Ali: The Dead Heir - Still Haunted by His Father’s Karma

Chapter One

The Night of the Broadcast

Bangladesh — 10:03 PMLive Broadcast: HL News | Shirin Majumdar Reporting

Across Bangladesh, the nation held its breath. Some watched from tea stalls, cross-legged on plastic chairs. Some from rooftops. Some from the backseats of traffic-stuck buses. Others leaned over counters at late-night pharmacies, hotels, restaurants, and gas stations. Some watched in silence, some with rage. But almost all watched.

HL News live. And at its center, wrapped in a deep blue saree, the elegant, six-yard traditional garment worn by Bangladeshi women, Shirin Majumdar, lit by white studio lights like judgment in human form.

Majumdar wasn’t just an anchor; she looked like a verdict in motion. Her eyes? Cold. Her voice? Cut from ice. Her presence? Dangerous. Behind Shirin, the screen lit up. Sumon Shikder appeared as the cricket legend, the people’s star frozen mid-laugh, bat raised high, and immortal in pixels. Her voice dropped lower, her tone cold and precise. Every word landed like a scalpel. “Last night, tragedy struck Luminara City again.”

The image on the screen shifted. Gone were the smiles. In their place: sirens, flashing lights, kneeling beside lifeless bodies, a white sheet pulled tight. The scene said nothing but screamed everything. “National cricket star and beloved all-rounder Sumon Shikder was found dead in his South Luminara residence. Cocaine overdose. It was a private party, the kind whispered about, never confirmed. Three people didn’t survive. Sumon Shikder was one of them.”

She let the silence settle. Let it ache. Then she went deeper. “But if you know Luminara, you know this isn’t just a tragedy. It’s a warning. A city cracking in plain sight.”

The next segment rolled archival footage. “In 1980, the Khan Brothers Global Corporation unveiled Luminara City, a luxurious, high-tech smart zone on Dhaka’s northern edge. It was pitched as a dream: elite schools, smart homes, clean streets, innovation on every corner. A concrete utopia.”

Flash cuts on screen: ribbon-cutting ceremonies. Old politicians are smiling. Towers gleaming. Then, the tone shifted. The light dimmed. The dream started to rot. “But in 2016, the dream broke.” Images of decay filled the screen: cracked sidewalks, children pumping water from rusted pipes, neon shadows swallowing alleyways.

A city fraying at the edges. “When Rashid Khan, the founder and visionary, passed away, power shifted to his closest friend and business partner: Abdullah Khan.” Click. More images: yellow police tape, charred vehicles, padlocked schools.

“That’s when the rot began,” She continued. “Corruption became law. Education — abandoned. Electricity? Unreliable. Water? A luxury. Hope? For sale, on the black market.”

She leaned closer to the camera. “Now? Drug empires underground. Street races in the skyways. Hazing rituals soaked in blood. This is the new ‘culture.’”

A breath. “Luminara isn’t a dream anymore. It’s a neon-wrapped nightmare. A playground for the rich. A prison for the rest.” She paused perfectly timed, then delivered the final blow. “And every crime, every cover-up, every silence, in the end, it all leads back to one name.”

The screen cut to bold white letters against black. THE KHAN FAMILY.

Meanwhile | Khan Villa | Luminara City

From the outside, it appeared to be royal. But inside, it felt like a kingdom cracking beneath the weight of its silence. Abdullah Khan sat unmoving beneath the cold glare of a monstrous chandelier, in the center of a marble hall polished so perfectly it reflected ghosts. He was eighty years old, yet still the kind of man who didn’t need to speak to command a room. He didn’t sit in a chair. He ruled from a throne.

The family gathered around him like planets caught in orbit, each on edge, each spinning inside their private grief. To his right: Selim Khan, his only son, jaw locked, rage simmering just behind his eyes. Beside him: Lamia, Selim’s wife, sharp as glass, solid as steel. Grace like warpaint. Poised. Polished. Simmering.

To the left: Niloy, twenty-three, Selim’s son, slouched like gravity had bullied him since birth. Next to him: Mahira, Niloy’s wife, physically present, emotionally miles away. A soft presence, a hollow gaze, like she’d already stepped halfway out of this life. In the corner: Sultana, Abdullah’s youngest daughter. Thirty-six. Never married. Watching. Unreadable. Not cold, just emptied.

