I slowed my steps without even realizing it.

Her three tiny steps matched my one long stride, and yet she never complained ever tugged my hand, never asked me to hurry.

Avanya walked as if the world deserved to be seen slowly, properly, as if every leaf and every breath mattered.
Her small fingers were wrapped around mine, warm and trusting, and that alone was enough to keep my entire body on alert-protective, present, grounded.

The park was quiet in that early morning way. Not silent, but soft. The kind of quiet that comes after storms, after nights heavy with fear and unrest.

The air still carried the coolness of dawn, mixed with the faint scent of wet soil and flowers that had survived the night. Birds chirped somewhere above us, hesitant at first, then braver-as if even they were testing whether the world was safe again.

Tuffy walked on Avanya's other side, his pace matched to hers like it was instinct. Every now and then, his tail brushed her leg, and she would smile down at him, whispering something only he could hear.

He responded with a soft wag, proud, loyal, alert. Two guardians flanking her-one with fur, one with scars.

I watched her more than I watched the path.

She noticed everything.

The uneven stone under her feet.
The butterfly that landed briefly on a leaf before flying away.
The way dew clung to the grass was like tiny diamonds.

Suddenly, she stopped.

Not abruptly-just stopped. As if an invisible thread had gently pulled her feet still.

I instinctively looked around, my grip on her hand tightening just a fraction. My eyes scanned the park, the trees, the benches, the open paths. Nothing. Just flowers. Plants. Morning light spilling softly through green canopies.

For a moment, fear flickered in my chest-unreasonable, but present. The kind that never truly leaves once you have watched a child scream in terror in her sleep.

"Princess," I asked gently, lowering my voice so it wouldn't disturb her bubble of focus, "do you want flowers?"

She shook her head immediately, her bunny ears bouncing with the movement. Then she lifted her hand-the one not holding mine and pointed ahead.

"Baba, let's go there."

Her finger pointed toward a flowering plant—peregrina. Small, delicate blossoms, some still clinging to the stems, others fallen and scattered on the ground beneath it.

We walked toward it together, slowly.

Before I could say anything-before my mind could even catch up-she let go of my hand and knelt on the grass. Her movements were careful, deliberate, like this was something important. Something sacred.

She didn't pluck a single flower.

Instead, she began collecting the fallen ones from the ground.

One by one.

She picked them up gently, brushing off bits of dirt, placing them carefully to the side of the plant, away from where people walked. Away from careless feet.

I froze for a second.

Then I knelt beside her.

"Princess," I asked softly, keeping my voice calm so I wouldn't startle her, "why are you kneeling? And why are you collecting the flowers from the ground?"

She paused. Turned her head toward me. Looked at me for a moment like she was deciding whether I would understand.

Then she spoke.

"Baba," she said quietly, "they lost their family."

She pointed toward the plant.

"They are alone now."

My chest tightened.

She looked back at the flowers in her small hands and continued, her voice innocent, matter-of-fact, devastating.

"And everyone is walking on them. They feel hurt, na? First, no family, then everyone gives them pain. So that's why I put them on the side. So they can breathe properly."

I couldn't move.

I couldn't speak.

Because suddenly, it wasn't about flowers anymore.

It was about the world.

About how cruel it becomes the moment you lose the ones meant to protect you.
About how loss turns people into obstacles instead of souls.
About how the fallen are stepped on, not because they deserve it, but because no one bothers to look down.

I stared at my seven-year-old daughter-no, my child, my light, and felt something crack open inside me.

She understood something most adults never do.

That loneliness hurts more than pain.
That abandonment leaves deeper bruises than wounds.
That the world doesn't get kinder when you're already broken.

I smiled, though my throat burned.

Pride rose in my chest, heavy and overwhelming.

Maybe that's why they say children are closest to God.
Maybe that's why she came into my life-into a world I had built on darkness and survival.
Maybe she was never meant to be saved.

Maybe she was meant to save.

I cleared my throat quietly and forced myself out of my thoughts before they drowned me.

She had finished arranging the flowers neatly to the side, creating a small, careful space where no one would step on them. Her mission completed, she nodded to herself like she'd done something right.

Only then did I notice her hands.

Dirt smudged her fingers, staining the soft white fur of her top when she wiped them absentmindedly. Brown handprints stood out sharply against the white-proof of her kindness, of her innocence.

I shook my head gently, half amused, half aching.

I knelt fully and scooped her into my arms, holding her close.

"Come," I said softly, pressing my forehead briefly to her hair, breathing her in like reassurance itself. "We'll wash your hands. Then we'll move."

She wrapped her arms around my neck immediately, trusting, warm, safe.

