Abhimaan let out a deep breath—measured, heavy. Not the breath of a tired man, but one bound by restraint, his thoughts sharp as blades. The kind of breath you release when truth threatens to burn a hole in your chest.
His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the dark mahogany table. Each tap—a distant echo in the thick silence of the study—matched the pulse of tension pulsing just beneath the surface.
Across the room, the old man sat still, spine straight despite the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. His silver-handled cane rested against his knee, fingers curled around it like a general holding onto a relic from an old war. The shadows cast by the dim chandelier above danced across his worn face, settling in the deep creases carved by both triumph and regret.
Abhimaan finally turned toward him, the firelight flickering against his chiseled features.
"She knows her father is alive."
The words were not an accusation, nor a revelation—they were a confirmation. Cold. Final.
The old man's hand clenched the cane tighter. The silver glinted with pressure. His eyes, dimmed by age but not by command, rose slowly to meet his son's. In them swirled a thousand unsaid words, and behind them—a storm.
But Abhimaan wasn't looking for permission.
He was laying down truth.
"She's always been aware," he continued, voice low, sharp with reluctant clarity. "But her mother's family—those simple, kind-hearted people—they filled the silence with something we never did."
He hesitated, then added softly, "Love. Real love. So much of it that Mehendi never had to go looking for what was missing. They made her whole."
The old man didn't speak. But the knuckles of his hand turned bone-white around the cane. The room, already heavy, grew heavier.
Abhimaan's eyes narrowed, hardening. "She's not naive. She's confident. And that confidence comes from knowing she was chosen—cherished. She believes her mother would have told her the truth if it mattered. That's why she doesn't ask. That's why she doesn't care."
He gave a bitter chuckle—dry, cold. "That's why, even after seeing her father at the Holi party… she walked away. Not out of pain. Not out of anger. But out of indifference."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice sharp as a blade.
"She loves her mother. Unconditionally. And for that love—she can erase the man who never showed up."
Silence engulfed the study like a veil. The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the old wooden doors, laughter echoed—remnants of the celebration still drifting through the corridors.
Abhimaan's gaze didn't waver. "Father," he said finally, with quiet weight, "Should we inform Big Brother?"
The old man stared into the fire. The orange glow flickered in his eyes. Then, his head moved—once. Slowly.
"No."
Abhimaan frowned. "But—"
"Let nature take its course," the old man cut in, voice quieter now. But no less powerful. "She's with them now. With him. Let's see what unfolds."
Abhimaan leaned back, his jaw tightening. There was so much beneath the surface. So much unsaid. But he didn't press further. Not yet.
The old man's voice softened, barely above a whisper. "Just give her what she deserves… love. That is her right. She is our blood. Whether she knows it or not, that truth binds her to us."
He turned then, slowly, and met his son's eyes.
"And we will honor it."
For a moment, something human flickered across his face. Not weakness. Not regret. But longing—an old ache that had never truly left.
But the softness vanished as quickly as it came.
His eyes darkened.
"But tread carefully," he warned. "Don't stir the whispers around Sugand's daughter."
Abhimaan's body tensed. His hand stilled.
The old man's tone dropped, sharp as a scalpel. "We still have doubts about Drishti."
Silence returned like a thundercloud.
"She is not Sugand's daughter," the old man said flatly. "We know it. But she doesn't. And she must never find out. Not yet."
Abhimaan's voice was barely audible. "Why did Sugand didi hide her daughter from us? Why did she leave her child to grow up… as an orphan?"
The old man looked away. His face, once carved in stone, cracked just a little.
"She protected her," he said finally. "The world would have turned her into a secret. A scandal. Sugand gave her a name, a home, a life without the shadows of the Pandares and Singhanias hanging over her."
His voice thickened. "She didn't tell her… because knowing the truth might have put her in danger. She'd become a piece on someone else's board."
He looked back, eyes sharp again.
"And Sugand was right."
A long silence followed.
Then, his voice lowered, warning threading every word.
"Be careful. No mistakes. No premature moves. Drishti must never know what we know. Not until the time is right."
Abhimaan breathed in slowly. The weight of duty—and deception—settled over him like a cloak spun from secrets.
Then, unexpectedly, a smile crept onto the old man's lips. Faint. Calculated. A strategist's smile.
And then, his gaze turned to the fire.
"As for Mehendi…" he said, voice calm now, "We will watch. Quietly. And we'll wait… for when blood finally collides."
---
Later That Night…
The celebration was fading. The house had returned to its quiet, grand self. But in the courtyard, lanterns still glowed faintly. The echoes of laughter and music still hovered in the corners.
In the family room, photographs of past generations lined the walls. Now, a new one sat beside them.
A candid of Mehendi—laughing, eyes sparkling, colors of Holi still clinging to her hair.
When the old man looked at that photo, his face changed.
The sternness melted. The strategist vanished.
And for just a moment… he became a grandfather.
He let out a breath—this time not from restraint, but something closer to peace. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and gently straightened the photo frame.
She had his eyes. He could see it now. The same quiet defiance. The same fire.
A granddaughter, returned by fate.