Chapter 0030: The Mask Behind the Curtain
The next morning brought no sunshine—only thick clouds and a looming stillness. Zara sat beside Ryan on the edge of the hotel bed, relaying every word of her meeting with Amal.
Ryan listened without interrupting, eyes narrowing with each detail.
"So she's ex-staff… one of your father's trusted insiders," he finally said. "And she claims there's more?"
Zara nodded. "She didn't show me everything. But what she gave me already—Ryan, it's explosive. There are emails between Dr. Irfan and foreign contractors, laundering money through shell charities."
Ryan's hands clenched into fists. "We expose this, and the foundation won't be the only one that burns. Entire networks will fall."
Zara looked down. "And I'm ready for that. But there's one more thing Amal said before we parted—something that's been gnawing at me."
Ryan turned toward her.
"She said: 'Not everyone against you is a stranger.'"
Later that day, Zara and Amal met at a hidden coworking loft—an abandoned library turned private safehouse for journalists and whistleblowers. Amal laid out a folder filled with flash drives and hard copies.
"This is the real map," she said. "Connections between NGOs, real estate mafias, and a few names I couldn't believe when I saw them."
Zara flipped through the documents, her eyes stopping at one name.
Her breath caught.
Ali Baig.
Her father's younger brother. A man who had stayed out of the public eye. Whose gentle demeanor always made him seem detached from the politics and power struggles of the Baig family.
"Ali…?" she whispered. "He was always—quiet."
Amal's eyes darkened. "Too quiet. He managed offshore transfers. Discreet and untraceable. He's been funding the silence. Bribing insiders. And he's the one who ordered Irfan to bury the sexual harassment complaints from five years ago."
Zara's hands trembled.
"He's the real architect behind the second fund your father never publicly acknowledged," Amal continued. "A secret branch of the foundation. And guess what? It's still operational."
Zara looked up. "So, while the world believed the worst was over… he kept feeding the machine?"
Amal nodded. "And someone has to stop him."
Zara stood, resolve firming. "We're going to end this. But we need undeniable proof. Something that connects Ali Baig personally."
Amal gave a small smile and pulled out a final drive.
"Already done. But there's a problem—someone else is watching us. I've noticed it for days. We're not the only ones playing this game, Zara."
Zara took the drive, her voice calm but heavy. "Then let's find out who's behind the curtain."
That night, as Zara uploaded the files to a secure cloud, a private message popped up on her screen.
Unknown User: "Very clever, Miss Baig. But do you think storms don't have eyes?"
Attached was a live screenshot… of Zara and Amal sitting in the very loft they believed was hidden.
Ryan burst into the room. "What's wrong?"
Zara turned the laptop toward him.
"They've found us."
And in that moment, they realized—Ali Baig wasn't just a puppet master.
He was already ten moves ahead.
The weight of the screenshot still hung in the air, the image of Zara and Amal frozen on the screen like a target marked. The dim light of the room flickered as if reflecting the chaos brewing beneath Zara's calm exterior.
"They're watching us in real time," Ryan said, pacing behind her. "Which means we have a leak—or worse, a tracker."
Zara's mind raced. "We've changed locations three times this week. The files never left encrypted systems. It has to be someone close."
Amal entered, her coat dusted with rain. "I checked the back entrance—someone left a crushed cigarette and muddy prints. Recently."
Zara showed her the laptop screen.
Amal stared. "They're faster than I thought."
"We need to act," Ryan said. "No more gathering evidence. We drop the bombshell. Go public—tonight."
Zara hesitated. "If we do that, we lose our chance to get to Ali directly. These files are enough to trigger an investigation, but not enough to bury him. He'll slip away and reappear in another form—cleaner, smarter."
Amal crossed her arms. "Then what do you suggest? We stay in hiding, playing cat and mouse while he tightens the net?"
Zara stared out the window into the rainy night. In the reflection, she saw herself—not the scared daughter of a disgraced legacy, but a woman at war with a ghost empire. One she was ready to burn to the ground.
"No," she said softly. "We draw him out."
Later that evening, a post went live on Zara's dormant Twitter account:
"To those who built empires of pain behind charity masks—your time is up. #TruthAwakens #BaigFoundationFiles"
The message ignited like wildfire.
