Hey guys — your author here. 🤍

Chapter 1 was introduction. Two worlds. Two people living completely separate lives — neither knowing the other exists yet.

Chapter 2 is something else entirely.

This chapter broke me a little while writing it. And I say that honestly.A man who swore he would never — doing the one thing he said he wouldn't. Not for himself. Never for himself. Only for one tiny person who has absolutely no idea what her father is carrying for her.

I don't want to say too much..Just — have tissues nearby. Maybe:) And if you feel things reading this — good. That means it's working.

Drop your thoughts as you read. I genuinely read every single comment. Every single one.

And as always — I am still learning and growing as a writer. If anything feels off or you spot mistakes — I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Your patience means everything.

Okay. Enough from me.

Chapter 2 starts now.

Good luck. 😭🤍

— Your author

The house was asleep.

That particular late night silence had settled over the Singhania mansion — deep and complete, the kind that made the whole building feel like it was holding its breath. The corridors were dim, only occasional wall lights casting low amber glows across the marble floors. Outside Delhi had quieted to a distant murmur.

Suman had been lying awake for a long time before she finally got up.

She didn't question the feeling.... Mothers never do, They just follow it.

She knew where he would be.

She always knew.

The nursery door was slightly open.

The nightlight glowed pale yellow from the corner — just enough warmth to see by without disturbing the peace of the room. It smelled like baby powder and that particular warmth only very small children create around themselves simply by existing.

Aahana was asleep in her crib. Arms loosely open, face completely relaxed, chest rising and falling with that boneless peaceful rhythm that only babies have — like trouble hasn't found them yet and they have no idea it exists.

Aditya sat beside her.

Still in his work clothes. Shirt loosened at the collar, sleeves rolled up, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Not on his phone...Not doing anything. Just — there. Watching her sleep the way he did most nights when the house went quiet and there was nothing left between him and his own thoughts except this one small breathing person.

He didn't look up when the door opened.

He already knew.

Suman came in quietly. She crossed the room and lowered herself into the small chair beside his — the one she had started pulling close on the nights she found him here. She pulled her dupatta around her shoulders against the slight chill and looked at Aahana.

Just that. For now.

They sat in the silence together. The nightlight hummed softly. Outside a car passed and faded. Aahana stirred once, made a small sound, then settled again. Aditya's eyes followed every movement — that constant quiet watchfulness he had around her. Always tracking. Always present.

Suman watched his face in the low light.

Her son.

This man sitting beside her at midnight — tired in a way sleep couldn't touch, walls so carefully built she sometimes forgot what he looked like without them — this was the same boy who used to fall asleep on her lap during power cuts and bring her garden flowers with complete seriousness like they were the finest things in the world.

She pressed her lips together once.

Then —

"Aaj kuch hua." she said softly. Casually. Just a grandmother who couldn't keep a good thing to herself. "Tune dekha?"

He glanced at her. "Kya?"

"Apna haath pakdne ki koshish kar rahi thi shitan." Suman smiled at the crib. "Itni serious thi — poori mehnat laga di isne pata hai Jaise koi bohot important mission tha."

That faint something moved across his face. Warm. Gone almost immediately.

"Subah bhi kar rahi thi." he said quietly.

"Maine socha tune notice nahi kiya."

"Sab notice karta hoon Maa." he said. Simply. Like that was never in question.

Suman looked at him for a moment Then back at Aahana , They sat quietly again for a few minutes.... The kind of quiet that has texture — full rather than empty, Then Suman's expression settled into something gentler. More purposeful.

"Adi." Quietly. "Ek baat karni thi tujhse beta Sunega kya? Nahi sunna hoga toh woh bhi theek hai koi zabarjasti nhi hai."

Aapki baat — hamesha sunoonga Maa , Aap meri maa hain. But maan lena—" a pause — "us cheez ka vaada nahi kar sakta jo mere bas mein nahi rahi." Eyes still on Aahana

. Suman looked at him for just a moment.

The corner of her lips moved — not quite a smile. Not quite not one either. The expression of a woman who had expected exactly this and had come prepared anyway.

"Jaanti hoon." she said softly. And began

"Adi Abhi toh choti hai aahna." she began. Low and even. Not building an argument — just saying true things in the dark. "Abhi isse bas tum chahiye. Tumhari presence , Tumhara haath. Bas itna kaafi hai abhi." A small pause. "But woh badi hogi. Aur chhoti chhoti cheezein hongi — jo tum nahi de sakte. Chahe kitna koshish karlo beta... Pehli baar jab use kuch dard hoga aur woh samajh nahi paayegi kya feel ho raha hai tab woh maa ko dhundegi. Pehli baar jab woh rona chahegi bina wajah tab woh maa ki god dhundegi or Yeh cheezein sirf ek maa de sakti hai beta."

Silence.

Aditya's jaw set slightly. His hands tightened just barely on his knees.

He said nothing.

But she could see it — the way his eyes stayed fixed on Aahana with an intensity that was almost painful. Like he was simultaneously accepting every word she said and resisting it with everything he had.

"Woh kal ko school jaayegi beta." Suman continued after a moment. "Functions mein jaayegi , Apne dosto ko dekhegi — unki maaon ko dekhegi. Har jagah. Aur woh feel karegi ... woh zaroor feel karegi — woh empty space." A pause. "Aur ek din woh poochegi tumse. Seedha. Aankhon mein dekh ke. Meri maa kahan hai."

