The Impossible Heir

2. A Mansion of Secrets

The next morning dawned with golden light streaming into the Rathore mansion, but Akash barely noticed. He had spent most of the night hidden in the basement, pouring over his notes, connecting dots between Rathore’s phone call and known smuggling patterns in Mumbai. By the time he crept back to his room, his eyes burned from fatigue, but his mind was razor-sharp.

Svetlana was already awake when he entered. She stood before the mirror, draping a silk scarf over her shoulders, her movements fluid, precise, like she’d practiced elegance her whole life. She caught his reflection in the mirror but said nothing, only adjusted her earrings and walked out, her perfume lingering behind like a whisper.

Not a single question about where he had been. Not a single word of concern.

Akash sighed, loosening his collar. The marriage, it seemed, was more of a cage than a partnership. But he had expected this. He wasn’t here for love.

Downstairs, breakfast was a grand affair. The long table overflowed with food, yet Akash was given no seat. Instead, a cousin slid a tray into his hands.

“Tea for Bade Papa,” the cousin said, smirking. “Quickly now. Don’t spill. Or maybe you’d prefer washing the dishes instead?”

Laughter rippled across the hall.

Akash kept his composure. He carried the silver tray to Mr. Rathore, whose face remained as impassive as carved stone. Rathore took the tea without thanks, scrolling through his phone.

But Akash’s sharp eyes caught the screen. Numbers, codes, foreign names. A messaging app disguised as a trading platform. He memorized the sequence in seconds before Rathore tilted the phone away.

The cousin who had mocked him leaned closer, whispering so others couldn’t hear. “You’ll never fit here, you know. Svetlana’s only keeping you around because she’s stubborn. But don’t expect this family to treat you as one of us.”

Akash turned his gaze on him, calm but piercing. “I don’t expect anything,” he said softly. And that was the truth.

Still, every insult cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He had been trained to withstand interrogation, torture even—but there was something uniquely corrosive about being laughed at in front of his own wife. And Svetlana… she never said a word in his defense.

That night, when the house finally quieted, Akash slipped back to the basement. He had already begun transforming the storeroom. A foldable desk stood against the wall, files spread across it. A city map was pinned to the boards with red threads connecting docks, warehouses, and hidden alleys.

From his laptop, he decrypted part of Rathore’s conversation. The shipment wasn’t vague anymore. It was specific. A cargo container arriving tomorrow night at Nhava Sheva Port, disguised as imported machinery.

His fingers drummed the table. “That’s the first crack,” he muttered. “Just one solid lead, and I can bring the whole empire down.”

But just as he finished typing, a floorboard creaked upstairs. Akash froze. Shadows moved past the crack of the basement door. Two voices whispered—male, heavy accents.

“You sure he’s in here?”

“Yes. I heard movement. Bade Saab said keep eyes open. No mistakes.”

Akash’s blood chilled. Rathore’s men.

He switched off his laptop instantly and pressed against the wall, knife sliding silently into his palm. The footsteps drew closer, descending the basement stairs. His mind raced—if they found his lair now, his cover would be blown before the mission even began.

The door handle rattled.

Akash’s muscles coiled, ready to strike.

But just then, another voice echoed down the hall. Svetlana’s. “What are you two doing? Papa asked you to check the garage, not the basement.”

The men muttered curses and stomped away, their shadows vanishing.

Akash exhaled slowly, chest pounding. He waited until silence returned before sinking into his chair. For a brief moment, relief washed over him. But it wasn’t gratitude. No—Svetlana hadn’t done it for him. She hadn’t even known he was there. She was simply redirecting her father’s guards.

And yet, the irony wasn’t lost on him. The wife who treated him as invisible had unknowingly saved his mission.

The next evening, the Rathore mansion bustled with preparations. Maya Rathore, Svetlana’s younger sister, was trying on bridal outfits. Relatives swarmed the halls, tailors rushed in and out, decorators argued about flowers. The house was chaos—perfect cover for Akash.

While everyone’s attention was elsewhere, he slipped out to meet an informant. Disguised in a delivery man’s uniform, he rode a motorbike to a rundown café at the edge of the city.

Inside, a nervous man waited with a thin envelope. His hands shook as he passed it over. “Ledger entries,” he whispered. “Proof the Rathores are laundering through their shipping company.”

Akash flipped through quickly. Dates. Amounts. Destinations. His heart thudded. This was gold.

But before he could pocket it, a gun clicked behind him.

“Inspector Khan,” a cold voice drawled. “Or should I say, Mr. Svetlana’s Husband?”

Akash’s blood iced. Slowly, he raised his hands. Three men in black suits surrounded him, their guns trained steady. Rathore’s men.

The informant bolted, but a bullet struck the wall near his head. He froze, trembling.

Akash’s mind raced. If they dragged him back to Rathore now, everything would collapse. His cover, his mission, his life.

He forced a calm smile, shifting slightly in his seat. “Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, “you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

But his fingers tapped twice against the table—the signal.

From under his sleeve, a tiny smoke capsule rolled to the floor. It hissed, then erupted in a blinding white cloud.

Chaos. Shouts. Gunshots cracked.

Akash flipped the table, dove for cover, and yanked the informant with him. They crashed through the back door, sprinting into the narrow alleys. Bullets pinged against metal as the men chased, their footsteps pounding closer.

Akash shoved the informant ahead. “Run!” he barked. Then he spun, hurling a trash can into the path of the pursuers. In the chaos, he darted into a side lane, melting into the night.

By the time he returned to the Rathore mansion, his lungs burned, his clothes reeked of smoke, and his heart still raced from the close call. He slipped back into his room just as Svetlana returned from a family gathering. She glanced at him, her brow faintly furrowing at his disheveled state.

“Where were you?” she asked coolly.

Akash met her gaze, his voice calm, unreadable. “Out for air.”

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, suspicion flickering in their depths. Then she shrugged, dismissing him like one dismisses a servant.

But as she walked away, Akash whispered to himself, clutching the stolen ledger under his shirt:

“Stage two complete.”

He didn’t see the shadow standing at the far end of the corridor—one of Rathore’s men, watching him silently, suspicion sharp in his eyes.

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