The Promises That Faded Away

4. What We Don't Say

❋ A V I R A L ❋

[Present Day, Delhi]

The office reeked of ancient paper and fresh ink, the very aura of a place steeped in too much history. The scent lingered in the air like a ghost, seeping into every pore, every thread of fabric clinging to me, every breath I took. I hated being here. I didn't want to sit in this chair, in this suffocating room,as a lawyer recited my grandfather's legacy like it were a mundane ledger—mere figures, properties, and signatures. Like the sum of a man's life could be reduced to properties, accounts, and signatures on a page.

I wasn't truly listening.

Not at all.

The words merged into an indistinguishable slurry—legalese, financial jargon, something about property deeds and shareholdings—but I kept nodding anyway, pretending I cared. The sooner I got through this, the sooner I could leave Delhi behind again. All the numbers, the clauses, the legal formalities—they didn't matter.

"...And lastly, there's the matter of your fifteen percent stake in Oberoi Publishing."

The cold delivery shattered my cocoon of detachment.

I blinked, my mind snapping back. "My what?"

The lawyer adjusted his glasses, examining the document. "Your grandfather owned a fifteen percent stake in Oberoi Publishing. Upon his passing, those shares have been transferred to you."

A crushing, unwelcome weight slammed into my chest.

Oberoi Publishing.

Augustus Oberoi.

I forced my voice to sound even, though every word trembled with burning indifference. "And I assume I can sell them?"

The lawyer hesitated, the pause heavy with unsaid consequences. "Yes. But—"

"Then sell them."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Mr. Oberoi would likely want to discuss—"

"I don't give a damn what Augustus Oberoi wants." The edge in my voice sliced sharper than I intended, my exhale a battle against the rising fury as I squared my shoulders and infused my tone with feigned airiness.

"Draft the paperwork. Sell them to anyone who dares to buy."

He cleared his throat, yet his uncertainty lingered. "You must meet with Mr. Oberoi first. The company retains a preemptive right to purchase any shares before they hit the market."

A humorless laugh burst from deep within me. Of course. Fucking bureaucracy.

"So, what? I'm supposed to arrange a meeting with him?"

The lawyer faltered. "Oberoi Publishing's legal team has already reached out. They insist on a face-to-face discussion before the transaction can proceed."

A jolt of raw irritation shot through me like wildfire.

This was not what I wanted.

I hadn't come to drag up old ghosts. I hadn't come to re-experience past wounds.I wasn't here for him.

But if I was to sever this final, inflamed thread connecting us, I had no alternative.

"...Fine," I muttered, rising from the chair, my resolve hardening as I stormed out to hail a cab bound for the Oberoi Publishing house.

The entrance to Oberoi Publishing loomed ominously ahead—a sleek, towering structure dominating the heart of Connaught Place. Its reflective glass panels glared under the harsh winter sun, stabbing into the sky like a monument to everything Gus had ruthlessly constructed. I hesitated, my heart pounding with the gravity of what lay ahead.