2006 - SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST

MUMBAI, INDIA

NYSAA'S SANCTUM

The mansion stood grand and imposing, its tall pillars and sweeping balconies carved with intricate detail, sunlight glinting off the wide glass windows while manicured gardens framed the entrance, lending the entire estate an air of quiet luxury and unspoken power.

The bedroom was lavish yet serene, with high ceilings and silk drapes cascading beside tall windows, a grand carved bed resting at the center while soft lamplight spilled across polished floors and elegant furnishings, wrapping the space in a hush of comfort so deep it almost felt sacred.

Nysaa lay on the bed, staring numbly at the wall, her hands resting over the gentle curve of her belly. Her saree was disheveled, her hair undone, tear stains dried along her cheeks as silent proof of grief that had long since exhausted itself into stillness.

Her body curled slightly inward, as if she were trying to gather herself into her own arms, trying to offer comfort where none remained. But none came. None ever did.

A photograph was clutched tightly against her chest — a girl who should have been here, a girl whose laughter should have echoed through this mansion, through these halls, through this home... and yet it didn't.

A laugh she had failed to protect. A little girl who was hers, and yet she hadn't been there to save her. Since that day, nothing had felt the same.

Beside her lay a thali of Rajma chawal — her favorite comfort food — untouched, the steam long gone, the surface cold.

Of course she couldn't eat. She hadn't truly wanted anything since her Sona was gone.

Her mind circled endlessly around the same cruel possibilities — what could have been, what should have been, what she might have done differently to save her daughter — but every thought only hollowed her further, leaving her emptier than before.

Just then the door flew open, and there stood Nishkarsh, composed and striking as ever in his Armani suit, yet the sight before him drove something sharp and merciless straight through his chest.

His wife.

The woman who had once been so full of life, so vivid, so impossible to ignore, now lay motionless as though she were only the shadow of herself. The woman who used to buy thousands of sarees and dresses with his card while he received frantic alerts from the bank now lay there in a pale saree, silent and distant, as if color itself had abandoned her.

His heart ached, because all he wanted — all he had wanted for years — was to bring her back. The woman who used to command him, tease him, dominate him with effortless authority. And yet now all he saw was a pregnant woman lying on a bed, broken in ways no one else could see.

He knew losing their daughter, Ragini — the light of their lives — had shattered Nysaa completely. He had been grieving too, quietly, relentlessly, but never as deeply as she had. She had lost herself the day that fire took their child away.

He sat beside her slowly, searching her eyes as though he might still find the woman she once was, but she was nowhere there, because the truth was that version of her no longer existed. She was a mother who had lost her daughter, and grief had remade her into something fragile and distant.

His hands trembled as he reached out and rested one gently on her shoulder.

She didn't move.

"Rooh?" he called softly, the nickname slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

The word pulled him back instantly to the first day he had seen her — in the temple, dancing before the Goddess, luminous and untouchable, beauty woven into every movement — and from that day he had called her Rooh, a name meant for someone who steals your soul, because she truly owned every part of him.

He was hers. Entirely hers.

He tried again. "Nysaa?"

No response.

Once more.

Still nothing.

Panic flickered beneath his ribs. He shook her gently, then a little more firmly, his hands tightening around her shoulders. "Nysaa." Even for a man like him, trained to hide everything, this was too much.

At last she blinked and looked up at him, her eyes widening faintly as awareness returned. "Aap kab aaye?" she asked softly, as if it were the most ordinary question, as if he hadn't been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes trying to reach her while she hadn't even realized he was there.

For a moment anger rose in him — not at her, never at her, but at himself. He had failed to protect her. He had always known that he had.

Still, he smiled. Cupping her face gently, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Rooh, you didn't eat," he murmured, nodding toward the thali beside her.

She glanced at it with dull eyes, then back at him. "Maine dekha nahi, sorry," she whispered, and in that instant he realized she didn't even know how lost she was, didn't realize how grief was slowly consuming her from within — how sometimes she disappeared into silence for hours, and at others pretended she was perfectly fine.

His chest tightened until it almost hurt to breathe.

He pulled her into his arms, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other rested over her belly, feeling the small life growing there, the reminder that she would give birth soon. He was happy — he truly was — and yet fear coiled beneath that happiness, cold and suffocating.

What if something happened to this child too?

He couldn't lose another daughter.

He simply couldn't.

Still he smiled, lifting her chin so she would look at him, pressing a soft kiss to her nose as though nothing were wrong, as though he didn't feel like he was losing her piece by piece. "We'll eat dinner," he said quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek before he lowered his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent — the only thing that still felt like the old her.

Everything else had changed.

Everything.

And gathering what little strength remained inside him, he held her closer, knowing he would need every bit of it to carry them both through what still lay ahead.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

SAIFEE HOSPITAL

The hospital stood tall, its walls echoing with hurried footsteps and hushed murmurs. Harsh white lights spilled across endless corridors where nurses moved with quiet purpose, their soft soles whispering against polished floors. The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling strangely with something softer — hope, perhaps, or desperation. Behind every closed door, stories unfolded in silence: of pain endured, prayers whispered, and lives balanced delicately between holding on and letting go.

Nishkarsh walked through the entrance like a man stepping into a memory he could never escape. His hands trembled despite the stillness of his face, his expression carved into that same unreadable calm the world had come to recognize. Six years. Six long years since that night. Time had moved, the world had moved, people had moved on — but he had not. Some part of him remained trapped there, buried beneath smoke, screams, and flames.

It was well past midnight. He had waited until Nysaa finally drifted back to sleep before leaving. Even now his chest tightened at the thought of her small form curled beneath blankets, lashes still damp from tears she never let him see. And his wife... the image rose unbidden — her hollow eyes, her silence, the way grief clung to her like a second skin. The memory struck like a blade sliding quietly between his ribs.

In just a few short years, their world had been overturned, crushed like glass beneath a careless heel. Life had never been kind to Nishkarsh; hardship had shaped him early, hardened him, taught him how to stand tall even when the ground beneath him shook. He had endured everything without flinching. Or so people believed.

Because the truth was, the only things that had ever truly mattered to him were his wife and his children. And now one of those lights had gone out forever.

His daughter had died six years ago.

Six years, and the ache had not dulled. If anything, it had settled deeper, like something lodged inside his bones. And his wife — she had not healed, had not even tried. She was drowning slowly, silently, and no matter how tightly he held her hand, he could not pull her back to the surface.

He moved down the hallway, his footsteps steady though each one felt heavier than the last. Staff members who passed straightened instinctively when they noticed him. They all knew who he was. Of course they did. The world knew him — Nishkarsh Singhania, the man who had built an empire from nothing, the man whose name alone could tilt markets and silence rooms.

They saw power when they looked at him. Authority. Success.

They saw everything except the hollow space inside his chest.

Because power meant nothing when there was no one left to share it with.

He stopped outside a quiet room in the far wing. Through the glass panel lay two figures on separate beds — still, pale, unmoving. Machines blinked beside them, steady and indifferent, their soft beeping the only proof that life still lingered within those fragile bodies.

Shankar.

Mukti.

His best friend and the woman who had been more like a sister than anything else.

Fire had taken everything from them. Taken their home, their laughter, their future. A falling pillar, a wall of flames, and in a single merciless moment the life they had built had shattered. Now they lay suspended somewhere between this world and the next, trapped in a silence no one could reach.

Coma, the doctors called it. A word too small for something that felt this final.

Nishkarsh's jaw tightened as he stood there, fingers curling faintly at his sides. For a moment he could almost hear Shankar's voice again — loud, teasing, alive. He could almost see Mukti laughing, her bangles chiming softly as she scolded them both for behaving like boys instead of men.

The sound existed only in memory now.

He forced himself to move.

A few steps down the corridor, another room waited. His pace slowed, then faltered, as though even his body resisted what his eyes already knew they would see.

