Aayat POV

I looked at the guitar in Papa's hands.

He played a few quiet notes, almost absent-mindedly.

I smiled.

"I knew you still had it."

He looked at me.

"You always believed that?"

"Of course."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You were six."

"I was six, not stupid."

He laughed.

I smiled.

"I remember."

His expression softened.

"You remember what?"

"You teaching me."

He went completely still.

I continued softly.

"I remember sitting beside you with the guitar."

His eyes became slightly glassy.

"You were so small."

"I remember you putting my fingers on the strings because I couldn't reach them properly."

He smiled.

"And you kept playing the wrong chord."

"I was six."

"You were very determined."

"I still am."

He laughed quietly.

I looked down at my hands.

"I have three recordings."

His expression changed.

"What?"

"Three recordings of us."

"Us?"

"You and me."

He stared at me.

"Where?"

"I kept them."

"For twenty-one years?"

I nodded.

"I don't know how."

I smiled faintly.

"I think they were saved on an old device. I found them years ago."

His eyes filled with emotion.

"You still have them?"

"Yes."

"All three?"

"All three."

He put the guitar down carefully.

"Aayat..."

"I listen to them sometimes."

He looked at me.

"When?"

"When I miss you."

His face tightened.

I continued.

"The first one is you teaching me."

He smiled through the emotion.

"The second?"

"I'm singing."

"You were six."

"I know."

"Did you sing well?"

I laughed.

"No."

He shook his head.

"You were good."

"Papa, you're biased."

"Of course I am."

I smiled.

"The third one is my favorite."

"Why?"

"Because we're both playing."

His eyes widened slightly.

"I remember that."

"You do?"

"I remember you sitting beside me."

"You were playing guitar."

"And you were trying to copy me."

"I wasn't trying."

He smiled.

"You were."

I laughed.

"I was playing."

"You were playing."

He looked down for a moment.

Then quietly asked,

"Can I hear them?"

I nodded.

"Yes."

I took my phone from the table.

My hands trembled slightly as I searched through the old recordings.

Then I found them.

Three files.

I turned the volume up.

The first recording began.

A younger version of Papa's voice filled the room.

Then my tiny voice answered him.

Papa closed his eyes.

I watched his expression change.

Twenty-one years disappeared from his face for a moment.

He wasn't the man who had spent years behind bars.

He was just my father.

Sitting beside his six-year-old daughter.

Teaching her music.

When the recording ended, neither of us spoke.

Then I played the second.

My childish voice singing along while Papa played guitar.

Papa laughed softly.

"I remember this."

"You do?"

"You forgot the words."

"I was six."

"You made up your own."

I smiled.

"Maybe I was creative."

"You were."

The third recording started.

This one was quieter.

We were both playing.

My little fingers stumbling over the strings.

Papa patiently following along.

At the end, my younger voice could be heard laughing.

Then Papa's younger voice said something softly.

I looked at him.

"What did you say there?"

He smiled.

"I told you that one day you'd become better than me."

I laughed.

"Did you really?"

"Yes."

I looked at the guitar.

"Maybe you were right."

He shook his head.

"No."

He looked at me.

"You were always my best student."

I smiled.

"I kept the recordings because I was afraid I'd forget your voice."

His expression broke.

"Aayat..."

"I didn't."

I reached for his hand.

"I remembered."

He held my hand tightly.

"I thought I had lost everything."

"You didn't."

I leaned against him.

"You lost twenty-one years."

He closed his eyes.

"But you found me again."

I nodded.

"And I found you."

He kissed the top of my head.

For a long moment, we stayed like that.

Papa looked at the guitar.

Then at me.

"Three recordings."

I smiled faintly.

"Three."

He held the guitar a little tighter.

"Then let's make a fourth."

I froze.

For a moment, I couldn't answer.

Papa noticed.

"What?"

I looked down.

"Papa..."

"Hmm?"

"I don't sing anymore."

His expression changed.

"You don't?"

I shook my head.

"No."

"Why?"

I looked at the guitar.

"Because I stopped."

"When?"

"After you disappeared."

He went completely quiet.

I swallowed.

"I was six."

Papa's eyes softened.

"I know."

"I kept waiting for you."

My voice became smaller.

"I thought you'd come back."

He looked down.

"Every time I heard a guitar, I thought it was you."

I wiped my eyes.

"And then one day I got tired of waiting."

Papa didn't interrupt.

"I stopped singing."

"Why?"

I took a slow breath.

"Because singing reminded me of you."

His eyes filled.

"I couldn't do it anymore."

I looked at him.

"So I promised myself..."

My voice trembled.

"...I'd never sing again."

Papa's face tightened.

"Never?"

I shook my head.

"Never."

He put the guitar down.

"Aayat..."

"I meant it."

"I know."

"I didn't sing at school."

I gave a small, sad smile.

"Even when teachers asked."

He listened silently.

"I didn't sing at family functions."

"Not once?"

"Not once."

I looked toward the old recordings on my phone.

"The only times I ever sang after you left were the songs already recorded with you."

Papa reached for my hand.

"You kept those."

"Because they were the only part of you I still had."

He lowered his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

I immediately shook my head.

"Don't."

"But..."

"You didn't choose to leave me."

His eyes became wet.

"I know what happened."

He nodded slowly.

I squeezed his hand.

"But six-year-old me didn't understand any of it."

"I know."

"She only knew that her father was gone."

He looked at me.

"And she decided that if music had been the last thing you shared with her..."

I paused.

"...then she didn't want music anymore."

Papa's eyes closed.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

I wiped it away.

"I don't regret the promise."

He looked at me.

"I don't want you to regret it either."

A faint smile appeared.

"But I also don't want you to be afraid of singing."

I didn't answer.

He gently touched the guitar.

"You don't have to sing tonight."

I looked at him.

"Then why did you ask?"

"Because I wanted to hear my daughter again."

My eyes filled.

