A R Y A N

"Alright, I'll be there right after Vidhaart's wedding. Handle things there until then." The words were calm, authoritative, a mask of control I wore as effortlessly as my tailored suit. On the other end of the line, my secretary, Sourabh, hesitated.

"Sir, you do understand this Milan project requires your presence for almost two months? The other party was very specific—they want the entire project executed under your direct supervision."

I nodded to the empty night, my jaw tight. "Understood. It's not a problem. Once the wedding festivities conclude, I'll be there in two days. Just keep everything afloat until I arrive."

"Of course, sir."

I ended the call, the silence of the garden rushing back in. It was a welcome reprieve. Today was Vidhaart's day. My best friend—my brother in all but blood—was marrying the woman he had loved with a fierce, unwavering devotion for four years. A love at first sight story. The thought pulled a dry, almost foreign chuckle from my throat.

I am happy for him. Truly. But the concept of love at first sight was a fairy tale I’d stopped believing in a long time ago. Vidhaart, however… he was different. When he loved, it was with his entire being, a pure, unadulterated intensity that was as rare as it was beautiful.

A long, weary exhale escaped me. I had stepped out into the secluded garden adjacent to the guest rooms to take the call, needing a moment away from the celebratory chaos. Now, my gaze lifted to the cosmos above. The moon was a pristine silver coin, surrounded by a scattering of tiny, defiant stars that dared to shimmer in its vast dominion.

A soft, genuine smile, one I reserved for these private moments, touched my lips. Mom, Dad… I miss you. Every day. Every single moment.

A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, rustling the hem of my coat, making it flutter softly against my legs. It felt like a caress. My smile deepened, a painful ache blooming in my chest. "Yes," I whispered into the night, my voice raw. "I know you miss me too." The admission was a quiet wound. "Ever since you left… there's been no family left for me. You know that."

My throat constricted. "But then Vidhart came into my life. Him and his entire family… they took me in. They cared for me, loved me as their own, without any expectation, without any shared blood." A sad, hurtful smile replaced the tender one.

"Isn't it ironic? Where my own flesh and blood pushed me away the moment you were gone, strangers wrapped me in their warmth." I shook my head, the old bitterness a familiar poison. "You know, Dad, every achievement that bears my name… Vidhaart was there. He stood by me through it all. And never once did he throw that debt in my face. Never."

The vibration of my phone was an unwelcome intrusion, a jarring return to a reality I despised. I pulled it from my pocket, and the name on the screen made my blood run cold. My expression, carefully composed just seconds ago, hardened into a mask of stone.

What could they possibly want now? The thought was a venomous hiss in my mind. For all these years, I was nonexistent. What has changed?

I rejected the call with a swift, sharp movement of my thumb. Almost immediately, a message notification popped up. It was from my chacha.

Uncle: Aryan, beta, whatever happened, just forget it. I admit it was our mistake. We should have waited for you to return… but I am sorry, son. Please, just talk to us. You know your Dadi's health condition, at least once... Please, just come once to meet her.

I stared at the words, a cold, mirthless laugh escaping me. Sorry. Now they are sorry. The apology felt like ash in my mouth. I ignored it, the old wounds tearing open with a freshness that was agonizing.

Another message followed, relentless.

Uncle: Aryan, beta… we have found a girl for you. Please, just meet her. If Bhaiya and Bhabhi were alive, they would have gotten you married by now. Please, beta, I have to take on their responsibilities now. I want you to build your own family. Please, just meet the girl. After reading this, please, just call your Chacha once. We all miss you.

I read the message, each word feeling like a brand. A girl? Marriage? A fresh wave of fury, hot and acidic, rose within me. Never. I would never marry. These people, who had been absent for the most crucial years of my life, now wanted to play matchmakers? The hypocrisy was staggering.

With a decisive click, I switched off my phone and shoved it back into my pocket, a physical act of severing the connection. I will never return to that house. Never.

The memory, sharp and painful as broken glass, surfaced without mercy. I was 23. The voicemail from my grandmother, my Dadi, the one person from that house I still adored. Her voice, strained and broken, echoed in the halls of my mind: "Aryan… yahan wapas kabhi mat aana… please, beta…"

It was an incomplete message. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that it was cut short, that there was more she had tried to say. I had rushed to see her after that, only to find her bedridden, struck by paralysis, unable to speak a single word. I had wanted to bring her with me to Jaipur, to care for her myself, but my uncle had refused. "You're alone, Aryan. How will you look after her? It's better she stays here." The logic had been sound, but the rejection had stung. I had never gone back, never tried to bring her to me, only getting sparse updates on her health through Siddharth, who always, always insisted I come live with them.

I didn’t know why, but Siddharth held a deep-seated dislike for his own father—my chacha. A sentiment I still don't know why he doesn't like his father.

Lost in the toxic whirlpool of these thoughts, a sudden, intense pain erupted in my palms. I looked down, startled. My fists were clenched so tightly that my nails had dug half-moons into my skin. I forced my fingers to relax, shaking my head as if to dispel the ghosts.

