Delhi had mastered the art of masks.
In its press conferences and charity galas, Ajay Sinha smiled like a saint—soft-spoken, reassuring, a man the public trusted without question. But power had rotted him from within. Behind closed doors, morality was negotiable, truth disposable, and reputations mere tools to be crushed.

Virat Rawat was becoming dangerous—not with violence, but with integrity. In late thirties, he spoke carefully, planned tactfully, and earned a loyalty Ajay could not buy. The crowds were beginning to listen. And Ajay Sinha never forgave those who threatened his throne.

So he chose the most efficient weapon of all: doubt.

Ishani Khurnaa did not belong to the world of conspiracies and cameras. Quiet, sheltered, and painfully innocent, she barely spoke unless spoken to. To Ajay, that silence was not purity—it was opportunity.

In Delhi, careers were built on lies and destroyed by whispers.
And Ajay Sinha had just decided whose life would burn to protect his halo.