SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST

The Bai Mansion was alive with its usual quiet chaos.Guards stood posted at every corner, expressions sharp, guns hidden beneath tailored coats—alert, ready, loyal.

Somewhere downstairs, maids moved briskly through the kitchen, steel clanging softly, laughter murmured under breath. The rich aroma of freshly cooked noodles drifted through the halls, wrapping the mansion in warmth.

Upstairs, in one of the grand bedrooms, a very small boy stood on the bed with his tiny arms crossed over his chest. God, he really thought he looked big—almost intimidating.

Especially with the way he puffed out his little chest.

"Mommy, I'm big now. I not baby." he protested loudly."I big now. No milk."The stern tone didn't quite match the pout tugging at his lips.

A soft giggle filled the room—warm, feminine, affectionate. Pallavi stood in front of her little prince, arms folded loosely as she watched him stand atop the bed, declaring independence with all the seriousness a five-year-old could muster.

"Oh?" she said thoughtfully, playing along. "So my baby doesn't need milk anymore. He's a big boy now?"

"Hm?"

She rested her hands on her waist, studying her five-year-old son as he acted all macho.She asked almost thoughtfully playing in with his little game.

The boy nodded aggressively, as if confirming an important business decision. He scrunched his nose cutely - a habit he had when he was frustrated but he only looked cuter.

"Mm-hm, Mommy. I don' need milk. I big, like Daddy."His bottom lip pushed out stubbornly as he hugged his favorite teddy bear—Mr. Snuggles—close to his chest. He never went anywhere without it.

Pallavi smiled despite herself, a soft, motherly curve of lips she couldn't hide even if she tried.

''Are you sure you don't milk bacha?'' Pallavi asked her eyes soft yet also mischivious - she had known the ways to get to her son and this was a another game. She was too well used to.

"Yes, Mommy. I no need it." he declared solemnly, like a speech delivered in Parliament.

"Well then..." she paused deliberately, watching him lean forward, curiosity winning.
"If you're such a big boy and don't need milk anymore..." She lowered her voice, pretending indifference.

"Then I guess you don't need me either."

Silence.

The boy froze. He took in his mommy's words, and slowly his little mind realized what she meant. He froze, eyes widening, mouth falling open.

Words sank in as the realisation hit the boy.

"NO, MOMMY! DAS NOT TRUE!"

He collapsed dramatically onto the bed, kicking his legs in protest, voice breaking.

"I NEED YOU, MOMMY. ALWAYS!"

Tears spilled—not real heartbreak, Pallavi knew. These were practiced tears. Strategic tears. The kind used only when things didn't go his way.

CREAK.......

The door opened.

A tall, imposing figure stood at the threshold, filling the doorway effortlessly. An Armani suit hugged his muscular frame, authority stitched into every line of his posture.

Bai Minghao.

His expression was unreadable, cold even—until his eyes landed on the bed.

On his son.

On his wife.

And just like that, the steel melted.

Bai Minghao finally stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping across the space before settling on his son sprawled across the bed, whining like a little tragic hero. Across from him, Pallavi stood gracefully by the bed, her red saree draping her like liquid fire, every bit as breathtaking as she always was.

He knew it all too well—another tantrum was in full swing. His deep voice echoed through the room, attempting sternness, yet the softness beneath it betrayed him entirely.

''Minsheng.''

The boy turned instantly.

"DADDA...?"

He jumped off the bed, dropping Mr. Snuggles, and threw himself into his father's arms. Minghao bent down, lifting him easily. Minsheng buried his face in his father's neck, giggling.

Minsheng whispered cheerfully, a wide smile revealing his teeth, and finally threw himself into his father's arms as Minghao bent down to lift him. The boy immediately pressed into the warmth, burying his face in his father's neck while giggling. Minghao closed his eyes, savoring the moment—the only precious thing in his life.

His son. His Pride.

''What's wrong my baby?'' He whispered, so softly it was almost inaudible—too soft. If any of his men had heard it, they would have fainted on the spot, for it was something impossible, yet it happened here, behind the walls of this bedroom. His softness, his vulnerability, existed only for his wife and son.

His large hand cradled Minsheng's head, holding him close. Like holding something so precious he was afraid of hurting - his trembling hands were a sign of it.

Minsheng pulled back, pouting, eyes glassy. "Daddy... Mommy meanie." God, he looked too cute.

Minghao glanced at Pallavi, who stood watching them with nothing but love.

"Hm?" he murmured, pouting just like his son. "Mommy being mean?" Minsheng giggled faintly.

"Mommy said... I not need her." Minsheng burst into full-blown tears again, of course, being dramatic.

"It's okay, baby. Let's go and talk with Mommy." Minghao closed the distance, reaching Pallavi, his breath hitching at the sight of her. God, the effect she had over him. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead while still holding their son.

"Daddy, say Mommy please."Minsheng pouted, tugging at his dad's shirt and pulling Minghao back to reality. His heart melted instantly at the sight of his son—so small, so soft, with those pleading eyes. God, his heart ached.

In that single instant, he knew he would do anything for his little prince.

Minghao leaned down kissing his son's forehead inhaling in the scent of the innocent one. Then looked at his wife with mock seriousness..

"So, Mrs. Bai," he said, "did you make our prince cry?"

Pallavi smiled, pretending innocence. "Your prince said he's a big boy and doesn't need milk. So I told him if he doesn't need milk... he doesn't need me either."

"No, Daddy... please." Minsheng whined. "Tell Mommy I always need her."

"Okay, baby, let Dadda think." He rested a finger under his son's chin, pretending to be lost in thought—but little Minsheng didn't suspect. His little mind wasn't thinking that much - not this time atleast.

"Drink the milk," he murmured. "Make Mommy believe you need her, okay?" Minghao leaned down, whispering into his son's ear as if it were a secret mission.

Minsheng thought for a moment. He wanted to be a big boy like Daddy. A man who isn't scared of anything and in his theory big boys don't drink milk.

But more than that—he needed Mommy. Always.

"Okay," he nodded. "I drink the milk."

He climbed down, picked up the glass from the nightstand, and drank it.

Minghao and Pallavi exchanged a glance, sharing a smile that spoke only to each other—one their son couldn't yet understand.

This was parenthood—quiet victories, gentle tricks, endless love.

And they loved their little human more than anything.

9:00 PM

The room was softly dim, bathed in silver moonlight slipping through the slightly open window. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, wrapping the space in a warmth that felt intimate and safe.

On the master bed, Pallavi stood with Minsheng cradled in her arms. The little boy squirmed and giggled, eyes glued to his favorite cartoon as excitement radiated from him in waves. Pallavi watched him quietly—her aankhon ka taara—her heart swelling at the sight.

Mischievous. Difficult. Always testing limits.

And yet, she loved him more than her own life. There was nothing about him she would ever wish to change.

CREAK—

The door flew open with a sharp slam.

Pallavi flinched. Minsheng startled, his gaze snapping away from the television as a frightened whimper left his lips. In an instant, he buried himself in his mother's chest, tiny fingers clutching her blouse. His whimpers turned into soft sobs as fear took over.

Pallavi looked up worried at her husband.

Bai Minghao stood at the doorway, fury etched into every line of his face. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles white, jaw locked so hard it looked like it might crack under the pressure.

Then he saw them.

The worry in his wife's eyes.
The fear in his son's.

Minghao froze.

The anger melted away, replaced by guilt so sharp it made his chest ache. He had scared him. His son.

With a heavy sigh, he looked away, frustration directed inward now. Pallavi noticed immediately—she always did. Something was wrong. It was usually business that weighed him down like this.

She turned up the volume on the TV, gently setting Minsheng back on the bed once he was distracted. Then she rushed toward her husband.

Her palm pressed softly against his chest, right over his heart.

Minghao shut his eyes and pulled her closer, his hands finding her bare waist beneath her saree as if by instinct. His face nestled into the crook of her neck—the place he always went when the world became too much.

Like it was home.

His home.

Pallavi's fingers slid into his hair, tangling gently, caressing in slow, soothing motions she knew calmed him better than words ever could.

"Kya hua?" she asked softly—so softly it nearly broke him.

Here, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to be strong. She would never judge him. She never had.

"Kuch nahi... bas business," he murmured against her skin.

She didn't push. She knew when the time came, he would tell her everything. He always did.

Minghao's body gradually went limp against hers, his weight settling into her even though she could barely support his size. She didn't mind. She never did.

It felt like a heavy, warm blanket wrapped around her.

Comforting. Safe. All hers.

A sudden giggle broke the moment.

Minghao lifted his head to see his little prince pointing a tiny finger at them, eyes shining.
"Dadda hug Mommy."

A smile finally curved Minghao's lips. Pallavi stepped back too, cheeks warming at their son's innocent words.

Minghao moved to the bed instantly.
"Dadda hug mama," he said, tapping a finger under his chin as if thinking hard. "Now whose turn is it, hmm?"

Minsheng tilted his head, confusion written all over his tiny face.

Before he could react—

Minghao's arms wrapped around him in an instant, pulling the boy flush against his chest.
"It's my prince's turn."

Minsheng's startled gasp turned into a burst of giggles as his arms flew around his dadda's neck.

Pallavi smiled at the sight, her heart full.As she watched her husband being so close and loving.

Minsheng glanced at his mommy with a tiny pout.

"Mommy, save me... Daddy squishing me," he whispered between breathless laughs, tears pricking his eyes from laughing too hard.

And just like that, the room was whole again.

Later, they were all settled on the bed, the earlier tension melting into soft quiet.

Minsheng was wedged snugly between them, tiny legs kicking lazily, one arm draped over Pallavi while the other flailed occasionally as he wiggled. Minghao leaned back against the headboard, one arm around them both, solid and protective.

The cartoon flickered in the background, but Minsheng wasn't paying attention.

Minghao turned to Pallavi, eyes soft, and leaned in to place a gentle, slow kiss on her lips. It was tender, familiar... and entirely innocent in its simplicity.

Before their lips even parted—

"Ewwww! Naaaahhh!"

Minsheng shot up like a tiny alarm, face twisted in mock horror. He poked his father with a chubby finger, squirming on Pallavi's lap.
"Dadda! Don't kiss Mommy! Yucky! Ewww! I said NOOO!"

Pallavi tried to hide her laughter, fingers brushing through his hair. Minghao froze, eyebrows shooting up in amusement.

Minsheng leaned forward dramatically, planting his tiny hands firmly on Pallavi's waist as if claiming her.
"Mommy's mineee! Only mine! Dadda, you can hug, yes... but NO kissy! Ewwww, Dadda, ewwww!"

Minghao chuckled, trying to reach out.
"Come on, little prince, I just—"

"NO! Back! Hands back! I said NOOO! Mommy mine, you can't!" Minsheng protested, voice rising in faux indignation as he wiggled between them.

Pallavi laughed, pressing a kiss to the crown of his messy hair. "Acha, only yours?"

Minsheng nodded with solemn authority. "Yep. Only mine. Dadda can hug, but kissy? NO! I'll squish you if you try. You hear me? I'm strong!" He puffed out his chest like a tiny, furious warrior.

Minghao chuckled, resting his chin on Minsheng's head, defeated but amused. "Deal, little prince. Hugs only, got it."

Minsheng relaxed instantly, flopping back between them like a sleepy, victorious little king.
"Good. That's right... don't forget it!" he mumbled, already half-asleep, tiny fingers curling around Pallavi.

Pallavi leaned against Minghao's side, watching them with a soft smile, heart full. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting a silver glow over the three of them—tiny protests, giggles, and all—making the room feel warm, full, and perfectly theirs.

He never speaks to me kindly—
his words bruise where they land.

Yet his silence stays close,
his hands linger in protection,
his presence softens before I fall.

I ache where he hurts me,
and heal where he never says a thing.

Tell me—
what do you call a love
that never speaks my name,

yet never lets me go?

-Kashi

PRESENT - DEEWAN MANSION

MUMBAI, INDIA

Minsheng sat on the chair by the bed, hands resting loosely on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying a weight no one could see. His gaze was fixed on Kashi's sleeping form—peaceful, untouched by the chaos of the day. For now, at least, she was serene, the gentle rise and fall of her chest a quiet, steady rhythm in the dimly lit room.

He breathed in slowly, letting the stillness sink in, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest. The soft shadows from the window painted her face in calm tones, yet every line, every curve of her features reminded him of what he could never give, what he could never be.

"At least... he was a good husband," he whispered, voice barely audible, more a confession to the empty room than to anyone else.

His fingers twitched lightly against his knees, restless and uncertain, as if the movement could anchor him to the moment. He didn't move closer. He didn't speak further. He simply watched her, a faint, sad smile touching his lips, one that carried both admiration and a quiet, relentless ache.

The air around him was still, almost sacred, yet inside him a storm raged quietly—regret, longing, and a deep, silent yearning that no words could fully contain. For now, he remained there, rooted in the present, watching her sleep, carrying the weight of his own impossibilities and the fragile hope that, in this quiet moment, it was enough to just be near her.

He couldn't take his eyes off her sleeping form. God, what had he done? It was all crashing down on him at once. The weight of it, sharp and unrelenting. He had hurt her—a woman who had never asked for anything, who only gave care and love, and yet here she was, unknowingly bearing the brunt of his fury.

He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it was entirely his fault. She had spent hours preparing dinner, pouring herself into it with nothing but good intentions, and he had shattered it all in an instant.

By accusing her of something vile—something as absurd and cruel as poisoning him—he had reduced her efforts, her love, to suspicion and fear. The memory of it made his stomach churn with shame. It disgusted him, the way he had let anger and paranoia twist his actions.

And now... there was nothing he could do. The damage had been done. The words had been spoken. The trust, even if only momentarily, had been fractured. All he could do was sit there, rooted in guilt, staring at her peaceful, unaware face, wishing desperately that he could turn back time.

DEEWAN MANSION

The mansion was lavish, as always, its grandeur undeniable. But today... today it felt different. Full. Alive. Almost like a home. The welcome of Kashi after a year had breathed life into its halls, filling even the grandest corners with warmth and familiarity. For the first time in a long while, it felt complete.

Morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting soft, golden shadows across polished floors and ornate furnishings. The light seemed to celebrate the mansion itself, making it glow with a beauty that was somehow more intimate, more personal than ever before.

