Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – The Leak

The night air in Chennai carried a restless heat, the kind that clung to skin and refused to let go.

Janaki Raman hated nights like this—sticky, electric, and heavy with secrets.

But tonight, the city’s humidity wasn’t the only thing tightening around her chest.

Her phone screen glowed against the darkness of her small newsroom cabin, the faint buzz of the old ceiling fan barely cutting through the silence. On the monitor in front of her blinked a headline draft that could shatter a government:

> “Exclusive: Evidence of Arms Deal Scandal Leads Back to Chief Minister Aadhithya Varma.”

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. One tap of the “publish” button, and Tamil Nadu’s golden boy—its youngest, sharpest Chief Minister—would face a storm that no political strategist could contain.

The story had taken her three exhausting months of anonymous tips, late-night stakeouts, and heart-pounding chases through bureaucratic labyrinths.

But the final file—a single PDF with bank transfers, weapon shipment manifests, and a minister’s voice caught on tape—sat like a bomb in her email inbox.

Janaki’s heart thudded. She checked the time: 11:47 p.m. If she scheduled the release for midnight, the exposé would detonate while the city slept, and by morning, every news channel would be screaming her name.

“Do it,” she whispered to herself.

Her index finger inched toward the key.

A sudden clack broke the silence.

Janaki spun in her chair. The office door—locked minutes ago—was wide open. A gust of humid night air pushed the curtains inward.

Her breath caught. The newsroom should have been empty; her colleagues had left hours ago.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice sharper than she felt.

Silence.

She rose, every nerve alive, scanning the doorway. The only sound was the ceiling fan’s uneven whir.

Her heart hammered as she took a cautious step forward. Another clack—this time from the fire exit.

Janaki snatched her phone, thumb poised over the emergency dial.

Before she could press it, the computer screen flickered, then went black.

Her blood went cold.

Someone had cut the power.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. Darkness swallowed the room whole.

And then—footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming closer.

Janaki backed against the desk, adrenaline flooding her veins.

Whoever they were, they weren’t here for small talk.

She grabbed the nearest object—a paperweight shaped like the newsroom logo—and raised it like a weapon.

The footsteps quickened.

“Stay back!” she shouted, praying her voice didn’t shake.

A shadow emerged in the doorway, tall and broad, haloed by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the glass panels.

Her grip on the paperweight tightened.

“Janaki Raman,” a deep voice said, low and unhurried.

It wasn’t a question. It was a claim.

The man stepped forward, and the dim light caught the sharp angles of his face.

A perfectly tailored black suit.

A jaw cut from marble.

Eyes like storm clouds moments before lightning.

She knew that face.

Everyone in Tamil Nadu knew that face.

Chief Minister Aadhithya Varma.

Janaki’s breath snagged in her throat. She lowered the paperweight a fraction, more out of shock than trust.

“How—how did you—” she began.

“Security cameras,” he said, voice as smooth as a blade. “And a very foolish choice of passwords.”

Her stomach dropped. He knew. He knew about the story.

“This is harassment,” she snapped, trying to steady her voice. “Breaking into a journalist’s office—”

“Breaking in?” His eyebrow lifted, faint amusement flickering. “Your editor gave me the key. He’s worried about you.”

“My editor—?”

“Is outside,” Aadhithya cut in. “Along with the police.”

Her heart stumbled. “Police? For what? Publishing the truth?”

“For staying alive.” His gaze locked on hers, dark and impenetrable. “You have no idea how dangerous tonight is.”

Anger flared hot in her chest, momentarily drowning the fear. “Don’t pretend concern, Chief Minister. If you’re here, it’s to bury the story.”

He took a step closer, and she felt the raw presence of him—a gravitational pull that unsettled her bones.

His height forced her to tilt her chin up, but she refused to step back.

“If I wanted to bury the story,” he said, voice low enough to vibrate through her, “this building would already be ashes.”

Janaki froze.

There was no threat in his tone—just a terrifying kind of certainty.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“To keep you alive long enough to regret your recklessness.”

A loud crash erupted from the hallway—metal against metal, echoing through the empty building.

Janaki startled. Aadhithya’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with iron precision.

“Move,” he ordered.

Before she could resist, he pulled her toward the fire exit.

The hallway lights flickered, revealing two men in dark clothes sprinting up the stairwell.

Not police.

Attackers.

Janaki’s pulse spiked.

Aadhithya didn’t slow. He half dragged, half shielded her down the corridor, his other hand reaching inside his jacket.

Gun.