"But I won't ask you to break a promise you made to yourself."

I leaned against his shoulder.

"Thank you."

He rested his cheek against my head.

After a moment, I whispered,

"Maybe someday."

He smiled.

"Someday is enough."

I looked at the guitar.

For twenty-one years, I had believed that music belonged to the past.

To a six-year-old girl.

To a father who disappeared.

To three old recordings I had protected with everything I had.

But tonight, for the first time...

I didn't feel like I had to run from it.

I just wasn't ready to sing.

Not yet.

And Papa understood.

That was enough.

Papa was still sitting beside me, his hand resting on the guitar.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked around the room.

His eyes stopped on the small framed photograph of me from a few years ago.

He smiled.

"Can I ask you something?"

I looked at him.

"Anything."

He hesitated.

"How did you do it?"

I frowned.

"Do what?"

He gestured around the room.

"All of this."

I laughed softly.

"Papa, that's a very broad question."

"No."

He looked at me seriously.

"I'm asking about your company."

I went quiet.

He continued.

"When I left, you were six."

I nodded.

"When I came back, I found out my daughter isn't just running a company."

He smiled faintly.

"You're one of the top five businesswomen in the continent."

I looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"Papa..."

"No, seriously."

He laughed.

"How?"

I smiled.

"Hard work."

He gave me a look.

"That's the answer people give in interviews."

I laughed.

"You've been back for a few hours and you're already criticizing my interview answers."

"I'm your father. It's my job."

I shook my head.

"Fine."

I thought for a moment.

"I started small."

"How small?"

"Very."

"I didn't have investors."

He listened.

"I didn't have a famous family name behind me."

I smiled faintly.

"I had an idea."

"What idea?"

"I wanted to build something that people would actually need."

"So you started a company?"

"Yes."

"At what age?"

"Young."

"How young?"

I hesitated.

"Young enough that most people thought I was being foolish."

Papa smiled.

"That sounds like my daughter."

I laughed.

"At first, I failed."

He looked surprised.

"You?"

"Many times."

"What happened?"

"I learned."

I shrugged.

"Every mistake taught me something."

"What did you build first?"

I told him.

He listened carefully.

"And then?"

"The company grew."

"How?"

"One client became five."

"Then?"

"Five became fifty."

"And eventually?"

I smiled.

"We expanded."

Papa looked impressed.

"Internationally?"

I nodded.

"Eventually."

He shook his head in disbelief.

"I missed a lot."

I looked at him.

"Yes."

His smile faded.

"I'm sorry."

I immediately reached for his hand.

"Papa."

He looked at me.

"Don't."

He nodded.

I continued.

"I didn't build it because I wanted to prove something."

"Then why?"

"Because I needed something that was mine."

He understood.

"After losing you?"

I nodded.

"I needed a reason to wake up and keep moving."

He squeezed my hand.

"So you worked."

"I worked."

"How much?"

I laughed.

"Too much."

"That's dangerous."

"I know."

He smiled slightly.

"And eventually people started noticing."

"Yes."

"How did you become one of the top five?"

I smiled.

"Consistency."

"That's it?"

"Consistency, good people, good decisions, and knowing when to take a risk."

He nodded slowly.

"And you did all that alone?"

"No."

I smiled.

"I had people who believed in me."

"Who?"

I thought of everyone who had stood beside me.

"Friends."

"Family?"

I smiled.

"Now I have family too."

His expression softened.

"I see."

He looked around again.

"So this company..."

"It's mine."

"And you're really one of the top five?"

I laughed.

"According to the rankings."

He smiled proudly.

"Then I'm impressed."

"You're not going to ask about the numbers?"

"I don't understand business numbers."

I laughed.

"But you understand music."

"Exactly."

He pointed toward the guitar.

"That's my department."

I smiled.

"Then I'll teach you business."

He laughed.

"And I'll teach you music again."

I froze slightly.

He noticed.

"I'm not asking you to sing."

I smiled.

"Good."

"Just sit beside me."

I looked at him.

"Deal."

He smiled.

Then, after a moment, he said quietly,

"I'm proud of you."

My smile disappeared for a second.

Not because I didn't want to hear it.

Because I'd spent twenty-one years wishing I could.

"Thank you, Papa."

He squeezed my hand.

"I wish I could have seen you build all this."

I leaned against his shoulder.

"You're here now."

He nodded.

"Yes."

And somehow, those three words made everything feel a little lighter.

He was here now.

He couldn't change the years I had spent building my life without him.

But he could finally see what I had built.

And I could finally hear him say the one thing I'd secretly wanted to hear all those years.

"I'm proud of you."

Papa looked at me with a curious smile.

"So..."

I looked at him.

"How did you meet Mihir?"

My heart skipped.

For a second, the room disappeared.

I was back in Mihir's office.

Standing across from his desk.

Arguing about the property.

Trying to convince him to sign.

Trying to get back what belonged to me.

Then another memory.

That night.

When I was drunk.

His expression when he found me.

The embarrassment.

The silence.

And then the next morning.

The marriage certificate.

My name beside his.

Ms. Kapoor.

Him saying: "Sign the marriage certificate Ms. Kapoor"

I blinked and came back to the present.

Papa was still waiting.

I smiled.

"We met through work."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Work?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Some political and business matters."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

But it wasn't the truth either.

Papa studied me for a moment.

"And then?"

"We kept meeting."

I forced a small smile.

"Eventually, we realized we understood each other."

The words felt strange coming out of my mouth.

Papa smiled.

"That's how you got married?"

I nodded.

"Yes."

"Was it love?"

I hesitated.

Then shook my head.

"Not at first."

Papa's expression softened.

"Then arranged?"

"Something like that."

Another half-truth.

I didn't know why I was doing it.

I could have told him.

I could have told him that our marriage hadn't started the way normal marriages did.

That there had been conditions.

That there had been signatures.

That I had walked into Mihir's life with an agenda.

