At first glance, the Ministry of Internal Security didn’t look all that secure.

  Four squat, three-story buildings sat ensconced within a massive garden, bursting with flowers shaded by towering trees. Birds chirped nonstop, and squirrels darted across the grounds.

  It felt more like an enchanted forest than the center of national security.

  I walked along a narrow red-brick path toward the easternmost building. Concealed among the flower beds, security cameras tracked my every move.

  As I approached the main doors of the building, two armed guards in crisp uniforms stepped forward. One gestured to a sleek security kiosk just outside the entrance.

  Obediently, I pressed my palm to the biometric scanner. A strip of light swept over it, moments before a soft beep signaled approval.

  The guards at my heels, I stepped through the glass doors.

  Inside, the air was crisp, cool. Carrying a faint scent of polished wood and something sterile, like disinfectant. Well-groomed officials, their expressions serious, moved about with confident purpose.

  Here, a full-body scanner awaited me.

  Handing my heavy cloth bag to one of the guards, I stepped into position. A soft pulse of light swept over me.

  As the scan ran its course, the other guard spoke in a low, rapid murmur into a handheld device.

  Five minutes later, my bag was returned and I was cleared to proceed.

  Papa’s office was on the first floor, so I took the stairs. Nodding at the few familiar faces I passed; I maintained a steady pace – my presence acknowledged but never lingering.

  In no time, I reached the heavy wooden door at the far end of the first-floor hallway. Twisting the knob, I stepped into the hushed antechamber. He had an entire suite to himself – this sizeable reception area leading into his main office on one side, and a balcony on the other.

  A long table sat against one wall, usually occupied by his aides. At the moment, it was deserted.

  The office door was shut. Locked, I suspected. But the double doors to the balcony stood open, the sharp bite of cigarette smoke drifting through.

  I moved slightly closer, craning my neck to see.

  Papa stood with his back to me, his tall frame rigid as he gazed over the flourishing garden. A cigarette glowed between his fingers.

  Taking a step back, I dropped the heavy cloth bag onto the table with a deliberate thud. “Ammi sent lunch,” I said, striving for nonchalance.

  “I’ll take your word it isn’t poisoned.” Papa savored a slow drag of his cigarette. “For all her faults, at least Farida is straightforward. A quicker way to clear your path than whatever tangled maze Leena’s drawing you into. But then, you always did have a taste for the convoluted.” He turned, unhurried. His eyes were unreadable, lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. “The straight path never suited you, did it?”

  A couple of inches taller than me, Papa had broad, big-boned features and a high forehead. His eyes – one of the only traits I’d inherited from him – were strikingly large, even on his heavy-set face. Aside from the faint wrinkles around them, his face showed little evidence of aging.

  A short beard framed the lower half of his face, concealing the jagged scar on his chin. A souvenir from the time Maa, in a drunken rage, had slashed at him with a broken plate.

  That was twenty years ago, less than six months before she died.

  In all the years since, few had laid eyes on the lower half of Papa’s face. Obscured as it always was by his beard.

  Refusing to take his bait, I said: “You’re planning to send Moyna to Zilan.” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “You leaked classified intel about the changes to Zintra’s ingredient composition,” he retorted, tone a perfect mirror of mine. “Knowingly choked our funding. Undermined us.” His voice dropped, each word a quiet, deliberate warning. “Undermined me. Less than two months before the Fadani election.” He leaned ever so slightly forward. “And to what end? Betraying your own father, your own flesh and blood, at your stepmother’s behest?”

  We both knew which of my stepmothers he meant, though the name remained unspoken.

  Farida was a thorn in his side, but a thorn he could pluck out if it became necessary. Only Leena cast a shadow long enough to truly darken his path. She wasn’t just a threat. She was the threat. The only person who could dismantle everything he’d built, piece by careful piece.

  “You give me too much credit. I took Tara to Mignir for the concert, yes.” I fought to suppress the tremor in my voice. “A poorly-timed crush – that’s the worst you can accuse me of. But she knew nothing about any changes to Zintra’s formulations. Even Palika wasn’t stupid enough to discuss that kind of thing with his secretary.”

  “He wouldn’t have needed to. If someone had put her in a position to pick up on his conversations, access his—”

  “And even if he had,” I interrupted. “She was too drunk, and too busy drooling over the lead guitarist, to orchestrate any leaks. It’s all on video.” I joined him on the balcony, leaving ample room between us, and turned my attention to the garden. “Feel free to check her socials if you don’t believe me.”