Something moved through his expression. Quick and painful.

"Toh tum kya kahoge use haan ?" Suman asked quietly.

A long silence.

Aditya exhaled slowly. His head dropped slightly — not in defeat. In the way of a man carrying something too heavy for too long.

"nhi pata maa." he said finally. Low. Almost to himself.

Three words. But the weight in them.

Suman looked at him for a moment. Then —

"Uski ek maa thi Aditya." she said carefully. Gently. "Woh—"

"Maa." His voice was quiet but final. "Us baare mein baat mat karo."

She stopped.

He looked at Aahana. His expression had closed — like a door shutting. Quietly. Completely.

"Us raat jo hua—" he started. Then stopped himself. His jaw worked once. "Aahana ko uski maa ki zaroorat thi. Aur us raat — usne khud choose kiya." The words came out flat. Controlled. Like he had said them to himself so many times they had lost their surface pain but gained something deeper underneath. "Toh ab jo hai — wahi hai."

The room held that for a moment.

Suman didn't push it. She recognized that particular wall — the one he built around Tanya specifically. Thicker than all the others. She had learned not to push directly at it.

She looked at Aahana instead.

"Adi Yeh makaan hai." she said after a moment. "Bada hai. Sundar hai. Sab kuch hai ismein." A pause. "But Aditya — makaan aur ghar mein farak hota hai. Yeh structure hai. Walls hain. par ek asli ghar — woh tab banta hai jab usme ek maa hoti hai. Woh warmth hoti hai jo subah uthne pe feel ho. Raat ko sone se pehle feel ho." She looked around the nursery quietly. "Aahana deserve karti hai yeh feel karna. Apne ghar mein."

His throat moved.

He said nothing.

But she saw it — his eyes closing for just one second. Just one. Like something had pressed against somewhere tender.

"Main tumse yeh nahi keh rahi ki tum apna dard bhool jao." Suman's voice was very gentle now. "Jo hua — usse ignore karo. Ya theek ho jao." She looked at him directly. "Main jaanti hoon tum theek nahi h adi. Main jaanti mera beta hoon andar se kitna toota hai sab. But Adi—" a pause — "yeh Aahana ke baare mein hai or abhi Sirf Aahana ke baare mein. Is bachi ke baare mein jo abhi yahan so rahi hai. Aur jise pata bhi nahi ki uski zindagi mein kya missing hai."

Something cracked in his expression.

Just slightly.

Just for a second.

He looked at Aahana — at her small face, her loosely curled fist, the rise and fall of her chest — and something in his eyes shifted. Like a man who has been successfully not thinking about something and has just been made to think about it fully for the first time.

"Ek maa ki god mein jo neend aati hai—" Suman said softly — "woh kisi aur jagah nahi aati. Ek maa ki awaaz mein jo sukoon hota hai — woh kisi aur cheez mein nahi hota. Yeh replace nahi hosakta hai adi. Kisi bhi cheez se nahi." She looked at Aahana one last time. "Aahana ko yeh milna chahiye. Yeh feel karna chahiye. Apni maa ka haath apne sar pe kitna zarruri ye mujhe tujhe samjhane ki zarrurat nhi ."

The room was completely quiet.

Aditya had not moved in a long time.

He was looking at his daughter — with an expression that had nothing of the boardroom in it, nothing of the walls, nothing of the man the world saw every morning walking out of this house. Just a father. In the dark. Holding something enormous inside himself.

The nightlight hummed.

Outside Delhi breathed its distant breath.

Then —

His jaw tightened one last time.

And something that had been held behind everything — behind four months of silence and walls and functioning perfectly while feeling absolutely nothing — came through. Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

The way the most painful things always do.

He looked at Aahana.

Only at Aahana.

"Nafrat hai Maa mujhe." Quietly. Completely evenly. "Pyaar se."

Suman went very still.

"Aditya Singhania ki zindagi mein — pyaar naam ki cheez — us raat ke saath khatam ho gayi thi." His eyes didn't move from his daughter's face. Not once. "Woh raat jab yeh duniya mein aayi—" a pause so brief it was almost not there — "usi raat sab khatam hua. Jo milna chahiye tha — mujhe bhi. Ise bhi." His voice stayed even. That terrible evenness. "Dono ke haath se gaya. Alag alag tarike se. But gaya."

Suman felt something move through her chest. Deep and slow.

"Aur jo thodi si bachi hai—" he continued. Still looking at Aahana. Still not at her. "—woh sirf iske liye hai Maa." The quietest pause. "Meri beti ke liye."

The words fell into the room and stayed there.

Suman sat with them for a moment.

Then — carefully. Very carefully —

"adi wahi mai ker hai tum." she said. Gently. Almost hesitantly. "Sirf humesha Aahana ke liye hi sochte ho hamesha. par Adi — tum bhi ek insaan ho. Tumhe bhi—"

He turned.

Not fully. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Maa."

One word. Quiet. But the weight in it stopped her completely.

She waited.

He looked at her for just a moment — and something in his eyes was so final it almost didn't need words.

But he gave them anyway.

