***

AUTHOR'S POV

The atmosphere inside the grand Raghuvanshi mansion was nothing like what one would expect from a family known for power, prestige, and an almost intimidating social presence.

A house this large should have felt alive. There should have been movement somewhere in the background, the faint sounds of staff passing through corridors, hushed conversations spilling from one room into another, the ordinary rhythm that makes even the grandest spaces feel inhabited. But today, the mansion sat in a silence so complete that it felt unnatural, as though grief had settled into its foundation long ago and made itself comfortable.

Today, it did not feel like a home.

It felt like a place that had learned how to exist with sorrow.

In the main hall, the Raghuvanshi family sat gathered before the havan kund, all dressed in white, their silence blending with the steady chanting of the pandit. The sacred fire burned with quiet consistency, its glow flickering across solemn faces, but instead of bringing peace, the ritual only seemed to make the heaviness in the room more pronounced.

A large framed photograph had been placed before the fire, positioned so prominently that it naturally drew every eye.

Seated closest to the havan kund was Raghavendra Raghuvanshi, the patriarch of the family. His expression remained composed, almost severe, as he poured ghee into the sacred flames with slow precision. There was something unsettling about how controlled he looked, not because grief demanded visible breakdown, but because nothing about his face revealed what, if anything, he felt.

Beside him sat Sarasvati Raghuvanshi.

If Raghavendra's silence looked deliberate, Sarasvati's was harder to understand.

She wasn't crying. There was no visible anger, no devastation, no sign of emotional collapse. Her face remained calm in a way that made her unreadable, and somehow that quiet restraint felt far more unsettling than open mourning.

To Raghavendra's right sat his elder son, Anant Raghuvanshi, carrying much of the same emotional discipline as his father. The resemblance between them was not merely physical. It was in the stillness, the control, the refusal to reveal anything unnecessary.

Beside Anant sat his wife, Sarika.

Unlike the others, her pain was not as easily hidden.

She remained composed, as expected in a family like this, but her eyes held an exhaustion that spoke of something older than present grief. This was not the expression of someone broken by a recent tragedy. It was the look of someone who had lived beside pain long enough for it to become familiar.

A little behind them sat Ajeet Raghuvanshi and his wife, Sulekha, both visibly uncomfortable despite maintaining silence.

Because this ritual was not new.

It happened every year.

And somehow, that familiarity only made it worse.

There were ceremonies one learned to accept with time, but this was not one of them. Each repetition seemed to reinforce the same disturbing awareness that something about this tradition was deeply unnatural.

After completing another round of mantras, the pandit turned respectfully toward Raghavendra.

"Raghavendra ji, jinka kriya karam ho raha hai, unka naam teen baar swaha ke saath bolkar agni kund mein ghee arpit kijiye."

(Raghavendra ji, please offer ghee into the sacred fire while taking the departed's name three times with 'swaha'.)

A brief silence settled over the room.

Raghavendra lifted his gaze toward the framed photograph before him. His expression did not shift.

When he spoke, his voice carried neither hesitation nor visible emotion.

"Adityamaan Raghuvanshi. Swaha."

He poured the ghee into the fire.

The flames rose sharply before settling again.

No one moved.

For the second time, he repeated, "Adityamaan Raghuvanshi. Swaha."

Another offering disappeared into the sacred flames.

Then came the third.

"Adityamaan Raghuvanshi. Swaha."

The final invocation faded into the silence of the hall, leaving behind a strange stillness no mantra could soften.

Because the photograph placed before that sacred fire did not belong to an elderly man whose life had reached its natural end.

Nor to someone whose passing had been expected.

It belonged to a young man.

Adityamaan Raghuvanshi.

Twenty-four years old. Striking, confident, unmistakably full of life even within a still image.

The eldest grandson of the Raghuvanshi family.

And the truth that made the entire ritual deeply disturbing was painfully simple.

The Raghuvanshi family was performing death rites for a man who was still alive.

***

AUTHOR'S POV

Morning arrived quietly at the Sharma house.

Usually, by the time sunlight began slipping through the tall windows, the house would already be inching toward its usual chaos. Someone would be calling for tea, utensils would start clattering in the kitchen, and half-finished conversations would float from one room to another before breakfast had even begun. But today, that familiar rush had not started yet. The house was still, wrapped in the kind of peaceful silence that rarely lasted long in a home this full of life.