No one spoke. No one even breathed too loudly. Only Shirin Majumdar’s voice echoed across the marble, crackling from the projector like a verdict delivered by fate. Her tone? Glacial. Surgical. Every word bounced off the walls like a slap wrapped in silk. This wasn’t news. This was war, broadcast live. And tonight, the Khan family sat on trial, each one of them a defendant in the empire they built.

On the wall, Shirin’s face flickered a storm trapped behind glass. “And every crime, every cover-up, every silence, in the end, it all leads back to one name. The Khan Family.”

Click. The screen died. Lamia clicked the remote like it had bitten her. “Honestly, Father, at this point, if someone sneezes in Luminara, they blame you.” Abdullah didn’t blink. His voice was like marble cracking under pressure. “Why turn it off? Let it play. Let’s see how far Rocky Khan and Firoz Molla are willing to drag their theater of lies.”

Selim’s voice ignited fury, fire, and failure boiling beneath the surface. “As long as I live, I’ll never let either of them set foot in our company.”

Abdullah raised one hand. A mere whisper of control yet enough to silence thunder. “Enough.” Sultana’s voice slipped into the quiet, soft, and sincere. “Papa, if they keep defaming you like this, the board might start to lose faith.”

Abdullah gave a half-smile, a king’s smirk, heavy with history. “Trust built in fifty-five years doesn’t collapse over gossip.” Then he turned to Mahira. His voice softened. “Weren’t you and Niloy meant to dine with your parents tonight? Go. They’ll be waiting.”

Mahira sighed, tired, sharp. “Niloy doesn’t want to go. My father always lectures him. Calls him useless. I’m tired of it, too.”

Selim struck like a predator scenting weakness. “Your father only agreed to this marriage because he thought Niloy would change. Grow a spine. Two years later? Still the same. Lost in dreams. Coming home with bruises from boys half his size. Still talking about making movies.” Niloy looked down. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight. He just folded in on himself.

But Sultana’s eyes softened, motherly, merciful. “This world doesn’t know what to do with artists. Don’t shrink. You’re enough, just as you are.”

Then Lamia turned to Selim, and her voice turned to steel. “If courage is all that matters, then tell me why Sumon Shikder’s parents are burying their son tonight? He had courage. And yet, drugs dragged him into a grave.”

Selim let out a bitter laugh, dry as sand. “Takes guts to take drugs, too. My son doesn’t even have that. The only brave thing he’s ever done was run off to marry her.”

Lamia snapped. Her voice was a blade wrapped in velvet. “That’s enough.” Then Abdullah turned. Slowly. Like a verdict being written in stone. His voice wasn’t loud. But it landed like thunder, wearing gloves. “By your logic, you are a failure, too. You’re the CEO. Since Rashid’s death, you’ve held the reins. And yet the company bleeds day by day. So tell me, with all your so-called strength, what exactly have you saved?”

Selim bowed his head. No fire left to burn. Around the room, glances flicked like ghosts in mirrors. No one dared speak. Only silence remained, and the slow, dying smile of a family that had everything… except peace.

Then, the doors burst open. Emran Khan, Abdullah’s nephew, stormed in like a man on fire, wind trailing behind him. Behind him: Purnima, his wife. Quiet as a shadow. She moved beside Lamia, head low, hands clenched in her lap. Emran? He was pacing, like rage had hijacked his blood. He hadn’t come to speak. He’d come to explode. Abdullah’s eyes narrowed. His voice was stone dipped in steel. “What is it, Emran? Why this chaos?” Emran’s voice cracked the room in half. “That bastard Kalam just broke off his relationship with my daughter so that he can get engaged to Firoz Molla’s daughter. Shathi. Tonight.”

A silence sharper than gunfire fell. Every face froze except Purnima’s. She already knew. Sultana gasped. “What are you saying?”

Purnima nodded, eyes brimming with tears, like a truth too long buried had finally surfaced. “It’s true. Sohana hasn’t stopped crying since she found out.” Mahira spoke next, her voice barely a whisper, like heartbreak had stolen her breath. “I don’t believe this. After everything they survived? I thought that bond would never end.”

Then her tone shifted. Sweetness rusted into venom. “Just days ago, Kalam humiliated Shathi in front of half the city for spreading lies about our Sohana sis. And now he’s marrying her?” Emran exhaled slowly. His rage cooled into something heavier. Resignation. “This isn’t love. This is a business deal in disguise.”