"Jo insaan pyaar se nafrat karta ho Maa—" he said quietly. "—woh kisi ko kya dega?Khali haath leke rehgya hoon main ab khokla kar gyi h wo mujhe." A pause. So brief. So heavy. "Aur khali haath hi rahunga."

Suman opened her mouth.

He wasn't finished.

"Aahana ke liye sochna theek hai." he said. "But mere liye? Us raat ke baad na mere pass kisi ko den eke liye pyaar hai na apne aap se pyaar karwane ki chahat." His voice stayed completely even throughout. Not bitter. Not angry. Just — stated. Like fact. Like weather. Like something that simply is and will continue to be. "Yeh meri choice nahi hai maa... Yeh main hoon ab."

The silence that followed was a different kind of silence.

Not heavy. Not charged.

Just — final.

Like a door closing so quietly you almost didn't hear it. But you knew — you knew with complete certainty — that it was locked. And that there was no key.

Suman looked at her son.

At this man standing in the soft yellow light of his daughter's nursery — saying the most heartbreaking things in the most ordinary voice — and she felt something she had never quite felt before in all her years of loving him.

Not sadness. Not worry.

Helplessness.

The particular helplessness of a mother who realizes — for the first time — that there are places in her child she cannot reach. That love alone cannot unlock every door. That some walls are built from the inside specifically so that even the people who matter most cannot find the way in.

She said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Then Aditya stood.

Slowly. Every movement deliberate. Controlled.

He looked at Aahana one last time.

That look — walls completely down, every layer gone, just a father looking at his daughter in the dark — was not something Suman would forget. Not in all her years. Not ever.

He reached into the crib.

With a gentleness that had absolutely no business existing in the same man the world feared — he tucked Aahana's small blanket carefully around her shoulders. His hand stayed there for just a moment. On the blanket. Near her. Not quite touching. Just near. Like even this — this small closeness — was the only thing that still made complete sense to him.

Then he straightened.

Walked to the door.

Stopped.

One hand on the doorframe. Back to his mother. Face to the dark corridor.

Suman waited.

He didn't turn around.

He didn't say anything.

But he stood there — just for that one moment — and she could see it. In the set of his shoulders. The slight change in how he was holding himself. That her words had found something. Not changed anything. Not yet.

But found something.

A crack. Barely there.

But there.

Then he walked out.

His footsteps faded slowly down the corridor until there was nothing left of them.

The nursery was quiet again.

Suman sat alone in the soft yellow light. She looked at Aahana for a long time — this small child sleeping so peacefully. So completely unaware of everything being carried around her and for her.

She reached out slowly.

Touched the baby's small hand with just her fingertips.

"aapko maa milegi meri jaan." she whispered. To the sleeping child. To the quiet room. To whatever was listening.

"Main vaada karti hoon."

She sat there a little while longer.

Then got up... Adjusted her dupatta. Turned the nightlight slightly lower.

Aditya had already turned toward the exit when he stopped.

Came back.

Quietly. No explanation. He reached across the small side table near the crib and picked up his phone — face down, untouched, the way it always was in this room. Like the outside world didn't get to exist here.

But he didn't leave.

He just stood there. Phone in hand. Eyes on Aahana.

The nightlight caught his face in that soft yellow glow — and for just a moment Suman saw something she hadn't seen in four months. Not the CEO. Not the man with walls. Just — her son. Standing beside his daughter's crib at midnight with everything he couldn't say sitting right there on his face.

Then he spoke.

"Maan bhi lon Maa" he said. Quietly. Almost like he was thinking out loud. "Kal uthke Mai keh doon theek hai maa kar leta hu Shaadi mai Maan bhi gya"

Suman stayed very still.

"Toh fir kya hoga Maa?" He looked at Aahana. His voice was low and even but underneath it — something was moving. Something that had been still for a long time. "Koi aayegi maybe burin nhi sochta kyuki aap dhudhongi so let assume Achchi hogi ...Decent hogi.... Shayad caring bhi hogi... Sab boxes tick honge." A pause. "But kya jis raat yeh roegi — jis raat isko sacchi maa ki god chahiye hogi ... kya woh aurat uthegi? Waise — jaise apna khoon uthta hai apne liye? Kya woh daudegi iske paas bina soche — bina ek second ruke?"

His jaw worked once.

"Ya yeh bas — ek zimmedari hogi uske liye. Ek bachcha jo uska hai nahi — but nibhana hai toh nibha rahi hogi."

The words fell quietly into the room.

"chalo le aaye ke maa isliye liye par kya wo aahan ko apbi beti maan payegi uske liye uski mumma ban payegi ...Yaha farak hota hai Maa." His voice dropped even lower. "or yeh farak is ko feel hoga. Ek din zaroor feel hoga. Aur main—" he stopped himself.

His throat moved.

When he continued his voice had changed — just slightly. Just enough. The control still there but something underneath it that wasn't fully controlled anymore.

"Main itna selfish nahi hoon ki apni beti ki zindagi mein koi aisa insaan laoon — jo use duty se sambhale. Pyaar se nahi." He looked at Aahana — at her small sleeping face — and something in his expression cracked open just for that one moment. Raw and completely unguarded. "Yeh deserve karti hai sachcha pyaar Maa. Woh pyaar jo sirf tab aata hai jab koi apna hota hai. Sacha apna or aaj ke jamane me apne to apna pan rakhte nhi gairo se umeed bandhi hui h apne."