Inside lay a small figure beneath too-white sheets.

Rudra.

The boy had been laughing that night, running through strings of lights and sparklers, Diwali reflecting in his wide eyes. He had done nothing but exist, nothing but be a child. And still fate had chosen him as if innocence were a crime worth punishing.

Now he lay motionless, lashes resting against skin too pale, chest rising and falling only because machines insisted it should.

Fire had stolen his life too — not by killing him, but by trapping him somewhere unreachable.

Nishkarsh stood there for a long time, saying nothing. The machines continued their quiet rhythm, beeping softly, proof of heartbeats that refused to stop even when the souls inside seemed to have slipped away. Years had passed. Years, and none of them had woken. Doctors had spoken gently at first, then carefully, then bluntly. There was no improvement. No response. No sign.

It would be kinder, they said, to let them go.

But Nishkarsh had looked at them the way a storm looks at the sea.

Giving up had never been something he knew how to do.

He remembered the days he and Shankar had started with nothing — two young men with stubborn dreams and empty pockets, building everything brick by brick, failure by failure, until the world finally had no choice but to notice them. They had promised, laughing like fools, that one day their children would grow up together, that they would become family in truth, not just in bond.

And now those same children lay broken by the same tragedy that had shattered their fathers' lives.

His throat tightened as another memory surfaced.

Ekansh.

The boy who had once been quiet, shy, always tugging at his daughter's braid just to hear her protest. The boy who had been meant to marry her someday — a childish promise made between friends that had somehow felt sacred.

He was eleven now.

Eleven — an age meant for scraped knees, cricket bats, and endless laughter.

Instead, the child sat alone in his room day after day, clutching the tiny dupatta she used to twirl in, as if holding it tightly enough might bring her back. He spoke little. Ate less. Lived hardly at all.

Nishkarsh exhaled slowly, the breath unsteady despite his effort. Loss had carved through every life tied to his, leaving behind ruins where joy once stood.

He had lost too much.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the grief, beneath the emptiness, something else had begun to burn.

Not sorrow.

Not despair.

Something colder.

Whoever had done this — whoever had dared to touch his family, his people, his world — would learn exactly what it meant to take everything from a man who had nothing left to lose.

Because Nishkarsh Singhania might have been hollow inside...

...but ashes still remembered how to burn.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

RATHORE HAVEN

The room was grand yet tender, softened for small hands and quiet dreams. Sunlight spilled through tall curtains onto scattered toys, a carved bed, and shelves of storybooks, the vast space still holding the gentle warmth of childhood.

Yet despite the liveliness around him, the figure lying on the bed was anything but lively. A small dupatta was clutched in his hands, pressed tightly to his chest like it was the only thing holding him together.

Ekansh kept trying to breathe in its fading scent, terrified that the last trace of her was slipping away too—just like she had. The dupatta was wrinkled and worn, unwashed for years because he had never let anyone touch it.

Not when it was the only thing that still felt like his Jaani.

He remembered how she used to wear her lehenga with that very dupatta, twirling and giggling before looking up at him.
"How do I look, Jaana?"

And he would go speechless, never knowing what to say. He had only been a little boy then, but even so he'd been mesmerized by how beautiful she looked—like a Devi.

A goddess.

Like Radha Maiya.

Tears welled in his eyes again. They hadn't stopped since that day. He hadn't even tried to stop them.

It felt like life itself had been stolen from him. His Jaani was gone—the girl who used to hold him whenever storms scared him, who would simply pull him against her chest and soothe his hair even though she herself had only been a child.

"Shhh, Jaana, it's okay. It's just a storm," she would whisper, holding him until he calmed down.

And now he was crying because she wasn't here. No... she wasn't.

"Why did you leave me, Jaani?" he whispered to the empty room, as if she might walk back in at any moment, hug him again, and wipe his tears.

But he knew she wouldn't. She was gone.

His thoughts drifted to his parents, lying in comas. His mother, who had understood him without words. His father, who had always been proud of him. His little brother Rudra was in a coma too. Everything had been taken from him in a single night years ago, and now there was nothing left.

Nothing but grief, swallowing him whole.

It was just him, his younger brother Yuvraj—who barely spoke anymore—and their grandfather, who was raising them.

Just then the door flew open.

Nishkarsh stood there, composed in his Armani suit, his expression unreadable. He knew if he showed even a flicker of what he truly felt, the boy would shatter further.

His heart clenched at the sight before him: a child who should have been running through halls and laughing was lying awake past midnight, clutching his dead daughter's dupatta.

He had always known Ekansh hadn't let go of Ragini. And perhaps he never would.

He knew what she had meant to him. How, even at that age, they had belonged to each other in a way most people never understood.

He sighed softly and stepped inside, his movements quiet, careful, not wanting to startle him.

Still, Ekansh flinched.

His tear-blurred eyes lifted, recognizing him. He hurriedly wiped his face with the back of his hand.
"Uncle... it's you." His voice cracked despite his effort to sound normal.

And Nishkarsh's heart broke all over again.

He had seen men break. Seen grown adults lose everything and still somehow stand straighter than this child who was trying so hard not to cry. But this—this quiet trembling silence—was worse. It wasn't loud grief. It didn't scream or rage. It was the kind that settled deep into the bones and stayed there, heavy and permanent.

Ekansh pushed himself upright quickly, wiping his cheeks with the heel of his palm. His fingers dug into the dupatta as his grip tightened, holding it like if he loosened even a little it might slip away the way she had.

"I woke you up, didn't I?" Nishkarsh asked softly as he sat beside him, his gaze resting on the boy's face.

He looked shattered. His eyes were hollow in a way that didn't belong on a child, desperate in that quiet, waiting way of someone who was still hoping for footsteps that would never come.

His lip was swollen where he'd been biting it again and again. A faint smear of dried blood marked the skin where he'd bitten too hard.

Nishkarsh stilled.

For a moment he couldn't speak at all. There was nothing to say. Some grief wasn't meant to be answered. Some you could only witness.

"I didn't sleep," Ekansh said simply. His voice was flat. Empty. Not dramatic, not loud. Just gone.

Of course he hadn't. Nishkarsh could see it. The redness in his eyes, the exhaustion carved into his small face—this wasn't something sleep could fix.

Silence settled between them. The room suddenly felt too large for something so fragile. Too quiet for something so unbearably loud inside the boy's chest.

Nishkarsh's eyes shifted to the cloth in his hands and his chest tightened again. The boy was clutching it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

"It was her favourite one, wasn't it?" he said softly, a faint broken huff of a chuckle leaving him that didn't sound like laughter at all.

Ekansh nodded, looking down at it with something close to reverence. Like his whole world lived inside those folds.

Because to everyone else it was just fabric.

To him, it was his Jaani.

"It still smells like her," Ekansh whispered, pulling it closer against his chest. He smiled then—but it wasn't real. It didn't reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile grief teaches you when you've cried so long you forget what your face is supposed to feel like. "If I wash it... it'll go away."

Nishkarsh swallowed hard.

There were a thousand things he could have said. About memories. About souls. About how love doesn't live in cloth.

But none of that would matter to a boy who had lost too much before he even learned how to keep anything.

So he didn't say any of it.

He only reached out and rested his hand gently on Ekansh's head, smoothing his hair slowly, the way someone must once have done for him.

"Then we won't wash it," he said quietly.

"I miss Jaani."

The words were simple. No drama. No sobbing. Just truth.

Nishkarsh shut his eyes for a moment. Of course he missed her. Of course he did. And still there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he could fix.

Nothing.

Before he could answer, Ekansh spoke again, voice smaller now.

"I was supposed to save everyone." He swallowed, throat working as fresh tears slipped free. "I couldn't save Jaani." His shoulders folded as he fell forward, burying his face into the dupatta. "Couldn't save Maa. Couldn't save Baba."

Then slowly, he peeked up through the cloth, eyes glassy and small.

