The scream echoed through the east wing.
Meher dropped the ledger in her hand and ran, heels clicking against marble as her heart pounded faster than her footsteps.
It wasn’t until she reached the hallway outside Kabir’s private study that she saw it.
Blood.
Smeared across the floor like someone had been dragged.
She burst into the room—
Empty.
Except for the portrait.
It had hung on the wall for years. An oil painting of Kabir’s father, cloaked in shadows, eyes hollow and cruel.
Now it was ruined.
A knife had been driven straight through the painted throat—
And someone had scrawled across the canvas in blood:
“History always repeats itself.”
Kabir arrived minutes later, gun raised, men behind him. But he didn’t speak. He just stared at the painting, jaw locked.
“Is this a message?” Meher asked, breathless.
He nodded once. “It’s a promise.”
“From who?”
Kabir didn’t answer. Not right away.
Then he whispered the name like it hurt.
“Rehan.”
Meher froze.
“Your brother?”
Kabir’s eyes stayed on the blood. “The one I buried ten years ago.”
“But he’s—”
“I saw his body, Meher. I put him in the ground.”
She stepped back, a chill crawling up her spine. “Then who left this?”
Kabir turned to her, voice sharp.
“Someone who wants to remind me… that ghosts never stay dead. Especially the ones we create ourselves.”
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