In the small temple set in the corner of the living room stood a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a graceful red chiffon saree that moved softly each time she shifted. Against the calm simplicity of the mandir, the colour looked striking, but nothing about her presence felt loud. Her attention remained fixed on Matarani's idol with the kind of devotion that no longer came from routine, but from habit of the heart.

The pooja thali in her hands held fresh marigolds, incense sticks, kumkum, and a diya whose flame flickered gently, casting a warm glow across her face. Her voice rose softly in bhajan, sweet and unforced, filling the quiet house with an easy kind of peace.

Any peaceful soul might have appreciated it.

Unfortunately, her husband was not one of them.

Inside the master bedroom, Aditya Sharma was fast asleep, entirely disconnected from the spiritual atmosphere taking over his home.

Sleep softened him in a way his waking personality rarely allowed. His breathing was slow, his face relaxed, and with the early morning chill still lingering in the room, the comfort of his bed felt almost sacred in its own right.

Then the bhajan reached him.

At first, he only frowned and turned onto his side, making the sort of stubborn attempt every sleepy person made when reality dared interrupt a perfectly good dream. A few seconds later, clearly deciding desperate measures were needed, he grabbed the nearest pillow and pressed it over one ear.

"Shut up... my Taylor Swift," he mumbled, still half asleep and entirely unaware of how ridiculous he sounded.

This was not a new strategy.

It had never worked before.

It was not going to work now.

Still, Aditya seemed convinced he had done enough to defend his right to sleep and began drifting off again.

That fragile peace lasted all of ten seconds.

The bedroom door opened, and a much stronger force entered.

A seven-year-old girl in a crumpled nightgown marched inside with sleepy hair, bright eyes, and the unquestioned confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power she held over the man in bed.

Without warning, she climbed onto him.

Aditya's eyes flew open instantly.

The annoyance disappeared the second he saw her.

Smiling, he gently brushed the messy hair away from her face before pulling her closer.

"Kya hua meri princess? Itni subah subah kaise uth gayi?"

(What happened, my princess? Why are you awake so early?)

The little girl folded her arms dramatically.

"Your wife disturbed my sleep."

Aditya blinked, then looked deeply offended on principle.

"Accha? Meri wife ne?"

(Oh really? My wife did?)

She nodded with complete seriousness.

"Papa, aapne Mumma se shaadi kyun ki?"

(Papa, why did you marry Mumma?)

A laugh nearly escaped him.

"Yeh toh bahut serious sawaal hai. Is sawaal ka reason toh batao."

(That is a very serious question. At least tell me the reason behind this question.)

She huffed.

"Subah subah gaane gaa ke humari sweet dreams kharab karti hain. Upar se mujhe aur aapko daantti bhi rehti hain."

(She ruins our sweet dreams by singing early in the morning. And on top of that, she keeps scolding both you and me.)

Aditya chuckled and pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Well, princess, maine tumhari Mumma se shaadi isliye ki kyunki main unse bahut pyaar karta hoon... bilkul tumhari tarah."

(I married your Mumma because I love her very much... just the way I love you.)

Sanvi's face brightened immediately.

Aditya leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal classified information.

"Aur waise bhi, tumhari Mumma ki nonstop bakbak aur daant sirf hum dono hi survive kar sakte hain."

(And anyway, only the two of us can survive your Mumma's nonstop chatter and scolding.)

Sanvi burst into laughter.

Aditya joined her easily, clearly not participating in this father-daughter conspiracy for the first time.

Their fun, however, came to an abrupt end.

"ADI! SANU! Uth jao jaldi!"

(ADI! SANU! Wake up right now!)

Both father and daughter froze.

Slowly, they turned toward each other with identical guilty expressions, looking less like innocent family members and more like partners caught committing a very stupid crime.

Sanvi lowered her voice dramatically.

"Papa... lo, bulawa aa gaya."

(Papa... the summons has arrived.)

Aditya sighed the sigh of a man who believed fate had personally wronged him.

"Chalo, jaldi chalo. Nahi toh tumhari Mata Shri belan leke upar aa jayengi aur hum dono ki pitai shuru kar dengi."

(Come quickly, otherwise Her Highness your mother will come upstairs with a rolling pin and start beating both of us.)