And as I stood there, holding her in the middle of that quiet park, I realized something that terrified me more than any enemy ever had.

The world didn't deserve her softness.

But I would fight it anyway.

I would slow my steps forever if it meant matching hers.
I would kneel every time she knelt.
I would become her shield, her ground, her place to breathe.

Because in a life filled with blood, shadows, and war, this child-who saved fallen flowers-was my redemption.

And I would not let the world walk over her.

We went toward the tap together.
I held her small wrists carefully under the running water, making sure the pressure wasn’t too strong.

She watched with serious eyes as the dirt washed away, as if this too was an important task-like saving the flowers.

When her hands were clean, I took out my handkerchief and gently wiped her fingers one by one, slow and patient, the way no one had ever done for me when I was a child.

She smiled at me, that soft, sleepy smile that still carried morning in it.
And just like that, we walked back.
The park faded behind us, but the weight of her words didn’t. They stayed with me, settling somewhere deep in my chest, heavy and permanent.

I knew Kabir had already left for office.

Rithvik would be at the hospital by now.

Arin would be off to college from tomorrow-another child growing too fast, another phase slipping through my fingers before I was ready.

And Arnav....

I didn’t know.

He might not be home. Or maybe he was.

For the first time in years, that uncertainty existed and the reason behind it was a seven-year-old girl who had looked at him with worried eyes and told him not to go to work.

The thought alone felt unreal.

Arnav, who never broke routine.
Arnav, who never stayed back.
Arnav, who treated his work like oxygen-necessary, non-negotiable.

I shook my head lightly, almost smiling at myself.

We reached the car. I opened the passenger door and helped Avanya climb in, carefully fastening her seatbelt.

Tuffy jumped into the back seat, settling in like he belonged there- which, truthfully, he did. I took my place behind the wheel and started driving.

Avanya pressed her forehead lightly against the window, eyes wide, absorbing everything outside with complete concentration.

Buildings passed by. Roads stretched ahead. People moved with purpose, unaware of how fragile life really was.

I watched her through the mirror.

She didn’t know the world yet.
She didn’t know how cruel it could be. How quickly it could take everything away and still demand more.

She didn’t know about power, fear, blood, or the kind of darkness men like Arnav and I lived in.

And I prayed-silently, desperately-that she never would.

We reached home.

I parked the car, stepped out, and helped her down before guiding Tuffy inside.

The house felt unusually quiet. Not empty-just….paused. Like it was holding its breath.

We walked into the living room.

No one.

I called out, “Shobha Kaki?”
(Shoba aunt)

She appeared almost immediately, wiping her hands on her sari, her face warm and familiar.

“Kaki,” I asked, “where is everyone?”

She answered calmly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Bade sahab, Kabir baba has left for office. Rithvik baba has gone to the hospital. Arin baba is in his room. And Arnav baba is in his study.”

I didn’t react at first.

My mind needed a second to process the last name.

Arnav.

In his study.

At home.

Listening to a child.

I stood there in silence, my body still, but my thoughts spiraling.

Eight years.

For eight long years, that man had followed one rule above all others -never stop, never stay, never slow down.
No matter how deep the wounds, no matter how heavy the past, no matter how loud the ghosts screaming in his head-he always went to work.

Work was his escape.
Work was his punishment.
Work was his shield.
And today, he was home.

Because a child asked him to be.

I looked down at Avanya.

My princess

She was busy adjusting Tuffy’s collar, completely unaware of the storm she had just created. To her, it was simple.

Someone she cared about was hurt. Someone she had claimed as family might leave. And she didn’t want that.
So she spoke.
And the world listened.

Something twisted painfully inside my chest.
Pride. Fear. Gratitude. Guilt.
All tangled together.

I had seen Arnav at his worst. I had seen him drenched in blood that wasn’t always his own.
I had seen him cold, distant, unreachable. I had seen him build walls so high that even grief couldn’t climb them.

He hated physical touch.
He hated vulnerability.
He hated children-because they reminded him of things he had lost and things he had never allowed himself to want.

And yet…. today, he had broken every rule.

He had knelt.
He had held her.
He had stayed.
Not because someone ordered him to.
Not because it was logical.

But because her small voice reached a place no one else ever could.

For the first time, I wondered if I had misunderstood Arnav all these years.
Maybe he wasn’t unfeeling.

Maybe he was just.... unfinished.
And maybe this child-this light with dirt-stained hands and a heart too big for her body-was the missing piece.

I had spent my life protecting my family with strength, with strategy, with violence when necessary. I believed that was my role. My duty.

But watching Avanya....I realized protection came in different forms.

Sometimes it came quietly.

Sometimes it knelt to pick up fallen flowers.

Sometimes it simply asked someone to stay.

