“Gullu!”

Ah. The unmistakable voice of chaos in chiffon. I look up to see Sweety Bua strutting into my study like she owns the building and has paid the electricity bill for the last five years. Well she has enough wealth for the latter part, being a gynecologist has a perk, but buying Bhatia's abode can only remain a dream.

Of course, she hasn’t knocked. Because why would someone like her - sixty, stunning, and emotionally divorced from basic etiquette - bother with doors?

Really, how does she manage to look this radiant at her age? I’m convinced the secret lies somewhere between her unbothered attitude and the complete absence of a life partner. Makes me wonder if marriage is the anti-ageing cream everyone avoids mentioning.

She flutters in like a high-society hurricane and plops herself right on the edge of my work table - the one drowning in important paperwork that could make or break a multi-crore deal. But who cares? Certainly not her.

“Did you hear about the brand-new scandal?” she asks dramatically, eyes gleaming like she’s about to leak a national secret.

I give her my full attention. Not because I care. But because if I don’t pretend to take her seriously, she’ll throw a fit until I do.

“Agu is dating someone,” she says, barely suppressing her glee.

I blink. “Ah.”

That's it. That’s my reaction. Because what’s the big deal? Agastya is twenty-two. If he wasn’t dating someone, we’d have a bigger crisis to discuss. That bloody brother of mine got all the good genes from our mother and I got none. Honestly, with a face like his - high cheekbones, pouty lips, and lashes longer than my to-do list - he could’ve walked Paris Fashion Week blindfolded. But no, our fashion prodigy decided stitching hems was his true calling. Designing clothes instead of modelling them. But hey, who am I to judge? I gave up my dream of being a violinist. At least the boy has the guts to chase what he loves.

“And the girl is South Indian,” Bua adds, her voice low.

Now that gets my attention.

Agastya - the golden boy of the family - daring to mix in a little masala from the south? Risky. Karmically delicious.

“Do we have a name?” I ask, casually even though. I want to fish for more details but pretending to be indifferent works better with my aunt. I keep flipping pages in the file I am holding, reading the details and stop myself from delving further into Agu's love life. The file gives away something incredulous. Damn those Singhania brothers - always crawling into my plans like cockroaches with a god complex.

“He was mumbling something… Isai,” she chirps, eyes practically vibrating with excitement. “And you know what---”

“At this point, Bua, I really know nothing,” I cut her off with a sigh, still trying to focus on the figures in front of me. I need to find a way to close this deal.

She slaps my shoulder like I just cracked a killer joke. “It was rhetorical! Anyway… the girl is his senior, almost two years older than him.”

That earns my full attention. I look up. “Two years?”

“Yes.”

Poor Agu. The man’s about to get his heart obliterated and he doesn’t even know it yet. A South Indian woman who's older than him? He’s basically asking for the family to implode. I’m already imagining Badi Maa’s blood pressure monitor beeping in distress. If he was smart, he’d be investing his energy in someone with a family-approved surname, fair skin, and a background check cleared by our nosiest relatives.

Still… I admire the audacity of him to do something distasteful. I’ve carried the “black sheep” tag alone long enough. Finally, a co-pilot in this flight to family disappointment.

“And word is,” Bua leans in conspiratorially, “they’re very… close.”

I arch a brow. “Define close.”

“He blushed when I asked if they’re… physical.”

I gasp theatrically, grabbing her arm and gently guiding her off my paperwork. “Really?”

She hops off the table with glee. “Yes!”

“Thank you for the exclusive. Now kindly exit my office before you sit on a contract worth five crores,” I say, herding her toward the door.

She gasps, affronted. “You’re kicking me out after I brought you premium gossip!?”

“What do you want me to do with this info? Frame it? Cross-stitch it into my will?” I fold my arms, unimpressed. “This is just the trailer. The Agastya Bhatia heartbreak is going to be a full-length drama.”

“I don’t think so,” she says with a shrug, that mischievous glint still dancing in her eyes. “Agu looked pretty damn sure. Never seen him this defiant.”

“Well, good for him if he manages to pull it off. At least he’ll get married.”

That should’ve been the end. I thought it was. But no, Bua had one last nuke to drop.

“By the way,” she says, patting my cheek like I’m five years old and just passed kindergarten, “Sharada’s planning to find you a bride. First your wedding, then Agu’s with a bride of her selection. Perfect plan, no? This all happened because Sharada heard about Agu's love story. How one topic connects to another is mind boggling, right?”

My brain short-circuits. My soul momentarily leaves my body.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

My face must have said it all, because she just cackles like a satisfied witch and strolls out, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake.

“Welcome!” she yells over her shoulder.

And just like that, the day went from mildly annoying to full-blown apocalyptic.

Marriage, my foot.

