Suhana was watching me with those sharp, cat-like eyes, swirling the last dregs of red wine in her glass. She looked bored again, now that the Tara story was over.

I swallowed a mouthful of cold pasta, but my mind was still back in the hallway. Back at that lonely photograph of the little boy standing apart from everyone else.

I put the fork down.

"Suhana..." I started, my voice hesitant.

"What now?" she sighed, checking her manicured nails. "More questions? I should start charging you a consultation fee."

"The photos," I said, ignoring her sarcasm. "In the hallway. I saw them tonight."

Suhana paused. She looked up. "And?"

"There are so many photos of the family," I continued, piecing the puzzle together out loud. "You, Arav Bhaiya, Rohini Mom... even Dhananjay Sir. You all look so happy together. A unit."

I looked her in the eye.

"But Dhruv... he isn't in any of them. His photos are separate. He is always alone. Even as a child."

I leaned forward. "Does he hate having family photos? Or..."

Suhana stared at me for a long moment. Then, a slow, disbelief-filled laugh bubbled up from her throat. It wasn't a cruel laugh this time; it was a laugh of genuine shock.

"Oh my God," she whispered, shaking her head. "You really are clueless, aren't you? They really didn't tell you anything before you signed those papers."

She slammed her wine glass down on the marble counter. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

She stood up. The silk of her robe rustled as she walked around the island, coming to stop right next to my chair. She smelled of expensive perfume and expensive wine.

She leaned down, bringing her lips close to my ear. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You think he isn't in the photos because he hates them?" she murmured. "Darling... he isn't in the photos because he doesn't belong in the frame."

I frowned, turning my head to look at her. "What?"

"Dhruv," Suhana said, enunciating every word slowly, "is not Rohini Mom's son."

The world stopped.

My eyes went wide. I stared at her, my brain trying to process the words.

"What?" I gasped. "He... he is not a Rathore?"

Smack.

Suhana lightly struck her own forehead with her palm, rolling her eyes.

"Uff, you are slow," she hissed. "I said he is not Rohini's son. He is very much a Rathore. Unfortunately."

She leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms.

"He is Dhananjay Rathore’s son," she revealed, her tone dry and matter-of-fact. "Just not with his wife."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"He..." I stammered. "He is..."

"Illegitimate," Suhana finished the sentence for me. "The result of an affair. A mistake. Whatever you want to call it."

She gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the upper floors where the family slept.

"Arav told me the story once, when he was drunk," she continued. "Dhananjay Rathore brought him home when Dhruv was seven years old. Just walked through the front door holding the hand of a skinny, terrified little boy and told Rohini, 'This is my son. He lives here now.'"

My hand flew to my mouth.

Seven years old.

I thought of the little boy in the photo. The intense eyes. The stiff posture.

He wasn't standing straight because he was proud. He was standing straight because he was terrified. He was a stranger in a house that didn't want him.

"But..." I whispered, my heart aching. "Rohini Mom... she..."

"She hates him," Suhana shrugged. "Obviously. Every time she looks at him, she sees her husband’s betrayal. She sees the other woman. Why do you think she is so cold? Why do you think she acts like a queen and treats him like a bank account?"

I realized then why I had never seen Dhruv talk to his mother with warmth. Why their interactions were so formal. Why she had inspected me like a product on the first day.

Dhruv wasn't her son. He was her burden.

"And his... his real mother?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Where is she?"

Suhana laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Who knows? Dead? Paid off? Disappeared? Dhananjay never said a word about her. He just dumped the boy here and went back to business."

She looked at me, her expression turning serious for the first time.

"Dhruv was raised by nannies, Katha. Not by a mother. He grew up in this massive house surrounded by people, but no one ever hugged him. No one ever tucked him in. Arav was the golden child, the heir. And Dhruv? Dhruv was the shameful secret everyone tried to ignore."

Suhana leaned in closer, her eyes glinting.

"They say Dhananjay was forced to bring him here. Maybe the mother died, maybe there was a legal threat. But one thing is sure... no one wanted him here."

She poked my shoulder with a manicured finger.

"This family is messed up, darling. It looks like gold from the outside, but inside? It’s all rust."

I sat frozen in the chair. The pasta in front of me suddenly looked nauseating.

My chest felt heavy, as if a stone had been placed on my heart.

Dhruv.

The man who slept with a wall of pillows. The man who had nightmares about being left alone. The man who had built an empire just to prove he was worth something.

He wasn't a monster. He was a survivor.

He had been abandoned by his mother, resented by his stepmother, and ignored by his father. And then, when he finally opened his heart to Tara... she had betrayed him too.

Everyone leaves him, I realized, tears pricking my eyes. Everyone uses him. No wonder he thinks love is a transaction. It’s the only language he’s ever been taught.

