Authors pov

The grand hall of the ancestral Malhotra haveli stood witness to a scene that would have made for a perfect family portrait, if not for the palpable tension that hung in the air like  winter fog. The morning sun filtered through the ornate stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floor and illuminating the assembled family members who stood in an almost comical straight line, as if awaiting inspection.

At the head of this peculiar formation stood Abhiveer, his usually cheerful face now bearing an expression of such exaggerated betrayal that he resembled a wounded puppy himself. His tshirt, slightly crumpled from his earlier dramatic gestures, added to his disheveled appearance. Next to him, Abhimanyu maintained his characteristic stoic demeanor, though the slight twitch of his perfectly groomed eyebrow betrayed his irritation at being part of this  drama. Abhimaan, the most composed of the brothers, wore a knowing half-smile that suggested he had seen this coming all along, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance that screamed 'I already knew it'without uttering a word.

Shraddha stood next, gently bouncing little Rudra in her arms. The baby, blissfully unaware of the tension, played with the tassels of his mother's pallu. Her eyes darted between her mother-in-law and the floor, guilt written across her face.

Drishti, perhaps bearing the heaviest burden of guilt, fidgeted with the edge of her silk saree, the deep crimson fabric rustling softly with each nervous movement. Behind her, attempting to make herself as invisible as possible (and failing miserably), stood Kiara. Her petite frame tried to seek shelter behind Drishti's  figure, though the sparkle of her traditional jhumkas gave away her position with every slight movement.

Facing this lineup of guilty parties stood Meera Rajveer Malhotra, the family matriarch, who cut an impressive figure despite her diminutive stature. In her arms, she cradled a black retriever puppy, whose fuzzy coat and innocent eyes could melt the sternest of hearts. The puppy, content in its newfound haven, nuzzled deeper into Meera's designer suit, leaving tiny black fur particles on the expensive fabric – a detail that would have normally bothered her, but today she had bigger fish to fry.

"Kiara," Meera's voice carried the perfect blend of authority and maternal disappointment as she addressed her youngest daughter-in-law, "tum ko toh pehle se pata tha, hai na?" (You knew about this from the beginning, didn't you?)

Kiara's slight nod was enough to trigger another dramatic outburst from her husband. Abhiveer clutched his chest as if physically wounded, stumbling sideways towards his brother.

"Baby," he wailed, reaching for Abhimanyu, " You didn't even tell me? My heart is broken!".

Abhimanyu, used to his brother's theatrical tendencies but not in the mood to indulge them, skillfully sidestepped the incoming embrace. " Stay away, Veer" He muttered, straightening his perfect face with dignified irritation.

Meera's gaze, sharp as a laser beam, shifted to her other daughter-in-law. "Aur Drishti?" Her voice dropped an octave lower, the way it always did when she was trying to maintain her composure. "Tumhe bhi yeh sab pata tha?" (And Drishti? You knew about all this too?)

The guilty silence and Drishti's subsequent nod only added to the theatrical tension in the room. The puppy chose this moment to let out a tiny yawn, completely oblivious to the drama.

Meera's keen eyes, swept across the assembled faces before landing on little Rudra, who had chosen this precise moment to showcase his boundless energy.

" And I found him in Shraddha and Abhimaan's room" Meera announced, her voice carrying a mix of exasperation and barely concealed amusement. The revelation hung in the air like a moment before bomb explosion.

As if on cue, little Rudra, began bouncing excitedly in his mother's arms. "Duu-duuu!" he squealed, his cherubic face lighting up with pure joy at the mention of what was clearly his name for the puppy. His tiny hands reached out toward the furry creature in his grandmother's arms, causing Shraddha to struggle with his increasingly enthusiastic movements.Abhimaan,  smoothly stepped forward and transferred his son into his own arms.

The revelation of Abhimaan's involvement sparked another dramatic chapter in Abhiveer's performance. His eyes widened comically as he turned to face his elder brother, disbelief painted across his features. "Bhai, aap ko bhi pata tha?"The words came out in a wounded whisper that could have won him an award in CATEGORY -Over drama

This time, it wasn't just Abhiveer who felt betrayed. Abhimanyu, shot a look of such profound betrayal at Abhimaan that it could have rivaled any soap opera close-up. The middle brother's usual composure cracked just enough to show his genuine surprise at being left out of the secret.

"Bhai bhai na raha," Veer declared with all the dramatic flair of a Bollywood protagonist, his hand pressed against his heart. Abhimanyu, momentarily forgetting his mother's presence, nodded in solidarity, his hand reaching out to pat Veer's shoulder in a gesture of shared betrayal.

"You stop moving your hand so much" Meera's sharp command cut through the theatrical moment, causing Abhimanyu to freeze mid-pat. His hand slowly descended like a deflating balloon, accompanied by a deep sigh that spoke volumes about the constant motherly supervision he was under.

The sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows seemed to pause on Abhimanyu's thoughtful face as his mind wandered to his father, Rajveer Malhotra. The absence of the family patriarch had left a void that everyone felt, but today, determination blazed in Abhimanyu's eyes. Today was the day for answers, and he would not rest until he got them.

Breaking through the tension, Meera's voice rang out clear and commanding: " "Who brought him?"The question hung in the air like a suspended crystal from the chandelier above. Almost comically, three pairs of eyes – belonging to Shraddha, Kiara, and Abhimaan – swiveled toward Drishti with the synchronization of a well-rehearsed dance sequence.

Drishti, caught in the spotlight of attention, fidgeted with the pallu of her saree, her guilty expression somehow making her look more endearing than ever. Abhimanyu couldn't help but smile at his wife's adorable discomfort, his eyes softening with affection despite the gravity of the situation. The love in his gaze was as warm as the morning sun that bathed the haveli's courtyard.

Abhiveer, ever the dramatic soul of the Malhotra clan, glided across the marble floor with exaggerated stealth to stand beside his wife, Kiara. His movement rustled the heavy curtains of silence that had descended upon the gathering. He leaned closer to Drishti, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that was paradoxically loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Drishti, you know bhai doesn't like dogs, right?"His eyes widened comically as he continued, " He said he'd kick me out if I brought a puppy home. Now who knows what he'll do!"

Drishti involuntarily gulped, her gaze darting to Abhimanyu, whose features had transformed from tender to annoyed. His irritation, however, wasn't directed at the puppy situation but at his younger brother's proximity to his wife, whispering things he couldn't hear. The protective streak that defined the Malhotra men was evident in his tightened jaw.

