The Fernandes family villa in Banjara Hills stood heavy under Hyderabad's monsoon drizzle, its gilded halls dimmed by Margaret Fernandes' pained cries. Margaret, frail in her four-poster bed, clutched her stomach, her chronic condition flaring without Robin Seth's Ayurvedic medicine. His refusal to provide more—or the formula—left her suffering, a raw wound in the family's pride. Aisha Seth, sharp as a Golconda blade, hovered nearby, her bet to crush Robin's wealth and keep Tara feeling hollow as her mother faded.
Daniel Fernandes paced, his designer jacket tossed aside, his cheek still burning from Robin's slap. "Robin's doing this, Ma," he spat, fueling her rage. "Holding your medicine hostage to win Tara!" His petulance masked his failure to sway Robin.
Margaret's eyes blazed, her voice a rasp. "That useless man! A nobody, torturing me! Aisha, get his formula—make him suffer!" Her curses ignored Robin's decade of stabilizing her condition with his expertise.
Aisha's jaw clenched, desperation rising. "I'm trying, Ma," she said, voice tight. She'd summoned Dr. Chetan, a local specialist, and Dr. Vikas Gupta, Vikram Malhotra's gastroenterologist friend trained abroad. The doctors, surrounded by monitors, studied Margaret's charts, their faces grim. "It's too rare," Dr. Chetan said, shaking his head. "We can't diagnose it."
Dr. Vikas, polished but rattled, added, "My mentor in Singapore couldn't crack this either. It's beyond us." His admission stung Vikram, lounging in a plush armchair, his smug grin fading.
Vikram stood, ego bruised. "Rubbish, Vikas! Keep trying!" he snapped, then turned to Aisha. "Forget Robin. I'll get you painkillers—strong ones. Ma'll be fine." His push for heavy drugs, side effects ignored, was a desperate play to win Aisha's favor.
Aisha's eyes flashed. "Painkillers? Vikram, Ma needs a cure, not a patch!" Her exhaustion was raw, Margaret's pain and Robin's defiance crushing her.
Anna Fernandes, in a soft sundress, stepped forward, her voice firm. "Aisha di, Robin kept Ma stable for years. His medicine worked when no one else's did. The divorce cooling-off period's still on—talk to him, reconcile, get the formula."
Aisha's face hardened. "Reconcile? Never. He's manipulating us, Anna, using Ma's pain to trap me. I'll find another way." Her accusation hid her fear—Robin's shadow loomed larger than her pride.
Margaret gripped Aisha's hand, gasping. "No reconciliation! Get the formula, Aisha. That wretch owes me!" Her curses, stoked by Daniel, drowned Anna's plea.
Anna's eyes narrowed, exasperated. "You'll regret this, Aisha di. Robin's not your enemy." She stormed out, leaving Aisha shaken.
Vikram sidled closer, voice oily. "Aisha, ditch this drama. I've booked a HITEC City lounge—let's celebrate your freedom from Seth." His romantic advance, poorly timed, grated.
Aisha recoiled. "Celebrate? My mother's dying, Vikram. I need rest, not your nonsense." She waved him off, her focus on Margaret's labored breaths.
At Priya Reddy's villa, the monsoon's hum softened the air. Sanjay, his loyalty to Robin unwavering. "My team's ready for the Regal Club, Robin sir. Let's make it Hyderabad's best." His defection from Horizon Enterprises still burned Aisha.
Robin, in a hospital corridor, faced his mother Sarita's room, the sterile scent sharp. Her heart condition, worsened by Aisha's divorce filing on her birthday, weighed heavy. His smartwatch pinged, his AI-driven health app tracking pulse, his Fighting instincts a steady flame. The spy's text—"Naga's Son knows you're moving"—echoed.
At the Fernandes villa, Aisha watched the doctors leave, their failure a bitter blow. "Keep searching," she ordered, voice brittle. "We'll cure Ma without Robin." But Margaret's moans pierced her resolve, and doubt gnawed—Robin's medicine was her lifeline.
Robin entered Sarita's room, her frail form fueling his fire. Aisha's curses, Margaret's pain, the Fernandes family's venom—they were her burden. His fight—for Tara, Sarita, and his rising empire—was escalating. Outside, a shadow lingered—the spy, Naga's Son's eyes, watching.