The funeral hall was draped in black, heavy curtains swallowing the walls in silence. The air carried incense and wax, thick and suffocating, as mourners filled the benches in somber rows.
At the center, the casket lay beneath a crown of flowers—colorless against the shadows.
Mr. Sidharth sat closest, a statue of grief. His head bowed, his hands locked on his knees, his expression unreadable. No sobs, no words—just the silence of a father who had lost his only son.
Around him, whispers spread: of dignity in mourning, of sorrow too deep for tears.
The doors opened.
The Rawat family entered—dark coats, measured steps. Mr. Rawat led, bandages hidden beneath his clothes, each step betraying the wounds he carried.
Behind him came his son: Abhi, jaw locked and eyes hard, his expression restrained yet unsettled.
For a breath, the room stiffened.
Mr. Singh, standing near the altar, did not move, did not speak. But he also didn't turn them away. His silence was a decision in itself, acknowledgment without recognition.
Arun's eyes met Abhi's, and the world stopped. Grief crushed his chest; love and sorrow burned in that single look. He longed to reach for him—but wasn't sure if he was allowed.
Murmurs rippled, then hushed, as the Rawats took their seats. No one could believe their presence at the Singh mansion.
It was then that Mr. Sidharth's eyes flickered—once to the Rawats, once to the Singhs. A sharp tremor of emotion cut through his mask of grief. His lips pressed thin, trembling not from sorrow but from something darker.
He leaned over the casket, fingers shaking as he fastened a legacy brooch to Shubham's clothes. His voice followed, low, meant for no one yet meant to be heard.
"They've taken everything from me again… I won't forgive them easily..."
The words slipped into the silence like a curse—unheard by others, but heavy enough to stain the air. His gaze lingered on the Rawats a moment longer, then dropped back to his folded hands.
Across the room, Arun's gaze flickered—just for a moment—catching the motion, the gleam of the brooch, and the shadow in Mr. Sidharth's eyes.
The hall remained quiet, but beneath the mourning, a new tension coiled—one no prayer could ease.
---
[Later that night]
The mansion still carried the echo of mourners' voices, the weight of loss settling heavy over its walls.
Arun found Mr. Singh in the study, bent over a file spread across the desk. The lamplight cut sharp angles across his face, his expression grave but focused.
"Papa," Arun's voice broke the silence.
The older man glanced up, brows knitting slightly at the hesitation in Arun's tone. "Hmm...?"
Arun lingered at the doorway a moment longer before stepping in. "Are you certain… everything was Shubham's doing?"
The question hung in the air, softer than suspicion, sharper than doubt.
Mr. Singh leaned back in his chair, studying Arun with steady eyes. "We've gone through his office records, the intruders, even questioned his house staff. Every thread ties back to him. His movements, his decisions… all point the same way."
He closed the file with a firm hand, the sound echoing in the stillness. "Why are you asking me this now?"
Arun opened his mouth, then closed it. His chest tightened. He wanted to speak—the unease clawing at him whenever his uncle's shadowed eyes crossed his mind. The grief, the bitterness, the brooch he had pinned to Shubham's chest.
His fingers brushed something in his palm. The brooch from the Rawat house. Cold, heavy, unignorable.
But the words caught in his throat.
"…Nothing," he said finally, forcing the word out like an empty breath. His gaze dropped, as though the floor itself held the answer he couldn't speak aloud.
Mr. Singh's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press. He only nodded, his voice steady. "Rest for now. We will talk later."
Arun gave a faint nod, though the unease inside him only deepened.
As he turned to leave the study, his hand lingered on the doorframe. His silence carried the weight of a truth he wasn't ready to voice:
That his heart whispered of another culprit. That he feared the pain in his uncle's eyes might be hiding something far darker.
---
[Meanwhile—Rawat house]
The light through the tall windows of the Rawat estate had shifted—no longer harsh or bloodied, but warm gold. It softened the room, washing away the heaviness of the past days.
Ayan lay against the pillows, his fever finally broken. His skin was pale, but his breathing steady. Aarav sat at his side, a quiet sentinel, one hand resting near Ayan's arm as if to anchor him.
A knock on the open door drew their attention.
Mr. Rawat stepped in. Though his movements were slower, his presence carried the same quiet authority. He came to the bedside, gaze sweeping over Aarav, then Ayan.
"How are you feeling?" His voice was low, steady.
"Better, Uncle." Ayan murmured, managing a simple smile.
Mr. Rawat exhaled, something easing in his eyes. Then he spoke again, firmer this time: "You should return to the mansion. To your father."
Ayan's brows drew together in confusion. Aarav glanced at his father, shocked but attentive.
"He acts like he doesn't care," Mr. Rawat continued, his gaze fixed on some distant memory. "But he does. About you. About everything. He's just… too hard to show it."
The words sank deep. Guilt stirred in Ayan's chest. He remembered the sharp words he'd thrown at his father before leaving, the anger that had blinded him. Now, beneath Mr. Rawat's calm tone, something inside him shifted.
"I shouldn't have spoken to Papa like that," Ayan whispered, fingers tightening in the sheets as though trying to hold back the guilt pressing on his chest.
Aarav shifted closer, his hand settling on Ayan's shoulder with quiet care. The touch was steady, grounding—an anchor through the storm.
Ayan's eyes flickered, but before he could say more, Mr. Rawat's voice cut in, gentler than expected.
"Then why don't you both go and apologize together?"
They froze. Their heads turned toward him, almost disbelieving.
Mr. Rawat's lips curved, the faintest but truest smile easing across his weathered face.
But then, after a moment, that smile faded. His voice dipped lower, steady with intent. A thought of Abhi came to his mind.
"There's one more thing we need to set right," he said.
The warmth drained from the air. Ayan and Aarav lifted their gazes at once, the silence tightening between them.
They were ready to hear what Mr. Rawat had to say.