Seeing him like that—
unguarded, drunk,
clinging to me like I was safe—

made me selfish.

I wished he would always be this drunk,
always soft enough to need me,
always close enough to stay.

And maybe that’s how I knew—
I was just a dumb woman in love.

- Kashi

MUMBAI, INDIA

Trayambakeshwar Mahadev Temple

The Trayambakeshwar Mahadev Temple stood quietly in the middle of Mumbai's endless noise, its old stone walls holding centuries of prayer within them. Time felt slower here, almost irrelevant.

Inside, the air smelled of dhoop and damp stone. Bells rang softly, rising and falling with the footsteps of devotees who came in with folded hands and unspoken wishes. In the sanctum, the Shivling rested beneath bilva leaves, water dripping steadily over it—unmoving, patient, eternal.

Outside, the city rushed on. In here, everything paused.

Kashi stood near one of the pillars, a calm settling over her that she hadn't felt in years. This place had always felt like home. Here, she didn't have to explain herself. She could cry, smile, or sit in silence without being watched or measured. With Mahadev, she felt safe—certain that no matter how far she fell, she wouldn't fall alone.

In the courtyard, she knelt to serve the children, passing out the thalis she had prepared herself. Their faces lit up instantly, and a small smile found its way to her lips. Still, a dull ache settled in her chest. She looked at them and wished—quietly, fiercely—that life would be kinder to them than it had been to so many others.

A memory from a year ago surfaced.

Before the wedding, she had dreamt of opening an academy—part dance school, part shelter. A place where girls could dance freely, where boys could find guidance and support. A place built out of love, not compromise.

Then marriage happened.

The dream hadn't disappeared. It had simply been folded away, pressed gently into a corner of her heart. She had told no one except Nisha and Shanaya. She didn't want to dull her parents' joy or place even the smallest shadow over their happiness.

She was rich—daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world, wife to another just as powerful. She had the privilege, the freedom, the audacity to do it if she wished.
But deep down, it would never feel the same without his acknowledgment. Without him, it would only be defiance, hollow and loud.
She didn't want to do it against him.
She wanted to do it with him there—watching, knowing, choosing her.

The thought of her marriage tightened something inside her again. Every time she felt the urge to talk to him, to fix things, those words returned—the ones he had said without hesitation.

They had hurt then.
They still did.

The children finished eating and ran off laughing, kissing her cheeks before disappearing into the crowd. She turned—and froze slightly.

Pandit Ji Kulkarni.

She had known him since she was a child. He was the one who had first introduced her to Bharatanatyam, who had taught her devotion before discipline, Mahadev before dance. She smiled and bent to touch his feet.

He patted her head gently. "I heard you came back, beti," he said, studying her face. "Didn't believe it until now. Our little Kashi—the mischievous one—has become a wife. So calm. So composed."

The words hit harder than she expected.

They were true.

Anyone who had known her before marriage would struggle to recognize her now. The laughter had softened, the mischief faded. The kindness remained—but she herself felt distant, unfamiliar.

From the very beginning, she had been afraid of judgment. And when Minsheng left, she had truly been on her own.

So she learned to be quiet.
To be careful.

After watching women be mocked for being too loud, too expressive, too much—she dimmed herself before anyone else could.

She straightened and nodded. "Aapko dekh kar mujhe bhi khushi hui, Pandit Ji."

He smiled, then lowered his voice. "I'm looking forward to your performance this Mahashivratri, Kashi. Naresh told you, didn't he?"

She went still.

She had forgotten. Her grandfather had mentioned it just yesterday, and even then she hadn't known what to say. She didn't know how he would feel about it. Or what her in-laws would think.

And just like that, the calm she had found inside the temple began to slip—slowly, quietly—out of her grasp.

Just then, footsteps approached.

Kashi turned—and saw Vishakha.

She walked toward her with an easy grace, a gentle smile playing on her lips. The silk of her Banarasi saree brushed against the stone floor, its soft rustle almost blending with the temple bells.

"Gigi... when did you come?" Kashi asked, her voice low. She hadn't expected her grandmother in law to come and visit here.

"Just now," Vishakha replied. "I saw you standing here."

Her eyes moved over Kashi slowly, taking her in—not just the calm on her face, but the tiredness beneath it. She didn't say anything at first.

"You always come here when your heart feels heavy," Vishakha said finally. She doesn't say much but she knows it all and her heart aches little too much seeing such a kind soul like this.

Kashi's fingers tightened around the edge of her dupatta. "I didn't realise I still did."

Vishakha stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Some habits stay. Especially the ones that keep us standing."

They stood together in silence. The bells rang again, distant and steady. Vishakha glanced toward Pandit Ji who slowly retreated away , then back at Kashi.

"I heard about Mahashivratri," she said lightly, as if it meant nothing. "Pandit Ji would be very happy if you dance."

Kashi looked away. "I don't know if I should," she whispered, the insecurity slipping out before she could stop it. She wasn't sure if Vishakha—or Yansong—would really be okay with it.

"Because of us?" Vishakha asked gently.

Kashi didn't answer. She didn't need to.

Vishakha reached out, her hand resting briefly over Kashi's. "Have we ever made you feel like you don't have a right to make your own decisions, Kashi?" she asked softly.

Kashi stilled, then swallowed and shook her head. "No, Gigi. You never have." It was indeed true they had never made her feel any less even when her husband hadn't been so supporting and kind to her.

"Then why let anyone's discomfort stop you from doing something that gives you peace?" Vishakha said, her voice warm but firm. "You don't need permission to be happy, darling."

She paused, her thumb pressing lightly against Kashi's hand. "If I'd known you were feeling this way, I would've reassured you sooner. I realised it only this morning—when I spoke to Kalyani. She told me how much you love dancing. How it was once your whole world."

Vishakha's gaze softened. "How can you let something like that drift away, Kashi?"

The question lingered—quiet, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Kashi didn't answer right away.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on the faint patterns worn into the stone by years of bare feet and bowed heads. Dancing had been her world once. The rhythm, the discipline, the quiet joy of losing herself in movement. It felt distant now—like a life she had lived for someone else.

"I didn't let it drift away," she said finally, her voice barely there. "I just... stopped holding on."

Vishakha didn't interrupt. She let the silence do its work.

"There were too many rules," Kashi went on. "Too many opinions. Somewhere along the way, it felt easier to stay still than to keep explaining myself."

Vishakha breathed out slowly. "Stillness isn't the same as peace."

Kashi looked up at her then, something fragile breaking through her calm.

"Jaan," Vishakha said softly, "you know we would never stop you from doing something that matters to you. And this—" she paused, her gaze sharpening, "this is about Minsheng, isn't it?"

Kashi didn't deny it.

"You're thinking about how he'll feel," Vishakha continued. She tilted Kashi's chin up slightly, her own eyes burning with a fire she wished Kashi still carried. "Listen to me, bacha. Do what your heart asks of you. These days won't come back. People will talk, and then they'll move on. But if you don't do this now—"

Her voice dropped. "You'll carry the regret with you. You'll taste it with every meal. It'll follow you into your dreams."

She stopped herself, inhaling sharply. "And Minsheng—" Vishakha shut her eyes for a second, catching the word before it turned into a curse. "You know what I mean."

She looked back at Kashi, softer now but no less firm. "He's a man shaped by his trauma, yes. But that doesn't give him the right to hurt you. Ever. And it definitely doesn't give him the right to take this away from you."

Her arms came around Kashi, pulling her into a tight embrace, her hand rubbing slow circles into her back. "I can't watch you disappear like this."

Kashi let out a shaky breath, emotion spilling over.

"Oh God," Vishakha murmured with a half-laugh, half-sob. "You're going to make me cry, you stupid girl."

And for the first time in a long while, Kashi didn't pull away.

Kashi's breath broke against Vishakha's shoulder.

She hadn't meant to cry. It just happened—quiet at first, then heavier, like something long held finally giving way. Vishakha held her tighter, one hand firm at her back, the other cradling her head the way she used to when Kashi was younger.

"I'm so tired, Gigi," Kashi whispered, the words muffled. "I keep trying to be strong, but some days I don't even know who I'm doing it for anymore."

Just like that, a woman finally confessed how broken she felt—loving a man who never loved her back, a man who didn't just leave her empty, but broke her again and again, as if her pain was something he could afford.

Vishakha closed her eyes. This was the truth Kashi never said out loud. "You've been surviving," she said gently. "Not living. There's a difference."

Kashi nodded against her, tears soaking into silk. "I miss myself. I miss how I used to feel when I danced—like nothing could touch me. Like I belonged somewhere."

"You still do," Vishakha said immediately. "You just forgot that you're allowed to."

She pulled back slightly, cupping her face and pressing a kiss to her damp cheeks.
"You don't owe anyone your silence," she whispered. "Not him. Not the world. Not even us."

Kashi's lashes fluttered as she wiped her face, embarrassed, vulnerable. "What if I dance and everything breaks? What if it makes things worse?"

Vishakha cupped her cheek. "Then let it break," she said softly. "Some things are meant to. The things that survive that... those are real."

The temple bell rang again—slow, steady.

"Mahadev doesn't ask you to disappear for devotion," Vishakha continued. "He asks you to offer what you already are. And you were born with rhythm in your soul, Kashi."

Kashi inhaled shakily, something loosening inside her chest.

"For once," Vishakha whispered, "choose yourself. Just this once."

Kashi closed her eyes.

And somewhere between the echo of bells and the warmth of her grandmother in law arms, she felt it—small, fragile, but undeniable.

The courage to begin again.

"And I'm not giving you an option, darling." Vishakha paused, tilting her head—and there it was, the familiar smirk. The same old one, sharp and unapologetic, only softened now by affection.

"You're performing at the temple on Mahashivratri," she said, leaving no room for argument. "And that's it."

Kashi let out a shaky laugh through her tears. "You can't just decide that."

"I can," Vishakha replied easily. "And I just did."

She reached up, brushing a tear from Kashi's cheek with her thumb. "You've spent long enough asking everyone else what they want from you. This time, the answer is simple."

Kashi swallowed. Her heart was racing—fear, excitement, grief, hope, all tangled together. "What if I freeze?" she whispered. "What if I forget who I am up there?"

Vishakha smiled, softer now. "Then you'll remember," she said. "The moment your feet touch the floor. The moment the bells ring. Some things don't leave us, no matter how hard we try to bury them."

Kashi looked toward the sanctum. The Shivling stood just as it always had—unchanging, patient.

Maybe she hadn't lost herself after all.

Maybe she had just been waiting to be called back.

Just then, a single flower slipped from Mahadev's feet. It landed softly near her, untouched, as if placed there on purpose—quiet, certain. Almost as if he were calling her back, reminding her of where she belonged, of who she had always been.

Kashi's breath hitched. She stared at it for a long moment, her chest tightening with something that felt dangerously close to faith.

Vishakha noticed it too. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.

Kashi bent down slowly, picking the flower up with trembling fingers. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, eyes shining.

"Bas," Vishakha murmured. "Now you know." she whispers  softly before silently walking away as if her work was done.

And for the first time in years, Kashi didn't feel lost.

She felt chosen.

And maybe, somewhere beyond the clouds, Mahadev was glistening—watching his true devotee find her way back home at last.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

DEEWAN MANSION

AKSH'S STUDY

The room was vast, the blinds drawn tight, shutting out every trace of sunlight. Two figures lay slumped on the couch—eyes closed, hair a mess. The only sound filling the space was the slow, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

Things were scattered everywhere. The sharp smell of liquor clung to the air, empty bottles rolled across the floor like evidence of a night that had gone on for far too long.

It was Minsheng and Aksh—two of the most powerful men alive. Men who could make even the boldest bow their heads. And yet here they were, wasted and asleep, having spent the entire night trying to make up for everything they hadn't said all year.

Minsheng had cried.

He actually had.

Something he only ever did in front of Aksh... or Isaac... or Edward.

