I Found You Between the Trees

The Billionaire With Two Faces

Rainwater slipped slowly from the sanctuary rooftops as dawn spread pale silver light across the forest valley.

The world smelled of wet soil, smoke, medicinal herbs, and exhausted survival.

After the attack during the jungle festival, the sanctuary no longer felt like a hopeful project built by idealistic young activists. It now felt like a wounded battlefield pretending to remain peaceful.

Burned wooden stalls still stood near the village square like black skeletons. Bullet marks scarred nearby walls. Villagers spoke more quietly than before, constantly glancing toward the forest as if danger itself watched from between the trees.

And inside the small medical cabin near the riverbank, Joga Singh finally opened his eyes again.

The ceiling above him appeared blurred for several seconds.

Pain followed immediately after.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Breathing itself felt difficult.

Bandages wrapped around his chest where the bullet had torn through flesh days earlier. The village doctor had removed it barely in time. Infection remained a danger. Fever came and went like a storm refusing to leave completely.

But Joga’s expression did not change.

Outside the cabin window, rain fell softly across the trees.

He listened to it silently.

A nurse nearby noticed movement and quickly stood. “You shouldn’t try getting up yet.”

Joga ignored the warning and slowly pushed himself upright against the bed despite pain slicing through his body.

The nurse sighed helplessly. “You almost died.”

Joga looked toward the forest.

“Not yet.”

The woman frowned. There was something unsettling about him even now. Most injured men cried, complained, demanded medicine, or feared death.

Joga simply watched rain.

Like someone waiting for a voice only he could hear.

Footsteps approached outside.

Then Bhaag entered.

The moment she saw him awake, relief flashed across her face before disappearing beneath controlled calmness.

“You’re conscious.”

Joga looked at her quietly.

She had not slept properly in days.

Dark circles hid beneath her eyes. Loose strands of hair escaped from her tied braid while mud stained the edge of her jeans from running across the sanctuary constantly managing repairs, frightened volunteers, injured animals, and police investigations.

Yet somehow she still looked beautiful.

Alive.

Joga lowered his gaze first.

Bhaag crossed her arms carefully. “You scared everyone.”

Silence.

Then finally:

“You were supposed to stay behind the barricades.”

Her jaw tightened instantly. “You took a bullet and that’s your first concern?”

“You almost died too.”

Something fragile moved across her face.

Anger mixed with fear.

“Do you think you’re immortal?” she whispered.

Joga said nothing.

That silence frustrated her more than shouting ever could.

For days she had watched him drift in and out of unconsciousness while blood soaked medical sheets beneath him. Every time his breathing weakened, something inside her chest tightened painfully.

She hated how much it affected her.

Hated how deeply this strange boy from the forest had entered her thoughts.

And worst of all—

she hated the name he whispered while unconscious.

Nitish Kumar.

Her father.

The memory still disturbed her.

Bhaag looked away toward the rain outside the window.

“Why did you say his name?”

Joga remained still.

“Joga.”

Nothing.

“Tell me the truth.”

Slowly, he closed his eyes again.

That was answer enough.

Fear spread quietly through her stomach.

Across India, Nitish Kumar continued smiling for cameras.

Television channels praised him daily.

Industrial visionary.

Wildlife philanthropist.

National environmental hero.

His foundation had funded dozens of animal rescue centers, reforestation campaigns, and anti-poaching awareness programs. Politicians respected him. International organizations honored him. Universities invited him to speak about sustainable development.

People trusted him.

That was what terrified Bhaag now.

Because hidden beneath admiration…

questions had begun growing.

Questions she could no longer silence.

Late that evening, Bhaag sat alone inside the sanctuary office surrounded by files, maps, and digital records glowing across multiple laptop screens.

Rain hammered the windows outside while generators hummed softly during another power fluctuation.

Raaji entered carrying coffee. “You’re still awake?”

Bhaag barely looked up. “Hmm.”

Raaji placed the cup beside her carefully. “You’ve been searching through company records for six hours.”

No response.

His eyes moved toward the screen.

Shipping routes.

Financial transfers.

Private cargo manifests.

Wildlife seizure reports.