It wasn't just a house anymore—it was a home.

The hallway was quiet, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows. Yunji was walking briskly, her mind elsewhere, when suddenly her foot caught on the edge of the rug.

Before she could even react. She was falling. She actually was.

Yunji shut her eyes instinctively waiting for the fall.

But it didn't come.

Then there he was.

Aksh—her Bhabhi's brother.

"You—are you okay?" His voice was low, calm, yet carried a rumble that made her pulse skip. His arms tightened around her waist, steadying her so she wouldn't fall.

The moment hit her like déjà vu. Last year, at Minsheng and Kashi's wedding, she had stumbled in his arms on her lehenga. And now—here she was again, pressed against him, embarrassed all over.

"I—I'm fine," she whispered, cheeks flaming, as her hands instinctively found his forearms, seeking anchor in the sudden closeness.

He held her a heartbeat longer than necessary, eyes tracing her face as if memorizing the startled curve of her lips and the way a stray strand of hair framed her forehead. "Careful next time," he murmured, his tone soft but his gaze lingering—attentive, almost dangerously so.

Her fingers brushed against his sleeve as she stepped back, straightening her suit and salwar. A shy, half-smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you... for catching me once again," she said, voice tinged with self-conscious amusement.

He chuckled, amused by "once again."
"Seems like I should be there every time you fall," he teased, smirk curling lazily over his lips as he leaned against the wall, watching her.

"Huhh..." she murmured, flustered,
"Esa nahi hai... I'm sorry, I should be careful," she added, bowing her head slightly, genuinely embarrassed at her clumsiness.

God, what was she even doing? This was her Bhabhi's brother.

She couldn't think straight—his words, though meant to tease, had caught her completely off guard. Somehow, they stung, sharper than she expected, leaving a strange flutter of hurt mingled with embarrassment.

And before Aksh even reacted, Yunji fled.

Aksh's smirk faltered. He hadn't realized she hadn't found his joke funny.
"Fuck... what did I do?" he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at stray strands. God, he really needed to learn when to joke—and when not to.

9 AM - BREAKFAST

The living room was lively as the entire family settled for breakfast—but it wasn't just the Deewans today. The Bais had joined them, adding an extra warmth to the household. The dining table looked inviting, and the chatter of people made it feel like home.

It had been almost a year since the Deewans had sat together for breakfast. Ansh would mostly skip it, while Kalyani took hers earlier than everyone else because of her medicines. Naresh Deewan often skipped it too, and Aksh and Ekaksh usually had theirs at the Deewan Corporation.

It had always been Kashi who held the family together. A year ago, she would insist that everyone be present at breakfast, questioning anyone who tried to escape it. She was the light of the family—and now, with her back, they all knew better.

Kashi sat beside Minsheng, a bright smile on her face. It almost felt like a dream, being home again—having breakfast with her Maa and Baba, seeing Aksh in front of her. But she hadn't yet spotted her other brother, Ekaksh.

Just then, the sound of footsteps caught her attention. Instinctively, she turned—and there he was.

Ekaksh.

He descended the stairs, hands stuffed in his pockets. Kashi didn't wait. She ran toward him, throwing herself into her little brother's arms, nearly making him lose his balance. There it was—the warmth she had missed so much.

Ekaksh caught her, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent he hadn't smelled in so long. His arms tightened around her waist, crossing the last few steps as if he could never let her go.

Kashi felt herself lifted slightly off the ground, her arms clinging to him the tightest she could manage. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—but she didn't hide them. Not today. Not from her little brother.

Ekaksh felt his own eyes blur as tears threatened to fall. He had always buried his emotions deep, but today, he couldn't. His Didi was back. She really was. And it felt overwhelming.

"Didi... tu aa gayi," he whispered against her hair, a half-sob, half-laugh, as if confirming she was truly there. She had returned, though she seemed different somehow.

"Yes... I'm back," Kashi whispered, finally pulling back just enough to brush the hair from his forehead—the same way she had when he was a small child. Back then, he had found it irritating. Now, he cherished it, letting the small gesture heal something deep inside him.

He had missed this. He had missed his Didi.

And now that she was here, he wasn't letting go.

Kashi kissed his forehead softly, pulling away and wiping the tears that had fallen. She had so much to say, so much to express—but she held herself together. All that mattered, for now, was that she was here. With him.

For now, that was enough.

Soon after the emotional reunion, they settled at the table. Minsheng noticed the tear streaks on Kashi's cheeks. Without a word, he pulled out his handkerchief and held it silently in front of her.

She glanced at him, slightly taken aback by the gesture. Lately, everything he did seemed to surprise her. His expression, as always, remained unreadable. She couldn't decipher him—just as she hadn't been able to for years.

Yet, both of them knew there was a storm of emotions simmering beneath the surface. Kashi finally took the handkerchief, dabbing beneath her eyes, carefully wiping the tear stains.

And he?

Minsheng let out a quiet breath of relief. It was almost as if he needed her to take the handkerchief—it mattered, more than she could know. Not in a business meeting, not even in the Triads—he had never been like this.

But this woman... the one he had hurt so profoundly. The one who didn't deserve it. And yet, she was so kind to him. Every act of kindness from her broke something deep inside him while simultaneously healing it.

Because it had been years since anyone had shown him such care. Years since anyone had really cared.

And now, to have it come from someone who had every reason to hate him—it stirred a deep-seated guilt that gnawed at him relentlessly.

From across the room, Kalyani watched. She observed the subtle interaction: how they spoke so little, yet shared an intimacy in the silence, how he handed her the handkerchief and they exchanged no words. It was care... but distant, careful, restrained.

Something was off. She could feel it in the unspoken tension, in the quiet closeness that wasn't quite closeness.

Shaking her head slightly, she pushed the thought aside. Perhaps she was overthinking. Perhaps this was just a silent gesture of care, odd yet genuine—a way for two people to connect without speaking, even if it seemed strange.

The maids moved around quietly, finally serving breakfast. Aloo paranthas were placed on the table, butter melting over their golden surface, still sizzling. The aroma spread through the room, warm and heavy, making eyes sting and stomachs growl.

Fresh salad followed, neatly arranged, dressing glistening over crisp vegetables.

Everyone began eating—the elders first. Vishakha, Yansong, and Naresh reached for the paranthas without a second thought. Ansh and Kalyani followed soon after, the table slowly filling with the soft sounds of a family morning.

Kalyani's eyes, however, lingered on Minsheng.He sat stiff, fingers hesitating as if the food might burn him—not with heat, but with unfamiliarity.

"Beta, what's wrong?" she asked gently, her voice wrapped in worry and motherly concern.

He froze.

The tone was too soft. Too caring.

No one else noticed the pause, but his mother-in-law did. He lifted his gaze and forced a small smile, shaking his head. "Nothing is wrong, Maa."

Even the word felt strange on his tongue.

He finally placed a parantha on his plate, though eating like this—among so many people—felt almost uncomfortable. He had never shared breakfast this way. Not with family. Not with people who stayed.

Meals were usually rushed, solitary, or forced upon him by his best man, Li. Sometimes Isaac and Edward dragged him along, refusing to let him skip.

But never like this.

Never with warmth.

It was new. Unsettling. And somehow... comforting.

The feeling struck deeper than he expected, brushing against something he had buried long ago beneath carefully built walls. Walls that, to his dismay, were beginning to crack.

As he reached for the salad, a hand shot out and stopped him.

The sudden contact sent a sharp jolt through his body.

He looked up, startled.

Kashi.

Her expression was serious—protective, almost. It made no sense. Protective of who?

Him?

The thought was absurd. Why would she care? He knew she was kind, even selfless, but this—this was different.

Around the table, movement stilled. Eyes turned toward them. Everyone looked at her startled by her action.

Kalyani broke the silence first, worry softening her voice. "Kashi, bacha... what's wrong?"

Kashi didn't look away from the plate. "Maa," she asked quietly, lifting the salad slightly, "does this have lemon in it?"

Kalyani blinked, confused. "Of course, beta. Like every salad."

That was enough.

Kashi stood up, whispered something to the maid, and handed the plate over. The salad was taken away before anyone could object.

The room filled with puzzled stares.

It was just a salad.
So why stop him?

Ansh finally spoke, his brows drawn together. "Kashi bacha, why did you remove the salad?"

She hesitated, her eyes flickering briefly to Minsheng before returning to her father.
"Baba... inko lemon se allergy hai," she said softly. "Usse severe reaction ho sakta hai. Salad mein lemon tha."

Silence.

Realisation settled heavily around the table.

Minsheng's hand clenched slowly.

She remembered.

Not because it was important.
But because he was.

And for the first time in years, he didn't know whether that feeling terrified him more—or healed him.

Everyone took in her words, realization dawning slowly around the table.

Minsheng's hand froze mid-air. He couldn't even react still taking in what had just happened. What this woman had done for him.

Lemon.

All this while... she remembered. When no one did. But she did.

God, what was this woman.

He looked at Kashi then—really looked at her. She stood there stiff yet resolute, as if she had just done the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No drama. Just quiet protection.

Kalyani's breath hitched. "Allergy?" she repeated softly, guilt flashing through her eyes. "Why didn't anyone tell us?"

Minsheng swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. "It's... not common knowledge, Maa," he said gently, forcing calm into his voice. "I usually manage."

Ansh leaned back, eyes still fixed on Kashi, something unreadable passing through his gaze. ''Well its good we know it now and staff will be careful.'' Ansh smiled eyeing the staff who nodded taking the note.

Minsheng, however, couldn't look away from her.

"How did you know?" he finally asked, his voice low—almost cautious. Not accusing. Just stunned.

Kashi hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then she met his eyes, steady and honest.
"Mujhe pata hai" she said simply.

That was it. Those simple words.

She didn't realise what they meant, what they did to him. It meant a lot for a monster like him

That single sentence cracked something open inside him.

He had spoken of it carelessly, without weight—never expecting anyone to remember, let alone care enough to stop a meal, stop a room, stop him.

And yet she had.

Without asking. Without explaining. Without thinking twice.

The table slowly resumed its murmurs, but Minsheng heard none of it. The clatter of cutlery, the voices, the warmth around him—all blurred into the background.

For the first time in years, the walls he had built so carefully didn't just tremble.

They crumbled.

And it terrified him—
how comforting that felt.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

RAJPUT MANOR

MUMBAI, INDIA

The living room of the Rajput Manor was steeped in quiet grandeur. High sandstone walls rose with timeless pride, adorned with ancestral portraits whose watchful eyes seemed to follow every movement—carrying generations of authority, legacy, and unspoken commands.

Maids moved through the space in hushed whispers, silver trays balanced carefully in their hands as breakfast was served. Guards stood tall at their designated posts, shoulders squared, expressions unreadable—silent reminders of unwavering loyalty to the Rajputs and the Rajvansh name.

Upstairs, in one of the manor's sunlit bedrooms, Nisha stood before the mirror.

Her fingers brushed lightly over her face as she prepared to leave for work. The familiar lab coat rested loosely over her arm, her purse hanging from her shoulder. She stared at her reflection longer than necessary.

She was dressed in a deep green Manish Malhotra suit and salwar—the colour complementing her complexion perfectly, accentuating her curves, making her look... beautiful.

She kept staring.

As if convincing herself of something.

She had never been someone who cared about appearances. Never lingered before mirrors. Never tried.

But today, she did.

No one knew why.

But deep down... she did.

It was for him.
Only him.

God, what was she even thinking?

Why couldn't she accept the truth—that no matter what she wore, no matter how much she changed, he would never love her?

Yet her stubborn heart refused to listen.
It loved him anyway.

With a quiet sigh, Nisha turned away from the mirror and walked downstairs.

As always, the Rajput Manor was alive with warmth and order—staff moving with practiced precision, the aroma of fresh breakfast drifting from the kitchen, everything a little more elaborate today since guests were staying in the house. Guards remained alert, eyes sharp, ready for anything.

Then she saw them.

Her Chachi and Chachu—Mrinali and Viraj—sat together in the living room, the television murmuring softly in the background. A gentle smile curved Nisha's lips as she watched Mrinali scold Viraj for not holding his teacup properly—again.

God, they were adorable.

Still so deeply in love after all these years.

If there was one thing Nisha wished for, it was a marriage like theirs.
A love like theirs.

Mrinali looked up, her gaze landing on Nisha. Instantly, her expression softened, eyes filling with motherly warmth. She beckoned Nisha closer with a simple motion of her hand.

The next moment, Nisha was wrapped in her arms—melting into the only embrace she had ever truly known as a mother's.

Though Mrinali was her late mother Saanvi's best friend, she had become so much more. From the day Nisha's parents died, Mrinali had stepped in—attending parent-teacher meetings, pushing her toward independence, standing firmly behind her through every storm.

She was the reason the world knew her today as Dr. Nisha Rajvansh.

"Morning, Chachi," Nisha whispered, hugging her tighter, allowing herself a moment of comfort before a long day of surgeries.

"Morning, bacha," Mrinali murmured back, brushing a strand of hair away from Nisha's forehead.

Then came a familiar, teasing voice.

"Well... well..." Viraj spoke, eyeing the two women wrapped around each other. He tapped a finger beneath his chin, pretending to think deeply. "If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm completely invisible in my own house."

Mrinali sighed, releasing Nisha and turning to glare at him. "You're invisible because you choose to be dramatic this early in the morning."

Nisha smiled softly. "Chachu, you never change."

Viraj clutched his chest. "Impossible. I prefer irresistible." His gaze shifted to Nisha, pride replacing his mischief. "Look at you—saving lives before the sun fully rises."

"Just another day," Nisha replied gently.

Mrinali stepped closer, her eyes lingering on her. "You look beautiful, Nisha. Your mother would have been so proud."

The words settled deep—heavy, aching, yet comforting. Nisha nodded, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "That means everything, Chachi."

From the walls, ancestral portraits bore silent witness as another Rajvansh woman carried both legacy and longing within her. Outside, the manor stirred with life. Inside Nisha, a quiet storm brewed—of love unreturned, of hope unbroken, of a heart that refused to surrender.

Viraj placed his teacup down carefully this time, raising both hands in surrender. "I don't plan to change. Someone has to keep this house lively." His gaze lingered on Nisha. "All ready for work?"