Sanvi laughed so hard she nearly fell over.

Aditya, however, looked far less confident about whether he was joking.

***

ADITYA'S POV

By the time I came downstairs, fully dressed and pretending to be a responsible adult prepared for the day, I already knew something was wrong.

Some men are blessed with survival instincts.

Marriage had gifted me something far more specific—the extraordinary ability to sense my wife's anger from a frightening distance.

And right on cue, the moment I stepped into the dining area, my eyes landed on her.

Avni Sharma.

My wife.

The love of my life.

And occasionally, the single greatest threat to my emotional stability.

For the past eight years, I had loved that woman with embarrassing levels of devotion. The kind where one angry look from her could ruin my mood, and one smile could make me forget basic logic.

At that moment, unfortunately, smiling was not on her agenda.

She stood near the dining table arranging breakfast with suspicious calm, and any married man would tell you that calm like that was never a good sign. Every movement was neat, controlled, just a little sharper than usual. I couldn't hear what she was muttering under her breath, but I didn't particularly need subtitles.

I knew exactly what I had done.

Actually, correction.

I knew exactly what I had failed to do.

Today was our eighth wedding anniversary.

And I had forgotten to wish her.

A sensible husband would have panicked.

For reasons I still can't explain, I smiled instead.

There was something weirdly adorable about angry Avni. She worked so hard to look intimidating, and somehow all it did was make me want to annoy her more.

Which was, objectively, a terrible decision.

Naturally, I made it.

I walked up behind her quietly and slipped my arms around her waist.

She stiffened instantly.

Not even a glance.

Not even basic acknowledgment of my existence.

I had to bite back a smile.

Classic.

Lowering my head, I pressed a soft kiss against her neck.

"Avni, gussa ho?"

(Avni, are you angry?)

Nothing.

Not even the courtesy of an offended glare.

I tried again, this time sounding significantly more sincere.

"Avni, happy marriage anniversary."

Still nothing.

The silent treatment.

A communication technique perfected by wives over generations and weaponised with terrifying efficiency.

Since respectable methods had clearly failed, I moved to alternatives.

Marriage had taught me many things, and one of them was that dignity was often overrated.

Slipping my hand beneath the edge of her saree at her waist, I gave her a teasing pinch.

She gasped, instantly smacking my hand away before turning toward me with a glare that strongly suggested my survival was no longer guaranteed.

I immediately raised both hands.

"Biwi, aise mat dekho jaise mujhe zinda kha jaogi. Yeh bedroom nahi hai. Agar Sanvi ne dekh liya toh kya sochegi?"

(Wifey, don't look at me like you're going to eat me alive. This isn't our bedroom. What will Sanvi think if she sees us?)

Her glare somehow became worse.

Naturally, this encouraged me.

I leaned closer.

"Baaki sab raat ke liye save kar sakte hain. Main khushi khushi khud ko tumhare hawaale kar dunga."

(We can save the rest for tonight. I'll happily surrender myself to you.)

Her eyes widened like she genuinely regretted marrying me.

Immediately, she glanced around the room to make sure no one had heard my nonsense. Finding the dining area empty, she let out a relieved breath before turning back to me.

"Besharam aadmi."

(Shameless man.)

I smiled.

There was affection in that insult.

I would stake actual money on it.

Before she could move away, I pulled her a little closer and bent near her ear.

"Sirf tumhare liye."

(Only for you.)

***

ABHIMAAN'S POV

"Yes, Dad, my flight has landed in Mumbai. I'm in the car right now and heading straight home."

My voice sounded exactly the way it was supposed to—steady, controlled, giving away nothing.

"Don't worry. I'll be there on time. Tell Dadaji there's no need to stress."

I ended the call and placed my phone beside me before leaning back against the seat, my gaze settling on the tinted window beside me.

Outside, Mumbai was exactly as I remembered it.

Restless. Loud. Impatient.

Cars crawled through traffic like they were locked in some endless battle, horns rose from every direction, and people moved through the streets with that same relentless urgency the city seemed to breed into everyone who lived here.

I had always disliked that about Mumbai.

No matter what happened, the city kept moving.

It didn't slow down for grief.

Didn't pause for heartbreak.

Didn't care if someone's entire life had fallen apart.

And maybe that was why being here today felt particularly unbearable.

