The station doors groaned open.

The night outside had turned electric.

Dozens of journalists stood clustered behind the yellow barricades, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny explosions. Boom mics pointed forward like rifles. Shouts pierced the air the moment the glass doors swung wide.

"Devanshi! Is it true you ignored safety protocols?"
"Were there bribes involved in the clearance?"
"Mr. Kapoor, did you shield your daughter from legal action?"
"Is the Kapoor Group responsible for the deaths—?"

The words crashed like waves, one after another. But Devanshi kept walking, flanked on either side by Mr. Khatri and Devraj. Her steps were slow, measured. Her chin never dipped.

She looked every inch the fallen queen—disheveled, but not broken.

The moment the flashbulbs hit her blood-streaked kurta and tired face, the crowd surged forward, ravenous for a headline. Her image would be on every front page by morning.

Devraj instinctively stepped half a pace in front of her, shielding her from a camera that got too close. His hand hovered just behind her back—not quite touching, but close enough to catch her if she stumbled.

"Keep walking," he murmured, eyes scanning the frenzy. "Don’t stop. Don’t answer."

But Devanshi didn’t flinch. Her gaze passed through the chaos like a blade. One of the reporters, a woman in a red blazer, stepped forward boldly.

"Ms. Rathore, are you going to resign from the Rathore Group?"

Devanshi stopped.

Devraj turned sharply, but she raised a hand—just enough to pause him.

The cameras froze. The crowd hushed. Even the sirens in the distance seemed to quiet.

She turned toward the reporter, her voice cutting clear through the noise.

"I’m not resigning."

The woman blinked. "But the collapse—"

"—was not an accident," Devanshi interrupted, her tone sharp, fearless. "Someone wanted this to happen. People got hurt. I was thrown into a cell before the dust even settled. But I will not be shamed into silence."

The crowd erupted into questions, but Devraj stepped in now, voice like stone.

"This is not a courtroom. When it is, we’ll speak. For now—step back."

Mr. Khatri signaled for their security team. Within seconds, they were ushered into a waiting black car. The door slammed shut behind them just as the reporters swarmed again.

Inside, silence settled like dust.

Devanshi stared ahead, the streetlights blurring through the tinted glass. Her fists were clenched in her lap.

Devraj sat beside her, watching her profile in the passing light.

"You didn’t just answer a question," he said quietly. "You declared war."

Devanshi didn’t look at him, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.

"Then I hope they’re ready."

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion.

The corridors were dim, despite the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nurses moved swiftly, their shoes silent on the floor. A hush hung in the air — not peace, but tension. The kind that builds when lives hang by threads.

Devanshi walked through the hallway with her father by her side, the harsh lighting washing over her bruised features. Her kurta had been changed into a simple cotton salwar—clean, but still clinging to the memory of blood.

At the end of the corridor stood Dr. Vedas Bhatt,with tired eyes and a calm presence that didn’t waver, even under pressure.

He turned as they approached.

"Dr. Bhatt," Devanshi said quietly.

He gave a slow nod. "Devanshi  I was expecting you."

"How bad is it?" Devraj asked.

Dr. Bhatt hesitated, then spoke with clinical precision. "Two men didn’t make it. We tried everything. One of them had a fractured spine and massive internal bleeding. The other—cardiac arrest from blunt trauma. Too much blood loss before he even arrived."

Devanshi’s face didn't change, but her eyes lost a bit of light.

"What were their names?" she asked.

"Manoj Chauhan and Iqbal Shaikh. Both worked on-site, third floor concrete pouring team. I can give you the details of their families."

Devanshi nodded slowly. Then her voice came, steady, unshaken — like someone standing in a storm.

"I want to take full responsibility for their families. Their children, their parents—whoever they left behind. Education, housing, medical care. It’s mine now."

Vedas blinked, surprised by the immediacy of it. "That's admirable, Ms.Rathore, but you don’t have to decide—"

"I do," she cut in gently. "They died working for something I built. Whether or not I caused it directly doesn’t matter. Their families won’t suffer alone."

There was silence. A weight in the air.

Devraj looked at his daughter, and for the first time since the arrest, he saw the full shape of her resolve—not just anger, but purpose.

She took a breath. "What about the others? The injured."

Dr. Bhatt softened a little. "Thirty-two in total. Broken bones, head injuries, some minor trauma. Most of them are stable now. A few are still in intensive care, but... they’ll heal. Given time."

Devanshi closed her eyes for a moment. Then opened them.

"Make sure they get the best treatment this hospital can offer. Private care, full costs covered by the Rathore Foundation."

Dr. Bhatt nodded, respect settling into his expression. "It’ll be done."

As he turned to leave, Devanshi looked through the glass panel of the ICU ward. Inside, a young man lay unconscious, his arm bandaged, an oxygen mask over his face. She pressed her fingers gently against the cold surface.

"I won’t let this go unanswered," she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Beside her, Devraj remained silent—but inside, something in him had shifted. She wasn’t just his daughter now. She was stepping into something larger.

Something irreversible.

Sneak peek -Chapter 11

“Ms. Devanshi, this injury will heal. Just be sure to apply medicine on time.”

Devanshi stood up, her posture composed.

“Thank you… Mr…” she paused, realizing she didn’t know his name.

“Rudraksh.”

She nodded. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the cabin, Niharika silently trailing behind her.