[The same night]
The door clicked shut behind Ahaan Rajvanshi, sealing the world behind him with a finality that echoed far louder than it should have.
He stood there—motionless. Breathing. Or trying to.
The silence in his bedroom wrapped around him like a second skin. Not gentle. Not quiet. But suffocating. Heavy.
A silence that didn't soothe, only served as a cruel reminder:
Of what had just been said.
And what should never have been said at all.
Gone was the poised heir.
Gone was the supposed lover.
Gone was the devoted father who had stood in the lion's den and declared—
"They are mine."
That version of him dissolved like smoke the moment the door closed.
Because they weren't.
They never had been.
Ahaan exhaled, his breath uneven.
He dragged a hand through his hair, then let his back fall softly against the door as he leaned on it. His head tilting up toward the ceiling as if it might offer answers. Or forgiveness. Or just a breath that didn't feel like drowning.
But nothing came.
His limbs felt too heavy. His chest, hollow. His throat, full of thorns.
And yet... somehow... his grandfather had believed him.
Adityanath Rajvanshi, the master strategist, the man who calculated lineage like war tactics, who could smell deceit through stone walls, had accepted Ahaan's lie with an unsettling ease.
Ahaan's story had ticked all the boxes of credibility—A secret affair. A tragic separation. A hidden pregnancy. A love lost and then rediscovered. The perfect blend of heartbreak and legacy.
The Rajvanshi bloodline had been preserved.
And Ahaan?
He had delivered the illusion with just enough conviction to make it feel real.
But inside—he was unraveling.
He hadn't known Aria Maheshwari until today. Hadn't held her hand. Hadn't kissed her. Had never looked into her eyes with love—hell, he hadn't even known her name.
And yet today, he had stood before her family—his family—before the man who had forged empires from threats—and claimed her.
Claimed her children.
Claimed a life that didn't belong to him.
A lie carved from someone else's truth.
All to protect a ghost.
All to protect a name that no one dared speak aloud anymore.
Because the moment Aria entered that room—with two infants and unshakable silence—he had seen it.
Not just the crescent birthmark. Not just the curve of the boy's cheek or the girl's eyes that mirrored ones he knew by heart.
He saw Rudra.
His twin. His shadow. His other half.
And with that realization came a weight Ahaan had never trained for.
He pushed off the door and let his blazer drop to the floor, the sound barely a whisper. The weight of legacy clung to him like ash—stubborn, impossible to clean off.
He walked across the room with the heaviness of someone dragging chains.
When he reached the mirror, he stopped. Not to check his reflection. To confront it.
And there it was.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same blood.
Same curse.
But what looked back wasn't a Rajvanshi forged of fire and control.
It was a man pretending to be whole.
Pretending to be brave in a lie too bug to survive.
Pretending that he wasn't now the only thing standing between two children and destruction.
His voice cracked into the silence.
"Where are you, Rudra?"
"Why can't I feel you anymore?"
"Are you even... still alive?"
He didn't expect an answer. But the silence replied—thicker, heavier, damning.
He had known his brother better than anyone else ever had.
Better than their parents.
Better than the family that turned blood into leverage.
So he knew one thing with certainty—Rudra hadn't disappeared.
He'd been erased.
Somewhere between rebellion and return, someone had made sure his brother never came back.
And now… his children had returned without him.
Not by fate. Not by chance.
By Aria Maheshwari.
Ahaan didn't know her. Not really. Not at all. And yet, today, he had declared himself hers.
A claim made not from love… but duty.
And perhaps guilt.
Because whoever she was, she'd walked into a den of wolves without so much as a tremor. Cradling Rudra's children like they were shields. Or weapons. Or both.
She had placed her children in the middle of a storm, knowing full well what kind of monsters sat at the table.
Who does that?
He stumbled toward the bed, each step heavier than the last. His body felt like armor he couldn't take off.
He dropped onto the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands hung between them, fingers brushing together like they might piece something back in place.
If Rudra had loved Aria, truly—thenhe would have done it with his whole being.
He wouldn't have kept secrets from her.
He wouldn't have hidden the truth of their family from someone he meant to build a future with.
And if she had loved Rudra?
Then she would've known everything.
She would've known exactly who the Rajvanshis were.
She would've known what they could do. What they would take.
She should've known what stepping into this house meant.
Then why…
Why had she still walked in?
Desperation?
Recklessness?
Or something worse?
Did she know what she was doing?
Had she already predicted every move on the board before making hers?
Had she known which story to tell? Which expressions to wear?
When to speak—and more importantly, when not to?
Was this the courage of grief?
Or a strategy for the long game?
He hated himself for the doubt crawling beneath his skin—but it refused to be silenced.
He wanted to believe her. God, he needed to.
Because in her eyes, there had been something—truth, maybe. Or the perfect imitation of it.
But here, in this house, truth and lies were crafted from the same breath.
And trust came with a blade to the back.
Ahaan buried his face in his hands. The ache behind his eyes wasn't from fatigue. It was grief.
Grief for Rudra.
Grief for himself.
Grief for the children now caught in the teeth of a family that never let go once it claimed.
A dozen questions thundered through his mind, but none louder than the one that broke him:
"Did Rudra leave willingly?"
Because if he had… if he had truly abandoned the woman he loved and the children he helped create—
Then the brother Ahaan believed in was already gone.
But if he hadn't—
If he'd been forced to disappear, made to vanish—
Then this lie wasn't betrayal.
It was a shield.
Ahaan would carry it now. This burden. This mask. This performance.
He would let the fire eat him alive, if it meant keeping the children from the same fate.
He would wear the lover's face.
The father's name.
The heir's mantle.
He would be everything Rudra could no longer be.
Until he found out why.
Until he found his brother.
His hand curled into a fist over his knee.
But his thoughts circled back to Aria.
The way she spoke. The way she didn't speak.
Her poise wasn't something learned in a florist's shop.
It was something built in battle.
She didn't wear fear like he did. She didn't tremble beneath it.
And that was either the mark of her greatest strength…
… or the sign of her most dangerous flaw.
He leaned back slowly, his spine meeting the headboard. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, endless and hollow.
Whatever game she had begun, she had dragged him into it.
And whether she was shield or strategist, ally or adversary,—
He would find out.
But until then…
He would protect the lie.
He would preserve the illusion.
Because if he failed—
The first to suffer wouldn't be him.
It would be the children.
And Ahaan Rajvanshi...
could not let that happen.
He closed his eyes.
Not to rest.
But to wear the mask better.
Because in this house—
truth was a weapon.
Loyalty was a gamble.
And survival…
was the lie you chose to bleed for.