The door closed behind Dad with a sound that echoed longer than it should have.

Silence followed;comfortable, loaded.

I didn't need to look up to know what was coming.

When I finally did, all three of them were staring at me.

Not curiosity.
Not confusion.

Judgment.

Their eyes narrowed slowly, like I'd crossed a line none of them were ready to acknowledge.

I raised my gaze to meet theirs, refusing to look away. If this was a war, I wasn't backing down.

Arnav bhaiya cleared his throat-the signal.
"Sit down," he said firmly. "All of you. Then we'll talk."

No arguments.
No delays.

We nodded and took our seats around the table again, the same table where power was discussed, deals were made, and emotions were usually left outside.

Arin was the first to break.

"Bhaiya(Brother)," he said sharply, fingers tapping against the table, "I'm saying this clearly. I won't tolerate any egotistic, white-powder princess in my house."

The words hit wrong.

Something inside me snapped.

"Our."

He paused, eyes lifting to mine.

"Not my house," I continued, voice calm but unyielding. "It's our house."

For a second, Arin studied me-then nodded once, accepting the correction.

"Fine. Our house," he said. "But my point stands."

He leaned back, irritation seeping through.
"Rithvik bhai is right. We can handle her expenses. Education. Security. That's manageable."

Rithvik bhai nodded in agreement.
"Yes. Exactly. Financial responsibility isn't the problem."

He clasped his hands together, thinking aloud.
"But how do we handle her presence?"

His eyes shifted toward me briefly, then back to Arnav bhaiya.

"What if she's difficult? What if she's stubborn? Or entitled?"

He exhaled slowly.
"This house runs on rules. On discipline. On silence when required."

Arin jumped in again, sharper now.

"She's a girl. That changes things whether we like it or not. Security protocols change. Boundaries change. We'll be watched more closely."

His jaw tightened.
"One emotional mess-up, one attachment gone wrong, and suddenly this house isn't ours anymore."

Rithvik added, colder this time,
"And we don't even know her background. Her upbringing. Her mindset."

He looked around the room.
"One wrong influence can destabilize everything."

Their words weren't cruel.

They were practical.

And that scared me more.

They weren't talking about a child.

They were talking about a variable.

My hands curled into fists beneath the table.

I could feel my pulse in my ears.

Arnav bhaiya's expression darkened, irritation flashing across his face.

Then his palm hit the table.

"SHUT UP. BOTH OF YOU."

The sound cracked through the room.

Arin and Rithvik froze instantly-mouths shut, shoulders stiff, like kids caught red-handed while stealing chocolates from the kitchen.

Arnav bhaiya took a moment.

He picked up his glass, drank slowly, deliberately, then wiped his face with a tissue as if clearing not sweat-but patience.

"I asked what we should do," he said evenly.

"Not for a detailed analysis on why a girl is a liability."

He turned his head toward me.

"Kabir," he said.
"How are you so sure about this?"

Not accusing.

Asking.

I took a breath.

"I felt it, bhaiya."

Their eyes flickered with disbelief.

"Some things don't need logic," I continued.

"They don't start with meeting. Or seeing. Or touching."

I leaned forward slightly.

"Sometimes..something pure reaches you from far away."

My voice softened.

"I saw Neil uncle's smile when he talked about her."

All three of them looked at me now.

"The same man who could kill someone without blinking.. smiled like that," I said.

"That wasn't weakness. That was truth."

I swallowed.

"He told Dad everything. Every sin. Every secret. Every crime."

My fingers tightened around the chair arm.

"But he hid her."

Silence fell again.

"That tells me something," I said quietly.

"Something far deeper than fear."

I looked down for a second, then back up.

"Maybe she's not what I imagine. Maybe she is."

My chest felt heavy.

"But destiny gave me a chance-to live a moment with a sister."

I smiled faintly.

"Maybe that's how God planned it. Not for logic. For feeling."

Arin scoffed softly.

Rithvik rolled his eyes.

I didn't care.

All I could see was her.

A sister I hadn't met yet but somehow already felt responsible for.

