CHAPTER ONE: WHEN THE FILE LANDED
(Mahi's POV)
The file arrived on a Thursday evening, when the office had already begun to empty itself of hope.
I remember that clearly—not because Thursdays matter, but because silence does. Singhania's Law Firm used to breathe. Phones rang, juniors argued over citations, partners paced like generals. Now, after the backlash, the corridors had learned how to whisper. Even the lights felt dimmer, like they were conserving belief.
I was still at my desk, correcting a draft no one would read with the care it deserved. That had become routine lately—doing work for the sake of doing it, not because it would change anything.
That's when the file landed.
No announcement. No dramatic handover. Just a muted thud on my table.
State vs. Aryavarta Collective.
I didn't open it immediately. I stared at the title the way you stare at a bruise before pressing it—knowing it will hurt, needing to know how much.
Aryavarta Collective wasn't small. It was the kind of name people whispered with admiration and fear in equal measure. Factories across states. Political blessings. Media friendships. The kind of opponent firms politely declined without ever saying no.
I finally opened the file.
Workers. Young. Mostly my age. Some younger. Injuries hidden behind non-disclosure clauses. Layoffs disguised as "voluntary exits." Contracts written so carefully that the law itself seemed trapped inside the language.
This wasn't a case.
It was a statement.
And it terrified me.
I leaned back, exhaled slowly, and for a moment allowed myself to think the forbidden thought—Why us? We were already fighting to prove we weren't what the world had decided we were. Taking this case felt like stepping into a storm with a cracked umbrella.
I gathered the papers and walked toward the conference room.
That's when I saw him.
Nikhil was already there.
Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up. Reading the same file, forehead creased the way it always used to when something truly interested him. For a second, my body reacted before my mind did—the old instinct of partnership, of familiarity.
Then reality returned.
We hadn't been partners in a long time. Not really.
Our eyes met briefly. Professional. Neutral. Careful.
"You're on this?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
He nodded. "Singhania wants a miracle."
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
We sat across from each other, the file open between us like a third presence—watching, waiting. There was no small talk. No acknowledgment of history. Only the law.
"This isn't negligence," I said after a few minutes, tapping a clause with my pen. "It's repetition. Identical language across contracts."
Nikhil looked up sharply. "Which means intention."
The room fell quiet.
I felt it then—the familiar click of two minds aligning. It was unsettling how easily it happened, how naturally we slipped into analysis like we'd never stopped doing this together.
I hated that a part of me missed it.
Outside the glass walls, the firm continued to exist in uncertainty. Inside, we were building something fragile and dangerous: a strategy that could either restore Singhania's name—or erase it completely.
As we stood to leave, Nikhil paused.
"This case won't forgive mistakes," he said, not looking at me.
Neither would we.
I nodded once. "Then we don't make any."
That night, as I walked back to my desk, the weight of the file followed me—not on paper this time, but in my chest. I knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
This case would change the firm.
And whether I was ready or not, it would change us too.