I clear my throat softly and knock on her door. “Badi Maa,” I say, stepping just inside.

She doesn’t answer immediately, her focus consumed by the intricate embroidery she’s stitching onto a deep maroon garment. From where I stand, I can already see the craftsmanship. It’s beautiful, as always. Maybe this is where Agastya got his artistic flair - watching her fingers dance over fabric, listening to the rhythm of her silence, learning not just design but devotion. He always gravitated toward her as a kid, enjoyed being around her all the time, and perhaps inherited that soft, intricate touch from her.

“I heard,” I begin, voice careful, “that you’re looking for a bride for me.”

She nods, still not lifting her gaze from the fabric. Not even a pause in her needlework. I step closer, letting my fingers brush the edge of the cloth. It’s delicate, imbued with hours of labor, patience, and love. You can feel the story in it, the kind that never makes it into words.

“I... I don’t want to get married, Badi Maa,” I murmur.

“Now, or ever?” she asks, finally looking up. Her voice is sharp, clipped, but not cruel...yet.

“Gulshan,” she says, and I brace myself, “you are the eldest Bhatia. You represent the pride of this family. Is this how you want the world to see us?”

I swallow, suddenly feeling far younger than I am. “I never asked to represent anyone,” I say quietly. “I only did what you expected of me. Played the part of the heir. That was all this about.”

“Don’t you dare pin your guilt on me,” she snaps, finally setting the garment down. Her voice hardens like winter frost. “You wanted this. You chose it. And now you want to walk away from the consequences?”

“When will you accept that I wasn’t behind that whole scheme?” I whisper. “That I could never have helped Rajeev Bhatia?” I ask, pleading - because I have nothing to prove my innocence. Why does she stubbornly believe something so absurd?

Her silence is a noose tightening around my throat. I hate that she won’t look at me. I hate that after everything, I still need her to look into my eyes and accept me.

“I killed him,” I finally say. Not a confession. A statement. Cold and calm. “With my own hands.”

At that, she inhales sharply, a flicker of something breaking through her stoic mask. There’s a shimmer in her eyes, but the tears never fall. She’s taught herself not to cry - not since Bade Papa died... murdered brutally. She had to turn into stone to lead this fractured family. And somehow, she made it look effortless.

But not for me.

Everyone else still gets to bask in the warmth of Sharada Bhatia’s love. Me? I’m crushed beneath the weight of her contempt. Because I remind her of everything that broke.

“Gulshan, you're old enough to marry. Forgive me if I’m concerned about that - I want what’s best for you... I mean... This family,” she says, standing now.

My lips quiver. This is one of those rare moments when I see something different. For a heartbeat, I see my Badi Maa - the woman who once loved me like the sun and moon - really look at me. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. The wall comes back up.

“Have you heard from Dev?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

She turns away, her gaze drifting to the photo on the nightstand. A younger Dev, frozen in time, all sunshine and mischief. It’s been ten years since he left - exiled so far that I wasn’t even allowed to speak to him.

“He wants to come back,” she says, brushing a finger across the glass. “To study here. Be closer to home.”
She sighs. “But I don’t trust anyone anymore, Gulshan. I can’t afford to.”

“Dev belongs here,” I say, softly. “He needs to come back to us, to his family. The one person who could’ve hurt him is gone.”

There’s a pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Of course.”

“Where were you,” she whispers, tears gliding over her cheeks, “when they kidnapped Dev?”

The question slices clean through my composure. I stare at her, but the words never come. I don’t want to answer that. I don’t want to go back to that day - to relive the moment everything fell apart.

One selfish lapse… One mistake… and I lost Bade Papa. He died trying to save his son - a kidnapping that could’ve been prevented if I had just watched over Dev like I was supposed to.

My silence is all the answer she needs.

After a beat, she wipes her tears and turns to me, composed once more. “Marriage proposals are pouring in for you. Rich and powerful families, all hoping to tie their names to ours. I’m not going to force you into anything, but I want you to think.”

“I will,” I say quietly. It’s a lie, but I nod anyway. I turn to leave, walking toward the door.

Just as I’m about to close it, her voice stops me.

“Gulshan… did you really kill him?”

I pause, just a heartbeat, before replying.

“His ashes no longer cast a shadow on this family, Badi Maa.”

A sob breaks behind me. I hear her clutch the photo of Bade Papa as if holding him close might bring him back. I close the door. Because I can’t watch her cry.

Not her. She’s not made to cry. She’s suffered enough. I need to bring Dev back into her life… give her the happiness she deserves.

Finally, I have an address. A set of coordinates - not just on a map, but etched like a heartbeat on paper - pointing to the very place where my little brother has been hidden, nurtured far away from the eyes that once burned with the intent to destroy him.

