The hallway still echoed with the ghosts of old arguments, but Aria no longer heard them.
Her footsteps were soft against the polished wooden floors, each step drawing her deeper into a silence that didn't ask questions.
She opened her bedroom door.
Inside, the world had slowed.
A soft yellow lamplight spilled across the room like liquid gold, brushing warmth onto walls that had waited for her return. The curtains stirred faintly in the breeze, swaying to a lullaby only the wind knew. Everything felt suspended—gentle, untouched, as if the room had been holding itself still just for this moment.
The bed—freshly made that morning as a gesture of homecoming—now bore the weight of something far more fragile.
Two tiny heartbeats.
Navya and Dev lay curled in the center, fast asleep. Their little chests rose and fell in that rhythmic, trusting way only infants can breathe—with absolute faith in the world around them.
Pillows encircled them like miniature walls — a fortress made of cotton and care.
And by the window, beneath the hushed spill of moonlight, sat Manik.
He didn't turn when she walked in. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the twins. Still as stone.
But not cold.
Protective. Wary. Quiet.
Like a younger brother trying to make sense of his older sister's war.
Aria's gaze softened.
She crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. Her hands moved instinctively—tucking Dev's blanket closer, adjusting Navya's tiny head so her neck didn't strain. She checked the baby monitor's silent blinking light. Her movements were careful and tender. Precise and practiced.
But her eyes—
Her eyes trembled.
As though love, wrapped tightly enough in cotton, could keep out the cold of truth.
Only when she was sure they were safe and comfortable did she rise again.
Manik still hadn't said a word.
"You're quiet," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He looked at her — not with suspicion.
Not with judgment.
Just a kind of knowing.
"What are their names?" he asked,
with the unfiltered wonder of someone who already felt responsible for them.
Aria gave him a soft, real smile.
"This is Dev. And that's Navya," she said, pointing to each twin.
"Their names are cute," Manik murmured, eyes warm. "But they are cuter."
Aria could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. He was already plotting how to become their favorite uncle. To spoil them with toys and chaos and love.
She chuckled softly, and it made her chest ache.
"When I held her," he said, nodding toward Navya, "she was smiling in her sleep."
He looked back at Aria. "It felt... you already know how that feels, right, Di?"
Her throat tightened.
"It feels like heaven," she whispered.
Manik stood, slow and thoughtful.
No dramatics. No accusations.
Just quiet weight. Something heavy, unspoken, sitting between them.
"I trust you, Di."
The words stopped her breath.
"I believe they're his," he continued. "I saw the way he looked at them. Like he was trying not to fall apart.
And you… you wouldn't lie about something like this."
Aria's lowered her eyes.
"But," he added gently, "something's off."
The words sliced gently — like paper.
"I know you, di. You don't fall easily. And you don't break easily either."
His voice softened. "So why does this feel like… half a story?"
She stared at the floor, and the silence bent around her like fog.
'Manik is naïve but not stupid.
If I can't convince him of this fake love strory of mine, he will cook up the dumbest—or the most meticulous—plan to stop my wedding. And in doing so... he might destroy everything.'
She drew in a slow breath and looked up.
Her smile was faint. Too faint.
It looked like it had forgotten how to be real.
"Because some stories aren't meant to be told fully," she said.
Manik didn't push. He just... waited.
Aria turned toward the window, wrapping her arms around herself like armor.
"Ahaan and I... we were together. A year ago. In Himachal. He came for a business retreat and..."
She paused—just long enough to let the silence fill in a few imagined memories.
"We fell into something. It wasn't serious... or maybe it was. But we kept it private."
Manik's brows furrowed. "And then?"
"Then we parted," she whispered. Her voice was thin, like glass stretched too far.
"There were misunderstandings. Life got in the way. He had to go back. And I... "
She swallowed. "I didn't tell him I was pregnant."
Her voice broke, just enough for it to sting as truth.
"I didn't think he'd come back, even if I had."
The lie cut her own tongue like thorns.
Manik looked down, slowly nodding. His thoughts moved behind his eyes like heavy clouds.
"And today?"
"I wasn't going to force him to take responsibility." she said, as if it wasn't her purpose all along.
She sighed, "I didn't want to drag him into anything."
Her tone was so sincere, so heartbreakingly convincing, it could have passed for innocence.
If only she didn't want him to rot in the deepest well of hell.
"But then... he saw them.
And in that moment — I saw his eyes.
He knew.
He didn't ask for proof.
He just... accepted."
Manik nodded.
He didn't entirely believe her story.
But he believed her.
He stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a quiet, firm hug. The kind of embrace meant for breaking burdens in half.
"You don't have to tell me everything," he said, "just don't carry it alone."
She leaned into him.
And tried not to collapse under the weight of truth he wasn't ready to hear.
"I won't," she whispered.
A lie so soft it passed for love.
Manik lingered a moment, then stepped back. His smile crooked, like always.
"If you need me," he said, "just summon me like a genie. I'll be there faster than one."
Aria smiled. "Then I'll make sure to use you well."
He gave a dramatic pout. "Just not during my livestream, okay?"
She laughed.
And that laugh—small, exhausted, real—hung in the air like the last flicker of a candle before dawn.
Manik turned to the door, his fingers brushing the dooframe, lingered there for a moment, like he wanted to say something more.
But the silence between them had become sacred.
So he left without another word.
And in the cradle of that silence, they slept—two children, soft and unknowing.
While guarding truths too dangerous to speak aloud.