Because eight years ago, on this exact date, my family's life had changed in a way none of us had ever truly recovered from.

Time had passed.

People had learned how to function.

But some wounds didn't heal.

They simply became quieter.

Every year when this date returned, it brought the same heaviness with it, slipping back into the house like it had every right to be there.

My jaw tightened.

I hated this day.

Not with the kind of anger that burned hot and faded quickly.

This was older than that.

A bitterness that had settled somewhere permanent.

And at the centre of it was one name.

Adityamaan Raghuvanshi.

Even thinking about him was enough to harden something inside me.

My fingers curled against the armrest before I forced them to relax.

I had absolutely no desire to go home.

No desire to walk into that mansion where silence always felt different on this day. No desire to look at faces carrying grief, resentment, exhaustion, or that particular kind of acceptance people developed when pain stayed long enough to become familiar.

And least of all, I had no interest in sitting through the annual ritual where my family performed death rites for a man who was very much alive.

Even in my own head, it sounded absurd.

If it hadn't been so exhausting, I might have laughed.

Unfortunately, duty had never cared much about what I wanted.

So I did what I always did when I wanted distance from my own thoughts.

I worked.

Pulling my laptop onto my lap, I opened it and focused on the spreadsheet in front of me.

Work was easier.

Numbers behaved logically.

Deadlines could be controlled.

Memories offered no such courtesy.

"Sir..."

Dhruv's voice pulled me out of my concentration.

I looked up.

From the front passenger seat, he turned slightly, wearing the cautious expression of a man who knew he was about to say something unwelcome.

"What is it?"

"Sir, Miss Kapoor has called several times. Since you weren't answering, she contacted me instead. I told her you were busy."

I said nothing.

After a brief pause, he continued carefully.

"She said it was important."

My fingers stilled over the keyboard.

A second later, I shut the laptop.

Silence filled the car.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it without thinking. Smoke slowly began filling the enclosed space as I leaned back, watching the city blur beyond the glass.

Dhruv, to his credit, knew when not to speak.

A useful skill.

After a moment, I picked up my phone and called her back.

She answered immediately.

"Abhi, finally tumhare paas mujhe call karne ka time hai?"

(Abhi, do you finally have time to call me?)

"I was busy."

Flat. Direct. No apology.

As expected, she ignored that.

"Abhi, tumhare liye sabse important cheez mujhe hona chahiye. After all, I'm your fiancée... future Mrs. Abhiman Raghuvanshi."

(Abhi, I should be the most important person in your life. After all, I'm your fiancée... future Mrs. Abhiman Raghuvanshi.)

I stayed silent.

Sanjana had always enjoyed dramatic statements.

At some point, I had stopped reacting to them altogether.

Then, almost instantly, her tone shifted.

"Oh yes! Main toh bhool hi gayi why I was calling. Dad has invited the Raghuvanshi family for dinner tomorrow. Engagement discuss karni hai. You'll come, right?"

(Oh yes! I completely forgot why I was calling. Dad has invited the Raghuvanshi family for dinner tomorrow. We need to discuss the engagement. You'll come, right?)

"Hm."

That was all I said before ending the call.

There was no reason to continue.

Warmth did not exist between us.

Neither did affection.

If I was being honest, even familiarity felt generous.

I placed the phone back beside me and took another drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke settle in my lungs before exhaling slowly.

Dhruv remained silent.

Smart man.

My attention shifted back to the city outside.

Sanjana Kapoor.

My fiancée.

Not because I had chosen her.

Dadaji had selected her the same way business deals were finalised—efficiently, practically, with no room for unnecessary emotion.

Her family brought a five-hundred-crore opportunity that aligned neatly with Raghuvanshi business interests.

That had been enough.

Compatibility was irrelevant.

Emotional connection was irrelevant.

Love had never even entered the discussion.

And I, as usual, had been expected to agree.

The unsettling part was that I no longer had enough energy to object.

Because when I thought about Sanjana, I felt absolutely nothing.

No anticipation.

No attachment.

No curiosity about the woman I was expected to spend my life with.

Just emptiness.

A cold, familiar emptiness that no longer even felt temporary.

Leaning back against the seat, cigarette burning between my fingers, I watched Mumbai continue its restless rush while my thoughts remained trapped somewhere far darker.

In a place eight years had never managed to touch.