"Couldn't save Rudra. He cried."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"I failed as a Rathore."

Nishkarsh had known this day would come. He'd known the boy would blame himself. Because children who survive tragedies often think survival itself is proof they should have done more.

"You were a child," Nishkarsh said quietly. He gently turned Ekansh toward him, cupping his face so he had no choice but to look at him.

"It was never your job to save them."

He took a slow breath.

"And you didn't fail as a Rathore. You would have failed if you hadn't tried."

A pause.

"But you did."

Ekansh didn't reply. His fingers only tightened again in the cloth, knuckles paling, like he was afraid even air might steal it from him.

Outside, somewhere beyond the tall windows, thunder rolled across the sky.

His breathing hitched instantly.

No. Not now. Not the storm. Not this.

For six years he had hidden from thunder in soundproof rooms, buried under blankets, shutting the world out so the noise couldn't reach him. And now it was right there, flashing beyond the glass, loud and alive and impossible to stop.

Nishkarsh noticed at once.

Without hesitation he shifted closer and drew the boy gently into his side, one arm firm around his shoulders, steady and warm.

"It's just a storm," he murmured.

The words were simple.

Familiar.

Borrowed.

Ekansh froze when he heard them.

For a second he didn't move at all.

Then slowly—so slowly it almost hurt to watch—he leaned into him.

And for the first time that night, he didn't try to hide that he was crying.

It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. No arms would ever feel like hers again. Nothing ever would.

But for this one moment, he let himself break anyway. Let himself sink against someone instead of holding himself up.

His eyes slipped shut, his body going limp with exhaustion against Nishkarsh's side.

And just before sleep pulled him under, a whisper fell from his lips.

"Jaani."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Few Weeks later

Morning light spilled over the mansion's tall pillars, turning the stone a muted gold. Dew clung to the manicured lawns. A thin mist lingered near the iron gates. Birds called from the trees while the estate stood quiet and regal, holding on to the last hush of dawn before the day began.

Nishkarsh sat inside the car, hands resting on the steering wheel. It had been an hour since he dropped Nysaa home after her checkup. That small outing had been the only time in days she seemed a little alive, not the woman constantly drowning in grief. For a few moments, she had almost smiled.

And in that moment, he had made a vow.

He would protect his wife and their unborn child with his life. Even if it meant losing it.

He wouldn't let anything happen to them. Not when enemies were closer than ever. Not when the biggest one was still hiding in the shadows—the man responsible for the fire, the man who had burned down everything Nishkarsh had ever loved.

Usually, he would have gone after him already. Dragged him out. Ended it.

But not now.

Not when Nysaa was pregnant. Not when her delivery was close. He couldn't risk stepping into that darkness fully, not when his family needed him standing.

His men were alert. Guards surrounded the mansion like shadows. At the gates, along the walls, in every corridor. Two guards followed Nysaa wherever she went. Inside. Outside. Always within reach.

He knew she hated it. She had never liked being protected like glass. She was the kind of woman who gave orders, not took them. Fierce. Unyielding.

Now she said nothing.

Grief had softened her edges. Fear for her unborn child had silenced her protests.

And that hurt him more than anything.

He felt useless. Powerless in ways he had never felt before. Tears didn't come. They never did. Not in his world. There, tears were weakness. The only person who had ever seen him break was Nysaa.

Only she was allowed to see that side of him.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles paling. His face remained unreadable, but inside, everything was loud. Anger. Guilt. Fear. He didn't even know which one he was feeling the most.

His phone rang.

The sharp sound cut through the silence, snapping him back. For a second, he almost flinched before glancing at the screen.

Adhiraj.

He picked up immediately.

"Boss," Adhiraj said, voice steady but grim. "Your suspicion was right. Ekansh is still at the mansion. You were lied to."

Nishkarsh closed his eyes briefly. He wasn't surprised. He had known. Somewhere deep down, he had known.

A pause.

"Fine," he said quietly. "I'll deal with it."

He ended the call without another word. For a few seconds, he just stared ahead. He hadn't seen Ekansh in weeks. And Veer Singh Rathore—Shankar's father—had lied to him. Said the boy had gone on vacation to clear his head.

But Nishkarsh knew Ekansh. The boy wouldn't leave without telling him. Not like that.

He cared for Ekansh. For Yuvraj. Almost like they were his own. And now that Shankar was gone, it should have been his responsibility to look after them.

Ever since the fire, something had changed. Veer Singh Rathore had kept his distance. Every time Nishkarsh tried to meet the boys, there was an excuse. A tight smile. A door half-closed.

It was obvious.

Veer believed Nishkarsh had caused the fire. That he had wanted Shankar gone. That he had wanted control.

The thought alone made his jaw clench.

How could anyone think he would betray the only man who had built an empire with him? The man who had corrected him, fought him, stood beside him. The name Nishkarsh carried in the underworld existed because of Shankar.

He would have died for him.

He still would.

With a heavy breath, Nishkarsh started the engine. The car rolled out of the driveway and merged into traffic.

His destination was clear.

Rathore Mansion.

He had already lost too much.

He wasn't going to lose the boys too.

He had made a promise to Shankar once—if anything ever happened, he would look after his sons.

And Nishkarsh never broke his promises.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

RATHORE HAVEN

The mansion stood tall and commanding, its marble pillars gleaming beneath the sun. Wide balconies curved along the façade, overlooking perfectly trimmed gardens and a grand iron gate. Every window reflected quiet luxury, and the silence around it carried the weight of power and old money.

Nishkarsh strode inside without slowing down. The guards stepped in front of him, trying to block his path. They told him Ekansh wasn't there. Said he couldn't meet him.

A lie.

Of course they had been told to say that. Veer's orders.

But Nishkarsh didn't stop. Not now. Not after everything. He moved past them like they weren't even there.

Veer was sitting in the living room when he saw him.

He froze.

For a split second, the shock was clear on his face before he masked it. He stood up slowly, smoothing his expression, forcing calm into his features. He didn't know Nishkarsh already knew the truth.

"Arre, Nishkarsh... what are you doing here?" Veer asked, his tone controlled, almost casual.

That calm expression did it.

Nishkarsh's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. He could feel the anger rising, hot and sharp, but he held it back.

God.

He was barely holding himself together.

For a few long seconds, neither of them spoke, and the silence stretched between them like something fragile and dangerous, ready to snap at the slightest push.

Nishkarsh didn't move, didn't blink, just stood there looking at Veer in a way that made the older man's calm expression feel forced, almost rehearsed.

''You lied to me.'' Nishkarsh whispered at last. His voice was flat. There was no accusation just truth that even Veer couldn't die.

Veer let out a slow breath, folding his hands behind his back as if this were just another casual conversation in his living room. "About what?" he asked, almost too smoothly.

"About Ekansh."

The name alone changed the air.

Veer's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he replied, "I told you he isn't here. The boy needed space after everything. I sent him away for his own good."

Nishkarsh let out a humorless breath. "Don't."

A single word. Quiet. Dangerous.

"I know he's here."

The silence that followed wasn't loud, but it was heavy. It carried weeks of distance. Months of suspicion. The smoke of a fire that still hadn't cleared between them.

Veer's eyes hardened, the police mask thinning. ''and what if he is?'' His voice losing its fake warmth.

 Nishkarsh's hands curled into fists at his sides, the tendons in his neck tightening as he forced himself to breathe evenly instead of letting the anger take over.

"You've been keeping them away from me," he said, each word measured. "Every time I come here, there's a reason I can't see them. A headache. A tutor. A locked door. You think I wouldn't notice?"

"They are children," Veer snapped back, taking a step forward as well, the distance between them shrinking. "They don't need to be around... complications."

"Complications?" Nishkarsh repeated, a bitter laugh slipping past his lips. "Is that what you thinl I am?"