"Yes," she nodded. "It's going to be a long day."

Mrinali frowned. "Have you eaten anything, or are you planning to survive on hospital coffee again?"

"I'll eat on the way," Nisha replied quickly, already anticipating the lecture. But deep down that being grown up she was cared and coddled like this by Mrinali because this was the only reason she never felt absence of her mother.

"That's not food," Mrinali shot back.

Viraj chuckled. "Let her be, Mrinali. Our bachi is a doctor—saving lives comes before breakfast."

"Saving lives doesn't mean neglecting your own," Mrinali retorted, though her tone softened as she reached out to straighten Nisha's dupatta.

Nisha dismissed the worry with the soft back of her hand—gentle, never rude. Never with her Chachi. "I'll be fine, Chachi. You don't have to worry."

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. She adjusted her grip on the lab coat. "I should leave now."

But Mrinali stood up abruptly. The softness vanished from her expression, replaced by sharp concern—and beneath it, unmistakable authority.

"You are not going anywhere, young lady," she said firmly. "Not until you have a proper breakfast. And I am not telling you—this is an order."

The room froze.

Viraj's teacup hovered mid-air.

Nisha stopped in her tracks.

They both knew that tone.

That tone meant you do not argue.
That tone meant you do not test your luck.

Viraj blinked once, then cleared his throat lightly. "Ah—that tone," he said, nodding to himself. "Right. I suddenly remember I have... absolutely no opinion in this matter."

Mrinali shot him a look—sharp and knowing.
A single glare from a wife aimed straight at her husband, enough to silence him in the very next moment. Everyone knew it: in front of her, he never really had a say.

God, he didn't.
And he loved it.

Viraj immediately raised both hands. "Breakfast first. Doctor later. I'm on your side. Always have been." He leaned toward Nisha and whispered, "For the record, I value my life."

Nisha bit a smile at the usual banter. She exhaled softly, a helpless smile tugging at her lips. "Chachi—"

Mrinali raised a finger, stopping her immediately. "No hospital excuses. No 'I'll eat later'. And no surviving on coffee."

Nisha shook her head, defeated but fond. "I really don't stand a chance with you."

"Good, at least you're self-aware," Mrinali whispered, already turning toward the kitchen, instructing the maids to cook faster and bring Nisha her favourite chocolate milk.

Something in Nisha softened, even though the love she had wanted never came from the people she had hoped for.

But this home, and the people in it, made her feel loved in ways she had never known. In moments when she felt unseen and unimportant, it was gestures like these that made her realise she was—quietly, gently—loved.

MR AND MRS ARSH RAJVANSH'S BEDROOM

The bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Arsh Rajvansh felt warm and intimate, wrapped in a soft glow rather than grandeur.

Bright wall lights cast an even, gentle illumination across the room, reflecting off cream-toned walls and polished wooden panels. The light made the space feel alive yet calm, as if it patiently waited for its occupants to return. One entire wall was devoted to a large wedding photograph of Isha and Arsh—elegantly framed—capturing a moment frozen in vows and fate.

A fate no one truly knew of.

Isha stood by the vanity, combing her hair, a tired sigh escaping her lips. Her gaze drifted to Arsh, who stood a few steps away, fumbling with his tie. She had always been the one to tie it for him—always.

But today, he was being unusually sulky, stubbornly trying to act independent. And she knew him well enough to know this was nothing but a silent protest.

Over a series. Stranger things. And that too, a single episode.

God, this man was dramatic as hell. 

God, who sulked over that?
This man, apparently.

She watched him struggle for a few more seconds before finally giving up. Crossing the distance between them, she reached for his tie—but he immediately crossed his arms over his chest, chin lifting in defiance, sulking like a two-year-old who had been told no.

"Ish—" he began, but she cut him off softly.

"Arsh, aap gussa hai, it's okay," she whispered, her hands already undoing his mess and working effortlessly to fix the tie. "But I can't see you struggle like this. Aur jab main yahan hoon... aapko tie ke saath Kung Fu Panda khelne ki zarurat bhi nahi hai."

Her words landed lightly, wrapped in amusement, followed by that soft chuckle she never realised disarmed him more than arguments ever could.

But to him?

It wasn't humour.

It wasn't even the tie.

It was the fact that she noticed. That even in his silence, in his tightly controlled frustration, she stepped closer instead of backing away. She didn't ask why he was angry. She didn't tell him to calm down. She simply fixed what was unraveling—fabric first, then him.

Arsh's jaw tightened, not in irritation, but restraint.

Her fingers brushed his collarbone as she straightened the knot, confident and familiar, as if this was her rightful place. And that—that unsettled him. Because anger was easy. Distance was easier. But this quiet care? This gentle insistence on staying?

That was dangerous.

He exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him despite his best efforts. His gaze softened, resting on the crown of her head as she finished, completely unaware of the storm she had just calmed.

"Tumhe pata hai," he said quietly, voice low and controlled, "tum mujhe gussa rehne hi nahi deti."

She looked up then, eyes warm, lips already curved in victory. Because she knew he was right.

And for the first time that morning, Arsh didn't mind losing. To be honest he would never mind losing to her.

Arsh's eyes searched her face, the anger in them faltering. Her words settled somewhere deep inside him, stirring something warm and unfamiliar.

She really couldn't see him struggle?

Was she truly this calm after saying something so simple—yet so touching?

His gaze softened completely as he watched her work, her fingers deft and practiced. Loose strands of her hair brushed her face, bangles lightly grazing his chest with every movement.

And for a moment, he forgot why he was angry at all.

But the second she finished and stepped back, he pulled his sulky expression right back on, arms crossing again. He wasn't ready to let her know—wasn't ready to admit—how much her words had affected him.

Isha stared at him for a second before biting her lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh. His lips had formed a small pout, stubborn and ridiculous.

God, he was cute. "Arsh," she said, finally laughing, "aap ekdum bache jaise lag rahe ho."

He froze at the words. Bache? Did she just call him a bacha? Did this woman call him a bacha when he is angry. Only she could ever do that.

"Excuse me?" he asked, staring at her in mock offense, the pout deepening further. He was angry. Truly. Deeply.

She had watched the finale of Stranger Things without him.

After waiting for it together. He remembers how much they had waited for finale to come and wanting to watch together. After promising. And yet she watched without him.

God, it hurt. 

And just like that, his sulk deepened—while her laughter filled the room.

"Excused," she said lightly, turning back toward the vanity as if the matter was closed.

Arsh watched her retreating reflection in the mirror, jaw tightening. That was it? She was just... done? After committing such a betrayal?

Unbelievable.

He followed her in two long strides, stopping right behind her. She sensed him instantly—his presence always announced itself before he ever spoke.

Arsh scoffed. "Wow. That's it?"
He leaned against the cupboard, arms crossing again. "You commit a crime of this magnitude and all I get is excused?"

Isha met his gaze through the mirror, her eyes calm, amused... and just a little apologetic. "Arsh, episode kal hi aaya tha."

"So?" he challenged raising a eyebrow at her. 

"So," she replied calmly, "I wasn't sleepy and I really tried to sleep but yesterday I had slept in afternoon and then I found myself watching the episode.'' She whispered explaining the situation to him. 

He opened his mouth to argue but she continued before he could.

"You came home late. Properly tired." She picked up her earrings, fastening them slowly. "You sat on the bed for two minutes and passed out."

"I wasn't passed out," he muttered, deliberately avoiding her gaze—because truthfully, even he didn't know what had happened last night. He only remembered the bone-deep exhaustion, the way the world had blurred, and then... nothing.

"You were snoring," she corrected without missing a beat.

He frowned staring at her but he knew that way a lie. He knew very well. "I don't snore." 

She glanced at him. "You do." 

That shut him up—in a second. Because he knew it was true he didn't believe it earlier not until last week she had shown him recording of him snoring. God, it was horrible.

"I tried waking you," she went on, tone casual. "You just turned around and pulled the blanket."

He remembered that. Vaguely. And he knew it was something he would do. Typical Arsh Behaviour.

"I thought I'd watch one scene," she shrugged. "Bas dekhne ke liye. I didn't plan to finish it."

He sighed, irritation fading into something quieter. "You could've waited till morning."

"And then you would've been rushing to work," she replied. "Like always."

He didn't deny it. Because he knew that was true too. Nowadays with the deal signed with Singhanias he was mostly busy with that.

"I didn't want to keep you up," she added lightly. "It was just a show."

Just a show. But for him it was not just a show it was something he liked watching with her. Only her.

It was their thing. Something he found peace in. Something he always looked forward to. He wouldn't say it not directly but the hurt he felt showed how much he cared about doing things with her.

Because it wasn't about some movie or finale.

It was about him wanting to watch it with her and only her. Because somehow both of them didn't knew she was his safe place and he didn't

"You always say that," he muttered, his shoulders sagging, the words slipping out with quiet defeat. Maybe she was right. Maybe she always had been. But knowing that didn't dull the ache.

She smiled, finally turning to face him. "Because it usually is."

He studied her for a moment—her easy calm, the way she never made small things heavy. "You don't even feel bad," he accused.

"I do," she said simply. "I just don't make a big deal out of it."

He huffed. "You're impossible."

"And you're dramatic."

They stared at each other for a second before she reached out, straightening his collar again—unnecessary, habitual.

"You're still sulking," she noted.

She smiled to herself. A beat.

"And Arsh?" she added.

"Hm?"

"If you're tired again next time," she said lightly, walking past him, "I'm not waking you." she turns away

He turned, watching her. "Wow. Such a caring wife." He whispered almost sarcastic mimicking her words.

He shook his head, lips tugging despite himself. "Banter hi banter hai iss shaadi mein."

She glanced back at him. "Better than silence."

He didn't respond—because this was better than silence.
He had never imagined their marriage of convenience, a marriage no one planned and one that simply happened, would turn out like this.

Isha was quiet for a while then and then there was it. She turned around then, facing him fully. The playful smile faded just enough to let sincerity peek through.

"I'm sorry," she added quietly. "But I didn't think it would hurt you this much."

That did it. His expression shifted—not angry now, not sulky either. Just... honest.

"You always watch things without me," he muttered, looking away. "And I wait. Because watching it with you feels different."

Her heart softened instantly. She stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. "Next time," she whispered, "I won't."

He looked down at her, surprised. "Pakki?"

"Pakki," she nodded a faint smile on her lips. "Kasam."

He sighed, arms finally uncrossing as they wrapped around her without thought. Warmth spread through his chest as he held her and nothing else mattered. "Fine," he murmured. "But you owe me."

She smiled against him. "What kind of dramatic demand is coming now?"

"The entire season. Rewatch. With snacks. And no spoilers."

She laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. "Deal."

He leaned down, pressing a light kiss into her hair, sulk officially abandoned.

But just as they were about to leave—

"And Ish," he added casually.

"Hm?" she hummed, absent-minded at first, her tone easy and relaxed, but with a quiet flicker of curiosity underneath, bracing herself for whatever came next.

"You're still sleeping on the couch tonight," he whispered, his tone even, casual, like it was a settled fact rather than a decision.

She pulled back instantly, eyes widening. "Arsh!" she whispered through gritted teeth. God—what was this man trying to do to her? Make her sleep on the couch?

The couch.
The biggest enemy of her back. The one place where she never, ever got a proper night's sleep. Every morning after felt like punishment, not rest.

She sighed inwardly. But she knew she'd earned it. And there was no escaping it—especially not with her dramatic husband, who was already halfway into his silent-protest mode.

Tonight, the couch had her name written all over it.

He smirked unapologitically, arms crossed over his chest.  "Bacha hoon na," he said smugly. As if throwing her words back at him - which he was because she had called him a baby. So he was acting like one now.

And just like that, the bedroom filled with laughter again—warm, intimate, and unmistakably theirs. And behind that Isha gasping showing pleading eyes to Arsh but they weren't working . Not today.

Because somewhere between teasing, habits, and half-finished arguments, neither of them noticed how deeply they already belonged to each other. How much they had gotten used to each other presence.

Downstairs, breakfast was finally served.

Maids moved around the long dining table in practiced harmony, pouring tea into delicate china cups, adjusting plates, murmuring softly to one another. At the center of it all sat a small glass of chocolate milk—extra frothy, slightly warm—placed carefully in front of Inaayat.

The cutie pie of the house.

Nisha sat beside Mrinali, who was already halfway into her daily routine of fussing.
"Eat properly," Mrinali said, nudging her plate closer. "You barely touched dinner last night either."

Nisha hummed in response, nodding without really listening.

Because all she could see—

Was him.

Isaac.

Standing near the far end of the room, talking to her Chachu - Viraj. Their conversation looked serious, business-like—subtle nods, low voices, the occasional measured smile. Of course it was about work. What else could it be?

God, he looks so handsome.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

She frowned at herself immediately.

What are they even discussing? she wondered, gaze lingering longer than it should have.
And then—
God... is Chachu convincing him to marry—

She froze mid-thought. What the fuck was wrong with her?

Only the delulu version of her brain could even think something like that. For God's sake, Isaac was taken. He had a girlfriend. A whole relationship. A life that did not include her ridiculous imagination.

What was she even doing?

"Hey Bhagwan," Nisha muttered under her breath, staring down at her plate shutting her eyes cursing internally, "please mujhe inse door rakho. Mera delulu mind bina warning ke activate ho jaata hai."

She forced herself to focus on the food.

Useless.

Her eyes betrayed her, lifting again—drawn helplessly toward him.

The way he stood with one hand tucked casually into his pocket, shoulders relaxed yet alert. His eyes were intense, focused, but not cold. There was something grounded about him. Something steady.

God... how could someone be this handsome?

Then—

"Mausi," a tiny voice whispered conspiratorially, "he isn't that handsome."

Nisha stiffened her body going still at that cute sound. She knew it very well and yet still for a last bit of confirmation. Slowly, she turned her head.

Inaayat was pouting, little arms crossed, staring at Isaac with narrowed eyes—as if personally evaluating and rejecting him.

Nisha bent down quickly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. When she was certain, she whispered trying not to laugh at the little ones cuteness.
"Oh? So you're a judge now, Princess?"

