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Author's POV
The silence that followed Alina's words stretched, thick and suffocating. Her chest rose and fell in sharp rhythm, though her face betrayed nothing.
Then Luka leaned forward, his brows furrowing.
"Wait," he said slowly. "You're telling us you'll announce your engagement. But to whom? Who is this fiancé? Or is this another mask, another doll you've built just for the show?"
Alina's lips pressed into a thin line.
Before she could answer, Meher's voice cut in, softer but far sharper.
"Alina, are you sure you want to play with this fire? An engagement is not a small thing. It's not just about him—your family will be there. They'll ask questions. They'll want to know who this man is, why you chose him, where he has been all this time."
Her words landed heavy, a warning wrapped in affection.
Alessandro finally spoke, his deep voice steady, almost too calm.
"And most of all—how do you think your family will react? You've been gone for years, you've let them believe you vanished. Now you appear with an invitation in your hand and a claim of engagement? They will not just be shocked. They will be broken. Are you ready to face that weight?"
Alina's nails dug into her palm, hidden in the folds of her dress. For a moment, she closed her eyes, steadying her breath, before she answered.
"Listen to me carefully," she said, her voice low, clipped, commanding.
"Firstly—I will message all of them. My family. His family. Everyone. They both played their parts in my life, whether as love or as family. If they want to know whether I am alive or dead, let them come to the place I call sacred-- their palace in Jaipur."
She looked around the room, eyes burning with a mixture of fury and resolve.
"riyan will follow the steps with me. The message will be clear, cryptic, impossible to ignore. They will come. By evening, I will stand in front of them. And when they see me…"
Her voice faltered just slightly, softer now, almost trembling.
"…they will be shocked. My family. My friends. After years, they will see me again. And yes, there will be emotions—tears, questions, cautious silence. Maybe I will break a little inside. Maybe I will want to run into their arms. But I will not. I cannot. Not yet."
The words slipped from her lips like shards of glass. She lifted her chin again, forcing steel back into her tone.
"That is when I will drop the Bomb. The invitation. In front of all of them—family, friends, him. I will place it in his hand."
Her jaw tightened.
"I will reveal my identity. Not as their Isha. But as Alina. A woman who survived, who built her own empire, who now decides who deserves to stand beside her."
Luka frowned, tapping his fingers against the table.
"And this fiancé? Who is he? Or are you going to spin a name out of thin air?"
Alina's lips curved—not a smile, but something dangerous, cold.
"He doesn't need to be real. He only needs to be visible. A doll, yes. But the perfect one. One who walks, speaks, breathes enough to convince them. They'll see the ring, the contract, the posture, the gestures… And they'll believe. Because they want to believe."
Meher shook her head, murmuring,
"Your family will not just accept that. They will want answers."
"They will accept what I give them," Alina snapped, her eyes flashing. "Because I will not give them room to ask. This isn't about their belief—it's about their silence. Their shock will buy me time. Their hesitation will cage their tongues. And by the time they recover, I'll already have control of the stage."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed slightly, studying her, weighing the fire against the fragility beneath.
"And after?" he asked.
Alina's breath caught, then she exhaled.
"After the engagement comes the marriage," she said flatly. "Yes. In some days, after you both arrive in India, after the noise has settled, I will hold the wedding. Private, grand, undeniable. With my family's blessing—whether forced or real. And he will stand there, watching, remembering. He will see me walk down the aisle with another, the way I once saw him with that woman. He will taste what I tasted. He will bleed the way I bled."
Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word, but she forced her face into its icy mask again.
"Until then," she added, softer now, "I'll build my presence. Make them see me everywhere. Become untouchable. Popular. Alive."
The room sat heavy with her words.
And then Alessandro leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with the weight of his final question.
"Are you certain, Alina? Certain you want revenge dressed as marriage? Because once you put on that ring—even a doll's ring—you cannot take it back without consequence. This path will burn. And it will burn you too."
For a heartbeat, Alina almost wavered. The storm inside her chest raged, pulling at the fragile part of her that still longed, still loved. But she swallowed it down, buried it deep, and looked at them all with her coldest expression.
"Yes," she said.
"This is the only way."
The room sat in silence after Alina's declaration, her plan laid out like a dagger on the table.
Then Meher broke it first, voice tentative.
"Alina… one thing. This fiancé. This doll you speak of. Who is it going to be? You can't just say you're engaged and have nobody stand beside you."
Alessandro leaned forward, steepling his fingers.
"She's right. You'll need someone. Visible, convincing, someone who can carry the act. Will you hire a stranger? Or… do you already have someone in mind?"
Alina's eyes flickered around the circle, then settled—firm, unflinching—on one man.
"Luka."
The word hung there, heavy, sharp.
Luka's brows shot up immediately, his chair scraping back a little.
"What?" he barked, pointing a finger at himself. "Me? Oh, no. No, no, no. Don't even try. I'm not doing this."
Alina's lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not!" Luka shot back, his voice rising with frustration. "You—you're still doing it, Alina. Always throwing me into the fire. Every single time! Remember Baku? Remember that mission? You said, 'Send Luka, he'll handle it.' And what happened? I nearly got my brains blown out because of your bright little plan."