Veer didn't answer immediately, and that silence felt like a confession. "You think I had something to do with the fire," Nishkarsh said, not as a question, but as a statement he had already accepted.

Veer's eyes flickered, but he didn't deny it.

After what happened, how could I not question everything?" Veer said finally, his voice lower now but still edged with suspicion. "My son died. My family burned. And you walked out alive."

The words hit harder than a slap.

For a moment, Nishkarsh's composure cracked, not in rage, not in shouting, but in the way his breathing changed, heavier, rougher, like he was swallowing something too big to digest.

"You think I don't carry that every single day?" he asked, his voice tightening despite his effort to keep it calm. "You think I don't wish it had been me instead?"

Veer looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a brief second the anger between them was replaced by something rawer.

"I would have died for Shankar," Nishkarsh continued, his gaze unwavering. "Everything I am, everything I built, I built with him. The world knows my name because he stood beside me. And you think I would destroy that?"

Pain flickered across his face, quick but undeniable.

"I lost him too," he said, more quietly now. "And I almost lost my bestfriend. My child. Do you really think I would risk all of that just to take over something that was already half mine?"

Veer's hands dropped from behind his back, the rigid posture loosening slightly, but the doubt still lingered in his eyes.

"You don't get to decide what he would have wanted," Veer replied, though the certainty in his voice had weakened.

"No," Nishkarsh agreed, his tone steady again, controlled with visible effort. "But I know the promise I made to him. If anything ever happened, I would look after his boys."

He glanced briefly toward the staircase, as if he could feel their presence somewhere beyond the walls.

"You can hate me," he went on, looking back at Veer. "You can doubt me. But don't keep them away from me because of your suspicions."

The room fell quiet again, heavy with years of trust now fractured by one night of fire and loss.

"I'm not here to fight you," Nishkarsh said finally, his voice calmer but resolute. "I'm here to see Ekansh and Yuvraj."

He held Veer's gaze without flinching.

"And I'm not leaving without seeing them."

Veer stood frozen for a moment, the fierceness in Nishkarsh's eyes telling him very clearly that this man was not going to back down easily.

"No. Not now," Veer said after a brief pause, his voice steadier than he felt. "They're asleep."

Nishkarsh's eyebrow lifted slightly, a small gesture but heavy with doubt. "And why should I believe you?" he asked, his tone controlled but edged, making it obvious he suspected another lie.

"I'm not lying," Veer replied, holding his gaze without flinching this time, and there was no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of deceit. "They're asleep."

Nishkarsh didn't respond immediately. He studied him carefully, searching for even the smallest crack, any sign that this was another excuse meant to keep him away. But he found none.

Veer wasn't lying.

And as much as Nishkarsh wanted to push past him, to storm upstairs and see the boys with his own eyes, he didn't want to wake them. Not after everything they had already endured.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod.

"Fine," he said at last.

Then he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping lower, quieter, but far more dangerous.

"I'll be here tomorrow."

It wasn't a threat shouted in anger. It was a promise.

And they both knew it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

NYSAA'S SANCTUM

Next day

The mansion was silent in the early morning, the kind of silence that feels heavy rather than peaceful. Staff moved around quietly, almost on instinct. Maids worked in the kitchen, the soft clatter of utensils and the faint aroma of breakfast filling the air. Bodyguards stood at their posts, firm and alert, eyes scanning every corner, ready to act at the slightest sign of trouble.

From the outside, the mansion looked normal. Grand. Secure. Untouched.

But it wasn't a home anymore.

A place that once echoed with innocent laughter now felt hollow. The warmth that had once lived in its walls had faded, replaced by caution and grief. The laughter that used to drift down the corridors had disappeared.

And everyone could feel it.

It was still a mansion.

Nysaa slowly walked down the stairs, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly beneath the folds of her saree. Nishkarsh stayed close beside her, his palm firm against her back, guiding her carefully step by step. In her final month, even the staircase felt like a challenge, and he didn't trust a single step to fate anymore.

He knew it could happen any day now. Any moment she could go into labor and bring their daughter into the world. The thought filled him with fear more than anything else. Fear and guilt. Guilt for bringing his girls into a world like this. A world of enemies and shadows. A world where danger waited behind smiles.

But he also knew one thing with absolute certainty.

He would never let them meet the same fate Ragini had met.

Not while he was alive.

He would stand in front of every bullet if he had to.

His gaze shifted to Nysaa's face, and he noticed something he hadn't seen properly in weeks — a softness. She looked almost normal today. Lighter. There was even a faint happiness in her eyes. She had worn her favorite saree, delicate bangles circling her wrists, and the sight of it did something to him. It warmed him from the inside in a way nothing else could.

He knew the thought of their daughter coming into this world made her happier than she had been in a long time.

And somehow, that made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

"Be careful, Rooh," he whispered gently as he guided her down the last few steps. His voice carried a nervous edge he couldn't hide. He hovered close, almost too close, but he didn't care if it made him look overprotective.

He was scared.

She was his Rooh.

His life.

"I'm fine," she murmured with a small smile as they finally reached the living room.

He noticed it instantly — that smile. Small, fragile, but real.

God.

It did something to him.

She was smiling. She really was.

And it made him happier than he had felt in months.

He helped her settle into a chair at the dining table while the maids quietly placed breakfast in front of them. He adjusted her seat slightly, making sure she was comfortable before he finally moved to sit down himself.

Just as he pulled the chair back, his phone rang.

The sound cut through the moment. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting back to that guarded calm he wore for the world outside.

"Rooh, I need to take this," he said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead before stepping away toward the garden to answer the call.

Nysaa simply nodded and turned her attention back to the table.The maids served her favorite—rajma chawal. The rich aroma rose gently with the steam, familiar and comforting. She had always loved it more than anything. She could eat it at any hour of the day, for days in a row, and never grow tired of it. It was simple, homely, grounding.

Today, she felt almost normal.

Lighter.

The thought of holding her daughter in her arms soon had done something to her heart. It hadn't erased the grief, but it had softened its edges. Even though Ragini still lived in every corner of her memory, the ache wasn't clawing at her the same way this morning.

Last night, she had seen her.

In her dream.

Ragini's gentle laughter had echoed through wide corridors, her tiny feet running across marble floors, her little hands reaching out as if nothing had ever changed. She had looked happy. Peaceful.

And then she had whispered, so softly, so clearly.

"Don't cry, Mama. I'm going to be fine."

Nysaa had woken up with tears on her face but something else too — a strange calm.

In that moment, she had understood something she had been refusing to accept for years. Crying wouldn't bring her back. Holding onto the guilt wouldn't change fate. Ragini was gone from this world, but she wasn't gone from her heart.

She never would be.

No one could ever take her place.

And Nysaa would never allow anyone to try.

She picked at her food slowly, lost in thought, realizing how broken she must have looked all these years. Hollow. Distant. Unreachable. She knew Nishkarsh had seen it. Had felt it. The way she had shut herself away from everything.

It must have destroyed him.

And yet he had never complained. Never blamed her. He had just stayed. Quietly. Steadily. Trying in every small way to be there for her.

To understand her silence.

Even though she knew he was just as broken.

Maybe even more.

But he would never say it. Not when she was drowning. Not when she could barely hold herself together. He had always been that kind of man — the one who would bury his own pain deep enough so he could deal with hers first.

She swallowed slowly, her fingers tightening slightly around the spoon.

He carried too much.

And she knew it.

Just when she had begun to believe that maybe today would stay calm, that maybe peace had finally decided to sit beside her for a while, a gunshot echoed through the mansion.

The sound was sharp. Violent.

She froze instantly, the spoon in her fingers going still mid-air. For a second, she told herself she must have imagined it. Maybe something had fallen outside. Maybe it was nothing.

Then another shot rang out.

The spoon slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor.

God... no.

Not again.

Not when she had finally started to breathe without feeling like her chest was collapsing. Not when she had finally smiled.

