Dhruv's POV

The air in the bedroom was too thick. Too warm. Too full of her.

I could still feel the phantom pressure of Katha’s arms around my neck, the dampness of my own tears on her skin. It was suffocating. I needed to get out before I did something reckless—like kissing her again, or worse, telling her the rest of the truth.

I stepped back, my hands hovering for a split second as if to pull her back in, but I clenched them into fists instead.

"Sleep," I ordered, my voice rougher than I intended. "And don't come behind me."

I turned on my heel and walked out. I didn't look back to see if she was hurt. I couldn't afford to care.

Click.

I locked the bedroom door from the outside—a habit, a barrier, a necessity.

I walked down the long, silent corridor. My destination was the west wing, the private bar. I needed a drink. I needed something to burn away the softness that was trying to settle in my chest.

As I turned the corner near the main staircase, I saw a blur of movement.

A young maid was running up the stairs, carrying a silver tray with a glass of water and a strip of tablets. She looked panicked.

"Stop," I called out.

She froze, nearly dropping the tray. "Sir!"

"Where are you running?" I asked, eyeing the medicine. "Who is sick?"

"It's... it's Rohini Ma'am, Sir," the maid stammered, looking down. "She has a severe migraine. She rang the bell three times. I am rushing to give her the medicine."

My jaw tightened. A migraine. She only got those when she was stressed about my father.

The need for alcohol vanished, replaced by an instinctive, ingrained duty.

"Give it to me," I said, holding out my hand.

The maid hesitated. "But Sir... Ma'am said..."

"I said give it to me," I repeated, my tone leaving no room for argument. "Go back to your quarters."

She handed me the tray with trembling hands and scurried away.

I looked at the white tablets. Sumatriptan. Strong stuff. She was in pain.

I walked to the heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall. I didn't knock. If she was in pain, the sound would only make it worse. I turned the handle silently and stepped inside.

The room was pitch black. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the moonlight. The air smelled of lavender and stale grief.

"Aarav?"

Her voice came from the bed—weak, hopeful, and laced with a tenderness I had never heard directed at me.

"Son, is that you?" she whispered into the darkness. "I am old now... these headaches are killing me. But why did you come? I told the maid not to disturb you."

I stood frozen in the doorway, the tray heavy in my hands.

Aarav. Of course. She thought I was the son she loved. The son who belonged.

I didn't say anything. If I spoke, the illusion would break, and the tenderness would turn to venom.

I walked quietly to the bedside table. I set the tray down. The slight clink of the glass against the coaster echoed in the silence.

I poured the water.

Rohini shifted, pushing herself up against the headboard. She reached out to turn on the bedside lamp.

Click.

The dim yellow light flooded the space between us.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting. She looked up, a smile forming on her lips for her golden boy.

Then, her focus sharpened.

The smile died instantly. It didn't just fade; it shattered. Her eyes went flat, cold, and hard.

"You," she breathed.

She looked at the glass of water in my hand as if it were contaminated.

"Get out," she hissed, pressing a hand to her throbbing temple.

"You need the medicine," I said quietly, keeping my face impassive. I held the glass out to her.

She looked at my hand, then up at my face. Her lip curled in pure disgust.

"It is better I drink poison," she spat, "than drink water from your hands."

She swiped her arm out.

Crash.

The glass flew from my hand and hit the wall, water splashing onto the expensive wallpaper.

I didn't flinch. I just stood there, my hand still suspended in the air, empty.

"Mom," I started, the word slipping out instinctively. "Please. Take care of yourself. Don't stress too much. Dad told me to ensure you rest. I am handling the work. You don't need to worry."

"Don't," she snapped, her voice rising despite her pain. "Don't call me that."

She glared at me, her chest heaving.

"You think you helping me reduces my stress?" she laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Your very presence is enough to remind me of the betrayal of your father."

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

"Every time I look at you, Dhruv... I see her. I see his infidelity. I see the lie I have lived for twenty years. You are a walking, breathing wound in my life."