"Abhiveer Malhotra!" Meera's voice cracked through the air like lightning, making everyone jump slightly, except for the puppy who had dozed off in her arms. "Choose a place and stand still, or I'll turn your new car into ashes, understood?"

The threat sent Abhiveer scurrying behind Kiara, his arms wrapping around her petite frame in an impromptu embrace that made her cheeks flush crimson. "Veer, choriye!"  Kiara whispered, embarrassment coloring her voice as she tried to wiggle free from her husband's koala-like grip, her  suit rustling with the movement.

Drishti's finally gathered her courage to speak. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and determination, moved between her husband and mother-in-law. The massive crystal chandelier above seemed to hold its breath along with everyone else.

" I'm sorry, Maa"Drishti's voice was soft but steady, like the gentle flow of the fountain in the haveli's central courtyard. " I didn't want to hide him, but he's only a few weeks old and was shivering in the rain." Her fingers nervously adjusted her saree pallu as she continued, " When I learned that puppies weren't allowed in the haveli, I hid him."

Anxiety clouded her features as she stood there, clearly torn between her love for the innocent creature and the family's preferences. The thought of abandoning the puppy again made her heart clench visibly, causing her to unconsciously step closer to Abhimanyu.

Abhimanyu watched his wife intently, noting how her usual self had given way to vulnerability. His own stance softened as he observed her lost in worried thoughts. True, he had never been fond of dogs – a fact well-known throughout the haveli – but watching Drishti's concern for the tiny creature stirred something in him. The realization dawned that for his wife, he could adjust to having a furry addition to their family. After all, hadn't she adjusted to so many of his family's traditions without complaint?

In the background, little Rudra squealed with delight in his father Abhimaan's arms, his innocent joy providing a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. Shraddha watched the scene unfold with bated breath, her hand unconsciously reaching for her husband's free arm, while Abhimaan maintained his characteristic calm.

"Bhai doesn't like puppies, so we can't keep it" Abhiveer declared, his words causing Drishti's eyes to well up with emotion. She looked up, her eyes carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas, reminiscent of the very puppy she was trying to protect.

"But I like puppies" Drishti's voice trembled slightly, like a delicate wind chime in the breeze. " I promise he won't trouble anyone" Her earnest plea echoed through the hall, meeting the serious faces of her family members. The chandelier above seemed to twinkle in support of her heartfelt words.

Kiara, still trapped in Veer's protective embrace, attempted to retreat further.On the other side , Shraddha's fingers intertwined with Abhimaan's, seeking silent support as little Rudra dozed peacefully in his father's other arm, oblivious to the family drama.

Suddenly, like the sun breaking through monsoon clouds, Meera's face transformed with a knowing smile. Her eyes, carrying years of maternal wisdom, sparkled with mischief. "Hum mazaak kar rahe hai,"  she announced, her voice warm with affection. " You can keep the puppy, Drishti. By the way, I must say you're very good with little ones."

The implications of her words sent a wave of rosy blush across Drishti's cheeks, matching the deep crimson of her bindi. Abhimanyu, standing beside her, couldn't help but smirk, his eyes never leaving his wife's face, drinking in every subtle change in her expression like a man enchanted.

" Yes, I'm ready to become chachu again" Abhiveer chimed in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He gestured toward Shraddha with an exaggerated wink, " "And Ru needs someone to play with too. Right, bhabhi"

Shraddha, ever the graceful mediator, smiled diplomatically. " I agree with Veer. What do you think, Drishti?" The teasing lilt in her voice made Drishti's blush deepen to an impossible shade of red, while Abhimanyu continued to gaze at his wife, completely captivated by her endearing embarrassment.

"That's enough" Abhimanyu finally intervened, his voice carrying a protective edge." Don't drag my wife into this. If you want a child, have your own." His words were stern but his eyes betrayed his amusement at the situation.

Veer shook his head dramatically, pulling Kiara closer despite her attempts to wriggle free. " No no, my wife is still a baby herself. It'll be difficult for her to handle a child. We need time."His declaration made Kiara's cheeks flame like the roses in the haveli's garden, her embarrassment visible.

Meera,shook her head with maternal fondness at her children's playful banter.

"Alright, enough of this. Let's give this little one a proper name," she announced, looking down at the black bundle of fur that had somehow managed to unite the family in unexpected ways. The puppy raised its tiny head at her voice, dark eyes twinkling with innocent curiosity.

Then, from the most unexpected corner came a suggestion that made everyone turn their heads. Abhimaan, known for his quiet demeanor and practical approach to life, spoke up. "Oreo," he said simply, the name rolling off his tongue with surprising certainty. The suggestion hung in the air like a musical note.

Shraddha's eyes widened in astonishment as she turned to look at her husband. In all their years of marriage, she had never seen this whimsical side of him. The man who spent hours analyzing business reports had just named a puppy after a cookie, and somehow, it was perfect.

"That's actually perfect!" Abhiveer's voice boomed through the hall with characteristic enthusiasm, making the crystal chandelier tremble slightly. "Welcome to the family, Oreo!" His excited declaration earned him synchronized glares from everyone present, causing him to shrink back behind Kiara with an audible gulp. His wife couldn't help but shake her head affectionately at his antics, even as she tried to maintain a stern expression.

Little Rudra, still secure in his father's arms, seemed to approve of the name in his own special way. "Ooo ooo!" he squealed delightedly, his innocent laughter echoing through the hall like tiny silver bells, melting even the sternest expressions into smiles.

However, the warm moment was interrupted by Veer's question, one that brought a shadow across the previously lighthearted atmosphere. "Maa, where's papa?" he asked, his voice carrying an undertone of concern that was unusual for his typically carefree nature.

Meera's face clouded over like a sudden monsoon sky, her eyes dimming slightly. "I wish I knew, beta," she sighed, her voice heavy with unspoken worry. "I've tried reaching out, but he hasn't responded." The weight of her words settled over the family like a heavy blanket.

The mention of Rajveer Malhotra's absence triggered an immediate change in Abhimanyu. His jaw clenched visibly, and his eyes darkened with barely contained anger. The need for answers burned in his eyes like a flame, reflected in the ornate mirrors that lined the haveli's walls. Drishti noticed the shift in her husband's demeanor and instinctively moved closer to him, her presence a silent comfort.

