Curiosity Is a Dangerous Thing

Back inside the car, Aaragya Rathore stared out of the tinted window and said absolutely nothing.

Which, according to Armaan, was deeply suspicious.

The city lights of Delhi blurred past them in gold and white streaks, traffic still alive despite the late hour, but Aaragya wasn’t paying attention to any of it. She sat with one elbow resting against the door, fingers lightly touching her temple, her expression unreadable.

That hallway encounter kept replaying in her mind.

The stillness.

The silence.

The way Jaswant Singh Rajput had looked at her as if he was studying something rather than simply seeing it.

And worst of all.

the way he had looked back.

She hated people who left impressions.

She hated him even more for leaving one without even speaking.

“Okay,” Armaan finally said, breaking the silence, “I’ve officially decided.”

Aaragya didn’t move. “Decided what?”

“That if that man ever smiles, the economy will collapse.”

That pulled the smallest, unwilling snort out of her.

Armaan pointed at her dramatically. “There. She lives.”

Aaragya rolled her eyes and leaned back. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re pretending you weren’t disturbed.”

She turned to him with a warning look. “I was not disturbed.”

“Of course not.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why have you looked like you’re planning either a revolution or a murder for the last twenty minutes?”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe both.”

That made him laugh.

But once the teasing faded, Armaan’s expression turned more serious.

“Just stay careful,” he said quietly. “Men like him don’t move without reason.”

Aaragya looked away again.

That was exactly what bothered her.

Because Jaswant didn’t seem like the type to waste attention.

So why had it felt like she had all of it?

Meanwhile, across the city, Jaswant sat in the backseat of his own car, the silence around him far more deliberate.

His security convoy moved through the Delhi roads with practiced precision. Inside the car, only the low hum of the engine existed.

His phone screen glowed faintly in his hand.

A message from one of his political aides remained open.

Rathore Group – under review. No immediate irregularities found. Further audit ongoing.

He stared at the screen for a few seconds.

Then locked it.

No reaction.

No visible thought.

But when his secretary, seated in the front passenger seat, turned slightly and said, “Sir, tomorrow’s briefing files are ready,” Jaswant’s reply came a second later than usual.

“Hmm.”

That alone was enough for the man to notice.

After years of working around Jaswant, people learned to read his silences better than his words.

And tonight, there was a different kind of silence around him.

Not anger.

Not strategy.

Something sharper.

More focused.

Finally, Jaswant spoke.

“Rathore.”

The secretary straightened. “Sir?”

“Her public work,” Jaswant said, voice calm. “What exactly does she involve herself in?”

The question was so unexpected that the man blinked once before answering carefully. “Social advocacy, sir. Mostly anti-corruption campaigns, women’s safety awareness, public pressure campaigns online… and some legal aid support through one of the Rathore foundations.”

Jaswant looked out the window.

“She runs it?”

“She’s actively involved, yes.”

A pause.

Then

“Get me a full profile.”

The secretary hesitated only for a fraction of a second. “Personal or professional, sir?”

Jaswant’s eyes remained on the dark road ahead.

“All of it.”

And just like that, the matter was settled.

No explanation.

No further discussion.

But the order itself was enough to make one thing very clear:

Aaragya Rathore had become relevant.

And Jaswant Singh Rajput did not study irrelevant things.

The next afternoon, Aaragya stood in front of her bedroom mirror in Mumbai, tying her hair into a clean ponytail while her phone buzzed non-stop on the dressing table.

Another corruption case had broken online.

Another video.

Another politician.

Another attempt to bury the truth under expensive lies.

Her jaw tightened.

Without thinking twice, she picked up her phone, opened her camera, and hit record.

She didn’t sit down this time.

She stood.

Straight-backed.

Angry.

Dangerously clear.

“Power is not a crown,” she said, looking directly into the camera. “It is a responsibility. And if leaders think they can enter office, wear authority like fashion, and forget the people they promised to serve then they deserve to be questioned. Publicly. Loudly. Repeatedly.”

Her voice sharpened.

“I don’t care how powerful the chair is. If the person sitting on it is wrong, they should be called out.”

She posted it immediately.

Within minutes, it exploded.

Again.

And somewhere in Delhi, while reviewing internal ministry files, Jaswant’s phone lit up with the notification.

He opened the clip.

Watched all of it.

Once.

Then again.

His thumb paused over the screen after the video ended.

No expression changed.