I need to get ready for the wedding.

I took a deep, steadying breath, pulling the familiar, calm mask back over my features. It was a practiced art—ensuring no one ever saw the cracks, the grief, the fury. No one was allowed to look at me with pity. I refused to be a object of sympathy.

Vidhart would be getting ready. He was probably looking for me. The thought was a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink.

I looked up at the stars one last time, my fingers instinctively finding the simple, gold chain around my neck. It was the only tangible last piece of my mother I had left. I lifted the small, cool pendant to my lips, closing my eyes.

"I love you, Mom. Dad. This is all I have left of you," I whispered, the words a sacred vow in the quiet night.

I turned to head back to my room, the decision made to lock my past away once more. But then, a flash of movement—a streak of yellow—caught my eye. A girl, running with abandon, her feet tangling in the fabric of her lehenga. She was about to fall face-first onto the hard ground.

Instinct took over. My hand shot out, catching her wrist in a firm grip, pulling her back from her fall. She spun around from the momentum, her hands landing flat on my chest. For a fleeting second, I registered the frantic beat of her heart through my shirt.

And then I saw her face.

A sharp, involuntary gasp—a near scream—escaped me. She looked like an apparition, a ghost from a horror story with that cracked, white paste covering her features, only her wide, startled gray eyes visible. But in the next instant, my gaze dropped, and I realized her state of undress—the exposed midriff, the deep neckline, the bare back. It was a vulnerability that felt wrong to witness.

I shut my eyes tightly, a reflex of pure, unadulterated respect. I didn't want her to feel exposed or unsafe because of my gaze. When my words failed to make her understand, I shrugged off my blazer, holding it out to her without looking, urging her to cover herself. The moment I felt the weight of the coat leave my hands, I turned and left, navigating the path from memory until I was sure I was out of sight.

The encounter had lasted less than a minute, a bizarre interruption in a night heavy with memory. But as I walked away, the scent of my sandalwood cologne now mingled with the faint, lingering trace of jasmine from her skin, a strange, unsettling quiet settled over the chaos in my mind.

T H I R D  P E R S O N  P O V

The room was a tomb, shrouded in the opulence of silence and shadow. It was large, yet felt suffocating, its air thick with the cloying scent of expensive cigar smoke and unspoken malice. In the center, a man sat ensconced in a massive, throne-like leather chair, its high back casting a long, sinister silhouette against the paneled wall. The only point of life in the gloom was the burning ember of a cigar clenched between his fingers, its smoke curling into the air like a venomous serpent.

His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on the smartphone in his other hand, the screen dark and silent. A deep frown etched lines onto his forehead, the only outward sign of the storm raging within.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the shrill ring of the phone. A wave of pure frustration flashed across his face, so intense it seemed to tighten the very air in the room. But he was a man of control. He took a long, deliberate drag from his cigar, holding the toxic smoke in his lungs before releasing it in a slow, controlled plume. Then, with a movement that was almost lazy, he answered the call.

He didn't speak. He never did first.

A voice, distorted and impatient, crackled from the other end. "Is it done or not?"

The man's lips curled into a sneer that didn't reach his eyes. "The work will get done," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "It always does."

"The timeline is critical. He will turn thirty-four soon." The voice on the phone was sharp, laced with an urgency that bordered on panic. "If we don't get him married before that, everything we've worked for will be ruined!"

The man's grip tightened imperceptibly on the armrest of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "Don't tell me what I already know," he bit out, the calm in his voice beginning to crack under the strain. "I am well aware. But if we push him too hard, too fast, he will become suspicious. And if he gets suspicious, he might start digging into things he was never meant to know. Let me handle this my way."

The voice on the other end was relentless. "And the girl you found? Is she reliable? Will she play her part correctly?"

The man took another long, savoring drag from his cigar, the ember glowing brightly in the dim room. "My work is never half-baked," he stated, a hint of arrogant pride in his tone. "And I know exactly how to handle these things. That's why I was able to use his grandmother's voice recording to our advantage all those years ago." A low, sinister chuckle escaped him, a sound that had no place in a civilized world.

"Otherwise, if he had heard the full, unedited message... the entire façade we've built would have come crashing down."

There was a grunt of agreement from the other side. "Hmm... Just make sure you hurry. What if he goes and falls for someone of his own choice? His marriage must only be to the girl we have chosen."

The man's eyes narrowed to slits. He tapped his index finger rhythmically, almost violently, against the leather armrest. "There is no one in his life," he stated with cold, unnerving certainty. "I have had him watched for years. And he won't fall for anyone. Don't worry. The marriage will happen. And it will be to the girl I have chosen."

Before the person on the other end could utter another word, the man ended the call with a sharp, decisive stab of his thumb. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. He threw the half-smoked cigar into a crystal ashtray with a gesture of final disgust.

"Aryan Singh Rathore," he whispered the name into the darkness, as if it were a curse. "Your family has started talking about your marriage. You may not be here, but you will have to come. Willingly... or by force."