  “Spare me the spectacle of your shameless philandering,” he spat. “I could not be less interested to see—”

  “Besides,” I continued, resisting the urge to point out the hypocrisy of this criticism, coming from a man who’d sired three children with three different women. “The leak originated in Binhai. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? What’s next? Are you going to accuse me of treason now? Conspiring with a foreign government to influence elections at home?”

  Everything in his demeanor told me he’d like to do just that. But for the fact that having a known traitor for a son would obliterate any chance he had of becoming prime minister.

  “Not a new trick for you, is it?” Something shifted in Papa’s voice, setting me on edge. “You think I’ve forgotten your little stunt with LMK? Manipulating those dim-witted kids online to pump up a dying steel company’s stock? Don’t try to tell me you cared about LMK and its moth-eaten factories. You were playing puppet-master, punishing the two private funds that’d shorted it. Punishing them for backing the HPA in the Zilani election.”

  “Paranoid as ever, Papa.” I kept my tone light, almost amused. “Why’d I bother punishing anyone for backing the losing side? I didn’t need to lift a finger to ensure the HPA’s defeat in Zilan. Your own policies guaranteed it. Didn’t another protestor just torch himself outside that prized stadium of yours?”

  Fury radiated from Papa in scorching waves, so intense I could almost feel the heat.

  My body tensed instinctively, muscles coiling in anticipation of a blow that never came. It wouldn’t, of course. Not here, not in public, under the ever-watchful eyes of the security cameras.

  But it never hurt to try.

  To push him a little further; needle him just enough to provoke a reaction. To shatter that carefully-curated fa?ade and give me the leverage I needed.

  No such luck this time, though. Raising the cigarette to his lips, Papa took a slow, deliberate drag. Then, he extinguished it on the balcony railing, the burning tip inches from my fingers.

  “Come.” He turned slightly, voice tranquil, and gestured to the table inside. “Let’s have lunch.”

  We exited the balcony, Papa closing the doors behind us.

  I set the table, unpacking the tiered lunchboxes and laying out the disposable cutlery. Two plates took center stage, surrounded by an assortment of small bowls for the side dishes. Piping hot parathas went on the plates, the bowls forming a vibrant semicircle of aromatic curries, stir-fries, pickles, and curd. Sweet, syrupy gulab jamuns for dessert.

  Papa watched my every move, eyes never leaving me for a single second.

  Ignoring him, I set down two sealed bottles of water and took my seat. He followed, settling into the other chair.

  And stared.

  I stared back, uncomprehending.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Dear God. Did he seriously think I was trying to poison him?

  Here, in his own office at the ministry of internal security?

  I might as well be tying the noose around my own neck. Signing off on my own execution.

  I was almost offended. More on his behalf than mine. I was his son, after all. His own flesh and blood. From a purely genetic standpoint, how stupid could I be?

  This wasn’t a battle worth fighting, however.

  Pulling my plate closer, I tore off a piece of paratha and used it to scoop up some creamy cauliflower curry – my favorite of the lot.

  I slid the bite into my mouth, chewed, swallowed. My gaze locked on Papa the entire time.

  A moment later, he followed suit. Mirroring my every move, tasting each dish only after I had.

  It took everything in me not to burst out laughing.

  A few minutes later, once I’d sampled every item (including dessert), Papa spoke. “You’ve been offered a position at Nys Corp. You know my old rowing teammate was recently appointed head of their Asset Management division. This is a significant opportunity for you to—”

  To sign away every last scrap of autonomy I’d clawed together in my 25 years of existence. In return for what? A gilded chain of respectability; a lanyard around my neck for my father to yank on whenever he saw fit?

  Hardly.

  “I’d love to, really.” I held up a hand. “It’s an honor. But I can’t. I promised Dwipin I’d help with his company’s internal audit this month. You remember Dwipin – my roommate? Leena invested in his quant trading startup right after we graduated.”

  Papa frowned, clearly irritated. I could all but see the gears grinding in his head, working to get ahead of me. Predict where this was going.

  “Well, his firm’s grown by leaps and bounds, these last couple years. But they’ve hit a slight snag with compliance.” I lifted a spoonful of curd to my mouth. “Some discrepancies in their trading algorithms, flagged by regulators. You know how it is. There’ll be hell to pay if they don’t sort it out, and quickly.”

  Papa looked poised to interrupt. But with a mouthful of paratha, pickles, and stir-fried green onions, he couldn’t.

  Seizing the opportunity, I barreled ahead.

  “And I can’t turn down a friend in need, can I? Especially one in such a…useful position. Well-connected, too. You’re the one who always told me to cultivate the right relationships.” I popped another piece of gravy-drenched paratha into my mouth. “Well, that’s what I’m doing. Cultivating.”

