The tension in the villa was suffocating. Bhoomi's eyes blazed with a mix of anger and worry as she stepped between Yuvaan and the empty space where Kiaan had just stood.
"Yuvaan! How could you even raise your hand to your own child?" she scolded, her voice trembling, yet sharp with authority. "He is just a little boy! He deserves your patience, not your anger!"
Yuvaan's chest heaved, his fists unclenching slowly. His mind raced, guilt gnawing at him for a moment he had almost crossed a line he could never undo.
From the staircase, Kiaan's small but intense voice rang out, cutting through the room like glass.
"Why did you stop, Villain Papa?" His words carried a mixture of hurt, anger, and accusation. He pointed a small, trembling finger toward Rani. "You should have hit me for her… You've shown me exactly who's more important to you—and it's not Mama, and it's not me… it's Demon Aunty!"
Before anyone could react, Kiaan turned sharply and ran, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. The slam of his bedroom door reverberated like a gunshot in the silence that followed.
Yuvaan's chest tightened. The anger that had flared moments ago melted into a heavy ache. He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, trying to calm the storm of emotions within.
Stepping back toward Rani, his voice softened, steady now, apologetic.
"Rani… I apologize for Kiaan's behavior," he said, bowing his head slightly.
Rani tilted her head, her carefully constructed smile returning almost instantly.
"It's alright, Yuvaan ji. Children… they sometimes act out. Don't worry about it."
Meera's expression, however, betrayed her concern and a hint of frustration.
"Kiaan is getting out of hand day by day. Perhaps… you should marry Rani soon. It will give him time to accept her… slowly."
Yuvaan's dark gaze lingered on the floor for a moment, then lifted with quiet certainty.
"No," he said firmly. "First, Kiaan must accept Rani. Only then… will I marry her. I am marrying her for one reason—and one reason only—to give my son a mother. Not to give her the status of my wife."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps steady but weighted with the burden of love, responsibility, and heartbreak.
The room remained still, each person lost in their thoughts, aware that nothing about this family was simple, and the road ahead would be long and winding.
The bus hummed steadily along the sunlit highway, the tires whispering over the asphalt in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. Khushi sat near the window, her body slumped in exhaustion. The events of the day—the chase, the near-collision, the raw, inexplicable connection with the man in the black car—had left her mind frayed, her heart still racing.
Slowly, her eyelids grew heavy. The warm sunlight spilled across her face, golden and gentle, lulling her into an unsteady sleep.
And then, the past came crashing back.
She was Twenty again. The brothel loomed behind her eyes, the dim lanterns casting flickering shadows on the polished floors. Music played, but it was hollow, haunting—a cruel echo of joy denied. The men around her moved with expectation, hands reaching, eyes leering.
But she had never yielded. Never.
Every refusal was met with a sharp slap, a sting that lingered long after. Each act of defiance left her bruised, both body and spirit, but she refused to allow any man to break the dignity she had fought so hard to protect. She danced, not for pleasure, but for survival, with her pride as her silent armor.
And then… another memory, darker, rawer, burned itself into her mind.
Her village. The day of the massacre. She had been fifteen. Flames, smoke, screams. Families torn apart. The smell of blood mingling with the choking smoke. Fear, despair, and helplessness had carved themselves deep into her heart. She had run, hidden, survived, each step weighed with horror and grief. The echo of those cries never left her; they whispered in the quiet moments, relentless and cruel.
In her dream, the past was alive, pressing against her. Every fear, every pain, every memory of cruelty and loss folded over her like a suffocating shroud. And yet… amidst the terror, a spark remained. A stubborn flame of defiance, of survival.
Khushi's shaky hands clenched at the edge of her seat. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, even in sleep. The bus rocked gently along the road, oblivious to the storms in her mind, the silent battles she fought long after the world had moved on.
Somewhere, in the recesses of that memory-laden dream, a fragment of hope flickered—a warning, a promise, a distant echo of something that might one day protect her from the darkness she had carried for so long.
To be continued