Something flickered briefly behind his usual composure—raw and unguarded for less than a second. Then a worker stepped between them, and when the view cleared, his expression had reset completely.
Annoyed, she kept moving.
Near the shadowed alcove where the cleaner's cart had been, she ran her fingers along the warm metal wall. A folded slip of paper jutted from a seam in the paneling. She palmed it, unfolding it under the pretense of checking her camera settings.
Workers strike at dawn. Sabotage planned for Line 3.
Rushed handwriting. Smudged with grease.
She tucked it into her sleeve and kept her face neutral.
For a moment, she stood still, the paper warm against her skin.
She had two choices. Leave the way he told her to. Or tell him.
She already knew which one she was going to do.
Across the factory floor, Bharat's voice cut through the mechanical noise—calm, clipped, and unhurried. But she watched his gloved hands flex once before he pushed them into his pockets.
She moved toward his group. The executives and engineers stepped aside with polite nods, acknowledging her as themaharani as much as the photographer. Bharat didn't turn until she was close enough to smell his cologne beneath the metallic air.
“Your work is done here for today,” he said. “You should leave.”
She kept her voice low. “You don't get to tell me how to do my job.” She inhaled a breath. “And you should know that some of your workers are planning a strike.”
His fingers froze mid-gesture.
For several seconds, the factory noise seemed to fall away. His eyes locked onto hers. “Leave,” he commanded.
She knew he didn’t mean her. The executives scattered without a word.
“Explain,” he said.
She pressed the folded note into his palm. Their fingers made brief contact. His glove was warm, and her hand was bare and slightly unsteady.
He unfolded it slowly. She watched his jaw tighten as he read. It was barely perceptible, but she knew his face well enough now to catch it.
The emergency alarm shrieked overhead.
Red lights pulsed through the entire space. Workers scrambled. Bharat grabbed her wrist firmly with no hesitation and pulled her toward a steel service elevator at the far wall.
“Move,” he commanded.
The door clanged shut behind them. And then the elevator dropped.
He released her wrist only to brace both hands against the walls, his shoulders blocking the dim emergency light overhead. Yamini pressed into the opposite corner.
“What's happening?” she asked in panic, her voice barely audible over the alarm’s echo through the shaft.
He didn't answer immediately. The flickering light caught the hard lines of his face. “You'll be safe,” he said. His voice was completely calm against the noise around them.
The elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors opened onto a dim concrete tunnel.
Bharat stepped out without waiting to see if she followed.
The tunnel smelled of damp concrete and burnt metal. The ceiling was low enough that he had to duck slightly as he moved. Yamini followed, her shoes catching on the uneven floor. The emergency lights buzzed and cast long shadows along the narrow walls.
“Where are we going?” she demanded, her voice echoing off the narrow walls.