"I..." I pushed the plate away, my stomach churning. "I think I am full."

Suhana watched me, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Maybe pity? Or maybe just satisfaction at having shocked me.

"Good," she said, standing up. "Go to sleep. And don't look at him with those puppy dog eyes tomorrow. He hates pity more than anything."

I stood up on shaky legs. I walked to the sink to wash my hands, the cold water doing nothing to cool the burning ache in my chest.

I looked out the kitchen window at the dark garden.

Somewhere out there, twenty years ago, a seven-year-old boy had stood alone, waiting for a family that would never love him.

And upstairs, that same boy was sleeping.

Oh, Dhruv, I whispered into the silence.

Master Bedroom Time: 2:35 AM

The walk back to the bedroom felt like miles. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to whisper the secret I had just learned. I passed the spot where the black-and-white photograph hung, but I couldn't bear to look at it again.

I opened the bedroom door and slipped inside.

The room was freezing. Dhruv liked the temperature low, almost arctic. Before, I thought it was just a preference for luxury. Now, I wondered if he simply found comfort in the cold because it was all he had ever known.

I walked to the side of the bed.

He was exactly where I had left him. The pillows I had arranged earlier were still there, but in his sleep, he had pushed the duvet down to his waist. His arm was thrown over his eyes, as if blocking out a light that wasn't there.

I stood over him for a long time, just watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Seven years old.

The image wouldn't leave my mind. A little boy walking through those massive front doors, gripping his father’s hand, entering a home where the very air resented his existence.

I moved closer. I didn't go to my side of the bed. I sat down gently on the edge of the mattress, right beside him.

The mattress dipped under my weight. Dhruv stirred. He made a low sound in his throat—not a word, just a noise of discomfort—and shifted. His arm fell away from his face, revealing the deep furrow between his brows. Even in sleep, he was frowning. Even in sleep, he was fighting a war.

My heart twisted painfully in my chest.

You never really rested, did you? I thought, a lump forming in my throat. You just learned to survive.

Without thinking, I reached out. My hand trembled slightly as I brought it close to him.

I brushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead.

His hair was soft. So unexpectedly soft.

He flinched at the first contact, his head jerking slightly to the side. It was a reflex—the instinct of a man who expects a blow, not a caress.

"Shh," I whispered into the darkness. "It's okay. It's just me."

I didn't pull away. I let my fingers linger, slowly running them through the thick strands at his temple. I traced the line of his hairline, my touch feather-light.

Dhruv let out a long exhale. The tension in his jaw began to bleed away. He leaned into my hand.

It was such a small movement—a fraction of an inch—but it shattered me.

He was seeking the warmth. Subconsciously, desperately, he was chasing the affection he had been starved of for twenty years.

"Suhana said no one tucked you in," I murmured, my voice breaking. "No one held you."

I thought about my own childhood. It was poor, yes. It was hard. But my mother had brushed my hair every night. She had kissed my forehead. She had told me I was her world.

Dhruv had money. He had an empire. But he had grown up in this museum of a house completely invisible.

I moved my hand down to his cheek. His stubble scratched against my palm, grounding me in the moment. He felt feverishly warm.

"You aren't just a checkbook, Dhruv," I whispered to his sleeping form. "You aren't just a scandal your father left behind."

I leaned down, resting my other hand on his chest, right over his heart. I could feel it beating—steady and strong.

"You are just a man," I said softly. "A lonely, stupid, stubborn man who thinks he has to buy people to make them stay."

Tears blurred my vision. I blinked them back, refusing to cry. He didn't need my pity. He needed something else.

He needed to know he wasn't invisible.

I continued to stroke his hair, finding a soothing rhythm. Stroke. Pause. Stroke.

For the first time since I signed those papers, I didn't feel like a victim. I didn't feel like an employee. I looked at his sharp features, now relaxed in slumber, and I didn't see the person I was supposed to hate.

I saw the boy who had been left alone in the garden.

"I'm here," I whispered, repeating the promise I made during his nightmare. "I'm not leaving."

Dhruv shifted again. His hand, heavy and large, moved across the sheet. It bumped against my thigh.

He didn't wake up, but his fingers curled into the fabric of my shawl, gripping it loosely. He was holding on.

I covered his hand with mine.

I sat there for an hour, just watching him sleep, guarding him from the ghosts of this house. The anger I had felt over the bracelet, the resentment over the contract—it all seemed so small now.

He had built walls of gold and diamonds to keep people out because he was terrified that if he let them in, they would realize he wasn't really a Rathore. That he was just... Dhruv.

"Sleep," I whispered, leaning down to press a soft, barely-there kiss to his forehead.

He didn't stir, but the frown between his brows finally smoothed out completely.