The puppy, now officially christened Oreo, sensed the change in atmosphere and let out a small whimper, nuzzling deeper into Meera's arms.

Abhiveer

The basement of the  usually a silent , now harbored two figures in its dimly lit confines. The air was thick with tension, heavy like the monsoon clouds that threatened rain outside. Industrial lighting cast harsh shadows across the concrete walls, making every expression appear more dramatic, every gesture more intense.

I stood there, my fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the sleek wooden desk that looked oddly out of place in this utilitarian space. Across from me, Abhishek lounged in a metal chair with infuriating casualness, his expensive suit jacket draped carelessly over its back. The urge to strangle him grew stronger with each passing moment, though I had to admit – strictly to myself – that his brain occasionally produced useful ideas when it wasn't busy being thoroughly annoying.

"Listen, it's simple," Abhishek leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with that characteristic mischief that made him both an excellent strategist and an unbearable companion. "We can arrange for some women to attend, introduce them as your wife. Bhabhi won't have to deal with the social circus." He waved his hands as if orchestrating an imaginary performance, completely oblivious to my darkening expression.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting back a headache. The very thought of this charade made my blood boil. All I wanted was to spend my birthday with my wife, to hold her close and forget about the world outside. Was that too much to ask? The image of her smile flashed in my mind, worth more than any elaborate party could ever be.

"Shut the fuck up, Abhishek," I growled, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. The words carried a warning that would have made smarter men pause. Abhishek, unfortunately, wasn't among them. His responding grin only heightened my homicidal tendencies.

Like a particularly persistent salesman, he pressed on, straightening in his chair. "Okay, hear me out – you're already dodging the party, right? So why not throw one at the bar? Get everyone drinking, dancing, distracted..." His eyes sparkled with cunning. "Then when they're all too busy enjoying themselves to notice the birthday boy's absence – boom! You make your great escape."

I hated that the plan actually made sense. The thought of acknowledging this fact made me want to hit something, preferably him. Instead, I maintained my stoic expression, though a muscle twitched in my jaw.

Shifting to more pressing matters, I fixed him with an intense stare. "Did you contact the person I asked about?" The question hung heavy in the air, laden with unspoken implications. When he nodded, I closed my eyes, letting out a slow breath that carried the weight of gathering storm clouds.

The truth about my brother's shooting gnawed at my consciousness. The official story – a sniper, a clean shot – had never sat right with me. Now, with mounting evidence, I was certain: there had been no sniper, no professional hit. The real question, the one that kept me awake at night and brought me to this basement with Abhishek, was far more disturbing: How had my brother really been shot? And more importantly, why?

The hollow echo of knuckles against metal reverberated through the basement's stale air. Abhishek moved with practiced efficiency to open the door, revealing the man I'd been waiting for. His entrance carried the weight of a condemned man walking to his fate, fear radiating from him in almost visible waves.

The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the nervous twitching of his muscles. Beads of sweat had already begun forming on his temple despite the basement's cool air. "Good morning, sir," he managed to stammer out, his voice barely above a whisper in the cavernous space.

I acknowledged him with a curt nod, then gestured silently to Abhishek. Understanding flickered in his eyes, and he slipped out of the room like a shadow retreating from sunlight. The heavy door closed behind him with a sound that seemed to echo  doom.

Silence descended upon us like a suffocating blanket. The basement, with its concrete walls and  lighting, suddenly felt more like an interrogation chamber from a noir film. Just two men – one trembling with fear, the other calculating his next move.

"So, Rishi..." I let his name hang in the air like a suspended blade. His response was a jerky nod, fear making his movements puppet-like.

"Y-yes, sir," he stuttered, his suit doing nothing to hide the tremors running through his body.

With deliberate slowness, I reached for my gun, placing it on the polished wooden desk. The metallic sound it made against the surface was almost musical in the silent room. "I'm going to ask you some questions," I stated, my voice carrying the chill of a winter morning. "One chance for honest answers. If not..." I gestured toward the gun, its chrome surface gleaming menacingly under the harsh lights. "My weapon has a particular fondness for hearts."

Rising from my leather chair, I took measured steps toward him. Each click of my Italian leather shoes against the concrete floor was like a countdown in the silent room. I noticed how he instinctively shifted backward, his body betraying his terror even as he tried to maintain composure.

"Where exactly was my brother shot? Location, time – I want details." My eyes bore into his, searching for truth in their depths. What I found there was fascinating – knowledge, definitely knowledge of something crucial, something I didn't know. But there was also loyalty there, the kind my brother inspired in his most trusted men. Whatever secrets Rishi held, they were locked behind steel walls of devotion.

The sudden electronic chirp of his phone shattered the tension like glass. He fumbled for it, hands shaking, and the screen illuminated with a single word that made both our hearts skip: 'Boss'. My brother's timing had always been impeccable, whether he knew it or not.

I motioned for him to answer, adding a silent command to put it on speaker. The tremble in Rishi's hands intensified – he knew as well as I did that one wrong word, one subtle hint to my brother, and I'd be facing consequences that would make this interrogation look like my funeral discussion.

"Rishi, send me the funds file," my brother's voice filled the room, authoritative even through the phone's speaker.

"Yes, b-boss," Rishi responded, his voice wavering as I pressed the cold barrel of my gun against his neck. I traced it slowly across his skin, watching fresh beads of sweat roll down his forehead. His Adam's apple bobbed violently with each swallow, his entire body rigid with terror.

The basement air grew thicker with tension as my brother's voice crackled through the phone's speaker again. "Rishi, seriously? Are you alright?" The concern in his voice was palpable, like a physical presence in the room. I locked eyes with Rishi, my finger pressing against my lips in a silent command. One wrong word, and this entire situation would explode in my  face.

Rishi, to his credit, managed to steady his voice despite the gun still pressed against his skin. "Everything's fine, Boss. I'm just with family right now. I'll send your file shortly." The lie flowed smoothly, almost convincingly, and I couldn't help but smirk. My brother might be brilliant, but surely he couldn't see through this.

"Alright then," came the reply, followed by the call's end tone echoing in the silent basement.

I removed the gun from Rishi's neck, but kept it visible – a chrome reminder of consequences. "Start talking, Rishi. Remember, one lie and this bullet finds a new home in your heart." The fluorescent lights overhead flickered ominously, as if emphasizing my threat.