He had confessed everything. Every choice, every mistake, every ugly truth he'd buried. Aksh had listened—quietly, without interruption. He knew he should be furious. Minsheng had treated his sister like shit, and that wasn't something a brother simply brushed aside.

But Aksh also knew Minsheng had suffered in ways most people never would.

That still didn't excuse what he'd done to Kashi.

And Minsheng knew that too.

The guilt sat heavy on his chest, even in sleep.

From the hallway, muffled voices of servants passing by drifted in and out, careful, hushed—no one daring to disturb what lay behind the closed door.

Aksh was the first to wake up.

His head throbbed the moment his eyes fluttered open. He groaned softly, lifting a hand to his forehead before slowly sitting up. The room spun for a second, then steadied.

He glanced sideways.

Minsheng was still asleep, sprawled awkwardly on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, face turned slightly away. For once, there was no control in his expression. No sharp edges. Just exhaustion.

Aksh exhaled, rubbing his face. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath—not with anger, but something tired, almost fond.

He leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Nothing was fixed. Not really. His sister was still hurting. Minsheng was still drowning in his own mess. And Aksh was still stuck somewhere in between—brother, friend, judge.

But at least the truth was out now.

And that counted for something.

He glanced at Minsheng again, then quietly reached for a bottle of water from the table nearby, setting it within his reach.

"Wake up," Aksh said softly, more to himself than to the sleeping man.
"We've got a long day ahead."

When Minsheng still didn't wake up, Aksh let out a heavy breath and pushed himself upright, steadying himself against the wall.

Fuck.
They had really messed up.

The door burst open. Li stumbled in, panic splashed all over his face—eyes wide, breathing uneven. It was almost amusing, in a bleak sort of way.

He went straight to Minsheng, gripping his shoulder and shaking him. "Boss," he whispered urgently. "Boss, I need you to wake up."

Nothing.

Minsheng didn't even flinch.

Aksh rubbed his face, the dull ache in his head refusing to fade. He stepped closer and rested a hand on Li's shoulder. "Li," he said quietly, concern slipping into his voice, "what happened?"

Li turned to him like a man staring at his executioner.

"Everything," he whispered. "Do you know what day it is?"

Aksh frowned. "No."

"My marriage is being fixed. Today." His voice cracked. "His grandmother is doing it."

Aksh blinked once. What marriage? What the fuck was happening?

He hadn't known about Li's marriage.

What the fuck...?

The words didn't leave his mouth, but they rang loud in his head—sharp, disbelieving. Li? Married? The thought refused to settle, scraping against everything he thought he knew. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as the pieces shifted, rearranged themselves into something he didn't like at all.

Li started pacing, running a hand through his hair. "I can't do this. I'm not built for this." He dropped his voice to a near-whisper. "I'm not even fit to be a husband."

For a moment, Aksh just stared.

This was Li—the man who had walked through gunfire without ducking, who gave orders that made cities tremble. And now he looked like he was about to bolt.

The second-in-command to the most feared mafia empire—who had stared death in the face without blinking—was now unraveling over his own wedding.

Aksh huffed a short, tired laugh. "You've survived wars," he said. "You'll survive a marriage."

Aksh let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Relax," he said. "You've survived gunfights. You'll survive a bride."

Li looked at him like that was the most terrifying comparison he'd ever heard. "That's not helping," he stopped pacing and looked at him, horrified."That's actually worse."

Aksh glanced back at Minsheng, still unconscious, still useless. "Well," he muttered, "your boss is clearly not saving you today."

Li swallowed hard. "I'm dead."

Aksh leaned back against the wall. "Yeah," he said. "That's how it starts."

Vishakha's voice cut through the air, sharp with a mix of irritation and mounting frustration. "Li! You'd better get back here this instant and put on this suit," she barked, her patience clearly frayed. "We are going to see your bride, and you are not going like that!"

Li froze mid-step. The color drained from his face as the weight of the "suit" and the "bride" hit him all at once. For a heartbeat, he looked like a deer caught in high-beams—then, without a single word of protest or a backward glance, he bolted. He vanished into the corridors, his footsteps echoing as he scrambled to find the most inaccessible hiding spot he could find.

Aksh remained frozen for a moment—then turned and walked out of the room, his headache pulsing harder with every step.

Behind him, Minsheng was left behind, for the first time asleep in quiet peace, his guard finally down.

Kashi had been roaming through the hallways, searching for Minsheng—they had to leave soon to go see Li's bride.

And then she saw her brother—in a state that didn't look too good—but she ignored it for now. She was already late, and they had to leave.

"Bhaiya, aapne inko dekha hai kya?"

Aksh straightened the moment he saw her, the instinct almost embarrassing, as if he had been caught doing something far worse than drinking through the night, and he dragged a hand through his already-messy hair, wincing when the movement sent a dull ache through his head

"Lower your voice," he muttered, trying and failing to sound normal. "You'll wake the dead."

Kashi's brows knit together as she followed his gaze, her steps slowing until she was standing just at the threshold, and the moment her eyes took in the state of the room—the couch, the scattered bottles, the heavy stillness—she knew without needing to be told.

Her grip tightened around her saree pallu as her eyes finally landed on Minsheng, slumped and unmoving, and something unreadable crossed her face before she quietly said, "You were drinking... with him."

"All night," Aksh answered, the word carrying more exhaustion than explanation.

For a brief moment she said nothing, only looked at them, at the chaos they had created, before her gaze returned to her brother, steady and disappointed in a way that hurt more than anger. "We were supposed to leave together," she said softly, not accusing, just stating what should have been obvious.

"I know," Aksh replied, just as quietly.

From somewhere deeper inside the room, Li's voice cut through the silence, edged with panic and desperation as he tried once more to rouse Minsheng, and the sound made Kashi blink in surprise. "Is that Li?" she asked, turning slightly.

Aksh nodded, rubbing his temple. "In the middle of a crisis."

She looked at him again. "What kind of crisis?"

Before he could answer, Li appeared in the doorway, his usual composure nowhere to be found, stopping abruptly when he saw her there, straightening instinctively as if respect alone might save him.

"My marriage is being fixed today," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, followed by a quieter, defeated, "With Jaanki."

Kashi inhaled slowly, the breath measured, as though she were absorbing the weight of the situation rather than reacting to it, and when she spoke again her voice was calm but unmistakably sharp. "And for that," she said, glancing past him at the wrecked room and the unconscious man on the couch, "you all decided to drink yourselves into this state?"

Aksh let out a tired breath. "That wasn't exactly how it was supposed to go."

She turned back to him, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Then how was it supposed to go, Bhaiya?"

Aksh opened his mouth to answer, but before a word could come out, Minsheng shifted on the couch, letting out a low groan that cut straight through the room, and the sound was enough to make all of them freeze where they stood.

Kashi's breath caught, just for a second, before she could stop it.

Slowly, painfully, Minsheng began to wake.

"Let it be now, Bhai," Kashi said in a low voice, already stepping inside the room as though the decision had been made long before the words left her mouth. "Go and get ready. We have to leave, and I'll handle things here."

Without waiting for an answer, she drew in a slow, steadying breath and tucked her saree pallu firmly around her waist, the movement practiced and deliberate, as she walked toward Minsheng. It felt less like she was going to wake her husband and more like she was preparing herself for a battle—and in that moment, the difference didn't seem very large.

Aksh hesitated only a second before nodding, trusting her more than the situation deserved, and then turned and walked away without looking back.

Li remained rooted to his spot, watching her with open desperation, his composure completely stripped away, his eyes silently begging her to fix what he no longer believed he could handle. For the first time in a long while, the man who stood second only to Minsheng looked small.

God, he couldn't do this.
He couldn't be a husband.

Kashi turned to him then, her expression firm but not unkind, and for a moment her voice softened just enough to steady him. "Li," she said, meeting his gaze fully, "I need you to calm down and listen to me, okay."

She paused, choosing her words carefully, as though she knew how easily he might break. "We're only going to meet the girl," she continued gently. "It's not as if you're being married off today, and Gigi is right—one day you will have to marry." Her eyes held his, unwavering. "And no, your work isn't what's scary. A woman who matters will understand who you are on the inside."

Li froze where he stood.

There was something in her tone—firm, patient, almost maternal—that caught him completely off guard. He hadn't expected his boss's wife to speak to him like this, with such clarity and kindness, and the thought struck him painfully then, that Minsheng had managed to hurt someone who carried this much quiet strength.

He didn't trust himself to say anything.

She had understood him without him ever having to explain himself, had seen straight through the panic and fear he couldn't put into words, and that alone felt like a small mercy. Without a word, he nodded and turned to leave, the fear still there, still heavy, but no longer threatening to swallow him whole.

For the first time that morning, the panic eased—just enough for him to breathe.

Kashi turned back toward her husband, and for a moment she simply stood there, frozen, her breath hitching before she could stop it.

In sleep, Minsheng looked nothing like the man the world knew. There was no guard in him, no sharpness held ready behind his eyes, no weight of command sitting on his shoulders. Curled slightly on the sofa, his hands tucked beneath his cheek, he looked almost boyish in his vulnerability, the faint flush on his face—soft, rosy, unmistakably the effect of alcohol—making him appear disarmingly human.

It was unfair how different he looked like this.

So... cute, she thought, when he wasn't being stern or ruthless or permanently braced for a fight, and especially when he wasn't working, when the armor finally slipped away and left behind the man underneath.

The thought made something ache quietly in her chest.

Because somewhere deep inside, beneath all the anger and disappointment, she carried a fragile wish—that one day she could turn him into a man who wouldn't be afraid to show his real self, at least with her, without flinching, without walls, without fear of being seen.

She snapped back to reality as she knelt beside him, the sudden closeness stirring an almost irresistible urge to brush the strands of hair away from his forehead. God, he looked unfairly cute like this, and for a reckless second she even thought about snapping his picture and setting it as her wallpaper.

The thought barely finished forming before she pulled out her phone.

One quick picture.

Then another glance at the screen.

And before she could talk herself out of it, she set it as her wallpaper, a small, private smile tugging at her lips.

God, she really couldn't stop herself.

So she didn't.

Guilty as charged.

Her hand hovered over his shoulder, hesitation creeping in as reality slowly returned, because she knew she couldn't let him sleep through this—not when his grandfather or, worse, his father could walk in at any moment and catch him like this, vulnerable and wasted, and that would be the end of whatever fragile peace remained.

She drew in a steady breath, grounding herself, the way her mother had taught her when everything felt like it was about to spiral out of control.

Come on, Kashi, she whispered to herself, fingers curling at her side. You have to do this. You have to save your husband.

Jai Mata Di.

Finally, she reached out, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder before giving it a careful shake, her touch hesitant but determined, her voice dropping into that soft, respectful tone she used only in moments like these. "Suniye?" she called, once... then again... and then a third time, each call carrying a silent prayer that he would wake gently, that this wouldn't turn into a scene.

But deep down, she already knew better.

Minsheng had never been easy—awake or asleep.

He finally stirred on the third call.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he opened his eyes, a low groan escaping him as a faint frown settled between his brows, like her voice was dragging him out of somewhere deep and heavy and unwilling to let go. He shifted, muttering something incoherent under his breath—half curse, half complaint—before turning his face further into the cushion, clinging to sleep as if it had personally offended him to wake up.

Kashi let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was definitely not going to be as easy as she'd hoped.

"Suniye... please uthiye na," she whispered again, her eyes flicking nervously toward the door, her heart thudding faster at the thought of footsteps in the corridor. Because if anyone walked in right now—her father-in-law, her grandfather-in-law, anyone—then not even Mahadev himself would be able to save Minsheng from the consequences.

At last, he blinked his eyes open, unfocused and heavy-lidded, confusion clouding his expression as he stared at her like she was a dream he hadn't decided to believe in yet. His gaze lingered on her face, slow and unguarded, before his brows knit together slightly.