Inaayat nodded very seriously. "Yes. I am checking if you are focusing on the right guy or not."

Her eyes flicked to Isaac. Once. Twice.

Then back to Nisha.

Nisha pressed her lips together, holding back a laugh. "And what's wrong with him, hmm?"

Inaayat thought hard, her eyes twitching back and forth as she studied him with the seriousness of an aunty judging rishtas.
"He doesn't smile properly," she declared.

"He does," Nisha whispered defensively.

Inaayat shook her head. "Not happy-smile. Only office-smile." She leaned closer. "Also... he looks like he will steal fries."

That broke her. What was this little menace even talking about? Stealing Fries?

Nisha's shoulders shook as she laughed quietly. "You're unbelievable."

"I am smart," Inaayat declared proudly, sipping her chocolate milk. "Mausi should marry someone who gives extra fries."

Nisha smiled despite herself, her heart feeling strangely lighter. And then—like he sensed it—Isaac looked up.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second.

Nisha's smile faltered.

Her breath hitched as she looked away too quickly, afraid that if she didn't, her heart might betray her—might tumble out of her chest in plain sight.

Isaac nodded politely as Viraj continued talking, offering nothing more than courtesy. A faint smile tugged at his lips—soft, fleeting, and utterly devastating.

Because it wasn't meant for her.

Inaayat noticed.

Of course she did. This little troublemaker always did.

She leaned in again, lowering her voice as if she were sharing a top-secret mission.
"Mausi... you are blushing."

"I am not," Nisha hissed.But the way her cheeks deepened into a darker shade of red told a far more honest story than her denial ever could.

"Yes you are."

Nisha sighed, picking up her spoon. "Finish your milk." She tried to shake her face as if that blush would dissapear, as if the affect he had on her would be gone.

Inaayat obeyed—then added sweetly, "But Mausi... if you marry him, I will still support you."

Nisha choked on air. What the fuck was wrong with this girl?

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as heat rushed straight to her face. Panic, embarrassment, and sheer disbelief tangled together, leaving her momentarily speechless. Of all the things Inaayat could have said—of all the people, of all the timings—this was what she chose?

"INAAYAT!" Nisha hissed, mortified, half-terrified someone—he—might have heard.

Her eyes darted around instinctively, pulse racing, while the child stared back at her with infuriating innocence and unmistakable satisfaction. This wasn't curiosity. This was calculated chaos.

God help her.
This girl wasn't just observant—she was dangerous.

Across the room, everyone turned toward them.

Isaac and Viraj paused mid-conversation. Shanaya and Arsh, halfway down the stairs, stilled at the foot of the steps. From the kitchen, Mrinali glanced over, confusion written plainly on her face. And of course, Edward stopped mid-call, his attention snapping to the sudden disruption.

The room fell into a brief, charged silence.

Nisha buried her face in her hands. God—this had to be the most embarrassing day of her life.

God really was testing her.

Then came the whisper.

"Arey, it's nothing—just their usual banter," Viraj murmured with a chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest, already familiar with the chaos between this mausi and the little girl.

He knew it well. All of it.

Too late.

Isaac had just taken a seat—not too close, not too far. Close enough to hear. Close enough for her to notice his sleeves rolled up, his posture relaxed.

"She always eats like that when she's distracted," Isaac whispered, too calmly, too casually. Like he knew her far too well. Like he hadn't just pointed out something about her that felt uncomfortably intimate.

God—how could this man be so calm?

Nisha froze. She didn't move or speak for a moment.

How did he know that?

Her head lifted slowly. Isaac was looking at her—expression calm, polite, mildly amused.

"Oh?" Mrinali glanced between them with a smile finding nothing too odd. "You've noticed?"

"A few times," he replied simply. His hands moving precisely focusing on his breakfast.

Nisha's mind short-circuited. Something in her chest warmed he had noticed it?

A few times? When?

Inaayat beamed. "See, Mausi? He notices things."

Nisha wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

God—this girl was going to be the end of her. And now, with Isaac sitting right beside her, the air felt too tight, too close. She didn't even trust herself around him.

She needed to leave.

She really, really had to

Isaac smiled faintly, then leaned back slightly—creating space, not because he had to, but because he chose to.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," he said gently, noticing the nervous way she fidgeted with her clothes, only pushing her food around instead of actually eating it

She blinked.

He'd noticed that too?

God—this man knew far too much, and somehow she felt exposed in a way she never had before.
"No. It's fine."

Inaayat leaned against Nisha's arm, suddenly drowsy after breakfast.
"Mausi... if he steals fries, I will fight him."

Nisha let out a soft laugh, gently brushing Inaayat's hair back.
"Very brave."

And that was when she knew she had to leave—before God knew what she might say.

Besides, she had to be back early today. Around lunch, Kashi was coming. God, she still couldn't believe it—she was finally here. After a whole year. The ache of missing her best friend settled heavy in her chest, something words could never quite explain.

Only a hug ever could.

"Chachi, I should leave. I have a surgery scheduled soon," Nisha said, rising to her feet and offering Mrinali a polite smile. Mrinali nodded in understanding.

"Okay, beta. Be careful—and be back by lunch, before Kashi writes a letter about how you've betrayed her," Mrinali whispered with a giggle.

Nisha's smile softened at that. And just like that, she walked out—after giving everyone in the room a brief, gentle glance.

Everyone... except him.

She knew if she did, she might not be able to leave. And God, she had to leave. She needed to focus on her work. She really did.

Isaac, meanwhile, was left confused, a faint frown settling on his face. Had he overstepped? God this was confusing - he was trying to be just kind. Why was this making effort in conversation so hard.

Too Damn Hard than signing a deal. 

Edward had told him not to sulk just because Meilin wasn't here—that he should enjoy his time instead.

Fuck......

He'd messed up. And she'd left before he could even apologise.

Then came a small whisper, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Inaayat leaned in, a confident smirk playing on her cute little lips.
"Don't worry, uncle. I'll teach you," she whispered, as if she knew exactly what he was struggling with.

Isaac glanced at the tiny menace in front of him. His eyes softened despite himself at the mischievous grin plastered on her face. He leaned in too, lowering his voice.
"Oh really?" he murmured. "And what are you going to teach me, Teacher?"

"I'm going to teach you how to apologise to Mausi," she whispered back, the confidence in her voice rising with every word.

God—this girl was smart.

Isaac froze, staring at her in utter shock. This little girl knew far too much.

How did she even know what he'd been thinking?

Isaac let out a slow breath, leaning back as he tried to mask the way Inaayat's words had unsettled him.
"...Is it really that obvious?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Inaayat's eyes sparkled, unbothered. She nodded with the solemnity of someone delivering the world's harshest truth.
"You made Mausi nervous," she said plainly. "When Mausi gets nervous, she stops eating properly. And then... she leaves. Just like that."

Isaac froze. That tiny observation—so simple, so spot-on—hit harder than he expected. This girl knew little too much for being a six year old.

"I—I didn't mean to," he said softly, almost inaudibly.

Inaayat leaned closer, her little chin resting on her hand, inspecting him like a teacher grading a hopeless student.
"Okay," she finally said, dramatic as ever. "You don't look terrible. Just... clueless."

Clueless. Fair. He'd take that.

"So," Isaac began, humour returning like a quiet tide, "lesson one?"

Her grin widened, full of mischief.
"Lesson one," she whispered, leaning in, "you say sorry. Like really sorry. None of that boring grown-up 'sorry' stuff. You have to mean it!"

"And how exactly do I do that?" he asked, leaning forward, intrigued despite himself.

"You wait," she replied, voice firm. "And you don't make Mausi more nervous next time. Simple."

Isaac exhaled slowly, the weight of it sinking in. The lesson was tiny, but somehow, the implications were huge.

From the doorway, Edward watched, suppressing a chuckle. He hadn't expected this—Isaac, the stoic, composed Isaac, now taking lessons from a six-year-old. His smile widened as he watched his best friend being preached to by his own daughter.

Isaac's gaze drifted unconsciously toward the empty space where Nisha had been.

Yeah.

Lesson two was going to be far more complicated.

Edward stood in the corner of the room, phone pressed to his ear, his gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once. He had already ensured his men were stationed outside Aadhya Malhotra's house—silent, invisible, alert. He trusted no one where that little girl's safety was concerned.

He knew men like Adhvit Singhania.

Men who would move mountains to protect their sons and wouldn't spare a second thought for the girl whose life had been shattered in the process. A girl who had already been violated far more than she ever deserved.

Edward's jaw tightened. Every instinct in him screamed to go right now—to end that bastard and his son with his own hands. Rage coiled hot and suffocating in his chest.

But he forced himself to breathe. Killing them would be easy. Too easy. And it wouldn't be justice. It wouldn't give Aadhya her voice back, or her stolen sense of safety.

She deserved more than bloodshed born of anger. She deserved the truth dragged into the light, the powerful stripped of their shields, and consequences that no influence could erase.

So Edward swallowed his fury, even as it burned him from the inside out. He would not act like a monster—they already had enough of those. He would be patient. Calculated. Relentless.

And when the time came, he would destroy them the right way.

Lust-driven nineteen-year-old boys didn't see guilt; they saw entitlement. And their fathers—power-drunk, morally bankrupt—covered up those sins with influence and money, as if wealth could bleach bloodstains off a conscience.

He hated it.

He hated it even more now that he had a six-year-old daughter of his own. He had always despised such bastards, but fatherhood had sharpened that hatred into something far more personal, far more visceral.

Because now it wasn't just about morality or justice—it was about instinct. About the way his chest tightened at the thought of small hands trembling in fear, of innocence stolen far too early. Seeing another man's daughter hurt felt like a knife driven straight through him.

He wasn't just a man fighting for a girl anymore.
He was a father.

A father who saw his own child in Aadhya. A father who knew that pain didn't need blood to bind it. And even if she wasn't his daughter, his heart refused to see her as anything less than one.

Inaayat - His Princess.

The very thought of someone hurting his princess made something vicious coil in his chest. The world was cruel—he knew that better than most. It wouldn't protect her. It wouldn't care.

But he would. Always.

He would burn the world down before letting even a strand of hair on her head be touched. And if he ever failed her... he wouldn't spare himself either.

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening, a violent urge thrumming through his veins—an instinct to break something, someone—just to release the image clawing at his mind.

The sharp ring of his phone dragged him back to reality. Edward looked down at the screen.

Han.

His expression darkened instantly. Han didn't call without reason—never for something trivial. Edward answered, already bracing himself.

"What's wrong, Han?" he asked, rubbing his temples, frustration bleeding into his voice.

There was a pause on the other end.

"Boss," Han said quietly, "that bastard Adhvit Singhania sent flowers."

Edward's jaw tightened. How dare that fucker? He knew it was never something as harmless as flowers—bastards like him never did anything without motive, never without something rotten lurking underneath the gesture.

And then Han spoke.

In that moment, suspicion stopped being a shadow in Edward's mind and took shape as ugly, undeniable truth. The last thread of doubt snapped, replaced by a cold, lethal clarity. Whatever game they were playing, it was deeper than he'd hoped—and far more dangerous than he'd feared.

Han continued, slower now, letting every word land. "Beneath them... fifty lakhs. And a full scholarship to Yale. Canada."

Silence stretched between them. They both knew what that meant, the bastard was trying to win

For a moment, Edward didn't speak. Rage simmered beneath the surface—hot, lethal—but beneath it was something colder. Disbelief, perhaps. Or rather... confirmation.

Of course he did.

Money. Prestige. A future bought at the cost of a child's trauma. That fucker that he could fix everything his son had done to that little girl who didn't deserve it.

Edward exhaled slowly, forcing control back into his bones. "Send a message from us," he said at last, voice low, edged with steel. "You know exactly what to say."

"Yes, boss."

"And Han?" Edward added, his teeth grinding together. "If they do one more stupid thing—anything—do what needs to be done."

There was no hesitation on the other end. "Understood."

The call ended. Edward lowered the phone, his reflection staring back at him from the darkened glass of the window. A dangerous calm settled over him—the kind that came before destruction.

Adhvit Singhania thought money could erase sin.

Edward was about to teach him otherwise.

"She's not a transaction," he muttered under his breath.

Edward stayed where he was long after the call ended, the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a dying pulse. Somewhere below, traffic moved on as if the world hadn't tilted on its axis for one small girl.

He flexed his fingers once, then twice, grounding himself.

Money. Flowers. Yale.

Adhvit Singhania really believed redemption could be couriered in bouquets and bank transfers.

Edward turned away from the window. He walked toward the study, stopping at the desk. The wood creaked softly beneath his palm as he leaned forward, staring at the files spread out neatly—photographs, statements, medical reports, timelines. Aadhya Malhotra stared back at him in black ink, small and fragile against the weight of what had been done to her.

He exhaled, slow and controlled. Rage lived in his chest, hot and restless, but he refused to let it spill. Anger made mistakes. Anger was loud. What Aadhya needed now was none of that.

Edward picked up the top photograph and then set it down just as quickly. He didn't need to look again. He had seen enough the first time—enough to know this wasn't just a case, wasn't just another name that would pass through his hands and disappear into paperwork. This was a child who should've been worrying about homework and scraped knees, not police statements and locked doors.

He straightened the files with deliberate care, aligning the edges as if order could be imposed on the chaos behind them. His fingers paused over the medical report, knuckles whitening for a brief second before he forced himself to relax.

"She's safe," he reminded himself quietly.

Outside Aadhya's house, his men stood guard. Silent. Alert. No reporters. No politicians' shadows creeping too close. For tonight, at least, Aadhya slept under protection—not justice, not yet, but safety.

Edward moved to the chair and sat down, finally allowing the weight of it all to settle. He rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion catching up to him. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked steadily, indifferent to the war being planned in this room.

"I won't fail you," he murmured, not to the files but to the girl whose name they carried.

This wouldn't be fast. It wouldn't be clean. Power like Singhania's didn't crumble overnight. But Edward had patience. And memory. And a line he did not allow anyone to cross.

He closed the folder gently, as if closing a door between Aadhya and the ugliness of the world.

Edward stood there for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear, before slowly lowering it. Whatever softness Inaayat had left behind faded, replaced by something immovable.

Adhvit Singhania didn't know it yet—but he had just crossed a line money couldn't erase.

