My Uncle Took Everything—Even My Father’s Throne

They buried my father with a golden pen in his hand.

He used to say, “You don’t need a sword when you control the signature.”

But the ink hadn’t dried on the will before my uncle took his place.

At the head of the company.

In my mother’s home.

In my father’s chair.

And somehow…

No one said a word.

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📍 Lahore, Pakistan — 2023

My name is Haris Akram.

Heir to Akram Textiles, a billion-rupee empire built by my father, Zafar Akram.

At least, I used to be.

Now I just sit in boardrooms like a stranger, watching my uncle—Kashif Akram—smile with my father’s power on his tongue. He married my mother two months after the funeral. Two months.

I didn’t even know that was legal.

But money changes laws. And people.

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👻 A Ghost in the Wind

One night, in my dreams, I saw my father.

Or something like him.

He stood in the garden where he used to walk every morning.

His suit was bloodstained.

His voice was calm.

> “Kashif poisoned my tea.

He didn’t just want the company.

He wanted everything.”

I woke up shaking. Sweating.

But a part of me believed it.

And once you believe a ghost,

you can never unsee the living monsters.

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🕵️‍♂️ The Trap

I started watching Kashif.

His movements. His meetings. His whispers with my mother.

I hacked into old emails. Found deleted messages. Hidden payments to an unlicensed doctor.

Was it enough?

No.

But it was a start.

I had to expose him. Not just to the board.

To the world.

To my mother.

But how do you accuse your uncle of murder…

when he’s holding the pen, the papers, and the press?

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💣 The Explosion at the Annual Gala

I leaked the truth anonymously to our shareholders the night of the company’s biggest gala.

Screens flickered. Emails exposed.

My father's last medical report—altered.

CCTV from that night—erased.

A signed confession, hidden in a forgotten email draft.

Gasps.

Cameras.

Reporters.

Police.

And Kashif?

He looked at me.

Like he had already prepared for war.

He tried to run.

He didn’t get far.

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👩‍👦 My Mother, the Queen

She cried.

But not for him.

She held me, whispering, “I knew something was wrong, beta. I just didn’t want to lose another man I loved.”

I didn’t blame her.

She was manipulated, just like I was silenced.

We both wore invisible wounds.

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🏁 And Me?

I sit in the same office now.

My father’s chair.

His pen.

His unfinished dreams.

But I don’t smile.

Because I know now that ghosts don’t just haunt houses.

They haunt legacies.

And mine began with blood.

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