The cover-up was complete within the hour, a seamless operation proving the depth and reach of Ronak's morally ambiguous influence. The bullet was gone, the rug replaced, the doctor sworn to silence by a non-disclosure agreement that guaranteed his early retirement. It was the kind of efficient, cold cleanup that Indrajit Rathore, his father, always valued: the erasure of mess, the preservation of the dynasty’s veneer.
Ronak sat alone later, not in the study where the violence had occurred, but in his own executive wing—a minimalist space designed for total lack of distraction. He stared at the fresh, tight line of stitches in his left thigh. The pain was irrelevant; a dull, manageable ache. But the scar was a trophy.
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