Ayaan's POV
The silence in the room felt heavier than ever. My father's words echoed in my head like a challenge I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
"Are you sure about your decision?"
Was I?
Was I really sure about taking on something so big… so life-altering? Raising a baby alone. No mother in the picture. No plan. Just a decision made from instinct.
Would I even be a good father?
My mind was a mess of doubts—questions spiraling around each other like a storm with no center. But then—there it was.
A gentle tug on my shirt.
I looked down, and there she was… nestled in my arms, holding on to the fabric of my shirt with those tiny, barely-there fingers. Her wide eyes blinked up at me with curiosity, maybe confusion… but also something I couldn't name.
Hope.
She didn't even know what that word meant, but somehow… her gaze said it all. Like she was trusting me with everything she didn't yet understand.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and softly kissed her chubby cheek. She cooed in response, and just like that, something clicked in my chest.
I remembered the moment I found her—how she was crying, trembling, left alone in the cold, wrapped in nothing but a thin cloth. And now… she was calm. Safe. In my arms.
God hadn't just brought her into my life. He'd brought me into hers.
I looked up, meeting my father's gaze. Everyone at the table was still—waiting. Watching me. Expecting my answer.
And I gave it to them.
"Yes, I'm sure," I said, voice steady.
My dad nodded slightly, like he already knew what my answer would be.
"Okay then. Everyone, have your breakfast. We have another serious matter to discuss," he said, his tone shifting back to his usual firm calm.
Plates clinked softly as people began to eat. The aroma of fresh parathas and warm chai filled the room.
But me?
I didn't feel like eating.
There was a storm inside me—a strange mix of fear, pride, and something that felt dangerously close to love. All for the tiny soul cradled in my arms.
And somehow, in that moment, I knew…
I'd give the world to protect her.
I was still lost in thoughts. Everything around me felt distant—the clinking of cutlery, the soft hum of quiet conversations, the smell of fresh breakfast. I looked around. Everyone was eating.
My dad was focused on his plate, but his brows were still furrowed. His mind was clearly elsewhere, probably still on what we'd discussed a few minutes ago. My uncle and aunt sat across, talking softly while eating. There was no tension on their faces, but there wasn't ease either.
Then there was my mom.
She wasn't eating.
She just kept playing with the food on her plate, moving pieces from one corner to another. My chest tightened a bit. I knew that look. She was worried—worried about me, about the baby in my arms, about everything changing too fast.
She looked up and our eyes met. I gave her a small nod, as if to say, Mom, I've got this. Trust me. She paused, then nodded back and quietly took a bite of a freshly cut apple.
I let out a breath and turned my head to the side. Sanya sat beside me.
Her plate was untouched, just like mine. Her posture was stiff, lost in some silent thoughts. She looked like she was here, but her mind was somewhere far away. Maybe she felt my eyes on her, because she glanced up.
"You should eat," I said softly.
"Uh, yes… you should eat too," she replied, almost caught off guard.
I gave her a small nod and picked up my fork. She followed, slowly bringing her attention back to her plate. We both started eating in silence.
It wasn't awkward. It was calm.
Maybe too calm.
But it felt like the silence we both needed—one that didn't demand answers, just presence.
As soon as we finished eating in a strange silence, the staff began clearing the plates and utensils one by one. The clinking of dishes was the only sound echoing through the hall. We all remained seated, still caught in the quiet aftermath of what had just happened.
My daughter had already fallen asleep in my arms, her tiny hand still clinging softly to my shirt. My daughter. That word… it felt so peaceful. So grounding. Like a truth that needed no explanation. As I stared at her sleeping face, my heart swelled with something I couldn't name.
Then, a soft whisper snapped me out of my trance.
"Ayaan, give her to me. I'll take her to the room while you guys talk," Sanya said gently near my ear.
I turned to look at her. She smiled faintly, but I could see the discomfort in her eyes. This wasn't her space. It wasn't her war. And yet, she stood beside me. Still here. Still present.
Before I could say anything, Dad cleared his throat. Everyone went still. I straightened up.
