They came for Ranveer Chaudhry at 2:37 a.m.
By 3:12, the party headquarters looked like it was hosting a wake. Lights on, tempers high, egos bruised. Rajasthan’s Chief Minister—legendary politician, public’s favourite, three‑time election winner—had been shoved into a police van like a petty thief. His kurta was still tucked in. His dignity wasn’t.
Inside, Atharva Chaudhry sat at the head of the long teakwood table, surrounded by leaders who had spent years pretending he was just the grandson, not the storm.
The general secretary, Rohit Chaudhry—Ranveer’s son and Atharva’s maamu—was sweating through his shawl.
“We need a face,” he said, voice quivering with urgency. “The media’s having a field day. They’ve already convicted Ranveer saab. If we don’t get ahead of this, the party’s dead before sunrise.”
Atharva didn’t respond. Not yet.
“Beta,” Rohit tried again, softer this time, “you should speak. The people like you. They’ll listen.”
A few heads nodded. Some in genuine agreement. Some in carefully measured self-preservation.
And then—because every political room needs one idiot—a junior minister spoke up.
“With due respect,” he said, clearing his throat like he was about to deliver a TED Talk, “maybe we should consider distancing the party from Ranveer saab for now. Just temporarily. Publicly.”
The room went still.
“Are you saying,” Atharva said, looking at him for the first time, “that we throw him under the bus before the bus even slows down?”
“I’m only saying what the public is thinking,” the minister replied, trying to sound brave. “The evidence is damning. His car. The girl seen at his residence. The scholarship. I mean… it doesn’t look good.”
“It doesn’t look good,” Atharva repeated, standing now.
He walked slowly toward the minister.
“Do you know how many times you have entered that same home office?”
The minister blinked. “I—well—yes, but—”
“Should I pull CCTV footage? Or should we go ahead and check which of you still has the access code to that garage?”
The man shrank a little.
Atharva leaned in, voice low, dangerous.
“If Ranveer Chaudhry wanted to hide a body, it would not be in his own car, parked next to a qabristan in full view of ten security cameras and God. He’s not sloppy. He’s not stupid. And above all, he’s not a coward.”
No one spoke.
“You think this party survives without him?” Atharva continued. “Let me make it simple: If you think throwing my grandfather to the wolves will save your seat, you’re next. The wolves eat last.”
He turned to the rest of the room.
“Call the press. Now. I’ll speak.”
Rohit nodded like a man who had just remembered who was actually in charge.
Atharva fixed his collar, walked out of the room, and headed straight into the glare of flashing cameras and breaking headlines.
The prince was done watching the kingdom burn.
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