  The next few minutes passed with Papa pushing me to take the reserve bank entrance exams. Shifting seamlessly between persuasion and outright coercion.

  And me dodging each attempt with increasingly creative – often downright absurd – excuses.

  “You refuse to accept a position at a reputed investment firm. Handed to you on a silver platter. A job that hundreds of ambitious young men in this country would kill for.” Papa’s voice was soft, but the undercurrent of threat was palpable. “Because what? You’re too busy playing accountant for your friend’s little startup?” He let out a sharp, scornful laugh.

  “You have no respect for the position you’re in. No appreciation for the privileges you take for granted.” As he spoke, his words quickened. “Meanwhile, in this city alone there are far more talented, far more hardworking and deserving people who’ll never get the opportunities you squander without a second thought. And worst of all?” He sneered. “You don’t even pretend to take any of it seriously.

  “Because deep down, you’re afraid. Afraid to test yourself. To stand on equal footing with your peers – take the national banking exams and see what you’re really made of. Because you already know what you’ll find, don’t you?” Disgust laced his voice. “That you’re nothing. That all your so-called brilliance is a sham. Propped up not by talent or skill but by the simple, inescapable fact that you are my son.”

  After twenty-five years of this, my first, instinctive reaction was still defiant outrage. The sharp sting of indignation jabbed at my chest, years of buried resentment clawing its way to the surface.

  The primal urge to fight back. To prove him wrong. To tear out the barbs of his words; lodged deep under my skin after two decades of relentless repetition. By any means necessary.

  I tamped down on it. Hard.

  I’d have better luck bleeding a rock than making Papa see me as anything more than the dirt beneath his heel.

  To try would be to walk into his trap – one he’d laid a hundred times before. And one I’d fallen into, willingly, too many times to pretend I didn’t know better. To fool myself into thinking this time would be any different.

  He wanted me to lash out, to push back. To hurl myself into the ring and wear myself down – bleed – fighting for a prize that would be permanently out of my reach.

  Well, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not today. I had a job to do, and I forced myself to remember exactly why I was here. “Why would you transfer Moyna to Zilan?” I asked once again, my voice calm but insistent. “At a time like this. When the separatists are more popular than they’ve been in a decade, thanks to Shaukat Awan’s arrest.

  “Every major separatist leader with even a shred of influence is crawling out of the woodwork, rallying their supporters to defy the government. To actively attack government institutions and functionaries.”

  Finishing the last bite of his paratha with a piece of creamy cauliflower, Papa scoffed. “Reports of separatist activity in Zilan are wildly exaggerated. What else can you expect from today’s drama-hungry media? If the wind picks up, they call it a tornado,” he spat. “If they get dizzy, they swear it’s an earthquake. Cowardly paper-pushers, the lot of them!”

  “What’re you talking about?” I shot back, unable to hide my irritation. “Mahrang’s husband and son have both been caught on video, calling on their followers to avenge her murder—”

  I held up a hand, cutting off the interruption burning on his tongue. “I’m not saying she was murdered. They are. And they’re out for blood. Not just to avenge Mahrang, but now Shaukat Awan too. Though at least he’s still alive, last I checked.”

  “They’re all bark, no bite.” Papa sank his teeth into a gulab jamun. “If they dare make a move, try anything, they’ll be tossed into a dark cell and left to rot. Never to see the sun again. They know it better than anyone. They saw with their own eyes what happened to Mahrang, after all.”

  “Be that as it may, Zilan’s a powder keg and you know it.” I spoke through gritted teeth. “The last thing it needs is a member of the Naag family thrown into the mix. They hate us. And for good reason. If Mahrang’s relatives get their hands on Moyna, there won’t be anything left to ransom. Why would you cast your eldest daughter into that death trap?”

  Papa motioned for another piece of gulab jamun. I obliged.

  “Moyna works for the reserve bank. I have no authority to transfer her on a whim.” He replied after taking another bite of dessert. “But the fact remains…allegations of financial mismanagement in the construction of the Minjal Stadium are only getting louder, especially since the Zilani elections.

  “Budget overruns, material smuggling – someone needs to look into it.” He raised an eyebrow, expression oozing disdain. “And since you refuse to shed this reputation of a brainless peacock coasting on borrowed status, I have no choice but to rely on your sisters to help advance the family’s interests. To shoulder the responsibilities that you should’ve been handling.”