Silence.

He exhaled slowly. Looked away from Aahana for just a second — at nothing. At the wall. At somewhere far away.

"Ek galat decision." he said. "Bas ek. Aur iski poori zindagi pay karegi. Meri wajah se." His voice was very quiet now. "Yeh main nahi hone dunga. Kabhi nahi."

Suman felt her throat tighten.

He looked back at Aahana one last time.

And when he spoke again — the emotion was gone. Sealed back up. Like a door that had opened just enough and then closed again completely.

"Aur jo bhi — jo bhi iske paas galat niyat se aaya — jo bhi iske saath woh karne ki sochi jo—" he stopped. Jaw tight. Eyes completely still on his daughter. "Main us insaan kozinda nhi chodunga Maa. Koi warning nahi. Koi chance nahi. Bas khatam ."

Not a threat.

Not anger.

Just — absolute certainty. The kind that doesn't need volume. The kind that doesn't need proof. The kind that lives in a person so completely that everyone around them simply believes it without question.

He stood there for one last moment.

Looking at Aahana.

At her small fist. Her peaceful face. Her chest rising and falling so quietly — so completely unaware of the wall her father was building around her in the dark.

Then he turned.

And walked out.

This time he didn't stop at the doorway.

This time there was nothing left to stop for.

The Singhania Enterprises boardroom at 9AM was exactly what it always was.

Sharp. Cold. His.

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Aditya sat at the head of the table — dark suit, expression unreadable, the kind of stillness that made the air in a room feel different. Around him sat his senior team — laptops open, presentations ready, numbers prepared. Everyone alert. Everyone precise. Because unprepared in Aditya Singhania's meeting was not an experience anyone repeated.

"Q3 projections." he said. Simply. Like a door opening.

The presentation began.

He listened without moving. Without reacting. Just absorbing everything with those dark eyes that missed nothing and forgave less. The senior analyst presenting had been doing this for six years and still felt the specific discomfort of Aditya's attention — not hostile, just complete. Like being seen by something that saw everything.

"Sir the Southeast Asia numbers are slightly below projection—"

"By how much."

"Four point two percent sir."

"Reason."

"Supply chain delays in Q2 that carried over—"

"I didn't ask about Q2." Quiet. Final. "I asked about Q3. Fix it. Next quarter these numbers don't come to this table below projection. Are we clear."

Not a question.

"Yes sir."

He leaned back slightly. One hand flat on the table. Eyes moving to the next slide.

"Continue."

The room operated at that specific frequency it always did around him — efficient, tense, everyone performing at the absolute edge of their capability simply because he expected it without ever saying so. His CFO was presenting now — numbers, forecasts, expansion projections — and Aditya was tracking every figure with that focused precision of a man who had built an empire by never missing a single detail.

Then his phone buzzed.

He didn't look at it. He never looked at his phone during meetings. Everyone in that room knew this. It was not a rule he had stated. It was simply — known.

It buzzed again.

He glanced down.

Suman.

He looked at it for one second.

His mother never called during office hours.

He stood.

"Excuse me."

And walked out before anyone could respond.

He answered before the door had fully closed behind him.

"Ji Maa."

One second of silence on her end. The kind that said everything before words did.

"Adi hum sab hospital me tum bhi aaja Aahana ko achanak se kaafi texz bukhar aagya suabh se ro rhi hai bahut teez and also milk bhi nhi le rhi aur—"

"Kaun sa hospital."

She told him.

He was already moving.

His assistant materialized at his shoulder from nowhere.

"Sir the meeting—"

"Reschedule everything." Eyes on the elevator. Not on her.

"Sir the Singapore call is at eleven and Mr. Khanna has personally flown in for—"

He stopped , Turned..Looked at her.

Just — looked at her.

She stopped talking immediately.

"Everything." he said. Quietly. "Aaj ke liye."

She nodded. Didn't speak again.

He walked into the elevator.

The doors closed.

And in that silence — in those twenty floors going down — the CEO ceased to exist completely.

What was left was just a father.

His driver had the car ready in under a minute.

He sat in the back seat — completely still, completely silent — jaw set, eyes fixed on the road, hands flat on his knees pressing down with a pressure that had nowhere else to go. The city moved past the window. Traffic. Signals. People going about ordinary mornings with ordinary problems.

He saw none of it.

He saw Suman the moment he walked through the hospital entrance.

She was standing near the pediatric ward corridor — still in her home clothes, dupatta slightly uneven, eyes finding him the moment he appeared at the far end of the corridor.

He was walking fast. Too fast. The kind of walk that made people move out of the way without being asked.

"Kahan hai woh." He reached her in seconds. Eyes already scanning — door numbers, ward signs, anything. "Kahan hai Aahana—"

"Andar hai beta. Doctor dekh rahe hain abhi. Tum—"

He was already past her.

A nurse stepped directly into his path — both hands up, practiced professional calm. "Sir visiting hours don't begin until—"

He stopped.

Looked at her.

And reached into his jacket.

The gun came out quietly. No announcement. No drama. Just — there. In his hand. The way it had always been in spaces much darker than this corridor. His eyes were completely empty of anything negotiable.

The corridor froze.

The nurse went completely white.

Someone behind him made a sharp sound.

"Adiiiii."