The sight of cold steel in his grip should have terrified her.

Instead, absurdly, it made her feel safer.

They burst through the exit into the humid night.

Two black SUVs waited at the curb, engines idling.

The men from the stairwell emerged behind them. One shouted. Another raised a weapon.

“Get in!” Aadhithya barked.

Janaki hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough to hear the sharp crack of a bullet striking the wall beside her.

She dove into the backseat. Aadhithya slid in after her, slamming the door just as the driver hit the accelerator.

The SUV roared forward, tires screeching against wet asphalt.

Janaki clutched the seatbelt, heart racing. “Who are they?”

“People who don’t want your story told,” Aadhithya said calmly, holstering his gun. “Or mine.”

She turned on him, fury cutting through the fear. “So this is your plan? Kidnap me before I can publish?”

His eyes narrowed, and for the first time she saw something raw beneath the control—frustration, maybe even worry.

“If I wanted you silenced,” he said evenly, “you wouldn’t be breathing.

You’re in my car because someone else wants you dead, and I’m the only one who can keep that from happening.”

Janaki’s throat tightened. “Why would you care?”

His gaze held hers, unreadable. “Because if you die tonight, the truth dies with you.”

The car sped through the city, streetlights streaking like molten gold across the windows.

Janaki stared at the man beside her, the infamous Aadhithya Varma—politician, billionaire, rumored kingmaker.

Up close, he was worse than the headlines described: dangerously composed, devastatingly handsome, and completely unreadable.

A man who could order a city to kneel with a single phone call.

And he was looking at her as if she were the only unpredictable variable in his carefully controlled universe.

She forced herself to breathe. “Where are you taking me?”

His answer was immediate.

“Home.”

The word landed like a strike.

“My home,” he clarified, eyes still on hers. “Until we find out who wants you dead, you don’t leave my protection. Not for a minute.”

Janaki’s jaw dropped. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“It’s illegal—”

“It’s survival.”

The car slowed as they approached a towering iron gate. Beyond it loomed a sprawling colonial mansion, its windows glowing like watchful eyes.

Janaki’s heart pounded.

This couldn’t be happening.

She was a journalist, not some damsel in a political thriller.

The gates opened silently, swallowing the SUV into a long driveway lined with rain-soaked banyan trees.

Guards saluted as the vehicle passed.

Inside, the mansion glittered with restrained luxury: high ceilings, teak floors polished to a mirror shine, chandeliers casting warm gold across the marble staircase.

It felt like stepping into the lair of a man who owned more than the government—he owned time itself.

Janaki climbed out, every instinct screaming to run.

But when she glanced back at the gate, two armored vehicles had already sealed the exit.

Aadhithya stepped beside her, his presence a dark wall of control.

“Welcome to Varma House,” he said softly.

His voice carried no warmth—only an unshakable finality.

“This is temporary,” she said, forcing her chin up. “I’m not your prisoner.”

His gaze swept over her—sharp, assessing, as if measuring every stubborn inch of her.

“No,” he said at last. “You’re my responsibility.”

The words shouldn’t have felt like a threat.

But as they echoed in the cavernous hall, Janaki sensed the truth beneath them.

Responsibility, in Aadhithya Varma’s world, could be more dangerous than any enemy.

°°°

Janaki spent the next hour pacing a guest room larger than her entire apartment.

The polished teak furniture, the silk curtains, the antique writing desk—it all felt like a cage dressed in luxury.

Her phone lay on the bed, screen dark.

No signal. Of course.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the rain slick across the driveway.

Somewhere beyond those gates, enemies she couldn’t name wanted her dead.

And the only person standing between her and a bullet was the man she had just tried to expose.

A soft knock startled her.

Before she could answer, the door opened.

Aadhithya stepped inside, his black suit jacket now off, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms.

The sight of him—calm, deliberate, devastating—sent a confusing jolt through her chest.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “Two guards outside. No one comes in without my permission.”

“I’m not—” she began.

“Until I say otherwise.” His eyes locked on hers, a silent dare.

Something in his steady gaze rooted her to the spot.

It wasn’t just authority. It was… something heavier.

Something that said he wouldn’t let the world touch her—not tonight, not ever—no matter what it cost.

Janaki swallowed hard, forcing words past the sudden dryness in her throat.

“I still plan to publish,” she whispered.

A hint of a smile ghosted across his lips—dangerous, amused, impossibly confident.

“Good,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Stay alive long enough to do it.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Janaki alone with the echo of his words—and the unsettling realization that her biggest story had only just