I felt something close to fear then.

Not of enemies.
Not of threats.
But of the world finding her.
Of the world trying to harden her softness.

I clenched my jaw, steadying myself.
No.
As long as I breathed, this house would be her shield.
As long as my heart beat, she would not be stepped on like dust.

As long as Arnav stayed-listened-changed, even a little-there was hope.

Hope that darkness didn’t always win.
Hope that broken men could still be healed.
Hope that love could enter even the most locked doors.

I placed a hand on Avanya’s head, gently smoothing her hair.
She looked up at me and smiled, innocent, trusting, unaware of how deeply she had already altered our lives.

And in that moment, I made myself a promise.
I would protect her from the world.
But I would also protect the world from ever turning her into someone like us.

I came out of my thoughts when I felt her fingers tug lightly at my sleeve, the way she did when she wanted my attention without disturbing me too much.

“Come, princess,” I said softly, bending a little so our eyes met. “Let’s give you a bath, and then we’ll fill that little tummy of yours.”

She nodded immediately, obedient but cheerful, and before I could even step forward, she lifted her arms toward me-a silent request I had already learned how to read.

I picked her up, her weight light against my chest, and carried her to the room. She smelled faintly of soap and morning air and something purely hers, something that didn’t have a name yet.

I made her sit on the couch and turned toward the cupboard, pulling out her towel, her clothes, her hair accessories, everything she would need.

“Princess,” I said, keeping my voice gentle and practical, “Kaki will help you bathe, okay?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she looked at the closed door for a second, then back at me.

And then she made that face.

Her lower lip pushed out just a little, eyes widening, blinking rapidly, lashes fluttering like she was trying very hard to be brave but failing adorably. It was what she called her puppy face, though she didn’t know the power it carried yet.

“Baba,” she said softly, stretching the word just enough to reach my heart, “you give me bath please?”

I closed my eyes for a brief second.

Just a few days.

That was all it had taken.

A few days for my entire dictionary to change.

Words I had lived with for years-rough, sharp, ugly-had quietly disappeared. In their place were words I had never thought would belong to me. Cute. Innocent. Puppy face. Light.

How could someone change your life so completely, so unknowingly?

I shook my head, forcing myself back into the present, and sighed in mock defeat.

“Okay,” I said, opening my eyes and looking at her. “Baba will give you a bath.”

Her face lit up instantly.

That smile-wide, pure, with that dimple appearing like it had been waiting for permission-hit me straight in the chest. I realized then, with a clarity that scared me a little, that I could spend my entire life just admiring that smile and still not be done with it.

She was my princess.

And I wanted her to always know how wanted she was, how cherished, how safe.

I took her to the bathroom, made her sit carefully on the slab, and spoke to her the entire time, keeping things calm, normal, comfortable.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong, okay?” I said, reaching for the water. “Too hot, too cold-tell baba.”

She nodded seriously, like this was a very important responsibility.

I undid her clothes carefully, one by one, mindful of her comfort and mine. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just.... respectful. I was new to this, yes, but I was learning. Every day, I was learning.

I washed her hair gently, making sure no water went into her eyes. She hummed quietly to herself, trusting me completely, and that trust sat heavy and precious in my hands. I wrapped her in a soft towel afterward, lifting her easily, and carried her back to the room.

I dressed her in a denim short dungaree with a white tunic underneath, neat and simple. I tied her hair into two ponytails, my fingers a little clumsy but determined. She watched me in the mirror, amused.

“Baba,” she giggled, “you’re slow.”

“I know,” I admitted, smiling despite myself. “But I’m trying.”

When I was done, I took out the small kohl stick I had bought for her during our shopping trip. I placed a tiny dot behind her ear, careful and deliberate.

“No evil eyes,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.

She tilted her head, curious. “What evil eyes?”

I smiled softly. “Nothing you need to worry about, princess. Baba is here.”

She leaned forward and hugged me suddenly, arms wrapping around my neck with all the strength her small body could manage.

And in that moment, I understood something very clearly.

Protection wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about possession. It was about presence.

It was about being there, steady and unmovable, so she could grow without fear.

I held her a little tighter, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Come on. Breakfast is waiting.”

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look like something to fight.

It looked like something to take care of.

I made her sit on the bed and finished my bath quickly, the kind of quick that only comes when your mind is still half-attuned to the soft weight of a child in your arms.

I dressed in a white shirt and black pants-simple, clean. I had started avoiding black shirts lately. Not because I disliked them, but because Avanya was almost always in my arms, and somewhere inside me lived a quiet fear that too much darkness might scare her.

It was irrational, maybe. But once you loved someone this small, logic learned to step aside.