Edward tapped his desk twice. The signal was enough.

Within seconds, his encrypted screen lit up as profiles opened—financial records, shell companies, political donors, offshore accounts. Every dirty secret neatly catalogued, waiting.

He didn't believe in mercy where children were concerned.

His phone buzzed again. Han.

"Message delivered," Han said. "Word for word."

Edward didn't ask what the response was. "Good," he replied. "Pull the Singhania boy's academic records. Every complaint. Every sealed file. I want the ones they buried."

"Already in progress."

"And Han?" Edward added calmly. "Increase security around Aadhya. Two men visible. Two invisible. No mistakes."

"Yes, boss."

The call disconnected.

Edward leaned back in his chair, eyes cold, calculating. He would get back at that bastard—no matter what it took. Men like him grew up believing money could buy silence, erase sins, bend the world until it nodded in agreement.

But some things didn't bow to money.

Aadhya had already lost something that could never be purchased, never negotiated back, never restored with apologies wrapped in cheques. Something far more fragile than flesh.

Her dignity.

And that truth sat heavy in the room, heavier than the files, heavier than the threats waiting to be made. Edward's jaw clenched—not with blind rage, but with something sharper, more disciplined. The kind of resolve that didn't burn out quickly.

Money could delay justice. It could corrupt it. It could try to bury the truth under layers of influence and fear.

But it could not undo what had been done.

And it could not stop him.

Edward straightened, pushing the chair back just enough for it to scrape softly against the floor—a quiet promise of movement, of action. He wasn't fighting for revenge alone anymore. He was fighting because some lines, once crossed, demanded consequences.

And this time, no amount of money would be enough to save them.

And Adhvit Singhania was about to learn that some fathers didn't negotiate.

They ended wars.

He shut the laptop, the screen going dark as he exhaled slowly, the sound rough and tired. The responsibility didn't sit on his shoulders—it pressed down, constant and unforgiving. Bringing that girl justice wasn't a task he could walk away from, not a decision he was still debating. It had already claimed him.

This wasn't about duty anymore. It was about necessity.

Justice for Aadhya wasn't just for her—it was for every little girl who had learned to stay quiet, who had swallowed fear because speaking up felt more dangerous than silence. The ones who never found the courage, or were never given the chance, while men like those bastards walked free, protected by money, power, and rot disguised as respectability.

If he failed her, he wouldn't just be failing one child.

He'd be telling the world—again—that monsters win.

And that was something he refused to allow.

CREAK...

The door creaked open as Shanaya stood in the doorway, her saree brushing softly against the frame. Her hands were clasped together—an old habit that surfaced whenever nerves got the better of her. Her breath faltered at the sight of Edward.

For a moment, the world narrowed.

He was leaning back in his chair, shoulders tense, lost somewhere in thought. She shouldn't have noticed how good he looked. But she did.

And that realization alone made her still.

No. Don't.

Did she just think that?

Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.

She swallowed, annoyed at herself. She hated that he still had this effect on her—especially now, when they were divorced. Especially now, when she had no excuse for her heart to react the way it did.

Dhak... dhak...

She forced herself to breathe. Her eyes betrayed her anyway—taking in the rolled-up sleeves, the familiar lines of his forearms, the disorder of his hair. He'd clearly run his hands through it more than once.

That habit. He always did that when he was tense. She knew it very well from their married days.

The thought made her pause. Why did she still remember these things? 

She should've forgotten them by now. After all, there was nothing left between them—nothing except their daughter. That was it. That had to be it.

So why couldn't she look away?

His gaze lifted suddenly, meeting hers.

Shanaya froze, fingers curling into her palms. He'd caught her. There was no mistaking it. She already knew it he would be teasing her about it for days now. 

Edward studied her calmly, already aware of how long she'd been standing there. Some things never changed. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, he could still read her.

A faint smirk touched his lips as he stood, folding his arms. "See something you like, Princess?" he said softly.

The word snapped something in her. "There is—" she snapped, then stopped, catching herself. Her jaw tightened. "There is nothing to look at."

She lifted her chin defiantly, eyes flashing. God what did he even think of himself? 
"Get over yourself, Edward."

He chuckled softly, taking a slow step toward her. "Liar," he said simply.

And God help her—her heart betrayed her all over again. Because both of them knew it was a lie.

He stepped closer, unbothered, amused. Because he already knew even if she tried to deny it.

"Sure," he said, voice low. "That's why you forgot to blink."

And despite herself, her heartbeat gave her away.

For a moment, Shanaya froze. Deep down, she knew what he was saying was true—but then she snapped, as if trying to break the moment that had suddenly turned too intimate, with him standing inches away from her.

"Shut up and stop distracting me. I'm here for important work," she whispered, raising her voice slightly, as if trying to intimidate him. A finger jabbed against his chest.

Edward raised an eyebrow, amused by her attempt to act all macho. He stifled a laugh, and that only made Shanaya angrier.
How dare he?

"Darling, you do look cute trying to intimidate me," he murmured.

He leaned down toward her face, their noses almost brushing. He could see the way she stopped blinking, the way her breath hitched with the sudden proximity—and that was all he needed to know how much she still felt it.

"I am not your darling," Shanaya whispered back through gritted teeth, barely holding onto her anger.
Was it really anger? Or something else buried so deep inside her—something she had convinced herself she no longer felt?

Her breath stilled at the sight of him so close, leaning down, their noses brushing. She found herself unable to look away from those intense eyes staring into hers, and somehow that made her feel exposed in a way she never had before.

"Oh, you are my darling," he whispered now so easily as if it was the only truth.

One arm slid loosely around her waist. She could feel his warmth instantly, his hand resting against her bare skin beneath the saree. And if she denied the way it left her breathless all over again, it would be the biggest lie she'd ever tell herself.

Her body betrayed her instantly.

"Edward," she breathed, the name slipping out before she could stop it.

That single word changed everything. The way she said his name so hesitant and like its a prayer.

His jaw tightened. His amusement vanished. "Yes?" he asked quietly, his forehead lowering until it brushed hers.

"This—" her fingers curled into his shirt despite herself, "—this is a mistake."

He didn't move away. "No," he said, calm and devastating. "This is you pretending you don't feel what you've always felt."

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She should step back. She knew that. But her feet stayed rooted, caught between the past she never healed from and the man who still knew exactly how to undo her without even touching her more.

A sharp knock echoed from the hallway, the sound shattering the moment.
A voice called out—Mrinali's gentle one.

"Shanaya, bacha, neeche aaja. Kashi aane wali hai."

The words hit Shanaya like cold water.

She flinched, her finger dropping from Edward's chest as if she'd been caught doing something forbidden. For half a second, neither of them moved. The air still buzzed with everything unsaid.

Edward was the first to step back. The amusement faded from his face, replaced by that calm, controlled mask he wore so well. He cleared his throat softly, straightening his jacket as if nothing intimate had just passed between them. But his eyes lingered on her a beat longer than necessary.

"Kashi's coming," he said quietly, more a reminder to himself than to her.

Shanaya inhaled, steadying herself. She smoothed her saree, lifted her chin, and reached for composure like armor. "I know," she muttered, annoyed—at the interruption, at him, at herself.

From the hallway, Mrinali's footsteps retreated, her presence already fading like she trusted Shanaya to follow.

Shanaya turned toward the door, then paused. "Don't think this changes anything," she said without looking back.

Edward's lips curved—just slightly. "Of course not," he replied. "You're very good at pretending nothing affects you."

That did it.

She shot him a glare over her shoulder, eyes sharp, wounded, and dangerously honest for just a second. Then she was gone, her bangles chiming softly as she walked away.

Edward remained where he was.

Only when the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the stairs did he exhale, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The room felt emptier now—but heavier too.

Downstairs, voices were already rising. Laughter. Familiar warmth. Kashi's arrival would bring noise, normalcy, distractions.

But for Edward, the moment upstairs lingered.

And for Shanaya—

No matter how hard she tried to bury it—

But as she started walking down the stairs, she heard it—
a whisper, quiet and aching.

"You can lie to the world, Shanaya. Just don't lie to yourself."

Her steps faltered for half a heartbeat.

She didn't turn around. She didn't slow down. She kept her chin lifted, her expression composed, even as something deep in her chest twisted painfully tight.

Don't, she told herself. Don't look back.

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

DEEWAN MANSION

Kashi stood in her childhood bedroom—the walls were filled with medals and photos, all still there—a sign of the woman she once was.
It started with a little girl who first stood on the stage, nervous, giving her very first Bharatanatyam performance, to a woman standing on the stage—confident and proud, her feet moving with such flow like she owned the stage.

Which she did.

Or maybe she used to.

Because it had been almost a year since she had worn ghungroo, since she had felt alive. Because how could she?

She had given it up the day she got married, and no one ever asked if she still wanted it in her life—because how could she even define it? Bharatanatyam was her second name. She couldn't live without it, which was true—a year since her feet hadn't moved, and a year since she hadn't really lived or smiled.

And the only reason she had given up dancing was her marriage. And now that was falling apart too. It felt like she was failing at everything in life.

KNOCK... KNOCK...

The door creaked open. Kashi was thrown out of her thoughts as she turned around, only to see her grandfather—Naresh Deewan. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, looking handsome as ever, and his cold, stern demeanour was replaced by a kind smile that only came from a grandfather for his granddaughter.

"Can I come in, Ladoo?" Naresh whispered, his smile widening at the sight of his granddaughter looking so elegant and poised. It reminded him of the little girl she once was—who used to run around, break into his meetings, and jump into his lap, showing off her lehenga like she hadn't just interrupted a million-dollar deal.

"Dadu, why are you asking? Of course you can come in," Kashi whispered, a smile creeping onto her lips. It was carefree, showing off her teeth—because here, with her favourite person in the world, she didn't care. She knew she would never be judged.

"Is everything okay, Dadu?" she asked, concern flickering in her eyes, brows furrowing in a way that only made Naresh smile.

He crossed the distance in a moment, standing right in front of Kashi.
"Everything is okay, Ladoo," he paused, his eyes flickering over her gentle features, how grown-up she looked. Before he realised it, his eyes were glistening—yet shining with pride.

Kashi moved forward, concern completely replacing her features. Her eyes flickered over Naresh's face, and without thinking, she reached out, wiping his cheeks with the softness only a granddaughter could show.
"Dadu, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

She made him sit on the edge of the bed, then rushed to the nightstand, pouring a glass of water and making him drink it despite his protests.

"Ladoo, I am okay. Everything is okay. It's just that when I see you, I realise how grown up you are—and how you're not that little girl running around the mansion shouting, 'Daduu... Daduuu...'"

Kashi's own eyes welled up hearing her grandfather's words, but she wiped them away with a choked laugh.
"Dadu, did you come here to make me cry?"

"No, Ladoo. I just wanted to sit with you—and also tell you something," Naresh smiled, patting the spot beside him.

Kashi sat beside her grandfather, confusion and curiosity flickering in her eyes. Before she could say anything, Naresh spoke.

"You know, beta, this Mahashivratri there is going to be a big celebration at Trayambakeshwar Mahadev Temple—like usual, you know the way it happens every year."

Kashi's heart skipped a beat. She knew very well Mahashivratri was coming. How could she forget?

It was the day her Mahadev and Mata Parvati became one. And she remembered how she would perform at the mandir on that occasion.

She felt a little envy for whoever was performing this year, wishing she could do it. She remembered how she would get all dressed and dance in front of the world—and of course, for her Mahadev. It brought her peace like nothing else ever could.

And then he spoke again.

"So, Ladoo, now that you are back—and yesterday at the mandir I mentioned this to Pandit Ji—he suggested that you should perform this year. Besides, the mandir misses the warmth you brought."

She froze.

Those words hit her like a bucket of ice thrown straight onto her chest. God—was this real?

She felt happiness blooming at the thought of performing again, after all these days she hadn't been able to. She could barely breathe—and suddenly, it felt like she was so close to home.

But then the thoughts came.

What would he think about her performing?
What if her in-laws didn't appreciate it?

What if it caused a scene?

What if it strained her marriage more than it already was?
What if he started hating her?

She turned to Naresh, hiding her sadness behind a smile, shaking her head.
"Dadu, how can I perform? I mean, I'm not just a girl who used to perform at the mandir. I'm married now, and I'm not sure if Minsheng would appreciate it. So I just can't."

Naresh froze, his smile fading. Anger rose inside him. He had seen how happy she was moments ago—how alive—and then how sadness crowded her again.

Composing himself despite the anger, he whispered,
"What does he have to do with it, Ladoo? You love it. You dance for your Mahadev. And besides, why does it matter what he thinks? As a husband, he should be proud."

Naresh leaned in, his protective instincts rising, jaw tightening, eyes darkening.
"Tell me, Ladoo—do you ask him for everything? Does he control you? Restrict you?"

His words sounded like a warning, as if one 'yes' would send him marching straight out to punch that boy. Who was he to decide what she should or shouldn't do?

Kashi sensed it all, and it warmed her heart—the protectiveness in his voice. She whispered softly,
"Dadu, it's not like that. It's just that since I got married, I haven't performed. And he doesn't do any of that. Vo aise nahi hai jaisa aap soch rahe hain."

Naresh noticed the slight twitch in her voice, the way her eyes avoided his. He knew something was wrong—very wrong—but he didn't push.

Simply patting her head, he stood up and whispered,
"Ladoo, it's four days from now. So better start preparing."

And just like that, with the whisper of those words—

He was gone.

LIVING ROOM

The living room of the Deewan Mansion sat in its usual order and discipline. Maids moved quietly between the kitchen and hallway, staff stood alert at their assigned places, and guards remained stationed at the corners—watchful, unmoving, ensuring nothing slipped past unnoticed.

Ansh sat on the sofa, engrossed in a call. He was discussing the new deal with the Singhanias—one his son-in-law, Arsh, had personally signed off on. With every word of praise Mr. Singhania offered, Ansh's chest swelled with pride. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this satisfied.

"I'm glad, Mr. Singhania, that you've signed this deal with my Arsh," Ansh said, his voice firm yet warm. "I give you my word—he will never disappoint you. He has worked extremely hard on this project, and I truly believe this will turn into a huge success."

The fondness was unmistakable. Arsh's success felt personal.