"Kashi...?" he muttered, her name slurring on his tongue, softer than she had heard it in a very long time.

Relief flooded her instantly. At least he knows who I am. "Thank you, Mahadev," she murmured under her breath before speaking aloud. "Haan, it's me. Chaliye, uthiye ab."

She slid one arm around him, bracing his weight as she helped him sit up, keeping her hold firm because she knew better than to trust him right now—this man could rule empires, but in this state, gravity itself was his enemy.

"My head hurts," he complained, lifting a finger to point at his temple, the gesture so childlike it barely resembled the man the world feared as the White Tiger.

And then—God help her—there was a pout.

Kashi froze.

What... what was this?

Did her husband just pout?

She barely had time to process that shocking development before his fingers curled into her saree, tugging gently as he leaned closer, his voice dropping into a soft, whiny mumble. "Wifey," he said, like the word belonged on his tongue, "it hurts... fix it pwease."

"Fix it?" Kashi echoed faintly, staring at him as if he'd just asked her to solve international politics with a bandaid. What was this—nursery school? Had alcohol unlocked some forbidden, undiscovered version of him?

"Aapko itni peene ko kisne bola tha, haan?" she scolded, rubbing her temples, already feeling her patience slip.

Of course his head ached—sharp, relentless, as if the night itself had set up camp behind his eyes. Every throb, every pulse was a cruel echo of how far he'd pushed himself, how much he'd drowned in oblivion. Even the faintest sound felt like a strike; every movement dragged like a punishment. This wasn't just a hangover—it was the aftermath of losing control.

Minsheng froze instantly.

The pout deepened. His brows pulled together. And then—before she could even brace herself—his eyes filled with unmistakable, very real, dangerously effective crocodile tears. He buried his face into her shoulder, fingers tightening at the back of her blouse like she was the only thing keeping him upright.

"I'm sorry, wifey," he mumbled against her shoulder, the words soft, unguarded, stripped of every sharp edge she associated with him.

Kashi went completely still.

No threats. No arrogance. No suspicion.

Just... this.

This was the same man who had left her alone for a year. The same man who had accused her of poisoning him. And now he was clinging to her like a guilty child who'd broken something precious.

Cute. Whiny. Utterly disarming.

And horrifyingly dangerous.

Because this version of Minsheng—this one with no walls, no armor—could ruin her without even trying.

She lifted her hand slowly, almost without thinking, fingers threading into his hair, soothing him the way she'd once dreamed of doing in some distant, impossible future. He leaned into her touch instantly, like he'd been waiting for permission, a small sigh escaping him as if she'd fixed half his problem already.

Her chest tightened painfully.

This was unfair. Entirely unfair.

"Bhagwaan ji," she whispered under her breath, tightening her hold just a little, "please... koi dekhe na."

Okay. You can do this.

With a deep, sharp inhale, she pulled back slightly, forcing distance before her resolve completely dissolved.

And immediately—

His pout returned, deeper this time, eyes shining, lips wobbling like she'd committed a grave injustice.

"Wifey... no hug?" he asked softly, wounded beyond reason.

Kashi nearly lost her will to live.

What in the world was happening?

But then reality hit her.
He was drunk—wasted enough that the effects stripped him bare, leaving him vulnerable in a way she had never imagined she would witness.

This was the ruthless man people feared—and right now, he looked like he might cry if she didn't hold him again.

If this was what he became when his walls fell...

she wasn't sure she stood a chance at surviving it.

How could someone be this cute? All she wanted—truly wanted—was to wrap her arms around him and never let go, consequences be damned.

But consequences were very real.

"We have to go, okie?" she whispered carefully, spacing out the words so he would actually understand them. "Room. We go to the room. And then we fix your head."

His eyes lit up instantly, bright and sudden, like a child spotting a brand-new toy.

"Fix my head?" he repeated, tilting his own as if testing the idea, the pout still stubbornly refusing to leave his face.

"Yes," she said, nodding firmly. "Fix. Properly."

That was all it took.

"Okie!" he chirped far too enthusiastically for a man who could barely stand straight, suddenly grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door with a giggle, pointing at it like he had just cracked the greatest plan known to mankind. "Room is there. We go now."

"Arre—rukiye toh sahi!" she hissed, nearly stumbling as he pulled her along. "Slow down, you're not walking, you're swaying."

"I'm fineee," he declared confidently, immediately proving himself wrong by wobbling sideways and almost taking them both down with him.

Kashi caught him just in time, her arm tightening around his waist as she shot a panicked glance down the corridor. "Mahadev," she muttered through clenched teeth, "bas ek baar bachaa lo."

He blinked up at her, completely unfazed. "Wifey is strong," he said proudly, patting her arm like this was a well-established fact. "Wifey saves me."

Her face burned. "This is not a rescue mission," she whispered urgently. "This is a get-you-to-bed-before-you-destroy-your-own-legacy mission."

He hummed thoughtfully at that, then leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Can I sleep after fixing?"

"Yes."

"Proper sleep?"

"Yes."

"With hug?"

She paused for exactly half a second too long.

"...Yes. One hug."

That sealed the deal.

He smiled—wide, victorious—and promptly tightened his grip on her hand again, marching forward with renewed determination, dragging her along as if they weren't seconds away from being caught.

If anyone saw them now—the White Tiger half-drunk, giggling, clinging to his wife, and Kashi whisper-praying her way through the corridor—there would be no recovery from this.

And somehow, despite the chaos, the danger, and her rapidly pounding heart...

she had never loved him more.

She glanced outside the door. Nobody. Yes. Clear path. Small victory.

Behind her, Minsheng tilted his head, watching her like a tiny, mischievous creature, and then—because of course—he stuck his tongue out at her, perfectly mimicking her posture.

"Wifey..." he said, voice thick and ridiculous, dragging the word like it was some sacred chant. "...why are you staring? I'm staring toooo!"

Kashi froze mid-step, one hand gripping his, the other against the wall. "What... what are you doing?" she hissed, trying not to laugh, trying not to facepalm herself into another dimension.

"I'm copying you!" he announced proudly, puffing out his chest like a toddler showing off a new trick. "You look funny sneaking. I look funny too! Haha!"

"Minsheng," she groaned, grabbing his shoulder to stop him from wobbling into the wall, "we are not sneaking, we are trying not to get caught. Do you understand that concept?"

He tilted his head, tongue still sticking out, and frowned. "Caught? No one catches Minsheng... except maybe Wifey, but she's on my team. Team Wifey."

Her eyes nearly rolled out of her skull. "Team Wifey? What kind of mafia boss nonsense is this?"

He puffed up his chest again. "Best kind. Strongest. Nobody defeats Team Wifey. I win."

Kashi blinked at him. "You—you are the one stumbling like a baby deer. How are you winning anything?"

He wobbled dramatically, almost toppling forward, and grinned sheepishly. "Balance is for squares. I am... I am fun! Fun Tiger!"

Her hand flew to her face, groaning audibly, "Oh my God, I am married to a drunk toddler who thinks he's a tiger."

Minsheng gasped, horrified. "Toddler? Nooo! White Tiger! Strong! Fearsome! Mighty!"

"Yes," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose, "fearsome enough to almost trip over your own feet."

He grinned anyway, tugging her hand. "Come on, Wifey! Mighty Tiger walks to room! Mighty Tiger fixes head! Hurry! No catch, only fun!"

Kashi shook her head, laughing despite herself, muttering, "God help me, I married the most dangerous... toddler in the world."

And with that, he practically dragged her down the hallway, wobbling, giggling, copying her every move, sticking his tongue out again, because apparently adulthood was optional if you were a drunk mafia boss.

The hallway had never seen such chaos—and probably never would again.

They walked through the hallway, the silence stretching thin and uneasy, the kind that made every step feel louder than it actually was. No servants, no elders, no sudden voices—at least for now. Kashi let out a careful sigh of relief, her shoulders finally dropping a fraction.

Behind her, Minsheng copied the sound instantly, exaggerating it so much it almost echoed. A long, dramatic sigh, complete with a little head tilt, as if he had just survived a great tragedy.

She stopped mid-step and turned back, narrowing her eyes at him. "Aap kya kar rahe hai?" she whispered sharply, only to freeze when she saw him pouting, his arm wrapped around hers like she was a life-sized teddy bear meant solely for emotional support. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing because this—this was absolutely ridiculous.

God. What was this version of him?

"I am following you, wifey," he replied solemnly, nodding like he'd just stated a universal truth. "Remember? Team Wifey." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I don't walk alone. Dangerous. I could... fall."

She stared at him, unimpressed. "Aap mafia boss hai," she hissed under her breath.

He blinked, genuinely considering that information, then shrugged. "Haan. But today I am soft mafia."

Kashi closed her eyes for exactly two seconds, silently asking every god she knew for patience, before tightening her grip on his arm. "Bas chup-chaap chaliye," she muttered, already dragging him forward.

He smiled—wide, pleased, victorious—and followed obediently, still clinging to her like she was his personal safety protocol.

Team Wifey, indeed.

And then there were footsteps.

Shit.
Shit.
Shit.

Someone was coming.

Kashi froze mid-step, every muscle locking in place, her mind going completely blank for exactly half a second before one thought screamed louder than the rest.

Mission. Abort.

Behind her, Minsheng chose that exact moment to lean forward, craning his neck curiously. "Oooh," he giggled under his breath, squinting down the hallway. "Who is it? Maybe snacks?"

Her head snapped toward him so fast it nearly hurt. She glared, eyes wide and murderous. "Chup. Bilkul. Chup."

The effect was immediate—and catastrophic.

Minsheng's lower lip trembled. His brows furrowed. And then, like a switch had been flipped, he turned dramatically toward the wall, pressing his forehead against it as fat tears spilled down his cheeks. Silent. Devastated. Betrayed.

Kashi stared at him, horrified.
Not this.
Not now.

She let out a heavy breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. This—this—was absolutely not how she had imagined her morning going. Footsteps were getting closer. Time was running out.

"Okay... okay," she whispered hurriedly, stepping closer. "I'm sorry, theek hai? I didn't mean to scold you."

She reached up instinctively, wiping at the tear that had already escaped down his cheek—and then she froze.

The touch was real.

Warm. Soft. Intimate in a way neither of them had ever allowed before.

For a brief, dangerous second, everything stilled. She had never touched him like this. Never had the chance. Never the space. And suddenly, here they were—her thumb against his skin, his breath uneven, the moment far too raw for a hallway filled with danger.

"Aap... tea-wifey ho na," she whispered quickly, grounding herself, lowering her voice into something soothing and firm. "Toh aapko wifey ki baat sunni padegi."

Minsheng blinked. Slowly turned his head. Peered at her from the corner of his eye.

Then he nodded, serious as a soldier accepting orders. "Okay," he sniffed. "I listen to wifey. I team wifey."

She forced a smile, one that barely held together, just as the footsteps grew unmistakably closer.

She took one cautious step forward to see who it was—and then her soul very nearly left her body.

There they were.

Bua Nalini.

And beside her, like matching villains in a poorly written soap opera, Kavya and Katha.

Of course. Of course it had to be them.

Her mind raced instantly—memories flooding in uninvited. The taunts. The fake sweetness. The stolen toys. The crocodile tears. Her mother swallowing insults in silence while Nalini smiled like she'd won.

If they saw Minsheng like this—soft, drunk, clinging—there would be no end to the judgment.

No. No. No.

She had to think fast. Really fast.

And the only brilliant, terrible idea her brain came up with was—

Run.

"Jai Mata Di," she muttered under her breath.

Before logic could stop her, she grabbed Minsheng's hand and bolted.

Minsheng squealed happily. "Yayyy! Adventure with wifey!"

They rushed down the hallway, trying—and failing—to be quiet, Kashi mentally apologizing to Shankar she believed in as her heart pounded.

And then—

"Arre Kashi beta, tum ho?" Nalini's voice called out, dripping with fake sweetness that made Kashi's teeth itch.

