Arun sat at his study table, the surface scattered with open books and neatly written notes.
Beyond the lamp's reach, the soft silver of moonlight filtered through the balcony to his right, brushing against his cheek as if nature itself had paused to admire him.
The sudden ring of his phone shattered the serene rhythm of the night.
Pulling him from his concentrated reverie.
He glanced toward the bed, where the phone buzzed against the covers.
With a small sigh, he leaned left, stretching his arm to grab it without bothering to rise.
The screen glowed in the dim room.
Caller-: Annaya.
Arun answered, his tone calm and composed.
"What's the matter?"
On the other end—Annaya's voice was sweet yet commanding, laced with her usual confidence.
"The case investigation has been handed to the officials. Just make sure Master doesn't intervene… or it's going to be a mess."
Arun's calm wavered slightly.
"I know," he murmured, voice low and frustrated. "Just hope they don't do something as stupid as Mr. Mekham."
Before Annaya could reply.
A rough voice echoed faintly in the background, aching and defiant.
"I gave you information—let me go already!"
Annaya's tone stayed light, composed, and cutting as she replied, "I don't want to hear his voice again."
Arun heard it all clearly. His lips twitched, the faintest smile forming as he imagined her expression.
The tension in his chest eased a little.
"I told you to be a little sweet," he teased, his voice carrying a soft trace of mockery.
Annaya chuckled, playful and elegant.
"Sweeter than your cake,"
Then, with a mischievous lilt, she continued: "Still playing along?"
The corner of Arun's lips curved upward.
Adjusting his tone, he returned to his usual balance of politeness and firmness.
"Good night," he said simply.
Then ended the call.
For a moment, he sat still, the softest smile touching his eyes.
His earlier tension seemed to melt into the quiet corners of his mind—though his expression soon grew pensive.
Leaning back, he let out a slow breath, as he glanced at the balcony, voice barely above a whisper.
"Are your intention really that simple…?"
He paused, the moonlight brushing his face, and sighed. "…Don't give me hope."
The stillness of the room seemed to absorb his words.
...
Then—A soft, hesitant knock broke the silence—barely audible, as though the visitor feared to intrude.
Arun turned, his expression steady.
He strode to the door, brushed his fingers over the lock, and opened it with practiced ease.
A timid maid stood in the hallway, eyes lowered.
"Young Master…" Her voice was a whisper.
"Mr. Raj called to inform you that he and Master have left on a business trip. He instructed that you handle everything until they return."
Arun's voice was calm, carrying quiet authority yet respectful. "No one is allowed to call me Young Master."
The maid stiffened, quickly bowing her head to apologise, "Sorry, sir."
She retreated down the corridor, her steps silent and slow.
Arun shut the door, the soft click of the latch echoing in the room like a command.
---
[Rawat's House]
Mr. Rawat sank into the plush sofa, unease breaking his usual composure.
Across from him sat Aarav, Abhi, and Vihan—like a silent tribunal.
All perched on the edge, restless, their anticipation almost crackling in the air.
Their expressions were different, but the same undercurrent of intent ran through them, making Mr. Rawat fidget. His brows furrowed as he struggled to read their silence.
Finally, Abhi leaned forward, voice steady and commanding.
"Papa… you have to tell us. What's your deal with Mr. Singh?"
The words landed like a thrown gauntlet.
Aarav and Vihan's gazes joined Abhi's, sharp and searching.
The room held its breath.
Mr. Rawat avoided their eyes. His hands fidgeted; his breathing grew heavier.
At last, in a trembling voice thick with emotion, he revealed: "We are brothers."
The declaration hit like thunder.
The three brothers froze, exchanging stunned glances.
Then—Vihan recovered first, voice laced with confusion. "But… our family names? And why does he hate you so much?"
Mr. Rawat's shoulders slumped. His fists clenched. He spoke slowly, as if each word carried the weight of memory.
"We're not blood-related. Your grandmother—my mother—remarried his father. We were already in our late teens. We never actually accepted it… yet somehow, we became family."
He exhaled, voice heavy with regret.
"And then one day, I made a mistake. It all started with me… If only I had been more courageous."
Silence thickened the air.
Abhi's voice trembled as he whispered, "What kind of mistake… Papa?"
Mr. Rawat's gaze softened with sorrow.
"I was always wrong back then. I never made the right choices… even when I could have."
The image of their strong, unshakable father now seemed fragile.
Aarav leaned forward, hesitant, voice quiet with hope. "Papa… you must have had your reasons, right?"
Mr. Rawat managed a faint smile through the sorrow in his eyes.
"Intentions never matter… if your actions aren't enough."
He looked at each of his sons with a love tinged by regret.
"I hope you three remember this—and choose better than I did."
Without another word, he walked slowly toward his room.
His steps were heavy with memories. The soft click of the door left the brothers alone with their thoughts.
———
[ Sixteen years ago ]
The room was heavy with tension, the air thick with unspoken authority.
At its center sat the old man, posture rigid, gaze fixed on a wall of family portraits—a silent chronicle of bloodlines and shifting bonds, each frame a testament to his life's journey.
He radiated quiet command, yet the deep lines on his face betrayed years of strain and the weight of responsibility.
A soft creak broke the stillness.
Without turning, he sensed someone step in and stop behind him.
Slowly, he shifted in his chair and met the eyes of the man now standing before him.
Mr. Rawat—young, composed, carrying a quiet grace that contrasted sharply with the old man's fatigue.
"Yes… Father?" he asked, voice low and steady.
A faint smile touched the old man's lips.
"Aadi, I have a request."
Mr. Rawat's expression tightened slightly, bracing himself.
"I want you to share half my responsibilities with Anurag," the old man said.
"It may spark conflict, but I need you to do this—not for me, but for him. Too many greedy eyes are on this position. Anurag has the power and the attitude… but not the temper."
He exhaled, his voice softening but heavy with worry.
"You are calm… thoughtful. This family, this business—we need you... All of you. If we are to survive."
...
His father's voice echoed in memory, pulling Mr. Rawat back.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of the day pressing against his chest.
In his hands rested a worn family photograph, the glass smooth from years of touch—a younger him with Mr. Singh, flanking their smiling parents.
His eyes burned, moisture blurring the faces staring back.
Memories surged—meals shared, laughter and arguments under the same roof.
That world had ended the day their loved ones died.
His fingers traced the glass, lingering over the frozen smiles. A sigh trembled from his chest.
"I hate it… You trust me, and I let you down. I couldn't protect us."
His shoulders sagged under the weight of the truth.
"But I still want to protect what's left of us."
It wasn't obligation anymore—it was a quiet vow to mend what was broken.
———
[ Times' gap, Elsewhere ]
The hallway stretched long and cold, lined with metal doors.
Outside one of them, Mr. Raj stood with furrowed brow, gripping his phone like a lifeline. His voice was low, tense.
"We won't be back for a few weeks. His sons are alone now. But remember—Arun will be more cautious."
Before the reply came, a soft creak sounded behind him.
Mr. Raj froze, ending the call.
The door opened. Mr. Singh stepped out, expression unreadable.
The corridor seemed to shrink, silence pressing in as their eyes met—an unspoken, piercing awareness.
Then, without a word, they walked down the hallway together.
Mr. Raj's heart pounded. One thought refused to leave him:
Had Mr. Singh heard… or worse, suspected?