His voice dropped to gravel. “Kalam’s father, Kobir, is merging his company with Firoz Molla’s. This engagement? Just a handshake wrapped in a bridal veil.” Mahira let out a hollow, sharp, and bitter laugh. “Well played, Shathi. Couldn’t win Kalam with her heart, so she called in Daddy’s empire to finish the war.”

Purnima turned sharply. Her eyes flared. “Wait, are you saying Shathi always had feelings for Kalam?”

Mahira didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. Her voice was proud, as if she were defending royalty. “Yes. In Luminara, 30 percent of girls dream about Kalam. And 50 percent of boys? Dream about our Sohana. That’s why they were the golden couple.”

The room held its breath. Then, Abdullah stood. Slowly. Like a storm about to choose where to strike. He turned to Selim. Then to Emran. And when he spoke, his voice dropped into thunder. “If this engagement leaks tomorrow, the stock market will convulse.”

Selim nodded, the weight already crushing his shoulders. “And when their companies merge, their shares will explode.” Lamia couldn’t hold it in anymore. She slammed the armrest. “Father? While Sohana’s heart is being shattered, you’re calculating stock prices?”

Emran’s voice cracked, grief unraveling in real time. “Her future is being sold for business.” Selim clenched his jaw so tight it looked like his bones might snap. “How many more times will Firoz hit us and walk away laughing?” Emran’s voice shifted. No longer grief. Now it was war. “It’s time we strike back.” Selim echoed it. “Exactly.”

But Abdullah’s voice sliced the room in half. Cold. Calm. Final. A bullet wrapped in silk. “Enough.” He stared at Emran like a lion correcting a cub. “Strike back? What is this, some gangster film? You want a street war?”

He stepped forward. His voice is quieter now. But it dripped with ice. Poisoned wisdom, passed down like a knife. “Cool your fire, Emran. This is not the street. This is legacy. Fools brawl. Kings endure.” Then, he moved closer. Eyes locked. Voice soft. Deadly soft. “Tell me something, when are you shutting down that restaurant of yours?” A pause. Cold. Surgical. “Starting tonight, your time belongs to two things: The Company. And your daughter.” Judgment delivered. In the marble hall of Khan Villa, no voice dared rise after his.

Abbas Mansion | North Luminara City

It stood like a fortress. A palace carved from steel and shadow, looming over the city like a monument to power. Twenty armed guards flanked the gates, rifles across their chests, faces carved from stone. They didn’t just watch. They warned. Two black luxury sedans slid through the golden gates, vanishing into the velvet dark like ghosts with somewhere important to be. At the entrance beneath a chandelier of blood-red crystal, stood Firoz Molla.

Fifty years old. But time had feared him. A man whose name echoed through Luminara like a curse you couldn’t shake. Not respected, feared. Not admired or obeyed. By his side: his wife, Nasreen. And their children, Farooq and Shathi.

All dressed for celebration. Farooq tall, brooding, draped in an embroidered black Panjabi, the traditional long tunic worn by Bangladeshi men. Shathi was veiled in a deep crimson silk saree, her saree hugging her like it had secrets to keep. Nasreen was wrapped in a pale gold saree with silver trim. A silent queen with too much history in her eyes.

Together, they watched the cars disappear into the night. Firoz’s hand, large, calloused, brutal from life, landed on Shathi’s shoulder. “So, princess, are you happy now?” Shathi looked down. At the diamond on her finger, so large it looked stolen from the sky. A star that didn’t want to shine here. Her voice barely broke the silence. “Thank you, Papa.”

Then she turned and walked inside. No smile. No tears. Just silence. Unreadable. But beneath the satin and celebration, something darker was breathing. Thicker than air. Heavier than night.

Nasreen’s eyes lingered on her husband, not with pride. With sorrow. With disappointment. With the kind of despair that builds year by year, wound by wound. Her voice cracked at the edges. “Tell me something, Firoz, is all this really for Shathi? Or is this just another move in your war against the Khans?” A beat. The question landed like a blade. “How long will you walk this path of darkness?”

Firoz didn’t answer. He turned his head slowly, eyes flashing danger. Cold. Hard. Ancient. But before he could speak, Farooq’s voice exploded, slicing the night like a war drum. “As long as it takes. Until every last one of them is begging in the street.” Firoz let out a low laugh, grim, proud, and dangerous. He clapped a firm hand on Farooq’s shoulder. “Good boy.” Then a command. Quiet. Lethal. Surgical. “Now go. Spread the engagement news across the internet. Let another storm fall on the Khan family tonight.”