I took the blow. I didn't defend myself. How could I? She wasn't wrong. My existence was proof that her husband hadn't loved her enough to be faithful.

"I can't say anything to him," she whispered, tears of rage pooling in her eyes. "Because he is Dhananjay Rathore. He is the man of the house. If I say something, he would destroy me. I have to swallow it."

She looked at me with a hatred so deep it felt like physical weight.

"But what was my mistake?" she asked, her voice cracking. "What wrong did I do to deserve this? To have to raise the proof of his affair in my own house? And you..."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You even took the place of my son. You took Aarav's position in the company. You took his office. You took his birthright."

My throat burned. It felt like a band of iron was tightening around my chest.

I didn't take it, I wanted to scream. I earned it because Aarav couldn't handle it. I did it to save the family name.

But I said nothing.

"Please," I said, my voice steady, devoid of the agony ripping me apart inside. "Have the medicine. I will go. But at least take the pill."

"I hate it when you call me mother," she whispered, closing her eyes as a fresh wave of pain hit her. "You want to make fun of me by saying that? It sounds like an insult coming from your mouth."

I looked at the woman lying in the bed. She was cruel. She was vindictive.

But she was also a victim.

I picked up the strip of tablets from the tray. I popped one out and placed it gently on the coaster, away from the spilled water.

"I am putting it here," I said softly. "Please have it."

I turned around and walked to the door.

I didn't slam it. I closed it gently, leaving her in the darkness she preferred.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the closed door.

I wasn't angry. I never got angry at her. Why would I?

She had been a queen in her own world until my father brought me home—a seven-year-old boy holding his hand—and shattered her life. She looked at me and saw the other woman. She saw the shame.

I wasn't the son. I was the stain.

She was never wrong, I thought, walking toward the bar, my footsteps heavy on the marble. I am the problem. I came into this house and broke it.

I respected her. I respected her because she had survived Dhananjay Rathore. Just like me.

The only difference was, I could numb the pain with whiskey. She only had her hate.

I pushed open the doors to the private bar, the darkness of the room welcoming me like an old friend.

The whiskey burned going down, searing a path through my chest, but it did nothing to numb the cold spreading in my veins.

I stared at the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass. The room was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. It was the sound of my life ticking away in this mausoleum of a house.

“Your very presence is enough to remind me of the betrayal.”

Rohini’s voice echoed in my head, louder than my own thoughts. She was right. I was a living sin. A walking reminder that happiness was a lie.

I took another long swallow, the glass trembling slightly in my hand.

It sucked. God, it sucked living in a house where the walls themselves seemed to reject you. Where the woman who raised you wished you had never been born, and the father who claimed you only saw you as an asset.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the leather armchair.

A single, hot tear escaped, tracking a slow path down my cheek. I didn't wipe it away.

In the darkness behind my eyelids, the cold marble of Rathore Manor faded. The smell of expensive polish and old grief vanished.

Instead, I smelled the sea. I smelled coconut oil and frying spices. I saw the sun.

And I saw her.

FLASHBACK

Location: A Small Cottage, Goa Time: Twenty Years Ago

The house was small, with peeling yellow paint and a roof that leaked during the monsoons, but to seven-year-old Dhruv, it was a kingdom.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, carrying the salty tang of the Arabian Sea. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of fish curry bubbling on the stove.

"Mumma! Mumma, look!"

Little Dhruv came skidding into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the cool tiled floor. He was a scrawny boy with messy hair and eyes that held the entire universe in their dark depths.

He scrambled up onto the wooden stool near the counter, swinging his legs back and forth with restless energy.

Isha turned away from the stove. She was beautiful, with kind eyes and a smile that hid a thousand sorrows. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at her son.

"Careful, baba," she scolded gently, though her eyes were soft. "You will fall."

"I won't fall," Dhruv declared confidently. He tugged at the collar of the crisp, new white shirt she had made him wear. It was itchy and stiff, nothing like his usual comfortable t-shirts.