Just as Rishi's lips parted to speak, my phone burst into life, its ringtone shattering the tense atmosphere. Looking at the caller ID, I felt a smile creep across my face – equal parts admiration and resignation. Of course he knew. He always knew.

The moment I accepted the call, my brother's voice exploded through the speaker, filling the basement with his fury. "Abhiveer Malhotra, have you lost your mind? Leave my assistant alone!" His words bounced off the concrete walls like physical projectiles.

A giggle escaped my lips – inappropriate perhaps, but I couldn't help it. My brothers had always been able to read me like an open book, anticipating my moves before I made them. The three of us were connected by something deeper than blood – an understanding that transcended normal sibling bonds.

"Tell him to give me the truth, and I'll let him go," I countered, keeping my voice light despite the gravity of the situation. A deep sigh filtered through the phone, followed by a moment of weighted silence that seemed to last an eternity.

"You're impossible, Veer," he finally spoke, exasperation clear in his voice. "I swear I'll kick your ass if you so much as breathe threateningly in his direction again." The promise of violence in his tone was almost affectionate – a uniquely Malhotra way of showing concern.

I glanced at Rishi, who stood frozen like a statue, perfectly still as if movement itself might trigger disaster. Smart man.

The tension in my voice crackled like static electricity as I gripped my phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. "Either you tell me the truth, or He'll be in my way." The threat hung heavy in the air, each word deliberate and sharp.

There was a pause on the other end – brief but weighted with unspoken words. Then his voice came through, softer than I expected, yet somehow more ominous. "Ok fine, leave him. I'm gonna tell you all the truth, but in front of our father."

My heart skipped a beat, confusion washing over me like a cold wave. In front of Papa? The mere suggestion sent warning bells ringing through my mind. Something wasn't adding up – Bhai never voluntarily involved our father in anything, let alone for a confession.

"Ok fine," I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady even as my thoughts raced. The line went dead with an abrupt click, leaving me standing in my dimly lit study, the evening sun casting long shadows through the venetian blinds.

I found myself smiling despite the situation, staring at my phone's darkened screen which reflected my conflicted expression. Then my gaze shifted to Rishi, who stood frozen like a deer in headlights, his usually confident demeanor completely shattered.

The air between us grew thick with anticipation as I fixed him with a pointed look. "Leave," I said, my voice carrying a hint of amusement despite the gravity of the situation. "Your boss is now mad at me. So you want him to kill me?"

Rishi's eyes widened comically, and he shook his head with such vigor it would have been funny under different circumstances. Without a word, he practically bolted from the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway like scattered thunder.

Alone at last, I leaned back against my mahogany desk, a mix of determination and mischief playing across my features. "Fine, Abhiveer Malhotra," I whispered to the empty room, tasting each syllable of his name like a bittersweet candy, "get ready to be scolded hard."

The setting sun painted the room in shades of amber and gold, a dramatic backdrop to what promised to be an even more dramatic confrontation. Whatever truth awaited me in front of Papa.

Shraddha

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I felt the tension in my chest building. The soft evening light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a gentle golden glow across our spacious bedroom. I sat cross-legged on the plush king-sized bed, surrounded by scattered pillows – silent witnesses to our daily ritual of love and patience.

My little tornado, Rudra, was in one of his impossibly energetic moods. Like a playful butterfly, he crawled across the cotton sheets, moving from corner to corner with surprising speed for such tiny limbs. His infectious giggles filled the room like tinkling bells, each laugh a melody that both tested my patience and melted my heart.

I tried to maintain a stern expression, furrowing my brows and pursing my lips in what I hoped was a convincing display of motherly disapproval. The moment our eyes met, Rudra froze mid-crawl, his chubby face a picture of innocent mischief.

"Kyu mumma ko pareshan kar rahe hai aap, Rudra?" I asked, watching as he immediately pressed his face into the mattress, his little shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. Despite my best efforts, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth – I quickly tried to hide it, maintaining my facade of seriousness.

His small head popped up, those big eyes – exact replicas of Maan's – looking at me with a mixture of playfulness and determination. He shook his head vigorously, his gaze fixed on the small glass of milk in my hand before pointing definitively towards my breast. The age-old battle between mother and child played out once again.

"Baccha, drink this much na. Usske baad I'll feed you," I reasoned, my voice soft but pleading. His response was immediate – a dramatic head shake that sent his silky black curls bouncing. The stubborn streak he'd inherited from his father was on full display.

Exhaustion crept into my bones as I thought about the men in my life – this precious little one refusing his milk, and his father, who'd barricaded himself in his study since returning with Abhimanyu. The parallel stubbornness would have been amusing if it weren't so frustrating.

Admitting temporary defeat, I placed the barely-touched glass of milk on the wooden bedside table, its contents catching the warm light like liquid gold. I crossed my arms, trying one last time to appear stern. "Fine, don't drink."

The effect was immediate – Rudra's face lit up with triumph, and he crawled towards me like a little soldier on a mission. As I lifted him into my arms, he immediately snuggled close, his warm little body fitting perfectly against mine like two puzzle pieces meant to be together.

"Mumma," he whispered, the word carrying all the love in his tiny world. My heart swelled as I ran my fingers through his soft, baby-fine hair, each strand like silk against my skin. His responding giggle was pure joy distilled into sound.

As I began to feed him, I draped my pallu carefully over us, creating our own intimate sanctuary. Leaning back against the padded headboard, I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of my baby in my arms, listening to his contented little sounds. In this moment, despite the day's challenges, everything felt perfectly, completely right – this was motherhood in its purest form, exhausting and beautiful in equal measure.

The peaceful cocoon of our moment was interrupted by movement at the doorway. My eyes fluttered open to find Maan standing there, his broad shoulder propped against the wooden frame, watching us with an expression that was equal parts irritation and undisguised affection. A quick glance down revealed Rudra's cherubic face peeking out from beneath my pallu, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he spotted his father. The evening had settled into a quiet symphony around us – Oreo safely with Kiara, Drishti tending to Abhimanyu in another part of our sprawling home, and Maa finally resting after yesterday's emotional storm, the medicine I'd given her ensuring her much-needed sleep. Papa was out, and Abhiveer... well, he remained as elusive as ever.

"My wife's all yours, Rudra Abhimaan Malhotra. I can't even spend some time with her," Maan declared with mock severity, his deep voice carrying that special tone reserved only for our son. My eyes widened at his playful complaint, a blush creeping up my cheeks. This man and his unabashed declarations never failed to catch me off guard.