The maids screamed, scattering in panic, their footsteps chaotic against the marble floor. Within seconds, the bodyguards closed in around her, forming a shield, their only instruction clear — protect her at all costs.

Fear rose inside her like something alive, clawing its way up her throat. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her belly, fingers trembling as they pressed protectively over her unborn child.

No.

She couldn't lose them too.

They were the only reason she was still standing. The only reason she had found the strength to wake up every day.

"Kanha... please... aise mat kijiye," she whispered under her breath, her prayer barely audible, desperate and fragile.

But deep down, she already felt it — the sense that something was wrong, that fate wasn't done testing them yet.

Another gunshot exploded, closer this time. Loud enough to shake her bones.

She couldn't hold it in anymore.

Tears spilled down her face as she screamed his name.

"Nishkarsh!" Her voice cracked, raw and terrified, but she didn't care. She needed him. In that moment, nothing else mattered. No guards. No walls. No weapons.

Just him.

The front doors burst open with force.

Nishkarsh stormed inside, breath uneven, expression dark and stormy, his eyes scanning the room wildly until they found what they were searching for.

Her.

Crouched beneath the table, surrounded by his men, tears streaming down her face.

The sight of her like that felt like someone had driven a blade straight through his chest.

He didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

He shoved past his own men and dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her into his arms with urgency. "Shh... Rooh. It's me," he murmured against her hair, holding her tightly.

She broke against him, sobbing into his chest, fingers clutching his shirt as if he was the only solid thing left in the world.

He knew she was terrified.

He was too.

Even if he would never say it out loud.

It felt too much like that day. The year 2000. The fire. The screams. The smoke. The loss that had ripped their lives apart.

"You promised nothing would happen," she said, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes pleading, desperate for reassurance he wasn't sure he deserved to give.

His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears that refused to stop falling.

God, he hated this.

He hated seeing her this afraid. Hated that he couldn't erase the fear from her eyes with a single word.

"Rooh," he whispered, pressing his forehead gently against hers. "Baby, trust me. Nothing will happen."

Every tear she shed felt like a dagger pressing deeper into him. If he could take her fear and carry it himself, he would.

She nodded slowly, trusting him without question.

That trust — so pure, so unshaken — both broke him and held him together at the same time.

"Yes," he murmured softly. "Just believe in me, okay?"

She nodded again before wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, holding him like she was afraid he would disappear. "I'm scared," she whispered against his shoulder.

"I know you are, baby," he replied quietly, his fingers sliding into her hair, stroking gently in a soothing rhythm. "I'm here."

And even as more chaos echoed outside the walls, he held her like nothing in this world would dare touch her while he was breathing.

Another gunshot tore through the halls, closer than before, followed by men shouting over one another, boots scraping against marble, the sickening thud of a body hitting the courtyard floor.

Nishkarsh didn't move.

He stayed on his knees in front of her, holding her against his chest like if he loosened his arms even slightly the world would steal her away again. Her fingers were twisted tightly in his shirt, her breath uneven against him, and he could feel her heart racing as if it were beating inside his own ribs.

"Rooh," he said softly, steel hidden beneath the tenderness. "Look at me."

He waited until she lifted her head.

Tears clung to her lashes, her eyes wide and shaken, and for a split second he was dragged back to that night — smoke filling the air, flames swallowing walls, screams that never truly stopped echoing in his head.

God.

Even with tears streaking her face, she looked like a Devi to him. Untouchable. Sacred. The most beautiful thing he had ever known.

"I need you to go upstairs," he said, pointing toward the staircase, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Safe room. Right now."

He kept himself composed because if he let even one crack show, he knew he would shatter.

Her head moved immediately in a stubborn no.

"I'm not leaving you," she whispered, her voice breaking again.

Another loud crack split the air. The windows rattled.

She flinched and buried her face back into his chest.

He shut his eyes for a second, exhaling heavily. How could he ask her to leave when she was clinging to him like this? When she was trembling in his arms?

But he had to.

He couldn't risk something happening to her. All he wanted was to hold her and never let go. But right now holding on wasn't protecting her.

He gently cupped her face, that soft gesture that belonged only to her and no one else.

"Rooh," he whispered, almost pleading now, looking deep into her eyes. "I need you to go with them." He gestured toward the bodyguards. "They will keep you safe."

"Our daughter needs you calm. She needs you safe. You staying here won't protect her. Going upstairs will."

Her hand instinctively slid to her belly, and that single movement nearly broke him. She thought about it. Losing their daughter would destroy her completely. But so would walking away from him in the middle of gunfire.

Still, the look in his eyes — desperate but determined — made her nod.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers for a brief second, grounding himself in her warmth before stepping back into the storm.

"Promise me it won't be like last time?" she whispered, her eyes glistening, fear wrapped around every word.

He knew what she meant.

Fire. Loss. Helplessness.

He swallowed hard.

"I promise," he said quietly. "It won't be like last time." He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, brief but full of everything he couldn't say. "I will be back, baby."

She searched his face as if trying to read fate in it. But all she saw was sincerity. And fury. And a man ready to burn the world before letting harm reach her again.

The guards stepped closer.

He nodded once.

They helped her to her feet carefully. She swayed, and his hand instantly steadied her. Even now, even with chaos outside, he noticed everything — the slight wince, the way her bangles trembled, the way her breathing was turning heavier.

And then—

She froze.

There was a strange look on her face. Confusion. Realization.

Something warm spread beneath her legs.

Her saree darkened.

God.

No.

Her knees weakened, but the guards caught her before she hit the floor.

She screamed.

"Nishkarsh!"

He turned instantly at the sound of her voice, but this time his heart wasn't pounding with rage.

It was fear.

His eyes dropped to the fabric around her legs, wet and spreading.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

She was going into labour.

"Fuck," he breathed under his breath as he rushed toward her, shoving the guards aside and catching her fully in his arms.

She was breathing heavily now, sweat forming at her temples, her hand gripping her belly tightly.

"Breathe, Rooh. Breathe," he whispered urgently, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.

Then he looked up, his expression changing in a second.

"Get the car out. Clear the front gate. I don't care how — clear it. And call Adhiraj. Now!" he barked.

The guards almost flinched. They had never seen him look this vulnerable and this lethal at the same time.

Moments later, Adhiraj rushed in, shirt stained with blood from the men he had dealt with outside, gun still loaded in his hand. He froze at the sight before him — Nysaa pale and shaking in Nishkarsh's arms.

“Take Rooh to the hospital. Now,” Nishkarsh said, his voice low but carrying an urgency that didn’t need volume to be understood.

He didn’t look panicked. He never did. But the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his side, gave him away.

At that moment, he trusted Adhiraj more than anyone. This man had stood beside him since the beginning — through blood, through betrayal, through nights that could have ended everything. Loyalty like that wasn’t bought. It was proven.

He didn’t trust easily. He never had.

But Adhiraj was different.

“Don’t let anything happen to her,” Nishkarsh added, quieter now, though the command in his tone remained unshaken.

Because if there was one thing he could not afford to lose — it was Rooh.

Adhiraj hesitated. "But boss, how can I—"

Nishkarsh's glare cut him off.

"Just do as I say," he snapped, then his tone shifted, cracking slightly. "Please. Go. I have to stay. If I don't stop them here, they'll follow. They'll reach the hospital."

That was enough.

Adhiraj nodded, seeing desperation on his boss's face he had never witnessed before.

He understood.

This wasn't just an attack.

This was war.

And Nishkarsh was choosing to stand in the middle of it so his wife could give birth safely.

Carefully, Adhiraj took Nysaa from his arms. She tried to hold onto Nishkarsh, panic flashing across her face.

He reached out, brushing her cheek gently.

"Shh, Rooh. Go, okay? I'll be there soon," he said softly. "Maybe we'll see our angel today."

He tried to smile.

It was broken. But it was there.