That the next morning, I had become his wife on paper before either of us understood what that meant.

But I couldn't say it.

Not to Papa.

Not tonight.

He had just gotten his freedom back.

He had just come home.

I didn't want his first night knowing his daughter again to be filled with questions about a marriage that even I didn't fully understand.

So I smiled.

"Mihir is a good person."

Papa smiled back.

"That much I already know."

"He helped me a lot."

"I know."

"And over time..."

I paused.

"...we became close."

That part was true.

More true than I wanted to admit.

Papa looked at me carefully.

"Are you happy?"

The question caught me completely off guard.

I looked down.

Was I?

I didn't know.

The answer should have been simple.

But it wasn't.

I thought about Mihir standing beside me in court.

His voice when he told me my father was coming home.

The way he had protected me from Tej.

The way he never made me feel alone.

Something tightened in my chest.

"I think I am."

Papa smiled.

"That's enough."

I looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because happiness doesn't always arrive with an announcement."

I smiled faintly.

"You sound like a philosopher."

"I've had twenty-one years to think."

I laughed softly.

He squeezed my hand.

"And Mihir?"

"What about him?"

"Is he happy?"

I looked away.

"I don't know."

Papa smiled knowingly.

"Then perhaps you should ask him."

I laughed nervously.

"Maybe."

He leaned back against the chair.

"I like him."

"I know."

"And I think he cares about you."

My heart skipped.

I looked toward the door.

"Papa..."

He smiled.

"I didn't say anything else."

I laughed quietly.

But inside, I couldn't stop thinking about his question.

Are you happy?

I didn't know.

Not completely.

Not yet.

But when I thought about Mihir...

something inside me felt different.

Something I couldn't name.

And for reasons I didn't understand, I wasn't ready to tell Papa the truth about how our marriage had begun.

Maybe because I was afraid he would misunderstand.

Maybe because I didn't understand it myself.

Or maybe...

because somewhere along the way, the contract had stopped being the most important part of our marriage.

And I wasn't ready to admit that yet.

For a while, Papa didn't say anything.

Then his expression changed.

He looked toward the door.

"Mihir went very quiet when I asked about his family."

I looked down.

"Yes."

"Why?"

I took a slow breath.

"It's complicated."

Papa waited.

I shook my head.

"Actually... very complicated."

He frowned slightly.

"What happened to his family?"

I looked toward the window.

"You know Mihir didn't always have Naina and Advit beside him."

Papa nodded.

"They're his siblings."

"Yes."

I paused.

"He lost them."

"When?"

"Twenty years ago."

Papa's expression softened.

"He was twelve."

Papa went completely still.

"Twelve?"

I nodded.

"Mihir was only twelve when everything happened."

I swallowed.

"His father killed his mother."

Papa's face changed immediately.

I continued quietly.

"His mother, Saanvi, knew something was going to happen. She wanted to protect the children."

"So she sent Naina and Advit away?"

"Yes."

"To London."

I nodded.

"She sent them away because she believed it was the only way to keep them safe."

Papa looked down.

"And Mihir?"

"He stayed."

"Why?"

"I don't think he had a choice."

I took a breath.

"Afterward, everyone believed Naina and Advit were dead."

Papa looked at me in disbelief.

"Everyone?"

"Yes."

"Mihir believed it too?"

"For years."

I lowered my voice.

"He was twelve, Papa."

Papa closed his eyes for a moment.

"That poor boy."

"Mihir grew up carrying the guilt."

"Guilt for what?"

"He believed he had failed them."

My voice softened.

"He thought he should have protected them."

Papa shook his head slowly.

"He was twelve."

"I know."

"But children don't always understand that."

"No."

I looked down at my hands.

"He carried it anyway."

"For twenty years?"

I nodded.

"Twenty years."

Papa was silent.

I continued.

"And then, eventually, Naina and Advit came back into his life."

Papa looked surprised.

"They were alive?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't he know?"

"Because everyone had believed they were dead."

I sighed.

"It's a very long story."

Papa gave a small, sad smile.

"Apparently, everyone in your life has one."

I smiled faintly.

"Maybe."

He looked toward the hallway.

"Does Mihir still carry that guilt?"

I thought about him.

The way he rarely spoke about his pain.

The way he took responsibility for everyone around him.

The way he never seemed to believe he was allowed to rest.

"Sometimes."

Papa nodded.

"I understand."

I looked at him.

"You do?"

"Twenty-one years in prison gives a man plenty of time to understand guilt."

I squeezed his hand.

"But Mihir's guilt was never his to carry."

Papa looked at me.

"You know that."

"Yes."

"Does he?"

I hesitated.

"I'm not sure."

A silence settled between us.

Then I said quietly,

"Papa, there's something else."

"What?"

"This house."

He looked around.

"What about it?"

"There's an entire room dedicated to his mother."

Papa's expression changed.

"His mother?"

"Saanvi Raghuvanshi."

I nodded.

"Her photographs. Her belongings. Her memories."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Papa stared at me.

"He kept all of it?"

"Yes."

I smiled sadly.

"I've seen him go into that room."

"What does he do?"

"Sometimes he just sits there."

"Alone?"

"Usually."

I looked down.

"I don't think he goes there because he wants to remember the tragedy."

"Then why?"

"Because it's the only place where he still feels close to her."

Papa was quiet.

I continued.

"She wasn't just his mother."

"She was his whole world."

Papa nodded slowly.

"And he lost her at twelve."

"Yes."

"And then believed he'd lost Naina and Advit too."

"Yes."

Papa looked toward the hallway again.

"Now I understand why he didn't want to talk about them."

I nodded.

"He doesn't like people feeling sorry for him."

"I noticed."

"He'd rather carry everything silently."

Papa sighed.

"That boy has been carrying too much for too long."

I looked at him.

"That's why I worry about him."

Papa smiled faintly.

"You care about him."

I didn't answer immediately.

Then quietly,

"Yes."