"Mumma," Rudra mumbled contentedly, returning to nursing with renewed enthusiasm. The doctor's words echoed in my mind – his intolerance to regular milk's high fat content made these intimate feeding sessions necessary, though some might raise eyebrows at nursing a toddler. Just days ago, he'd attempted his first steps, a wobbly but determined effort I'd captured on video. Maa's joy at watching it had been boundless, her eyes shining with the pure delight only a grandmother could possess.

"Ha ha mumma," Maan whispered teasingly before disappearing into our walk-in closet, the soft rustle of fabric following in his wake. My body ached, every joint protesting the day's activities. The familiar tenderness and fatigue signaled my approaching cycle, adding to the weight of exhaustion settling over me like a heavy blanket.

When I noticed Rudra's breathing had evened out into the peaceful rhythm of sleep, Maan emerged from the closet transformed – fresh clothes clinging to his athletic frame, a subtle hint of his signature cologne trailing behind him. He moved toward us with the quiet grace of a man accustomed to navigating around sleeping children. His eyes met mine in silent question, gesturing toward our sleeping son. Understanding flowed between us in that wordless exchange – years of marriage had perfected our silent communication.

With practiced care, I detached Rudra and buttoned my blouse, the soft silk cool against my skin. I passed our precious bundle to Maan, watching as he pressed a tender kiss to our son's forehead before laying him on the other side of our king-sized bed. The gentle way this strong man handled our child never failed to make my heart flutter.

Rising to change my own clothes, I attempted to slip past him in the dimming light of evening. But Maan had other plans. His hand caught my wrist, warm and firm, pulling me toward him with the perfect balance of gentleness and desire. The aches in my joints seemed to fade as I found myself drawn into his embrace, the familiar scent of his cologne enveloping me like a comfortable dream.

he started tracing my jawline with his fingers, a rush of tingles spread across my skin, igniting every nerve ending. I felt as though my heart was racing to keep up with the rising tide of desire within me, each heartbeat a reminder of how long I had yearned for this moment.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat stretching into eternity as he looked at me with such profound longing it took my breath away. After a year of emotional distance, his touch held not just desire, but a deep, aching love that made my knees weak.

“Can I have  Rudra’s food as well?” he murmured, and my breath hitched, caught in the web of anticipation. His thumb brushed against my lower lip, and I gasped, the air suddenly charged with heat. Our eyes locked, and I saw the darkness swirling in his gaze—a potent mix of desire and something deeper. When he slowly removed the pallu from my shoulder, exposing my collarbone, my heart raced even faster. I felt a rush of vulnerability mingled with exhilaration as the sheer fabric slipped away, leaving my skin bare to the warmth of his gaze.

His eyes devoured me, igniting a fire deep within, and I could feel my body responding instinctively. As he leaned in, his tongue traced a tantalizing path across my cleavage, and I arched my back, surrendering to the sensations that enveloped me. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down my spine, spiraling through me like a live wire. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of us in this electrifying bubble of heat and longing.

“You are mine, fucking mine” he breathed fiercely, and those words sent a rush of exhilaration coursing through my veins. When his lips crashed onto mine, I was taken off guard, the intensity of his kiss consuming me entirely. It felt like he was pouring every unspoken emotion, every repressed desire into that singular moment. I opened my mouth, gasping for air, my heart pounding as his tongue slid in, exploring every corner with a fervor that left me dizzy. I felt alive, every inch of me awakening to his touch.

His hand moved to my breast, squeezing it tightly, and a gasp escaped my lips at the sensation, a mixture of pleasure and surprise that ignited a fire in my core. I clutched his shirt tightly, my fingers digging into the fabric as my toes curled with anticipation. My knees felt weak, as if the ground beneath me had turned to liquid, and I struggled to remain upright as he pulled me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist, caging me in a possessive embrace that felt both thrilling and comforting.

As he broke the kiss, I was left breathless, my chest heaving with the effort of trying to inhale. The world around me swirled in a haze of desire and longing. But Maan was relentless, his fingers deftly working to undo the buttons of my blouse, exposing my skin inch by inch. Each brush of his fingers against my exposed skin sent waves of heat coursing through me, igniting every nerve ending. I could hardly think, my mind spinning as I surrendered to the intoxicating desire that enveloped us, feeling both vulnerable and empowered.

The soft golden glow of the bedside lamp cast dancing shadows across our bedroom walls as I caught his wandering hand, meeting his dark eyes filled with barely contained desire and a flash of irritation.

"Maan," I whispered, my voice tender but firm as I gestured toward our sleeping son. "Rudra is right here." My trembling fingers worked to secure the buttons he'd managed to undo, but his strong hands pulled me closer, his warm breath tickling my ear as his lips found that sensitive spot just below my earlobe.

"Exactly," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "He's sleeping." His skilled fingers traced a path back to my blouse, but I gently intercepted them, my heart racing at his touch even as I resisted.

"No," I protested softly, stealing a glance at our precious child. "Not in front of my baccha." The moonlight streaming through the gossamer curtains illuminated Rudra's peaceful face, his long lashes casting delicate shadows on his cherubic cheeks.

Maan rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Fine," he conceded, his voice thick with promise. "But next time I catch you alone..." He let the words hang in the air between us, and I shivered despite the warm night air, a blush creeping across my cheeks as he pressed a tender kiss to my forehead.

I leaned into his embrace, inhaling his familiar scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him. My heart ached with the weight of unspoken truths. He had given me everything I'd yearned for since childhood – love, security, a family – but the secret I carried threatened to destroy it all. One day, when the truth emerged, his love would turn to hatred, and I was powerless to prevent it.

After changing into my silk nightdress, its lavender fabric cool against my skin, I returned to find him bathed in the blue light of his phone screen. His eyes lifted to meet mine, and the tenderness in his gaze made my breath catch. Without a word, he crossed the room and swept me into his arms as if I weighed nothing, my own arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

"Maan," I breathed his name like a prayer as he laid me gently on our bed, the cotton sheets whispering beneath us. He slid in beside me, his strong arms creating a protective cocoon around my body. Rudra lay on my other side, a small pillow guarding the edge of the bed. I turned to our son, pressing a kiss to his forehead and running my fingers through his silky hair, so like his father's. Maan's lips found my temple, and I couldn't help but smile at the gesture of pure affection.