Shit.
Shit.
Shit.

They'd been caught.

Kashi stopped, closed her eyes for half a second, then turned around with a smile stretched so tight it could snap.

"Bua," she said, sweet as sugar, while Minsheng stood beside her, still grinning proudly, fingers locked with hers like this was the best day of his life.

Nalini's eyes dragged over Kashi slowly, deliberately, from her slightly messy hair to the creases in her saree, and then—inevitably—to the biggest problem standing beside her.

Or rather, leaning on her.

Minsheng had somehow decided Kashi's neck was the most comfortable place in the world, giggling softly against her skin like this was all very entertaining. His arm was still looped around hers, his head tilted lazily, completely unbothered by the sudden audience.

Kashi let out a slow, tired breath—the kind that carried years of experience and one very clear message.

Here we go again.

"Arre beta," Nalini said, lowering her voice theatrically while smiling like she'd just discovered the scandal of the century, "tum aajkal ke bache na... aise khule mein yeh sab karte ho?"

Nalini's gaze shifted again—slower this time—lingering not on Kashi's face but on the way Minsheng's arm was wrapped around her, loose yet possessive, the way he had half-hidden his face against her neck like that was the safest place he knew.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

It was subtle, easy to miss, but Kashi caught it—the tightening around her eyes, the faint curl of her lip that looked less amused now and more... unsettled. Disgust, perhaps. Or something far more bitter.

Jealousy.

Nalini had never had this. Not a husband who leaned into her touch without fear. Not a man who forgot the world just to cling to her. Whatever marriage she had survived had been built on appearances, not warmth—and seeing this, however messy and drunken it was, clearly struck a nerve.

Kashi's smile stiffened, but her eyes sharpened instantly.

Before she could even form a reply, Minsheng beat her to it.

"Yes," he said cheerfully, nodding with absolute confidence. "We modern. Team Wifey."

Kashi's soul screamed.

Nalini blinked. Kavya's brows shot up. Katha coughed suspiciously.

Kashi cleared her throat, tightening her hold on Minsheng's arm before he could say something even worse. "Woh, Bua," she began smoothly, her tone calm despite the chaos internally combusting, "actually Minsheng thoda thak gaye the. Long night."

Minsheng hummed in agreement and added helpfully, "Very long. I cried also."

Silence.

Dead. Absolute. Silence.

Kashi laughed nervously. Too nervously. "Matlab—emotionally," she corrected quickly, smiling harder. "Work stress."

Nalini's lips twitched, not convinced for even a second. "Haan haan," she said lightly. "Samajh gaye."

Minsheng leaned closer to Kashi again, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Wifey, aunty scary."

Kashi's eye twitched.

"Yes," she whispered back through clenched teeth. "Aunty very scary. Isliye chup."

Nalini's smile widened, sharp and curious. "Waise beta," she added sweetly, "tumhare saas sasur dhoond rahe the Minsheng ko."

Kashi's heart dropped.

Oh.
This was getting worse.

Minsheng shifted again, nuzzling closer, his voice a soft mumble against Kashi's skin. "Wifey smells nice," he announced proudly.

Kashi went still.

Nalini's expression hardened.

"Beta," Nalini said pointedly, forcing her smile back into place, "yeh sab ghar ke andar bhi kiya ja sakta hai."

Kashi lifted her chin then, her own smile calm but unmistakably firm, her arm tightening around Minsheng in quiet defiance. "Haan, Bua," she replied evenly, "isliye toh hum room ja rahe the."

Minsheng nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. Room. Fix head."

Kashi squeezed his hand, half-warning, half-amused, while Nalini watched them—eyes sharp, heart clearly bruised by something she would never admit.

Some wounds didn't fade with age.

Usually, Kashi would have stayed quiet. She would have lowered her gaze, swallowed the comment, and let it pass the way she always had—because that was easier, because that was expected.

But this wasn't just about her anymore.

This was about Minsheng.

And she wouldn't—couldn't—let anyone look at him like this, let alone speak about him with that thinly veiled judgment.

No. She wouldn't.

Her spine straightened almost instinctively, her hand tightening where it rested against Minsheng's arm, a quiet but unmistakable claim. When she looked back at Nalini, her expression was calm, composed—but there was steel beneath it now.

Bua," Kashi said calmly, her voice low and even, "aap galat samajh rahi hain."

Nalini's brows lifted slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing her face.

"He hasn't done anything wrong," Kashi continued, her tone respectful but unyielding. "Aur agar apne husband ka saath dena, unka khayal rakhna galat lagta hai... toh main woh galti bina sharm ke karungi."

Minsheng shifted beside her, as if sensing it, leaning closer, his head brushing her shoulder. "Wifey good," he added softly, like it was a fact beyond argument.

Kashi didn't blush this time. She didn't look away.

Nalini's smile faltered—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Kashi to see it clearly.

For once, she hadn't swallowed the words meant to cut her.

She had stepped forward.

And she knew—quietly, undeniably—that she would do it again.

And just before the fragile confidence she was holding together could completely shatter, Kashi turned—and rushed forward without thinking.

Only to realize, far too late, that she wasn't heading toward safety.

She was heading downstairs.

Straight into disaster.

She came to an abrupt halt—and there they were.

Everyone.

Her parents. Her in-laws. And of course, her brothers—standing there like an audience that had arrived far too early for a scene that was never meant to be witnessed.

What the hell.

The entire room froze at the sight in front of them.

Minsheng had both his arms wrapped securely around Kashi's waist, his face buried shamelessly in the curve of her neck, giggling softly like this was the most comfortable place on earth. Kashi stood stiff beside him, a nervous, painfully fake smile plastered on her lips—because of course it was fake. It always was.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then Kalyani stepped forward, concern etched deeply into her features. "Kashi beta... Damad ji theek hai?" she asked gently, clearly unsettled. She had never seen her son-in-law like this—this unguarded, this close to her daughter.

Not like this. Not in the open.

She looked away almost immediately.

Kashi swallowed hard, her insides screaming, but she forced a soft laugh, dipping her head slightly like a shy bride. "Haan, Maa," she said quickly. "Bilkul theek hai."

She paused, then added, lowering her voice with feigned embarrassment, "Bas... thode zyada romantic ho gaye hai aaj."

Silence.

Absolute. Deafening. Silence.

Kalyani froze, eyes widening just a fraction, before she nodded stiffly and turned away, clearly deciding this was information she did not need to process further. She shot a look at her husband, Ansh, who was still standing there in complete shock, his mouth slightly open like reality had just betrayed him.

Vishakha and Yansong stared as well, equally stunned—though Yansong's shock quickly curdled into anger.

God. What the hell was this boy doing?

They were supposed to leave to see Jaanki for Li's proposal, and Minsheng was out here romancing like the world had ended. Yansong opened his mouth, ready to tear into him, but Vishakha grabbed his arm sharply, her gaze fixed on the couple.

For the first time, Minsheng wasn't distant. Wasn't cold. Wasn't guarded.

He was... close.

Maybe things were finally improving between them.

Yansong hesitated, frowning, then reluctantly fell silent.

Kashi noticed it all—and very nearly laughed.

Did they really believe this?

Did they honestly think this was romance and not a drunken disaster spiraling wildly out of control?

Oh my god. They were all painfully, tragically wrong.

From the back, Jun and Ekaksh exchanged looks, barely holding it in.

Jun smirked openly and muttered, just loud enough to be dangerous, "Oh wow... just go to your room before you end up having a baby."

Kashi's smile twitched.

Minsheng, however, brightened instantly.

"Baby?" he echoed cheerfully, lifting his head. "Wifey, we having baby?"

Kashi's soul left her body.

"No, we are not having a baby," Kashi snapped instantly, shooting Jun a glare sharp enough to promise future violence. That boy was absolutely getting murdered later—slowly, creatively, and without witnesses.

"Oh," Minsheng whispered obediently, nodding as if he'd just received a very serious life update. "Okay. No baby."

Satisfied, he tucked himself right back into her neck, humming softly, the sound low and content, like a child who had finally found his bed after a long day.

Yunji stood frozen for a moment, staring at her bhabhi and her brother as if her brain was actively refusing to process what her eyes were seeing. This was Minsheng? This clingy, humming, smiling version?

Then she caught Kashi's eyes.

The silent plea was unmistakable.

Please. Take them away. All of them. Now.

Yunji didn't waste another second.

"Arre, hum logon ko nikalna chahiye," she said quickly, clapping her hands lightly as if this had always been the plan. "Late ho raha hai."

One by one, the spell broke.

Yansong and Vishakha exchanged a look before turning and walking away, Vishakha glancing back once more, thoughtful, almost hopeful. Ekaksh and Jun followed, both smirking like idiots who knew far more than they should.

"We see you," Jun called over his shoulder, barely containing his grin. "Aur haan—next time hum aaye na, baby hona chahiye."

Kashi clenched her jaw, mentally adding him to the list.

Kalyani and Ansh shifted away soon after, still visibly shaken and very determined not to discuss what they had just witnessed. Aksh followed with Yunji, herding little Neel along with him, the house slowly emptying out until the hallway finally, mercifully, fell quiet.

And only then did Kashi let out a long, shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

God.

The chaos was over.

At least... for now.

She glanced down at Minsheng, who was still clinging to her, humming happily, utterly unaware of the social disaster he had just caused.

Something told her the universe wasn't done with her yet.

Slowly, everyone settled into their cars.

Vishakha and Yansong took the first one, as they always did—silent, composed, pretending nothing unusual had just happened. Behind them, Ekaksh and Jun deliberately chose to ride together, mostly as a precaution.

Either to prevent chaos.

Or, more realistically, because they were usually the cause of it.

The second option applied far more often.

In the other car, Aksh took the front seat, while Yunji slid in beside him without hesitation—mostly because little Neel had immediately chosen her. He liked her. She played with him, listened to him, and, most importantly, never made fun of him.

Yunji's heart had a soft spot for that kind of quiet loneliness, so she agreed without question. And just like that, the three of them were together.

Li, meanwhile, was nowhere in sight.

Vishakha had sent him off hours ago—straight to the salon, no excuses, no delays, and absolutely no room for escape. And just in case the boy got any bright ideas about running away, she'd thoughtfully assigned two bodyguards to him.

They weren't there to protect him.

They were there to make sure he didn't vanish.

Because Vishakha always had a plan.

And Li, unfortunately, was currently trapped inside it.

INSIDE THE CAR

The Rolls-Royce glided forward smoothly, its motion so effortless it barely felt like the wheels were touching the road. Inside, the only sound was the low, steady hum of the engine—soft, controlled, almost soothing.

No one spoke.

The silence sat heavy but contained, like everyone was still processing the chaos they'd narrowly escaped, choosing not to acknowledge it out loud while the car carried them steadily away.

Aksh kept his eyes on the road, but his attention drifted anyway. From the corner of his eye, he glanced toward the backseat—toward Yunji.

Neel was sitting comfortably in her lap, far too comfortably for someone who technically meant nothing to him. His small hands were busy with her dupatta, his head leaning easily against her, as if this arrangement had always existed.

Aksh's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a second.

Then, without meaning to, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

It was real. He couldn't stop it. Seeing his son so at ease—so happy—did something to him. Something quiet and unsettling and warm all at once.

He glanced again, watching the way Yunji spoke to Neel softly, patiently, like she had all the time in the world just for him. It tugged at something deep in his chest, something he didn't entirely like examining. A small fear stirred—that Neel might grow too attached, too quickly—but Aksh pushed it aside.

For now, he chose to focus on the present.

And on the apology he owed her.

Yesterday flashed briefly in his mind—the way she had stumbled into him, the joke he'd made without thinking, lighthearted to him but careless all the same. He hadn't meant it to hurt. He never would.

But intent didn't change impact.

The car slowed, stopping at a red light.