He didn't tease me.

He simply squeezed my hand.

"Then don't let him carry it alone."

I looked toward the door.

"I won't."

And somewhere downstairs, I could hear the faint sound of footsteps.

Mihir.

I wondered if he had any idea that, upstairs, Papa and I were talking about the parts of his life he almost never allowed anyone to see.

The parts he kept hidden.

The parts that had shaped the man he became.

And the room dedicated to Saanvi Raghuvanshi...

the room where a twelve-year-old boy had once learned what it meant to lose everything.

I looked at Papa.

"He deserves peace."

Papa nodded.

"So does my daughter."

I smiled faintly.

The room became quiet again.

I looked at Papa.

Then at the guitar resting beside him.

A small smile appeared on my face.

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"Play something."

He looked at the guitar.

"Something?"

"Yes."

He smiled.

"What do you want me to play?"

I thought for a moment.

"Something you used to play twenty-one years ago."

His expression softened.

"You remember?"

"I remember you."

He smiled.

"That's not the same thing."

"For me, it is."

I reached for the guitar and handed it to him.

He took it carefully.

Then I added,

"And sing."

He looked at me.

"Sing?"

"Yes."

"Aayat..."

"Please."

He laughed softly.

"I haven't performed in twenty-one years."

"I'm not asking you to perform."

I smiled.

"I'm asking you to be Papa."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then slowly, he adjusted the guitar.

His fingers settled against the strings.

He played a few notes.

The sound filled the room.

I closed my eyes.

It was strange.

I'd heard these sounds before.

In old recordings.

Through headphones late at night.

But hearing them live...

hearing them from him...

was completely different.

Papa began to sing.

I didn't interrupt.

I simply listened.

For a moment, I could almost imagine the man everyone had known twenty-one years ago.

The musician whose name had once filled concert halls.

The man people had waited hours to hear.

The man whose music had once made thousands of people sing along.

But sitting there, I didn't see a famous musician.

I saw my father.

The man who had taught a six-year-old girl how to hold a guitar.

The man whose voice she had tried to copy.

The man she had spent twenty-one years missing.

When he finished, the room remained silent.

I opened my eyes.

Papa looked at me nervously.

"Was it terrible?"

I stared at him.

Then laughed.

"Papa."

"What?"

"You're still amazing."

He smiled.

"You really think so?"

"I know so."

He looked down at the guitar.

"I used to wonder whether people would remember my music."

I smiled.

"I did."

He looked at me.

"You were six."

"I remembered."

His eyes softened.

"Then maybe that's enough."

I shook my head.

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Not enough."

I smiled.

"You need to sing again."

He laughed.

"You're becoming demanding."

"I'm your daughter."

"That explains everything."

I laughed.

Then I looked at him seriously.

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you play one more?"

He smiled.

"Of course."

He adjusted the guitar.

And as the first notes filled the room again, I sat beside him.

For twenty-one years, I had remembered his music through three old recordings.

Tonight, I finally heard it directly from him again.

And somehow...

it felt like getting a small piece of my childhood back.

Papa's fingers rested quietly on the guitar.

I looked at him.

"Papa..."

"Hmm?"

I took a breath.

"Mumma left me when I was seven."

He nodded.

"I know, Aayat."

I looked down.

"You know she left."

"I know."

I hesitated.

"You also know what she did after that."

His expression became heavier.

"The hotel."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He knew.

He knew she had burned one of my hotel branches.

He had heard about it before today.

But somehow saying it to him myself felt different.

"I worked so hard for that place, Papa."

My voice trembled slightly.

"It was one of the first things I'd built."

He listened silently.

"And when she burned it..."

I swallowed.

"I felt like she wasn't just destroying a building."

Papa reached for my hand.

"I know."

"I kept thinking... why?"

He squeezed my fingers.

"You didn't deserve that."

"I know."

A tear slipped down my cheek.

"But sometimes knowing something wasn't my fault doesn't stop it from hurting."

Papa wiped the tear gently.

"No, it doesn't."

I leaned against his shoulder.

"I was angry with her for years."

"You had every reason to be hurt."

"I still don't understand why she did it."

Papa was quiet for a moment.

"Maybe you never will."

I nodded.

"Maybe."

He pulled me a little closer.

"But don't let what she did become the story of your life."

I looked at him.

"It isn't."

A faint smile appeared.

"I built again."

Papa smiled proudly.

"That's my daughter."

I laughed softly through my tears.

"And now you're here."

He looked at me.

"Yes."

I rested my head against his shoulder again.

"That's what matters."

Papa picked up the guitar.

"Then let's not spend tonight talking about what she destroyed."

He smiled.

"Let's talk about what you built."

I smiled back.

"Okay."

He began playing softly.

And for the first time, telling my father about the things that had hurt me didn't feel like reopening an old wound.

It felt like finally letting someone sit beside me while I remembered it.

Papa played a few more quiet notes.

I watched him for a moment.

He looked tired.

Not just physically.

Twenty-one years had left their mark on him, even if he tried not to show it.

I slowly stood.

"Papa?"

He looked up.

"Hmm?"

"You need to rest."

He smiled.

"I'm fine."

"You've said that twice tonight."

"Because it's true."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You're still my father. I know when you're tired."

He chuckled softly.

"Fair enough."

I picked up the blanket from the end of the bed and placed it beside him.

"Rest for a while."

He looked at me.

"Where are you going?"

"Downstairs."

"Why?"

"I have some things to check."

He nodded.

I paused at the door.

"I'll come back in a while, okay?"

He smiled.

"Okay."

I turned to leave.

"Aayat."

I looked back.

"Yes?"

He held the guitar loosely in his hands.

"Thank you."

I smiled.

"For what?"

"For tonight."

My expression softened.

"You don't have to thank me, Papa."

He shook his head.

"I do."

I smiled.

"Then you're welcome."

I opened the door.

"Get some rest."

"I will."