Kalyani sat beside him, flipping through a magazine. Though her fingers turned pages absently, her attention was on the conversation. A soft smile crept onto her lips at the mention of Arsh's achievements. She felt proud—deeply so. They both knew how tirelessly he had worked for this moment.

Then—

Footsteps echoed.

Naresh Deewan entered the room. His face was unreadable, eyes neutral, but his body was tense—coiled, controlled, as though one wrong word could set him off. The air in the room shifted instantly.

Kalyani noticed first. She rose to her feet, concern replacing her smile. "Baba, kya hua? Aap theek hain?"

Naresh looked at her. For a brief moment, his eyes softened—only to harden again just as quickly. "I need to talk to you as well, beta."

He took a seat, his posture rigid, waiting for Ansh to finish his call. Ansh sensed it too.

His gaze flickered toward his father, the seriousness impossible to miss. He wrapped up the call with Mr. Singhania swiftly. His eyes met Kalyani's; a silent exchange passed between them before he turned back to Naresh. "Baba... what's wrong?"

For a moment, there was only silence.

Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Then Naresh spoke.

"I need you both to start paying attention to Kashi," he said, his voice cold, deliberate. "As responsible parents, make sure she is not suffering—because I can see it. She's hiding far too much behind that smile of hers."

The words landed like a blow.

Both Ansh and Kalyani stiffened, instinctively wanting answers—wanting to understand what Naresh had seen, what they had missed.

But before either of them could speak, Naresh stood up.

Without another word, he walked away.

They were left behind—confused, unsettled, and deeply worried.

Kalyani looked at Ansh. Ansh looked back at her.

No words were spoken, yet the message was clear.

Whatever it took—

They would make sure their daughter was not suffering.

GARDEN

The golden afternoon light filtered lazily through the broad leaves of the mango tree, breaking into soft fragments as it touched the ground below. Dust motes floated in the air, and the garden felt suspended in a quiet kind of peace, the sort that only existed when the world decided to slow down for a while.

Neel sat cross-legged near the tree, entirely absorbed in the small universe he had created in the dirt. His toy car moved along uneven, imaginary roads, his lips forming enthusiastic "vroom... vrrrooom" sounds, complete with sudden stops and sharp turns that only made sense to him. Every now and then, he added a soft "peep-peep", carefully tapping the ground as though signaling traffic that only he could see.

A few steps away, Yunji stood apart, absently plucking at the petals between her fingers, her thoughts drifting far beyond the garden. She hadn't noticed the little boy at all—nor had she ever really met him.

All she knew was that he was Kashi's nephew—a small boy abandoned by his mother and left with only his father, Aksh.

Somehow, she could feel what that boy might be carrying inside. She herself had been motherless since birth. Pallavi—her mother—had died while giving birth to her and her twin brother, Jun. But she had her grandmother, Vishakha, the woman who raised her with steady hands and quiet strength.

Her father, however, had drowned himself in grief, neglecting his children as he disappeared into his sorrow. It was the warmth of her grandparents that became her understanding of parenthood—the only version of parents she had ever known.

Neel stopped playing. His little chubby fingers went still, the toy car dropping quietly to the ground as he looked up at the lady standing nearby. She was wearing a saree, the same color he had seen in Cocomelon, and that made his eyes widen with interest. He liked that color.

He stared at her, not blinking. He hadn't been this close to a lady before, not really. Only Dadi—Kalyani—came close. Mommy used to be there too, but she had gone away. She left Neel and she left Daddy.

Neel didn't know why. Grown-ups said big words he didn't understand. All he knew was that Mommy wasn't coming back. And somehow, looking at the lady in the bright saree made his chest feel funny, like when he missed something but didn't know what to ask for.

His little doe eyes - wide stared at her. Not in a way that was intrusive or curious in the way adults were—but in that open, unguarded way children looked at the world when something caught their attention completely.

 His eyes followed the way the sunlight touched her face, the way her hair fell loose over her shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as if she were something new and unfamiliar, something gentle.

He shifted his toy car in his hands, hesitating.

No one ever really played with him like this. Grown-ups were always busy, always distracted. Ladies smiled at him, patted his head, told him he was cute—but they never stayed. Never sat on the ground. Never waited.

The little boy was scared, but the gentle smile on her face made him want to try. Gathering a bit of courage, Neel picked up a tiny pebble and tossed it lightly toward her.

It landed near her foot.

Yunji looked up in surprise. That was when she finally noticed him. A smile curved her lips as she took in the small pout on his face—his lower lip jutting out, chubby hands clutching the tree trunk as he leaned to peek at her from behind it, half-hiding, half-hoping to be seen.

But her smile faltered the moment she truly looked into his eyes. There was fear there. Insecurity. The quiet kind that came from being afraid of not being wanted. Something in her chest tightened—this little soul had already tasted rejection, something no child this young ever should.

A sharp pang spread through her heart, almost as if she could feel his hurt as her own. An instinct rose in her then—soft, fierce, protective. She had only just met him, and yet he looked at her with those hopeful eyes, as if asking for something without knowing how to say it.

Yunji crouched down slowly, making herself small so she wouldn't scare him. Tilting her head, she glanced at the pebble near her foot and then at him.

She bent down and picked up the pebble, her eyes growing wide.

"Oh no," she whispered dramatically, looking around, "who threw this at me? Was it you... or was it the tree?"

Neel couldn't stop himself. A giggle popped out. He lifted his hand high, bouncing a little on his feet. "Meee!" he said, breaking into laughter.

And then, out of nowhere, Neel stopped laughing. He looked at her again—really looked at her. His smile faded into quiet wonder, eyes wide as he stared at her saree, her face, the way she smiled at him.

"Aap... pretty ho," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out without thought, honest and unfiltered, the way only children speak.

He kept staring, completely in awe, as if he had just said something very important. 

Yunji froze for a moment, unsure if she had heard him right. Did he just call her pretty? Her hand lifted on its own, brushing her cheek as warmth bloomed quietly inside her. When was the last time someone had called her beautiful and meant it—not out of politeness, not to spare her feelings, but simply because they felt it?

When she didn't answer right away, Neel's smile faltered. His fingers curled into his shirt, worry creeping into his eyes. Had he said something wrong? He didn't know—he had only spoken the truth. She was pretty.

Then Yunji bent a little closer, her voice dropping into the softest whisper, meant only for him.

"Thank you so much, Chote Raja."

Neel blinked at her for a second. Then his ears turned red.

A wide, shy smile spread across his face as he ducked his head, suddenly very interested in the ground. He shuffled his feet, toes rubbing together, trying to hide the happiness bubbling inside him.

He peeked up at her again, eyes bright, chest puffing out just a little at the name she had called him.

"Haan," he murmured proudly, a tiny grin tugging at his lips—Chote Raja.

Neel broke into a wide, hopeful grin, holding out his toy car with both hands as if offering her something precious. His voice was small but earnest, carrying a mix of excitement and eyes little teary especially at the name she had used for him.

'''Aap bhi khelogi?" he asked, then quickly added, pointing at himself, "Main driver."
He paused, eyes flicking up to her face, gauging her reaction.
"Aap... conductor."

Something in Yunji's chest softened instantly. She smiled and nodded, pretending to think it over. "Achha? Aur ticket ka kya?" she asked gently.

Neel's face lit up as if she had just agreed to the most important thing in the world. A soft squeal escaped him as he scrambled to his feet, grabbing her hand without hesitation and tugging her toward a crooked line of stones arranged on the grass.

"Yeh buth hai," he said very seriously, lips tripping over the words. "Yahin baithna hota hai.

Yunji smiled at him as he tripped over his own words, her smile widening the moment she understood what he was trying to say. She didn't laugh. She didn't correct him. She just listened.

Something warm settled in Neel's little chest. When he said words wrong, people usually laughed—but she hadn't.

She wasn't just pretty.

She was kind too.

Just like the mommy he wished he had.

Yunji lowered herself onto the grass exactly where he indicated, smoothing her clothes without a second thought. Neel watched her carefully, almost cautiously, as though afraid she might change her mind—but when she stayed, when she actually sat there, something bright bloomed in his expression.

He climbed back to his spot, pushing the car with renewed energy now, narrating every turn, every stop with animated sounds and excited chatter. Yunji leaned in, asking questions, reacting at the right moments, letting him lead.

Just then, a long shadow stretched across the grass.

Aksh stood at the edge of the garden, still in his dark suit, the stiffness of the day clinging to him. He had come, as usual, to check on his son, expecting to find him alone, buried in his toy cars.

But the sight before him left him frozen. There was Yunji—the woman who had no duty, no reason to be here—sitting with his small boy. Not with formality, not with polite conversation, but truly sitting with him, giving her attention, sharing his world.

And then there was Neel. His son looked so happy, so completely absorbed in the moment, as if he had won the entire world because someone—someone who cared—was playing with him, listening to him, understanding him.

It broke Aksh, and it healed him, all at once.

He looked at Yunji in a way he had never looked at her before—not as the woman who had stumbled awkwardly that morning, not as the stranger he had seen at the wedding last year—but as the woman who had quietly given his son the world, without even realizing it.

 His expression was unreadable as his gaze fell upon the sight before him—Yunji sitting on the ground, listening intently, while Neel animatedly drove his toy bus around her.

For a moment, Aksh simply watched. Neel noticed him first. "Papa!" he gasped, eyes widening in excitement. "Aap bhi kheloge?"

He pointed eagerly. "Bus chal rahi hai!" Like this was important thing in the world.

Aksh blinked, clearly caught off guard. The silence stretched—just long enough to make Yunji glance up at him and give the slightest smile and somehow he missed the slightest hitch in her breath as she glanced and looked away too fast.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Aksh loosened his tie and crouched down, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate movements. He looked at Yunji. "Ticket do."

Neel shrieked in pure delight, clapping his hands as if this were the happiest moment of his day.

And just like that—under the fading sunlight, with grass stains forming on clothes that had no business touching the ground—something shifted.

But sitting there, watching a little boy laugh without fear and a man forget his walls, it felt different.

The sight was almost amusing—watching a man who made grown men twice his size piss in their pants with just one glare now leaning down on the grass, sleeves rolled up, playing with his son.

And a woman who had started meaning so much to them both, but just hadn't realized it yet.

Minsheng stood against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene. It warmed his heart a little to see something so real—so almost raw.

With all that was going on—his strained marriage and the guilt of his mistakes finally catching up to him—this was something he needed to see. His eyes softened at the sight of little Neel playing with his sister Yunji. He hadn't thought the little boy would warm up so much to his little sister.

And when he saw that real smile on Aksh's face—one he hadn't seen in a year, since his wife had left him—something in his chest tightened. For a moment, he wished that smile would stay forever on his best friend's face.

"At least someone should be at peace and happy," he whispered to himself, almost broken and bitter at the same time.

Because he knew who he was referring to—the woman who had been nothing but kind to him, and yet he had broken her in ways she could never be healed.

Still, even after all that, today she had stood there, and before he could even blink, she had thrown that salad away as if him getting an allergy would personally hurt her. Because deep down, he knew he might ignore his pain or his needs—

But Kashi never would.

She could ignore herself for a moment, but never him.

Just then, footsteps were heard, and there she was—looking devastatingly beautiful. And it broke him all over again.

He watched Kashi walk into the garden beside Ekaksh and Jun. They were all engrossed in a conversation; he could hear them smiling and giggling. But only two of them were really smiling.

And her?

She was smiling—anyone would think that. But he could see it: the smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. And he knew he was the reason for that. Yet still, he couldn't bring himself to apologise, knowing that at this point he should fall at her feet after what he had done. And if she forgave him—well, that would only mean she was kind enough to do so.

But something stopped him.

Maybe because he had never apologised to anyone for anything.

Maybe his pride.

Or the guilt that was so overwhelming he couldn't even bring himself to face her.

TING.....TING

Minsheng's phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't need to look to know who it was—but he did anyway.
Edward.

He exhaled slowly, tired, like breathing itself had become a burden. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, familiar, permanent. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off, it clung to him.

After a moment, he swiped the screen.

For a second—just a second—something flickered through him. Hope, maybe. Or fear. He didn't know anymore. By the time he lifted the phone to his ear, it was already gone.

A whisper greeted him.

"Tum log abhi tak aaye nahi. Shanaya ke parents wait kar rahe hai."

That was it.

No laughter. No sarcasm. No warmth. None of the things that once made Edward feel like home. Just words spoken because they had to be said. Because duty still existed, even when friendship didn't.

The call ended, and the silence that followed felt louder than any shout.

His mind dragged him back to the fight from last week—the way he had ruined the one thing in his life that was still real. His best friends. The only people who ever chose him without obligation.

And now even they had stepped away.

Minsheng stood there, surrounded by everything he owned, everything he had built—and felt utterly empty. What good was any of it, if he had become the kind of man no one could stand beside?

A failure as a husband.
A failure as a  bestfriend.
A man with everything—and no one.

An hour later, they sat in the car. He was in the driver's seat, beside him—Kashi stood stiff, completely hating the silence between them. She wished things would be better, but they weren't.

She wished this silence would end.

Behind them sat Aksh and Yunji, Neel settled quietly in Yunji's lap, and of course Jun and Ekaksh at the very back.

Another car followed them—Vishakha and Yansong inside it.

No one seemed to notice the silence between them, or the way they carefully avoided each other, and somehow that relaxed them. It meant they wouldn't be questioned by the family—because that was the last thing they wanted to deal with right now.

Kashi pulled her phone out of her purse and dialed her father-in-law—Bai Minghao. He hadn't been home since morning, and she had hoped he would come with them, meet her Chachi and Chachu. But the call went unanswered.

She tried again.

This time, he picked up.

His voice came through almost cracking—vulnerable, something she had never heard before.

"Baba, are you okay?" Her voice was filled with worry and concern. She had never heard her father-in-law like this. He had always been composed, steady. This was unusual.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a chuckle that sounded almost forced, until his voice came again—like he was pushing himself to stay composed.

"Beta, I'm fine. Don't worry. I'm in a meeting with clients... took a little too much soda and it affected my voice. Don't worry. I'll try to reach if I can."

