Pradeep stopped Kalika just as she walked past him.

She halted and turned, her expression unreadable. “What is it?”

“It worked,” he said, unable to hide the satisfaction in his voice. “Your idea. Showing the foreign trainee diplomats the real, authentic India during the orientation. It’s turned into a wave on social media.”

Kalika raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue without a word.

“The diplomats posted pictures from the event,” he said. “Traditional crafts, the artisans, the food, the ceremonies. It’s everywhere.” He hesitated, then added, “And there’s more.”

He handed her a tablet.

She took it from him. The screen glowed to life, filled with emails. Kalika scrolled slowly, reading them one by one—business proposals, collaboration requests, inquiries for the products showcased during the orientation ceremony. The sheer volume of interest spoke louder than any congratulatory speech.

She looked up. “Prepare a draft, Pradeep. I’ll discuss this with Sulekha ma’am.”

“I already did,” he said, passing her a neatly organized file.

“Thank you,” she replied, skimming through the pages with practiced speed.

She paused, her fingers still. “You haven’t mentioned the price details.”

“Yes,” Pradeep said carefully. “The prices they quoted don’t match what we received from our vendor association group.”

“How much is the difference?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

Kalika didn’t blink. “Then fix the prices according to the vendor association’s quote.
No changes. No bargaining. No negotiation.”

She met his eyes—calm, composed, and unwavering. “Let them learn that we know how to play their game too—and play it well.”

Pradeep chuckled softly. “A fixed-price system, then.”

Kalika closed the file. “Exactly.”

She knocked once before entering Sulekha Chakravarthy’s office.

“Good morning, ma’am,” she said, placing the file neatly on the table.

“Good morning, Miss Reddy,” Sulekha replied, skimming through it. She paused, then closed the file slowly.

“No changes. No bargaining. No negotiation.” She looked up, studying Kalika closely. “That’s quite bold.”

Sulekha leaned back in her chair. “How exactly do you plan to make this work?”

Kalika met her gaze, steady and composed.

“Ma’am, the price we quoted is fair. When they do business with us, they fix their prices without hesitation. We accept it as standard practice.” She spoke evenly. “So we’re only doing what they’ve done for years.”

She continued, her tone firm but controlled. “Why should we lower our prices just because they ask? Or because we fear losing collaboration or business? They need our products as much as we need their markets.”

She paused, letting the thought breathe.

“When someone is hungry, ma’am,” Kalika said quietly, “they eat what is served. They don’t get to dictate the menu.”

Sulekha’s expression sharpened with interest.

Kalika went on, her voice measured but firm. “Why can’t we sell our products directly to people abroad, without the interference of a third party?”

Kalika stepped closer to the desk, her voice measured but resolute. “Think about it, ma’am. When we sell through intermediaries at a price we fix, they resell the same products at a much higher rate to maximize their profits. In the end, it’s the common people who pay for it—both here and abroad.”

She let the silence do its work.

“Instead,” she said, “if we sell directly—just as global shopping platforms do—we control the pricing, the quality, and the narrative. To succeed, we’ll need intensive and strategic promotion.”

“That’s a good idea, Miss Reddy,” Sulekha said thoughtfully. “Are you planning to promote it through influencers?”

“No, ma’am,” Kalika replied. “The products come from every region of India. Influencers alone can’t do justice to that diversity.”

She continued, her tone firm but respectful.

“Take a saree, for example. The way it’s draped in the southern states differs from how Maharashtrians wear it. Gujaratis have their own style. Each region carries its own technique, symbolism, and story.”

She met Sulekha’s gaze. “If people from those regions explain the product—how it’s made, how it’s used, its cultural meaning—who could tell that story better than them?”

A brief silence followed.

“That way, ma’am, each video becomes more than marketing. We promote our culture, preserve traditions, and protect what truly belongs to us.”

Kalika continued, laying out the plan with quiet precision.

“I’m planning to promote this through our official website and social media platforms,” Kalika added. “If we gift our products to guests at the upcoming intercontinental summit, the visibility will be significant.”

She laid it out step by step, precise and deliberate.

“We can showcase those moments on our website and social channels, clearly informing visitors that authentic Indian products can be purchased directly through the Setubandha website and mobile application.”

She paused, then concluded, “The exposure remains organic, the reach global, and the access direct—without third-party interference.”

Sulekha Chakravarthy stood up and walked toward her. She placed a hand on Kalika’s shoulder, her expression firm, approving, and quietly resolute.

“Then let’s do it.”

Srenik entered the house with Niyati still cradled securely in his arms, her weight light against his chest. Samira pushed the front door open wider, stepping aside as the others followed her in, their movements hushed by the fragile stillness surrounding Niyati.