"And don't play the guitar all night."

He laughed.

"No promises."

I smiled.

"Papa."

"Fine. I promise."

I stepped into the hallway.

Before closing the door, I looked at him one last time.

He was sitting quietly on the bed, the guitar beside him.

For twenty-one years, I'd wondered what it would feel like to have my father back.

Now I knew.

It felt peaceful.

I gently closed the door.

"I'll be back soon," I whispered.

Then I walked downstairs, leaving him to finally rest.

I left Papa's room quietly and walked back toward our room.

When I opened the door, I immediately noticed Mihir.

He was sitting at the desk with his laptop open, several files spread around him.

His shoulders were tense.

Too tense.

I closed the door behind me.

"Mihir?"

He didn't answer.

I walked closer.

"What happened?"

He looked up at me.

But said nothing.

I frowned.

"What's wrong?"

Still nothing.

He just stared at me.

I waved my hand slightly in front of him.

"Kya hua? Aise kya dekh rahe ho?"

("What happened? Why are you looking like that?"

A tiny smile appeared on his face.

"Aapki khoobsurti ko."

("To your beauty.")

I blinked.

"Mihir Raghuvanshi?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you possessed again?"

He laughed quietly.

"Maybe."

I crossed my arms.

"Definitely."

He leaned back in his chair.

Then his expression changed.

"Elections."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Parliamentary elections."

He turned the laptop slightly toward me.

"Elections are in three months, Aayat."

I walked over and looked at the screen.

The official notice was open.

Three months.

I looked at him.

"So that's why you're tense."

He nodded.

"Everything has to be prepared."

"You just got back."

"I know."

"And you're already working?"

"I have responsibilities."

I sighed.

"You could've waited until morning."

He gave me a look.

"You sound like Advit."

"Good."

He smiled.

I walked behind his chair and placed my hands lightly on his shoulders.

"You need to breathe."

"I am breathing."

"Not properly."

He laughed.

I leaned forward slightly.

"Three months is a long time."

"Not in politics."

"Still."

He closed the laptop.

For once, he listened.

I smiled.

"Better."

He looked up at me.

"How's Papa?"

"Resting."

"Good."

I nodded.

"He played guitar."

Mihir's expression softened.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And?"

I smiled.

"He still has it."

"I knew he would."

"He asked me about you."

Mihir's smile faded slightly.

"What did you tell him?"

I hesitated.

"Nothing much."

He studied my face.

"Nothing much?"

I nodded.

"He asked about your family."

Mihir looked down.

I immediately softened.

"I told him it's complicated."

He didn't say anything.

I moved around and sat on the edge of the desk.

"Don't worry."

He looked at me.

"I didn't tell him anything you weren't ready to talk about."

His expression softened.

"Thank you."

I smiled.

"You're welcome."

Then I glanced at the laptop.

"So..."

"Hmm?"

"Mr. Chief Minister."

He groaned.

"Don't start."

I laughed.

"Three months."

He nodded.

"Three months."

I reached for his hand.

"Then we'll deal with it together."

He looked at our joined hands.

Then back at me.

"Together?"

I smiled.

"Obviously."

His expression finally relaxed.

"Okay."

I thought Mihir had finally relaxed.

I was wrong.

He looked back at the closed laptop, his expression becoming serious again.

"Aayat."

"Hmm?"

"What if they don't want me as Chief Minister again?"

I looked at him.

He continued before I could answer.

"What if I didn't actually create a huge difference in society?"

"Mihir..."

"What if I just think I did?"

His voice was quieter now.

"What if people tolerated me because there wasn't a better option?"

I stared at him.

He rubbed his forehead.

"What if I'm a bad leader?"

For a moment, I didn't say anything.

Because this wasn't the confident Mihir everyone saw in public.

This was the man underneath all of that.

The man who could stand in front of thousands of people without hesitation...

and still question himself when nobody was watching.

I moved closer.

"Mihir."

He looked at me.

"You know what makes a bad leader?"

He waited.

"Someone who never asks that question."

His eyebrows drew together.

I continued.

"A bad leader assumes they're always right."

I gently took the file from his hand and placed it aside.

"A bad leader doesn't care whether people are suffering."

I looked directly into his eyes.

"A bad leader doesn't sit awake at night wondering whether he has done enough."

He remained silent.

"You care too much."

"That can be a weakness."

"Maybe."

I smiled faintly.

"But it's also why people trust you."

He looked away.

"What if they don't this time?"

"Then they'll tell you."

"And if they vote against me?"

"Then you respect their decision."

He looked back at me.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I shrugged.

"Being Chief Minister isn't a lifetime entitlement."

He gave me a faint smile.

"You make it sound very simple."

"It isn't simple."

I sat beside him.

"But your job isn't to control what people think of you."

"Then what's my job?"

"To do the best you can while you're responsible for them."

He was quiet.

I continued.

"And if tomorrow you realize you made mistakes?"

"Then I fix them."

"Exactly."

He looked at me for a long moment.

"What if I fail?"

I smiled.

"Then you fail."

He stared at me.

"And?"

"You learn."

I squeezed his hand.

"You don't become worthless because one election doesn't go your way."

His expression softened.

"And if I win?"

"Then you keep working."

He laughed quietly.

"So either way, there's work."

"Welcome to politics."

He shook his head.

Then his eyes met mine again.

"What if I really am a bad leader?"

I smiled.

"Then I'll tell you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You'd tell the Chief Minister he's a bad leader?"

"I'd tell my husband."

That made him laugh.

"Fair enough."

I leaned against his shoulder.

"And Mihir..."

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to prove your worth to me."

He looked down at me.

"You already have it."

For a few seconds, he didn't say anything.

Then he quietly closed the laptop again.

Not because the election wasn't important.

But because, for tonight, he finally understood that he didn't have to carry the entire country alone.

The room slowly became quiet.

Mihir closed the laptop and finally leaned back.

