Exiting the pleasant warmth of the cab, I stepped into the biting chill of a smoggy January morning.

The air was thick with construction dust and the acrid tang of exhaust fumes. My eyes watered, nostrils burning. 

I shoved my numb hands into the deep pockets of my trench coat, the coarse wool a small comfort against my frozen skin.

A jolt. My fingers grazed the flash drive in my left pocket.

Adrenaline surged through me.

Well, there was no turning back now. The only way out was through.

I spared a moment of gratitude for old schoolmates – much smarter than me – who still came through for a friend in need.

Of course, their help came with strings attached. What didn’t? In the capital city, even oxygen came with a price tag. To say nothing of high-tech espionage gear.

Still, that was a problem for future Lekh. Present me needn’t exhaust my rapidly shrinking supply of brain cells over it.

Inhaling a lungful of the heavy, toxic air, I made my way towards the Zintra Corp headquarters.

The massive 15-storey structure loomed ahead, sleek and angular. Its shiny glass panels captured the murky expanse of the winter sky.

A small group of people stood in the forecourt. They huddled close under the bright glow of advertisements – featuring exuberant children gobbling multicolored snacks.

Shivering in layers of winter wear, they clutched amateurish placards proclaiming various protests. An elderly couple, their faces worn with exhaustion, held up a photo of a laughing child, no older than five or six. Nearby, a young woman with unkempt hair clutched a placard with the image of a little boy, seemingly hospitalized and cradled in a tangle of tubes and wires.

None of the smartly-dressed professionals entering or exiting Zintra’s headquarters paid them the slightest heed. Even the bored security guards stationed at the gates barely spared them a glance.

Following their example, I hurried past the protestors and through the glass doors. Careful not to make eye contact with any of them.

I stepped into the temperature-controlled warmth of the lobby, exhaling in relief. At last, I could breathe without a battalion of tiny soldiers with microscopic spears assaulting my lungs.

The lobby was a shrine to corporate opulence. Bright overhead lights cast a refined radiance over the warm woods and understated gold accents of the décor.

Massive screens lined one of the walls, flashing the same advertisements I’d seen outside – giggling children devouring Zintra’s multicolored snacks or cereals. My footsteps echoed softly on the gleaming marble floor, as I made my way over to the reception area.

A tall, middle-aged woman – in flawless makeup and immaculate professional attire – offered me a disinterested greeting. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

With effort, I stretched my frozen lips into something resembling a smile. “I’d like to request a meeting with Mr. Palika, please. At his earliest convenience.”

The woman stilled, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Then, her gaze sharpened, her former indifference replaced by a calculating scrutiny. “May I have your name please, sir?” Her fingers hovered over the keyboard at her desk, eyes never leaving my face.

There was that familiar flicker of hesitant recognition. I had to bite back a laugh.

She thought she knew me, but couldn’t be sure how.

It was a reaction I was used to. One of the dubious perks of being Farida Naag’s favorite fashion guinea pig.

My face had plastered countless covers of Ammi’s gaudy fashion magazines since I was nine. At times, I genuinely wondered if she’d married Papa for the explicit purpose of stuffing me into her godawful neon tracksuits and bunny hoodies.

Never ceased to amaze me how popular those things used to be. Still were, God help the terminally unfashionable citizenry of our great nation.

Then, to make matters worse, an ill-judged bout of teenage rebellion in my first year of college. I’d let my high school girlfriend talk me into partnering with her on the country’s most popular dance reality show.

We took second place. Catapulted ourselves into the national spotlight for a few months. And ended the relationship.

It enraged Papa so much, he had the show’s license revoked for three years.

The upshot of all this was that almost seven years later, I still got randomly recognized by people – especially women of a certain age – at the most inopportune moments.

The receptionist drummed her long nails impatiently against the edge of her keyboard, an eyebrow raised.

“Lekh Naag,” I answered, recalling her question. “My name is Lekh Naag. I’m here to speak with Mr. Palika about the soon-to-be-approved special economic zone in South Fagrihi.”

I hesitated, bit my lip. Glanced briefly at the screens advertising Zintra’s unending array of prepackaged delicacies.

As if uncomfortable. As if searching for the right words to express my concerns without giving offense.

“And, well,” I continued. “We also need to discuss the, uh, recent allegations. Completely unfounded, we’re certain. But still, not without...repercussions for the HPA’s public image. As I’m sure you can understand.”

“I-yes, of course.” Taking her eyes off me, the receptionist tapped quickly on her keyboard, fingers a blur.