As Maan tucked his arm beneath my head, creating a warm pillow, I settled into the perfect comfort of his embrace. Beside us, Rudra stirred in his sleep, instinctively seeking closer contact as he nuzzled against my stomach. A mother's love bloomed in my chest at his innocent gesture.

"He can't even let me have you alone when he's sleeping," Maan grumbled good-naturedly against my hair. I turned to him with wide eyes, my heart full to bursting with love for both my boys, even as that persistent shadow of fear lingered in the depths of my soul. This moment was perfect – but how many more perfect moments would we have before my secret tore us apart?

"Maan," I whispered affectionately, watching his expression in the moonlit room. "He's our baby. Why are you jealous of him?" His fingers danced across my face, tenderly sweeping away the errant strands of hair that had fallen across my eyes. The touch was gossamer-light, yet it sent warmth coursing through me. "Stop being jealous of my baby."

He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief in the dim light. The shadows played across his chiseled features as he regarded me with mock indignation. "You think I'm jealous?" The corner of his mouth quirked up in that half-smile that never failed to make my heart skip a beat.

I nodded, fighting back a grin as I watched his expression shift from playful to possessive. The sheet rustled softly as he drew me closer, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety tone that was reserved only for me.

"It's my right to be jealous for my wife," he declared, his words carrying both tenderness and an unmistakable note of pride. A smile bloomed across my face at his childish declaration – this successful, powerful man, reduced to playful pouting over sharing my attention with our son.

"It's useless to argue with you," I murmured, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "You're just like your son." The similarities between them never ceased to amaze me – the same stubborn determination, the same protective instincts, even the same adorable pout when they didn't get their way.

His rich laughter filled the room, a sound that never failed to fill my heart with joy. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, his lips lingering against my skin. The familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the fresh laundry smell of our sheets, creating a cocoon of comfort that was uniquely ours.

"I'm not like him, love," he corrected, his voice swelling with paternal pride. "He is like me, just like me." The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his eyes as he gazed down at me, and in that moment, I could see all the dreams and hopes he held for our son reflected in their depths.

As if sensing he was being discussed, Rudra let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his small hand clutching the fabric of my nightdress. The sight made both of us smile, this perfect little being who was indeed his father's mirror image.

The night deepened around us,  Sleep began to weave its spell, my eyelids growing heavy as I nestled deeper into Maan's embrace. His steady heartbeat against my back and Rudra's peaceful breathing created a symphony of contentment. As we drifted off into deep slumber, I was enveloped by the warmth of their love, my two precious boys – so alike in their devotion, so similar in their hearts.

The last conscious thought that floated through my mind was a prayer that this perfect moment could last forever, even as I knew the storm of truth lurked somewhere on our horizon. But for now, in the safety of darkness and love, we were complete.

Abhimanyu

I adjusted my shirt, staring at my reflection in the ornate floor-length mirror. The polished silver frame seemed to mock me, distorting my image ever so slightly – or perhaps it was just my troubled mind playing tricks. Since discovering the truth or facade, even my own reflection had become a stranger, taunting me with questions of identity. The weight of deception hung heavy in the air, making each breath feel like inhaling shards of glass.

The revelation about my father – or the man I'd always known as my father – had carved a chasm in my reality. My mother's involvement added another layer of complexity to this web of secrets. Her recent breakdown, marked by endless tears and sleepless night, had etched new lines of worry on her face. The sight of her suffering tempered my anger, though the questions continued to burn inside me like slow poison. Who am I really? Whose blood runs through my veins?

As I entered the sunlit family hall, the scene before me was a picture of domestic tranquility that felt both comforting and painfully ironic. The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the Persian carpet and illuminating dancing dust motes in its golden rays. The air was rich with the aroma of freshly brewed masala chai and the lingering sweetness of breakfast pastries.

Veer, sat cross-legged on the plush sofa, his impish grin  as he dangled a chocolate chip cookie just out of little Rudra's reach. The toddler's chubby hands grasped at air, his giggles filling the room with innocent joy. Kiara, perched beside them in her powder-blue salwar kameez, alternated between mediating their playful dispute and joining in their laughter.

My mother sat in her favorite wingback chair, wrapped in a soft pashmina shawl despite the warm morning. Bhabhi hovered beside her with the quiet efficiency, gently coaxing her to take her medications. The rattle of pills in their plastic container seemed to echo my internal turmoil. Bhaiya was absorbed in his phone, the blue light reflecting off his glasses, though I noticed his eyes occasionally darting toward mother with barely concealed concern.

The absence of my wife created a peculiar void in the tableau, but as if summoned by my thoughts, she appeared through the kitchen doorway. She balanced a silver tray laden with steaming cups of tea, her bangles creating a subtle musical accompaniment to her graceful movements. Her georgette saree, the color of summer roses, whispered against the marble floor as she approached. Our eyes met, and her smile – warm and knowing – momentarily steadied my tumultuous thoughts.

"Aap ne breakfast ke pehle wali medicine kha li?" she asked, her voice carrying equal measures of love and gentle admonishment. Those bitter pills had become a daily reminder of my  vulnerabilities, but her concern made them slightly more bearable.

"Ji haa biwi," I responded, managing a smile that felt almost genuine. She nodded, satisfied, before turning toward Mr. Malhotra – the man whose presence both attracted and repelled me, like opposite poles of a magnet. He sat in his customary place, a figure of authority in his crisp white kurta, setting aside his newspaper with deliberate slowness as my wife offered him his tea.

My heart thundered in my chest as I approached him, the file in my hand feeling as heavy as all the secrets it contained. With a controlled movement that belied my inner turmoil, I placed – no, slammed – the file beside his teacup, causing the china to rattle slightly. The sound seemed to freeze the domestic tableau around us, like a photograph capturing the moment before a storm breaks.

"Can you explain this, Mr. Malhotra?" My voice carried a weight I'd never heard in it before, each word dropping like stones into still water.

His eyes lifted to meet mine – those familiar eyes that had watched me grow, that had crinkled with pride at my achievements, now regarded me with an unsettling calmness. The way he reached for the file, with such practiced composure, made my stomach churn. Time seemed to stretch as he opened it, the whisper of papers being turned the only sound in the suddenly hushed room. But it was his silence that truly undid me – the complete absence of surprise, the carefully maintained blank expression that told me everything I needed to know.

