The Unseen Trap

July 27, 2009 – 8:15 PM

Aritra's Home, Dakshin Barasat, Kolkata

Aritra's car screeched to a halt just outside the small two-story house he had called home for the past decade. The structure, though modest, stood sturdy—a white-painted facade with slightly faded blue window frames, a small balcony on the first floor where his mother often dried clothes, and an iron gate that led to the narrow courtyard filled with potted plants. It was a home filled with memories, warmth, and the comfort of familiarity. But tonight, something felt wrong.

Four black luxury cars were parked along the narrow lane outside, their tinted windows reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps. The sight of these foreign vehicles alone made Aritra's pulse race. This wasn't normal. His grip tightened on the door handle as he stepped out, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

He barely had time to react when he noticed the figures lurking in the shadows—tall men in dark suits, strategically positioned around the house. There were at least thirty of them, and none of them were familiar faces. Not a single one belonged here.

Aritra's heart pounded against his ribs, but he forced himself to maintain composure. His mind raced, evaluating his options. Who were these people? What did they want? Why was his home surrounded like a crime scene?

The front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside, his instincts screaming at him to turn back.

The dimly lit living room was unnaturally quiet except for the faint ticking of the old wall clock. His parents sat stiffly on the worn-out sofa, their expressions a mixture of anger, fear, and something he couldn't quite place—defeat.

Seated opposite them were six strangers. Five men dressed in tailored black suits, their European features sharp and unreadable. And then, there was her.

Aritra's breath caught in his throat. A woman—no, a goddess—sat beside his mother. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen before.

Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders like liquid silk, contrasting against her form-fitting ivory dress. Her sapphire-blue eyes held a quiet storm, studying him with an unreadable expression. Everything about her screamed perfection, yet there was an undeniable edge of danger beneath the elegance.

His father, who had been sitting tensely, suddenly shot up, his voice shaking with emotion. "What have you done?!"

Aritra barely had time to react before his father pointed toward the table. A stack of photographs lay scattered on the wooden surface.

With a sinking feeling, he stepped forward and picked up the topmost image. His eyes widened in shock.

The photograph showed himself—with the same woman now sitting beside his mother.

They were standing at the entrance of his Jadavpur residence, his hand resting gently on her neck, their faces dangerously close—as if caught in an intimate moment.

Aritra's head spun. When did this happen? His mind frantically searched for answers. Was this edited? Was this AI-generated? Who was playing this twisted game?

Aritra: "This isn't real. I never—this never happened."

His father: "Then explain the pictures, Aritra! Explain why your mother is sitting here comforting her like she is already family!"

Aritra's mother gave him a sorrowful look, her hand still on the girl's shoulder. "Beta, please don't lie. This isn't about us. It's about doing the right thing."

Aritra clenched his fists. "What right thing? I don't even know her! This is a setup!"

A deep, commanding voice cut through the tension.

"Can I talk to him alone?"

Aritra turned towards the speaker. The man who had just spoken was older, powerful, and carried himself like a king among men. His piercing gray eyes bore into Aritra with something between calm calculation and unshakable authority.

Nathaniel Blackwood.

Nathaniel: "Let's take this upstairs."

Aritra's father: "Whatever you want to say, you can say it here. Why take my son upstairs like this is some sort of business negotiation?"

Nathaniel, with a calm smile: "Because this conversation is not for an audience. If you want answers, let your son decide if he is capable of understanding what is at stake."

Aritra's mother, softly: "Let them talk, please."

Aritra, clenching his jaw: "Fine."

Upstairs, in Aritra's small, familiar room, Nathaniel closed the door behind them.

Nathaniel: "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Aritra, arms crossed: "Should I?"

Nathaniel smirked. "That depends. Do you pay attention to the names of the men who control the world?"

Aritra scoffed. "Power isn't inherited—it's built. And I built mine from the ground up."

Nathaniel chuckled. "That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Naskar. Power, real power, is never built—it is taken, shaped, and wielded by those who understand its weight. You may have carved out an empire, but you are still playing in the shadows of men who were born into this game long before you even knew it existed."

Aritra's jaw tightened. "So what? You expect me to bow just because you walk in here with your expensive suit and entourage?"

Nathaniel leaned in. "I expect you to recognize inevitability. You are brilliant, Aritra, but brilliance alone does not win wars. Wars are won by those who dictate the terms before the first battle even begins. And you, my young friend, are walking onto a battlefield I have already conquered."

Aritra: "And if I refuse?"

Nathaniel exhaled, as if disappointed. "Then you can watch everything crumble. Your assets frozen. Your name dragged through courts. But more importantly... your parents will lose everything. Their home, their peace, their dignity. And you will spend the rest of your days watching from a prison cell."

Aritra's fists clenched. "You think you can scare me into submission?"

Nathaniel smirked. "Not scare, Aritra. Persuade. This is just a preview of what non-compliance looks like."

Aritra, voice low but unwavering: "And what happens if I say yes?"

Nathaniel: "Either you marry my daughter, or by tomorrow morning, the world will know. Your empire will collapse. And most importantly..." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper, "Are you ready to see your parents cry when you are dragged away in handcuffs?"