Arjun was born in India into a family that believed wealth was protection.
His biological father built a powerful business through discipline and long nights.
His mother was quiet but strong, raising her son with care and intention. Their
world was ordered, respectful, and secure—or so they believed.
When Arjun was barely one year old, everything ended.
A car accident on a highway outside the city killed both his parents. He was too
young to cry for them properly, too young to understand why arms that once held
him never returned.
Grief did not stay long in that house.
Relatives arrived with legal papers and polite
voices. Guardianship was claimed. Accounts were frozen. Assets were "managed."
What belonged to Arjun disappeared quietly into other names.
By the time he was three, his inheritance was gone.
So were his memories of home.
He was placed in an orphanage.
The orphanage was not cruel, but it was cold. Children learned early not to ask for
more than they were given. Arjun learned faster than most. He watched adults
carefully. He noticed how smiles changed when money was discussed. He noticed
how kindness often came with conditions.
Even as a child, he did not cry much.
Years passed.
One afternoon, Aarya walked into the orphanage.
By then,she was already known—whispered about, feared, misunderstood. Her revenge had
been completed. Her husband and his mistress were dead. The city spoke her name
softly, as if saying it too loudly might bring consequences.
She did not come looking for a child.
She came because silence was unbearable.
That was when she noticed Arjun.
He sat alone, reading, untouched by the noise around him. His eyes were sharp,
controlled, too aware for his age. When he looked up at her, he did not smile.
Neither did she.
She returned the next day. And the day after
that.
They spoke little at first. Sometimes she sat beside him in silence. Sometimes he
asked questions that were too precise, too thoughtful. She answered honestly.
She never softened the truth.
That honesty changed everything.
Aarya adopted him after her revenge, not as an act of kindness, but as an act of
survival. She did not know it then, but Arjun reopened something human inside
her—something she thought she had killed with her past.
Life with her was disciplined and quiet. She taught him control. Awareness.
Self-respect. She never lied to him about the world. She never pretended people
were good when they were not.
Arjun loved her deeply.
Not with childish dependence, but with loyalty.
He became her shadow and her anchor. He learned to read her silences, to recognize
danger before it arrived. He never asked about the past.
He did not need to.
When Aarya grew old, Arjun stayed close. He handled everything—her health, her
business, her world. And when she finally died, peacefully, he did not
collapse.
He simply stopped being alive.
After her funeral, Arjun continued existing out of habit. The world had nothing left
to offer him. The one person who had mattered was gone.
One night, alone, he closed his eyes.
And opened them again.
This time, he was three years old.
His body was small. Weak. His surroundings unfamiliar. But his soul remembered.
Loss.
Loyalty.
Love.
He did
not remember names clearly, but he remembered her presence. The woman who had
saved him without softness. The woman who had given him purpose.
Arjun understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
This
life was not a second chance.
It was an assignment to achieve happiness.
He would
grow stronger. Smarter. Untouchable.
He would
find her again.
And this
time, he would protect her—
before the world had the chance to break her.