"Where did you get this?" His question came out measured, controlled – the voice of a man who had spent years managing crises, but never one quite like this.

I felt the weight of every eye in the room, the collective intake of breath from my family members. Drishti stood beside me, her presence a warm anchor in this storm of emotions. Her fingers brushed against mine, offering silent support, but even her touch couldn't calm the tempest brewing inside me.

"Seriously, Mr. Malhotra?" The words exploded from me, dripping with bitter incredulity. "Don't you think you should be the one answering questions? After reading all of this" – I gestured wildly at the file – "all you want to know is how I got it? What was your plan – to let me live forever in this lie? To keep me stumbling in the dark while you all played your parts perfectly?" My voice rose with each question, bouncing off the walls of our family home.

The name 'Abhimanyu Malhotra' – my name, the only identity I'd known – suddenly felt foreign on my tongue, like a borrowed coat that had never quite fit right.

"Beta, kya hua hai? Raj, what's in the file?" Maa's voice cut through my rage like a knife through butter. She rose from her chair, her morning tea forgotten, the pallu of her powder blue silk saree slipping from her shoulder as she moved to stand beside Mr. Malhotra. The golden borders of her saree caught the morning light, creating a momentary halo around her petite frame. The sight of her – so small, so fragile in her traditional attire, the familiar mangalsutra gleaming at her neck – made my heart constrict. Her eyes, already brimming with tears, searched Mr. Malhotra's face for answers.

He reached up to pat her hand, shaking his head in a gesture I'd seen a thousand times before. "Nothing, Meera. Relax," he soothed, his voice gentle with her even now. The contrast between his tenderness toward her and his stone-faced response to me made my blood boil hotter.

"Why don't you answer, Mr. Malhotra?" I demanded, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Why don't you tell everyone the truth?" I watched as he sighed, placing the file on the polished teakwood table with deliberate slowness, the sound of paper meeting wood echoing in the tense silence.

Behind me, I felt Bhaiya's presence materialize like a protective shadow. He'd always been my wall, my fortress against the world's storms. Even now, as everything I knew crumbled around me, he stood firm – though a new, terrible thought struck me: was he too part of this elaborate deception?

"What happened, Manyu?" The question hung in the air, heavy with  concern that now felt like another carefully crafted deception. My vision blurred as tears gathered, but I refused to let them fall. The crystal chandelier above cast fractured light across the room, its shadows dancing like the pieces of my shattered identity.

"Ask him," I managed, my voice thick with emotion, each word feeling like glass in my throat. "Ask him why he never told me I'm not his son. Why he hid that I don't carry his blood." The words tasted bitter on my tongue. "Both of them – the people I called my parents – didn't even think it necessary to tell me the truth." My eyes darted between them, searching for any crack in their facade.

Bhaiya's sharp intake of breath beside me was audible in the tense silence. His eyes widened, the shock genuine enough to make me wonder if he too had been kept in the dark. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to pause, as if nature itself was holding its breath for what would come next.

"You are my son. My blood and flesh!" Mr. Malhotra's voice exploded through the room with such force that the teacups on the table rattled. His usual composed demeanor cracked, revealing something raw and primal underneath. He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the Persian carpet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Confusion swirled in my mind like autumn leaves in a storm. "Lies," I spat out, the word tasting like poison. "Don't feed me more lies, Mr. Malhotra." Each syllable of his name felt like a betrayal on my tongue.

He crossed the space between us with purposeful strides, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor. Standing before me, close enough that I could smell his familiar  cologne, his presence was both comforting and suffocating.

"It's true," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper that somehow carried more weight than his shout. "You're the heir of the Chauhans. Yes, you will inherit all their properties and clubs." His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that made me want to step back, but pride kept me rooted. "But you, Mr. Abhimanyu Rajveer Malhotra, you are my son, and she" – he gestured to Maa, who stood trembling in her silk saree, tears streaming down her cheeks – "is your mother. And now," his voice took on a dangerous edge, "I know who's behind your injured arm."

The mention of my injury sent a phantom pain through my bandaged arm, a reminder of the attack that had started this cascade of revelations. Confusion deepened the furrows in my brow – what connection could there be between my heritage and the attempt on my life?

Abhiveer stepped forward, his movement fluid and predatory, like a panther sensing prey. "Who's behind the shooting?" he demanded, his protective instincts flaring. I sighed inwardly – my brother, always focused on the immediate threat. But a new thought occurred to me: if this person had lied about my past, perhaps he didn't deserve the protection I'd been offering him.

"Abhiveer, call Sanjeet Chauhan." Mr. Malhotra's voice had transformed into something I'd never heard before – cold, lethal, the voice of a man prepared to wage war. "Tell him his death is approaching. If he has any last wishes, he better fulfill them himself, because I won't give him even a blink of second to breathe." The words fell like ice shards in the morning air before he strode out of the hall, his footsteps echoing with deadly purpose.

Abhiveer, ever the dutiful  son, immediately pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. I couldn't help but think, 'Papa ka chamcha' – always ready to execute orders without question.

My eyes fell back to the damning papers that had started this all. The legal documents that proclaimed me the son of Urmila and Dheeraj Chauhan stared back at me, their official seals mocking my confusion. Frustration coursed through me as I ran my fingers through my hair, the familiar gesture doing nothing to calm the storm in my mind. Bhaiya approached the abandoned file, lifting it with careful hands as Veer, unable to contain his curiosity, peered around his elder brother's broad shoulders, his usually mischievous face now marked with concern.

The weight of uncertainty drew me toward Maa, who sat looking up at me with eyes that shimmered like monsoon clouds heavy with rain. As our gazes met, the tear I'd been fighting so hard to contain finally broke free, trailing down my cheek like a silent confession of vulnerability.

"You are my baccha," she said, her voice trembling but fierce with maternal conviction. "No one else's. Mera chota sa shaitan Abhimanyu." Her words carried the weight of years of bedtime stories, scraped knees, and proud smiles. "I carried you in my womb for nine months, baccha." Each word was punctuated by tears that traced silver paths down her cheeks, the morning light catching them like scattered diamonds.

I fell to my knees before her, the marble floor hard against my legs, but I barely noticed the discomfort as I wrapped my arm around her. The familiar scent of jasmine from her hair and the softness of her silk saree against my face brought back a flood of childhood memories. "I thought everything was a lie," I confessed into the folds of her saree. "Me, you, Papa, Bhaiya, Veer... my entire childhood, my upbringing." The words felt like stones being lifted from my chest.