She wouldn’t be familiar with the finer details of the planned SEZ in Fagrihi. Perhaps not even the allegations surrounding the additives in Zintra’s snacks.

But she would, undoubtedly, recognize that name. Or rather, the surname Naag. And be keenly aware of its significance. Of what it implied.

Darpan Naag – Minister of Internal Security Affairs and current president of the HPA, the Hastinar People’s Alliance. Rumored to be the frontrunner for the position of prime minister, once Parth Raina retired in three years.

My father.

Of course, countless others in this country shared that surname.

But few would have the audacity to walk into the Zintra Corp headquarters on a random Tuesday morning, demanding a meeting with Sumedh Palika, the CEO. All without an appointment.

“I’m afraid Mr. Palika is tied up in an investor meeting at the moment. He won’t be available until after 12pm. At the earliest.” Her eyes focused on me. “Would you like me to schedule an appointment for another day? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

I clicked my tongue, irritation barely concealed.

As if I hadn’t expected this. As if I hadn’t picked this day, this time, for this exact reason. That Sumedh Palika would be locked in an investor meeting for at least the first three hours of the workday.

“Nah, I’ll wait.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, giving the screen a quick glance. “Got a plane to catch this evening. The Solstice concert in Mignir. You’ve heard of it, right?” I grinned, leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper. “Snagged two tickets. You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull. You’d think those prices would scare people off – but nope. There’s practically a riot. They even crashed the website last week.” I shook my head. “But hey, economic slowdown, am I right? Cost-of-living crisis.” A strategic eyeroll. “Guess someone forgot to send them the memo.”

The receptionist shot me an irritated glance. “Please wait in the back,” she said curtly. Gesturing toward the spacious, opulent waiting area at the far end of the lobby. Warm wood tones and plush chairs upholstered in rich fabric with gold detailing. “I’ll let you know when Mr. Palika is available.”

I flashed her a grateful, oblivious smile. And strolled over to the seating area, eyes glued to my phone.

I chose a seat directly facing the office of the vice president of operations.

A group of young men and women in sharp suits and crisply ironed shirts sat nearby, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

Interviewees for the position of personal secretary to the VP of Operations, if my intel was correct.

Not in the mood for small talk, I nodded politely at them and took my seat.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A large television mounted on the wall to one side caught my attention. Unlike the endless ads cycling through every other screen in the building, this one was playing the news.

Well, wasn’t that a pleasant surprise.

A generically handsome newsman in a generic gray suit spoke earnestly to the camera.

The volume was turned down. I had to strain my ears to make out his words.

“Shaukat Awan’s arrest, on charges of planning an attack on the Zhyn International Airport, has sparked widespread protests across Zilan. Notorious separatist leader Virat Barik has called on his supporters to–”

What Virat Barik had called on his supporters to do was drowned out by the sharp, mechanical click of the VP’s office door opening.

A young woman with big, heavily lined eyes emerged, clutching a thick file.

Behind her followed a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. “Next up, Madhur Shas—” he stopped mid-sentence as his gaze landed on me. “Lekh?” He turned slightly to get a better look. “Lekh Naag?” He repeated, taking a small step forward. “What are you doing here?”

“Shehak!” I let my eyes widen in slightly exaggerated surprise as I got to my feet. “Didn’t expect I’d run into you here. What brings you back to Darvika?”

Grinning widely, Shehak strode over and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, my boy. Though, as usual, you look like death warmed over. One of these days, you’ll need to start taking care of yourself. Or people will say your father is running you ragged with Visions for his own political ends. Turning you into a modern Soni Vardi.”

Swallowing a derisive snort, I inclined my head. Made the appropriate noises. Until the conversation eventually got back on track.

“As for why I’m here, well…” He leaned in, lowering his voice so the cluster of interviewees nearby couldn’t overhear. “I had to come back, didn’t I? This whole mess with the product tampering allegations…it’s a disaster. Completely baseless, of course. But the regional offices are affected just as bad. Maybe worse.

“Sales are tanking everywhere. And the resignations are piling up,” he scoffed. “Rats are the first to jump ship, as you know. But it’s dragging down the overall morale. And with all these rumors, finding decent talent is becoming impossible.” He shook his head. “I’m here to help poor Sai replace his secretary. She quit! Can you believe it? Claims her friend’s kid got sick from our chocolate-coated nuts. As if the brat ate nothing else all day. Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”

I nodded, with what I hoped was an appropriate mix of concern and sympathy. “I do understand. These allegations have wreaked havoc on our election campaign in Fadan. The HPA’s ties to Vance Industries – and to Zintra by extension – are no secret. Vance has been among our party’s most steadfast donors and supporters.”