Ten years. Ten excruciating, echoing years. And now… I’m so close I can almost feel the warmth of his tiny hands again. Dev. My tiny bear.

Joy trembles through me, almost unbearable. My body hums with a feverish energy - too wild to be just excitement. My pulse is erratic, blood surging with a need I cannot quiet. Will Dev even remember me? Will he know that I was the one who rocked him to sleep, the one who taught him how to hold a violin bow without crushing it in those chubby toddler hands? Does he still play… or did those memories vanish with time?

I wonder if that adorable gap between his teeth still exists, the one that made him look like a mischievous squirrel. Or has he bloomed into a mirror of Bade Papa - regal, devastatingly handsome, commanding even in silence?

Badi Maa had said nothing dramatic. Just slid a folded piece of paper across the table, her face unreadable. “Bring him home,” she said, her voice quiet, her eyes avoiding mine. And yet, when she saw the way my face lit up - probably the first real joy she’s seen on me in years - she gave me a ghost of a smile. It was enough.

I flew straight to Mumbai, hoping Agu could come with me. He wanted to - God knows he did - but deadlines and runway shows don't bend for sentiment. He promised to join us in Delhi once the project wraps next week. I briefly considered dragging the whole clan with me - my sisters, aunts, uncles - but quickly realised it might overwhelm Dev. Poor kid has no idea that the entire mansion has been decorated like it's Diwali, every wall glowing in anticipation of his return. Everyone is waiting. They never stopped.

I glance out of the jet’s window, watching the clouds swell and scatter, cotton ghosts against the sky. But they do nothing to ease the ache in my chest. My hands can’t stay still. My legs keep twitching. My nerves are taut as wires stretched too tight and nothing I do helps still the storm inside.

“Sir, would you like any refreshments?”

The question slides into my awareness like a silk ribbon. I blink, turning. A stewardess - elegant in a crisp red uniform - stands beside a trolley, her smile perfectly trained.

“Whisky. Single malt,” I mutter, turning back to the window. I have no interest in small talk or fake smiles. I want silence and the burn of good liquor.

She pours the drink, placing it neatly in front of me, just on the edge of the table. I reach for it...but the glass slips away. A wet splash, the sharp clink of glass on metal, and the liquid cascades over my shoe.

“What the fuck?!” I snap, standing abruptly. “Can’t you serve a drink properly?”

The stewardess flinches. Her eyes pool, trembling on the edge of tears. Of course. A delicate petal wilting under a single drop of disapproval.

But before she can say a word, a second voice slinks into the space between us. Smooth, unapologetic. A silk glove over a dagger.

“Excuse me, sir. But that was your fault.”

I turn and find a young woman staring at me.

She's a vision in scarlet, her uniform clinging to her curves like it was tailored by sin itself. Long, endless legs encased in sheer black stockings. Her hips sway with unapologetic grace, and her crimson lips - plump, parted just slightly - curve into a smirk that says she’s used to being looked at. Admired. Feared, even.

I let my gaze drag over her. She’s pleasing to the eye, I’ll admit that. But her tone? Insolent.

“You weren’t careful,” she adds casually, as if speaking to a misbehaving child.

“I’m not in the mood to offer explanations,” I say coldly.

“I didn’t ask for explanations. I asked for an apology.”

I scoff and raise my foot slightly, showing her the soaked, whisky-stained leather. “Your lovely partner just ruined one of my finest shoes. If anyone should be apologising, it’s her.”

Before the conversation can flare into something else entirely, the head stewardess arrives. She takes one look at the scene and bows her head, her voice contrite. “I’m deeply sorry for the inconvenience, sir. We’ll take care of it immediately.”

I wave her off with a hand, already moving toward the private suite in the jet. The walk-in wardrobe is stocked with everything I need, from replacement shoes to cufflinks. I remove the ruined pair, select a new one, and sit down with a sigh.

A knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Red-lip returns. The siren walks in gracefully, her heels clicking like metronomes of power. In her hand, a new glass of whisky. She sets it down on the side table without looking at me.

“Your drink, sir,” she says, emotionless.

My eyes are trained on her and unable to resist, I ruffle her feathers, “What? No demand for an apology now?” I smirk.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she says nothing. Smart woman.

I stroll up to the table slowly until I’m standing close enough to catch the fire in her eyes. Dark as midnight, and even darker now, thanks to that angry little glare she’s throwing my way. God, she’s furious… and somehow, that only makes it more fun.

“Get out,” I murmur, lifting the glass. And just as she turns to leave, I add, almost lazily, “Next time, remember where you are… and whom you’re talking to.”

She doesn’t reply, but the sharp clack of her heels as she walks away speaks volumes. She isn’t scared of me.

These women and their attitudes.

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