That evening, the Pratap Singh villa shimmered under the soft warmth of sunset. Marble floors glowed golden, chandeliers sparkled like captured stars, and laughter from distant servants faded into the sprawling silence of heritage and pride.
Inside the family sitting room, Kiaan sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, his little fingers nervously twisting the edge of his sweater. Bhoomi and Susheela—his two grandmothers—rested on the couch, their graceful faces marked with wisdom and two different kinds of strictness. One soft and sentimental. The other sharp as a honed blade.
Kiaan took a deep breath.
"I want to tell you something," he began, eyes bright and vulnerable. "About the a nice aunty from today—Khushi."
Both women exchanged slow glances. They had heard his tone before—the one he only used when something tugged at the softest part of his heart.
"She saved me last night," he continued, voice small but firm. "When I ran from home after I got angry at popsy… when the truck was coming after me near the highway. She came and pulled me from the road, hugged me tight, and saved me. Just like an angel."
A lump formed in Bhoomi's throat. She adored Kiaan too deeply to ignore anything that touched him this way.
Susheela, though more guarded, leaned forward with knotted fingers. "And what do you want from us, beta?"
Kiaan's face lit with hopeful innocence. "The principal wants verification. She thinks Khushi lied about knowing us." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But she didn't lie. I lied… for her. Because I know she's good. I know it here." He pressed a palm to his small chest.
He recalled her kneeling on the school corridor, eyes wide and unsure, asking why he lied—a stranger trusting a child. He had felt warmth, familiarity, a sense of safety he couldn't name.
"She reminds me of… Mumma," he murmured, the word delicate as cracked glass. "Sometimes I think she's like a piece of Mumma sent back to me. My mumma angel."
Tears pricked Bhoomi's eyes. The memory of Kiara—the daughter they lost—rippled through the room like a silent storm. Her laughter, her stubborn spark, her love. Everything now living only in framed photographs and aching hearts.
"Kiaan…" Bhoomi whispered, reaching to cup his cheek.
But the boy continued, determined and innocent.
"Please help her," he pleaded. "Come to school with us tomorrow and tell the principal we know her. Just say she is our friend. I want to help her… like she helped me."
Susheela leaned back, unreadable. Her mind churned—family reputation, unknown girl, sudden attachment. Yet when she looked at Kiaan, his eyes glimmering with hope, she felt Kiara in him. The same compassion. The same heart that could not walk away from those in need.
Silence settled like feathers.
Bhoomi's voice finally broke it, trembling gently. "You truly believe she is good for you?"
Kiaan nodded so hard his curls bounced. "Yes. I feel it."
Susheela's sternness cracked just a little, like an old door letting in a sliver of light. "We will think about it tonight."
A slow smile bloomed on Kiaan's face—trusting, grateful, glowing like dawn. He ran forward, throwing his tiny arms around their waists. Bhoomi hugged him back instantly. Susheela hesitated, then rested a hand on his head, softening.
None of them noticed how the wind outside shifted.
How fate, amused and watchful, had already begun weaving new threads.
The corridor of Pratap Singh villa was quiet, sun filtering through the tall windows like liquid gold — but the warmth never reached Rani. She stood still, half-shadowed, half-seen, eyes glowing faintly crimson for a second too quick for mortal eyes to catch.
From inside the room she heard Kiaan's voice — soft, pleading, full of a hope she had never allowed him to feel for anyone but herself.
"Khushi saved me… she's like my mumma angel…"
That phrase struck her like a blade dipped in fire.
Mumma.
A word she wanted to possess. A bond she wanted to control.
Rani turned slightly, her expression calm but her veins darkened briefly, like ink flowing under her skin. The monster inside her stirred — the ancient hunger of a pishachini who lived on fear, pain, and attachment. She had worked too long to weave herself into this house, to mask her true face with sweetness and widow-like delicacy, feeding silently on the mansion's grief.
And now — some girl with a locket and a voice had managed to touch Kiaan's heart?
No.
Unacceptable.
Her lips stretched into a cold, elegant smile — beautiful, but wrong in a way only spirits could be.
Kiaan is impressionable. One angel-like woman enters his life and suddenly he feels safe enough to trust?
Trust leads to love. And love leads to resistance.
Resistance against her.
Rani's eyes flicked toward the window, and for a heartbeat her reflection showed her true form — fangs lengthened, hair wild like serpents, black veins crawling up her neck — before she blinked it back to human beauty.
She whispered to the empty hallway, voice as soft as silk and twice as dangerous,
"If the boy bonds with another woman, she will become a threat… And threats must be handled. Quietly."
She glided away from the door — not walking, but almost floating, her shadow stretching unnaturally across the marble like a beast slinking behind prey.
A plan curled in her mind like poison.
She would find this Khushi.
Study her.
Break her if necessary.
Before the girl's light threatened the darkness Rani ruled.