"Mumma, why did you make me wear this?" he asked, scrunching his nose. "Are we going to a party? Is it my birthday again?"

Isha’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she cupped his small face. She smoothed his hair, her touch lingering on his cheek.

"No party today, my love," she whispered. "Today is... today is the beginning of your big life."

"Big life?" Dhruv tilted his head, confused.

"Yes," Isha said, her voice thick with emotion. "You are my prince, Dhruv. My life. You give me the power to stay alive. But... today you have to go somewhere else, my son."

Dhruv stopped swinging his legs. "Somewhere else? Without you?"

"Somewhere where you will live a better life," she said hurriedly, forcing a brightness into her tone that didn't reach her eyes. "A great future. A big house. New toys. Schools with big playgrounds."

"I don't want a big playground," Dhruv said stubbornly. "I want to play here. With you. Are you coming?"

Isha bit her lip, looking away to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. "No, baba. Not right now."

"Why?" Dhruv demanded, his lower lip wobbling.

"I promise I will come," she lied, her heart breaking with every word. "When you become successful. When you are a big man. But don't worry... where you are going, they will all love you there. You will be a king."

She took a deep breath. "And... you will meet your father today."

Dhruv’s eyes went wide. His mouth formed a perfect 'O'.

"Really?" he gasped. "My papa?"

"Yes."

"I never saw him!" Dhruv exclaimed, excitement warring with his confusion. "I am angry with him, you know? He never came for the Parent-Teacher meeting. Rahul’s papa comes. Amit’s papa comes. They always ask me, 'Dhruv, where is your father?' and I never have an answer."

He puffed out his small chest, looking determined. "But now I will show them. I will tell them I have a papa too."

He paused, looking at his mother with innocent curiosity. "But Mumma... why doesn't he come to us? Why do we have to go to him?"

Isha turned off the stove. Her hands gripped the countertop until her knuckles turned white.

"He is busy, beta," she whispered. "He is a very big man. He has a lot of work. But now... now he wants you."

Knock. Knock.

The sound was heavy and authoritative. It didn't sound like a neighbor visiting. It sounded like a judgment.

Isha stiffened. She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand and turned to Dhruv.

"He is here," she choked out. "Be a good boy, Dhruv. Don't cry. Promise me you won't cry."

"I won't cry," Dhruv promised, though fear was starting to creep into his belly.

Isha walked to the door and opened it.

A man stood there.

He was tall. Imposing. He wore a suit that cost more than the entire house Dhruv lived in. His face was sharp, handsome, and terrifyingly cold.

Dhananjay Rathore.

He didn't look at the house. He didn't look at Isha with love. He looked at his watch.

"Is he ready?" his voice was dark, devoid of any warmth.

Isha nodded, stepping back. "He is ready."

Dhananjay stepped inside. The small room suddenly felt suffocating. He looked at the boy sitting on the stool. He didn't smile. He didn't open his arms for a hug. He just assessed him, like one would assess a piece of furniture.

"Come," Dhananjay said.

Dhruv looked at his mother. He looked at the stranger who was supposed to be his father.

"Go, Dhruv," Isha whispered, a sob escaping her throat.

Dhruv slid off the stool. He walked slowly toward the tall man. Dhananjay reached out and took Dhruv’s small hand. His grip was firm, but cold. There was no squeeze of reassurance.

Isha stepped forward, blocking the doorway for a second. The submissive, gentle mother was gone. In her place was a lioness losing her cub.

"Remember," she said, looking Dhananjay dead in the eye, her voice shaking with a dangerous warning. "You have to take care of him. You promised. And you know what will happen if you didn't."

Dhananjay looked at her. A cruel, arrogant smirk touched his lips.

"Sure," he drawled. "You also take care of yourself, darling."

He pulled Dhruv’s hand. "Let's go."

Dhruv stumbled, his small legs trying to keep up with the man's long strides. He twisted his neck, looking back.