Suman's voice. Just his name. But the weight in it.

At the same moment — Aakarsh from his left. Abhimanyu from his right. Both grabbing his arms simultaneously — firm, controlled, the practiced grip of men who had done this before. Who knew exactly how much force was needed and exactly where.

"Pagal ho gya h kya " Aakarsh's voice was low. Right at his ear. "Rukja thik h adiii aahna ab or andar hai.."

Aditya didn't move. Didn't lower the gun. His eyes fixed on the door beyond the nurse — beyond the corridor — on whatever was behind it.

Then Suman stepped forward.

Not to the side. Not at an angle.

Directly in front of him.

Between him and the gun and everything beyond it.

She looked up at him — this woman who came up to his shoulder, who had held him when he was small and terrified, who had never once in her life been afraid of him — and she looked at him with eyes that had absolutely nothing in them except him.

She reached up.

And took his face in both her hands.

The way she used to when he was a boy. The way she hadn't in years. Palms against his jaw — warm, steady, completely certain.

"Adiii mere bete." she said. Very quietly. "Woh andar hai or pehle se heek hai. Aur haan tum use tab miloge — jab yeh haath or bandook neeche aayega yaad rakna warna khade raho yaha apni bandook ke saath "

The corridor was completely silent.

Aakarsh and Abhimanyu held on.

Aditya looked at his mother.

That enormous terrifying thing inside him — that had no acceptable shape, no acceptable direction — pressed against everything he had for one long moment.

His jaw worked once.

Then slowly — very slowly — his hand lowered.

Aakarsh took the gun from him smoothly. Without a word. Like a language this family had learned without anyone teaching it.

Abhimanyu exhaled quietly.

The nurse had backed completely against the wall. A security guard had appeared from somewhere — then seen Suman, seen the family, seen whatever it was about these people that filled a corridor without trying — and simply stood there uncertain.

Suman looked at the nurse. Completely composed. Like nothing unusual had just happened.

"Meri poti hai andar." she said simply. "Hum jaana chahte hain."

The nurse — still pale — nodded immediately. Stepped aside.

Manu had arrived by then.

Slightly breathless. scarf uneven. Clearly having left home the moment she heard. She stopped at the entrance of the corridor and took in the scene in one second — the frozen nurse, the security guard, Abhimanyu's expression, Aakarsh's hand on Aditya's arm.

She looked at Aakarsh.

He gave her one small look. Later.

She nodded. Went to Suman's side quietly.

The doctor came out twenty minutes later.

Aditya was in front of him before he had fully cleared the door. Aakarsh stayed one step behind — close enough. Just in case.

The doctor was a calm middle aged man with steady eyes. He looked at Aditya — really looked at him — and made a quick assessment of exactly what kind of man he was dealing with.

He chose his words carefully.

"Aapki beti stable hai Mr. singhania ab dhere dhere Bukhar control mein aa rahi hai and by god grace Woh theek ho jaayeg kaafii jadli ."

Aditya said nothing. Just waited. Because there was more. He could hear it in the pause.

"But main aapko kuch explain karna chahta tha." The doctor continued. Measured. Factual. "Breast milk mein jo antibodies hoti hain — woh ek infant ki immunity ke liye bohot critical hoti hain. Especially in the first six months. Formula nutrition provide karta hai — but woh immunity gap — woh fill nahi hota. Aapki beti is vulnerability ke saath infections zyada quickly pakad sakti hai. Aur baar baar bhi ho sakta hai going forward."

The waiting area was very still.

Aditya stood completely motionless.

His face showed nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

But his hands — at his sides — had closed into fists so slowly and so completely that Manu — standing just behind him — saw it and looked away. Because it felt too private.

"Main samajh sakta hoon yeh—"

"Matlab." Aditya's voice came out quiet. Dangerously quiet. "Matlab This can happen again."

"There is a possibility yes — if the immunity gap isn't—"

"Aap doctor hain." The quietness in his voice had an edge now. Cold and sharp and building. "Aur aap mujhe bata rahe hain ki meri chaar mahine ki beti — baar baar beemar pad sakti hai. Aur aap ke paas koi solution nahi hai."

"Sir main sirf facts explain kar raha—"

"Facts." Something shifted in his expression. "Meri beti wires ke saath ek hospital bed mein hai aur aap mujhe facts explain kar rahe hain."

He took one step forward.

The doctor took one step back.

Aakarsh moved immediately — one hand on Aditya's arm. Firm. "Bhai."

Aditya's hand shot out — grabbed the doctor's coat collar. One motion. Controlled but absolute. The doctor froze completely — not from the grip but from the eyes above it. Those completely still, completely empty eyes that had seen things this hospital corridor had never seen.

"Mere beti ko theek karo." Quietly. Each word separate. "Yeh tumhara kaam hai.."

"Bhai." Aakarsh's grip tightened on his arm. "Bhai — chodo. Chodo unhe."

Abhimanyu appeared on his other side.

The doctor hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. Smart enough to understand that stillness was the only correct response right now.

Then Suman's hand — on Aditya's back. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just — there. Flat against his back. Warm and steady.

He felt it.

His grip loosened.

Slowly.

He released the doctor's collar. Stepped back once. His jaw was set so tight it looked like it could break.