She didn't argue again. She just looked at him like she was memorizing him.

Adhiraj carried her out swiftly, holding her securely because he knew one thing with absolute certainty —

He would die before letting anything happen to her.

He had always been loyal to Nishkarsh.

But today, that loyalty meant protecting the woman carrying his boss's entire world in her womb.

And if it cost him his life, so be it.

IN CAR

Adhiraj had somehow managed to get into the back seat with Nysaa, pulling her carefully against him as the car doors slammed shut one after another. His arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders to steady her shaking body while the driver sped toward the gates.

She had always been more than just his boss's wife.

From the early days when she had hated the marriage with Nishkarsh and refused to even look at him properly, to the days when she had given birth to Ragini and cried tears of joy — he had been there. Quietly. Respectfully. Like family.

Every Rakhi, she would tie a thread around his wrist and smile faintly.

"My real brother doesn't care," she would say. "But you do."

And every single time, he had felt something settle inside his chest — a responsibility that went beyond loyalty to Nishkarsh.

He had made a silent vow that day.

He would protect her. Always.

And now was the time that vow was being tested.

The guards had formed a wall around the car as they moved, some of them falling back to hold off the attackers, sacrificing themselves so this vehicle could leave safely. Adhiraj had seen it in the rearview mirror. He wouldn't forget it.

"Bas thoda sa aur, tai... just a little longer," he whispered, his voice low, trying to keep her breathing steady as another contraction hit her.

His hand rubbed her back in slow circles while the other held her close, bracing her every time her body tensed.

The car shot out of the mansion gates.

For a second, he glanced back through the rear window.

No headlights chasing them.

No bikes gaining speed.

No gunfire following.

Relief flooded him, brief but real.

They were clear. For now.

Suddenly, Nysaa grabbed his hand tightly, her fingers cold and trembling.

He looked down at her, startled by the desperation in her eyes.

"Tu mujhe tai bolta hai na... didi maanta hai," she said softly, her voice strained but steady in a strange way, like she had made peace with something inside her.

He nodded immediately, confusion and worry mixing in his expression as he searched her face.

Of course he did. She was his sister in every way that mattered.

"Kuch bhi ho jaye... mere beti ko bacha lena. Please," she whispered, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she tightened her grip on his hand.

"Even if it means—"

She didn't finish.

She didn't have to.

They both understood.

Even if it meant her life.

Adhiraj's eyes widened in horror.

"No, tai. What are you saying?" His voice shook despite his effort to sound firm. He swallowed hard, forcing himself not to break in front of her. "Nothing will happen. Don't talk like that."

Another contraction made her gasp, her fingers digging into his hand.

"Please..." she whispered again, fear and love tangled together in her voice.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly against her knuckles, gripping her hand like it was the only anchor he had.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice cracking now despite himself. "You are going to walk into that hospital. You are going to give birth. And you are going to hold your daughters in your arms. I swear to you."

His composure was slipping.

He tightened his arm around her shoulders protectively.

"You tied rakhi on my wrist every year," he continued, his tone turning fierce through the emotion. "You made me your brother. So don't you dare ask me to choose between you and your daughter. I will protect all of you. Samjhi?"

His head rested against her hand again for a brief second.

Almost desperately.

Because for the first time, he was scared too.

Back inside the mansion, while chaos still lingered in the air like smoke that refused to clear, Nishkarsh walked into his study and shut the heavy wooden door behind him with a quiet finality that felt louder than the gunshots outside, the silence of the room pressing against his ears as though even the walls knew something irreversible was about to happen.

He went straight to the cabinet without pausing, without thinking twice, and pulled it open with steady hands that betrayed none of the storm building inside him, reaching for the one thing he had promised he would never touch again — his Colt M1911 — the cold metal settling into his palm like an old memory he had tried to bury but never truly let go of.

For a long moment he simply stood there, staring at it, his thumb moving slowly over the steel as if reacquainting himself with an old sin, knowing fully well that he shouldn’t be doing this, knowing he had looked Nysaa in the eyes and sworn he was done with it after the last time it had turned everything into blood and headlines and fear that lingered for months.

The first time he had used this gun, it had not been a small incident, not a simple retaliation, but something that had shaken the ground beneath men who thought they were untouchable, something that had carved his name into conversations spoken in hushed tones, and he had walked away from it only because she had asked him to, because her hands on his face had mattered more than his rage.

But today someone had entered his home.

Someone had made his wife scream.

Someone had made his Rooh tremble in fear inside the very walls he had built to protect her.

And that was enough.

This was not just some random weapon pulled from a drawer in anger; this was a piece of history forged in war, the same model carried through World War I and World War II, built heavy and deliberate, designed not for noise but for impact, for finality, for endings that did not require repetition.

The sound it made was not sharp or frantic like the smaller pistols his guards carried clipped to their belts; it was deep and thick, a thunderclap trapped inside a room, a boom that didn’t just echo in the air but settled into the bones of whoever heard it, a sound that didn’t warn twice.

He loaded it slowly, each movement precise and unhurried, because this was not chaos for him — this was decision.

He didn’t care anymore about consequences or restraint or the promises made in softer moments under dim lights, because all he could see when he closed his eyes was Nysaa clutching at him, her voice breaking, her body shaking, and that image had erased every other consideration.

They had not just attacked a man with power.

They had not just challenged a name.

They had targeted his wife.

They had touched what he considered sacred.

And in doing so, they had made a mistake that would not be corrected with negotiation or warning shots fired into the air.

He exhaled slowly as he cocked the gun, the click sharp and clean in the stillness of the study, and for a second his reflection stared back at him from the glass cabinet — calm, controlled, almost detached — but beneath that surface was something far more dangerous than anger.

Because when it came to business, Nishkarsh Singhania could be patient.

When it came to rivals, he could be strategic.

When it came to betrayal, he could even be merciful if it served a purpose.

But when it came to his Rooh —

There was no patience.

No strategy.

No mercy.

The world had seen once before what happened when he crossed that line, had watched the aftermath unfold in fear and disbelief, and he had allowed time to soften the memory for their sake.

Tonight, he was done allowing anything to soften.

Just as he was about to walk out of the study, the door burst open and one of the bodyguards rushed in, his usually composed face drained of color, eyes wide in a way that didn’t speak of injury but of something far worse — recognition.

Nishkarsh turned slowly toward him, irritation already simmering because this was not the moment for hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low but edged, the Colt M1911 still heavy in his hand.

The guard didn’t answer.

He just stood there, breathing unevenly, as if the words were stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat.

Nishkarsh’s jaw tightened.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he barked, the patience he was known for in business completely gone now, because tonight he did not have the luxury of calm explanations and frozen men standing in front of him like statues.

For God’s sake, he couldn’t deal with this too.

The bodyguard visibly flinched, shoulders stiffening before he forced himself to look up, swallowing hard under Nishkarsh’s glare.

“Boss…” he started, his voice unsteady, and for a second he looked like a boy rather than one of the most trained men in the estate. “Those men… the ones outside… I saw the marks on their arms.”

Something in the way he said it made Nishkarsh’s anger pause, not disappear but shift, like a flame flickering in sudden wind.

“What marks?” he asked again, this time quieter, almost too quiet.

The guard hesitated only a second before answering.

“Boss… they were wearing the same mark. The same one the Rathores have.”

The words didn’t explode.

They didn’t crash.

They just settled heavily into the room.

For a moment Nishkarsh didn’t move at all.

Rathores.

It couldn’t be.

His grip on the gun tightened instinctively as his mind began replaying conversations he had brushed aside before — Veer’s doubts, the tension in his voice, the way he had never fully let him near the boys again, the distance that had slowly grown where laughter once existed.

Still.

Veer was his best friend's father.

Family in everything but blood.

He could doubt him, argue with him, even walk away from him — but attack his home?

Make Nysaa scream?

No.

That didn’t align with the man he knew.

