Param had just slammed his fist into the wall when his second phone buzzed — the one only a few trusted insiders used.

He ignored it.

Another buzz. And another. Then his email notifications started flooding in.

One. Two. Seven. Ten.

Finally, the phone rang again.

He picked it up with a snarl. "What now?"

The voice on the other end wasn't smug this time. It was stunned.

"It's over, Param. You need to lay low. Like, now."

His brows knit. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You haven't seen it yet?"

"Seen what?"

"The news. The property case is reopened. And guess who filed it?"

Param's fingers trembled as he opened his news feed.

The top headline hit him like a punch to the ribs.

⸻

📰 Breaking News:

Heir Returns — Piya Kaur, daughter of Late Kiranjeet and Ranjan Kaur, files lawsuit over ₹3000 Cr disputed inheritance. Accuses unnamed family members of fraud, land seizure, and orchestrated attempts on her life.

⸻

His face went white.

"No. No, no, no, she can't. She doesn't have the records. I made sure everything was destroyed—"

"Apparently not everything," the voice replied. "She submitted original birth records, school files, and a sealed statement from an NGO dated fifteen years ago. The same year your uncle's warehouse caught fire."

Param staggered back. "The NGO report... That was buried. How—"

"Well, someone unburied it. Probably her husband."

"Also... the court has fast-tracked the hearing. Judge is known for hating land grab cases."

Param's mind raced, grasping for control, for leverage, for a next move — but the walls were closing in.

Piya had married Viom.

She had filed the lawsuit.

She had brought back her identity — her name, her bloodline, her proof.

And she had done it all in less than 48 hours.

For the first time in years, Param Singh Chaddha felt something unfamiliar pulse in his chest — not rage. Not arrogance.

Fear.

He slammed the laptop shut.

"Fine," he muttered, voice shaking. "You want war, Piya? You'll get it."

But deep down, he knew — the girl he once tried to erase was no longer the same.

She wasn't running anymore.

She was coming back for everything.

The judge adjusted his glasses, eyeing the crowded courtroom with sharp focus. The tension was palpable — even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Piya sat down slowly after her bold declaration, her palms clammy but her spine straight. Every step, every word, was a reclaiming.

As murmurs stirred again, Viom Chaddha rose from his seat beside her. Clad in a crisp black suit, his expression calm, but the fire in his eyes unmistakable.

"Your Honor," he began, voice strong but respectful, "if I may address the court on behalf of my wife, Mrs. Piya Kaur."

A flicker passed through the judge's eyes — recognition, curiosity, and permission.

Viom continued:

"In light of the overwhelming documentation submitted — the forged land transfer deeds, concealed NGO reports, medical files confirming post-traumatic injuries, and multiple sealed testimonies —

I formally request that the primary suspect, Mr. Param Singh Chaddha, be taken into judicial custody until this case reaches a verdict."

A hush fell.

Viom's tone sharpened as he spoke further:

"This is not merely a case of disputed inheritance. It's a history of violent suppression, sexual assault, and attempted murder.

The accused is not only well-connected, but has actively used his wealth and influence to sabotage witnesses and erase evidence.

We cannot risk another attempt to intimidate my wife — or manipulate the legal process."

Across the courtroom, Param's lawyer shot to his feet, shouting, "Objection! This is character assassination! My client has not been convicted of anything—"

But the judge raised a hand, silencing him with a single look.

He turned to Viom.

"And do you have any direct evidence of intent to flee, or manipulate proceedings?"

Viom stepped forward and placed a USB drive on the evidence table.

"Yes, Your Honor.

This contains call records from Mr. Chaddha's associate attempting to bribe hospital staff, and a location trace from a private investigator showing Mr. Chaddha lingering near my wife's ward days before she was admitted under protection."

Gasps broke out again in the courtroom.

Param stood now, red-faced and furious, whispering harshly to his lawyer. But Viom never looked his way.

The judge examined the bailiff, who nodded after verifying the chain of custody on the evidence.

A tense beat passed.

Then the judge leaned forward and said firmly:

"Given the seriousness of the allegations and submitted evidence,

this court orders that Mr. Param Singh Chaddha be taken into judicial custody immediately.

Bail consideration will only be discussed following preliminary cross-examination under court supervision."

The gavel struck.

"Take him."

Param exploded. "You can't do this! I'm a Chaddha! I built that empire!"

But the guards were already on him. Metal cuffs clicked shut. The crowd parted. No one reached out. No one helped him.

And for the first time, Piya turned her head — just enough to meet his eyes.

Calm.

Unforgiving.

Untouched.

The real heir had spoken.

The moment the court adjourned, the doors burst open and a storm of media descended.

Flashes. Microphones. Shouting reporters.

"Piya ma'am! How do you feel re-claiming your father's empire?"

"Do you have proof of the assault?"

"Will you seek criminal charges against Param Singh Chaddha?"

Viom immediately stepped in front of Piya, shielding her with his body, flanked by two court-appointed guards and their private security detail. His voice was firm and calm.

"No comments at this time. Please clear the passage."

Radhika linked arms with Piya, guiding her down the steps.

But amid the press wall, no one noticed the side gate unlatching.

No one saw the black SUV screech past the police barrier.

And no one reacted fast enough when Param Singh, still in partial custody but awaiting transfer to central jail, broke free.

"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!" he bellowed, charging through the crowd like a wild animal.

In his hand — a shard of broken glass, hidden during the scuffle.

He lunged.

Straight toward Piya.

Everything froze.

Viom turned just in time to see Param raise his arm, the sharp edge gleaming in the sun.

"PIYA!" he screamed.

But before Param could reach her —

Three guards slammed into him from the side, knocking him off balance.

One police officer drew his baton, striking his wrist — the glass flew from his hand.

And a second officer tackled him, pinning him down against the courthouse steps.

Piya stumbled back, heart racing, lungs struggling to keep up. Her hand instinctively flew to her chest.

Viom grabbed her, arms wrapping tightly around her, checking her — top to toe.

"You're okay. You're okay. You're safe. You're safe now," he whispered rapidly, his own hands trembling.

But when Piya looked up — it wasn't just fear in her eyes.

It was rage.

She turned toward the cameras that still kept rolling — stunned, silent, now broadcasting a failed assassination attempt.

"Show that," she said coldly. "Let the world see what I've lived through."

Behind her, Param lay cuffed to the ground, bleeding and screaming like a cornered animal.

This time... no one offered him a hand.