The memory crackled in the air like old gunpowder.
Alina's smirk dropped. Her tone went icy.
"And yet, you're alive. Because I pulled you out of that mess. I saved you. Don't forget that, Luka."
But Luka wasn't finished. He stood now, pacing, his hands slicing the air as he spoke.
"Saved me? Oh, don't spin it like you're some goddess descending from heaven. Let's not forget, you were the one who put me there in the first place. You sent me into that alley. You told me to take the left flank. And then—bam—a bullet grazed so close I could smell the gunpowder in my hair. If it weren't for your sudden change of heart, I'd be lying in a grave, not sitting here in your damned palace!"
Alina's eyes flared, but her face stayed composed.
"You're alive, Luka. That's all that matters."
He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair.
"You saved me, Alina, yes. But don't make it sound like you gifted me life. You almost took it. And now what? You want to make me your fake fiancé? Put me in front of everyone as your doll, your shield, your pawn?"
Her jaw clenched.
"You're not a pawn, Luka. You're the only one I can trust to stand beside me and not break. That's why it has to be you."
The air between them sizzled with tension, sharp enough to cut.
Meher's voice slipped in, low and firm, like cool water over fire.
"Both of you. Enough." She looked at Luka first. "Luka, you've stood with her longer than anyone else. You know her storms. You've survived them. If not you, then who?"
Luka opened his mouth to retort, but Alessandro finally raised a hand, silencing him.
"She's right, Luka. Think. A hired actor will crumble under pressure. A stranger can't play her fiancé in front of two families, an entire court of suspicion, and a man she once loved. It has to be someone who knows her, someone who can improvise, someone who can carry weight without faltering."
Luka's jaw tightened. He stared at Alina, anger and loyalty warring in his eyes.
"You still don't get it," he muttered. "You're asking me to step into the fire again. To let the world's eyes burn holes into me. And when the bullets start flying—because they will—you'll save me again? Or will you let me bleed this time?"
Alina's voice softened just a fraction, almost invisible.
"I'll save you again."
For a long beat, Luka just stared at her, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity behind the words. Then he shook his head, groaning dramatically.
"Damn it, Alina. Damn you and your plans."
He collapsed back into his chair, ruffling his hair, muttering curses in Italian under his breath. Then, finally, he looked up, eyes narrowed but resigned.
"Fine. I'll do it. I'll be your doll. But—" he jabbed a finger at her—"don't think I'm doing this for free. You're dragging me across continents, putting me in front of your family, and feeding me nothing but danger. You're paying me."
Alina arched a brow. "Paying you?"
"Yes," Luka said firmly. "Full luxury. First-class wine. The best suits. Endless food. And every single night, I get dessert before you do. You're making me play fiancé—then treat me like one."
The room broke into quiet laughter. Even Meher hid a smile behind her hand.
Alina rolled her eyes but there was a trace of warmth there, buried deep.
"Fine, Luka. I'll pay you. I'll feed you. I'll even get you your damned dessert first. But you will stand beside me. And you will play the role perfectly."
He groaned again, but a reluctant grin slipped through his annoyance.
"Deal."
And so Alina stepped back from the table, folded her arms across her chest, and raised her chin.
"That is the plan. Now… tell me if anyone has a problem with it."
With that, the tension in the room eased, replaced by something lighter, almost playful.
Alessandro leaned back, nodding.
"Then it's settled. Luka will be the fiancé. We keep this airtight. No cracks, no questions."
Meher exhaled in relief, already moving the conversation toward logistics.
"Good. Then tonight after dinner, we'll each prepare. Alina, you'll need your bags packed. Luka, your clothes. I'll take care of little Riyan's things. By midnight, we leave for the airport."
The evening passed in a blur of preparations.
After dinner, Alina retreated to her chambers, carefully folding her essentials—files, dresses, her most discreet jewelry—into compact cases. Luka grumbled the entire time he packed, loudly threatening to bring an empty stomach just to punish her. Meher folded Riyan's tiny clothes with practiced care, humming softly as the boy dozed nearby.
By the time the household quieted, the night outside was alive with anticipation. Suitcases lined the hall, ready for departure. Shadows stretched long against the marble, carrying the weight of unspoken fears and unyielding resolve.
Tonight, they would leave. Tomorrow, the game would begin.
Luka stepped in with little Rihan perched on his arm, already in his travel jacket.
"It's time," he said simply.
The night air was sharp when they stepped out. The convoy was waiting: black cars lined up, headlights cutting across the driveway. Alina slid into the backseat of the first, Luka following, Riyan crawling across to nestle besides meher and Alessandro.
The drive to the airstrip was silent, heavy with unspoken words. Luca finally broke it.
"You're ready for this?" His voice was low, but his eyes sharp as they studied her profile.
Alina didn't look at him. "I've been ready for five years."
"You're walking into more than family," Luca pressed. "That message you plan to send—it's a bomb. Jaipur Palace isn't just a place. It's a statement."
Alina's lips curved faintly, almost bitterly. "Exactly. If they want to know whether I'm alive or not… let them come find me there."