I walked toward the bed and sat down.

Three months.

The thought came suddenly.

Three months until the election.

Three months until everything changed.

Three months until...

our contract ended.

I stared at the ceiling.

Three months.

After that, Mihir and I were supposed to go our separate ways.

That had always been the agreement.

Simple.

Temporary.

A political arrangement that had slowly become something neither of us had expected.

I turned my head.

Mihir was still sitting at the desk, looking through one last file.

I watched him silently.

Why did the thought of leaving suddenly feel so uncomfortable?

I frowned.

No.

It wasn't love.

It couldn't be.

I wasn't in love with Mihir.

I was just attached.

Attached to the way he looked after me.

The way he noticed when I was tired.

The way he stood beside me without asking for anything in return.

The way he made sure I never felt alone.

The way he remembered tiny things I forgot I'd told him.

That wasn't love.

Was it?

I quickly looked away.

Three months.

Then we'd part ways.

And maybe that was better.

Mihir deserved someone who chose him freely.

Not someone who stayed because of an agreement.

Not someone who was afraid of being alone.

And I couldn't be selfish.

Even if some small part of me wanted to tell him not to leave...

I couldn't.

I had spent my entire life building my own identity.

My company.

My independence.

My life.

I couldn't suddenly make Mihir responsible for my happiness.

I closed my eyes.

You're just attached, Aayat.

That's all.

Attached to his presence.

Attached to his kindness.

Attached to the safety I'd somehow found beside him.

Nothing more.

I repeated it silently.

Again.

And again.

Until it almost sounded believable.

Three months.

Then we'd part ways.

I would be fine.

I had always been fine.

So why did my chest tighten every time I imagined him walking away?

I turned onto my side, facing away from him.

Behind me, I heard Mihir finally shut his laptop.

"You okay?"

I immediately answered,

"Yeah."

A pause.

"You're sure?"

I forced a small smile, even though he couldn't see it.

"Of course."

He didn't question me.

He simply turned off the light.

And in the darkness, I stared at the ceiling.

Three months.

I didn't know what scared me more.

The thought of losing Mihir...

or the possibility that I had already started loving him without realizing it.

No.

I shook my head slightly.

I'm just attached.

I had to believe that.

Because three months from now...

I was supposed to let him go.

I turned onto my back again.

The room was dark now.

Mihir was quiet beside me.

I stared at the ceiling.

What if...?

The thought came without warning.

What if he felt the same?

What if, somewhere along the way, Mihir had also become attached to me?

My heart tightened.

I immediately tried to push the thought away.

No.

Maybe I was imagining things.

But then I remembered the little things.

The way he always noticed when something was wrong.

The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.

The way he never made me feel like I was handling everything alone.

The way he'd said earlier,

You're not trouble.

I swallowed.

What if he doesn't want this contract to end either?

Three months.

Only three months.

What if he was counting them too?

What if he was already preparing himself to walk away?

The thought hurt more than it should have.

I closed my eyes.

Don't be selfish.

If Mihir wanted to leave, I had no right to stop him.

And if he didn't...

I still couldn't assume anything.

Maybe this was only attachment on both sides.

Maybe we'd simply become accustomed to having each other around.

Maybe once the contract ended, we'd both move on.

But another thought quietly followed.

What if we don't?

What if we actually chose each other?

What if, after everything, there was something real underneath the agreement?

My heart started beating faster.

I opened my eyes.

No.

I couldn't think like that.

Not yet.

I turned toward the other side of the bed.

Mihir was still awake.

His face was barely visible in the darkness.

I almost asked him.

Do you want this marriage to end?

The words reached my lips.

But I didn't say them.

Because what if he said yes?

And somehow, that possibility scared me more than anything else.

So I stayed silent.

Pretending I wasn't wondering.

Pretending three months didn't suddenly feel impossibly short.

And pretending that my heart hadn't already started asking a question I wasn't ready to answer.

The room was quiet.

Then...

Grrrrr.

I slowly turned my head toward Mihir.

He froze.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Another rumble came from his stomach.

I bit back a smile.

"Mihir..."

"I'm not hungry."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Your stomach just filed a complaint."

He ignored me and picked up his file again.

I smiled.

"Should I cook something?"

His file dropped from his hand.

He looked at me.

Very seriously.

"Aayat."

"What?"

"You don't know how to cook."

I frowned.

"I can learn."

"At midnight?"

"I can still try."

He shook his head, already getting up.

"No. I'll cook."

He walked toward the kitchen.

I immediately got up and followed him.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Why are you following me?"

"I said I'll help."

"Aayat..."

"What?"

"I'll manage."

"You might need my help."

He stopped walking and looked at me.

"I don't think I will."

I crossed my arms.

"You don't know that."

He stared at me for a second.

Then smiled.

"Fine."

I smiled back.

"Good."

He continued toward the kitchen.

I followed closely behind.

After a few steps, he looked back again.

"You really want to help?"

"Yes."

"Even though you don't know how to cook?"

"Yes."

He sighed dramatically.

"Okay."

I grinned.

"But if something goes wrong..."

"Don't blame me."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were."

"I was."

I laughed.

He shook his head and opened the kitchen cabinet.

I stood beside him.

"So, Chef Raghuvanshi..."

He looked at me.

"What?"

"What are we making?"

"Something simple."

"Like?"

"Noodles"

"I'll help."

He glanced at me.

"No."

I frowned.

"Why?"

"You don't know how to cut vegetables."

I crossed my arms.

"Then teach me."

"Aayat..."

"What?"

"I'll do it."

"You always do everything yourself."

He sighed.

"I can manage."

"I know."

I stepped closer.

"But I want to help."

He looked at me for a moment.

I gave him a small smile.

"Please?"

He shook his head.

"You're not giving up, are you?"

"No."

He laughed quietly.

"Fine."

I smiled immediately.

"But you have to listen to me."

"I will."

"And be careful."

"I promise."

