The Ultimatum
The sound of glass tapping echoed through the sleek boardroom as Riaan Malhotra placed his Montblanc pen neatly beside the stack of documents. Twelve people sat around the oval mahogany table, all eyes on him. He didn’t look up from the quarterly projections as he spoke.
“Drop the investment in Shoreline Tech. Their burn rate is unsustainable. Redirect capital to our AI vertical — it’ll triple by Q3. End of discussion.”
There was a brief, weighted silence. Then a few nods. No one dared to challenge him. At thirty, Riaan commanded respect — not with noise, but precision. His sharply tailored navy suit, the icy steel watch on his wrist, and the air of controlled confidence made it clear: he was not to be questioned.
The meeting adjourned ten minutes early, just like every meeting he ran. Efficient. Ruthless. No frills.
Riaan rose from his seat, unbuttoned his blazer, and strode toward the glass wall overlooking the cityscape. Mumbai shimmered below — a haze of motion, sweat, money, and dreams. He wasn’t part of it. Not really. He ruled it from above.
“Nice bloodbath in there,” came a voice behind him. Older. Familiar. Firm.
Riaan turned. His grandfather stood by the doorway, leaning on his cane like a royal scepter. The man who built the Malhotra empire brick by brick. He didn’t often interrupt board meetings.
“Dadaji,” Riaan said, nodding respectfully. “Didn’t know you were visiting the office today.”
“Didn’t know I needed an appointment to see my own grandson,” he replied dryly. “Walk with me.”
Riaan stiffened slightly but followed. They moved through the private corridor leading to his grandfather’s executive suite — untouched for years, but always preserved like a time capsule of a different era.
Once inside, the older man settled into his leather chair while Riaan remained standing, arms crossed.
“I saw the interview,” his grandfather said, pulling out a folded newspaper. “‘Profit over people is not a crime. It’s clarity.’ That was your quote?”
Riaan gave a half shrug. “It was taken out of context.”
“Was it?”
He didn’t answer.
“I won’t live forever, Riaan,” the old man said, eyes narrowing. “And I didn’t spend five decades building this business just to hand it to a machine in a three-piece suit.”
Riaan’s jaw clenched. “With respect, I’ve tripled your growth in the last three years.”
“You’ve killed our soul in the process.”
That cut deeper than he expected.
His grandfather opened a drawer and tossed a brown envelope on the table. “Read this.”
Riaan stepped forward, flipping it open. Inside were documents. Legal. Detailed. He scanned the top lines, his brows slowly knitting.
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“You want me to disappear for six months?”
“I want you to live,” the old man said, voice quiet but commanding. “Without a last name. Without a chauffeur. Without the safety net of billions cushioning your every move.”
Riaan stared at him. “You’re telling me to throw away my life for a social experiment.”
“No,” his grandfather said, standing now. His voice gained weight. “I’m giving you a chance to earn the life you’ve been handed. You’ve lost touch, beta. You don’t know struggle, or kindness, or what a home-cooked meal tastes like unless it’s plated by a Michelin chef.”
“And if I say no?”
The silence lingered.
“Then everything — the company, the shares, the estate — goes to Vikrant.”
Riaan’s face darkened. His second cousin. A spoiled idiot who barely knew the difference between equity and empathy.
“This is madness,” Riaan muttered.
“No. This is legacy,” his grandfather said, stepping close. “Six months, Riaan. With a modest allowance. New name. No business ties. No credit cards. You’ll find a job. Live small. Pay rent. Eat what you can afford. Let the world show you what it’s made of — and maybe, let it show you who you are.”
Riaan’s mouth opened. Then shut. His mind raced, his pride roared — but somewhere deep in the echo, a long-forgotten part of him stirred.
“Six months,” he repeated.
His grandfather nodded. “You leave by the weekend. Or you walk away from it all.”
The clock on the wall ticked. Riaan stared at the envelope again. Somewhere outside the window, the city moved on — uncaring, untamed, alive.
He wasn’t ready to let go of everything. But maybe… just maybe, it was time to find out if there was something worth holding on to.
“I’ll do it,” he said, the words catching even himself by surprise.
His grandfather gave a quiet smile — the first in months. “Good. Let’s see if six months can turn an heir… into a man.”