The car fell silent again.
The black SUVs rolled up to the private terminal just past midnight. The air smelled faintly of kerosene and sea breeze, the runway lights blinking like quiet stars in the distance. The jet already waited for them—sleep, silver, engines humming low like a beast impatient to run.
Alina stepped out first, her heels clicking against the concrete. Luka followed, hauling his suitcase with an exaggerated sigh. Meher came next, carrying little Riyan, who was half-asleep on her shoulder. Alessandro was already on the phone, giving last-minute orders to his men before he joined them.
"Everything's cleared," Alessandro said, slipping the phone into his pocket. His eyes went to Alina, sharp and unreadable. "The flight path is clean. No one will know where you're headed."
Meher shifted Riyan gently into Alessandro's arms so she could fix Alaina's coat. "You'll reach Delhi by sunrise. But listen—" her voice softened, almost sisterly—"when you see your family, don't just throw your armor at them. They're not enemies."
Alina gave the faintest of nods. Her throat felt tight, but she said nothing.
Luka, of course, broke the silence. "Well, I don't know about you all, but I expect champagne on board. If I'm playing fiance, at least let me start with a toast."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed at him. "Don't push her patience on the very first night, Luka."
"Patience?" Luka grinned. "She lost that with me years ago. I'm still alive. Must mean something."
Alina rolled her eyes and climbed the stairs into the jet without another word. Luka followed, still muttering about desserts. Meher stood below with Alessandro, waving until the door sealed shut and the engines roared louder.
Inside, the cabin was quiet luxury—cream leather seats, dark mahogany trim, the faint hum of pressurized air. Riyan curled into one of the recliners, already dozing. Luka poured himself a glass of wine. Alina sat by the window, her face turned toward the night.
The jet lifted off, the city shrinking below them into a sea of lights.
For a long while, she said nothing. Just stared at the darkness outside, the way the clouds swallowed the world beneath her. Luka must have felt the weight in the air because, for once, he stayed silent too.
Her thoughts spun like the turbines outside.
Five years. Five years since I last looked into my mother's eyes. Five years since I left my brothers behind. Five years since I cut myself away from them—thinking it was protection, when maybe it was only cowardice.
She pressed her palm against the glass, cool against her skin.
What will I say when I see them? That I built an empire in their absence? That I burned bridges just to light my own way?
The other thought gnawed sharper. The one name she didn't dare whisper even in her mind.
And him. The man who once held all of me. What will he see when I stand before him, telling him I'm getting engaged to another? Will he see a queen—or a liar? Will he believe I ever loved him at all?
Her chest tightened. For a second she closed her eyes, letting the memories sting—the warmth of his hand once in hers, the betrayal of that night she saw him with another. The image is still carved into her ribs like a scar.
She inhaled slowly, forcing herself back into steel.
"This will work," she murmured under her breath.
Luka tilted his glass, looking at her. "Talking to yourself again?"
She shot him a glance. "Reminding myself."
"Of what?" he pressed, leaning back, grin tugging his mouth.
"That even lies can become truths," she said coldly.
Luka whistled low. "Chilling. Remind me never to play cards with you."
She ignored him, but her hand trembled slightly against her lap.
They'll ask questions. Questions I don't have answers for. Why now? Why after all these years? Why the silence, the disappearance, the lies?
Her stomach twisted.
And the bomb I'm about to drop—engagement. Marriage. A doll fiancé standing beside me. How will they look at me then? Will my mother break? Will my brothers curse me? Or… will they finally understand?
The jet leveled out, stars glittering endlessly above the windows. Luka stretched his legs, already drifting into a lazy nap. Little Riyan's soft breathing filled the silence.
Alina stayed awake, her eyes burning, her heart caught between the empire she had built and the family she had abandoned.
When she finally whispered to herself, it was a vow.
"Tomorrow… I face them all. Tomorrow, I show them what I've become."
Inside, the jet smelled of leather and coffee. Alina slid into her seat by the window, pulling her coat tighter as Luca settled across from her, Rihan already curling up with a blanket beside her.
"Seven hours," Luca murmured, fastening his belt. "We'll land around six-thirty a.m. Indian time."
Alina gave a faint nod, her eyes already on the dark runway stretching into the unknown.
As the jet began to roll forward, her thoughts pressed against her skull like waves. Her mother. Her brothers. Her best friends. The weight of five years of silence. And the message she would soon send—an invitation, a challenge, a revelation.
Delhi..
That was where it would begin.
She closed her eyes as the engines roared, the world tilting forward into the night sky.
The wheels of the jet screeched lightly against the runway, the vibration humming through the cabin as Delhi's early morning haze greeted them. Alaina exhaled, almost like she had been holding her breath for the entire flight. Luka yawned dramatically beside her, stretching like a cat.
At the private hangar, the jet gleamed under floodlights, engines already humming. Crew members bowed their heads when Alina stepped out—no words spoken, only silent acknowledgment of who she was. She climbed the steps with measured grace, every movement precise, rehearsed.
"We're alive," he said, grinning. "See? Private jets aren't so bad when you're with me."
She shot him a look, half amused, half tired. "You slept the whole way."
"That's a talent." Luka winked.
Little Riyan stirred in his seat, rubbing his tiny fists against his eyes. Alina leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We've landed, sweetheart. We're here."
The jet door opened with a hiss, and the warm Delhi air rushed inside—dust, spice, and the faint scent of monsoon earth. A convoy of black cars already waited near the tarmac. Men in dark suits stood silently, waiting for them to descend.
Luka whistled low. "Ah, the royal treatment. I like this city already."
They stepped down the stairs, the sun already peeking through the smog. Riyan clung to Alina's hand as they reached the cars. One of the drivers bowed slightly and opened the rear door for them.
"Not a hotel?" Alina asked, frowning softly as she glanced at Luka.
He raised both hands. "Don't look at me. I booked nothing."
The ride was smooth, the city unfolding outside the tinted windows—early morning vendors, temples tucked between modern towers, cycle rickshaws weaving through traffic. Alina kept her gaze out, her heart clenching tighter with every kilometer. The streets of India felt like a memory pressing itself against her ribs.
After nearly an hour, the car turned into a wide lane lined with neem trees. Ahead, a sprawling cream-colored mansion appeared, bathed in the gold of sunrise. Its iron gates opened silently, revealing manicured lawns and a fountain that glittered in the center.
Alina blinked, stunned. "This… isn't a hotel."
Riyan gasped, his little mouth open. "Castle!" he squealed, clapping his hands.
Luka smirked, amused. "Well, at least someone approves."
As the car rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, Alina turned to Luka, her brows furrowing. "Did you…?"
He shook his head quickly. "No. Don't blame me. This wasn't my idea."
The front doors opened, and one of Alessandro's men stepped out, bowing lightly. "Madam, welcome. This property was purchased last night under Lord Alessandro's orders. He wished you comfort here, rather than a hotel."
For a second, Alina just stared, speechless. Then her lips softened into a small, rare smile.
"That's bhaiya," she murmured. "He doesn't say much. But he… always knows."
Luka rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in it. "Ah, the mysterious big brother routine. Buy a mansion overnight, just to make a point."
She ignored him, her heart quietly warmed. Alessandro's way of showing love had always been wordless—acts, gestures, protection. Not conversation. And though they rarely spoke as siblings should, their bond was carved deep.
Inside, the mansion was already furnished—polished wood, silk drapes, and warm lighting. Riyan darted forward, his tiny feet pattering against the marble floor. "Mama! Look! Big sofa!"
Alina followed him, laughing under her breath. She carried him upstairs, settled him into a smaller guest room, and unpacked a few of his toys to comfort him. Then she freshened up quickly, tying her hair back and changing into a soft cotton kurta.
By the time she returned downstairs, Luka was sprawled dramatically across the largest couch, a newspaper in hand. "Ah, the Delhi Times," he said, waving it. "News, gossip, and bad jokes—all in one place. You should read this."
Alina ignored his antics and sat opposite him, pouring herself a glass of water. Her pulse still hadn't slowed since they landed.
Luka lowered the paper, his grin fading into something sharper. "So… are you going to do it now? Message them?"
Her throat tightened. "Yes. But… I'll need a number. A number that can't be traced."
"That's easy." Luka leaned forward. "The real question is—what exactly will you say?"
Alina set her glass down, her fingers curling lightly on the rim. "What I've been waiting five years to say. That I'm alive. That I want them to come. That I want them to see me… getting engaged."
Luka tilted his head. "Cold."
Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Necessary."
Riyan came running into the living area, clutching a toy car. "Mama! Play!"
Alina gathered him into her lap, her eyes softening as she kissed his hair. Luka watched the shift in her expression—the iron mask melted just slightly when she looked at her son.
He smirked, settling back. "Fine. But don't take too long. The sooner you light this fire, the sooner we see the blaze."
Alina didn't answer him. She only held Riyan closer, her gaze fixed on the empty screen of her phone—where the first message, the first domino, was about to be set in motion.
The mansion's living room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Sunlight filtered through the sheer drapes, painting soft golden streaks across the marble floor. Alina walked barefoot, her laptop tucked under one arm and a fruit plate balanced in the other hand.
She set them both down on the low coffee table and sighed, sinking into the deep couch cushions. Riyan was upstairs with his toys, finally distracted by his toy cars, which meant—for a brief moment—she had silence.
Or at least she thought.
Luka strolled in, whistling, carrying a mug of coffee. "Well, well, the queen of drama has arrived. Plotting your next move?"
Alina ignored him, pulling her laptop open. The screen glowed, her fingers hesitating over the keys. She speared a piece of apple with the fork and popped it into her mouth before typing the first line.
Her message began cold, sharp, almost like a knife sliding against glass.
"let's directly get to the point, You all loved her once. If you want to know whether your Isha—your so-called Isha—is alive or not… if you want to know the truth…"
She paused, chewing slowly, the apple suddenly tasted bitter. Her chest tightened.
Luka leaned over the back of the couch, peering at the screen. "Ooooh. Creepy. I like it. Very horror-movie-villain vibes. If you want to know the truth…' Boom." He snapped his fingers.
Alina pushed him back with her elbow. "Stop breathing on my neck."
He chuckled, moving to the armrest and plopping down dramatically. "Relax. I'm just adding commentary. Someone has to lighten up this haunted-house energy."
She exhaled and continued typing.
"…then gather in Jaipur Raghuvanshi Palace. If you want answers, if you want to see with your own eyes, be there. No excuses. No delays. You'll find what you're searching for. Be there before 7:30 in the evening."
Her fingers flew faster now, determined to replace hesitation. She addressed it to everyone—her family, her old best friends, his family, him, his brother's. Everyone who had ever mattered. Everyone who had known that he abandoned her.
Then, carefully, she stripped the message of all traces—no IP, no location, no sender data. Clean. Anonymous. Untouchable.
When she hit send, the weight in her chest didn't lift—it pressed harder.
She leaned back, picking up another slice of fruit. Luka snatched one from her plate without asking.
"Hey!" She glared.
He bit into the grape, grinning. "What? Sharing is caring. You're typing death threats, and I'm hungry. It balances out."
"You're eating my head, Luka."
"I'd prefer mangoes, but fine. I'll settle for your sanity."
Alina groaned, shoving her plate away and grabbing a pillow. Without warning, she swung it hard into his chest.
"Oi!" Luka fell sideways with a laugh, nearly spilling his coffee. "Violence! You see this? This is workplace harassment."
She hit him again, this time across the face. "You're lucky it's a pillow," she hissed, her lips twitching with the faintest smile. "If it weren't, you'd be in the hospital."
Luka snorted, shielding himself with his arm. "Ha! You'd miss me within a day. Admit it."
She hit him one last time before dropping the pillow onto his lap. "Don't push your luck."
For a moment, the room was filled with their playful bickering, the kind of banter that masked the heavy storm brewing in her heart. She leaned back again, rubbing her temples, when her phone buzzed against the table.
Her breath caught.
The screen lit up with a name that nearly cracked her iron mask—Meher bhabhi.
Her hand hovered for a second before she picked it up. "Hello?"
The familiar voice came through, soft, sweetly asked "Alina… did you send the message? Are you okay? Luka is not irritating you? If he is than let me talk to him. "
Alina closed her eyes, her throat burning. She swallowed hard before answering, steady but soft.
"Yes, I just sent the message and Yess, Luka is irritating the hell out of me."
Her mother's breath hitched, a sob catching on the line. "I need to see you. I need to see your face."
Meher leaned against the balcony railing of Alessandro's villa, phone pressed to her ear, listening to the faint static before Alina's voice came through.
"Did you do it?" Meher asked immediately, no small talk, no hesitation. Her tone was half stern, half worried, like an elder sister trying to rein in a reckless sibling. "Tell me you didn't press send yet."
There was a pause on the other side, the sound of fruit being chewed. Then Alina's voice, calm but heavy: "It's done."
Meher closed her eyes, exhaling sharply. "Alina… do you realize what kind of storm you've just invited? That message will spread like wildfire. Your family. His family. Him. Everyone is going to be there."
"That's the point," Alina replied, clipped and decisive.
Meher rubbed her temple. "Sometimes I wonder if you're building an empire or just building ways to destroy yourself."
That earned her a quiet laugh, low and humorless. "Don't worry about me. Worry about your own mess. Did bhaiya eat? Or is he still pretending coffee is a meal?"
Meher rolled her eyes, softening despite herself. "Don't change the subject. Answer me properly. Is all this engagement talk about another one of your twisted strategies?"
For the first time, Meher heard a flicker of hesitation. "It's a strategy," Alina said eventually, but her voice carried a thin crack, like glass under pressure.
Meher let it go, for now. She had learned not to push too hard with her. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But tell me about Riyan. Is he with you?"
The tone shifted immediately—Meher could hear the smile in Alina's voice. "Now, He's right here. Playing with Luka, climbing over him like he's a jungle gym. But… he misses you. He keeps asking, 'Where's Mommy?'"
Her chest ached. "I miss him too. More than you know."
"He really does," Alina pressed, her words gentler now. "Today he sat beside me and said, 'Call Mama. Call Mama now.' So I did. But that time you were busy. He's waiting to hear your voice."
Meher laughed softly through the sting of tears. "This is cruel. You know how much it hurts, being away from him."
"I know," Alina said quietly. Then, softer still, "That's how I miss my family too."
Meher froze, the air catching in her lungs. She rarely heard Alina speak of her own family with such raw honesty. For years it had all been bitterness, ice, walls built so high no one could climb them.
But now, just for a second, she sounded like a daughter, like a sister—like a girl who still longed for the people she had left behind.
Meher's voice broke. "Alina…"
But before she could say more, Alina cleared her throat, slipping back into her cold mask. "Anyway, I'll see you soon. Tell bhaiya to stop worrying. And eat your dinner, bhabhi. Don't skip it like last time."
The line went dead.
Meher stayed on the balcony, clutching the phone against her chest. She knew Alina's armor was thick, almost unbreakable—but tonight, she had caught a glimpse of the heart still beating underneath.
Alina set her phone aside after sending the message, her lips curving in the faintest, most dangerous smile. It was out there now—crawling through encrypted lines, reaching the ones who had doubted her, the ones who had mourned her.
Her chest felt heavy, though her face betrayed nothing. Luka, restless as always, was hovering around her, teasing, eating her head with little comments. She waved him off with irritation and went to where little Rian sat on the rug, surrounded by his toy cars.
For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, then turned when she heard a little giggle. Riyan was tugging at the hem of her shirt, his wide eyes waiting for attention.
She crouched down, brushing her hand over his soft hair. "We're leaving soon, little one. Jaipur. You'll like it there. Lots of lights, lots of stories."
Riyan clapped his hands. "Jaipur!" he repeated, though he barely knew what the word meant. His excitement softened something in her chest. For just a flicker of a second, she wasn't Alina—the shadow, the fighter, the masked queen. She was just… Isha's, playing with a child who trusted her completely.
Little Riyan stirred, tugging at her sleeve. "Muma… will they be happy to see you?"
Her gaze softened for just a second as she looked down at him. "They will. Even if they don't understand right away."
When Riyan finally wandered off to play with his toys, Alina rose and found Luka leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with that half-annoyed, half-protective look he always wore.
"Tell the pilot," she said coolly, brushing past him, "we'll be ready to leave soon. Jaipur is waiting."
Luka's brows lifted. "You say it like Jaipur is some battlefield."
She turned her head slightly, her eyes glinting. "It is."
For once, Luka didn't argue. He only gave a short nod, as though he understood more than he would ever admit aloud.
On the another side...
Far away, across the city, another household was reeling. Isha's family sat in their living room, the clock ticking loud against the silence. Dhruv leaned back against the sofa, phone in hand, staring at the message that had just arrived.
Their mother pressed a trembling hand to her lips, while their father's jaw worked as though he were holding back every storm inside him. Arjun kept pacing, unable to sit still.
The room froze. The knitting slipped from her mother's hands, the newspaper trembled in their father's grip. Arjun sat upright, disbelief flooding his eyes.
Their mother's voice cracked in a whisper, "What… what nonsense is this?" Arjun's jaw clenched. "It's her. It has to be her." Their father's voice came stern but uncertain, "Don't be foolish. Anyone can send messages. But this… these words… they don't sound like her."
The door burst open then, and Prisha and Ishika tumbled in, out of breath. "We got it too!" Prisha cried, holding up her phone. "The same message—did you get it?"
"We did," Dhruv muttered, his voice tight. He passed his screen around, and the words were the same. The same number. The same place. Jaipur Raghuvanshi Palace.
Ritvik and and Arav arrived moments later, his face pale but determined. "Then it's true,"he whispered. "We have to go. We can't miss this."
But Prisha's eyes were already wet as she clutched her dupatta and said, "I told you… I told you she was alive." Her father finally raised his voice above them all, commanding silence. "Enough. Sit down, all of you."
For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of years, of grief, of questions too long unanswered, hung in the air. Her mother was the first to find her voice. "If there's even a chance… even a single chance she's alive, we cannot ignore it."
Dhruv's eyes burned. He slammed his phone down on the table. "Then it's decided. We're going. Whatever this is, whoever sent it—we'll find out at the Palace."
And just like that, the decision sealed itself in the air around them. Tomorrow, the past will rise again.
On the other side in Jaipur..
The Raghuvanshi mansion sat in an unusual hush that evening. The air was heavy with worry, not celebration. Two days ago, Shivansh had suffered a near-fatal accident, and though he was safe now, the weight of that moment still lingered. His parents sat side by side on the sofa—his father's face taut with unspoken tension, his mother's hands twisting the edge of her dupatta. Beside them, his uncle and aunt whispered in low tones, their concern for the family heir written in every line of their faces.
Ranveer had refused to leave Shivansh's side and remained in the hospital, keeping vigil with Aarya. Everyone else waited here, the silence broken only by the ticking clock on the far wall.
And then it came—the sharp, unexpected ping of a phone. One, then another, then another. In the stillness, the sound was like glass shattering. Every pair of eyes turned downward, hands fumbling for devices.
It was the same message, on every screen.
" let's directly get to the point, You all loved her once. If you want to know whether your Isha—your so-called Isha—is alive or not… if you want to know the truth…"
" then gather in Jaipur Raghuvanshi Palace. If you want answers, if you want to see with your own eyes, be there. No excuses. No delays. You'll find what you're searching for. Be there before 7:30 in the evening."
A gasp escaped Shivansh's mother. Her phone trembled in her hand. "No… this—this can't be…"
His father's brows furrowed, reading the words again and again as though repetition might erase them. "After five years," he muttered, voice heavy. "After five long years, now we get this?"
The aunt exchanged a bewildered glance with her husband. "Alive?" she whispered. "Could it be true? Could she have… survived?"
The question hung between them like a fragile flame, dangerous and desperate.
Before anyone could answer, Aviyansh's phone lit up with a call. Ranveer's name flashed on the screen. He answered quickly, pressing the phone to his ear.
"I got the message," Ranveer's voice came through, taut and urgent. "I'm with Aarya at the hospital—our phones both rang at the same time. Tell me you got it too."
Aviyansh's eyes swept over the living room, where every hand still clutched a glowing screen. He exhaled slowly. "Yes. We all did. The same words. By 7:30 p.m., Raghuvanshi Palace."
Ranveer's breath caught audibly. "Then it's not just us. Whoever sent it… they want everyone there."
When the call ended, silence returned. Only now, it was laced with a different energy—something between fear and hope.
Shivansh's mother stood abruptly, her voice trembling but determined. "I cannot sit here and wonder. I will call her mother."
"No," his father began, but she was already dialing, her hands unsteady. The line connected, and across the airwaves came another voice—equally strained, equally shaken. Words spilled quickly: Yes, we received it too. Yes, we are coming Yes, in the evening we will be there.
By the time the call ended, everyone in the room had risen to their feet. Shivansh's aunt clutched her dupatta, eyes wet. "If this is true," she whispered, "if she really is alive, then tonight… tonight will be the best night in five years."
No one disagreed. They didn't dare.
Plans began forming immediately. Quiet orders were given to staff, arrangements prepared with a speed that betrayed their nerves. Tea cups clattered, curtains were straightened, and a soft hum of activity filled the Raghuvanshi household once more.
But beneath it all—their hands still trembled, their voices still faltered. Because after five years of silence, of mourning and unanswered questions, they all knew the truth of it.
Tonight, by seven, everything could change.
The clock above the mantel marked 6:48 and every second seemed to stretch like an elastic band pulled taut between two worlds.
In the Raghuvanshi living room the air had the metallic taste of held breaths. Cups of tea grew cold in saucers; once-steady hands hovered over steam as if afraid to disturb whatever thing—good or ruinous—might arrive with that one person at seven.
Shivansh's mother kept smoothing the same fold of her saree as if the motion might iron out the impossibility of the message. His father sat rigid, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window although the rain had stopped hours earlier. Across the room, the old portraits on the wall watched them all in the mute way ancestors do — witnesses to grief and now, tenuous hope.
They were not alone in their waiting. The Maheshwari side had gathered at their own end of the room: Isha's parents, Dhruv, Arjun.
Everyone's faces carried the same mixture of fatigue and readiness — five years of nights and questions had carved lines no laughter could smooth. For years the two families had kept their distance; the house had felt like two countries sharing the same roof.
Tonight that distance folded in on itself like paper. The strange message had done more than summon them to Jaipur Palace; it had forced an old geography of sorrow and suspicion into a single, cramped map.
People kept trying to speak, and then not. Words were too small. When Aviyansh shifted his weight and cleared his throat, the sound cut through the hush like a small, necessary bell.
"We should prepare," he said, carefully neutral. "If this is real—if anyone's playing with us—we need to be calm. No rash moves. We go together. We ask questions. We don't—" He swallowed. The rest of the sentence had been an order to himself as much as to the room: "We don't break, not tonight."
Ranveer was not here; he was still at the hospital. But his voice lived in the room through calls and fragments of messages. Someone read aloud what the hospital security had texted him: We will be there if it's true. Don't make it worse. Keep order. A murmur of assent followed, brittle.
Shivansh's grandmother — small, severe, the sort of woman who ironed everyone's shirts two sizes too large — folded her hands on her lap and spoke plainly. "If she is alive—if this is my granddaughter—then no theatrics. We must meet whoever sent this. Gather facts. We cannot let emotions run the night."
"No theatrics," Shivansh's mother echoed, the iron in her tone threaded through with pleading. "If she is alive, I will fall at her feet. If we are being mocked—" Her voice broke. She covered her mouth and breathed until she could steady it.
From the other side Dhruv stood, the man who had guarded Isha's family like a brother for years. He had been silent since the message arrived; silence had become his armor.
When he did speak, it was small but hard-edged. "We go together. We don't let anyone take this and make it worse. If someone thought they could hurt the family again by dragging up old pain… they will answer to us." He did not say him — that single, unspoken syllable hung where the sentence broke. The room understood who he meant.
Arjun, younger and rawer, leaned forward, voice tight. "What if it's a trap? What if—what if this is for show? For Shivansh's family? For our grief?" The possibility of cruelty made him look younger than his brother's steady jaw betrayed. He reached for his mother's hand without thinking.
Isha's mother put her fingers into Arjun's grasp and did not let go. "We will go. We will hold our heads and our hands and we will not fall apart." Her face, which had been a map of slow endurance for five years, flamed with a sudden, stubborn bravery. "If she is alive I will not lose her again. If she is not—" She didn't finish. No one asked her to.
Outside, in the parking courtyard, drivers paced and raised their faces to the sky like men who wanted the weather to choose their fate for them. Inside, clocks ticked and phones glowed. Every few minutes somebody would check the time, then check it again as if the very act might change the speed at which the hour approached.
At 6:58 the butler—an old man who had served the houses for decades—moved like a ghost between people, placing cups of more tea, folding napkins with the practiced, calm hands of someone who had tended to grief many times over. "Seven," he said softly, for no one in particular. There was a collective intake of breath and a settling — like a village's shutters being latched before a storm.