Raaji’s expression darkened slowly. “You think your father is connected.”

Bhaag finally leaned back in exhaustion.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Her voice cracked slightly.

That alone shocked Raaji because Bhaag almost never allowed weakness to appear publicly.

She rubbed tired eyes before continuing.

“Every illegal trafficking route we traced somehow overlaps with one of my father’s logistics companies.”

Raaji stayed silent.

“Some shipments disappeared after passing through Kaur Foundation ports.” She swallowed hard. “And every investigation linked to those routes was quietly shut down.”

“You still don’t have proof.”

“I know.”

“But you’re afraid Joga was right.”

Bhaag looked toward the rain again.

Memories surfaced unwillingly.

Her father teaching her chess as a child.

Holding her hand at her mother’s funeral.

Protecting her from aggressive media reporters.

Celebrating her birthday every year personally despite business meetings.

He loved her.

She knew he did.

That was what made this unbearable.

Because monsters were easier to hate than fathers.

“I want this to be a misunderstanding,” she whispered.

Raaji said nothing because both of them already knew misunderstandings did not require hidden cargo routes and erased investigation files.

Bhaag suddenly opened another encrypted folder.

A photograph appeared on-screen.

Raaji froze.

Several men stood near shipping containers beside a private dock late at night.

The image quality was poor.

Faces partially hidden.

But one man remained clearly recognizable even in darkness.

Nitish Kumar.

Bhaag’s breathing slowed.

“No…” she whispered instinctively.

Raaji looked carefully. “Could be edited.”

But even he did not sound convinced.

Bhaag zoomed further.

One container door stood slightly open behind the men.

Inside—

ivory tusks.

Dozens of them.

Her hands began trembling.

Immediately she shut the laptop closed.

“No.”

Raaji remained quiet.

Bhaag stood suddenly and walked toward the window.

Rain blurred the forest outside.

“I grew up believing my father was saving animals.”

Nobody answered.

Because some heartbreaks become heavier when spoken aloud.

The sanctuary slowly healed over the following days.

Children returned first.

Orphaned village kids whose families had been destroyed by border violence and poacher conflicts wandered back into the sanctuary grounds cautiously, drawn toward recovering animals and temporary classrooms built by volunteers.

And somehow…

they gathered around Joga constantly.

Nobody understood why.

Perhaps children sensed sadness adults tried hiding.

Every morning before sunrise, despite injuries still reopening beneath bandages, Joga walked slowly toward the forest edge overlooking the river.

Then he sat silently beneath an ancient banyan tree.

Eyes closed.

Hands resting calmly against his knees.

Softly, almost like breathing itself, he whispered:

“Waheguru… Waheguru… Waheguru…”

The chant blended naturally with flowing water, wind through leaves, and distant bird calls awakening with dawn.

At first villagers watched from afar uncertainly.

Then some began sitting nearby quietly.

Not praying exactly.

Just listening.

Even injured animals seemed calmer near him.

A rescued elephant calf once refused food from everyone for two days after losing its mother during trafficking transport.

Yet when Joga sat beside the animal whispering Nam Jap softly…

the calf finally ate.

Word spread quickly afterward.

People started calling him blessed.

Others called him haunted.

Perhaps he was both.

One morning Bhaag arrived near the banyan tree carrying fresh bandages.

Joga sat as usual beneath pale sunrise light while several orphaned children copied his meditation posture beside him awkwardly.

One small boy opened one eye secretly.

“Am I doing it right?”

For the first time in days, faint amusement touched Joga’s expression.

“There is no right way to breathe.”

The child smiled proudly.

Bhaag stopped watching from a distance.

Something inside her softened unexpectedly.

This version of Joga confused her most.

Not the dangerous fighter.

Not the mysterious survivor.

This quiet gentleness.

This peace.

She approached carefully.

“You should be resting.”

Joga opened his eyes slowly.

“I am resting.”

“You’re bleeding through your bandages again.”

“That happens.”

Bhaag knelt beside him with visible irritation. “You speak about injuries like they’re weather conditions.”

Without asking permission, she unwrapped the stained cloth around his shoulder carefully.

