I step out of the café with a large Americano meant to calm my nerves - because apparently even men like me need caffeine to recover from meetings with certified Madrasi freaks.

Before anyone gets offended, let me clarify. I’m not anti-South Indian. Quite the opposite. South India runs on logic, discipline, and terrifyingly competent engineers. Half my portfolio survives because of startups incubated in glass buildings filled with people who think in algorithms and dream in code.

But every ecosystem produces its pests.

Vijay Krishnan was one of them.

The kind who make you question why nationalism exists inside your business plan.

I could’ve chosen peace. One city. One headquarters. A comfortable chair. A scenic view. Instead, my greed decided I needed to plant flags across the country like a territorial dog with a trust fund. And greed has consequences - usually in the form of confrontations with men who think rejecting me is a personality trait.

He wasn’t a titan. Not even close. His company was a half-decent digital solutions startup - booming, if you squinted hard enough and lowered your standards. Another man selling efficiency to companies too lazy to build it themselves. He’d tasted a little success and decided it made him immune to gravity.

What made him relevant wasn’t his valuation.

It was his last name.

Krishnan.

Younger brother to Shankar Krishnan - my southern rival. A shark in tailored cotton shirts who smiled like a saint and bit like a bastard.

The plan was simple. Catch the rebellious little fish, shake him a bit, and the shark would eventually come knocking.

It was also public knowledge that Shankar disapproved of Vijay’s decision to start his own “tiny dream company.” And there was one more fact known that Shankar adhered to obedience and traditions, which Vijay clearly crossed. I intended to exploit that fracture.

Hence, the meeting.

Since I had other loose ends to tie up in Chennai, I agreed to meet near his headquarters.

Big mistake.

Vijay wasn’t stupid. Annoyingly so. He listened, nodded, let me finish - and then dismantled my proposal with surgical politeness. No aggression. No ego. Just quiet refusal wrapped in moral superiority.

Men like that are dangerous. Not because they’re powerful - but because they think they’re righteous.

He rejected me.

Cleanly.

The audacity.

Fuck the smartass.

“Bhaiyya?”

The voice snaps me out of my internal homicide fantasy.

I turn to find Thiruselvan Ganapathy, the boy who had been Badi Ma's favourite neighbourhood kid, standing a few feet away, waving at me like he’s unsure whether I’m real or a hallucination brought on by exam stress.

I smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I study here,” he says, immediately wiping his greasy fingers on his denims.

My left eye twitches.

“Master’s,” he adds quickly, nodding toward the building. “You must be here for a deal. Signed already?”

That actually makes me chuckle. “So you didn’t inherit the family business? No grand succession ceremony? Just engineering?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like business. I like computers. Coding. Simple.”

Simple.

What a luxury.

“Must feel liberating,” I say before stopping myself...too late. “I mean… you’re your parents' only child, and still you got the freedom to be yourself.”

He smiles, small and almost sad. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. Sometimes I wish I was shackled by responsibility.”

That hits harder than it should.

Then he sighs, glancing at his watch. “Anyway, I just came to buy some books from Crossword. Got bored sitting alone in my room.”

“Go,” I say. “Before responsibility finds you.”

He laughs and walks away, unaware that he just delivered the most uncomfortable truth of my day.

I stand there for a moment longer, coffee cooling in my veins, city buzzing around me.

Some men are born free and crave structure.

Some are born into structure and suffocate inside it.

And then there’s me - greedy enough to want both.

“Your whisky.”

I lift my gaze from The Economic Times to the woman standing in front of me, uninvited and unnecessary. “I didn’t ask for it.”

Vidushi’s mouth tightens into a thin, offended line, like I’ve committed a personal crime by existing on my own terms. She glares at me, and for a split second I wonder if I missed a memo where politeness now includes accepting things you never ordered. I shouldn't be even polite to her, she's my servant...and I haven't cared much about my servants ever.

What the hell is wrong with her? I hadn’t summoned her, hadn’t acknowledged her, hadn’t even registered her presence until she made it her mission to keep appearing in my line of sight with something or the other. Tea. Water. Now whisky. Persistence masquerading as service.

Without saying a word, she snatches the glass and walks back toward the lobby, every step stiff with wounded pride.

I don’t bother watching her leave. I turn back to my paper, letting stock numbers and market forecasts reclaim my attention.

Business doesn’t pause for attitude.

“Bhaiyya...”

I look at Agastya and wonder - briefly, very briefly - if this is what happens when a Bhatia stays too long in the City of Dreams. Forget being a Bhatia; right now he’s barely passing as functional human.

I don’t remember him ever looking this small.

After wrapping up my work, I’d decided to check on him. He hadn’t called Badi Ma in weeks, and that had her worried. Funny. I can’t remember the last time she worried about me with the same intensity. Maybe never. Or maybe before that day - when she decided I had a hand in killing her husband

Agastya is exhausted. Tired of fighting alone. Isaimozhi’s mother refuses to approve the match. So does Badi Ma. He’s tried reasoning with both matriarchs, but they’re stubbornly convinced this marriage is doomed before it even begins.

As for me, I’m indifferent, remain useless by design. I know how this family works. When Sharada Bhatia disapproves of something, it’s practically declared illegal.

But Agastya is clinging to his promise. He’s determined to marry the woman he loves, no matter the cost.

Judging by the sunken eyes and trembling hands, the cost is his sanity. Maybe his health. Possibly his soul, but that’s optional in this household.

“You know I can’t help you,” I say, chewing thoughtfully on the chole bhature he made for me. Yes, he cooks. Of course he does. He's a good boy. “Badi Ma doesn’t take advice. She issues verdicts.”

“If there’s no other option,” he blurts, voice cracking, “we’ll run away. Abroad. Live like normal married people.” He laughs, then cries. Multitasking. “Because being rich and helpless fucking sucks.”

This isn’t metaphorical crying. This is full-blown tears. The ugly kind. The honest kind.

I put my plate down and move closer, instinct kicking in. I try to hug him.

He shoves me away.

“I know you’re enjoying this,” he snaps.

I blink. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I enjoy watching you fall apart?”

“Because you’ve always been the punching bag,” he shoots back. “The cursed one. The bad omen. The one they blame and isolate.” He wipes his face roughly. “But now everyone looks at me like I’m some criminal.”

His voice breaks. “I just want to marry the woman I love. How is that a crime?”

“Agu---”

“You’re the criminal, the one who kills people and sleeps with countless women. You don't have morals or ethics or anything!” he interrupts, sharp and reckless. “And yet I’m the ungrateful one for wanting a life without hurting anyone.”

Ah.

There it is.

I shouldn’t take it personally. He’s bleeding and grabbing the nearest target - which happens to be me. Still, it lands. Deep. Right between the ribs.

I look away before he can see it register.

So this is what I am. This is my legacy. To my own brother, I’m the family villain. The cautionary tale. The convenient comparison.

For this clan, I’ve killed men, buried secrets, built empires in blood and balance sheets. I’ve protected the name Bhatia like a rabid dog guards its master.

And yet...

Maybe killing Pratap Bhatia wouldn’t have hurt as much as living every day accused of it.

At least murder ends things.

This?
This just keeps bleeding.

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