"You were born a Raichand. You will die one."
The chandeliers never flickered in the Raichand estate.
Not even during storms.
Power doesn’t go out in homes that run the underworld.
Kyra Raichand stood barefoot on the marble floor, hair damp from the rain, blood drying on the collar of her shirt. She wasn’t allowed to walk into the dining room late. But tonight, she was five minutes past 8.
And three pairs of eyes were already waiting.
Vansh sat at the head, fork still in hand. His eyes lifted slowly. He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Veer leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, leather gloves hanging from his fingers — still dusty from the last round of training. He tapped them once against the table. A silent warning.
Kabir didn’t look up at all.
Kyra moved to her seat, ignoring the throbbing behind her ribs. The hit hadn’t broken anything this time. She bit the inside of her cheek to focus — pain was safer than emotions here.
Rule Number One: No apologies. No excuses. Just discipline.
She sat down. Picked up the spoon. Ate.
Silence stretched like steel wire — sharp and tight. You could hear the wind outside. The ticking of the grandfather clock. Even the sound of her own breath felt too loud.
"You panicked in the alley," Vansh finally said, not looking at her. "Next time, don’t."
Veer added without emotion, "We don’t raise liabilities."
And Kabir — for the first time — looked at her. Not with hatred. Not with pity.
Just that same numb detachment.
"You’re not broken yet," he said quietly. "But you’re close."
Kyra didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
She finished her food in silence.
But under the table, her hands were shaking.
Not from pain.
From the weight of a ghost no one talked about.
The chair that stayed empty every night.
Abhimaan’s chair.
The only brother who’d ever smiled at her without expecting blood in return.
And the reason they all hated her now.
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