Arnav bhaiya straightened in his chair.

"If Dad has taken this decision," he said firmly, "then she's already different from what we're assuming."

His voice hardened.

"After Mom, the only people allowed close to him were our piblings."

He paused.

"If this girl gives him peace.."

He nodded once.
"I'm ready."

Relief washed over me so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out of me.

"I'm ready too," Arin said abruptly.

We stared at him.

"Not because she's my sister," he added quickly.
"But if she needs to stay here... it's for Dad."

Our eyes shifted to Rithvik bhai.

He looked at all three of us, exhaled deeply, then lifted his hands in surrender.

"What can I say?" he muttered.
"When all three of you are ready... so am I."

I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face.

I stood up instantly.

"Come on," I said, excitement rushing through me.
"Let's tell Dad before I-"

"Mr. Kabir Singh Rathore."

I froze.

"Sit. Down."

I turned slowly.

Walked back.

Sat.

Arnav bhaiya pulled out his phone and began typing calmly, like this was just another decision-another transaction.

Me?

I was burning inside.

Why couldn't he let me go?
Why couldn't I run to her already?

I didn't want explanations.
I didn't want permissions.

I just wanted to meet my sister.

Fifteen minutes.

Exactly fifteen bloody minutes, and I'm still sitting on the floor like a defeated king, holding a spoon full of poha, while my little princess looks at it as if I've committed some unforgivable crime against humanity.

"I don't eat that," she says, nose wrinkling, finger pointing accusingly at the plate.

I sigh. "Eat what, princess?"

"That red-red thing," she announces firmly. "Tomato. Tomato is evil."

Evil.

Tomato.

I glance down at the plate, then back at her tiny crossed arms and dramatic pout. "It's just a little tomato."

She gasps. Actually gasps. "No, baba. Little tomato becomes big tomato in tummy. I don't want tomato family inside me."

(A/N; lagta hai tomoto ji bura mann gaye hai tabhi to itne mehnge ho rhe hai)

I swear to God, where does she learn this stuff?

"And coriander?" I try, already knowing I'm walking into a minefield.

She leans forward, whispers like she's sharing a state secret. "Coriander is a plant. Plants are living things. We don't hurt living things."

I blink. Once. Twice.

Fuck.

What is this child?

My mind betrays me instantly, dragging me back to memories I'd rather bury.

Why-why did none of my four idiot sons think like this?

Arnav, at five years old, kicked a grown man on his foot because the man had stolen one marble from his garden.

One marble.

The audacity still lived in that boy's spine. I punished him, of course but even today, Arnav only speaks when necessary. Cold. Sharp. Like he was born already tired of the world.

(A/N; Arnav sir 🙀)

Then there was Rithvik.

Seven years old.

Brought home a dead mouse and performed a full-fledged operation on it using my kitchen knives. Surgical precision. Calm face. No remorse.

I remember standing there, staring at the poor creature, thinking - God, even in death, you suffered more.

Kabir?

Six years old and a walking disaster.

He saw a hero emerge from a room engulfed in flames in some picture book and thought-sounds fun.
Burned his entire room trying to recreate the scene.

The bastard had the audacity to say, "Papa, fire didn't listen to me."

(A/N; Waah shampy waahh)

And then Arin Singh Rathore.

Eight years old.

Left the house.

Not ran away for chocolates or adventure.

Left because, according to him, we didn't love him enough.

Why?

Because we didn't buy him a real plane.

Not a toy.

A real, fucking ,flying, pilot-required aircraft.

He'd looked at me with those terrifyingly intelligent eyes and said, "If you loved me, you'd find a way."

That day, I realized something was fundamentally wrong with my parenting.

And now-here I am.

Sitting on the floor, negotiating with a child who refuses to eat coriander because it might hurt.

My thoughts snap when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I look down.
She's now sitting peacefully on the floor because apparently, "You can eat food on dining table or floor, baba. Good manners."

I pull out my phone.

Arnav:
Dad, we all made a decision. We're ready.