Shehak smiled, satisfaction evident on his face. “Helping your father serve our country, in whatever small way we could, has been nothing short of an honor.”

I strove to keep my own expression neutral. “But Zintra is Vance’s second-most profitable subsidiary. So these allegations are bound to damage the HPA’s reputation, too. Erode public trust in the party leadership. The Times ran an editorial this very morning,” I sighed. “Suggesting that the only reason the allegations against Zintra aren’t making more headway in court, is because Vance has been a long-standing donor of the ruling party. So, it has the central government’s backing.”

Shehak cast a quick, wary glance around the waiting area.

Abruptly, he announced a thirty-minute break, directing the remaining interviewees to the cafeteria for refreshments.

Once they’d left, he ushered me hurriedly into the VP’s office.

With its warm wood tones and gold-accented upholstery, Mithun Sai’s chamber mirrored the opulence of the lobby. The only contrast lay in the lighting. Dimmer and more subdued, it gave the spacious office an almost cavernous, cave-like atmosphere.

The VP of Operations sat behind his large oak desk. Looking, as usual, more bird than man with his hooked nose and beady eyes. Beside him sat a voluptuous, curly-haired woman who looked to be about forty.

It seemed the three of them, including Shehak, had been conducting the interviews as a panel.

As soon as he recognized me, Sai stood up, walked over, and enveloped me in a hug. Which I returned, with considerable awkwardness.

Ignoring my discomfort, he sent for tea. Asked me how Papa was doing and how the Fadani campaign was coming along.

He certainly seemed to have his finger on the pulse, more so than Shehak.

Not that I was surprised. Sai and Shehak had both worked closely with my father during his tenure as chief minister of Zilan. Even their current roles at Zintra Corp were partially due to Papa’s influence. That said, Sai had always been the shrewder of the two, by a fair margin.

After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, Sai introduced me to Renuka Rana, the curly-haired VP of Sales.

The tea arrived. And steaming cups in hand, we all settled in to get down to business.

“The HPA isn’t rescinding on our end of the deal,” I said, taking a scalding sip from my cup. “If we secure a majority in Fadan with Vance’s support, the SEZ will be greenlit the day our chief minister takes office. Press criticism be damned.

“But we all know that won’t happen if the HNP returns to power in Fadan,” I continued. “From the outset, they’ve opposed the plans for Zintra’s factory in Fagrihi. Forget about tax incentives; if the HNP forms the government, they might block the project altogether. Tossing up some bogus environmental issue, for an excuse.”

Rana nodded grimly. “They want their own people in Fadan. They’d much rather hand that land over to Shah Construction for another residential complex, if they can get away with it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And with how things have been going recently, that might just be the final nail in our coffin.”

Sai scrutinized me, his beady eyes narrowing. “What is it you’re after, Lekh? If it’s a bigger donation for the campaign funds, you know Palika won’t think twice about cutting that check.” He chuckled. “Not that any of this makes the slightest difference to you. Leena Sen dotes on you; everyone knows that.”

Shehak stiffened in his chair. Rana made a futile attempt to draw Sai’s attention to a resume, from the pile on the desk.

Sai pressed on; eyes locked on me. Heedless of the growing tension in the room.

“You’re getting a slice of the pie no matter who takes control in Fadan. If it’s the HPA, your father wins. If it’s the HNP,” he sipped his tea. “The victory goes to your stepmother – who’s as likely to name you the heir to her political legacy as her own daughter. What’ve you got to lose either way, you lucky bastard?”

I let the question hang for a beat.

HNP – the Hastinar Nationalist Party – served as the primary opposition to the HPA at the federal level. At the state level, it currently governed four of Hastinar’s seven states.

Leena Sen, general secretary of the HNP, was indeed my stepmother.

Well, one of my stepmothers.

Not that I saw any reason to take the blame for my father’s compulsive hypergamy. Or his chronic inability to hold on to wives.

“Is that jealousy I spy in your voice, Sai?” I drawled. And slipped a hand into my pocket, fingers grazing the flash drive nestled there. “Leena’s still single, last I checked. Want me to put in a good word for you? You’re too old for her to adopt, but I daresay there are…other possibilities. No reason to lose hope, just yet.”

A moment passed in stunned silence.

Then, Sai burst out laughing. Sharp and sudden.

After a brief pause, Shehak joined in, his guffaws loud and stilted.

Even Rana covered her mouth, chuckling delicately.

