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In the dimly lit alley, a little away from the vibrant splendour of the Shergill Mansion’s entrance, a young man, probably in his late twenties, steps out of his car. He stands tall with a commanding presence and a brooding expression, exuding an aura of controlled power. His jet-black hair flutters in the evening breeze as he leans against the car door with a cigarette in hand. His gaze is fixed on the grand entrance of the mansion, where the festivities for the wedding reception are in full swing.
Inserting the wireless earplugs snugly into his ears, he immerses himself in the music, a ritual he faithfully follows whenever he’s out on a mission like this one. These melodies have consistently brought him luck, imparting him an unexplainable strength. He lights the cigarette, takes a deep drag and exhales, the fumes curling upwards into the dark sky. He silently observes the mansion’s heavy security detail with a keen eye. None of the security measures escapes his scrutiny—the meticulous bomb checks at the entrance gate, the thorough inspection of the guests’ vehicles and vigilant guards ensuring that only those bearing invitations gain access to the event. His lips curl in a subtle smirk, the cigarette glowing like a beacon between his fingers. With a swift motion, he throws the cigarette down and extinguishes it with the heel of his expensive leather shoes, his eyes never leaving the mansion’s entrance.
He then straightens and smoothly opens the door of the backseat, grabbing a custom-made navy-blue suit that impeccably fits his muscular frame. He slips into it effortlessly, the fabric moulding to his body like a second skin. In one fluid motion, he retrieves a gift bag and the wedding invitation card from the backseat before closing the car door with a soft thud.
His footsteps echo in the alley as he walks towards the mansion’s entrance. Each step radiates an unspoken determination, making him appear like a predator on the prowl.
The security guard at the entrance gate stops him with a firm gesture.
“Sir, please place your bags here for scanning,” the guard instructs.
He acknowledges the request with a subtle nod, handing over his gift bag for inspection.
“Handle the bag with care,” he mutters. “It has precious gifts for the newlyweds.”
The guards place the bag onto the scanning machine while he walks via the entrance, passes through the screening door and extends his arms outwards. The guard uses metal detectors to identify the presence of any metal objects on his body, ensuring he carries no hidden weapons.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips as he quips dryly, “Only an idiot will walk in armed amid such tight security.”
“Protocol has to be followed, Sir.” The guard’s expression remains stern as he replies.
“Of course,” he retorts with a touch of bitterness, his tone laced with contempt, “the Deputy CM’s daughter and social reformer’s son must be well protected.”
The guards verify his invitation card, confirming his entry. “You’re clear to proceed, Sir,” they announce, allowing him inside.
He nods in acknowledgement and gathers his only bag — the one which contains the hidden secrets that have the potential to sever ties, shake their trust and threaten their current identities. With a chuckle, he strides confidently toward the garden, where the reception party is in full swing.
Entering the bustling party, he scans the crowd gathered in the sprawling lawns of the magnificent Shergill Mansion. His gaze sweeps around, taking in the entire scene before him. He spots Aksh Walia and Devika sharing a sweet moment over dessert, wherein he is feeding her, catering to her pregnancy cravings. Kailash Shergill and his assistant, Bhaskar, are engrossed in a lively conversation, visibly overjoyed over Ayaan’s marriage. Pratap Walia is conversing with his guests, and while he appears cordial, there is a touch of discontentment with this union, as if it was not his choice. His gaze is repeatedly drawn towards his phone, a clear sign of his urgency to address the rising complications of the Mashaal Project. The ever-watchful and loyal Vishnu stands close, a vigilant guard by Pratap Walia’s side.
Then, his attention focuses on the star couple of the event—the newlyweds, Ayaan and Meher. They are standing together in the middle of the garden, talking to their guests and receiving their best wishes. Their expressions radiate happiness, their love for each other evident in their gazes, a picture of a fresh start and a hopeful future.
He grins devilishly, waiting for the apt moment to make his next move, and it arrives in mere minutes. As Meher is drawn away by another guest and Ayaan heads off with his friend, Krish, the perfect opportunity opens up. With a determined step, he slowly makes his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on Meher. The time has come to set his plan in motion.
He walks through the crowd and approaches Meher, who is engrossed in conversation with another woman.
“Meher Walia,” he calls out her name.
She turns around, her expression shifting from surprise to confusion. He forces a smile in return and offers her a gift from the bag he is holding.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” he says, his words polite, but his tone edgy.
Meher takes the gift, gratitude shining in her eyes.
“Thank you. But I’m sorry, I don’t think I recognise you,” she admits, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Are you from the Walia’s side or Ayaan’s?” she inquires to seek clarity.
“Both,” he responds with a hint of sarcasm, his smile retaining a touch of bitterness.
Her confusion deepens, and she’s about to question further when he interjects.
“Please open this gift without delay. It contains something special that could change the course of your life,” he says mysteriously, his eyes locking onto hers with intensity.
Meher is taken aback by his words, her mind racing to decode his cryptic message. She’s about to ask him for an explanation when the woman she was previously chatting with returns, diverting her attention. Taking advantage of the interruption, he makes his exit, blending into the crowd before Meher can focus on him again.
By the time Meher finishes her conversation and turns back to where he was standing, he has vanished to meet his next target, leaving her with a sense of intrigue and the mysterious gift in her hand.
Ayaan was exchanging pleasantries with an elderly couple, wherein they inquired about his bride. He smiles at them warmly and proudly directs them towards her. As the couple walks away to meet Meher, Ayaan’s eyes meet his, and there’s a flicker of something in Ayaan’s expression—a trace of caution, a hint of suspicion.
“Ayaan Shergill, many congratulations on your wedding,” he says, extending his hand toward Ayaan.