She didn't believe his words—not even a bit. But she didn't know how to ask, or what exactly to ask. So she replied softly,

"Okay, Baba. I'll tell Chachu about this. Take care of yourself."

"Yeah, I will."

And just like that, he hung up.

What she didn't know was that despite everyone in his life—his parents, his children, all the people around him—his daughter-in-law was the only one who cared enough to call and ask where he was.

And she didn't know that it healed him in ways she could never understand.

Minsheng glanced at her, then at the phone, muttering under his breath,
"Liar."

Like he knew exactly where his father was. Like he was certain his father had lied to her.

But he didn't say anything more.

He didn't want her to know about his strained relationship with his father.

Suddenly, the car came to a halting stop—so abrupt it drew a sharp gasp from everyone inside.

Minsheng's eyes snapped to the vehicle that had stopped right in front of him. No signal. No indicator. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, irritation flaring instantly as he cursed the reckless driver under his breath.

But then—she glanced at him.

And just like that, he went quiet.

The tension in his shoulders eased, his grip loosening as if his body had decided before his mind could catch up. He had no idea why. Normally, this would've turned into a full-blown road argument. Normally, he wouldn't have let it slide.

But this time, he didn't.

He sat there, still, almost as if he wanted to leave an impression—like he wanted her to see that he wasn't angry, that he wasn't the kind of man she might have assumed. And God forbid he noticed it, but it had already happened.

The White Tiger had calmed down.

No raised voice. No shattered silence. No destruction.

Just one look from her.

In the backseat, the sudden brake threw Yunji completely off balance. She fell sideways—straight into Aksh—who instinctively caught her, one arm wrapping firmly around her waist. At the same time, he reached out with the other hand and steadied little Neel.

Neel burst into giggles, finding the whole thing wildly entertaining.

But Yunji had frozen. His arm around her waist felt far too real, far too close. Her breath hitched, her mind blanking at the simple contact.

God—why did she always turn so completely dumb around him?

What was this effect he had on her? And why, out of everyone, did she always stumble—literally and otherwise—around him?

At this point, she genuinely wanted the earth to swallow her whole. This was peak embarrassment. Absolute peak.

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. She lowered her gaze, trying to steady herself, when his voice reached her—soft, almost achingly gentle.

"Aap theek hai?"

For a moment, she was lost—caught between the warmth of his arm and the tenderness in his voice. Then she nodded quickly, unable to trust herself to speak.

God, what the hell was wrong with her?

He loosened his hold, and she immediately shifted back to her seat, grateful for the space—only for little Neel to blurt out, far too loudly and far too innocently,

"Pretty lady is red-red, Papa."

He whispered it like a grand observation, completely unaware of the chaos he had just unleashed.

Because kids had no filter. And that was exactly what made them both adorable and dangerous.

Laughter exploded inside the car.

Ekaksh and Jun practically doubled over, clutching their stomachs. Minsheng's lips curved into the smallest, most unwilling smile. Even Kashi glanced back, amusement softening her expression.

Meanwhile, Yunji sat utterly frozen—her face now a deep shade of red.

God. Why were kids so brutally honest?

Aksh cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile.
"Neel," he said calmly, "inside voice."

Neel tilted his head, confused. "But Papa, she is red."

That only made the laughter worse.

Yunji buried her face in her hands. "I—I'm fine," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She covered her face. "Please," she muttered, mortified.

Ekaksh turned around fully now, eyes twinkling. "Don't worry, Yunji. Happens to the best of us."

Jun grinned. "Especially around certain people."

Aksh shot him a warning look. "Jun." But his voice had no real heat behind because he didn't know but he liked the flush on her cheeks and the effect he is been having on her.

Yunji peeked through her fingers, accidentally meeting Aksh's eyes—and immediately looked away again. Her heart was racing far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be nothing.

Aksh didn't say anything—but his gaze lingered on Yunji a second longer than necessary before he looked away.

She didn't understand why they were saying all this even though deep down she also knew what they were saying and she didn't speak on it just went quiet.

And it would be a lie if she said her lips didn't curve in a tiniest smile.

Outside, the traffic began to move again.

As he took a turn, Kashi couldn't help but stare at him again—
the way his hands curled around the steering wheel, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms.

God.

How could anyone be this handsome?

This man never failed to amaze her. No matter how much she told herself to stop, her eyes kept drifting back to him.

How did he manage to look so hot and so composed at the same time? No matter what he did, he never failed to slay.

How was it possible for someone to look this composed and still... devastating?

This man never failed to surprise her. Even in silence, even doing something as ordinary as driving, he commanded attention. There was something about him—effortless, dangerous, calm.

God help her—at this point she might start hiding him so other women wouldn't look at him. Because if she found him this handsome, there was no way other women didn't too.

As he took the turn, Kashi's eyes went back to him without meaning to.
The way his hands held the steering wheel—steady, practiced. Sleeves rolled up, forearms taut.

She shouldn't have been looking. Not when they hadn't spoken properly. Not when things were still wrong.

And yet, she didn't look away.

Minsheng felt it.

Not the usual attention—he was used to that. This was different. It wasn't appreciation or curiosity. It sat heavier, unsettled him.

He glanced at her. "Kya hai?"He didn't understand this woman. Why was she looking at him like that? As if he mattered. As if he deserved even this much from her.

She should have slapped him by now. Or thrown the divorce papers in his face for what he had done. And yet—here she was.

Quiet. Watching him like he was something worth understanding.

She was a puzzle he couldn't solve—more difficult than any deal he had ever signed, more unsettling than any loss he had calculated. And for the first time, that scared him.

She looked away. "Kuch nahi."

Silence settled, thick and unsettling "No one looks like that," he said after a moment, voice low. "Aap... alag dekh rahi hai."

She didn't answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead. She had no idea what to say because all she wanted was to look at him whole day and keep tracing those freckles beneath his eyes.

Despite all he had blamed her for she loved him too much to ever blame him.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw flexing. He had no idea why she was quiet. He had no idea why she looked at him that way?

"Don't," he said quietly. Not harsh. Almost restrained. "Aise mat dekho." He couldn't directly say it did things to her when she looked at him like he mattered, like he was worth seeing.

And of course, how could he ever express it—that her looking at him like that made him feel less like a monster, and human for the first time.

"Kyun?" she asked finally gathering courage, barely above a whisper.

"Bas," he replied. "It makes things harder." Because how could he tell that it breaks him more and more to see her look at him not with disgust or fear like the world does.

For a brief moment, something softened between them—something fragile, almost dangerous. The air shifted, lighter and heavier all at once.

Then he straightened, eyes forward again, composure locking back into place.

She turned toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass. She didn't speak again.

Because she knew—she would always look at him this way.

No matter what he did. No matter how much it hurt. He was still worth seeing.

She had known it for years.

It was only him who didn't.

The car finally came to a halt at Rajput Manor. The heavy metal gates swung open, the guard bowing deeply as they passed. Minsheng gave a subtle nod, driving the car inside. The engine hummed for a second longer before he turned off the ignition, the silence settling in as he pulled the brakes.

He stepped out first, handing the keys to the guard, then walked around to Kashi's side. He reached for the handle, opening the door for her even before she could lift her hand. She paused for a fraction of a second—then stepped out, the gravel crunching softly beneath her feet.

Aksh followed, Neel balanced carefully in his arms, while Yunji stepped out behind them, still visibly flustered, brushing invisible creases from her clothes. And of course, bringing up the rear, came the chaotic duo—Ekaksh and Jun—arguing about something trivial, their noise cutting through the quiet like a familiar rhythm.

Another car pulled in behind them. Vishakha and Yansong stepped out, composed and dignified, their presence carrying a quiet authority.

As the gates closed behind them, the main doors of Rajput Manor opened wide.

Mrinali stood at the threshold, draped in an orange saree that seemed to glow against the evening light. A thali rested in her hands—diya flickering, teeka and rice neatly arranged—and on her face was that smile that never wavered, no matter how many years passed. 

Beside her stood Viraj, handsome as ever in his suit, pride and warmth softening his expression. Between them, little Inaayat peeked out shyly before breaking into a giggle, half-hidden behind her grandmother's leg.

Minsheng and Kashi instinctively stepped aside, allowing Vishakha and Yansong to enter first. Despite their gentle protests—insisting the children go ahead—respect won. Mrinali and Viraj bent down, touching their feet with reverence, seeking blessings before lifting their heads with quiet smiles. Mrinali performed the aarti, the diya circling slowly, sealing the moment with tradition and grace.

Then Minsheng and Kashi stood at the doorway.

Mrinali didn't wait.

Her eyes filled instantly, the thali lowering as her arms opened, her entire being aching toward Kashi. And Kashi—who had been holding herself together far too long—felt something inside her finally give way. A whole year. An entire year of distance, silence, missed moments.

As the aarti finished, Kashi rushed forward and crashed into Mrinali's arms, clinging to her as if afraid she might disappear again. She buried her face into the familiar warmth she had missed for so long. The force of her embrace made Mrinali stumble back slightly, a startled laugh escaping her lips as Viraj quickly reached out, steadying them both so they wouldn't fall.

"Arey bas kar, pagli... rulayegi," Mrinali whispered—half laughter, half sob—as she tightened her arms around Kashi, her own composure finally breaking.

When Kashi finally pulled away, she looked at Mrinali as though committing every line of her face to memory—the warmth, the softness, the unwavering love. Words failed her, but they weren't needed. Her eyes spoke of longing, relief, and a love that had never dimmed.

She turned then to Viraj, who already had his arms open. Kashi stepped into his embrace without hesitation, resting her head against his chest. His hand came up, gently caressing her hair, grounding her. And for that moment—just that one moment—she forgot everything else. The strained marriage. The pain. The suffocating silence she carried every day.

Mrinali welcomed Minsheng next. He bent to touch her feet, followed by Yunji and Jun, each gesture filled with respect and familiarity.

Little Neel had already broken away, racing toward Inaayat. Laughter echoed as the two children ran off together, proudly showing each other a doll and a teddy, their joy unburdened and pure. Aksh and Ekaksh followed behind them, smiling softly at the sight.

And for once, Rajput Manor was truly full.

Not just with people—but with warmth, laughter, and a love that made the walls feel alive again.

Inside, the familiar scent of incense and fresh flowers wrapped around them. The house hummed softly—footsteps, distant voices, the clink of bangles.

Mrinali wiped the corner of her eyes quickly, pretending to fuss over Kashi's dupatta. "Meri bachi bilkul waisi hi hai," she said, voice light but eyes betraying her. "Bas thodi si aur patli ho gayi hai bacha . Khana khati bhi ho ya nahi?"

Kashi let out a small laugh, the kind that trembled at the edges. "Aapka khana yaad karti hoon toh bhookh lag jaati hai," she replied quietly.

Viraj shook his head, smiling. "Iska matlab hai aaj se koi bahana nahi chalega. Jab tak ho yahin ho—roz proper khana."

Minsheng stood a step behind, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange. Mrinali turned to him, studying his face the way only elders do—seeing more than what's shown.

"Kaise ho bacha," she said gently.

Minsheng smiled, polite and restrained. "Mai bhadiya hun, Chachi Ji." He tried to keep his voice composed not trying to show the warmth he felt - being asked like this if he was okay. Like he mattered.

She reached up and touched his cheek briefly, a gesture so simple yet heavy with care. 

Minsheng froze at the gesture, his body going stiff because when was the last time someone had touched him like this. He couldn't even remember it and it brought warmth inside him.

He stared at Kashi who stood beside Mrinali - talking and laughing and he couldn't help but stare more and more this woman had just not given him care despite everything but her family had done it too.

And once again question was lingering what did he do to deserve her because monster like him didn't even deserve to breath the same air as her.

That much he knew very well.

Yunji hovered nearby, unsure, until Mrinali pulled her into a side hug. "Aur tum," she said warmly, "itni chup-chup si kyun ho? Pehli baar thodi aayi ho."

Yunji smiled, flustered. "Aunty... sab kuch bohot acha lag raha hai." She hadn't felt like this long time being around people like this. Back at her home people were always busy in their own only two people she ever talked to were - her Bhabhi and Brother.

From the corridor came the sound of hurried footsteps and loud whispers.

"Neel! Bhaag mat!" Aksh called out to his son who had been running too fast and could fall anytime.  "Uske haath mein teddy hai—sambhaal ke!" Ekaksh added, far too late.

Inaayat's laughter rang through the hall. "Dadii, Neel mera teddy le gaya!" Mrinali sighed, amused. "Bas, shuru ho gaye inka toh." She whispered sighing but there was only fondness in her voice.

Kashi watched the children disappear down the hallway, something soft unfolding in her chest. She hadn't realised how long it had been since laughter like this had surrounded her.

Mrinali clasped her hands together. "Chalo," she announced, forcing cheer back into her voice. "Pehle sab haath-muh dholo. Phir chai. Aur is baar koi mana nahi karega."

Just then, Kashi looked around, searching for her best friends—Nisha and Shanaya.
All she wanted was to desperately hug them both, because this long distance from them had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

It was true—she missed everyone.
But she missed those two more than anyone else.

She could never put it into words.

Those two women understood her before she even said anything. They just got her. With just one expression on her face, they knew exactly what she was feeling. Shanaya—the one who would beat the shit out of anyone who dared to upset Kashi. And Nisha—the one who could always make her laugh, even through tears.

And in that moment, Kashi knew—with those two by her side—she needed nothing more in her life.

CREAK...

The main door of the manor flew open.

There stood Nisha, fresh from work—breathless, eyes wide. It was clear she had come running. The very next moment, her purse and lab coat slipped from her hands as she rushed toward Kashi like there was no tomorrow.

Nisha couldn't believe it.

She was back.
God—she was really back.

And now, right in front of her, she could finally hug Kashi—her best friend, the woman who knew her better than anyone. For once, she didn't care. She buried her face into Kashi's shoulder, her tears falling nonstop.

She had imagined this moment for so long. And now she could feel it—Kashi was finally here.

She wanted to say so many things, but the lump in her throat refused to let her speak. For a long moment, all she could do was hold on tighter, as if Kashi might disappear if she loosened her grip even a little.

Kashi's own tears slipped free as she hugged Nisha just as tightly.

And then—a voice came from behind them.

"Kuttiyo, mere liye toh ruk jaati."

