Nitya

As I lie motionless on the floor, I feel the sticky warmth of the fake blood pooling around me.

My breathing is slow, shallow, just as Shrutiji had taught me. "The tricky part of faking death is controlling your breathing. You need to breathe so you don't panic due to breathlessness, but you also need to make it imperceptible so you don't get caught," she had said while teaching me the technique.

I followed all the instructions she gave me and it worked. No one doubted us and our plan worked.

But now, as the truth unfurls in the room like a poisonous bloom, my body trembles, and I can no longer keep still.

I slowly push myself upright, first getting into the sitting position, then slowly standing up from the floor.

Prathamji is by my side in an instant, his hands steadying me, his voice tight with worry. "Nitya, are you fine? I didn't hurt you, right? The knife only hit the blood satchel and not your skin, right?"

"You didn't hurt me, Prathamji. The knife only hit the satchel and didn't touch me." My voice feels foreign, raw, but I press on, ignoring the shocked gasps from Uday, Sandhya, and Chachaji. They don't matter. Not right now.

My eyes find the person who has stabbed me in the worst possible way. My father. He stands right there, across from me, his face a mask of disbelief. As I continue staring at him, replaying the words he said to Prathamji earlier, something in me snaps.

The laughter bursts out of me, sharp and jarring, like glass shattering in an empty hall. It's a hollow sound, laced with a pain too vast for words, and I can't stop it. Neither can I stop the tears that spill freely down my face as I walk closer to my so-called father.

When I reach him, the laughter dies down, and I turn to my brother, my voice trembling with an emotion I can't name. "Yash bhaiyya, are you as shocked as I am? That our father-" my voice cracks, "that our father did this? That he conspired with Uday? Gave him permission to take me, to harm me, to break me-" my chest tightens, the words strangling me, "-as long as he married me at the end of it?"

The knot of anguish in my chest doubles down, and I clutch at my heart, gasping for air as the pain coils around my lungs. My knees threaten to buckle, but Bhaiyya rushes to me, his arms steadying me as he whispers, "Breathe, Nitya. Breathe."

His voice anchors me, but it doesn't dull the razor-sharp edge of betrayal slicing through me. I look up at Bhiayya, my voice rising despite the tears choking me. "How could he do it? How could he? How? How? How?"

Bhaiyya's jaw tightens, his own pain bleeding through his stoic exterior. "I don't know, Nitya. I don't know how he-" He abruptly stops, taking deep breaths himself. "This is not the time to fall apart. Not yet."

I nod, agreeing with him, yet the slicing pain in my heart doesn't lessen and my tears don't stop. When I speak, my voice is a trembling whisper that doesn't betray the storm brewing inside me. "I've been waiting for this day," I begin. "The day he-" I gesture toward Uday, "-would finally be in front of me. The day I'd get to see him brought down and give him what he deserves." My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. "But now that the day has come, I don't know what to do."

The truth stings like a thousand needles, but I can't deny it. The rage for Uday that I once felt all-consuming now feels muddled. Because although Uday is my criminal, he isn't the worst one. The one who is far worse than him is the one who shares my blood. My father.

"I did nothing wrong!" Babuji bellows, his face twisted in anger. "I was right to demand that land in return for giving you to Uday. It was only fair after every penny I spent on you-your clothes, food, the doctors and medicines when you were sick." His eyes glint with self-righteousness, and his words grow sharper, crueler. "Do you think any of that came cheap? You owed me, Nitya. You still do."

I feel Bhaiyya's body tensing in anger beside me. His face contorting with fury as he looks at our father. Before I can stop him, he steps forward. "You are disgusting," he snarls, glaring at Babuji.

"Stop, Bhaiyya," I whisper, shaking my head. "Let me give him a reply."

When he nods, I step toward my father, my heart thundering in my chest. His face shifts-confusion, indignation, and bursts of anger. "What the hell do you think you are-"

Before he can finish, my hand flies up, connecting with his face in a sharp, resounding slap. He stumbles back, clutching his cheek. His eyes blaze with fury, his voice rising to a roar. "How dare you-"

He lifts his hand, but before it can strike me, Shrutiji is there, her grip ironclad as he wrenches his arm down and locked it behind him. "Don't," she says, her voice low but with a chilling edge. Babuji's other hand jerks, but Shrutiji catches that one too, holding his both hands in place.

I slap him again. And again. Each strike is a release, a fragment of the pain and betrayal clawing at my insides.