Isha was standing in the doorway. She was waving her hand. Her face was wet with tears, her body trembling, but she forced a smile for him.

"Mumma!" Dhruv cried out, panic finally setting in.

Dhananjay didn't stop. He opened the door of a massive black car and lifted Dhruv inside.

The leather seat was cold. The car smelled strange—sterile and expensive.

Dhruv pressed his face and hands against the glass window.

"Mumma!"

Dhananjay got into the driver's seat. He didn't look at the boy. He didn't offer a word of comfort. He just started the engine.

The car moved.

Dhruv watched. He watched the yellow house get smaller. He watched the figure of his mother standing on the dirt road, her hand still raised in a wave, getting smaller and smaller.

The distance between them grew. The world he knew—the warmth, the fish curry, the love—was disappearing.

He stared into the side mirror.

He watched her until she was just a speck. Until the road turned. Until she was gone.

He sat back, his heart pounding in a way he didn't understand. He looked at the man driving the car. The man who hadn't said hello.

The seven-year-old boy didn't know it yet, but as the car sped away from Goa, Dhruv didn't just leave his mother behind.

He left his heart there too.

Present

The memory faded, but the cold it left behind settled deep in my marrow.

I sat alone in the dark, my hand clenched around the crystal tumbler so tight my knuckles turned white. The condensation on the glass felt like tears I refused to shed.

I closed my eyes, the image of the yellow house and the waving woman burning behind my lids.

"Twenty years..." I whispered into the silence. My voice cracked, brittle and weak. "Ma... twenty years."

The silence of the manor roared back at me. No one answered. No one ever answered.

"You took too long to come back, Maa," I choked out, a shudder racking my shoulders. "You lied. You said I was your life. You said I gave you the power to stay alive."

I opened my eyes. The room blurred through a veil of moisture. I looked at the expensive scotch, the mahogany furniture, the gold-framed paintings. The 'Good Life'.

"You sent me here for this?" I asked the empty air, my voice rising in a jagged crescendo of pain. "For a good future? To become successful?"

I laughed, a wet, broken sound that scraped against my throat.

"I am successful, Maa. Look at me. I run the empire. I have billions. I have the world at my feet."

I looked down at my hands—the hands that signed the checks, the hands that crushed the competition.

"But I don't like this luxury without you," I whispered, the confession tearing out of me. "I hate it. It’s cold here, Maa. It’s so cold."

I remembered the promise I had made to her the night before I left. I had sat on her lap and promised that one day, I would make her a queen. I would buy her the biggest house. I would buy her everything she ever wanted.

"I have everything now," I sobbed, my composure finally shattering completely. "I can buy you the world. But even this... none of this is mine. I am just holding it for them. I am just the servant in a king's suit."

The pain in my chest expanded, a black hole swallowing me whole. It wasn't just loneliness. It was the crushing weight of twenty years of waiting. Twenty years of looking at the door, hoping she would walk in. Twenty years of realizing she never would.

"I want to hug you, Mumma," I gasped, leaning forward, pressing my forehead against the rim of the glass. "Please... just once. Come take me away. You said you would come."

I couldn't breathe. The air in the room felt too thin. The grief was a physical weight, crushing my ribs, compressing my lungs.

"I can't handle this anymore," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "I’m tired of fighting them. I’m tired of being the villain. It’s too much for me now."

I needed it to stop. The noise. The memories. The pain.

I squeezed my hand.

I squeezed until the pressure became unbearable. Until the crystal couldn't hold the weight of my grief any longer.

CRUNCH.

The glass shattered in my palm.

Shards of crystal bit deep into my flesh. Warm blood welled up instantly, mixing with the spilled amber whiskey, dripping down my wrist and onto the expensive Persian rug.

I didn't let go. I clenched my fist harder, letting the physical sting ground me, letting the sharp bite of the glass distract me from the agony in my soul.

I sat there in the dark, blood dripping from my hand, weeping for the mother who sold me for a future I never wanted.