He looked back at the bodyguard, his expression unreadable now, anger replaced with something far more dangerous — uncertainty.

“It must be a mistake,” he said quietly, though the words lacked conviction even to his own ears, because doubt, once planted, has a way of refusing to die.

“Boss, but I saw—”

“Bas.”

He raised his hand sharply, cutting him off mid-sentence, not ready to hear more, not ready to let suspicion take full form.

The room felt colder suddenly.

“Go wash your face,” he said, his voice steady again but stripped of warmth. “And grab your gun.”

The guard nodded immediately, relief and fear mixing as he stepped back.

Nishkarsh didn’t look at him again.

He walked past him and out of the study, the weight of the Colt no longer just about revenge, but about something else now — something heavier.

Because if the mark was real, if the Rathores were truly involved, then tonight wasn’t just an attack.

It was the beginning of a war he had never imagined fighting.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

SEVEN HILLS HOSPITAL

The hospital was supposed to be the one place where chaos stopped at the doors — a place where fear softened into hope and pain was met with healing hands — but tonight the calm had shattered the moment Adhiraj had rushed Nysaa through the emergency entrance, carrying her in his arms while guards surrounded them and nurses stared in stunned confusion at the sight of blood, guns, and a woman crying out in labour all at once.

The stretcher wheels rattled loudly against the polished floor as the nurses quickly laid Nysaa down and began rushing her toward the labour ward, her fingers clutching tightly onto Adhiraj’s sleeve like he was the only solid thing left in a world that kept collapsing around her, while another contraction tore through her body so suddenly that a broken cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Adhiraj…” she whispered weakly, her breathing uneven and trembling as pain tightened across her stomach again.

He walked beside the stretcher as far as the nurses allowed, his hand wrapped firmly around hers while his other hand rested protectively against her shoulder, trying to steady her even though his own heart was racing violently after everything that had just happened at the mansion.

“Bas tai… thoda sa aur,” he murmured softly, his voice low but steady, trying to give her the reassurance she needed even though fear sat heavy in his chest. “You’re strong… you’ve done this before… kuch nahi hoga.”

But the moment they reached the labour ward doors a nurse stepped in front of him, gently but firmly stopping him from going any further.

“You can’t come inside.”

For a moment Adhiraj stood there unmoving, still holding Nysaa’s hand as if letting go of it would somehow abandon her in the middle of everything she was facing, but then another contraction hit and she squeezed his fingers painfully before the nurses began pushing the stretcher through the doors.

The last thing he saw was her tear filled eyes searching his face.

And then the doors shut.

The sudden silence of the corridor felt suffocating.

Adhiraj remained standing there for several seconds staring at the closed doors, his chest rising and falling slowly as he tried to steady himself, knowing that behind those walls Nysaa was fighting through pain to bring life into the world while somewhere far away Nishkarsh was probably still standing in the middle of gunfire trying to make sure she stayed alive long enough to see that moment.

But the quiet did not last long.

From somewhere near the hospital entrance came a sudden loud crack that echoed through the corridors — unmistakable and sharp.

Gunfire.

Adhiraj’s head snapped toward the sound instantly, every muscle in his body going rigid as his instincts took over.

Another gunshot followed almost immediately, louder this time, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and distant shouting.

A guard came running down the hallway toward him, breathing hard as panic flashed across his face.

“Sir…!” he said urgently. “They followed us… they’re here.”

For a brief moment Adhiraj simply stared at him, the words sinking in slowly before his jaw clenched tightly.

“Kitne?” he asked quietly, though the tension in his voice was impossible to miss.

“At least ten… maybe more,” the guard replied, glancing nervously toward the entrance corridor. “They forced their way past the front security.”

Adhiraj closed his eyes for a second.

Of course they had followed.

Men who dared to attack Nishkarsh’s home would never stop halfway.

Slowly he reached behind his back, pulling out his gun and checking the magazine with practiced calm, the metallic click echoing faintly in the hallway.

Behind him, beyond those doors, Nysaa was in labour, alone with doctors and nurses who had no idea that a war had followed her to the hospital.

His grip tightened slightly around the weapon.

No one was getting near that room.

He turned toward the guards standing in the hallway, his expression now completely hardened.

“Block every staircase and corridor leading to the labour wing,” he ordered firmly, his voice low but carrying enough authority that every guard straightened instantly. “Koi bhi andar nahi aayega… samjhe?”

The guards nodded quickly and began moving into position.

Adhiraj exhaled slowly before starting down the corridor toward the main entrance of the hospital, his footsteps steady against the floor while distant shouting continued to grow louder with every passing second.

Somewhere down the hall a nurse screamed as another gunshot echoed through the building, the sound bouncing harshly off the white walls and sterile floors.

Adhiraj didn’t stop walking.

Because behind him a woman he considered his own sister was fighting to give birth.

And tonight if anyone tried to reach that room — they would have to walk through him first.

The first man appeared at the far end of the hallway seconds later, stepping into view with a gun raised in his hand.

Adhiraj didn’t hesitate even for a moment.

The gunshot that followed exploded through the hospital corridor like thunder.

A few hours had passed, yet Adhiraj was still outside fighting, giving everything he had left in him, every last bit of strength and anger, but no matter how hard he fought it still wasn’t enough because those men simply refused to stop.

Just then a nurse rushed out of the room.
“Mrs. is calling you,” she whispered, but her voice faltered when she noticed the blood soaking through his shirt, her eyes widening in shock.

Adhiraj didn’t even look down at himself. He didn’t care. The moment he heard that Nysaa was calling him, he ran straight into the room.

Inside, the chaos seemed to disappear.

Nysaa lay on the bed, completely drained, her stomach flat now after the birth. The room felt strangely calm compared to the storm outside, quiet and almost peaceful, like the world had paused for a moment. Beside the bed stood a small crib, and inside it lay a tiny little girl.

Adhiraj froze the moment he saw her.

She looked impossibly small, wrapped carefully in a thin blanket, her little face calm and unaware of the danger surrounding her. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, his eyes filled with tears.

But before he could even take a step toward the crib, Nysaa slowly tried to sit up.

Her saree was still the same one she had given birth in, bloodstained and completely disheveled, the fabric clinging messily around her as if it had gone through the same battle she had. She looked weak, pale, and exhausted, yet somehow there was a strange strength in the way she forced herself to move.

She tried to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her.

Adhiraj rushed forward instantly and caught her before she could fall.

“Tai, what are you doing?” he asked quickly, panic slipping into his voice. Nysaa looked up at him, and despite the pain written all over her face, she managed a faint, tired smile that felt like a knife to his heart.

“Will you do something for me, Adhiraj?” she asked softly.

“Tai… what is it?” he replied, confusion filling his voice as his hands gently steadied her shoulders.

“Take my daughter away… please.”

The words didn’t hit him like a storm.

They didn’t shatter the room or break the silence.

Instead they simply settled into the air between them, quiet and heavy, and slowly they began to spread inside him like poison as he realized exactly what she was asking.

Where this conversation was going.

“Tai… what are you saying?” he asked, his voice cracking as he stared at her.

“You know what I’m saying,” she replied quietly.

Her eyes shifted toward the crib.

Despite the pain clearly running through her legs, she slowly walked over to it, every step careful and trembling, until she reached the crib and gently lifted the newborn into her arms, cradling the tiny girl close against her chest.

For a long moment she simply looked at her.

The baby had soft rosy cheeks and tiny fingers that curled weakly against the blanket, and when Nysaa looked closer she noticed something that made her smile through the pain.

The baby’s eyes looked far too much like her father’s.

A small, broken smile appeared on her lips.

“I don’t want her to die,” she whispered, looking up at Adhiraj with pleading eyes. “Please… just do this much for your Tai.”

Adhiraj stood there frozen, unable to move or even think properly, but the desperation in her voice and the pleading look in her eyes made one thing painfully clear to him.