"You are a stranger to me now," I tell him after the third slap. "I craved for your fatherly love, your affection my whole life, but today, I have realized that a man like you don't deserve to be a father. You don't deserve anyone's love, trust, respect. You don't deserve anything good in life. You don't."

Babuj-no-Kulbhushan Jindal starts to speak again, his indignation rising, but before he can utter a word, Prathamji steps forward, rips off a strip from a roll of duct tape in his hand, and presses it firmly over Kulbhushan's face.

His muffled protests are barely audible as Shrutiji binds his hands tightly behind him and shoves him into a corner.

I exhale shakily, my chest heaving as I try to collect myself. But the pain of betrayal still lingers, heavy and suffocating. Prathamji wraps his arms around me, and I close my eyes and lean into him for a moment, trying to steady my breathing. The storm inside me isn't over yet, but this-this is the beginning of its end.

I open my eyes when Chachaji shouts, and when I look at him, I notice his face contorted with rage, his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging at his temple.

"What kind of joke is this?" His voice echoes in the room as his gaze darts wildly between all of us, landing on Prathamji, Namanji, and finally on Dakshji, who is still sprawled on the floor. "You killed him, Pratham! My son gave his life for nothing!"

He strides toward Prathamji, his hands raised in such a way as if he intends to strangle him. But before he can reach Prathamji, Namanji stops him. "You have lost it all, Chachaji."

Chachaji freezes, his anger faltering as Namanji's tone, the piercing sharpness of his gaze, makes him pale. He opens his mouth to argue but closes it just as quickly, swallowing hard. His shoulders hunch slightly, his earlier bravado crumbling.

"Do you know when you lost?" Namanji asks Chachaji, who shakes his head slowly, his throat working as he swallows again.

"You lost," Namanji continues, "the moment you believed Daksh would turn against his family. That he'd join you and Uday to destroy his brothers."

Chachaji stares at Namanji, stunned, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. "No," he whispers. "No, you're lying. Daksh said he hated you two. That he-" He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair. "Was it all a lie?"

"Yes," Prathamji replies. "It was all a lie."

With that, he walks over to where Dakshji lies. Then, he kneels, extending his hand toward his brother. "It's time. Get up."

Dakshji stirs, taking Prathamji's hand and rising slowly. Once he stands, he stretches a bit as though to shake off the stiffness of lying still for so long.

"You're alive!" Chachaji cries, his voice trembling with relief as he steps forward, arms outstretched. "My son, you're alive!"

But Dakshji raises a hand, stopping Chachaji in his tracks. "No," he says. "Don't come closer to me."

"What are you saying, Daksh?" Chachaji asks. "I'm your father-"

"And that's what shames me most," Dakshji cuts him off, his voice laced with quiet fury. "That I share blood with a man who could betray his own family. I did what I had to do to expose you. And now, I don't want anything to do with you."

Chachaji stumbles back as though struck. "You don't mean that," he protests, his voice cracking. "I did this for you-"

"Enough!" Uday's voice suddenly cuts through, sharp and commanding. His face is a mask of rage, his earlier composure and smugness shattered as he glares at all of us. "Enough of this circus!" He roars. "Was it all a plan? Daksh shouting at his brothers, pretending to want the property, joining hands with me-was it all a lie?"

"Yes, it was all our plan," Dakshji replies. "It started a few days before we went to the city to check on Dhriti after someone pushed her into the lake.

"Naman bhaiyya had told me to act like I was against Dhriti and Yash's marriage, and to pretend I was angry with him and Pratham bhaiyya for agreeing to the marriage without our parents' consent."

Hearing Dakshji, Chachaji looks as though the ground has been pulled from under him. His face contorts with disbelief and anger. "So, it was all fake? Since then? How long have you all been aware of my intentions?"

"I've always known about your intentions," Namanji answers, his voice cold. "I knew you had been stealing money from our companies. I let it go because you were family. But when you crossed the line and joined hands with Uday, you sealed your fate. You very well know, Chachaji, how much I detest those who betray their own blood."

Stunned, Chachaji opens and closes his mouth, as though searching for words that refuse to come.

"We could have taken you out of the family the moment we knew about you partnering with Uday, but we needed to know who else was involved," Shrutiji adds. "We had our suspicion on Kulbhushan Jindal, but Yash refused to believe it. He thought no father could stoop so low as to let someone like Uday kidnap their own daughter."

