The Girls Of December

Chapter 2.

UDAIPUR

Narrator's POV – Present Day

It was a cold morning. December always gave Vihaan a hard time.

The year was ending, and so was his patience—especially for people like Devendra Khurana. A man with a legacy, yes, but no soul. He hadn't earned a bit of what he flaunted. Everything was inherited—his father's goodwill, his grandfather's empire, and now Vihaan's designs.

Khurana had bribed the journalist from "India Today" to rank himself as the #1 architect in the country—Vihaan's rightful spot. That wasn't all. He'd copied Vihaan's blueprint for the Crown Vista Project, launching it three days before Vihaan's unveiling. A perfect storm of sabotage.

And that betrayal? It came from within.

Vihaan's POV

It wasn't just Khurana I wanted to bury.

It was the spineless traitor who handed him my dreams on a silver platter.

The morning played out like it always did. Coffee—black, bitter, alone. A silent shower that felt colder than the air outside. Crisp white shirt. Grey coat. Gunmetal tie. Every layer felt like armor. But even that couldn't hold back the chaos in my head.

I didn't turn on the radio in my car. I didn't need noise. My mind was already screaming with questions, laced with fury.

I reached the office just after nine. My staff was chirpier than usual—idiots didn't know a storm was brewing. Some smiled, some nodded. I didn't return it. Just walked through the glass doors and into the lift like a bullet already shot.

Not today.

Not when someone from my own house had sold me out.

I had barely sat in my chair when Arjun, my assistant, stepped in. No knock. Just walked in, breath hitching like he'd run a mile.

"We found the leak," he said. Voice low, like even the walls shouldn't hear.

I didn't say anything. Just looked at him.

"He's... he's in the basement. We've tied him up. He tried to run."

The chair scraped against the hardwood as I stood up. Walked to the drawer, slid it open, and reached for my Glock.

It was always ready. Always loaded.

The weight in my hand was comforting. It whispered, You're in control again.

As I walked through the corridor, employees froze. Some whispered. Others stared. None dared speak.

They'd seen this before. Once. And once was enough.

I took the stairs instead of the lift. Each step echoed like a drumbeat to war.

When I opened the basement door, a low light flickered overhead.

And there he was.

Sidhant.

Tied to a chair. Wrists bleeding from the rope. A bruise forming near his cheekbone. But alive.

I stopped in the doorway. My chest tightened.

Sidhant. The man who'd been with me since this company was a garage startup. The guy who'd stayed up nights during our first build. Who celebrated with cheap rum when we got our first client.

The guy who had my back.

I took a slow step forward. Then another. My boots clicked against the concrete.