Perfect.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it felt to be nervous about speaking. "Uh... suniye?" he called out hesitantly.

Before Yunji could respond, Neel gasped dramatically and tugged at her sleeve. "Papa calling you, uniye," he announced proudly, mangling the words but glowing like he'd just delivered important news.

Aksh sighed. "Haan, Papa calling," he muttered, shaking his head despite himself.

Yunji finally looked up, meeting his gaze "Ji... aapne kuch bola?" she asked politely, though there was a trace of hesitation there. She hadn't forgotten yesterday. Even if she didn't want to make it obvious.

Aksh took a breath. "Dekhiye," he began slowly, clearly choosing his words with care, "I'm... sorry about yesterday. I really didn't mean it that way." He paused, jaw tightening slightly. "But then you ran off, and I realized my words didn't come out the way I wanted them to."

Neel nodded enthusiastically. "Papa sorry," he added, completely satisfied.

Aksh shot him a look. "Yes. Papa sorry," he repeated, then looked back at Yunji. "I was joking, but it came out wrong. And I shouldn't have said it at all."

Yunji stayed quiet for a moment, Neel still nestled against her, his presence somehow softening the air between them.

"It did hurt," Yunji admitted quietly. "But... I know you didn't mean it." She hesitated, then added, "And I'm sorry too—for running away like that. It was rude." A small, self-conscious smile tugged at her lips. "I just... I get hurt and upset easily. That's always been a problem with me."

Aksh looked at her for a long moment, really looked at her, before speaking again—his voice lower now, certain in a way that didn't need emphasis.

"Never be sorry for who you are," he said simply. "That's not a bad thing."

He paused, then added, "Getting hurt means you feel things deeply. And that's not weakness. That's actually the best kind of strength."

"Don't be sorry for that."

Yunji froze.

For a second, she couldn't quite place what she was feeling—only that something old and heavy inside her chest had shifted. All her life, she'd been told she was too sensitive, that she took things to heart too easily. Someone she'd once cared for deeply had said it too, right before walking away. Even her insecurities about not being beautiful enough still echoed in quiet moments.

And now—this father and son, sitting here without realizing it, were undoing those words one by one.

Her throat tightened.

She blinked, forcing herself to breathe, forcing the tears back as she looked down at Neel, who smiled up at her completely unaware of the damage he and his father were healing.

"I... thank you," she said softly. "No one's ever said that to me before."

The car moved on, carrying something gentler with it this time.

Neel leaned closer to her and whispered loudly, "Papa nice now."

Yunji smiled despite herself. 

The light turned green, and Aksh drove on—this time, the silence inside the car didn't feel heavy at all. It felt... settled.

Just then, Neel muttered, "Papa... I'm hungry."

Aksh's eyes softened at the sight of his little son pouting. "Beta, we'll eat when we reach, okay? For now, just sit like a good boy."

"No, Papa! I hungry nowww," Neel whined, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at Yunji with pleading eyes, silently begging for backup.

And, of course, she melted.

"Suniye... if there are snacks in the car, then give him something. He genuinely looks hungry," she whispered softly, shooting Aksh a pleading glance.

Aksh sighed, finally giving in. "Fine... just a few, beta. But carefully now."

Neel's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yayyyy... snacks!" He wiggled excitedly on Yunji's lap before turning to her, his eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Uniye!"

Aksh reached for the snack box, still keeping one hand firmly on the steering wheel. "Okay, just... a few, and no—"

Before he could finish, Neel lunged forward, tiny fingers diving into the box. Chips toppled everywhere—onto Yunji's lap, onto the floor, and some even bounced off the center console.

"Neel!" Aksh groaned, trying to keep the car steady while scooping up the fallen snacks. "Careful, beta! You're making a mess!"

Neel, however, was delighted. "Snack rain! Snack rain!" he squealed, grabbing more and tossing them in the air like confetti.

Yunji laughed uncontrollably, trying to catch the flying chips while keeping Neel from tipping over entirely. "Neel! Stop—" she gasped between giggles, "or—"

Her words were cut off as Neel, in his enthusiasm, knocked the juice bottle over. A splash hit Aksh's hand, then trickled across his leg.

"AAAAHHH!" Aksh yelped, swerving slightly in panic while desperately trying to balance steering with one hand and wiping juice off himself with the other. "Beta! Stop moving!"

Neel giggled uncontrollably. "Papa wet! Funny Papa!"

Aksh buried his face in his hands. "I... I cannot survive this child..."

Yunji, tears of laughter streaming down her face, tried to hold Neel steady while picking up chips, juice-stained cookies, and whatever else had fallen in the chaos.

Neel sat back triumphantly, crumbs stuck to his hair, juice on his hands, and a satisfied grin. 

Aksh peeked through his fingers, completely defeated. "I... I am officially doomed..."

Even his lips twitched—almost a smile. In a long time, he hadn't seen his son laughing and giggling so freely, yet here he was, safe and happy, in the arms of this woman who had been with them for barely two days and already felt like a part of their lives.

Aksh's heart ached in a way he hadn't expected. There was something grounding about the sight—Neel's tiny hands clutching Yunji's fingers, his hair slightly messy from excitement, crumbs stuck to his sleeves, and that irrepressible, carefree giggle.

And all the while, the Rolls-Royce continued gliding along smoothly, the engine humming serenely, completely oblivious to the snack-and-juice apocalypse happening inside.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

COURT ROOM

The courtroom was immense, its walls echoing every footstep and whisper. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, falling in sharp rectangles across the polished wooden floor. Rows of seats were filled with the city's elite—lawyers, witnesses, and onlookers—everyone waiting for the next spectacle.

Shanaya stood firmly in her place, ready to fight for Aadhya Malhotra—the girl who deserved justice more than anyone, whose life had been upended by cruelty and abuse.

And she was determined to make Advit Singhania understand that no amount of money could buy what he had taken.

"Your Honor," Shanaya began, her voice steady and unwavering, "I am here to present the evidence proving that this boy did not just assault Aadhya Malhotra, but that his father—Advit Singhania's —attempted to cover it up by offering money and a scholarship to Yale in Canada. Justice cannot, and will not, be bought."

The judge paused, expression neutral, listening carefully to Shanaya's words. Then his gaze shifted to the nineteen-year-old boy standing confidently, exuding the smug certainty that his father's wealth and influence would shield him from the consequences of his actions.

The judge's eyes flicked to Advit Singhania. "Is it true," he asked, voice measured but firm, "that you attempted to silence the girl and her family with money, Mr. Singhania?"

For a moment, Advit—a man whose life had been built entirely on power and wealth, believing it could erase any wrongdoing—stood frozen.

Fuck...

He had assumed the girl's family would accept the bribe: the money, the scholarship to Yale in Canada, and then quietly disappear. But they hadn't. Oh, no. Not only had they refused, but they had come here, demanding justice, unflinching.

He forced a laugh, a brittle, nervous sound that didn't reach his eyes. "That's not true, Your Honor," he said finally, voice tight with false confidence. "My son is being framed."

His glare swept across Shanaya, sharp and accusing, but she didn't flinch—not for a second. Her stance remained firm, her eyes locked on the Singhanias like steel. She radiated the unshakeable conviction of someone who knew the truth and was not about to let it be buried by wealth or intimidation.

The judge leaned back slightly, observing the room. Silence hung heavy, the tension almost tangible, as every person in the courtroom felt the weight of the confrontation.

Shanaya's voice cut through the quiet, calm but lethal: "Your Honor, the evidence will show that the Singhanias' attempts at bribery were real, and that this boy's actions cannot be excused by wealth, status, or his father's influence."

Advit's jaw tightened, his carefully constructed veneer of control beginning to crack under the scrutiny of the law—and the unflinching resolve of the young lawyer before him.

Then Shanaya reached into the folder she carried and pulled out the bouquet of flowers that had been sent to Aadhya, along with the documents for the Yale scholarship. She handed them carefully to the court assistant, who passed them to the judge.

Advit's eyes narrowed immediately. "That doesn't prove anything, Your Honor!" he barked, his voice sharp with panic and anger. "Don't you see what she's doing? She's trying to frame my son, tarnish his reputation—and throw money at that brat to manipulate the situation!"

He shot a venomous glance first at Shanaya, then at Aadhya Malhotra. The girl sat frozen, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, small hands folded in her lap. She was barely more than a child, yet life had forced her to face horrors most adults would never imagine.

The courtroom held its breath. Every whisper, every cough, seemed to fade into nothing as the judge's eyes swept over the evidence, the girl, and the accuser. Shanaya's calm, unwavering presence contrasted sharply with the rising fury of the Singhanias, a quiet storm threatening to expose the truth no amount of wealth could erase.

Shanaya's voice rang out, steady and precise. "Your Honor, it is not a matter of money or influence. It is a matter of proof, and the evidence here shows clear attempts to manipulate, intimidate, and bribe—not just a student, but a child whose life has been disrupted by these very actions. Justice does not bend for wealth. It protects the innocent."

Advit's face tightened. For the first time, his arrogance faltered. He had expected fear, submission, and silence—but here, in this courtroom, neither Shanaya nor Aadhya showed any sign of yielding.

And in that moment, the weight of his son's actions—and his own—pressed down on him, palpable to everyone watching.

The judge adjusted his glasses, his gaze flicking between Advit and Shanaya, then briefly settling on Aadhya, who remained silent but resolute. "Mr. Singhania," he said slowly, "you claim this is a frame. Yet, here we have evidence of your attempts to bribe the victim and her family, along with written documentation of a scholarship offered under suspicious circumstances. How do you explain this?"

Advit's jaw tightened, and he swallowed audibly. "Your Honor... this... this is exaggerated. My son—he—"

"Exaggerated?" Shanaya's voice cut through the room, sharp and cold. "Exaggerated is a little girl being coerced, silenced, and offered money to bury the truth. Exaggerated is a father thinking wealth can wash away his son's crime. Exaggerated is thinking the law bends for you."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the courtroom. Even the usually stoic lawyers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Advit's father leaned forward, whispering furiously into his son's ear, but the words barely seemed to reach him. Advit's smug composure was cracking, each second in the courtroom tightening the invisible noose around his arrogance.

Shanaya stepped closer to the evidence table, placing the scholarship documents and the flowers in plain view. "Your Honor, these were not voluntarily given. These were strategic attempts to silence a victim. The girl's courage, her willingness to speak despite threats and intimidation, is the only reason this case has come this far. And she deserves the full protection of this court."

And she didn't even give Singhania's lawyer a chance to speak—not even for a second. She shut them all down.

The gallery, filled with onlookers, shifted in unison, a hum of agreement passing through. The whispering stopped; all eyes were on the accused.

Aadhya, finally, lifted her gaze just enough for a sliver of her strength to show. Her eyes, wet but unbowed, met Advit's. The courtroom seemed to hold its breath. For a moment, it was just her and the Singhanias—the powerless stare of a child against the empire of arrogance and wealth.

The judge leaned forward, his voice steady but heavy. "The court acknowledges the gravity of the evidence and the seriousness of the accusations. Attempts to bribe or intimidate the victim will not be tolerated. We will proceed to examine all testimonies, and this court expects absolute honesty from all parties involved."

Advit shifted uneasily in his seat. He had expected a casual dismissal, a few waves of influence, maybe even a quiet settlement. But the courtroom had turned against him. His wealth, his reputation, his family's power—they meant nothing here against truth and courage.

Shanaya returned to her place, eyes sharp, unflinching, her presence radiating control. She had made her statement. The first blow had been struck—and it had landed precisely where it mattered.

Soon, the hearing was adjourned for the day. The gavel struck once, echoing through the courtroom like a warning rather than an ending.

Shanaya didn't waste a second.

She personally ensured Aadhya and her family were escorted safely out, surrounded by security, ushered into the car like something precious that needed guarding from a world that had already taken too much from a child. Only when the doors shut and the car disappeared into traffic did Shanaya finally allow herself to breathe.

Just once.