A genuine flicker of pride ignites in my chest. Rare. Dangerous. Warm.

I lock the screen, slide the phone back, and look at her.

"Princess."

She turns to me slowly and tries-emphasis on tries-to raise her eyebrows like an adult.

"Yes, baba?"

"Can I feed you now?"

She stares at me, then shakes her head seriously. "No. We eat food ourselves. It's a good habit."

I nod.

Of course you do.

This girl loves everything labeled good habit, while my sons grew up treating rules like optional suggestions.

She eats quietly now, face messy, dress already dirtier but she's careful, trying not to spill more.

Then she looks up, makes the most innocent face known to mankind. "Baba, tummy full."

Her voice is soft. Sweet. Angelic.

I stand, lift her into my arms. "Okay. First we clean your hands and face, then you change clothes, then we go home."

She pauses. Long pause. Brain working overtime.

"This is home too, na?"

Something tightens in my chest.

I smile softly. "No, little princess. Our home is big. You have your brothers there."

Her eyebrows meet. "You mean big big Bhaiyu?"

I nod.

She smiles. Two dimples appear like they were carved by God Himself.

I wash her hands, holding her tiny fingers in mine. Her hand doesn't even cover ten percent of my palm. She's too small for this world.
Three-four inches of pure softness, standing next to my six-foot-two shadow.

Devil holding an angel's hand.his little angel hands

I call the old lady. "Kaki, make her wear new clothes."

Then I step outside, and call Rishi about the updates on case and said in last "Decorate the mansion in 10 minutes"

I cut the call , turn back and freeze.

She's standing there in a red frock, ponytail bouncing, black sandals on her tiny feet, bracelet shining on her wrist.
A goddess sent into a house full of devils.

(A/N; picture in the end of chapter)

I lift her into my arms.

And for the first time in years

Everything feels quiet.

Peaceful.

Dangerously precious.

Something I know I'll chase again.
Again.

And again.

I tighten my hold around her and start walking.

From the outer wing toward the main part of the mansion, the corridors stretch long and familiar.

I've walked these halls all my life-barefoot as a boy, soaked in blood as a man, crowned in silence as the head of this house.

Yet today my steps hesitate.

The main gate is already open.

It always is.

Rathore mansion doesn't shut itself from the world.

The world fears walking in.

I stop right at the threshold.

Before I can move further, two old house helper hurries toward me;one of the same women who has seen my sons grow up, and other who has wiped blood off these floors more times than she should have.

In her hands, a thal.

Roli.

Rice.

A diya flickering softly.

I gesture for them to come closer.

I look down at the little princess in my arms.

She's watching everything.

Absorbing.

Silent in that dangerous way only children can be.

"Princess," I murmur.

She tilts her head, curls brushing my jaw.

I point at the thal.

"You have to dip your hand in this," I tell her gently.
"Then put your hand on that wall."

She stares at the red colour.

Then at the wall.

Then back at me.
"Why, baba?"

Fuck.

That word again.

Straight to the chest.

I lower my voice, careful, choosing words she can understand;not the ones carved into my bones.

"When a daughter comes into a house," I say slowly,
"the house needs to know her."
She blinks.

"This colour tells the house," I continue,

"that you are here now. That you belong. And once a house knows its daughter it protects her."

Her tiny brows knit together.
"So bad things can't come?"

I nod.

"Yes. Bad things stay out. And good things stay in."

She considers it for a moment serious, thoughtful, too wise for her age.

Then she dips her hand into the roli.

Her palm is so small it barely holds the colour.

She presses it against the wall.

A small red handprint blooms there.
My breath catches.

That mark isn't tradition.

It's a promise.
Only then......
only after that....

I take that step inside only after her handprint blooms on the wall.

The living room greets us in its usual silence ; heavy, royal, unforgiving.

I lower myself into the armchair, Avanya still wrapped around me, her face buried in my shoulder like the world might disappear if she doesn't look at it.

Footsteps echo.

Slow.

Measured.

Arnav comes down first.

Always first.

Straight back.

Sharp eyes.

