The office was bright, sunlight spilling through tall glass windows, catching on the polished floor. Yet the light did nothing to ease the tension in the room.
Mr. Singh sat at the head of the long table, his suit crisp, his expression unreadable. He set down a file with deliberate calm.
"There are traitors," he said at last, breaking the silence. "Inside this office. Not loud yet. But they will turn against us—if not today, then soon."
Across the room, Annaya's brow furrowed. She leaned forward, her tone sharp but measured. "Uncle, should we act on it?"
"We are not sure yet," Mr. Raj answered before Mr. Singh could. His voice was smooth, his calmness faint.
Arun shifted in his seat across the table. The sunlight framed him, but his expression was shadowed. "But if we let them grow, those cracks will break everything."
For a moment, Mr. Singh's eyes flicked to his son. Beneath the steel of his gaze, there was something more fragile—concern. "Exactly. That is why this cannot be ignored."
Mr. Raj crossed his arms, his tone cutting through the still air. "If we accuse the wrong people, the loyal ones will lose faith. If we wait too long, the disloyal will grow bolder. Either way—we bleed."
The room stilled. The faint tick of the clock seemed louder.
Arun's fists tightened against the table. "Not this time..."
Annaya's eyes softened, though her voice held steady. "Isn't there some way to find them all, Papa? Before they act upon their intentions."
Mr. Singh finally leaned back, his eyes narrowing with calculation. His voice was low but firm.
"Raj, announce there's going to be a board meeting tomorrow. Arun and Aarav will be representing officially." He paused, his gaze steady, almost daring.
"The contracts for succession will be signed—shares and positions transferred... I'm sure it will trigger them."
Mr. Raj tilted his head, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no surprise in his expression—only alertness.
The sunlight shifted, cutting across the table like a blade. The clock ticked on, louder than before, while the air grew heavier—all four of them knew the walls were no longer safe.
The enemy was already inside. And they had to face it all one more time no matter what.
...
[Later—Vihan's house]
The late evening draped the sleepy street in soft orange, brushing the roof of Vihan's house with fading light. Crickets stirred in the trees, their calls threading through the hush—as if even they knew this moment mattered.
Aarav stepped onto the porch first, his posture upright, gaze calm and gleaming.
Beside him, Abhi lingered a step behind, knuckles flexing at his sides. His gaze flicked to the doorway he had never crossed—but imagined countless times.
The door creaked open. Vihan appeared barefoot, hair tousled, grin wide. "Took you long enough, Brother." he teased, voice cheesey but greatful at the edges.
Aarav's smile was bright, reaching his eyes. "You missed me… or is Maa just not letting you taste before us?"
"Second option..." Vihan giggled, the sound breaking through like silverlight after clouds.
And then a shadow appeared, behind him.
Mrs. Rawat. She came forward like the scent of cardamom on winter evenings—familiar, warm, aching with memory. Still in her apron, hands damp from washing, her eyes went straight to her sons.
Her breath caught, though the tears that welled refused to fall—yet. She almost rushed to Aarav and pulled him into her arms, the gentleness of someone who had wished this moment a hundred times in prayers and dreams. She cradled his face, fingers trembling as they brushed his cheek.
"Thank God you're okay," she murmured, voice fragile.
Aarav's soft smile said enough—I'm here. It's real.
Then her gaze shifted. To Abhi.
He stiffened, words caught in his throat, heart thudding low and urgent. She drew in a breath—deep, steady, like a wave before it breaks—and stepped forward.
Her arms wrapped around him without pause. "You really came," she whispered, her voice muffled in his shoulder, thick with relief.
Abhi froze. His arms hovered, suspended—until something inside him cracked loose. He pulled her close. "I'm sorry, Maa," he whispered, eyes closing as he folded into her embrace. "It took us too long."
She pulled back only to touch his face, her eyes lingering on the boy who had always been her son—even when distance had made it feel otherwise. She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to.
Behind them, Aarav smiled softly. "Let's go inside, before you too start crying."
She turned toward him, a breath of a laugh escaping. She gently waved them in. "It's all nearly done. Wait me to finish."
A shared smile passed between them—quiet, unspoken, real. They stepped inside.
Mrs. Rawat slipped back into the kitchen, the faint clink of utensils carrying through the air.
The three brothers settled into the sitting area—old cushions, a warm familiar couch, the scent of cumin and butter drifting from the kitchen. Silence wrapped around them, not heavy, but comforting.
Aarav glanced at Vihan with a faint smile. "Karan hasn't arrived yet?"
Vihan shook his head, leaning back. "On the way. He should be here soon."
Abhi sat still, hands folded in his lap. His eyes moved over the room—the framed artwork, the neat shelves, the photo frames arranged with care. Each corner whispered a story. On one wall, a line of photographs stood like sentinels of time: Vihan in a school uniform, fidgeting but proud. Aarav and Abhi caught mid-motion, mid-laughter, frozen in years long gone. Childhood preserved in frames.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Rawat paused, her hand stilling over the ladle. She peeked through the doorway, watching them. Three sons. All home. A sight she had feared might never come again.
Her memory flickered then—back to the day, years ago, when she had first stepped into the Rawat estate after the separation. The day she came to take little Vihan back after he had spent a weekend there with his father and brother.
The house had been quiet—Mr. Rawat back to office, servants busy. And there, in the middle of that vast hall, she had seen them.
A boy almost ten—sat cross-legged on the marble floor, Vihan perched on his lap, squirming with delight. In his hands, a small bowl of rice. He fed Vihan with careful patience, holding the spoon steady even as the toddler reached for it with sticky fingers.
Beside them, curled up like a kitten, was Abhi. Fast asleep, head resting against that older boy, thumb tucked loosely near his mouth.
They hadn't noticed her. He was too focused—gently scolding Vihan for spitting rice, wiping his chin with the hem of his sleeve. His voice was soft, patient. Far too patient for a child who should have been cared for—not the one doing the caring.
Vihan giggled through mouthfuls, little fingers tangled in his shirt. And that boy… he looked warm, steady. Like someone who had already decided he would protect them forever.
Her hand had clenched around the frame of the door. She hadn't spoken. Not for a long while. She had only watched—the way this boy, not hers by blood, held her sons as though they had always belonged to him.
And now, years later, she stood at another doorway. That image had never left her. Looking at them grown, sitting together on the couch—talking softly, shoulders brushing, time shaping them into family—she felt the ache of memory fold into the warmth of the present.
Her lips trembled. But the smile that bloomed was soft, touched with grace and gratitude. Warmth had returned. And with it, the beginning of healing.