That's when she felt it.

That unmistakable presence—the kind that carried entitlement, arrogance, and rot beneath expensive cologne.

She turned.

Advit Singhania stood there.

Too close. Too confident. The smugness hadn't fully left his face, though cracks had begun to show around the edges. His eyes swept over her, calculating, dismissive—like she was an inconvenience, not a threat.

Big mistake.

Shanaya's expression hardened instantly. Disgust flashed across her face, raw and unapologetic.

"If you think," she said coldly, her voice low but razor-sharp, "that you can save that fucked‑up son of yours with money—" she stepped closer, invading his space, unflinching, "—then you are so very wrong."

Advit scoffed, opening his mouth.

She didn't let him.

"I will make sure," she continued, every word deliberate, "that this case follows him everywhere. His college. His friends. His future. His name. I will make sure the world remembers exactly what he did."

Her eyes burned. "And you?" she tilted her head slightly, a cruel, knowing smile forming. "You'll live long enough to watch your money fail you. In public."

For the first time, Advit's confidence faltered.

Not much.

But enough.

Shanaya straightened, already done with him. "Stay away from the girl. Stay away from her family. One step out of line—and I won't wait for the court to protect them. I will."

She turned on her heel and walked away, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, leaving behind a man who had always believed money could buy silence—

—and had just met a woman who ran on justice, fury, and zero fear.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

BANDRA VILLAGE

The car slowed as it entered Bandra Village, the chaos of the main road melting into narrow lanes lined with old Portuguese houses, peeling pastel walls, and balconies draped with bougainvillea that refused to die despite time and neglect. The air felt different here—quieter, heavier, like the place itself carried stories it never spoke aloud.

Street vendors were packing up for the evening, the smell of cutting chai and frying vada pav hanging stubbornly in the air. A group of children ran past barefoot, laughter echoing between the houses, while an old man sat outside his doorway, radio crackling with an old Hindi song that sounded like it had lived too long in heartbreak

Inside the House

Vishakha and Yansong sat inside Jaanki's house, the air thick with a kind of polite tension that came only with rishtas and forced smiles. They hadn't been here long, but already the room felt smaller—walls listening, curtains judging.

Opposite them, on the other sofa, Jun and Ekaksh lounged far too comfortably for a situation this serious. And between them—quite literally sandwiched—sat Li.

Li was not sitting.

Li was surviving.

His spine was ramrod straight, palms damp, knee bouncing uncontrollably as panic curled in his stomach like a bad omen. Jun had one arm casually draped behind him, Ekaksh's elbow pressed just close enough to remind him escape was not an option.

She could come out any second.

Any. Second.

God—no. No no no.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking nervously toward the inner corridor for the tenth time in one minute. His pulse roared in his ears. How was he supposed to face her? What was he even meant to say? Hello? Hi? Please don't hate me? Please don't throw something at me?

He exhaled shakily.

"Bhaiya," Jun murmured under his breath, leaning closer with far too much amusement, "agar aap aur zyada panic karoge na, toh shaadi se pehle hi faint ho jaaoge."

Ekaksh smirked. "Free entertainment, honestly."

Li shot them both a desperate look. "Stop. Please. I can't do this."

"Yes you can," Ekaksh said cheerfully. "You're already here. Too late to run. Doors, dignity—sab band."

Li's shoulders sagged.

If only his boss were here.

Minsheng would have fixed this. Minsheng would have stood there like an immovable wall, scared everyone off with one look, said something cold and terrifying, and dragged Li out by the collar if needed.

But Minsheng wasn't here.

And on the other sofa sat Aksh and Yunji, a quiet little pocket of calm amid all the chaos. Little Neel was sprawled comfortably in Yunji's lap, completely unbothered by rishtas, reputations, or impending doom. He giggled softly as he played with the edge of her dupatta, wrapping it around his fingers like it was the most fascinating toy in the world.

In front of all of them sat Jaanki's mother—Viraani.

She was composed, regal in a quiet way, her saree crisp, her back straight, her eyes sharp but kind. A woman who had seen enough of the world to tell the difference between arrogance and fear, between entitlement and sincerity.

Her gaze lingered on Li.

Yes, the boy looked panicked—anyone with eyes could see that. His foot bounced, his shoulders were tense, and every few seconds he looked like he might either bolt for the door or pass out dramatically.

But beneath the panic, Viraani saw something else.

Honesty.

He wasn't sitting there with smug confidence or rehearsed charm. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He wasn't pretending to be unaffected.

He looked... scared.

And strangely, that made her smile.

Because fear meant he cared.

Because only someone who took marriage seriously would look this terrified at the thought of it.

Jun noticed her gaze and leaned toward Ekaksh, whispering, "Uh-oh. Aunty's smiling. That's either very good news or very bad news."

Ekaksh muttered back, "For Li? There is no in-between."

Li, meanwhile, felt the stare and stiffened further. Why was she smiling? What did that mean? Was that a good smile or an I-have-already-decided-your-fate smile?

God. Boss. Please. Wherever you are. Save me.

And just then, as if summoned by his silent prayer, the sound of footsteps echoed from inside the house.

Soft. Measured.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Viraani straightened slightly, her smile widening just a fraction as she announced, calm and pleasant—

"Jaanki aa rahi hai."

Li's soul very nearly left his body.

And then finally—she was there.

Jaanki stepped into the room quietly, almost as if she didn't want the floor to notice her presence. She was draped in a deep red Banarasi saree, the kind that carried tradition in every weave, its gold zari catching the light softly with every hesitant step she took. Bangles adorned her wrists, chiming faintly when she moved, and silver payal circled her ankles, whispering her arrival before she spoke a word. Her hair was neatly braided, resting over her shoulder, a few soft strands framing her face as she kept her gaze lowered, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her pallu in a way that spoke of nerves she was trying very hard to hide.

The room seemed to still.

Li's breath hitched without his permission.

God.

She was... beautiful. Not the loud, overwhelming kind that demanded attention—but the quiet, devastating kind that slowly unraveled you before you even realized what was happening. Simple. Graceful. Untouched by the sharpness of the world he came from. He had seen the worst of life, lived through violence and chaos and blood-soaked truths—but this?

This felt unreal.

She looked like something sacred.

And the thought struck him hard and merciless—what the hell was someone like her doing here, walking toward a fate that could tie her to a man like him?

A monster, whispered the voice in his head.

He swallowed, suddenly painfully aware of how unworthy he felt sitting there, sandwiched between two idiots who were enjoying his internal crisis far too much.

Vishakha leaned in slightly, her voice low but warm as she spoke, eyes never leaving Jaanki.
"Hame toh Jaanki hamesha se pasand hai," she murmured with a soft smile. "Jabse humne pehli baar dekha tha."

She glanced at Yansong, sharing a knowing look, and he nodded in agreement, his usually stern expression softened just a touch.
"Ab bas agar bachche haan bol dein," Vishakha added gently, "toh yeh rishta bohot hi sundar ho jayega."

Li almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Haan bol dein?
As if this were that simple. As if two words could bridge the gap between who Jaanki was and who he had been forced to become.

Jaanki finally lifted her eyes—just for a second.

Their gazes met.

And for that brief, fragile moment, Li felt something crack open inside his chest.

Not fear.
Not panic.

Something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Jaanki lowered herself onto the sofa beside her mother, careful, composed, her pallu adjusted over her shoulder with practiced ease. She didn't look at Li again. Not because she wasn't curious—but because she was. Too much.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

The house felt suddenly smaller, like all the air had been politely sucked out of the room.

Viraani cleared her throat first, the way mothers do when they sense silence stretching longer than it should. "Chai le aao," she called out toward the kitchen, her eyes never leaving Li. Not sharp. Observant. Measuring.

Jun leaned back on the sofa, elbow resting casually, watching Li with the faintest hint of amusement, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off. Ekaksh, on the other hand, had gone suspiciously quiet—which, in this family, was usually a bad sign.

Li sat stiffly between them, hands resting on his knees like he didn't trust them to behave otherwise. His eyes flicked once—just once—toward Jaanki.

Her bangles clinked softly as she adjusted her fingers in her lap.

That sound did something to him.

She was nervous.

That realization hit him harder than her beauty had.

Not fearless. Not dramatic. Just... a girl sitting in a room full of strangers, expected to decide the rest of her life with a few glances and polite smiles.

The tea arrived, breaking the tension the way only hot cups and clattering saucers could. Viraani took one, offered another to Vishakha, then gestured toward Li.

"Lo beta," she said kindly. "Chai thandi ho jaayegi."

Li nodded, accepted the cup—but didn't drink it. He just held it, the warmth seeping into his palms, grounding him.

Vishakha watched him closely now, her earlier smile fading into something more thoughtful. Yansong followed her gaze, saying nothing, but noting everything.

Jaanki finally looked up then.

Not at Li's face—but at his hands.

They were steady.

That surprised her.

She had expected arrogance. Or bravado. Or at least confidence sharp enough to cut through the room.

Instead, she found... restraint.

Li felt her gaze and looked up instinctively.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

Nothing dramatic passed between them. No sparks. No cinematic pause.

Just a quiet, mutual understanding:

This is real.

Li set the tea cup down slowly, carefully, like he didn't want to make noise even with porcelain.

He inhaled once.

Deep. Deliberate.

Then he stood up.

Jun straightened immediately. Ekaksh raised a brow. Vishakha's eyes sharpened.

Li didn't look at anyone except Viraani when he spoke.

"Aunty," he said, voice steady but low, "mujhe...  inse do minute akele baat karni hai."

The room froze.

Jaanki's head snapped up this time, surprise flashing across her face before she could mask it. Her fingers curled instinctively into her pallu.

Viraani studied Li for a long moment.

Not suspiciously.

Not angrily.

But the way a mother looks at a man who has just asked for something important—and might actually understand its weight.

She glanced at her daughter.

Jaanki didn't speak.

She didn't nod either.

She just... didn't look away.

Viraani exhaled softly, then stood. "Theek hai," she said at last. 

Everyone else remained seated as Li stepped aside, giving Jaanki space to stand first. She hesitated for half a second, then rose, her movements calm despite the quiet storm behind her eyes.

As they walked toward the adjoining room, Jun leaned forward just enough to mutter under his breath, "Bhagwaan bachaye," earning a sharp elbow from Ekaksh.

Vishakha watched the doorway long after they disappeared, her expression unreadable—but thoughtful.

Because whatever Li was about to say...

It wasn't going to be easy.

And for the first time since this meeting had begun, that felt like the right start.

Inside the room they sat together. A huge distance between them Li glanced towards the room it had a little Jaanki playing with someone who seemed like her father.

He was lost in thought until she spoke up surprising both of them. 

''Uh aapko kuch puchna tha?'' she asks softly not yet looking at him but his expensive shoes something she had never seen in her entire life.

He nods and then looks at observing the way she keeps her gaze low, fidgeting with her saree and the way bangles tinkling with every moment.

God, what was she doing to him?

And why the fuck was he noticing this?

''I uh aapko koi force toh nahi kar raha na. '' he pauses not wanting to sounding offensive taking in her reaction finding nothing wrong he continues. ''I meant for shaadi I don't want someone forced with me.''

Inside the room, they sat across from each other, a noticeable distance separating them—careful, deliberate. Li's gaze drifted past her, toward the open doorway, where a younger Jaanki was laughing softly, playing with a man who looked like her father. The sound tugged at something in his chest before he even realized it.

He was still lost in that thought when her voice cut through the silence, surprising both of them.

"Uh... aapko kuch poochna tha?" she asked softly.

She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on his shoes instead—polished, expensive, clearly out of place in this room, in her world.

Li nodded once and looked back at her properly then. He noticed everything—the way her gaze stayed lowered, the way her fingers kept worrying the edge of her saree, the faint clink of bangles with every small movement.

God, what was she doing to him?

And why the hell was he noticing things like this?