She meant every single word.

Taking this little girl away from here was the only way she would survive.

“Where?” he finally whispered.

“To my Baba,” Nysaa replied quietly. “He’ll raise her… he’ll keep her safe.”

Before Adhiraj could react, she suddenly dropped down at his feet, still clutching the baby tightly against her chest.

“Please,” she begged, her voice shaking. “Bas itna kar do… bas itna.”

Adhiraj froze in shock for a second before quickly bending down and pulling her back up, helping her sit back on the bed.

“Tai, what are you doing?” he said, his voice breaking completely now. “Please… don’t do this.”

But Nysaa simply shook her head weakly.

“Then take her.”

The room fell silent again.

Adhiraj stood there for a moment, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked at the newborn in her arms.

He understood now.

There was no other choice.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

For a long moment after that word left his mouth neither of them moved, the air inside the room feeling unbearably heavy as if even the walls understood that what was being decided here was not a simple choice but the kind of decision that would change lives forever.

Adhiraj stood there staring at the newborn in Nysaa’s arms, the tiny girl shifting faintly against her mother’s chest, her small fingers curling instinctively into the folds of the bloodstained saree as if she already knew that this warmth, this heartbeat beneath her ear, was the only world she had known so far.

Nysaa looked down at her daughter for a long moment, memorising every small detail the way only a mother does when she knows she might not get another chance — the softness of her cheeks, the faint crease near her eyes, the way her tiny lips parted slightly as she breathed — and her heart tightened painfully because the child looked so much like Nishkarsh that it almost felt cruel.

“Dekho na…” she whispered weakly, her fingers brushing gently over the baby’s hair as tears slid silently down her cheeks. “Bilkul apne papa pe gayi hai…”

Her voice broke halfway through the sentence.

Adhiraj swallowed hard, looking away for a second because he couldn’t bear to watch the way her hands trembled as she held the child closer against her chest, like she was trying to store the feeling of her daughter in her memory before letting her go.

Outside the room another distant gunshot echoed faintly somewhere in the hospital corridors.

Reality came crashing back instantly.

Nysaa closed her eyes briefly at the sound before opening them again, forcing strength into herself that her exhausted body no longer had.

Slowly she lifted the newborn slightly, pressing a long trembling kiss against her daughter’s forehead, her tears falling softly onto the baby’s face.

“My little one…” she murmured quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You have to live… samjhi tum?”

The baby stirred faintly in her arms.

Adhiraj felt something inside his chest twist painfully.

Nysaa finally looked up at him again, her eyes red but determined now, the kind of determination that only came from a mother who had already lost one child and refused to lose another.

“Adhiraj,” she said softly.

He stepped closer instantly.

Without another word she slowly extended the newborn toward him.

For a moment his hands didn’t move.

Because taking that child meant accepting what she was asking of him.

It meant separating a mother from her newborn minutes after birth.

But the sounds of gunfire outside were getting closer again.

There was no time left.

With careful hands he finally took the baby from her arms, holding the tiny girl awkwardly but protectively against his chest, one hand supporting her fragile head the way he had seen nurses do moments ago.

The baby whimpered softly but didn’t cry.

The moment her arms were empty Nysaa’s fingers curled slightly in the air as if her body hadn’t realised yet that the weight of her daughter was gone.

A broken breath escaped her.

Adhiraj noticed it.

His throat tightened.

“Tai…” he whispered helplessly. 

But Nysaa quickly wiped her tears with the back of her hand, forcing herself to sit straighter on the bed even though the exhaustion from labour was clearly pulling at her body.

“Listen to me carefully,” she said, her voice weak but steady now. “Take her to Baba… don’t stop anywhere… and don’t tell anyone whose daughter she is.”

Adhiraj looked at her in shock.

“But Boss—”

“Nahi.”

The single word came out firm despite the pain she was clearly in.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Her eyes softened slightly.

“If he knows…” she whispered quietly, glancing at the baby in Adhiraj’s arms. “He will bring her back. I will handle him. Just go.''

And that would mean danger following her again.

Adhiraj understood immediately.

Nysaa slowly reached forward again, touching her daughter’s cheek one last time with trembling fingers.

“Tell Baba…” she paused, struggling to steady her voice. “Tell him this is his poti… and that his daughter couldn’t protect her.”

Adhiraj shook his head instantly, his eyes burning.

“Tai don’t say that—”

But she smiled faintly, the kind of tired, bittersweet smile that carried too much love inside it.

“Bas le jao use…” she whispered. “Before they reach here.”

Another loud gunshot rang out somewhere in the hospital.

Closer this time.

Adhiraj’s head snapped toward the door.

His instincts were screaming again.

When he looked back at Nysaa she was already watching her daughter one last time, her gaze soft and unblinking as if she wanted the final image of her child to stay carved inside her heart forever.

“Her name…” Adhiraj said quietly, suddenly realising something. “Tai… naam?”

Nysaa looked at the baby for a long moment.

Then she whispered softly.

“Kiara.”

The name lingered in the room like a prayer.

Adhiraj nodded slowly, tightening his hold around the newborn. “I swear on you, Tai,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “No one will ever touch her.”

For a brief moment Nysaa looked relieved. Then she leaned back slowly against the hospital bed, the strength finally leaving her body now that the decision had been made.

Adhiraj turned toward the door.

But before stepping out he looked back once.

Nysaa was still watching the baby.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Just memorising her daughter’s face.

As if she already knew that this might be the last time she would ever see her.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The car moved steadily down the road, the engine humming low and steady beneath them as the tyres rolled over the smooth pavement. Streetlights slid past the windows in blurred streaks of gold and white, dissolving into the darkness. Inside, the quiet vibration of the car filled the silence none of them wanted to disturb.

Ekansh stood in the back beside Yuvraj, one hand gripping the edge of the seat to steady himself. Veer drove in the front, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. They were heading to the hospital. Yuvraj hadn’t been feeling well for days now — too pale, too tired — and it made something cold settle inside Ekansh’s chest.

He stayed close to his little brother, fingers tightly wrapped around Jaani’s dupatta. The cloth was creased and worn from how often he clutched it. It was the only thing that still felt like her. He missed her in a way that didn’t cry out loud. It just stayed there, heavy and silent.

But he was the older brother. He had to be strong. For Yuvraj.

The road ahead looked empty.

And then—

A sudden flash.

A sound that didn’t even feel like sound at first — just pressure, like the air itself had been punched out of the world.

The blast tore through the car.

Everything lurched violently. The windows shattered in an instant, glass scattering like sharp rain. The steering wheel jerked from Veer’s grip as the car swerved. Smoke rushed in, thick and suffocating. The engine gave a harsh, broken screech.

For a second, Ekansh didn’t understand what had happened.

Then pain bloomed.

His ears rang so loudly it drowned out every other noise. His body hit the side of the car, shoulder slamming hard. He tasted metal — blood. The world felt tilted, wrong.

But his fist was still clenched around the dupatta.

He tried to lift his head. Everything moved in slow motion now. The smoke blurred his vision. The streetlights outside weren’t streaks anymore — they were just hazy, trembling halos.

“Yuvraj…” he tried to say, but his voice barely came out.

His arms felt heavy. So heavy.

The ringing in his ears softened into a dull hum. The shouting outside sounded far away, like it belonged to another world. His heartbeat thudded unevenly, slower… slower.

The dupatta slipped slightly in his bloodied fingers, but he tightened them weakly around it, pressing it against his chest.

The lights outside dimmed.

The smoke thickened.

His fingers were still wrapped around the dupatta, stained now, crumpled in his grip. He tried to move, to look for Yuvraj, but his vision wouldn’t steady. Everything swayed, faded, returned in broken flashes.

His chest rose unevenly.

“Jaani…” he whispered, the word barely forming on his lips, softer than the smoke around him.

And then the darkness closed in completely.

Everything went black.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess