Sanya pov
The soft cold air was kissing my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I shivered slightly and instinctively rubbed my arms, trying to generate some warmth—but it wasn't helping.
Slowly, my eyes fluttered open.
This… wasn't my room.
My brows furrowed as I took in the surroundings—the earthy tones, the massive bookshelf lined with political journals, the framed black-and-white photos of rallies and speeches. The faint smell of sandalwood and cologne lingered in the air.
Ayaan's room.
When did I fall asleep?
I sat up slowly, confusion tugging at my sleepy mind. As I moved, I noticed the soft weight of a blanket draped over me. I blinked. I didn't remember grabbing a blanket.
I looked beside me.
And there he was—Ayaan, slumped in a sitting position against the headboard, one arm protectively curled around the baby. His head slightly tilted to the side, lips parted in sleep, and his hair an absolute mess. The baby was nestled against his chest, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of his shirt, her breathing calm and even.
Peace.
That's what the scene looked like. Peaceful. As if the world outside didn't exist.
Father and daughter.
My chest tightened.
He was going to be such a good dad. I could already see it—the way he looked at her, held her like she was made of stars and glass. His eyes had changed since she came. Softer. Protective. There was something magnetic about it, something that pulled at places I didn't want to acknowledge.
But me?
I didn't belong here.
This wasn't my place. I was just a temporary presence in this picture. A shadow passing through a moment I wasn't meant to stay in.
Careful not to wake them, I slipped out of bed. The cold hit my bare legs—stupid shorts. Why had I worn shorts? I cursed myself silently, hugging my arms tighter around me.
As I reached for the door, something made me stop.
I turned around.
Just once.
I looked at them again—Ayaan and the baby. That messy head of his, that baby smile on her tiny lips.
A smile broke across my face. I didn't even realize it at first. It just… happened.
My heart felt light and heavy at the same time.
I opened the door and quietly slipped out of Ayaan's room, gently pulling it shut behind me. My footsteps echoed softly in the silent hallway as I made my way to the guest room—the one they'd given me.
The moment I entered and locked the door behind me, I exhaled a long, shaky breath. Relief.
Finally.
The quiet hum of the AC filled the room, but my thoughts were louder. I sat at the edge of the bed, my hands resting on my lap, eyes blankly staring at the floor.
Everything from the past 24 hours swirled in my head like a whirlwind.
Ayaan… the baby… the storm that brought her here.
It still didn't feel real.
He had found a newborn baby—just like that—and brought her home. No questions asked. No explanations. Just… instinct. Protection.
And for the first time in months, he looked peaceful.
Not haunted. Not weighed down by invisible burdens. There was a calmness in his eyes when he looked at her—as if she had soothed something inside him I never could.
I didn't know what he had been going through lately, but I had seen it. The late-night walks. The silences. The way he flinched at phone calls and avoided looking anyone in the eye for too long.
I missed him.
The old Ayaan.
The carefree one who'd argue with me about the dumbest things, who'd sing horribly just to annoy me, who used to laugh with his whole face, not just his mouth.
I blinked quickly and shook my head, trying to push the thought away before it could settle too deep.
I got up and walked over to the side table. My phone was right where I left it, next to a scrunchie and a barely sipped glass of water. I picked it up and unlocked it, fingers moving on autopilot.
Emails.
That was always the first thing I checked in the morning, the habit lingered.
A few brand offers. One from a well-known indie label proposing a monsoon-themed collab. Another from a jewelry brand wanting a shoutout on my YouTube. A paid partnership offer for a new waterproof foundation range.
Rainy season always brought fresh campaigns.
I closed the email and checked the time—6:43 a.m.
The sound of light rain tapping against the windows caught my attention. I walked over and parted the curtain slightly.
It had started to drizzle again.
The sky was overcast, painted in soft hues of grey and blue, the rain falling gently—calm and rhythmic. The scent of wet earth wafted through the small gap in the window I had left open earlier.
Monsoon had truly arrived.
Normally, I would've been excited. I had already shot a video a few days ago—"5 Ways to Style Yourself for a Rainy Wedding"—with chiffon sarees, cute umbrellas, water-proof makeup, and boho jewelry. It just needed to be posted.
My schedule was free today.
I had nothing else to do.
And yet… I didn't feel light.
Because I wanted to leave.
I needed to.
Being here, staying this close to Ayaan—especially after last night—wasn't good for me. I wasn't supposed to feel this attached. Not to him. Not to the baby. Not to any of this.
But the idea of walking away while he struggled to figure things out made my chest tighten. He was trying, but he was alone. And I hated seeing him like that.
I'd leave once I was sure everything was okay.
Once the baby had her essentials.
Once he could rest without falling asleep on the edge of a bed, clutching her like she was his entire world.
Then I'd leave.
I promised myself that.
The rain grew louder, a soft symphony outside my window, while inside, my thoughts felt like a storm waiting to break.
----
After freshening up and regaining a bit of calm, I stepped out of my room and made my way downstairs. The mansion felt quiet—eerily so. The usual buzz of conversations and footsteps was replaced by the soft hum of rain outside and the occasional clang of dishes from the kitchen.
The staff moved like clockwork—efficient, quiet, focused. A woman was dusting the corner sofa in the living area, her movements rhythmic and practiced.
"Where is Sharmila aunty?" I asked gently, not wanting to startle her.
She paused for a second and looked up at me. Her expression was unreadable, like a blank page—polite but distant.
"Dining room," she said curtly before returning to her task without another word.
Odd.
I blinked, slightly thrown off by her tone. But I chose to ignore it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was just having a rough morning. Or maybe… maybe something was shifting in this house that I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
Shaking the thought away, I padded down the hallway toward the dining room, the scent of cardamom tea and freshly made parathas hitting my senses like a warm hug.
And there she was—Sharmila aunty—standing at the head of the dining table, carefully arranging plates and cutlery like it was an art form.
A smile automatically tugged at my lips.
She was just… adorable.
Despite the mansion's endless staff, she always insisted on doing the small things herself. Whether it was folding Ayaan's clothes or setting the table, she preferred her hands to do the work—even on days she wasn't feeling well. I'd seen her get scolded a hundred times by Uncle for overworking herself, only for him to sulk afterward like a kid when she'd shut him down with nothing but a sharp glare.
She sensed me before I said anything—like mothers always do. Her head turned toward me, and the moment our eyes met, her face lit up with a smile. Not a forced one, not polite—but the kind that made you feel seen. The kind that wrapped around you like warmth on a rainy morning.
"Come, Sanya," she said softly. "Let's have breakfast."
I nodded, still smiling, and made my way to her.
Something about being in her presence made everything feel a little less heavy.
A little less complicated.
Maybe I needed that today.
Just a little moment of comfort before the chaos returned.
As I settled into one of the cushioned dining chairs, the faint aroma of cardamom chai wafted through the air, but it wasn't enough to distract me from the quiet hum of the morning. The soft clinking of cutlery being arranged by the help faded into the background as I let my eyes wander around the grand dining room, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains in golden streaks.
Then came the familiar baritone of Vikram uncle, echoing from the hallway before he even appeared. He walked in with his phone pressed to his ear, still mid-conversation. His brows were slightly drawn in concentration, forehead creased with whatever political issue he was probably solving even before breakfast. A busy day, I guessed—though when was it not for him?
But the moment his gaze landed on me, something shifted.
His expression, once focused and firm, melted into a soft, fatherly smile. The kind that reached his eyes and reminded me of the many Sundays I'd spent in this house as a child. I smiled back, polite but warm.
Without missing a beat in his conversation, he moved to the head of the table, nodding in acknowledgment. Still, his voice murmured about logistics and guest lists—something about a rally next week. Aunty had already disappeared into the kitchen, probably to check on the tea or instruct the cook. The silence left in their wake felt thick, almost ceremonial.
I leaned back a little, fingers reaching out instinctively toward the silver spoon lying before me. Without really thinking, I started to spin it slowly on the polished surface of the table. The chandelier above caught in its curve, tiny glimmers dancing as the metal twirled. It gave me something to do. Something to look at while the rest of the house buzzed quietly with purpose.
A few seconds later, Rajveer uncle entered. He walked in with his usual casual elegance, the faint trace of sleep still lingering in his eyes. He took the chair directly across from me and smiled gently, the kind of smile that said he was genuinely glad to see me.
I returned it politely, matching his warmth, though still feeling slightly awkward in the formal silence.
And then—
A sharp, sudden cry pierced the calm.
The baby.
I froze for a heartbeat, startled, my gaze darting toward the hallway where the sound had come from.
And that's when I saw him.
Ayaan.
He walked in slowly, cradling the baby against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world. His hands moved in slow, soothing motions—patting her back in a gentle rhythm, one only a parent would perfect. His head was slightly tilted, his thick hair tousled in the most annoyingly adorable way, and his lips curled into a soft, affectionate smile. He was whispering something to her, inaudible from where I sat, but it was easy to guess the tone: comforting, tender.
God, he looked peaceful. Like every heavy burden he'd been carrying for the past few months had slipped away. Just like that. In this moment. Holding her.
He looked beautiful.
I caught my breath and immediately looked away, as if the chandelier above had suddenly become fascinating.
No. No, no, no.
I didn't feel anything for him. Not like that.We just grew up together. He's just… Ayaan.
I was still in the middle of mentally scolding myself when I felt the chair beside me shift slightly. Someone sat down. Close.
I turned, and before I could even school my expression—there he was. Ayaan.
Smiling.
That stupid, heart-melting smile.
I quickly looked away, my heart thudding so loudly in my chest I was sure the whole table could hear it.
Why did he sit beside me? I mean, yes, it was his seat. But still.
Not that I cared. At all.I was just… curious. That's all.
"She's hungry?" Rajveer uncle asked, leaning slightly forward, concern lacing his voice as he looked at the squirming, still-sniffling baby in Ayaan's arms.
Ayaan shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "No. I just fed her not long ago."
"Then what happened?" Rajveer uncle asked, clearly puzzled.
Even Vikram uncle, still half-distracted by his phone call, glanced over with mild interest. His murmured discussion about arrangements faltered for a second.
I couldn't help myself either.
"What happened then?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them, perfectly in sync with Rajveer uncle's question.
Ayaan looked at both of us, mischief sparkling in his eyes. That look. I'd seen it countless times growing up—usually right before he got into trouble.
"Actually…" he said, trying to suppress a grin, "I teased her."
Rajveer uncle blinked. "Teased her?"
We both echoed, disbelief layered in our voices.
"She's barely two months old. She doesn't even understand language yet," Rajveer uncle said, brows pulling together in confusion.
I nodded, still confused. "Yeah, how can you tease a baby?"
Ayaan shrugged, but his grin only widened. The kind that made you both want to punch him and laugh at the same time.
"You guys don't get it," he said with a little shrug. "when I blow on her cheeks, she makes this face like I've offended her entire existence. Then she squeaks. It's the cutest thing ever. So… I kept doing it. And then she screamed like I broke her heart."
Rajveer uncle burst into a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. But the image in my head—Ayaan blowing raspberries on the baby's cheeks and her reacting like a tiny offended princess—was too adorable. And maybe, just maybe, seeing him like this made my chest warm.
The baby let out another little hiccuping cry.
"Okay, okay, don't cry now," Ayaan cooed, shifting her slightly higher against his chest. He kissed her forehead so gently it made something inside me ache.
She hiccupped again, her tiny hands curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"My little princess," he whispered, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
And just like that, she calmed. Her cries turned into little sniffles, her eyes droopy now.
They already looked like a comfortable father-daughter duo. Like they belonged together.
It had been less than twenty-four hours.
And yet… they looked perfect.
I smiled to myself, trying not to read too much into the way my heart had begun to flutter in my chest.
The moment was tranquil—almost dreamlike.
The baby was now busy tugging at Ayaan's shirt collar, her tiny fingers curling into the soft fabric as if it were her favorite toy. Ayaan chuckled under his breath, letting her explore as he shifted slightly in his seat to support her better.
Then, Vikram uncle ended his call.
A crisp beep marked the end of the conversation, and with it, the energy in the room shifted.
Sharmila aunty walked in first, graceful in her pastel saree, followed closely by Sikha aunty, her bangles clinking softly with each step. Their expressions were unreadable, too composed for the usual morning warmth. They quietly took their seats beside their husbands, the silence wrapping the room like a blanket just pulled too tight.
Within seconds, the house staff entered, balancing trays and bowls with practiced ease. One by one, they arranged the breakfast spread on the long mahogany table—silver lids clinking, warm steam curling into the air.
There was everything—crispy dosas folded like delicate fans, bowls of poha garnished with fresh coriander, neatly cut fruits glistening under the chandelier, and warm aloo parathas stacked beside bowls of creamy curd. But my eyes stopped, heart fluttering, when I noticed the chocolate pastry placed right in front of me.
Only one piece.
Placed right there—alone and intentional.
I knew instantly it was for me. Someone remembered.
My chest warmed unexpectedly, but before I could let myself smile fully, Vikram uncle cleared his throat.
A low, deliberate sound. One that immediately called for attention.
I looked up to see him sitting straighter now, fingers folded thoughtfully on the table. His face no longer carried that warm, fatherly ease—it had taken on a serious edge. Ayaan, sensing the same shift, instinctively adjusted the baby in his arms and leaned slightly forward.
"I want to discuss something important," Vikram uncle said, his voice steady, but his gaze trained solely on Ayaan.
The room went still.
The staff had retreated. The baby, perhaps sensing the tension, had gone quiet too—nestled peacefully against Ayaan's chest.
I felt… awkward.
Like I was witnessing something I wasn't supposed to.
This was clearly a family matter. And I had no right to be here for this. My seat suddenly felt too visible, too out of place. I glanced at my half-filled glass of juice, debating whether I should quietly excuse myself.
Just as I shifted, ready to speak up, Vikram uncle turned directly to Ayaan again.
"Are you sure about your decision?"
His voice wasn't harsh—but it carried weight. The kind of weight only a man like him could carry when he was about to challenge something big.
The baby cooed softly, breaking the silence.
And yet, no one moved. Not even me.
Because I knew this moment—this question—was bigger than it seemed.