As Druvi slumped to the floor, the maid walked in. Athira didn't hesitate; she struck the woman with a heavy vase, watching her fall into the coma that would last three years. Hearing Sreenu's footsteps in the garden, Athira calmly donned a dark raincoat she had stashed. She scaled the wall with the agility of the athlete she was, knowing the darkness would protect her identity.
The Present:
High above the clouds, the cabin of the plane is quiet. Athira sits in the first-class cabin, the soft glow of the reading light illuminating her face. Beside her, Druvi's young son sleeps, his head resting on her shoulder.
She pulls a small, tattered photo of her biological parents from her wallet. She looks at it for a long moment, then slowly tears it into tiny pieces, letting them fall into the waste bin.
She leans over and kisses the boy's forehead. He is the heir to the Murthy empire, and she is his only guardian. The property is back in her hands. The witnesses are dead. The serial killer is at the bottom of the ocean.