Zara leaned back, fingers shaking. "We start a storm, but not the full truth. Just enough to stir the waters… make Ali desperate. He'll try to control the narrative."
Ryan nodded. "And when he does, we'll be ready."
Amal added, "But we need to prepare. He'll retaliate. Legally, financially, maybe even violently."
Zara's eyes didn't waver. "Let him come."
Hours later, at an undisclosed location in Lahore, Ali Baig stared at the screen. His phone buzzed with alerts. His nephew stormed in.
"She posted the teaser. And the files? People are asking questions already."
Ali stood, his face calm but eyes seething.
"She just declared war."
He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Activate Protocol Veil. Find the leak. And prepare the package for the press—she wants a game, we'll give her one."
Meanwhile, Zara, Ryan, and Amal packed what little they had.
Tomorrow, they would fly to London for an international summit on NGO reform. A perfect platform. A global stage.
As Zara zipped her bag, her phone vibrated with a new message.
Unknown Number: "London will be your grave. You chose this."
She showed it to Ryan.
"I didn't choose it," she whispered. "It chose me the moment they tried to silence my mother."
And now, the world would finally hear her scream.
The jet cut through the night sky, a sleek arrow aimed toward the heart of power—London. Below, cities glittered like stars, unaware of the storm approaching. Inside the cabin, silence ruled. Zara sat near the window, fingers curled around a thick folder of evidence, her eyes lost in thought.
Amal leaned over. "You sure about this? That stage is global. Once we speak, there's no going back."
Zara met her gaze. "That's exactly the point. He hid behind private networks and shell foundations. We'll strip away every mask under the international spotlight."
Ryan joined them, handing over a tablet. "I've uploaded the entire dossier to a secure cloud. If anything happens to us, the auto-distribution will send it to twenty media outlets, five human rights watchdogs, and Interpol."
Zara nodded. "Good. Then we're ready."
Three Days Later – World Forum on NGO Integrity, London
The grand hall buzzed with energy. Representatives from over sixty countries gathered to discuss transparency and ethics in charitable organizations. And tonight—Zara was one of the keynote speakers.
Backstage, she paced, dressed in a sleek navy suit, her hair tied back with sharp precision.
Amal adjusted her mic. "You only get one shot."
Zara inhaled. "Then I better make it count."
As she stepped onto the stage, applause thundered. But Zara's eyes weren't on the audience. They were on the front row—where Ali Baig sat, his expression cold, unreadable.
She began.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for having me. I come to you not as an expert, but as a survivor."
Her voice was clear, unwavering.
"My name is Zara. My father, Arif Baig, founded what you all knew as a beacon of charity. What you didn't know is that behind those donations, behind the glossy campaigns, was a legacy of embezzlement, trafficking, and systemic abuse."
Gasps rippled across the hall.
"And while my father may be gone, the machine still lives. His brother—Ali Baig—continued the operations. He used global sympathy to fund local horror. And I have proof."
She gestured toward the screen behind her. Documents appeared—bank transfers, hidden properties, falsified audit trails.
Ali shifted in his seat, lips thinning.
Zara's voice hardened. "You gave him awards. Sat on panels beside him. Funded him. Now I ask: will you keep silent, or will you help dismantle what you unknowingly upheld?"
The room was frozen in collective silence.
Then someone stood. Followed by another. And another.
A slow clap. Growing.
The moderator took the stage. "Thank you, Ms. Baig. We will review these allegations immediately."
But Zara wasn't done.
She looked at Ali, locking eyes.
"To those who think the truth can be buried—I am the daughter of your lies. And I am your reckoning."
Outside the venue, reporters surged. The story exploded globally.
Ali Baig slipped into a black car, face stone-cold. Inside, he made a call.
"She went public. Burn everything. Anyone who hesitates, eliminate."
Back at their hotel, Zara stood at the window, watching the city lights blur into the Thames.
Amal entered with a grim face. "There's a hit order, Zara. Interpol tipped us off. We have to move. Now."
Zara turned, jaw clenched. "Then we move. But this time, not to hide."
She held up a drive. "This time, we go straight to The Hague."
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(To be Continue...)