No one outside her inner circle was supposed to know about the financial mess with Yasim Khan. Not yet.
Meera’s dark eyes never left Nimrat’s face.
“Your problem with Yasim Khan,” she continued, her tone flat and matter-of-fact. “I am sure now you know what I am talking about.”
Nimrat’s head snapped up. Confusion flashed across her features before she could mask it. She stared at Meera, searching for any sign of bluff, any hint of mockery. There was none. Only cold, calculated certainty.
Meera leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping even lower, each word measured and precise.
“Probably you don’t know it yet. There is going to be a CBI enquiry on your boutique’s financials in a few days. My husband has been informed about it. You know my husband, right? Of course you do — everyone knows him.” A pause. “But what you probably don’t know is that Yasim is a criminal. Wealthy today, yes. But his finances are going to be seized very soon. And he has invested heavily — very heavily — in your boutique. I heard my husband talking about it yesterday when the CBI officer came to our home to brief him personally.”
The room seemed to grow quieter, the rain outside suddenly louder. Nimrat’s mind was already racing at a thousand miles an hour. *CBI enquiry. Seizure. Criminal.* Images flashed behind her eyes — her entire fashion empire collapsing, clients pulling out, bank accounts frozen, her reputation in Delhi and Mumbai circles reduced to ash. How deep was Yasim’s rot? How much of her money was entangled? And more terrifyingly — how exposed was she personally? What would happen to Simran if this blew up? What would Ravi think? What would the media do to a widowed designer caught in a money-laundering scandal?
Meera let the weight of her words settle before she spoke again, softer this time, but no less serious.
“If you want… I can help you. You know that.”
Nimrat’s throat went dry. She set the glass down slowly on the marble table between them, her manicured nails clicking against the surface. A hundred questions burned on her tongue, but she asked none. Instead, she simply met Meera’s steady gaze — two powerful women, one offering salvation, the other realising the price might be far higher than money.
Outside, thunder rolled across the Arabian Sea.
Inside, the real storm had only just begun.
Meera set her whisky glass down with deliberate calm. The storm outside showed no sign of relenting — sheets of rain lashed the windows as if the city itself were trying to wash away secrets. She rose from the sofa in one fluid motion, the black cocktail dress hugging every curve of her still-youthful 52-year-old body. Without a word, she stepped behind Nimrat’s chair.
Strong yet gentle fingers settled on Nimrat’s tense shoulders. Meera began a slow, soothing massage, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of her neck.
“Just relax,” she murmured, voice low and steady. “If something was going to happen, I would not have called you here tonight. I don’t want an independent woman like you — a self-made designer, a mother, a widow who has already fought enough battles — to get busted for no mistake of her own. Hence… I want to help you.”
Nimrat’s shoulders loosened fractionally under those knowing hands, but her mind was still spinning. She exhaled shakily.
“Okay… what can I do?”
Meera’s fingers never stopped their calming rhythm.
“It’s not what you can do. It’s what I cannot do alone.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against Nimrat’s ear. “I spoke to my husband yesterday. He didn’t listen. Gave me the usual ‘my hands are tied’ bullshit. But I know him — he can make the enquiry disappear if he is properly motivated.”
Nimrat turned her head slightly, confusion and desperation mixing in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Meera’s hands slid down to Nimrat’s upper arms, squeezing reassuringly.
“There is only one person on this earth whose words my husband cannot say no to. A man you don’t know. His name is Maan Singh. But there is a problem. This Maan Singh does not help everyone. He only helps a few selected people. You have to become his disciple — and only then will he agree to intervene.”
Nimrat’s brow furrowed. “Disciple?”
Meera continued, tone grave and precise.
“Now listen carefully. Yasim Khan can rot in jail — that is his fate. But if the CBI enquiry proceeds, here is exactly what will happen to you:
The Central Bureau of Investigation will first issue a formal notice under the Prevention of Money Laundering Act (PMLA). Within 48–72 hours they will conduct simultaneous raids on your boutique in Delhi and Mumbai, your residence, and every bank locker linked to the business. Computers, ledgers, transaction records — everything will be seized. Because Yasim’s investments in your boutique are tainted (hawala routes, benami properties, and now-proven criminal proceeds), every rupee connected to him will be provisionally attached. Your accounts will be frozen overnight. You will not be able to pay salaries, suppliers, or even your own credit cards. Within a week the Enforcement Directorate will join, and your name will appear in the chargesheet as a beneficiary of proceeds of crime. Even if you are later proven innocent, the media trial will destroy your brand. Clients will flee, shows will cancel, and banks will blacklist you. Recovery could take years — if it ever happens. Your entire life’s work will be reduced to legal notices and newspaper headlines.”
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