The doctor straightened his coat with slightly shaking hands. To his credit — he didn't leave. He looked at Aditya steadily.

"Hum poori care kar rahe hain." he said quietly. "I promise you that."

Aditya said nothing.

Turned away.

Walked to the window at the far end of the waiting area.

And stood there. Back to the room. Arms crossed. Looking at nothing.

Nobody approached him.

Nobody spoke.

Manu looked at Suman. Suman gave her the smallest nod — it's okay. Just wait.

The family sat with his silence the way they always did. Because with Aditya — silence was not absence. Silence was everything happening where nobody could see it.

They let him go in alone.

Nobody discussed it. Nobody suggested it.

The family simply understood — the way this family always understood the things that didn't need saying.

Suman sat. Manu beside her. Aakarsh and Abhimanyu near the window. All of them quiet. All of them waiting.

Aditya walked through the door alone.

The room was small and white and very quiet.

Aahana lay in the hospital crib — clinical, unfamiliar, nothing like the warmth of home. Wires. A small monitor beside her showing numbers Aditya could read and wished he couldn't. A tiny IV line taped carefully to her small hand.

He stood at the door for just a moment.

Then walked to her.

Pulled the chair close. Sat down.

And looked at her.

She was awake — barely. Eyes open just slightly, glassy with fever, moving slowly until they found his face.

And stayed there.

Like even now... Even like this... He was still the thing that made the most sense to her.

He reached out.

One finger near her hand.

She found it immediately. Wrapped her small fingers around it — that grip. That small unconditional grip that had no conditions, no expectations, no calculation behind it. Just — him. Just — her. Just this.

He looked at her hand around his finger.

At the IV on her other hand.

At her face — flushed with fever, so small against the white hospital pillow, so completely dependent on a world she had no control over.

And in that white quiet room — everything came back.

Not in a rush. Not loudly.

Just — one thing at a time... The way truth arrives when you finally stop running from it.

Suman's voice — pehli baar jab woh roegi bina wajah — woh maa ki god dhundegi.

The doctor's voice — woh immunity gap — woh remain karta hai.

Suman's voice  — ek maa ki god mein jo neend aati hai — woh kisi aur jagah nahi aati. Yeh replace nahi hota.

He looked at Aahana.

At this four month old person who had come into the world on the worst night of his life — and had somehow, without trying, without knowing, without asking for anything — become the only reason any of it continued to make sense.

She deserved more than this.

More than hospital cribs and immunity gaps and a father sitting beside her at midnight because there was simply no one else.

She deserved warmth he had forgotten how to be. Softness he had sealed away completely. A presence that stayed — not from obligation, not from arrangement — but from something real. Something chosen. Something that looked at this child and saw her as their own without being told to.

He looked at her small hand around his finger.

And something that had been fighting its way toward him for weeks —

Finally arrived.

Quietly.... Without announcement. Without drama.

The way the most important decisions always arrive — not loudly. Just — settled. Like something that was always going to be true finally becoming true.

He would do this...Not for himself...Never for himself.

For her.

For this small person holding his finger in a hospital crib — who deserved everything he could not give her alone.

He stayed beside her for a long time after that.

Not moving.

Not thinking anymore.

Just there.

The way he would always be.

No matter what.

No matter what it cost him

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A week passed.

The kind of week that looks ordinary from the outside — meals at the right times, meetings attended, routines followed — but feels entirely different from the inside. Like everyone is moving through the same house but carrying something slightly heavier than before and nobody is mentioning it.

Aahana came home on the third day. Small and recovering and completely unaware of everything her four days in a hospital had shifted in the people around her. The nanny hovered. Suman hovered more. And Aditya —

Aditya was different.

Nobody said it. Nobody pointed at it or named it or made it a conversation. But the family felt it the way families feel things that live in the air rather than in words.

He still left for office at the same time. Still came back late. Still went to Aahana's nursery before sleeping. Still said exactly as much as he always said — which was never much.

But something underneath all of it had shifted.

Like a room where someone has moved the furniture slightly. Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could point at specifically. Just — different. Just — not quite the same as before.

Manu noticed it first... She always noticed things first — that was her particular gift, the youngest child's gift of watching everyone carefully because the older ones set all the rules. She noticed the way Aditya looked at Aahana now — which was the same as before in every visible way but somehow more deliberate. Like a man who had made a decision and was now looking at the reason for it every chance he got.

She didn't say anything.

Neither did Aakarsh... Nor did Abhimanyu.

They just — waited. The way this family waited for things that needed time.

Only Suman said nothing because she already knew.

It was on the seventh night that she finally sat with it properly.

Her room was quiet. The house had gone to sleep around her — that gradual settling of a large home, sounds fading one by one until there was only the distant hum of the city outside and the soft tick of the clock on her wall.

She sat at the edge of her bed. Not under the covers. Not ready for sleep. Just — sitting. Her hands loosely in her lap. The small lamp on her bedside table casting a warm low light across the room.

Nakesh was asleep beside her — his breathing slow and even, one arm across his eyes the way he always slept. She looked at him for a moment. This man she had built a life with. This man who carried his own worries about their son in his own particular quiet way and never showed it except in the slight tightening around his eyes when Aditya's name came up.

She looked away...And thought...Really thought,  The way she hadn't allowed herself to fully until now — because until now it had felt too fragile. Like thinking about it too directly might break something.