"Last night after talking to you, I thought a lot," he said, his eyes fixed firmly on mine. "It's your work, your life, and your decision. But may I know how are you going to do this?"
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even doubt.
It was curiosity… layered in concern.
Everyone's gaze turned to me. For a second, it felt like one of those tense political meetings where I'd messed something up and everyone was silently demanding answers.
I held my daughter closer before gently placing her into Sanya's arms. She stood up, gave me a tiny nod, and quietly walked out of the room.
Then, I took a breath.
"I don't have a full plan, Dad. I'll be honest—I don't have a perfect answer. But what I do know is this… she is not a mistake. She is not a burden. She is a part of me now."
I paused, making sure to look into each of their eyes.
"Yes, I have dreams. Yes, there's politics and pressure and responsibilities. But what use is any of it if I can't stand by the one thing that truly felt right in my life?"
He didn't respond, so I continued.
"Maybe people will talk. Maybe I'll lose votes. Maybe some will call this a distraction or a scandal or whatever else they label things they don't understand. But I'd rather face that storm than look into this child's eyes one day and tell her I left her because it was inconvenient."
Dad's face didn't change, but his fingers curled slowly into a fist on the table. I knew he was thinking deeply.
"You asked about our family legacy," I said, lowering my voice. "Maybe it's time our legacy includes compassion. Humanity. Maybe this is what real leadership looks like—choosing love even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
Silence filled the room again. But this time, it didn't feel so strange. It felt like a pause before something important.
Then Dad leaned back slightly, and for the first time in a long while, I saw something flicker in his eyes.
Pride.
He gave me a single nod. "Well said."
Dad nodded slowly, still deep in thought. But the silence didn't last long.
Vikram uncle leaned forward. His voice calm, but sharp. "Do you even realise what you're stepping into? This isn't just about diapers and lullabies, Ayaan. This is a full-time responsibility. You'll be a single father. You think politics is brutal? Try raising a child alone."
I nodded, not breaking eye contact. "I know it won't be easy, uncle. I'm not romanticising it. There will be sleepless nights and breakdowns. But I'm ready for that. She didn't choose to be abandoned. She didn't choose to be found by me. But now that she is mine, I will not choose to walk away."
Sharmila aunty spoke next. "And what about marriage? Future? Who would accept this? You're still young. This decision will change everything."
"It already has," I said softly. "And if someone can't accept her, then they can't have me either. I'm not looking for someone to tolerate her. I'm waiting for someone who will love her as their own. Because she is mine."
My mom let out a breath I didn't even know she was holding. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she stayed silent.
Then Dad spoke again, his voice a notch lower. "What about your career? The party? The image you've built so far? You think they will spare you for this?"
I met his gaze, steady. "They can break that image if they want. I'm not here to be perfect. I'm here to be real. And if that means standing alone, I will. But I'll never regret choosing her."
The room went quiet again.
Not out of resistance.
But respect.
I could feel the shift.
And then, Dad smiled.
Finally, it felt calm. Peaceful. Like the storm had passed and left behind clear skies.
"I'm proud of you, son," he said, his voice steady and warm as he rose from his seat. That one sentence—those five words—felt like a lifetime of approval I didn't even know I was aching for. A smile tugged at my lips, slow but genuine.
One by one, we all stood, the heavy weight of the conversation easing into something lighter. Something hopeful.
As we stepped out of the dining hall and into the main corridor, my eyes were instantly drawn to the living room.
And there she was.
Sanya.
Her silhouette framed by the soft light pouring through the tall windows. The gentle breeze from the open balcony made strands of her hair dance across her face, the rest tied loosely, swaying as she walked slowly in a rhythm only she and the baby understood.
She was holding my daughter in her arms, cradling her carefully, one hand supporting her head, the other rhythmically patting her tiny back. My daughter slept peacefully, her tiny fists curled against Sanya's chest.
But it wasn't just the sight—it was the feeling.
Sanya wasn't just holding her. She was carrying something more—gentleness, calm, a sense of belonging. She looked down at the baby like she mattered. Like she was hers, too.