Joga remained still while her fingers brushed against his skin.

The moment felt strangely intimate.

Dangerously intimate.

Morning light filtered softly through tree branches above them while children chased birds nearby laughing quietly.

Bhaag focused on replacing the bandages to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

“You could’ve died.”

Joga watched her silently.

“So could you.”

“I wasn’t the one chasing armed men through burning jungle pathways.”

“They were coming toward you.”

Something in his tone made her pause.

Not dramatic.

Not romantic.

Simply truthful.

That honesty affected her more than beautiful words ever could.

Bhaag tied the fresh bandage slowly before whispering:

“Why do you keep protecting me?”

Several seconds passed.

Then:

“Because nobody protected you before.”

Her breath caught unexpectedly.

Joga immediately looked away afterward as if regretting the sentence itself.

But the damage was done.

The words settled deep inside her chest.

Dangerously deep.

Meanwhile, hidden beneath polished public appearances, manipulation spread silently across political and corporate networks.

Nitish Kumar sat inside his Delhi office overlooking the city skyline while multiple television screens displayed environmental campaigns funded by his foundation.

A politician laughed beside him while drinking expensive whiskey.

“The sanctuary attack created sympathy for your daughter,” the politician said casually. “Public support for her movement increased.”

Nitish remained calm. “Sympathy is temporary.”

“And the investigation?”

“Contained.”

The politician smirked. “You always were efficient.”

Nitish finally looked toward him directly.

Coldness replaced the warm public persona millions admired.

“What about the border shipments?”

“Moved already.”

“No witnesses?”

A pause.

Then:

“None alive.”

Silence filled the office.

Rain struck the massive glass windows softly.

Nitish loosened his tie slightly before speaking again.

“And Joga Singh?”

The politician frowned. “We still can’t trace his official records properly.”

“That means someone erased them.”

“Should we remove him?”

Nitish remained silent for several seconds.

Then surprisingly:

“No.”

The politician looked confused.

Nitish’s eyes darkened slightly.

“I want to know why he came back first.”

That same night, Bhaag finally made a decision she could no longer avoid.

She would enter her father’s private underground archive.

Nobody except top security personnel possessed access there.

Not even most executives within the family empire knew it existed.

But Bhaag had discovered fragments about it years earlier while helping her mother organize foundation documents.

At the time she ignored it.

Now she couldn’t.

Near midnight, rain covered Delhi again as her black vehicle entered the heavily secured Kaur estate grounds.

The mansion looked magnificent beneath golden lights.

Elegant.

Powerful.

Safe.

It no longer felt like home.

Bhaag moved silently through familiar hallways after security staff changed shifts. Her heartbeat remained steady outwardly though panic crawled beneath her skin.

Part of her prayed she would find nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Because if she found proof…

her world would never recover.

She entered her father’s private study using an old fingerprint override sequence she remembered from childhood visits.

The hidden elevator behind the bookshelf still existed.

That alone made her stomach tighten.

Slowly, the elevator descended underground.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

The doors finally opened.

Cold air greeted her immediately.

The underground vault stretched wider than expected.

Metal shelves.

Climate-controlled storage rooms.

Private servers.

Locked display chambers.

Bhaag walked forward slowly.

Her footsteps echoed unnaturally.

At first she saw only documents and financial records.

Then she reached the glass chamber near the far wall.

And stopped breathing.

Ivory.

Hundreds of kilograms of illegal ivory tusks stacked carefully like museum artifacts.

Some freshly carved.

Some stained dark with age.

Dead elephants transformed into luxury collections.

Her knees nearly weakened.

“No…”

Another chamber stood beside it.

Tiger skins.

Rhino horns.

Rare animal bones sealed inside black market transport crates.

Bhaag covered her mouth instantly.

The smell inside the room—

chemicals, leather, death—

made nausea rise violently through her body.

Tears blurred her vision.

Her father.

Her own father.

The man who built wildlife charities.

Who donated millions publicly.

Who taught her to protect nature.

He had been standing on top of graves all along.

A soft sound suddenly echoed behind her.

Bhaag turned sharply.

Someone else stood inside the underground vault shadows.

Watching her silently.