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The ballroom stood like a temple to opulence and power, drenched in midnight gold and velvet shadows. Towering ceilings arched above like the heavens themselves, painted with mythic frescoes lit by the flicker of countless crystal chandeliers. Light dripped from them like molten stars, casting a warm, hypnotic glow that glinted off every gilded surface.
The floor was an endless expanse of polished black marble, veined with silver, so flawless it reflected the entire room in ghostly perfection. Rows of round banquet tables framed the center, adorned with towering candelabras, each flame swaying to the silent rhythm of tension in the air. Candlelight bathed the cutlery in liquid gold, and shadows danced like whispers across the walls.
Twin grand staircases spiraled down symmetrically from a high mezzanine, their railings forged in ornate gold filigree, their steps cushioned with rich velvet. The stairs led to an open floor designed for elegance and confrontation alike. Above, multiple balconies curled around the room, edged in classical arches and crowned with glowing sconces, each one casting its own pocket of amber light onto the silk-draped walls.
The architecture was baroque, imposing, and unapologetically regal—every inch carved, painted, or polished to perfection. Massive columns stood sentry at every edge, their capitals decorated with acanthus leaves and stoic cherubs, as though the very structure was alive, watching.
The room exhaled wealth, secrets, and danger—an exquisite trap dressed in grandeur. It was midnight in a palace where power played host, and silence held its breath beneath chandeliers of fire.
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The hall stilled for a fraction of a second—like the world itself inhaled in awe—as the heavy golden doors creaked open. From the dim hallway beyond emerged Laksha Oberoi, the Japanese Mafia Queen. Draped in an exquisite long black off-shoulder gown with a thigh-high slit, she looked like power personified. The gown featured long sleeves, a fitted bodice, and seemed to be made of rich knit fabric. It was a classic silhouette with a modern twist—elegant with a bite of boldness.
She wasn’t just entering the ballroom—she was owning it.
Her heels clinked in perfect rhythm against the polished floor, echoing like gunshots in a silent alley. Her deep red lips curled into a slight smirk as all eyes found her—some with admiration, others with fear.
She walked with calculated grace, stopping to greet guests—not with warmth, but with measured charm. Her words were brief, deliberate, often laced with veiled warnings beneath the sweetness of hospitality.
Around her, the Rajput family moved like royalty. Each one of them was clad in black—the color of elegance, rebellion, and silent war.
Aakash stood with Aadarsh and Saksham, speaking casually. He wore a black three-piece suit with a double-breasted jacket, a waistcoat, and trousers. A white pocket square added a touch of classic elegance—a sharp, formal look.
Shashi was still inside the room with Dhrishti. They needed each other’s help. While the men were busy talking, Aakash’s eyes fell toward the staircase—and got stuck there.
Shashi.
She descended the stairs wearing a black off-shoulder dress, featuring a large bow at the center and sheer organza sleeves. The satin-like material shimmered with luxury. Her hair was adorned with a subtly sparkly hairpiece, and her heels—divine. Delicate pearls hugged her ankles in a stunning combination of grace and beauty.
Aakash was stunned—witnessing her like this, so deliberately composed, so breathtakingly herself.
She approached the three men and asked, “How am I looking?”
“Looking great! You should wear girly clothes, Oberoi,” Saksham chuckled.
“It’s true,” Aadarsh added.
She raised her brow, glancing at Aakash.
He replied, “Aapko dekh ke lagta hai jaise waqt bhi ruk gaya ho... sirf aapko dekhne ke liye.”
([Looking at you, it feels like even time has stopped... just to see you.])
“Thank you, Mr. Rajput,” she said softly, her cheeks shading pink.
Throat clearings interrupted the moment—it was none other than Aadarsh and Saksham.
The chandeliers above cast golden halos across the marbled floor. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and whispers of hidden power. The crowd had thinned, leaving only the most influential—those whose glances could declare wars or seal fates.
Laksha Oberoi, in her midnight dress, stepped into the center like gravity had called her name. A hush fell over the hall. The spotlight followed—as if even the lights obeyed her.
In one corner, away from the soft laughter and lingering guests, stood Shashi. Her fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass—untouched. Her dress shimmered like embers, but her expression was anything but ablaze.
She muttered to herself, eyes locked on the velvet drapes swaying gently in the wind. And then—Laksha’s voice cut through the stillness.
The sharp tip of her heel echoed once—like a gunshot.
“Family... tonight ain’t just about business. Tonight, we honor someone special. Someone chasing a different path—not one of shadows and secrets, but of healing hands... and a heart too big for this cold world. I wanna welcome my little sister—cute little Doctor Sister, I should say—to the Midnight Syndicate Ball.”
Shashi’s eyes widened. Realization hit—she’d now have to face the crowd. She choked on her drink but maintained her good-girl façade.
“You might be the only one here who saves lives legally—and that’s a badge of honor none of us wear. We’re proud of you. I’m proud of you. And just so everyone knows... anyone who even thinks of messing with our girl—ain’t dealing with the law. You’re dealing with us.
So raise your glasses—to brains, to beauty, and to this heart strong enough to heal a broken world. Welcome home, my little panda doc.”
Laksha gestured for her to come forward.
As the crowd clinked their glasses and applause echoed, all eyes drifted to the corner of the grand ballroom. There stood Shashi—the little doc in question. Quiet. Reserved. Beautifully out of place.
The entire syndicate now stared at her.
Her eyes widened in panic. She took a deep breath, and with every ounce of courage packed into her petite frame, she stepped forward.
Tremble.
Her heel wobbled.
She nearly stumbled.
