The early morning air was crisp, laced with jet fuel and damp pavement, yet Abhi felt suffocated. His uniform clung to him as he gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, chest heavy with unspoken dread.
The airport buzzed—rushing footsteps, murmured announcements, the hum of reunions and farewells. But inside his car, the world was unbearably still.
He hadn't come for Ayan. Not for Arun. This time, it was for Mr. Singh. To make a stand.
His reflection in the rearview mirror showed eyes darkened by conflict. His mind screamed to leave, but his heart moved first. The door opened. The cold bit into him, grounding his resolve.
Then came the convoy—sleek black cars sliding to the entrance. Recognition struck. Singh's cars. His pulse spiked.
He spotted them—Ayan and Shubham heading toward departures, guards trailing with luggage. But Abhi's gaze locked elsewhere.
Mr. Singh. Tall, commanding, surrounded by his men. Unmoved by the morning chill.
Abhi forced his steps steady. "Mr. Singh."
The name cut through the noise. Singh turned, gaze narrowing as if he had expected this.
"Don't send Ayan away," Abhi said, his voice edged with urgency. "If it's safety you fear, We'll protect him. Let him stay with Brother Aarav."
A silence stretched. Then Singh's eyes hardened. "You think this is just about safety?"
He stepped closer, voice calm but cutting. "Fine. If your brother truly loves my son, then prove it. On one condition."
Abhi tensed, "What condition?"
"Your father must give up every property tied to my family. And your brother—" Mr. Singh's smirk deepened—"must sever all ties with the Rawats. With you and your parents."
The words sliced through him. This wasn't a bargain. It was a wall.
Hope collapsed, replaced by fury that burned through his veins. Abhi's voice, when it came, was low, lethal.
"I thought you might understand... But you've never been a good brother. Or a good father... At least try to be a good human."
The air shifted. Abhi's presence darkened, oppressive, making even Singh falter. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
Abhi saw it. Felt it. And knew—if he stepped further, he wouldn't stop. But Aarav wouldn't want that. His father wouldn't. And Arun… Arun was this man's son.
Breathing hard, Abhi forced himself back. He turned sharply, boots scraping the pavement, fury simmering in every step as he walked away.
...
[Meanwhile—Rawat's house]
Aarav lay motionless on his bed, fingers curled around his phone as if it were a lifeline. The dim glow lit his hollow face, each failed call widening the cracks in his resolve. Again. And again.
His thumb pressed Ayan's name despite already knowing the outcome. Out of network coverage area.
He knew Ayan wouldn't answer. Not now. Maybe not ever. But still, his chest ached with a refusal to accept it.
One more time. Just once more—
But a soft knock broke the air.
The door creaked open.
Mr. Rawat stepped inside, the stiffness of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes, the way his fists clenched—all holding back years of unsaid words.
Aarav sat up slowly, avoiding his father's gaze. His hands curled into fists on his lap. He didn't want to be seen like this—broken.
Mr. Rawat hesitated, then lowered himself onto the bed. He rubbed his palms together—a nervous tic—before speaking.
"I loved someone else before marrying Varsha. Our families wanted the marriage… so we obeyed." His voice was quiet, uncertain.
Aarav's head lifted. Totally clueless. His father had never spoken of this.
Eyes distant, Mr. Rawat continued, "I… never had the courage to admit it. Family expectations outweighed everything. So I made a choice. I let it go. And vowed to be loyal to my wife."
Silence lingered. Then, a faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips. When he met Aarav's eyes, there was no regret—only acceptance.
"But letting go didn't erase the feeling. The space remained. It always has."
Something stirred in Aarav—a flicker of recognition, a reflection of himself. His throat tightened, words spilling before he could stop them.
"Doesn't it hurt, Papa?"
Mr. Rawat's gaze softened. His reply was steady.
"It would have hurt more if I hadn't let that person go."
The words struck deep. Aarav sat frozen, chest tight, the echo of them looping through his mind, soft yet unrelenting.
And suddenly, it wasn't his father's voice he heard anymore. It was his own.
...
[That night—Elsewhere]
Ayan sat still. Lifeless.
The phone lay beside him, dark and silent. He had powered it off hours ago, cutting the connection before his resolve could falter.
Because he knew—if Aarav's name flashed across the screen, if he heard that voice, raw and desperate—he wouldn't be able to stay away.
Ayan gripped the blanket's edge, staring at the phone as guilt pressed heavier than silence.
Curling into himself, he buried his face in the pillow. His breaths hitched, lashes wetting the fabric. Memories came like knives—their footsteps in the university hallways, stolen glances in the library, laughter echoing in Rawat's house. Every moment replayed as a wound refusing to close.
A soft knock stirred the air.
The door cracked open, and Shubham slipped inside.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood in the dim light, watching Ayan's small frame shake.
Then he moved closer, lowering himself onto the chair beside the bed—never too close.
"You know," he murmured, eyes distant, "elders think their decisions are always right. They've seen the world, so they don't bother asking what we feel. They just… decide."
Ayan's body stayed still, but his tears flowed freely now, unhidden.
Shubham didn't push. He simply stayed, quiet and steady, like a lighthouse in fog.
Yet Ayan felt as if his world had collapsed, and no amount of support could help him make it stand again.
...
[Meanwhile—Singh mansion]
The dim room bore silent witness to the weight pressing in on its walls. A pale glow spilled across the mahogany table, but the real darkness lay in what was unsaid—expressions unreadable, decisions irreversible.
Mr. Singh sat at the head, fingers tapping a measured rhythm against the armrest. Commanding, yet burdened.
Beside him, Mr. Raj stood rigid, eyes sharp with calculation.
Near the window, Mr. Sidharth lingered, arms crossed, his gaze lost in the night.
Silence thickened until Mr. Raj finally broke it, voice flat and steady. "Sir, it's settled. Ayan has already left. There's no need to dwell."
Mr. Sidharth's eyes flickered—doubt, warning.
"They're Brother Aadi's sons. I doubt they'll accept defeat so easily."
"Perhaps..." Raj's expression barely shifted. "But Mr. Rawat won't let them involve themselves with our family."
Mr. Singh exhaled slowly, brow furrowed. Both men had a point. Neither felt like the truth.
Mr. Sidharth stepped from the window, voice quiet but firm. "Brother… handle this carefully. It's about our families."
The words hung heavy. Silence reclaimed the room.
Then—a sharp chime cut through it. All eyes turned to Mr. Raj.
His glance at the screen revealed a flicker too brief to name. Guarded. Controlled. But Sidharth saw it.
Without a word, Mr. Raj excused himself and left. The door shut softly behind him, sealing the room in suspicion.
In the corridor's dim light, he answered the call. His voice was low, measured.
"No. Wait for my call. I will do something… Mr. Sidharth is going back next week."
The line went dead.