Chapter 5

The day starts like clockwork for Mumbaikers. Clouds still linger, pale and heavy, casting muted shadows over Mumbai’s towering skyline. But the city and its chaos still go on.

Ashwin Nair adjusts his cufflinks, his dark suit tailored to perfection, a tie knotted with deliberate symmetry, hair slicked back just so and his polished shoes reflect the dull light filtering through his penthouse windows. He checks his watch—9:45 a.m., right on schedule.

He picks up his leather briefcase, smooth to the touch and devoid of a single blemish, and steps into the private elevator. The polished metal doors slide shut, sealing him in.

The mask is back in place today.

The CEO of one of Mumbai’s most lucrative logistics firms, a man whose name is whispered with admiration in corporate circles, descends to the city below. The world sees a brilliant entrepreneur, a philanthropist who funds orphanages and scholarships, a man whose rise from nothing to wealth is the stuff of inspiration.

The Mask of Deceit.

As the elevator doors glide open, his secretary, Kavya, is already waiting in the lobby, her tablet held close. She smiles—brisk, professional.

“Good morning, sir. Your 10 a.m. with the board has been moved to 11. Also, the papers have been finalized for the new shipping routes to Singapore.”

Ashwin nods, his expression neutral. “Send a thank-you gift to the delegation,” he replies. His voice is calm carrying just the right weight of authority.

The ride to the office is swift. His chauffeur navigates the congested streets with practised ease, and Ashwin leans back in the plush seat of his car, his gaze flickering to the city outside. At every red light, vendors approach the car, tapping on the tinted windows with hopeful persistence—offering garlands, toys, and the day’s tabloids.

As one particularly persistent flower-seller peers in, Ashwin’s lips curve into a faint smile. His gaze flickers to his side, where a disarray of marigold garlands spills from an open box.

His secretary, seated beside the chauffeur in the front, notices and lets out a soft laugh. “You could open a flower stall with those. Why do you even buy them every time?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Ashwin chuckles, a sound as smooth as it is dismissive. “Maybe I like the chaos they bring,” he replies.

She shakes her head, still grinning. “You’re impossible.”

He doesn’t respond, his attention already shifting back to the world outside. The city blurs past—indifferent and alive, just like him.

At the headquarters, employees greet him with “Good mornings.” He strides through the expansive lobby, marble floors gleaming under his polished shoes. Inside his corner office, sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sleek glass desk and curated artwork on the walls.

The room is the epitome of control. Not a pen out of place, not a speck of dust marring its surface. Just the way Ashwin needs it.

His day unfolds predictably: meetings with investors, presentations from department heads, a lunch with an industry leader. His responses are sharp, his insights cutting, leaving no room for doubt about his competence. People admire him, envy him even.

At 3 p.m., a group photo is taken for a corporate event. Ashwin stands at the centre, his smile perfect but devoid of warmth. The camera flashes, capturing a moment of triumph, but all he feels is the itch beneath his skin—the discontent, the shadow of the other self-stirring within him.

Later, in the solitude of his office, he loosens his tie and pours himself a drink. The whiskey burns a familiar comfort. His eyes fall on the glass paperweight on his desk—a gift from the orphanage he secretly funds.

Inside the gift box lies—a collection of letters and drawings from the children at the orphanage. Each sheet is a riot of crayon colours and uneven handwriting, a chaotic contrast to the precision of his surroundings.

A messy painting of a house sits on top, the roof crooked and the sun a lopsided yellow circle. Beneath it, a letter reads in bright, scrawling letters: "Thank you, Uncle! Please come back soon!" The words are surrounded by hearts and stars, their shapes unsteady but filled with hope. Ashwin sifts through them slowly, his fingers careful as though touching something fragile. One by one, the crayon drawings unfold before him—a stick figure holding hands with children, a field of flowers, and a rainbow that defies proportion but not imagination.

Each piece feels alive, with the unfiltered joy of the children who created them. Beneath the colourful chaos, words repeat themselves: "Thank you." "Please visit again." Some are signed with names in shaky handwriting, others with only a hesitant scribble.

Ashwin's lips curve into a faint smile, one that softens his usual sharpness.

He sets the stack back down with deliberate care, his fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

Ashwin doesn’t visit often, but when he does, he is someone else. The children see not the calculating CEO or the shadowed criminal, but a man who laughs, who kneels to their level, who listens to their stories. They see a lie, but it’s a lie he clings to—a beautiful one.

Tonight, he plans to visit again.

He finishes his drink and presses the intercom. “Cancel my evening appointments,” he says.

As he steps out of his office, the polished floors of his empire gleaming beneath his feet, the mask remains intact.