A humorless chuckle escapes Bhaiyya's lips, devoid of warmth or mirth. "How wrong I was," he says, his voice low and bitter. "How foolish I was to believe that a man like him-" his eyes flicker to Kulbhushan, "-could be anything but dirt. A stain on the word father."

"You'll all regret this," Uday snarls, pulling out a gun and pointing it to me. His unyielding, predatory gaze fixed on me.

A gasp escapes my lips, and for a moment, everything feels suspended.

My heart pounds against my ribs as Prathamji steps forward, his voice steady but laced with fury. "Lower the gun, Uday," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "You men are down. Every last one of them. You've already lost and there's no escape for you now. You'll take your punishment for what you did to Nitya. And when we're done with you-when you're begging for mercy on the edge of death-we'll hand you to the police and make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your miserable life."

Uday's lips curl into a sneer, his knuckles whitening around the gun. He shakes his head, his whole body trembling with rage. "No! I always win. Always. And I'll win this time too." His eyes flash with a manic gleam as they lock onto me.

"I'll shoot Nitya," he growls. "Right in the head. Dead center." His finger twitches on the trigger. "And this time, there'll be no pretending. No tricks. She'll be gone for good." He gives me a grotesque smile. "If I'm going down, I'm taking Nitya with me. That way, even if you defeat me, none of you will ever be happy."

My throat tightens, but i refuse to show fear. I refuse to give him that satisfaction. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms, keeping me steady against the tide of fear surging through me.

"Do it, Uday!" Sandhya shrieks from the corner, her face twisting in hated as she glares at me. "Kill her! She's the reason I lost my Pratham. She's the reason he's not mine anymore!" Her voice is shrill and wild. "Once this girl is out of the way, I'll get my Pratham back. I'll make him see I'm the one he belongs to!"

Uday lets out a dark laugh, a sound that chills my blood. "This is it," he says, his eyes alight with triumph. "The grand finale."

I see his finger press down on the trigger.

Time seems to slow, my vision narrowing to the black barrel aimed directly at me. My body braces, instinctive and helpless, as through my flesh knows the pain that's coming, and my thoughts splinter, fragments of fear, defiance, and acceptance colliding within me.

A cry-Prathamji's voice, calling my name-pierces my ears, blending with the cacophony of screams, gasps, and the sharp crack of another gunshot.

Somewhere, Sandhya's shriek cuts through the pandemonium before suddenly falling silent.

I don't understand how Sandhya's shriek is abruptly cut short or why Uday is lying motionless on the floor.

Because all I see is red.

It blooms across Prathamji's chest like a cruel flower, vivid and unmistakable against the white of his shirt. It spreads outward, soaking the fabric in a way that feels surreal, impossible, and yet very real.

His eyes find mine, steady amidst his faltering steps, and in a moment, he's in front of me. His trembling hands cup my face as though anchoring himself to me.

His lips brush my forehead in a touch that feels both eternal and fleeting. "I love you, Nitya," he whispers, his voice soft.

And then he begins to fall.

I follow him to the ground, sinking as if tethered to him, my knees hitting the floor without thought or care. My hands press to his chest, trying to stop the flow of crimson that pours steadily, mercilessly from his wound.

But it doesn't stop. Instead, it spreads everywhere like a stain across my world. The red consumes everything, painting my vision, draining the colors from my life.

"Prathamji," I whisper, my voice breaking.

His head rests against my lap, and he looks up a me, his face pale but his eyes filled with so much love for me that it makes my heart shatter, it's shards pricking at my whole being, the pain consuming me.

"Even if I don't make it," he starts, his voice rasping, each word heavy with effort. "Promise me you'll not go through your life being sad over me. Promise me you'll be happy. You have to-"

He falters, his breath catching, and then his eyes flutter closed.

"Prathamji," I say again, louder this time, but the word dissolves into a sob.

I press my hand to his face, shaking him gently, then desperately.

The warmth of his blood seeps into my clothes, but I can't feel it. All I feel is the hollow ache expanding in my chest, the sense that my own life is draining away with his.

The air feels too thick to breathe. Time slows, stretches, and bends, trapping me in this single, unbearable moment.

As I clutch at him, my fingers trembling against his skin, willing him to open his eyes, to speak, to live, I know, with a certainty, that if he doesn't make it, I won't either. Because my life is entwined with his, and without him, there is nothing left.