But now —

Now Aditya had shifted. She had felt it. She knew it in the way she knew all things about her children — not from what they said but from everything underneath what they said.

He was ready...Not healed definitely Not fixed. Not even close to either of those things.

But ready.

And that meant she had to be ready too.

She thought about what he had said in the nursery that night.

Can any woman truly give Aahana real mother's love?

She sat with that question the way she had been sitting with it for a week. Turning it over. Looking at it from every angle.

He wasn't wrong.

That was the thing that had been sitting heaviest in her chest since that night. He wasn't wrong. Not every woman who came into this house as a wife would naturally love a child that wasn't hers. Not every woman — no matter how good, no matter how decent — would run to Aahana at midnight without thinking Without calculating Without somewhere in the back of her mind feeling the difference between her own child and someone else's.

That difference existed.

Suman had seen it in her own life — in families she knew, in marriages she had watched from close. Stepchildren who were treated correctly but never quite loved. Children who grew up knowing — in that specific wordless way children know things — that they were not quite the same as the others.

She would not let that be Aahana's life...She would not.

So what kind of girl then...She closed her eyes for a moment.

What kind of girl could walk into a house like this — into Aditya's world — and not break. Not from the coldness. Not from the walls. Not from the weight of everything this family carried.

She would have to be strong... But not hard. There was a difference — Suman had learned that difference over decades. Hard people broke eventually. Strong people bent and came back.

She would have to be patient. Because Aditya would not make it easy. He would not make it easy on purpose or on accident — it would simply be who he was. And she would have to stay anyway.

She would have to be warm Genuinely warm Not performed warmth — Aditya would see through performed warmth in seconds and it would be over before it began Real warmth. The kind that came from inside a person naturally and touched everything around it without trying.

And Aahana.

Suman opened her eyes.

The girl would have to love Aahana Really love her  Not decide to love her. Not try to love her. Just — love her. The way you love something that finds its way into your heart before you've had a chance to think about it.

Was there such a girl?

Was there a girl who was strong enough for Aditya's world and soft enough for Aahana's heart. Who could stand in the same house as a man who had sworn off love and not demand what he couldn't give. Who carried enough warmth in her to fill the cold spaces of the Singhania mansion without being consumed by them.

Suman sat with that question for a long time.

The clock ticked softly. Outside Delhi breathed its late night breath. Nakesh shifted slightly in his sleep.

She didn't have an answer yet.

But she knew one thing with complete certainty —

She would find her.

However long it took. However many dead ends. However carefully she had to look.

She would find the right girl for her son. For her granddaughter.

And when she did —

She would know. The way she always knew the things that mattered.

Without being told.

Without needing proof.

She would just — know.

She reached over and turned off the bedside lamp.

Lay down slowly beside her husband.

Eyes open in the dark for a little while longer.

Thinking...Planning

Quietly certain in the way only mothers can be certain — "not because they have all the answers but because they refuse to stop until they find them"

The house was asleep.

Aditya sat at the edge of his bed — elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Still in his clothes. He hadn't changed. Hadn't tried to sleep. Hadn't done anything except sit here since the house went quiet and there was nothing left between him and his own thoughts.

The room was dark except for the city light coming through the curtains — that particular Delhi late night glow that was never fully dark, never fully quiet.

He sat with it.

Everything.

The hospital. Aahana's small hand around that IV line. The doctor's voice — woh immunity gap — woh remain karta hai. Suman's voice — older, underneath everything — ek maa ki god mein jo neend aati hai — woh kisi aur jagah nahi aati.

He had been running from this decision for four months.

Not dramatically. Not consciously even. Just — not going toward it. Keeping his eyes forward. His schedule full. His walls intact. Telling himself Aahana was fine. Telling himself he was enough. Telling himself one person could be both things if they just tried hard enough.

He had been wrong He pressed his clasped hands against his mouth for a moment. Closed his eyes.The thing about making a decision you don't want to make ... the actual moment of it — is that it doesn't feel like strength. It doesn't feel noble or brave or certain.

It just feels like — this is the only thing left...And you do it anyway For the right reason.

He opened his eyes..Stood up.

And walked to the nursery.

The nightlight was on — pale yellow, soft and warm. Aahana was asleep on her back, arms loosely open, chest rising and falling with that peaceful rhythm that never failed to do something to him. Something that had no name except — everything.

He pulled the chair close Sat down Looked at her for a long time in the quiet ... She was so small.

So completely, heartbreakingly small.

He leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Eyes on her face.

"Papa ki jaan." he said softly. Just above a whisper. Like the words were only for this room. Only for her. "Meri betu."

Aahana slept on. Unbothered. Perfect.

He watched her tiny chest rise and fall.

"Pata nahi aap samjhti ho ki nahi meri baat." he continued quietly. "par " a small pause — "lagta hai ki aap samjhte ho apne papa ...sirf aap hi to samjhate ho apne papa ko.... Aap to bahut samajhdaar hai meri jaan ho gi bhi kyu nhi Bilkul papa pe gayi hai."

Something softened in his expression. Just for this moment. Just here.

