The sprawling headquarters of VerMal Industries, a towering glass structure glinting under the morning sun, reflected the empire Shourya Verma had built from the ashes of his childhood tragedy. Inside, the conference room buzzed with tension as senior executives presented their quarterly reports to their young CEO.
At just 28, Shourya commanded the room with an aura of power and precision. His sharp black suit, neatly styled hair, and piercing gaze left no room for doubt—this was a man who knew his worth and demanded excellence.
"Mr. Patel," Shourya's deep voice cut through the hum of the room, "our renewable energy project in Hyderabad is lagging by six months. That's six months of potential loss in revenue and reputation. I need solutions, not excuses."
The senior manager stammered, "W-we're working on it, sir. I'll personally—"
"Personally isn't good enough," Shourya interrupted, his tone firm but calm. "You have a week to bring me a viable plan. Dismissed."
The room emptied quickly, leaving Shourya alone, staring at the cityscape beyond the glass walls. The empire his father built had crumbled under the weight of tragedy, but he had rebuilt it, brick by brick, with his own hands—and with the unwavering support of the Malhotras.
Later that evening, Shourya arrived at the Malhotra estate for dinner, as he did every week. The warmth of the sprawling mansion was a stark contrast to his own cold, minimalist penthouse. He stepped inside, greeted by the aroma of Anuradha Malhotra's signature biryani.
"Shourya, my boy!" Vikram Malhotra's booming voice echoed as the older man wheeled himself into the room. Despite his declining health, Vikram's eyes sparkled with pride whenever he saw Shourya.
"Uncle," Shourya said, walking over to kneel beside him, a rare moment of vulnerability in his otherwise steely demeanor. "How are you feeling today? Have you been taking your medication on time?"
Vikram chuckled, patting Shourya's shoulder. "You sound more like my doctor than my CEO. Sit, sit. Tell me how the Hyderabad project is going."
"It's under control," Shourya assured him.
"But you know I wouldn't have made it this far without you. You've been more than a mentor, Uncle. You've been a father to me and my sister."
Anuradha entered, carrying a tray of tea. "And don't forget who made sure you ate properly during those all-nighters in college," she teased, setting the tray down.
Shourya stood and took her hand respectfully.
"Aunty, you've done more for me than I can ever repay. You took in two lost children and gave us a home, a family. That's something I'll always be grateful for."
Anuradha's eyes softened. "You've always made us proud, Shourya. Your father would have been too."
As they sat for dinner, the warm clinking of plates and soft hum of conversation filled the room. Shourya leaned back in his chair, a rare moment of relaxation evident in his posture. He looked toward Anuradha, who was pouring a second helping of dal for Vikram.
"Aunty," he began casually, though his tone carried a subtle undertone of curiosity, "the house seems quieter than usual. I'm guessing someone's busy with her canvases again?"
Anuradha smiled knowingly, catching the faintest hint of meaning behind his words. "You guessed right. Meera's locked herself in her studio. She's been working on a piece for an upcoming exhibition in Paris. When she's painting, the rest of the world doesn't exist."
Shourya allowed himself a small smile. "That sounds like her. She's always been dedicated to her craft."
Vikram chuckled, setting down his spoon. "Dedicated is an understatement. That girl can paint for hours without a break. I keep telling her to take it easy, but she never listens."
Shourya's expression softened, though he kept his tone measured. "When you're passionate about something, it's hard to stop. I can understand that."
Anuradha tilted her head, observing Shourya with a faint smile. "Not everyone sees it that way. Most think her talent just comes naturally, but they don't see the effort behind it."
Shourya glanced down at his plate, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Some things don't need to be said out loud, Aunty."
The conversation moved to lighter topics, with Vikram sharing stories about the early days of the business.
But as Shourya bid the Malhotras goodnight and stepped out into the cool night air, his thoughts lingered briefly on Meera.
He could almost imagine her bent over a canvas, her fingers streaked with paint, completely lost in her world. It was a world he admired from afar—a world he wasn't sure he belonged in.
Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. There was too much at stake, too many responsibilities on his shoulders. For now, his focus had to remain on the empire he was building, not the emotions he was suppressing.