A low gasp rippled through the crowd—but she caught herself just in time, cheeks flushing red.
A few soft chuckles echoed. The doc had arrived.
She made it to the center, under the chandelier, right into the spotlight.
She cleared her throat. Tiny voice. Nervous hands. Words came out in a whisper:
“Na-namaste.” ([H-hello.])
Silence. Then—laughter. Not cruel. Warm. Adoring.
The kind that says: Yeah, that’s our girl.
Some bodyguards even clapped like proud brothers. Laksha gave them a nod—not just of approval, but of deep, unspoken pride.
The applause faded. Shashi grew a tiny smile, then practically tiptoed out of the spotlight, retreating to her favorite corner where the chandeliers didn’t shine too much.
She leaned against the wall and exhaled. That felt like an out-of-body experience. She was back in her safe zone now—quiet, small, invisible. Just how she liked it.
Clutching her now lukewarm coffee, she tried to survive the chaos. That’s when Adarsh and Saksham came rushing toward her.
“Oye! Shashi! Tu baithe baithe coffee pee rahi hai, aur yahan toh masaledaar scene ho gaya!” ([Oye Shashi! You’re sitting here sipping coffee, and a spicy scene just happened out there!]) said Aadarsh.
“Haan, woh chutiya Vedarth Das dikh gaya yaar. Same face, same attitude—saala ghusa hai party mein.” ([Yeah, that asshole Vedarth Das showed up. Same face, same attitude—bastard crashed the party.]) added Saksham.
She nearly dropped her coffee. “Kya?! Bhosdiwalo! Tum dono ne dekha and didn’t tell me?”
([What?! You motherfuckers saw him and didn’t tell me immediately?])
“Arey sun na pehle! We thought... we should like, check with our gang leader before jumping into chaos,” said Adarsh.
She paused, squinting at them. “Gang leader? Apne gang ka leader kaun hai bey?”
([Gang leader? Who the hell is the leader of our gang, huh?])
Saksham threw his hands in the air. “Abe chutiya, tu hi toh hai! Do you even know how much we depend on you for decisions?”
([You dumbass, you are! Do you even realize how much we depend on you?!])
She groaned. “Main leader hoon?! Behen ke lavde, mujhe coffee tak chain se peene nahi dete tum log.”
([I’m the leader?! For fuck’s sake, you guys won’t even let me drink coffee in peace.])
Adarsh grinned. “Arey ab leader banna hai toh coffee sacrifice toh banta hai, boss!”
([Come on now, if you’re the leader, sacrificing coffee is part of the deal, boss!])
“Bas bol, kya karna hai us Vedarth ke saath? Gala daba doon?” ([Just say the word. What do we do with Vedarth? Should I choke him out?]) said Saksham.
She rubbed her temples. “Mera sir mat ghumao dono. Chill maro. Kuch bhi mat karo, party mein ho. Shaanti rakho. Kal baith ke plan banayenge.”
([Don’t give me a headache, you two. Chill. Don’t do anything here, we’re at a party. Stay calm. Tomorrow, we’ll sit and make a plan.])
They all dispersed. In the dancing crowd, Shashi stood quietly, holding a cup of strong black coffee like it was her last defense against collapsing. Her heels hurt. Her eyes begged for sleep. All she wanted was a moment of stillness—the kind the Syndicate Ball didn’t allow.
She took a sip. Hot. Bitter. Perfect.
Adarsh and Saksham had wandered off, leaving her alone—just the way she liked it.
And then...
A man approached. Well-dressed. Mid-thirties. The kind of charm that felt a little too rehearsed. His eyes held authority, and his smirk—habitual, practiced.
“Didn’t expect to see someone like you at a place like this,” he said casually, like they’d known each other in another life. “You’ve got... soft hands. And your hair—it catches the light real nice.”
Shashi blinked.
She said nothing. Just sipped her coffee. Not rude—just uninterested.
“Hi,” she said, barely above a whisper.
A pause.
“Hello.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either.
He waited—maybe expecting a flirt, a blush, something.
He chuckled awkwardly. “Not much of a talker, huh?”
“N...not really.”
“See you around, doc.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
Shashi exhaled.
That’s when Aakash walked up.
“Coffee?” he asked teasingly.
“Everyone’s drinking wine or whiskey, and you’re here sipping black coffee like a tired detective.”
“If I don’t sip this coffee, I might pass out right here on this floor. I need caffeine to live... and breathe through this night!”
Aakash chuckled softly. That was his Shashi—honest, half-dramatic, completely done with socializing.
“Then let’s go. There’s no rule that says we have to stay. We can sleep. Right now. No one’s forcing you.”
She hesitated but didn’t argue. He went to inform Laksha they were leaving.
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They returned to their room. Shashi disappeared into the closet.
A few minutes later, she stepped out—her face completely tired.
Without a word, she hissed slightly in pain and crawled onto the bed beside him.
Aakash immediately sat up, took an oil bottle from the nightstand, and returned. He sat near her feet, gently placing her legs in his lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly.
“Shh... just relax. Your feet look red. Just sleep, baby.”
He poured a small amount of warm oil into his hands, rubbing it between his palms before gently massaging her sore feet. His fingers worked in slow, precise motions—pressing into the tender arches, tracing soothing circles around her ankles, kneading the ache out of every muscle. He was quiet, careful, reverent.
Her breath softened. Her body slackened.
It wasn’t just a massage—it was a vow.
A silent promise of comfort. Of care. Of love he couldn’t say aloud but showed in every gentle touch.
And for the first time
that night, in that chaotic world of chandeliers and secrets, Shashi felt peace.
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Word count - 2031
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