"sorry beta papa aapko nhi samjh paaye papa apni jaan ko nhi samjh paaye...Maine socha tha ki mai akele kar lunga sab." he said. Lower now. More honest. "aapke liye aapke papa sab kuch karlenge ." His jaw tightened slightly. "par is baar aapke papa Galat the waise aapke Papa decision lene me humsesha galat hi rahe hai beta khair ."

He looked at her small sleeping face.

"Aapko bhi koi chahiye koi nhi sorry aapko Maa chaiye." The words came out simply. Finally. Like he had stopped fighting them. "aapki ma jo sirf aapki ho aapke liye ho appse itna pyaar kare ki papa ka pyaa kam pade... Koi jiske liye aao sabse pehle ho — hamesha pehle. Koi jo aapke liye bina soche sab kare— bina ek second ruke."

He was quiet for a moment.

Outside Delhi breathed its distant breath. The nightlight hummed softly.

"Papa dhund nahi payenge beta wo aapki dadi hi karengi ." he said. Very quietly. Like a promise being made in a language only they shared. "par wada rha koi galat insaan ko aapke pass tak nhi aane dunga aapko bss ek aise maa mile jo sach me aapko apna mane Duty se nahi. Dil se."

His eyes stayed on her face.

"Aur jo bhi aayega aapki zindagi mein — " something absolute moved through his expression — that protective certainty that lived in him so completely it needed no volume, no announcement — "pehle mujhse guzrna hoga. Pehle papa se." A pause. "Aur papa — " his voice dropped even lower — "hone nahi dega kuch bhi galat aapke saath. Kuch bhi. Kabhi nahi."

Aahana's fingers curled slightly in her sleep.

Like she heard...Like she always heard...He reached out slowly. , Put one finger near her hand. She found it immediately — that instinctive grip. Warm. Small. Unconditional.

 The grip that had been the only thing making complete sense to him for four months.

He looked at her hand around his finger for a long moment...Then leaned forward , And pressed his lips to her forehead.

Gentle. Slow. Long.

The kiss of a father making a promise he intended to keep with everything he had — with every broken piece of himself, with every wall he had built, with every version of himself that still existed underneath all of it...He stayed there for a moment — lips against her forehead, eyes closed — just breathing. Just here. Just the two of them in the soft yellow light.

Then he straightened...Looked at her one last time.

"Papa fix karenge meri jaan." he whispered. "Jo pehle nahi kar paye wo-w- uske liye jeevan bhar maafi manuga . But yeh — yeh zaroor fix karenge aapko vaada hai papa ka."

He stood slowly.

Tucked her blanket gently around her small shoulders — that same careful gentleness that had nothing to do with the man the world knew and everything to do with the father only she knew...And walked out.

The corridor was dim and quiet.

He stood outside Suman's door for a moment Just stood there, Hand not yet raised. Eyes on the door.

This was it.

Not a big moment from the outside — just a man standing in a corridor at midnight. But from the inside — it felt like the moment just before you let go of the one thing you have been holding onto. Because you finally understand that holding on is hurting someone you love more than letting go ever could.

He knocked.

Two quiet knocks.

A pause Then the soft sound of movement inside. The door opened.

Suman stood there — still awake, still dressed, like some part of her had known. Her eyes found his face immediately. Reading everything the way she always read everything — not from what was showing but from what lived underneath it.

She waited.

He looked at her for just a moment.

"Kar lunga." he said. ... Quietly.

Suman looked at him  really looked at him — the way she had been looking at him his whole life. Trying to find the thing underneath the thing.

He let her look.

Then —

"Meri beti ko maa chahiye." His voice was low. Measured. Like every word was being placed carefully because every word mattered. "Toh maa milegi use. Main karoonga yeh uske liye." A pause. Something shifted in his jaw. "par maa—"

She went completely still.

"Jo bhi aayegi is ghar mein — woh Aahana ki maa hogi...Sirf Aahana ki maa." His eyes held hers without flinching. "Meri biwi ka darja — meri zindagi mein jagah — woh mere paas nahi hai dene ke liye. Na abhi. Na baad mein." The quietest pause. "Yeh samajha ke laana hoga aapko use. Aur yeh samajh ke rehna hoga use bhi. Mai kisi ko andere me nhi rakhta so better aap sach bol dena"

Suman opened her mouth.

He looked at her.

Just .... "looked at her"

And whatever she had been about to say —

Stayed exactly where it was....She closed her mouth.

Looked at her son — at this man standing in her doorway at midnight, saying the most heartbreaking things in the most ordinary voice — and felt something move through her chest that had no clean name.

Not sadness... Not defeat.

Just — the particular ache of a mother who loves her child enough to accept even the parts of him that break her heart.

He nodded once...Turned.

And walked away.

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Hey guys — your author here. 🤍

So — Chapter 2.

"Kar lunga... Sirf Aahana ke liye"

Two words that cost him everything.

I want to know — how are you feeling right now? About Aditya? About his decision? Did this chapter hit you the way I hoped it would?

And one more thing — what do you think is coming next? Who do you think is going to walk into Aditya Singhania's life?

Drop your thoughts... I read every single one. Every. Single. One.

Also — Misha ka kya? Did you forget about her? Because she definitely hasn't forgotten about her own story. 😏

Chapter 3 coming soon.

And as always — I am still learning and growing. If there are any mistakes or anything that felt off — I apologize from the heart. Thank you for your patience and love.

See you in Chapter 3. 🤍

— Your author