  “So that’s what this is about. Moyna’s just the decoy. I’m the lamb you want to serve up to the separatist wolves.” I swirled the last gulab jamun in its syrup, then let it crumble on my tongue, warm and sweet. “What is this? Punishment for the Zintra leaks? I told you I had nothing to do with that.”

  I glanced at him. Suddenly, everything snapped into place. “This is damage control, isn’t it? Banking on my tragic demise to erase the stain of the Zintra debacle? Maybe even propel you to the prime minister’s seat?” I chuckled. “You think throwing me to Mahrang’s vengeful kin will earn you some sympathy votes. Your only son, slaughtered by the Zilani separatists. Reason enough for a crackdown on Zilan, maybe even a temporary central takeover. And as a bonus, a wave of public sympathy. Two birds, one stone. Truly impressive, even by your exalted standards.”

  Papa’s expression didn’t waver. “You think I won’t follow through? That I won’t send Moyna to Zilan if you refuse to go?”

  “I thought you wanted me to join your friend’s investment firm.”

  “There’s nothing I want more,” Papa conceded. “But we both know you won’t take it seriously. You’ll squander the opportunity – because you don’t value it. Like you don’t value any of the privileges handed to you on a silver platter. Simply for being my son, for being an heir to the Naag legacy.

  “And that’s if you don’t actively sabotage it, just to spite me. When have you ever passed up an opportunity to embarrass me?” He gave me a slow, dismissive once-over. “Isn’t that why you refuse to cut your damn hair? Because you know it infuriates me. You revel in every petty act of defiance – in anything that provokes me – like a petulant child throwing an endless tantrum.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an exagger—”

  “You’d show up to your own wedding dressed as a frog,” he cut me off. “If you thought it’d give me an aneurysm.” He exhaled sharply, then leaned back in his chair. “I’m not risking my reputation on you. Not again. Not when you’ll only use the opportunity to humiliate yourself, and me, in front of my friend.”

  There were a thousand little ways he was twisting the truth; distorting events to paint himself as the victim, the one who’d been wronged.

  But from a purely objective standpoint, he wasn’t lying.

  The fingers of his left hand tapped a restless beat against the table. “You’ll go to Zilan. You’ll find out what’s happening at the Minjal Stadium construction site. Whether the management is siphoning funds; or whether the workers are smuggling materials across the border. And whatever it is, you won’t return to the capital until you’ve sorted it out.”

  “And if I refuse?” I asked. Already knowing the answer, but unable to keep myself from thrashing against the tide that threatened to drown me.

  His tone matter-of-fact, Papa said: “Then I’ll have to rely on Moyna to do what you won’t.”

  Credit where it was due – this was the perfect blackmail. Because we both knew, without the slightest doubt, that it would work.

  To Papa, we were all pieces on a board. And like any skilled player, he knew his pieces well.

  This round, Moyna was the one he’d play. Because of the three of us, she was the only one who still loved Papa, still trusted him.

  Nasreen tolerated him well enough. But even at just eighteen, she wouldn’t lift a finger at his bidding. Ammi had trained her well, in that regard.

  And me? He wasn’t wrong about me. I’d waltz into my own wedding in a frog costume, if there was the faintest hope the mortification might send him into cardiac arrest.

  But Moyna loved Papa. Still believed there was some achievement grand enough, some impossible standard she could meet…to finally earn his approval.

  She’d go to Zilan if he asked her to. Would convince herself he had a good reason for asking. That at the end of the day, he had her – and the country’s – best interests at heart.

  She’d build her own funeral pyre – stack the wood, pour the fuel, and light the match herself – just to hear him say he was proud of her.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll go. Just send me the details.”

  Because I couldn’t let Moyna pay for my sins.

  Well, insofar as a terrified seven-year-old could be said to have sinned.

  But even under coercion, my actions were still my own. I bore more responsibility for them than Moyna, who had nothing to do with it and probably still didn’t know all the details of what had happened.

  Papa had ordered Mahrang’s execution. But it was my testimony that’d tightened the noose around her neck.

  Yet, if Moyna went to Zilan, she’d be targeted simply for being Darpan Naag’s daughter.

  Papa couldn’t care less whether any of us lived or died. But Mahrang’s family didn’t know that. Her husband and sons couldn’t be faulted for assuming that killing Darpan Naag’s firstborn child would wound him. Would serve as vengeance, punishment for what he’d done to Mahrang.

  And Moyna shouldn’t have to suffer for something she never had a hand in.

  If someone had to pay for Mahrang’s death, it should be me. Well, ideally it should be Papa. But sometimes, second best is all you get. And the Zilani separatists might just have to make their peace with that, in the coming months.

  https://ko-fi.com/nupurchowdhury ??