He handed me the knife.

I took it confidently.

Mihir immediately frowned.

"Not like that."

I looked at him.

"Then show me."

He sighed, he came behind me.

The knife tapped softly against the cutting board as Mihir gently took my hands, repositioning them over the handle.

"Loosen your grip," he murmured, his chest warm against my back. "You're holding it like you're fighting it."

His arms slid around mine, guiding, steadying...as he lifted both of them together. The scent of sandalwood and something faintly smoky clung to him.

And suddenly... onions didn't matter at all.

Mh breath hitched when his chin brushed lightly near my ear as he adjusted how I angled the blade. Every small movement made me hyper-aware, of his heartbeat through thin fabric, of how naturally his body fit behind mine like this was second nature to him.

He began slicing slowly with my hand leading, the rhythm calm and precise, and somehow... effortless even though it wasn't just him doing anything anymore but teaching through touch alone:

"Cut with a rocking motion...not chopping down."he said.

Each word rumbled low in that deep voice the one that usually gave orders in parliament...but right now? It felt tender instead; patient in a way no one had ever been with me.

I stopped breathing entirely when, without warning...his thumb swiped across mine  after adjusting pressure on an uneven slice... brushing skin by accident.

A jolt ran up in my arm.

Down to toes curled inside socks.

Face burning hotter than stove flame beside us...

And worst part?

I wasn't thinking about noodles anymore.

Not contracts either.

Nothing from work or family expectations...

Just this man showing patience over something so silly while standing closer than any man ever had before without reason...

My pulse was loud...too loud...thumping in your ears like a drumbeat drowning out everything else.

Seduced?

That word flashed through my mind, sharp and sudden, because what the hell was happening?

This wasn't cooking. This wasn't just Mihir being nice or helpful.

It felt... intimate. Dangerously so.

His hands were still wrapped around mine, guiding each slice with that quiet focus, the way his breath ghosted over my neck when he leaned slightly to see the cutting board better, and every tiny movement sent sparks skittering under my  skin.

I wasn't even looking at the onions anymore.

The uneven pieces?

Forget them.

All I could feel was him...warmth radiating from his body into mine, that subtle cologne mixing with kitchen steam...

And God...

Why did it feel like this...learning to cut vegetables properly...was more romantic than any date I'd ever been on?

My breath stopped.

Completely.

One second I was staring at the onion slices...still uneven, still messy...and the next...

And suddenly, his face was right there.

Inches away.

So close you could see every detail...the faint stubble along his jawline that he'd missed this morning, the long lashes framing those dark eyes now slightly widened in surprise...

His lips parted just a fraction...like he hadn't expected it either...but he didn't pull back. Didn't flinch or move away like any sensible man would after an accidental near-kiss during a cooking lesson gone weirdly intimate...

Nope.

He stayed frozen too,

breath mingling with mine,

eyes dropping instinctively to my mouth.

The air between us thickened, charged and electric like before lightning strikes, and for one heartbeat...

two heartbeats...

three...

Neither of us moved.

Neither of spoke.

Just two people standing far too close in a kitchen full of half-cut onions and simmering noodles that neither cared about anymore...

Because all logic had left both our brains approximately five seconds ago when  I turned around.

Mihir's voice...low, calm, completely unshaken...cut through the electric silence like a lifeline.

"Onions are ready. Aayat... now we should move to the noodles."

And just like that...just like that..he snapped back into normalcy.

Like nothing had happened.

Like our faces hadn't been inches apart.

Like our breaths hadn't mingled for three suspended seconds where time stopped existing...

He gently pulled his hands away from mine and turned smoothly toward the stove, grabbing a wooden spoon without missing a beat. The water was boiling now...the noodles nearly done...and he started stirring them with practiced ease.

As if teaching me how to slice onions...

as if standing behind me...

as if being close enough to kiss by accident...

Was all just another Tuesday task in Mihir's world of discipline and control.

My heart? Still racing.

Face? Still warm as hell.

Mind? Screaming: "Did he really not feel anything?"

But no...he moved on effortlessly. Calmly added seasoning. Checked salt levels like this was purely about cooking dinner together...not whatever almost happened moments ago...

I stood there for a few seconds, completely frozen.

Mihir, meanwhile, was already focused on the noodles.

"Pass me the vegetables."

I blinked.

"Huh?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

"The vegetables, Aayat."

"Oh."

I quickly handed them to him.

He added them to the pan and started stirring as if nothing unusual had happened.

But my mind was still stuck a few seconds behind.

How is he acting so normal?

I looked at him carefully.

Maybe I had imagined the whole thing.

Maybe that moment had meant absolutely nothing to him.

I looked down at the cutting board.

The onions were still uneven.

Mihir noticed.

"You actually did okay."

I looked at him.

"Actually?"

"For someone who almost attacked the onion."

I gasped.

"I did not attack it!"

"You were holding the knife like the onion had personally offended you."

I couldn't help laughing.

"You're impossible."

"And you're terrible at cutting vegetables."

"I can improve."

"That's the spirit."

He handed me another bowl.

"Put these in."

I carefully tipped the vegetables into the pan.

"There."

"See?" he said. "You survived."

"Barely."

He smiled and turned back toward the stove.

I watched him for a moment.

His expression was completely calm.

No awkwardness.

No hesitation.

Nothing.

So maybe it really had been nothing.

I quickly looked away.

Why am I even thinking about it?

The smell of noodles filled the kitchen.

Mihir switched off the stove and began serving them into two bowls.

He handed one to me.

I looked at it proudly.

"I helped make this."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You helped cut three vegetables."

"Exactly."

I sat down.

"I'm basically a chef now."

"Please don't tell anyone."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Why?"

"Your reputation might suffer."

I kicked his foot lightly under the table.

He laughed.

And somehow, just like that, the tension disappeared.

We started eating.

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.

It was strangely peaceful.

No elections.

No Papa.

No family secrets.