Her hands, slightly trembling but infinitely gentle, came up to cup my cheeks. The golden bangles on her wrists chimed softly with the movement, a sound that had been the background music of my childhood. "It's my fault," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I should have told you. Because of me, my baccha got shot." Her words were punctuated by fresh tears, each one feeling like a knife in my heart.

"Nahi Maa, please stop crying," I pleaded, my own voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate for the pain I'd caused her, but they were all I had.

"But Maa," Bhaiya's measured voice cut through our emotional moment, his finger pointing to the document in his hands. "What is this?" The question hung in the air like suspended dust motes caught in the morning light. I turned to look at Maa, seeking answers in her tear-stained face as she drew a deep breath, preparing to unravel what I suspected would be a story as complex as the network of emotions that bound our family together.

"Dheeraj Chauhan and your Papa were best friends," she began, her voice growing stronger with each word, as if the truth itself was lending her strength. "It was when Maan was just a year old, and I was pregnant with Manyu. Urmila was expecting too." Her eyes grew distant, looking back through the corridors of time. "Dheeraj Chauhan's family had only his elder brother, Sanjeet Chauhan – unmarried, running a political party. While Dheeraj managed numerous clubs and businesses, both here and abroad, Sanjeet's heart grew black with jealousy."

The morning sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows as Maa continued, "Your Papa and Dheeraj were like brothers. Dheeraj would confide in him about Sanjeet's murderous plots. One day, he made us promise – if anything happened to him, we would protect his wife and unborn child." Her voice caught. "We agreed, never imagining that promise would be tested so soon."

Her fingers twisted the edge of her pallu as she recalled that fateful day. "The day I gave birth to Manyu, your father received a call. He ran out without a word, returning later with tears streaming down his face. Sanjeet had shot Dheeraj." The room seemed to grow colder with this revelation. "Your father had lost his brother that day. Then we learned Urmila was in labor."

She looked at me tenderly, her hand reaching out to smooth my hair – a gesture so familiar it made my heart ache. "You were so tiny, sleeping peacefully in your crib, with Maan resting on the hospital bed beside me. When we reached the hall, the doctors delivered the crushing news – Urmila's baby was stillborn. We were paralyzed with grief, knowing we'd have to tell her she'd lost both her husband and son on the same day."

Maa's voice softened to a whisper, heavy with the weight of past decisions. "That's when we made the choice to give you to her as her baby. I didn't want to – every fiber of my being rebelled against it – but her condition was deteriorating rapidly. When I placed you in her arms, she looked at you with such love, and do you know what she said first?" She paused, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead before whispering, "Abhimanyu."

I stared at her in shock, the revelation washing over me like a wave. The name I'd carried all my life – it hadn't come from the woman I'd called Maa all these years, but from Urmila, who had claimed me as her own in that moment of shared grief and love.

The morning light caught the tears on Maa's cheeks, transforming them into diamonds of truth finally set free. In that moment, I understood that family isn't just about blood – it's about the choices we make to protect those we love, even when those choices break our own hearts.

"She was so happy playing with you," Maa continued, her voice soft with remembered pain and joy intermingled. "The doctors kept her under observation for several days, and she wouldn't let you out of her sight for a moment." Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her saree as she spoke. "I would stand in the doorway, my heart aching to hold my baby, but seeing how you breathed life back into her broken spirit – I found solace in that. When the nurses gave her sleeping medication, I would secretly creep in to feed you, my tears mixing with your midnight milk."

She paused, her eyes distant with memories. "Maan, so young and innocent then, would constantly ask me, 'Maa, when are you bringing my little brother home?' Each time, the words would lodge in my throat like thorns. Every legal document bore the name 'Abhimanyu Chauhan' – you became her son, heir to the vast Chauhan empire. But fate wasn't finished with its cruel dance."

The morning light caught the silver in her hair as she continued, her voice growing tenser. "When Sanjeet discovered the truth, he began his manipulations anew. Like a spider weaving a web of poison, he worked in the shadows until one day..." Her voice cracked. "He succeeded. He told her the devastating truth – that both her husband and biological son had died. She refused to believe it, clutching to her belief that you were her son. But Sanjeet..." Maa's hands trembled. "He pushed her to such extremes that her heart simply... stopped beating."

I sat there, frozen, as the weight of these revelations settled over me like a heavy blanket. My injured arm throbbed, a physical reminder of present dangers. "He tried to claim you then," Maa continued, "to seize the inheritance for himself. But your Papa..." Pride crept into her voice. "Your Papa shot him in the legs. Sanjeet fled, limping into the shadows, never to be seen again. Until now, it seems he's returned, determined to finish what he started."

The pain in my injured arm intensified, making me wince. Maa noticed immediately, maternal concern flooding her features. "I know it's a lot to digest, beta," she soothed, her hand reaching for mine. "Par aapke Papa majboor the, aur Maa bhi." Guilt coursed through me like a river breaking its banks – I had spoken so harshly to Papa, questioning his love, his honor.

"Veer," I called out to my younger brother, who stepped forward with the quiet grace that belied his fierce nature.

"Ji bhai," he responded, his eyes sharp with attention.

"You wanted to know what happened, right?" I managed a smile as he nodded eagerly. "I'll tell you everything once my mind clears, but Papa was right – Sanjeet Chauhan pulled the trigger."

A dangerous smile curved Veer's lips, reminding me of a predator scenting blood. "My men are already searching," he said, his voice carrying the cold efficiency of our family's less public dealings. "Once he's within my grasp, I'll ensure he regrets ever existing." The threat hung in the air like smoke.

Exhausted by revelations and emotion, I laid my head in Maa's lap, finding comfort in this familiar position. Her fingers, gentle and loving, began threading through my hair, each stroke carrying years of protected love. The morning sun painted warm patterns across the floor, and for the first time since this storm began, I felt anchored – not by blood or documents, but by the unshakeable foundation of mother's love.

The chandelier above cast prismatic patterns across the walls, like scattered pieces of our story finally falling into place. Though my heart ached for the woman who had named me, who had loved me as her own in her brief time, I felt no deep connection beyond compassion. My truth lay here, in the gentle touch of the woman who had carried me, in the fierce protection of my father and brothers, in the unbreakable bonds that transcended mere biology.