Chapter 14: Ghosts of the Gala

The village air was thick with the scent of damp earth. Rain had finally come the night before, soft and slow, like a whispered blessing. The ground steamed as the morning sun rose, and life buzzed with a renewed energy.

Ishan sat alone under the awning outside his home, watching the dirt road dry in curling wisps of vapor. In his lap was a rough sketch of the village map. He'd been plotting — not for revenge, not this time, but for strategy. A way to protect the temple land. To fight back, yes, but not blindly.

And yet, his focus drifted.

To her.

To Asha.

To the sharpness in her eyes and the defiance in her stance.

She was nothing like anyone from his past life.

Or was she?

It started as a flicker.

A tremor in the back of his mind.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wooden post.

And suddenly, he was there.

In the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel. Golden chandeliers hanging like galaxies above a sea of silk gowns and tuxedos. Waiters moved like ghosts with trays of flutes and hors d'oeuvres. And he — Ishan Malhotra — stood at the center like a deity among mortals.

He remembered the sound of champagne fizzing, the way investors laughed too loudly, the flash of cameras.

And then... her.

Not in diamonds.

Not in the spotlight.

In a black uniform and white apron, carrying a silver tray.

She'd tripped. The red wine had flown like a ribbon, landing on the arm of a balding donor's suit.

The crowd had gasped. Someone laughed.

She didn't cry.

She had straightened, eyes wide but blazing. She had apologized — not with shame, but with dignity. And when the donor scoffed and made a cruel joke about "untrained help," she had said it.

"You don't get to speak down to me just because you're rich."

He had seen her.

He remembered watching. Admiring, maybe.

But he hadn't helped.

He'd turned away.

Because back then, she was just a face. A moment. A ripple in his perfectly still empire.

Until now.

His eyes snapped open.

Asha.

It had been her.

The realization haunted him all day.

He didn't tell her.

Not yet.

But when he saw her in class, bent over a tattered textbook, he watched her longer than usual.

She looked up. "What? Do I have paint on my face again?"

"No," he said, smiling faintly. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit."

"You have no idea."

That night, the flashback returned — sharper.

He saw himself at the gala, standing beside Ayaan. The secretary had whispered something about a possible merger. Ishan had nodded, distracted.

And then he remembered more.

After the girl — Asha — had spoken out, she'd been taken aside by a supervisor. Scolded. Humiliated.

And still, she'd refused to lower her head.

Ishan had left the gala early that night.

He had told himself it was boredom.

But maybe it was discomfort.

Maybe... it was the first crack in his armor.

Back in the present, he found her sitting near the temple courtyard after school.

She was sketching something in a notebook — designs for a protest banner.

He approached slowly.

She noticed, but didn't speak.

"I think I remember you," he said.

She glanced up. "We go to the same school."

"No. I mean before. Years ago. A charity gala. You spilled wine on someone."

Her hand froze mid-sketch.

"You were there?"

He nodded.

She looked down. "So you do remember."

His breath caught.

"You recognized me. Even in this life."

She nodded slowly. "At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then I saw how you walked. How you looked through people. How you argued like your words carried more weight. And I knew."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you didn't remember. And because I wanted to see who you were without the wealth. Without the power. Just the mind. And the heart."

He sat beside her, the world narrowing around them.

"You hated me then," he said.

"No," she said. "I pitied you. You had everything — and still looked so empty."

He exhaled slowly.

"I think that night stayed with me more than I realized."

"Good. Maybe it means you were human after all."

They sat in silence again. The sky burned orange above the temple domes. Children played in the distance. Cows wandered lazily past.

"Do you still pity me?" he asked finally.

She looked at him.

"No. Now I'm just watching."

"Watching what?"

"To see what kind of man you become when no one's watching."

He nodded.

"Fair enough."

That night, Ishan lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling, the memory playing on a loop.

The gala.

Her face.

Her voice.

And the undeniable fact that fate hadn't just given him a second life.

It had given him a witness.

A mirror.

A reckoning.

And maybe... a chance to get it right.

For once.