No contract.

Just Mihir and me, sitting in the kitchen at midnight, eating noodles we had made together.

I glanced at him.

He was focused on his food.

I smiled faintly.

"Mihir?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

He looked up.

"For?"

"For teaching me."

His expression softened.

"Anytime."

I looked down at my bowl.

And for some reason, those two words stayed with me.

Anytime.

I didn't know why they made my heart feel warm.

Maybe because three months from now, there might not be an "anytime."

Maybe because I had started getting too comfortable having him around.

Maybe because somewhere along the way, this marriage had stopped feeling like a contract.

I pushed the thought away.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I was just going to eat noodles.

And pretend my heart wasn't quietly asking me questions I wasn't ready to answer.

The soft clink of the spoon hitting the floor broke the quiet.

I'd been shifting in your seat...my saree had caught on the chair leg, and I tugged gently to free it. A small movement, really. Nothing out of ordinary.

But when I adjusted your weight...

the fabric slipped slightly at my waist.

Just a little.

Enough for a sliver of skin to peek through, pale gold from kitchen lighting, soft against cream silk, before you even noticed what happened.

And then...

Clatter.

The sound startled both of us.

Mihir's spoon...the one he'd been using calmly until now...had slipped right out of his fingers and fallen into his bowl with an uncharacteristic plop.

His head snapped down instantly.

Eyes fixed on that single droplet splashing noodles.

Heartbeat probably louder than mine, but neither could say for sure because no one dared speak yet...

Then slowly...

he lifted his gaze...not back to food...but straight at me.

At where that tiny patch had shown before vanishing as quickly as it appeared...

His expression? Unreadable. Completely neutral except...for maybe half-a-second where something flickered behind those dark eyes:

Surprise?

Heat?

A reaction?

It vanished too fast to name properly though because Mihir being Mihir immediately reached forward without saying anything... picked up another clean spoon from beside plate... like nothing unusual occurred...

But this time?

He didn't start eating again right away.

Just sat there holding utensil quietly,

staring slightly past shoulder instead directly meeting yours like usual...

My pulse jumped again.

Not from the fallen spoon.

Not from the saree slipping.

But from him.

Mihir...who never reacted to anything, who stayed perfectly composed through board meetings and political dinners, who once didn't even blink when a journalist threw a shoe at him during an election rally...was sitting there...

quietly tense.

I studied his face, the way his jaw had tightened just slightly. The fact that he hadn't taken another bite yet. That spoon in hand like it weighed more than steel right now.

And suddenly...

A wild thought crept in:

Did I affect him?

Just now?

When my waist showed?

Was that why he dropped the spoon?

My stomach flipped,not with embarrassment this time, but something else entirely: curiosity... maybe hope?

Because Mihir was supposed to be unshakable. Emotionally untouchable. A man made of discipline and duty...and here I was, just trying not to tear my saree on furniture...

Yet for one second...

one tiny moment...

he looked... off-balance?

No words exchanged.

No glances shared since then either.

He was deliberately avoiding eye contact now...as if focusing very hard on picking up noodles with chopsticks would erase whatever happened five seconds ago...

But I saw it.

I really did.

And inside?

Something fluttered warmly, a quiet thrill sparking beneath my ribs like firework before explosion...

Maybe I do.

I was still sitting across from Mihir when his phone suddenly vibrated.

He glanced at the screen.

Naina.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Mihir answered.

"Hello?"

Naina's voice came through immediately.

"Bhai, I wanted to tell you something."

"What?"

"I've decided to organize a Satyanarayan Puja at the house."

Mihir frowned slightly.

"A puja?"

"Yes."

She sounded determined.

"There has been so much trouble lately. Bhabhi's Papa coming home after twenty-one years, everything that's happened with the family, the stress around the elections... I feel like we need some peace in the house."

I listened quietly.

Mihir leaned back in his chair.

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

He sighed.

"Naina..."

"I know what you're going to say."

"I have work."

"You always have work."

I couldn't help smiling.

Naina continued,

"And before you say anything else, I'm not asking. I'm telling you."

Mihir shook his head.

"You've already decided everything?"

"Yes."

There was a brief silence.

Then Naina's voice softened.

"Bhabhi needs some peace too."

My expression changed.

Mihir glanced at me.

Naina continued,

"After everything she's been through, I think this is the right time."

Mihir was quiet.

Then he said,

"Fine."

Naina immediately sounded relieved.

"Good. I'll handle the arrangements."

"Who all are coming?"

"Family."

Mihir's expression became slightly cautious.

"Naina..."

"Don't worry. I'm not turning it into a family meeting."

I smiled.

Naina added,

"And tell Bhabhi to be ready early tomorrow."

Mihir looked at me.

"She heard you."

"Good."

Then the call ended.

Mihir placed his phone on the table.

I looked at him.

"So... Satyanarayan Puja."

He nodded.

"Apparently."

I smiled.

"Maybe it'll be good."

"For the house?"

"For everyone."

He looked toward the hallway where Papa was resting.

After a moment, he nodded.

"Yes."

I smiled softly.

"Then tomorrow, no work."

He raised an eyebrow.

"That's asking too much."

I laughed.

"Naina already ordered you around. Don't make me join her."

He shook his head with a small smile.

"I'm beginning to think I'm outnumbered."

"Definitely."

And for once, neither of us argued about it.

Just then...

Ding-dong.

Mihir looked toward the entrance.

"At this hour?"

I smiled.

"Go check."

He walked to the door and opened it.

The moment he saw who was standing outside, his expression completely changed.

"Zyran!"

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

1. Rate Mihir's cooking-teacher skills from 1–10.

2. Did Mihir dropping the spoon when Aayat's saree got caught make you suspicious?

3. What was your favorite moment in this chapter?

4. Make one prediction for the next chapter—and let's see who gets it right!

5.  What do you think Devang will think of Zyran when he finally meets him?

Tell me how was the chapter?

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