“Come with me. I’ll show you her room,” Aryahi said quietly, already moving ahead of him.

She climbed the staircase without waiting for a response, her footsteps quick but deliberate. Srenik followed, adjusting his hold instinctively as he ascended. At the end of the hallway, Aryahi stopped before a door, turned the handle, and pushed it open. Soft light spilled into the corridor as she stepped aside, making room for him to enter.

Srenik entered the room with measured care, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile calm holding Niyati together. He lowered her onto the bed, easing her down with practiced tenderness. One hand lingered as he adjusted the pillow beneath her head, ensuring it supported her properly, while the other pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.

He paused, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

A few loose strands of hair had fallen across her face. He brushed them back with the backs of his fingers, slow and careful, tucking them behind her ear. His hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, as if confirming she was really there, really safe.

Only then did he straighten, his attention still fixed on her face, steadying his breath in the quiet of the room.

Srenik and Aryahi joined the others in the living room, the low hum of tension already settling into the space like a held breath.

“Could you tell me now what’s going on, Ira?” the man asked, his tone controlled but edged with impatience.

Srenik, Surya, and Aryahi exchanged glances. The same unspoken question passed between them. Ira? Who was Ira supposed to be?

“Actually, sir, I was at the club on a case,” Samira replied evenly, her voice controlled, professional.

The three of them looked at one another again, this time with faint, knowing smiles. Recognition settled quietly among them. There was history here. Whatever existed between Samira and the man, it clearly wasn’t new or simple.

He nodded once. “I’m working on a case, Ir—” He stopped himself, then corrected smoothly, “Samira. I want you and your team in.”

“What’s the case about, sir?” Samira asked.

He studied her for a long moment, as though weighing how much to reveal and how much to withhold. “That depends. I can’t disclose the details unless you agree to take it on.”

Before Samira could respond, her phone rang.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing down at the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Is that Kalika?” Aryahi asked quietly.

Samira nodded and answered the call. As she did, Aryahi leaned closer and whispered, “Put it on speaker.”

Samira tapped the screen. “Hello, Kalika.”

“Hi, ma’am. Thank God you answered,” Kalika said. Relief trembled beneath her words.

“We were at the Parallax Club last night,” Samira said, getting straight to the point.

“Any luck, ma’am?” Kalika asked, hope flickering despite herself.

Samira exhaled softly. “Nothing yet.”

“Did you get the anonymous call again?” Aryahi asked, even though she already knew the answer.

There was a pause on the line.

“Yes,” Kalika said finally. “And it wasn’t just a call this time.”

Aryahi straightened. “What happened?”

“Someone left an envelope outside my front door,” Kalika said quietly. “There was a note inside. It mentioned my assignment to the Anti-Terrorism Wing.”

Samira’s expression hardened, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

“After that,” Kalika continued, “the person called and said I shouldn’t think too much. That I was assigned there because they wanted me there.”

She drew a shaky breath. “But I haven’t received any official information. Not even from Sulekha ma’am. I spoke to her just now.”

Silence fell over the room.

“Isn’t that strange?” Kalika asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“That means someone on the inside is working for them,” Aryahi said, the words cutting cleanly through the tension.

She paused, then asked, “Did you record the conversation, Kalika?”

“No,” Kalika said, her voice dropping. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Samira said gently, though there was steel beneath her words. “I understand. You were shaken. Anyone would be.”

Her tone sharpened, just enough to carry weight.

“But you need to understand something,” she continued. “From now on, you have to preserve evidence. Anything at all. Calls, messages, envelopes, notes. Everything connected to this person.”

Kalika remained silent, listening.

“If we can prove you’re being threatened or blackmailed,” Samira continued, “your case becomes stronger. Evidence is what protects you.”

She softened again. “Please understand where we’re coming from.”

“I do, ma’am,” Kalika said. “From now on, I’ll document everything. I promise.”

“And Kalika, could you send me that envelope?” she asked.

“Sure, ma’am,” Kalika replied promptly. “I’ll send it to you right away.”

Samira ended the call and met his gaze, unflinching.

“Now you understand, sir,” she said evenly. “I can’t work with you. I’m already handling a highly sensitive case—one that demands my full focus.”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head slowly, as if weighing every unspoken thought and the inevitability pressing between them.

“That’s exactly why we have no choice but to work together, Samira.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the room feel smaller, careful in each deliberate movement. “Your case and mine have one thing in common.”

Samira’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of recognition—and something unspoken—crossing her eyes, quick and almost imperceptible.

“The Parallax Club.”