He leaned back, the shadows of the room clinging to him like a second skin. A cruel, mirthless smile stretched across his face.

"Because when I want something, I stop at nothing. When I didn't think twice about eliminating people years ago, why would I hesitate now?" His whisper dropped even lower, becoming a venomous promise meant for the walls alone. "So, it's better you don't bring any girl close to you. Otherwise, the poor girl will die for no reason at all."

His low, chilling laughter once again filled the room, a harbinger of the storm that was destined to shatter Aryan's carefully constructed world.
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The Rathore mansion in Udaipur was a picture of aristocratic elegance, especially as dusk settled over the city. Inside, the grand dining hall was bathed in the warm glow of a crystal chandelier, its light reflecting off the polished silver and fine china. The family was assembled for dinner—Ranjeet Singh Rathore at the head of the table, his wife Bhumi beside him, their son Siddharth, and their daughter Swara. The air, however, was thick with a silence more pronounced than the soft clinking of cutlery, a fragile peace masking deep-seated tensions.

It was Ranjeet who finally broke the quiet, his voice cutting through the stillness as he addressed his daughter. "So, you are joining your new job tomorrow?"

Swara nodded, her posture straight but her eyes cautious. "Yes, Dad."

Ranjeet sighed, a sound heavy with paternal disappointment. "But you could work in our own company, could you not? Why must you work for someone else, in some other organization?" He gestured vaguely with his hand.

"First, Siddharth chose to study medicine and become a doctor. I had thought that after me, you would take the reins of the business. But you too want to work elsewhere."

Across the table, Siddharth’s knuckles tightened around his silver spoon, his grip turning white. He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, the muscle in his jaw feathering, but he said nothing. The old wound, it seemed, was still raw.

"Dad, please," Swara implored, her voice firm yet respectful. "I want to make my own mark. I want to achieve something on my own. Besides, I'm an expert in hacking; I want to work in a company that specializes in that. And I have to move to Hyderabad for this. It's all finalized." She offered a tentative solution, a name that was both a hope and a ghost in their household.

"And you could call Aryan Bhaiya to handle the company. He is brilliant; he built his own empire from scratch. He could manage this one too."

At the mention of his nephew's name, a profound sadness clouded Ranjeet's features. "I wish I could," he said, his tone laced with genuine regret. "But he never comes. Ever since our mistake... since that one error... he has held onto it with all his heart. He has never forgiven us. I don't know when he will ever return."

Bhumi, who had been quietly observing the exchange, let her gaze fall upon her husband. A soft, almost imperceptible, hurtful chuckle escaped her lips. She said nothing, but the sound was a verdict in itself, a lifetime of unspoken accusations echoing in the quiet room.

Siddharth, shifting the focus back to his sister, interjected with a protective edge. "Swara, I'll drop you at the airport tomorrow. And once you land in Hyderabad, call me immediately to let me know you've settled in safely."

Swara gave him a warm, grateful smile. "Yes, Bhaiya, don't worry. I know how much you care for me. But I'm a grown woman now. I can take care of myself."

Siddharth's expression softened. "But for me, you will always be my little sister. If anyone gives you even a hint of trouble, you make one call to me. I will handle the rest."

Bhumi watched the interaction between her children, a genuine, tender smile finally gracing her lips, a brief respite from the underlying chill.

"Okay, Bhaiya, I promise," Swara agreed.

After dinner, as Siddharth moved to retreat to his room, Ranjeet's voice stopped him. "Siddharth, I have found a girl for you. It's time you met her. We need to fix a date for the wedding."

Siddharth froze mid-step before slowly turning around. The look he gave his father was not one of a son, but of a man facing his adversary. His eyes were cold shards of ice. "Mr. Rathore," he began, his voice dangerously calm, "you have no business interfering in my life."

Ranjeet puffed out his chest, invoking his paternal authority. "I am your father! I have the right to choose a bride for you!"

A bitter, mirthless chuckle ripped from Siddharth's throat. "The only person who has any right over me is my mother. Not you." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "And as for this business deal you're trying to broker by marrying me off to some client's daughter... sorry, Mr. Rathore, but I will not let that happen." He emphasized the formal title, severing the familial bond with chilling precision. "And after today, don't you dare try to have this conversation with me again."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, his departure echoing his finality in the grand hall.

Ranjeet was left standing alone, the weight of his son's words pressing down on him. He turned to his wife, his expression a mix of frustration and desperation. "Bhumi, talk some sense into your son! He didn't join the company, fine! But now he must get married! This deal is extremely important for me! If Siddharth marries Mr. Kapoor's daughter, My company will gain immense benefits!"

Bhumi let out a soft, mocking chuckle that seemed to suck all the air from the room. She looked him up and down, her gaze stripping him of all his pretenses. "My company?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft.

"Are you sure about that?"

Before he could muster a response, she too turned and left, leaving Ranjeet standing in the ruins of the evening. He let out a frustrated scoff, running a trembling hand over his face, a king in a castle built on sand, watching as the walls began to crumble around him.

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