"I, uh..." he started, then paused, choosing his words carefully, not wanting to sound rude—or worse, entitled. He watched her face for any sign of discomfort, found none, and continued.
"Aapko koi force toh nahi kar raha na?"

She stiffened slightly, then relaxed when he added quickly, "Mera matlab... shaadi ke liye. I don't want someone agreeing because they have no choice."

For a moment, she didn't respond.

Then she shook her head gently. "Nahi," she said. "Kisi ne force nahi kiya."

Her voice was steady, practiced—like an answer she'd given before.

Li nodded, absorbing that. "Achha."

Silence settled again, thicker this time but not uncomfortable.

She glanced toward the doorway, toward her mother, toward the soft sounds of a life that still felt impossible for her to leave behind. Then, quietly, she spoke again.

"Par... sach bolun?" she asked, finally lifting her eyes just enough to meet his.

"Haan," he said immediately.

"I'm scared," she admitted. Not dramatic. Just honest. "Isliye nahi kyunki aap bure lag rahe ho. Isliye kyunki main aapko jaanti hi nahi hoon."

That hit him harder than he expected.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Still keeping distance.

"Woh darr galat nahi hai," he said after a beat. "Main bhi kisi anjaan par bharosa karne ko nahi bolunga."

She looked surprised by that. "Aap... mana nahi kar rahe?" she asked hesitantly.

Li gave a small, almost self-aware smile. "Main sirf ye keh raha hoon ki aapko waqt chahiye, toh theek hai. Aaj haan ya na bolna zaroori nahi."

She studied him then—not his clothes, not his posture, but the way he spoke, careful and contained, like he was holding something back on purpose.

"Maa ko kya bolun?" she asked softly.

He stood up immediately, as if the answer mattered. "Sach," he said. "Ki aap sochna chahti ho."

Jaanki nodded slowly. "Theek hai."

She moved toward the door, paused, then turned back once more.

"Thank you," she said. "Poochne ke liye."

Li didn't smile this time. He just nodded.

And as she stepped out, leaving him alone in the room, he realized something quietly unsettling.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn't trying to escape.

He was waiting.

And maybe this arrangement wasn't as frightening as he had been trying to run from it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

RAJPUT MANOR

Night had settled over the manor before anyone quite realized it, the building glowing softly under the thin wash of moonlight. Inside, everything moved as it always did—servants crossing corridors with practiced ease, the kitchen alive with the low clatter of utensils and murmured conversations, another ordinary night unfolding as if nothing were amiss.

Except something was.

Mrinali stood near the living room, close to the main door, her gaze drifting to it again and again. Each glance lingered a second longer than the last. Nisha should have been home by now.

She always was.

The unease had been sitting in her chest for a while now, quiet but persistent, and with every passing minute it grew heavier. A mother's instinct—sharp, uninvited, impossible to ignore.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Isaac came down slowly, having just finished an elaborate tea party with little Inaayat—complete with imaginary cookies and very serious instructions. He stopped when he noticed Mrinali, the tension in her posture obvious even to him.

"Aunty... sab theek hai?" he asked softly, stepping closer, careful not to startle her.

Mrinali turned, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh beta, kuch nahi," she said, then paused, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of her saree. "Bas... Nisha abhi tak ghar nahi aayi."

She looked past him, toward the door again. 

Isaac paused, listening for a moment, his brows slowly drawing together. Then he looked at Mrinali again, his voice dropping.
"She's never been this late?" he asked quietly.

Mrinali shook her head, the tension in her chest tightening further. Nisha had never been this late. Her surgeries were always scheduled during the day—never this deep into the night. And if something did come up, she always called. Always.

This silence was unfamiliar. And frightening.

Isaac stayed quiet for a beat, thinking. Then he spoke, a little too quickly, as if deciding not to let the worry grow.
"Aap chinta mat kijiye," he said gently. "Main hospital jaakar dekh leta hoon. Ho sakta hai car kharab ho gayi ho, ya phone discharge ho gaya ho... isliye call nahi kar paayi."

Mrinali's eyes softened with relief, even as fear still lingered beneath it. "Oh my—thank you so much, beta," she said, her voice thick. "Main bohot pareshaan ho rahi thi. Please jaakar dekhna."

Isaac nodded once and turned away, already moving with purpose.

Moments later, Mrinali watched as he rushed upstairs, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the corridor. Within minutes, he was back—jacket pulled on, car keys clutched tightly in his hand.

"I'll call as soon as I know something," he said, offering her a reassuring look.

Just then, light footsteps pattered down the stairs, quick and uneven. Inaayat appeared, slightly breathless, her hair a mess and eyes wide.
"Oh! Main bhi chalungi," she announced firmly. "Mujhe bhi Mausi ko dhoondhna hai."

Isaac turned around, caught off guard. For a second, it looked like he might refuse—his mouth opening, then closing again. But then the thought crossed his mind: he did owe Nisha an apology. And honestly... having Inaayat there might make it less awkward.

And somehow, she already was doing him a favour.

He crouched slightly and smiled at her. "Okay," he said softly. "Chalo, princess."

Inaayat grinned instantly, grabbing his hand as if the decision had always been hers.

Mrinali watched them leave, a small smile forming on her lips. The worry in her chest didn't disappear—but it eased, just a little.

As the door closed behind them, she whispered a silent prayer into the quiet manor.

Please be safe, Nisha.

They finally settled into the car, the engine humming to life as Isaac pulled out of the driveway.

"You are going to apologise, right, uncle?" Inaayat whispered, peeking up at him with wide, serious eyes.

He glanced at her and couldn't stop the small laugh that slipped out. Of course she remembered.
That he owed her Mausi an apology.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I remember, Ms. Observant."
He tapped her nose lightly, and she burst into giggles.

God. He really couldn't deny it—this child was frighteningly good with emotions. Better than him. And maybe... just maybe, she'd make this whole thing less awkward. Something he had never quite mastered.

God forbid what he would do without this little menace in his life.

She suddenly straightened, lifting a finger at him like a tiny authority. "And don't make Mausi nervous, okay?"

The seriousness on her innocent face only made her look cuter.

Isaac sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Yes, yes," he said. "Samajh gaya, meri Maa."

Inaayat beamed, satisfied.

And as the car sped ahead into the quiet night, Isaac couldn't help but think—
it was just an apology.
It couldn't be that hard... right?

But his palms were slick against the steering wheel.

And somehow, that told a very different story.

RAJVANSH HOSPITAL AND RESEARCH CENTRE

Nisha stood outside the hospital, exhaustion settling into her bones. It had been a long day—countless surgeries, endless patients, barely a moment to breathe. Food had been an afterthought. So had rest. Time to herself wasn't even on the list.

It never was.

And yet, her mind drifted back to yesterday.

To Kashi.

God... she had met her after so long. A reunion she hadn't known she needed this badly. Kashi was really back home—and she was staying. The thought alone eased something tight inside Nisha's chest.

She smiled faintly.

Maybe she really was lucky. To have best friends who somehow made even life's heaviest problems feel lighter, smaller—just by being there.

Her car had broken down. The driver had gone to get it fixed, and she hadn't expected it to take this long. She could have called Mrinali—but that would've ended in full-blown panic. Her being alone. At night. On the road.

So she didn't call.

She was just standing there when headlights appeared in the distance. Instinctively, she clutched her purse a little tighter—until the car drew closer and she saw him behind the wheel.

Oh god.
What the fuck was he doing here?

Her heart betrayed her immediately, racing like it always did around him. No matter how deep she buried it, no matter how carefully she pretended—there it was. Loud. Stupid. Beating too fast.

Why was this so hard?

The car came to a stop in front of her, and before she could even process it, Inaayat popped up from the back seat, giggling and winking at her.

Oh no.

That look was not innocent. Not at all. Nisha was suddenly very sure this little troublemaker had a plan—and she did not like it.

Isaac pulled out his phone, typing quickly.

We're coming home with Nisha.

Then he stepped out and walked around the car, opening the door for her like a gentleman.

Nisha froze.

Did he... just do that for her?

What the hell was happening?

"Uh... thank you," she said softly, still trying to catch up with reality. "Par aap yahan kya kar rahe hain?"

Her eyes flicked between him and Inaayat, confusion settling in.

God.

Something was definitely being plotted.

"Mausi, you are so stupid," Inaayat whispered, face-palming dramatically, as if she were the only adult in the car. "Me and Uncle came to pick you up."

God.
This child.

Nisha hissed, biting back her laughter, embarrassment curling warm in her chest. "Of course, Inaayat," she muttered. "I am very stupid."

She slid into the car, pulling the door shut, and Isaac returned to his seat, starting the engine. The car moved smoothly onto the road. Inaayat sat in the back, unusually quiet but leaning forward just enough to listen to everything.

Isaac, meanwhile, seemed to find the steering wheel extremely fascinating all of a sudden.

Nisha fidgeted with the edge of her kurti, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The silence stretched—thin, awkward, loud in its own way—until he finally broke it.

"Uh... aap late kaise ho gayi?" he asked, stealing a quick glance at her, his nervousness painfully obvious.

"Uh, actually," she said softly, "car kharab ho gayi thi. Driver ne kaha zyada time nahi lagega, isliye woh le gaya... but it took longer than expected." She hesitated, then added, "Aur maine Chachi ko call nahi kiya... she would've worried too much."

He nodded slowly. So his guess had been right—the car really had broken down.

"I see," he said, then gently, "but you should have called her. She was really worried."

Nisha stilled. Guilt washed over her face as she nodded, eyes dropping to her hands. Of course Mrinali would worry. She always did.

She should have called.

God.
She really was stupid.

Silence crept back into the car—thick, awkward, the kind that made every tiny sound feel too loud.
Isaac's eyes were glued to the steering wheel like it had personally offended him and he was considering a lifelong commitment to ignore everyone else.

He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe wrong.
Didn't even exist beyond driving.

Inaayat squinted at him from the back seat.

Then—

"Uncle," she asked, genuinely puzzled, "are you in love with the steering wheel or what?"

Nisha choked on absolutely nothing. God—this girl had no filter. She said whatever came to her mind.

Just like her mother.

Isaac shot Inaayat a look through the rear-view mirror, the kind that clearly said, You are supposed to help me, not publicly humiliate me.

Inaayat met his gaze and very maturely stuck her tongue out.

Absolute betrayal.

Isaac's shoulders slumped as if he'd been personally wounded. He turned his attention back to the steering wheel, staring at it even harder now, like it was the only loyal thing left in his life.

Nisha noticed.

Of course she did.

"IS THAT HOW YOU APOLOGISE, STARING AT THE WHEEL, UNCLE?!" Inaayat whispered, shaking her head with exaggerated disappointment, as if this was the final straw in a lifetime of failures. She had taught him how to apologise, and yet here he was, staring at the steering wheel like it owed him answers.

Nisha froze. Apology? What apology?

"What are you talking about, Inaayat?" she asked, glancing back at the little girl, who was staring at Isaac with the kind of disappointed glare only a mother—or a mini-mother—could pull off.

"Mausi, he made you nervous yesterday. And then you left... didn't even have breakfast," Inaayat said, pausing to shoot Isaac a sharp glare before turning back to Nisha. "So he should apologise, Mausi."

"Come on, will you stop staring at that wheel like it's going to fix everything?" Inaayat snapped, though Isaac still didn't move. She threw her hands up. "Oh my god, it's not a magic wheel, uncle."

Nisha gasped, a rush of realization hitting her. Oh my... she actually told him she needed an apology. Of course she had left—of course she had—but she wasn't hurt or angry. She just... being so close to him had made it impossible to face him.

"I... I don't need an apology!" she blurted, her cheeks burning, embarrassed that this little girl had managed to stir him into guilt—and all for a simple apology.

"You don't?" Isaac whispered, finally glancing at her.

When Nisha simply nodded, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. At least I don't have to apologise now... He rubbed the back of his neck. God, I'm terrible at this stuff.