Proof. The word landed like a cold stone in the room. Evidence had been the thing that had failed them years ago; it was the thing that had let rumor and rumor's cousin, denial, thrive. The question of proof stretched its fingers through every face.
Hope and terror braided themselves through the living room, through the families who had not spoken together for years, through the brittle apologies they had silently kept like coins. Whatever arrived at Jaipur Palace would not simply answer a single question. It would reopen doors and break locks, and everybody in that room knew it.
They would go — together and armoured by the fragile, newly-waking hope that, for all the nights and the silence, for all the accusations and the blood-stained promises, some small thing might be waiting: a face, a voice, a hand to hold. And they would carry with them all the questions that had been sitting like coals beneath their ribs for five winters.
Outside the rain started again, pattering in a rhythm that sounded like time.
Shivansh's hospital cabin was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the oxygen tank and the faint beep of the monitor. Evening shadows filtered through the blinds, painting pale strips across his face. He lay propped against the pillows, still pale, though the sharpness of his eyes hadn't dulled. Ranveer sat in the chair beside him, scrolling through his phone, replaying the message that had been the only topic of talk since afternoon.
The sound had come suddenly— a ping, sharp in the silence of the cabin. Ranveer had picked up the phone first, his brows furrowing as he read the words aloud.
" let's directly get to the point, You all loved her once. If you want to know whether your Isha—your so-called Isha—is alive or not… if you want to know the truth…"
"then gather in Jaipur Raghuvanshi Palace. If you want answers, if you want to see with your own eyes, be there. No excuses. No delays. You'll find what you're searching for. Be there before 7:30 in the evening."
Shivansh had frozen at the name. His throat worked but no sound came. For a year he had fought to bury her name in silence, to let the world believe she was gone, to let himself believe it. But now… his fingers curled into the sheets as though they were his only anchor.
"Ranveer…" His voice cracked, softer than he intended. "I need to go."
Ranveer looked up instantly. "Shivansh, no. You're not even discharged yet. You still need oxygen support. You can't—"
"I can." Shivansh's jaw tightened, his stubbornness surfacing like an old flame. "I have to. If there's even a slight chance…" His voice broke again, but he swallowed hard, forcing his face into something colder. "If she's alive, Ranveer, I have to see her. I can't sit here like a patient waiting for news secondhand. I won't."
Ranveer pushed his chair back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Shiv, listen to me. You're not strong enough for this. You think I don't want answers? You think I don't want her back? But if this is a trap, if it's just someone playing games with our grief—"
Shivansh cut him off, his voice firm. "Then let them try. I would rather face that trap than live another day with this question haunting me. Ranveer, please."
For a long moment Ranveer said nothing. He looked at his friend, at the stubborn tilt of his chin, at the raw determination in eyes that still shone with pain. Finally, he sighed and nodded. "Fine. I'll talk to the doctor. But only if they say you're fit to move. And I'm not leaving your side, not for a second."
When the doctor entered, he examined Shivansh carefully, listening to his heart, checking the monitor, frowning at his insistence. "He is stable," the doctor said at last. "Not fully healed, but strong enough for transfer. If you wish, I can arrange a small medical set-up in your house—oxygen, IV support if needed. But tonight, if you must go, go carefully. No stress, no exertion. If anything worsens, bring him back immediately."
Ranveer exhaled, half relieved, half still anxious. "You hear that? No heroics tonight."
Shivansh's lips curved faintly. "No promises."
By the time they left the hospital, dusk had deepened into velvet night. The car rolled quietly through the streets toward the palace, its headlights slicing the darkness. Shivansh leaned back against the seat, his chest rising carefully under the oxygen tube, his mind racing faster than the wheels could carry. Every memory of Isha—her laugh, her fury, the last sight of her—rose like ghosts to sit with him in the car.
"Isha…" he whispered once, so softly Ranveer barely heard it.
When they reached the palace gates, the scene was already alive with tension. Both families had gathered. Isha's parents, her brothers, her friends. His own parents, his aunt and uncle. The courtyard was lit with lanterns, but the atmosphere was heavier than any night sky. Silence pressed on everyone like a second skin.
As Ranveer helped Shivansh inside, every eye turned. The living area grew stiller, if possible. The sound of his slow steps echoed across the marble floor, his hand braced against Ranveer's arm.
Shivansh's mother rose immediately, her face etched with worry. "Shivansh, you shouldn't have come out of the hospital—"
He cut her with a slight shake of his head, his voice quiet but carrying across the tense room. "If she's alive, Maa, then there is nowhere else I should be."
The words settled into the silence like a vow, like something that bound not just him, but all of them, together.
Tea cups rested untouched, conversations unspoken. Both families—who had not shared a room for five years—sat across from each other like strangers bound by the same chain. No one smiled. No one looked away. Each waited, hearts in throats, for the truth that would arrive with that mysterious figure.
The clock struck 7:30. The air in the living room thickened. The palace itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then, outside the tall doors, footsteps echoed.
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