Nasreen said nothing. Her soul screamed, but her lips stayed sealed. Tears welled. She turned away. Walked back inside. Each step heavier than the last, like she was dragging all of history with her. Farooq climbed into the last car. The engine roared. Then silence.

Now, only one figure remained at the gates: Firoz Molla. He lit a cigarette. Inhaled slowly. Let the smoke curl out like a serpent, whispering curses into the wind. Then he muttered to no one. To the dark. To the war. To himself. “Now let Khan’s daughter learn what it feels like to lose the one you love.” And behind him, the mansion stood still. Silent. Smiling like a villain.

Rashid Villa | Central Luminara City

Another palace. But this one? Dressed in faded gold. Glory still lived here, but only in memory. In the drawing room, beneath a chandelier dulled by time, Falguni Begum sat like a queen the world had forgotten to fear. Seventy-six. Widow of Rashid Khan. Once the First Lady of Luminara. Now: eyes sharp enough to cut through smoke, posture untouched by age. She sat alone on a velvet couch. Back straight. Presence royal. The kind of stillness that made the air feel obedient.

A soft Bengali folk song hummed from the television, drifting through the room like perfume from another era. At her feet: Poly, the quiet one. Wife of her eldest son, Rocky Khan. Gentle. Loyal. Almost too kind for this city. She pressed Falguni’s feet with a reverence that didn’t ask for praise. It wasn’t a duty. It was love. And it was routine. Then footsteps. Fast. Echoing down the marble stairs like panic turned real. Abrar Rocky’s youngest son, twenty-one, burst into the room, an iPad clutched like a live bomb. “Grandma! You need to see this. Now.”

Falguni leaned in. Eyes narrowing. The screen lit her face blue. And there she was, Shirin Majumdar. Bold. Cold. Blazing across the screen like judgment itself. The viral report, already burning its way through Luminara. Falguni didn’t speak. She watched. Every frame. Her silence grew heavier by the second. Eyes darkened. Jaw tightened. Until finally her face cracked. Not with tears. With fury.

She turned sharply to Poly, her voice slicing like steel. “Is Rocky behind this?” Poly froze. Her voice? Barely air. “I can’t say for sure, but it feels like he’s involved.”

Falguni’s reply came like frost breaking glass. “Tell him when he comes home, he sees me first. No excuses.” Poly exhaled. Slow. Tired. Heart heavy. “I don’t understand your son after losing everything, why is he now walking straight into the fire?”

Falguni’s tone cracked. Bitterness bubbling beneath grief. “Losing everything?” She scoffed. Eyes flashing. “We were the ones who lost.” Now her voice trembled, rage colliding with buried heartbreak. “His only goal was to win you. And he did. He has you. He has this life. We gave up everything for that love, our peace, our legacy, our name. Lives were lost just so your love could survive.”

Tears glazed her eyes. But she didn’t let them fall. “He walked away from the company. Said he didn’t need it. Said all he needed was you. And he meant it. He built something new. From ashes. With his bare hands.” Then her voice sharpened. No longer trembling. Piercing. “So why is he trying to reclaim what he burned himself? And worse with Firoz Molla?”

She spat the name like poison. “That criminal. That snake. Is my son willing to join hands with him, to bring us down?”

Poly said nothing. Her head dipped. Eyes lowered. She resumed massaging Falguni’s feet, silent, broken, loyal. Even Abrar had no words. He stood still. Eyes to the floor. Rage. Shame. Confusion. Then, the door creaked. Rani stepped in. Sixteen. Rocky’s daughter. A streak of midnight mischief in a silk hoodie. Tired. Glowing. Dangerous. She ran straight to her grandmother, crashing into her lap with a hug soaked in love. Abrar’s eyes narrowed. Suspicious. “Where were you? It’s past midnight.”

Rani grinned like the night was hers. “Relax, Bro. Group study. Mom knows.” She leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with that signature wickedness. “Hey, brother, wanna hear something that’ll blow your pretty little mind?” She paused. Drama runs in her blood. “Your favorite sister? Sohana? She’s history. Kalam’s engaged to Shathi.” The room trembled. Falguni. Poly. Abrar. “What?!”

Rani winked. “Guess Sohana was everyone’s favorite, huh? Check. It’s all over the news.” Abrar snatched the iPad like it owed him the truth. His fingers flew. And there it was. Headline: Kalam & Shathi: Luminara’s New Power Couple.

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