The call with Ruhaan lingered in her mind long after the line went silent. His voice had carried a joy she hadn't heard in years—raw, unfiltered, boyish. He had spoken about his upcoming debut with the same earnest excitement he'd once had as a child showing her his first cricket bat.
When the screen dimmed, Aadhya sat still for a moment, her gaze fixed on the faint reflection of her own face. Outside, the city of Geneva hummed softly against the glass walls of her office. It was close to midnight, yet the institute never slept.
She exhaled slowly. Her brother's words echoed back. You'll come, right? You promised.
Promises weren't something she made lightly. And once made, never broken.
The next morning, the early light of Geneva streamed in through the glass walls of Aadhya's office, catching the faint shimmer of her holographic monitors. The air was still, filled only with the quiet hum of systems coming online. She stood by the window, her reflection faint against the snow-kissed skyline, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee gone cold.
Today, she wasn't thinking about the upcoming board review or the research proposal waiting in her inbox. Her thoughts were elsewhere—home.
After nearly eight years abroad, Aadhya had finally decided to return to India. Not for a case, not for a conference—but for something far more personal. Her younger brother's debut match for the national cricket team.
She smiled faintly at the thought. Ruhaan—always the dreamer, the loud one, the contrast to her silence. It still felt strange to her, this sudden tug of homesickness she hadn't felt in years.
When her master entered the office, she straightened, her expression calm again. He was a tall man in his sixties, his silver hair cropped short, eyes sharp but kind. He didn't need an explanation—Aadhya rarely called for him unless it was important.
"You've made your decision," he said, his voice low, as he took the seat across from her.
"Yes, Master," she replied softly. "Ruhaan's debut match is next week. I'd like to be there."
He regarded her for a moment, then smiled—a small, approving one. "It's about time you took a break, Aadhya. You've been running at full speed for too long."
"It's just for a week or two," she said quickly, though her tone softened when she saw his knowing look. "Maybe a little longer."
"Good," he said, leaning back. "You've earned it. Take a real break for once. No cases, no midnight calls. Just... be Aadhya Raivarma, the sister. Not the prodigy, not the vice president of the World Medical Alliance."
By the time Aadhya finished discussing her itinerary, Aadhya's office had been invaded, twelve pairs of eyes were on her. Her team—her handpicked circle, each a master in their field. They'd been with her for years, through impossible nights and tougher calls. But now, they looked like a pack of mischievous children waiting to confess something.
Aadhya raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Doctor!" Mira began dramatically. "We heard the tragic news!"
Aadhya blinked. "Tragic?"
"That you're going to India," Nishant said. "Without us."
Aadhya gave him a flat look. "Aaron."
Aaron raised both hands defensively. "It slipped!"
"Like it always does and anyways I didn't realize that qualified as tragedy.," she said dryly.
"It does," Mira insisted, crossing her arms. "We can't function without you."
"You managed fine during the Zurich conference."
"That was for three hours," Nishant protested. "We almost fought over who'd sterilize the scalpels."
Magnus was trying and failing not to laugh. He quietly left the room for them to discuss and come to a conclusion
Elena leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Please, Doctor. Take us with you. We'll be quiet. Mostly."
Aadhya gave them a long, measured look. "There is no medical necessity for you to travel."
"There's emotional necessity," Mia countered. "That counts."
"And you can't go alone," Mira continued, crossing her arms. "You'll end up checking patients mid-flight."
"That's unlikely," Aadhya replied dryly.
"Still," Mira persisted, "we should come with you. What if there's a medical emergency at the hotel? What if someone faints? What if—"
"What if you all just want a paid vacation?"
Aadhya interrupted quietly.
There was a collective silence — then a guilty round of chuckles.
"Well," Nishant said, "there's that too."
She looked at them, a flicker of warmth touching her otherwise composed face. "You all realize I'm not responsible for your holiday plans."
"We're responsible for you," Mira countered.
"And we haven't had a break in months."
Nishant said quickly, following her. "Its years now. We deserve a break too! The last one we had was... what, two years ago? And you know we'll just be sitting here pretending to work while waiting for your updates."
"We could make it a team retreat," Aaron added eagerly. "Purely professional."
"Professional?" Aadhya turned slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement. "You just said you wanted a vacation."
He blinked. "A... professional vacation?"
The others burst into laughter, and even Aadhya couldn't completely hide the small smile that tugged at her lips.
"You're all impossible," she muttered.
"Come on, boss," Nishant said, leaning over her desk. "Please. We'll stay out of your way. Just let us tag along. We'll book our own rooms if needed."
"Or sleep in the hallway outside your suite," Aaron said dramatically.
Lena elbowed him. "You would."
Aadhya sighed. They were relentless—twelve brilliant minds, reduced to pleading children when they wanted something.
"Fine," she said finally, her tone calm but resigned. "If you all promise not to cause chaos, you can come. But this is not a mission, not a work trip. Understood?"
"Understood!" they chorused in unison.
"And Aaron," she added, fixing him with a sharp look, "you're in charge of booking the flights. Economy class for all of you."
Aaron looked horrified. "Economy? We're a government-recognized team!"
"Exactly," Aadhya said, eyes glinting. "You'll survive like the rest of the world."
The others laughed again, and Aaron groaned dramatically but nodded, muttering something about budget injustices.
As they rushed out, already making plans, Aadhya allowed herself the smallest of smiles — the kind that appeared rarely and disappeared even faster. She turned back toward the window, watching the sunlight shift over the city. Geneva had been her world for years, the quiet rhythm of purpose and perfection. But India — India was something else. A promise she had once made to a little boy.
She closed her eyes briefly, remembering that day. The smell of rain. The sound of her brother laughing as he chased a ball down the small lane outside their old house. So much had changed since then — except her word.
Far away, in a luxury suite, Reyaan sat alone with a pile of reports spread across the desk. The night outside was humid, the sound of the sea faint through the glass. His phone buzzed again with another update — sponsorship figures, press schedules, travel logistics. He skimmed them half-heartedly before tossing the tablet aside.
Something about the endless noise of his world suddenly felt exhausting. He leaned back, fingers drumming lightly against the armrest, eyes unfocused. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice returned — quiet, poised, precise.
Aadhya's voice.
He hadn't even seen her, not once, but that one speech — the one he'd heard on the night of the awards — had left an imprint sharper than he wanted to admit. There was something about the way she spoke. Detached, but deeply human. Controlled, but never cold.
He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. "That voice again," he muttered under his breath.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly over the Arabian Sea.
For reasons he couldn't explain, the irritation from his reports faded — replaced by an inexplicable calm.
As if somewhere, halfway across the world, the person behind that voice had just decided to come closer.