The air in the private meeting room was still, so thick with a frigid tension it felt difficult to breathe. Yakshit pushed the door open, the soft click of the latch sounding like a cannon shot in the oppressive silence. His father, Neerav Singhania, and his grandfather, Nihit Singhania, sat opposite each other at the long mahogany table. Their faces were mirrors of the same cold, unyielding mask, their expressions flat, devoid of the warmth he had expected to find after his return.
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