Nisha and Kashi froze. They already knew that voice. Slowly, they turned toward the stairs—to see Shanaya standing there, tears in her eyes, a look of mock offense plastered across her face.

Without a word, both of them opened their arms.

The next moment, Shanaya crashed into them.

"God, I have missed you so much, yaar," Shanaya whispered against Kashi's hair, inhaling her scent deeply—as if she needed to be sure Kashi was really here, really in her arms. The bold Shanaya the world knew faded away for once as she let herself sink into the embrace—the only place that had ever truly felt like home.

Her home.

"Maine bhi tum dono ko bohot miss kiya," Kashi whispered back, her voice breaking.
"More than you could imagine."

Their arms tightened around each other, as if letting go was no longer an option.

For a while, none of them moved.

Nisha was the first to pull back slightly, though her hands still clutched Kashi's arms like she didn't trust herself to let go completely. She leaned back just enough to look at her face, her eyes scanning her as if committing every detail to memory.

"You look thinner," she said immediately, brows knitting together. "And don't you dare tell me you've been eating properly."

Kashi let out a small, shaky laugh through her tears. "Doctor saahiba, please. I just walked in."

"That's exactly my point," Nisha shot back, wiping her own cheeks roughly. "You walk in after disappearing for a year from our lives and expect me not to notice?"

Shanaya sniffed, then suddenly pulled back too, hands on her hips, her tears replaced by that familiar fire in her eyes.
"Wait—disappearing?" she echoed. "Madam vanished, didn't call, didn't even miss us properly, and now she thinks one hug fixes everything?"

Kashi's smile trembled. "Shan—"

"No," Shanaya cut her off, pointing at her dramatically. "You are not allowed to say anything emotional right now. I cried enough already."

Nisha nodded in full agreement. "Same. If you cry again, I'm crying again—and I just ran here in my scrubs."

Kashi looked at both of them—really looked. The same faces. The same concern. The same love that had waited for her without conditions.

"I was just settling into that life, okay?" she admitted quietly but not telling the entire truth the all she had suffered abandoned by her own husband and then when he returns only to be blamed for something she never did. "And remember—I'm a married woman. Besides, being the eldest Bai daughter-in-law isn't for the weak."

Shanaya's expression softened instantly. She stepped forward and cupped Kashi's face, her thumb brushing away the last of her tears.
"Stupid," she said gently. " Hogi tu Bai ki daughter in law but hamari Kashi toh pehle thi abhi bhi hai aur humesha rahegi."

And that made Kashi's eyes well up again because she realised no matter what she was and whatever she suffered they both would always be there for her. She would always have her - Nisha and Shanaya.

No matter what life throws her way.

Nisha came closer too, resting her forehead against Kashi's.
"You don't get rid of us that easily," she whispered. "Long distance or not."

Behind them, the manor had gone unusually quiet.

Minsheng stood a few steps away, watching the scene unfold. He didn't interrupt. Didn't move. For the first time, he truly saw what Kashi had been holding onto all this time—and what she had been missing.

His guilt only deepened as he realised this woman who had left all this - her family, her home and her people for him but all he had given her in return was pain and pain.

Yunji nudged Aksh softly. "They're... solid," she murmured. Her expression is almost sad as she wishes if she ever had such relationship with anyone in her life.

Shanaya suddenly glanced up, finally noticing the audience. Her eyes narrowed just a bit as they landed on Minsheng.

"Oh," she said slowly. "So here is the reason we didn't get our best friend properly for a year."

Kashi groaned, her cheeks heating up turning into a darker shade of red. "Shanaya—"
Of course this would happen. Of course Shanaya would open her mouth and say exactly what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with absolutely no regard for timing—or consequences.

From the side of the room, Minsheng watched in silence. He had seen loyalty before, devotion even—but this was different. This wasn't obligation. It was instinct. They didn't need explanations. They simply knew when Kashi needed them.

Shanaya cracked her knuckles. "Relax. I'm only thinking. For now."

Nisha sighed, already tired. "Please don't start a war in the living room."

Shanaya smirked—but then turned back to Kashi, pulling her in once more, softer this time.

"Come," she said. "We're not doing this reunion in the hallway. You're home. Act like it."

Nisha picked up her dropped lab coat, slinging it over her arm as she smiled at Kashi. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

Kashi nodded, her grip tightening around their hands.

And for the first time in a long while, the weight in her chest felt manageable.

The three of them walked into the living room, where everyone else had gathered—Vishakha, Yansong, and Mrinali, with Viraj now seated by the couch, sipping his chai. Minsheng, Isaac, and Edward stood off to one side, speaking quietly among themselves.

Neel and Inaayat played nearby, bickering over whose doll or teddy was better, their voices full of harmless rivalry. Ekaksh, Jun, Yunji, and Aksh stood together, giggling and smiling at something only they seemed to understand.

And for once, Kashi felt at peace.

The happiness around her settled something inside her, the heaviness in her chest slowly easing—fading away from everything that had felt so unbearably heavy for so long.

Just when Kashi thought the storm inside her had finally settled, another set of footsteps reached her ears.

Slow. Familiar. She turned instinctively—and her breath caught.

Isha was coming down the stairs.

For a moment, everything else blurred. The room, the voices, the movement around her—all of it faded into the background as Kashi's eyes stayed fixed on her sister. 

Isha looked beautiful, draped in a soft saree, her hair neatly set, her posture calm. She looked older. Not grown up—grown into herself. 

"Isha..."

The name slipped out of Kashi's mouth before she could stop it, barely louder than a whisper, yet filled with everything she had been holding back. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her forward, and the moment Isha looked up and their eyes met, Kashi lost whatever control she thought she had.

She pulled her sister into her arms, holding her tight, like she was afraid letting go would make her disappear. Tears spilled freely now—no apology, no embarrassment left in her.

God. This day truly refused to give her a break.

Isha stiffened for half a second, startled—then she melted into the embrace, her arms coming around her Jiji just as tightly. Her eyes burned, her throat closing as she buried her face against Kashi's shoulder.

She had missed this.

Missed her.

A whole year had passed since she had last seen Kashi like this, close enough to touch, close enough to breathe in. The last time they stood face to face, life had been different. They weren't married then. They still belonged, in some strange way, to the same world.

Back then, Isha's world revolved around her Jiji.

From the clothes she wore to the food she ate, from small decisions to the big ones—nothing happened without Kashi's opinion. There was comfort in that. Safety. A quiet certainty that as long as her Jiji was there, everything would be fine.

There was an Isha once who couldn't imagine life without Kashi.

She never thought she'd have to.

But life didn't ask before changing things. It just did. Marriages happened. Homes changed. Priorities shifted. And slowly, without either of them meaning to, the space between them grew.

They were still sisters. Still connected.

Just... not woven into each other's days the way they used to be.

Kashi pulled back slightly, her hands still firm on Isha's arms, as if grounding herself. She studied her sister's face—searching for something familiar, something unchanged—and found it in the way Isha's lips trembled, in the way her eyes shone with unshed tears.

"Choti tu bilkul nahi badli," Kashi whispered, brushing her thumb gently under Isha's eye.

Isha let out a soft, breathy laugh that broke into a sniffle. "Badalna bhi hota hai kya, Jiji?" she murmured. "Bas... zindagi thodi alag ho gayi."

It was ironic, really. Isha—who rarely ever cried—was breaking down now, all because she was seeing her Jiji after an entire year.

She hadn't shed a tear the day her boyfriend left her at the altar. Not when her book was leaked by an enemy. Not even when she entered a marriage of convenience.

But this—this was where she grew weak.

With her Jiji.

Kashi's chest tightened at that. She pulled her into another hug, slower this time, gentler—but no less firm.

"Jiji, aap chahe jitni bhi door chali jao," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else, "main aapko hamesha yaad rakhungi."
She paused, her smile faint but real. "Bas... doori mehsoos hoti hai."

"Kashi didn't realize it yet, but her choti could never forget her Jiji. No matter how far life pulled them apart or how rarely they spoke, some bonds simply didn't fade. Distance could stretch them—but it could never break them."

 They stood there, surrounded by people, yet entirely in their own little space—two sisters clinging to a bond that time had tested but never broken.

Because some relationships didn't weaken with distance.

They just learned to live with the ache.

Kashi didn't move away. She kept her arms around Isha, firm but unhurried, like she was anchoring something that might drift if she let go too soon. Her thumb traced slow circles at Isha's back, a habit so old it didn't need remembering.

Isha breathed out first. She pulled back, wiping her face with the edge of her pallu, irritated at herself. "Great," she muttered. "First five minutes and I'm already crying."

Kashi's lips curved into a faint smile. "Tu hamesha jaldi ro jaati thi," she whispered, remembering how Isha always tried to be strong in front of the world—yet when it came to her family, she was the first to break.

"Haan," Isha said softly, not even trying to deny it. "Par sirf aapke saamne." The truth sat between them, bare and unquestioned.

She adjusted her saree, straightened her shoulders. The armour slid back into place. But not fully. "You look... different," Isha said quietly. Not accusing. Just observing.

Kashi met her gaze. She didn't deny it. "Tu bhi."Her eyes glistened as she took Isha in—draped in a saree, elegant, composed. So different from the choti she remembered. The girl who lived in kurtis and jeans, hair always a mess, attitude sharp enough that no one ever really won against it.

or a fleeting second, a cruel thought crossed Kashi's mind—was Isha made to become like this?
The sarees. The softness. The quiet grace that wrapped around her like armor.

It scared her.

But then memory rushed in, warm and certain.

Isha was married to Arsh—her Arsh. Her best friend. The man who had never once tried to dim her fire, never asked her to be smaller, quieter, easier. If anything, he had loved her chaos.

The same man who had stepped in a year ago, when Isha had been shattered—left humiliated at the altar by the man who was supposed to be her forever. When the world had watched, and she had broken.

Arsh hadn't fixed her.
He had held her.

And this—this calm, this grace—wasn't force.
It was healing.

Kashi huffed, then glanced around, suddenly aware of the room again. Of eyes. Of people. "Sab dekh rahe honge."

"Toh dekhne do." Isha's voice was calm, almost careless. "Behne mil rahi hain. Crime thodi hai."

That earned a real smile from Kashi—quick, fleeting, but genuine. Because beneath the grace and calm, she could still see it.
That familiar fire in Isha's eyes.

The same fire that had always made her smile.

Just then, a voice rang out behind her, far too familiar.
"Mujhe toh bhool hi gayi tu, jhali."

Kashi froze.

A smile tugged at her lips before she even turned. When she did, Arsh stood by the stairs, leaning against the railing like he'd been there forever. Same crooked smirk. But his eyes—soft, steady—were watching her the way only he ever had.

Something only a best friend would notice. Something only a best friend would understand.

"Tujhe kaise bhool sakti hoon, jhale," Kashi whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks—happy ones. Because how could she forget him? The boy who knew all her secrets. The one who bunked school with her when algebra felt like a personal attack.

 Not the heavy kind. The relieved kind. The kind that came from seeing someone who remembered the version of you before life got complicated.

Before marriages. Before distances. Before growing up felt forced.

 He snorted, pushing himself off the railing. "Wow. Milte hi insult. Very on-brand." That earned a laugh from two of them - Isha and Kashi.

Arsh settled at the end of the stairs beside Isha, his arm slipping around her shoulders—instinctive, familiar. He leaned in slightly, voice low but edged with warning beneath the ease. "Oye... kya hai tujhe, jhali?" he murmured. "Meri biwi ko kyun rula rahi hai."

Isha smacks Arsh's chest lightly, her cheeks turning slightly red while Kashi smiled seeing her sister happy and married. Atleast someone was happy.

''Haan haan nahi rula rahi teri biwi ko galti ho gayi.''

He whispered it playfully, but beneath the teasing lingered something deeper—protectiveness, concern. He couldn't stand the sight of her tears, not even when they were happy ones.

She laughed—and then he was there, pulling her into a hug that felt like muscle memory. Easy. Familiar. No gap for hesitation.

"Haan aur khud bhi Rona band kar," he murmured. "Log sochenge main kuch kaand karke aaya hoon."

"Tu bina kaand ke aata hi kab hai?" she shot back, voice muffled against his shoulder. 

That earned him a quiet chuckle.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes scanning her face like he was counting what had changed and what hadn't.

"Shaadi ke baad bhi," he said lightly, "tu roti waise hi hai."

Kashi wiped her cheek.
"Aur tu abhi bhi annoying hai."

"Consistency is my best quality."

They smiled. Then the noise around them faded into background static.

Arsh nudged her arm, pinching her—earning a smack in return. "Par seriously," he said, his voice softening, the teasing slipping away. "Theek hai na tu?"

No drama. No pressure. Just the question that mattered.

Kashi nodded, a real one this time. Even though a lot of things hurt deep down, she didn't let it show. They didn't need to know or worry—she knew it would only make things worse. This was her problem, not theirs.

"Haan," she said softly, forcing a small smile. "I am perfectly fine."

He loosened the hug just enough to look at her, eyes scanning her face as if making sure she was really there, really okay.

"Thodi kam royi kar," he said softly, almost gruff. "Suit nahi karta tujhe."

She smiled, shaking her head. Some things never changed. And standing there, wrapped in familiarity and old comfort, Kashi realized—no matter how much life shifted, some people stayed exactly where they belonged.

From not so far away, Minsheng watched the woman who was his wife.

The very woman he had once accused of poisoning him.

She stood there now, breaking all over again in front of her family—quiet tears, no dramatics—just grief she never learned how to put down. A woman who carried nothing with her except a kindness that refused to harden, and a resilience that had been forced into her far too early.

And in that moment, it hit him—sharp and undeniable.

He had messed up. Badly.

He had blamed the one person who had tried to reach him through the walls he himself had built. Walls she never had any obligation to break down. And yet she did. Again and again.

Even after his vile accusation, after the way he had treated her, she had still protected him. Protected them. She hadn't told her family about the cracks in their marriage, about the cold silences, about the hurt he had caused. She had carried that weight alone—quietly, gracefully—when she never should have had to.

He had never said it aloud, but deep down, he knew it.

She deserved an apology. One that should have come a long time ago.

And maybe—for the first time—the White Tiger would bow.

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Deewangi Writess