Chapter 7

The rain hadn’t stopped when Veeresh’s cab sped through the city, the windows fogging with the damp night air. Inside, he sat composed, his sharp gaze fixed on the passing streets. The calm professor who had just handed over an umbrella was gone. In his place was the businessman, strategist, and spy—the side of him few ever saw.

The cab stopped in front of a tall glass building glowing against the wet night sky. Veeresh stepped out, his stride purposeful, his coat brushing against the slick pavement. The guards at the entrance greeted him respectfully; they knew better than to waste his time with formalities.

Inside, the boardroom was waiting—men in suits, papers spread across the table, tension thick in the air. Veeresh walked in, and immediately, the room shifted. His presence commanded silence.

“Let’s begin,” he said, his voice low yet commanding. With swift precision, he outlined terms, countered arguments, and dismantled hesitations. Every example he gave was sharp, every number stacked like a blade. Within the hour, the deal was finalized. The other side left subdued, knowing they had been outmaneuvered by a man who carried strategy like second nature.

But this was only half of who he was. Beyond business, hidden files waited for him—intelligence reports, encrypted messages, and a mission that demanded both cunning and ruthlessness. Tonight, he scanned the documents in his private office, his eyes narrowing. Somewhere in this city, a threat was moving, and Veeresh Raj was already three steps ahead.

---

Meanwhile, across town, Poornima Rai stepped into the warmth of her modest home. The rain slid off the umbrella Veeresh had given her, and as she closed it, she found herself smiling faintly at the memory of his words: “I hope you’ll return it.”

Inside, her small library of novels lined the shelves, the scent of old pages welcoming her. She changed into a soft cotton saree, prepared a cup of tea, and sat by the window as raindrops streamed down the glass.

Her parents had called earlier, once again reminding her of the life she had refused—a corporate empire, a powerful name in law. “Teaching literature is a waste,” her father’s voice still echoed in her mind. But Poornima had stood firm, as always.

Sipping her tea, she opened her worn copy of Tagore’s poems and let the words wash over her. She was simple, yes, but not weak. She carried a quiet strength, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be felt. And deep down, she still dreamed of a marriage built not on power or wealth, but on understanding—on love that lasted, no matter how imperfect.

As the night deepened, two lives unfolded in parallel.

One, cloaked in rain-soaked glass towers, sealed deals and chased shadows.

The other, nestled in the quiet of a small home, sought meaning in words and dreams of forever.

And though they did not know it yet, the storm outside was only the beginning of the storm fate had written for both of them.