Control stitched into his bones like he was born wearing responsibility.

Behind him-Rithvik, calm on the surface, dangerous underneath.

Kabir follows, restless energy barely contained, emotions leaking through cracks he doesn't know how to seal.

Arin comes last, hands in pockets, expression unreadable, attitude already loaded.

All four stop in front of me.

Four Rathores.

Four versions of fire.

Their eyes fall on the child in my arms.

She's small.

Too small.

Her face is hidden, her arms tight around my neck, fingers clutching my shirt like I'm the only solid thing left.

Arnav studies her quietly.

Not judging.

Observing.

Rithvik tilts his head slightly, already calculating outcomes.

Kabir's jaw tightens;something soft flashes through his eyes before he kills it.

Arin, of course, opens his damn mouth.

"...Isn't she too small?" he says.
His gaze flicks over her height.
"How the hell is she sixteen or seventeen?"

Before anyone else reacts-

"Enough."

Arnav's voice cuts in.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Authoritative.

He doesn't even look at Arin when he adds,
"Watch your tone."

Arin scoffs under his breath but shuts up.

I don't thank Arnav.

I don't need to.

He steps a little closer, eyes finally lifting to me.

"Dad," he says carefully,
"is she...?"

I don't answer him.

Instead, I shift slightly and speak into her hair.

"Avanya," I murmur.
"Look, princess."

My chest tightens.

This is it.

This is the moment where things either settle
or fracture forever.

She loosens her hold on me.

Slowly.

Hesitant.

Then she peeks out from my shoulder.

Her eyes;dark, deep, curious meet four pairs of staring eyes.

The room goes dead silent.

Arnav stiffens.

Kabir inhales sharply.

Rithvik's expression cracks-just for a second.

And Arin-

Arin freezes.

His pupils dilate.

Recognition slams into him like a bullet.

"You-" he blurts out.

At the exact same second-

Avanya's finger lifts.

She points straight at him.

Her eyes widen in shock.

Her voice rings out, clear and accusing-

"YOU-"

And the world-

fucking-

stops.

____________________________________

Oh.
My.
God.

Guys. GUYS.
Your favourite Anuvae is back with her yap yap, blah blah, full dramatic nonsense mode ON.

Now tell me honestly-
WHY did Avanya say "YOU" to Arin?
And WHY did Arin say "YOU" to Avanya at the exact same damn second?

Coincidence?

Haha. Cute joke. 😏

Something is definitely cooking, and I feel like not just you; we all missed something. Even me. Especially me.

Did something happen before?

Did they meet?

Did destiny pull some sneaky move behind our backs?

Should we reveal it now?
Or should we wait ; keep it a secret?

Hmm.

Secret?

No no no. Secrets are dangerous in this story.

We'll go with the upcoming chapter.

Trust me. You'll scream. Or cry. Or both. Probably both.

Also this chapter?

This chapter is especially for that one reader-yes, YOU who wanted the next chapter yesterday night.

I swear I was going to write it.

But listen your author is a very sleepy human.

So I slept.

Like properly slept.

Promise 😭 remember sleep is important, okay?

So consider this chapter my forgiveness gift.

Now READ it.

COMMENT.

And tell me did you feel it? Or did it hit you right in the chest?

AND OH MY GOD-
Can we talk about the Rathore boys for a second?

One wants a REAL PLANE.

A REAL. PLANE.

Another literally burned his entire room for cinematic entry.

One did an OPERATION on a MOUSE

And the possessive one?

Bro couldn't tolerate someone touching his garden marble.

Like- sir- relax.

What kind of childhood was this?

Chaos. Pure chaos.

And then God said
"Okay, let me send Avanya."

Balance. 🖤

Anyway...
Let's see what the upcoming chapter reveals.

Till then stay with me, your dramatic, overthinking, emotional author.

Oh and yes.

Suggests Songs too 🎶

Because emotions need background music.

Bye-bye.

Take care.

Love you.

Miss me already.

Let's meet tonight for the new chapter. 😌🖤

- Your Anuvae🌙✨