I stood there, frozen. Watching. Forgetting to breathe.
Mom walked toward her and whispered something into her ear that I couldn't hear, and Sanya nodded slightly, offering a soft smile in response. But I didn't move. Couldn't.
Time felt like it had slowed.
Then suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, Sanya looked up.
Our eyes met.
For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other. Her expression unreadable, mine probably a mess of awe and confusion. My heart thudded loud enough to drown out the world.
Embarrassed, I quickly looked away—pretending to fix my invisible watch, as if I hadn't just been standing there like an idiot, watching her like she was magic.
But the truth was—maybe she was.
Mom gently took the baby from Sanya's arms, her touch tender and practiced. She cradled her like she was something precious—and she was. My daughter stirred slightly, making a soft sound before settling again in Mom's embrace.
"I'll hold her for a while," Mom said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips as she walked over to the couch.
Sanya followed her, quietly, almost instinctively—like she wasn't sure if she should stay or go, but didn't want to be too far either.
She sat beside Mom, folding her hands in her lap, glancing every now and then at the baby sleeping so peacefully.
I stayed where I was, watching from a distance. The way Mom looked down at the baby with love and pride, the way Sanya leaned in, asking if she needed help—even the unspoken comfort between the two women—it all felt oddly domestic.
Like a scene from a life I never thought I'd have… but maybe always wanted.
And for the first time since I found that little bundle of chaos and hope, it didn't feel like I was alone in this.
It felt like… maybe we were already a team.
As I saw Sanya and mom were busy talking and my daughter was sleeping in my mom arm, something in me shifted. That little girl… my daughter… she had already become the center of my universe. But I knew that the world wasn't a safe place—not for someone so small, and especially not with how she came into my life.
"I'll be back in a minute," I said, my voice low.
They both looked up. Mom gave a soft nod, and Sanya's eyes lingered on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she turned back to the baby.
I stepped away and walked briskly toward my study. My thoughts were spinning, and I needed answers. I needed control.
Once inside, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, gathering myself. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
The moment I shut the door behind me, my calm facade dropped. My hands went straight to my pocket, pulling out my phone. I found Niranjan's contact—my most loyal, resourceful aide—and hit call.
He picked up after a few rings. "Yes, sir?"
"Niraj," I said, already sinking into the leather chair and leaning back, eyes closed as the weight of everything pushed down on me. "I want every bit of information on the man who was murdered yesterday."
There was a brief silence.
"Which one, sir?" Niraj's voice came through, steady as always, but the words hit me like a punch. "Two more bodies were found. Same area. Same method."
My eyes flew open. "What?"
"Near the western shore. Just like the first one," he added. "All in the last forty-eight hours."
My heart sank into my stomach. That couldn't be a coincidence. That was a pattern. A warning. A message.
"Find everything," I said, my voice low and firm. "Names, addresses, family, work, criminal records, even if they had a dog. I want every damn detail."
"Yes, sir. I'll update you as soon as I have something."
I ended the call and stood abruptly, pacing across the room as unease clawed at me. Something wasn't right. This wasn't just about a random abandoned baby anymore.
There was something darker. Bigger.
I grabbed the remote and switched on the TV, flicking to the news channel, hoping for some kind of lead.
And there it was.
BREAKING NEWS: THIRD BODY FOUND NEAR THE WESTERN SHORE.
The reporter's voice filled the room. "Authorities are investigating a possible connection between three recent murders, all occurring near the western coastline. So far, police have refused to comment on whether the cases are linked, but locals are growing concerned. All three victims were male, and all were found with head trauma, no identification, and no personal belongings."
A photo flashed briefly across the screen—a blurred image of the scene, body bags, sirens, the dull gray of the sea in the background.
I clenched my fists.
This was no coincidence.
Someone was killing off anyone tied to that night. That location.
Which meant whoever left my daughter there… might've known something. Might've been trying to protect her.
And now, someone didn't want the truth coming out.
I turned off the TV, jaw set.
No matter what this was—I'd protect her. I'd find out the truth.
Even if it meant walking into the shadows myself.