Compliance verified.
He read it again, not because he doubted the report, but because repetition grounded him.
The decision had been necessary.
He could not allow impulse to dictate lineage.
But as he sat there, the image of her laughter lingered in unexpected contrast to the memory of her anger.
The sight of her playing with the kitten, unguarded and alive, unsettled something in him that had nothing to do with corporate sabotage or industrial safety.
She disrupted pattern.
He placed the tablet away, aligning it precisely on his desk before checking the time.
There were still two hours before he needed to return to the palace.
He sat back down at his desk and opened the next document in the queue.
His pen was precise and unhurried.
The city continued to light itself below him. He returned to the next document and did not look at the palace feeds again.
CHAPTER 27
The late afternoon sunlight filled the studio.
Yamini had been working since morning. She had skipped lunch and was surviving mostly on tea. Which usually meant one of two things—she was happy, or she was trying very hard not to think.
At half past five, the studio door buzzed before opening.
Pooja stepped inside, carrying a paper bag.
“I don’t think the Jogra security appreciates me coming here this often,” she announced.
Yamini had already informed security to allow Pooja unlimited access.
“They don’t mind,” Yamini said without looking up from the monitor.
“I brought hot samosas and fresh chai, and if you tell me you've skipped lunch again, I swear—”
Pooja stopped. “Oh my God.”
Yamini finally looked up. She had spent most of the day editing, printing, and mounting framed photographs from the steel plant visits.
These weren’t the official PR photographs. These were the ones taken in quiet moments between inspections, safety briefings, and Tina Mehta's clipboard instructions.
Pooja set the paper bags down slowly without looking away from the wall.
She didn't speak for almost a full minute.
It was a portrait of Meena, one of the senior welders. Meena stood in full protective gear with her visor lifted, sparks frozen behind her like fragments of fire. Her skin glowed bronze beneath industrial lights while her eyes met the camera directly.
“She looks like a goddess,” Pooja whispered.
“She does.”
Pooja moved slowly. The next photograph showed a young woman in grease-streaked overalls sitting on an overturned steel drum breastfeeding her infant during a break while the blast furnace blurred behind her.