I forced a laugh past my own lips.

Like a hot knife through butter, our combined mirth sliced through the palpable tension in the room.

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Sai.” I drained my teacup. “It’s not about what I want from you. It’s about what I can offer.” Reaching into my breast pocket, I pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Held it up for the three panelists to see. “I have here a letter signed by the parents and guardians of five of the alleged ‘victims’ in the additives case. Admitting that their children hadn’t consumed any Zintra products in the 48 hours before their symptoms started.”

“What?” Rana gasped. “But how did you—”

Shehak interrupted her. “B-but that doesn’t—”

“Let me see that!” Sai snapped, leaning forward with his hand outstretched, beady eyes agleam.

I leaned back, just enough to keep the letter beyond Sai’s eager grasp. “Not until I’ve had a chance to look at Zintra’s financials,” I said, a hint of reprimand in my voice. “For the last two fiscal years, at least. I don’t want all my hard work procuring this letter to go to waste…when the prosecution drops evidence of Zintra’s financial misconduct.

“If the company’s been cutting costs with cheap artificial sweeteners instead of the government-approved formulations, I need to know about it now. I need to understand the potential damage in court, so we can gather – or create – our own evidence to counter it.” I exhaled, meeting Sai’s beady gaze. “And if no defense is possible, I need to know ahead of time to plan an exit strategy. Not waste my time watering a dead plant.”

“That’s not—” Shehak began, indignant.

I held up a hand to silence him, my eyes never leaving Sai’s face. “It’s bad enough I’m sitting here drinking tea with you, right now.” I let frustration creep into my voice. “I was supposed to meet Palika and his CFO this morning to go over Zintra’s financials. Make sure there are no red flags for the prosecution to exploit in court. But I get here, and some receptionist tells me to sit in the back and twiddle my thumbs. Because apparently, the whole management team is locked in an investor meeting for the next three hours.”

A charged silence enveloped the room as we all sized each other up, gauging intentions and strategies.

Finally, Sai nodded to the letter in my hand. “Does your father know about this?”

“Why don’t you give him a call?” The corners of my lips twitched upward. “Ask him for yourself what he knows. What he thinks,” I spread my hands in a wide, inviting gesture. “About all of this.”

A moment passed. And then, like air escaping a punctured balloon, the tension in the room dissipated.

I had called Sai’s bluff, and he knew it. They all knew it.

“The receptionist was mistaken,” Sai said at length. “Lohar, the CFO, isn’t at the investor meeting. He’d be more than happy to see you. Come, I’ll take you up to his office myself.” He made to rise from his chair.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly. That’d be a disaster. “I-I know the way to his office. But it’s on the 14th floor, and I don’t think I have access.” I stood abruptly, preempting any objections. “Your time would be better spent reviewing this letter, anyway.” I held out the folded sheet of paper he’d been so eager to grab only minutes ago. “See if you can come up with ways to bring some of the other complainants over to our side. Further sweeten the deal – no pun intended.” I grinned. “Most are from middle- or working-class families; suddenly buried under a mountain of medical bills. Winning them over shouldn’t be too hard, if we play our cards right.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sai took the letter from me. Sliding on his glasses with one hand, he unfolded the paper with the other. “I’ll call the security director,” he said absently, eyes never leaving the letter. “He’ll make sure you aren’t stopped on your way to the CFO’s office.”

He gestured to Shehak, who reached immediately for the intercom.

Not bothering to wait, I stepped out of the cavernous office, breathing deeply to steady the pounding in my chest.

After the dim confines of Sai’s chamber, the bright lights in the lobby were almost blinding. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and expensive perfumes.

I tapped my phone, shooting off a quick message.

Trying to blend in with the stream of smartly dressed men and women, I started walking toward the elevators. Files and tablets in hand, industrious Zintra employees strode past me in every direction. Heels clicked against the marble floor, accompanied by snippets of hurried conversation. The hum of activity filled the air.

A cluster of interns fumbled with the controls near the row of elevators. Close by, two uniformed security guards stood watch, their eyes scanning the group with practiced detachment.

My pulse quickened as I neared the guards.

One of the guards glanced my way. His gaze swept over me; a quick, nerve-wracking inspection.

A couple of seconds ticked by. Then, he gave me a curt nod, shifting his gaze back to the interns.

I stifled a sigh of relief, forcing myself to walk past with measured confidence. As though I had every reason, every right to be here. As though I belonged.

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside along with the interns, pressing the button for the 14th floor.

It had worked. Sai had kept his word. I’d reach my destination unmolested.