Just when he thought the conversation was over, Inaayat's tiny hand shot out and smack!—right on his head.

God. He was gone for real this time. He had seriously messed with the wrong divaa.

He rubbed his head, muttering, "Oww..." while Nisha gasped, struggling to hold back laughter, her hands covering her mouth.

"YOU APOLOGISE NOW, OR I TELL HER EVERY STUPID THING YOU DID!" Inaayat shouted, pointing at him like a tiny, furious general.

Before Isaac could even think of responding, Inaayat launched into her tirade.

"Let me tell you, Mausi!" she began, pointing a tiny finger for emphasis. "He was practicing in front of the MIRROR—'Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!'—and he ruined my tea party!"

Isaac froze, eyes wide, as if a pint-sized courtroom had just sentenced him. Nisha bit back a laugh, trying to stay composed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Great, Isaac thought miserably, rubbing his forehead. The divaa had evidence... and witnesses.

He lifted his gaze back to the wheel, and Inaayat's eyes went wide. Oh wow... here we go again.

Before he could react, she reached out and grabbed his ear.

"YOU BETTER APOLOGISE NOW!"

Isaac froze mid-turn, one hand gripping the wheel a little too tightly, the other twitching nervously. "I—I'm... thinking," he stammered.

Inaayat shook her head violently, lips pressed together like she was holding back a very serious scolding. "Is that how you apologise, Uncle? Staring at the steering wheel like it's going to confess your sins for you?"

Nisha nearly choked on her own laugh, hiding behind her hand as Isaac's jaw tightened. The man looked like he'd just been publicly roasted by a five-year-old.

Inaayat leaned forward, pointing at him dramatically. "You are supposed to talk, not... love the wheel! I am very disappointed. Very."

Isaac groaned, rubbing his face. "I—this is hard, okay? It's—"

"It's not hard, Uncle! You just have to say sorry. That's all. It's easy. Even Mausi says so." She shot Nisha a cheeky look, as if to say, See? I'm teaching him!

Isaac blinked, exhaling slowly. "...Uh... okay."

"Uh... I am sorry," he whispered, glancing at Nisha, who was now laughing, sprawling all over her seat.

"Yayyy! Very good! I'm proud of you," Inaayat whispered, grinning, finally letting go of his ear. Then, lowering her voice to a serious, mock-authoritative tone—amusingly stern for a child—she added, "You better not ruin my tea parties."

"Yes, Madam. I won't," he whispered back, rubbing his ear. God, he was doomed. Really doomed.

And just like that, chaos had completely taken over the car. Nisha was giggling, Isaac was muttering under his breath, and Inaayat sat there, triumphant and smug, like a tiny queen who had conquered a giant.

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MR AND MRS RAJVANSH'S BEDROOM

The room was steeped in quiet stillness, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint glow of bedside lamps. Heavy curtains framed the tall windows, shutting the world out, while the bed—neatly made yet unmistakably lived-in—sat at the center like a silent witness to everything left unsaid.
And everything about to go terribly, terribly wrong.

Isha stood by the window. God, night had fallen—and with it came torture. For her. And, more importantly, for her back.
She glanced over her shoulder at Arsh, who was sprawled on the bed, scrolling through his phone with criminal levels of calm—as if he hadn't made his injured wife sleep on the floor last night. As if her spine hadn't gone through hours of emotional and physical betrayal.

God.
She was really regretting watching that series without him.

"Arsh?" she called softly—too softly. The kind of sweet tone that immediately raised suspicion.

Sure enough, he lifted an eyebrow.

"Hm? What's wrong?" he murmured casually, eyes still glued to his phone. Fully aware. Fully prepared. Or so he thought.

She felt irritation crawl up her spine—what remained of it, anyway. Why wasn't he looking at her? Couldn't he see her pain? Her suffering? Her martyrdom?

She marched over and snatched the phone from his hands.

And froze.

Amazon.
Cart.
A satin red dress.

That dress.

The one she'd glanced at once—once—a week ago in a store. The one she had not mentioned. The one she had pretended not to want because "I have enough clothes."

She stared at the screen. Then at him. Then back at the screen. Like the answer might rearrange itself if she looked hard enough.

"What is this, Arsh?" she asked slowly.

The room held its breath.

Arsh finally looked up at her.
"You wanted it, didn't you?" he said mildly, his gaze flicking from her face... to her back. His lips twitched. Betrayed him instantly.

She nodded, eyes still on the phone.
"Aapko kaise pata?" she asked softly. Had she really been that obvious? Had he noticed the way she'd lingered, the way her thumb had hovered over the fabric?

He stood up.

And suddenly the air changed.

His height swallowed the space between them, his presence heavy enough to make her breath hitch.

"I see everything," he said quietly. Then, after a beat—almost casually, yet not at all—
"Especially, I see my wife."

She froze.

Excuse me?

God, what was wrong with this man?

One moment he punished her for watching a series without him. The next, he was apparently the omniscient husband deity scrolling Amazon at 2 a.m.

"Oh," she said softly, "so you do notice?"

He nodded, arms crossing confidently. Of course he did. He always had. There wasn't a single thing about her he didn't know.

She nodded sweetly. For half a second, it almost looked like she was touched.

And then—

"THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU NOTICE MY BACK HURTS?"

Arsh flinched.

Not emotionally.
Physically.
Like his soul briefly left his body and reconsidered all its life choices.

"Okay—okay, so—you see—" he began carefully, hero-mode immediately disabled. "If you put it that way... it's bad."

He glanced at her back.

Oh.
It was bad. Very bad.

She stared at him in disbelief. "Oh no. Not bad. I've been walking like an eighty-year-old since morning, and you think it's just bad?"

He waved the thought away. "Oh no, you didn't look old." A pause. Then, sweetly. Cheekily. Fatally—
"You did look hot though."

She blinked.

Once.
Twice.

Then she laughed—the sharp, disbelieving kind that usually preceded domestic violence.

"Oh," she said slowly, dangerously calm. "So let me get this straight. My spine is filing a missing person report, I'm one wrong sneeze away from paralysis, and your official medical opinion is—" she made air quotes, "hot?"

"No—darling—I swear—I wasn't making fun," he whispered, panic detonating internally because yes. This was it.

This was how men died.
Not in wars.
Not in accidents.
But by exorcism.
Performed by their own wives.

"I mean—you're an inspiration, darling," he added desperately.

She scoffed. "I can't walk properly, and that's inspirational to you?"

"No, no—darling—" His hands flew everywhere. He had exactly three minutes to fix this before his ancestors disowned him.
"I mean—" he swallowed, lowered his voice, tried one last gamble. "You were... devastatingly beautiful."

She leaned in, eyes glinting.
"Devastating," she whispered, "is what I'm about to do to you."

She hurled a pillow straight at his chest.

And that was the moment he knew.

He was gone.
For good.
Nothing—not God, not logic, not marital vows—could save him now.

Mission: Abort.

He ran.

Around the room.
Like a doomed kitten with no survival instincts.
Zero dignity. Maximum fear.

She chased after him, rage blazing, laughter threatening to break through.

"Oh no," she called sweetly, dangerously, "you come back."

This was no longer a chase.

This was a hunt.

"Darling, please stop," he pleaded, backing away. "I promise I'll massage your back—and sleep on the floor."

It wasn't working.
God, it really wasn't.

He needed a miracle.

He stopped abruptly, panting—just in time for her to smack the back of his head.

"And—uh—darling," he blurted out, "consider that red dress already yours."

She froze.

"Really?" she whispered. The anger faltered. The love for the dress surged. The massage sealed the deal.

She hummed, pretending to think. "Okay. I guess it's fine then."

She walked away grinning—like she hadn't just emotionally terrorized her husband and shaved  years off his life.

But hey.

At least he wasn't getting exorcised today.

SHANAYA'S BEDROOM

Shanaya lay sprawled across her bed, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. It had been a long day—after all, it was the first hearing of Aadhya's case—and the weight of it clung to her.

 Too much. Far too much to take in one breath.But she knew she would win.She had to.For the little girl who had done nothing wrong. And for the little girl sleeping beside her—Inaayat. 

Her daughter.The reason she fought every single day in that courtroom. Her angel. The one who kept her going, even when everything inside her felt frayed and tired. 

 She knew she hadn't been the best mother since the divorce. Shanaya never denied that truth. Life after Edward had demanded too much of her, taken pieces she hadn't realized she was giving away. Still, whenever she wasn't around, she made sure Inaayat was cared for—protected, loved, shielded. 

 Inaayat never asked questions about the divorce. Never asked why her parents had fallen apart. Shanaya sometimes wondered if that hurt more.She herself knew the reason all too well.One day, she simply couldn't do it anymore.

 She had looked at Edward's world—his lifestyle, the things he was entangled in—and realized that their lives could no longer exist side by side. And when she chose to walk away, it wasn't because love had faded.It hadn't. 

 She loved him still. Deeply. Painfully.But love, she had learned, wasn't always enough.She thought of Inaayat. She didn't want her daughter growing up watching things she shouldn't have to see, learning truths too heavy for such small shoulders.

 So Shanaya chose her child.That was the day she stopped choosing herself.Edward, though—he never stopped choosing her.Even now, he knew her as his Shanaya.

When her illness flared, when lupus dragged her body down and pride kept her silent, he crossed miles without warning—India to China—just showed up. 

No explanations. No questions. He stayed through the night, taking care of Inaayat, taking care of her.And he asked for nothing in return.He dropped Inaayat to preschool, made sure their little girl laughed and felt safe. Their girl. 

He showed up at family gatherings like he still belonged there—quiet, present, constant.Always there. 

 Just then, the door creaked open.

And there he was—once again—leaning against the frame.Edward.He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there with his arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on her. 

As if time hadn't passed. As if nothing had changed.He occupied the doorway like he belonged there. Like the space still answered to him. Like he still had every right to be here. 

 Her breath hitched at the sight of him. She hated the way he looked so effortlessly handsome—hated how her heart still reacted before her mind could catch up. 

Years, distance, divorce... none of it seemed to dull the way he affected her.Edward's gaze flickered briefly to Inaayat, curled up peacefully beside her, before returning to Shanaya. Something unreadable passed through his eyes—softness, restraint, maybe regret. 

He straightened slightly but still didn't step in, as though crossing that invisible line would shatter the fragile calm between them."You should sleep," he said finally, voice low, familiar. Not an order. Not a request. Just concern, wrapped in quiet authority. 

 She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly. "You shouldn't be here."A muscle in his jaw tightened, the smallest tell—one she knew far too well. "I know."

Yet he didn't leave. 

 Silence stretched, heavy and intimate. The kind that pressed against her ribs, filled with everything they refused to say. He looked at her the way he always had—as if she were something precious, something worth guarding, even when she no longer belonged to him. 

The next moment, he was crossing the distance.

His eyes went first to Inaayat, fast asleep between the pillows, and something in him softened—unguarded, instinctive. 

Then he looked back at Shanaya, and before she could steady herself, his fingers were already there, threading into the back of her hair, settling at the nape of her neck. Familiar. Certain. Pulling her just close enough.

She shivered at the contact.

Edward's mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like quiet triumph. As if he had known. As if he always did.

And then his lips found hers.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hurried either. It was heat restrained by years of silence, by everything they had refused to say out loud. Regret. Want. Love that never learned how to leave. His kiss spoke in ways his words never could—and hers answered, against her will and with it all at once.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single forbidden moment.

Then reality crept back in—soft breathing between them, a sleeping child beside her, a thousand reasons he shouldn't be here. Shanaya pulled back first, breath uneven, forehead resting against his.

"This is wrong," she whispered.

Edward didn't argue. He never did when it came to this. His thumb brushed her cheek, reverent, aching. "I know."

Yet neither of them moved away immediately.

Some nights didn't need promises. Some nights existed only to be remembered—and regretted—in the quiet hours that followed.

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Deewangi Writess