I combed my hair, used a light body mist, nothing strong, nothing sharp. Then I picked her up again. She settled into me easily, as if my arms had always been meant for her.

We went downstairs. The clock on the wall read 10:07 a.m. Morning had already stretched into late calm, the kind that followed an emotionally heavy dawn.

I pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat, settling her on my lap. She folded herself there like she belonged-no hesitation, no doubt. I glanced toward the kitchen and called out, my voice steady.

“Shobha Kaki, please bring breakfast for us.”

Within minutes, the table came alive.

Steaming dosa with coconut chutney and sambar.

Soft poha dotted with peanuts and curry leaves.

Warm aloo parathas with fresh curd.

A small bowl of upma, mild and comforting.

For her, a glass of fresh apple juice and a small banana shake, carefully placed within reach.

But Shobha Kaki didn’t leave immediately. She stood there, hands folded, eyes thoughtful. I noticed.

“Is there something you want to say?” I asked gently.

She nodded. “Arin Sahib and Arnav Sahib haven’t eaten breakfast.”

(A/N; Sahib = Boss)

I nodded once. “Call them. Tell them I have asked them to join us.”

She nodded again and walked away.

Through all of this, Avanya watched us like a little detective. Her eyes moved between my face and Shobha Kaki, absorbing tones, pauses, meanings that weren’t spoken aloud. Children noticed more than adults gave them credit for.

I turned to her, tapping the table lightly. “Come on, princess. Let’s eat.”

She shook her head.

“Baba,” she said seriously, “we should start eating when all the family members are here.”

I looked at her then-really looked.

No matter how much she scrunched her nose at Arin’s antics.
No matter how much she narrowed her eyes when he annoyed her.
No matter how scared she said she felt around Arnav sometimes.

Her heart was untouched by divisions. She counted everyone as family. Without conditions. Without fear.

I nodded, respecting her rule.

Footsteps echoed in the hall.

First Arin, moving lazily, still half-asleep. Then Arnav-quiet, controlled, his presence filling the space without effort.

They took their seats.

And the moment Avanya saw Arnav, her entire face lit up. Like the sun had just decided to rise again.

Her fingers tightened in my shirt, excitement buzzing through her small frame. She leaned forward slightly, eyes bright, smile wide, dimples deep.

In that moment, watching her-watching them-I understood something I hadn’t before.

Family wasn’t built by blood alone.
It was built by who a child chose to smile at.

Avanya scrunched her nose at Arin the moment he sat properly, and almost on reflex, Arin rolled his eyes back at her, exaggerated enough to make Kabir's kind of humor proud.

These two-if chaos ever needed a face, it would borrow theirs. Their banter wasn’t loud, wasn’t spoken, but it existed in looks, in expressions, in silent wars that somehow made the air lighter.

I turned my attention to the table and began serving food onto my plate. Arnav and Arin did the same, quiet clinks of cutlery filling the space. It was ordinary. Peaceful. The kind of moment that felt fragile because peace always was.

But Avanya wasn’t looking at her plate.

Her entire focus had shifted.

She was staring at Arnav.

Not staring like a child looks at an adult. Not even like curiosity. It was the way someone looks at ice cream when they’ve been promised none-full of intent, longing, and a plan already forming behind those wide eyes.

Her gaze followed every small movement of his injured hand, every breath he took, as if he were the only thing that existed in the room.

She tugged at my shirt softly.

“Baba,” she whispered.

I glanced down at her. “Yes, princess?”

“Down.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, already suspicious. “Why?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at me again, lips pressing together, then-

“Baba, down please.”

And then came that word.

“Please.”

That single word, from her mouth.

PLEASE from her mouth and I will do anything in this world.

Anything.

I didn’t even fight it.

I nodded, slid my hands to her waist, and gently lowered her down. Her crocs landed softly against the cool marble floor, and she steadied herself with the seriousness of someone on a mission.

The room went quiet.

She turned and walked-no, marched- straight toward Arnav’s chair.

All of us watched. No one dared to interrupt. Not Arin, not even me. There are moments when adults instinctively know they are not meant to interfere, and this was one of them.

She stopped in front of him and tilted her head back. The height difference was ridiculous-he was towering, she was tiny-but her presence filled the space between them completely.

“Giant uncle,” she said, her voice firm in that childish way that tried very hard to sound commanding, “pick me up.”

Arnav froze.

For a second-a full second-the king of the dark realm didn’t know what to do. The man who could silence rooms, who could make grown men tremble with a look, sat there stunned by a seven-year-old girl in two ponytails.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

He lifted her carefully and settled her onto his lap.

Arin stopped chewing.

My eyebrows shot up.

I felt something shift in my chest.

Avanya turned toward Arnav immediately, her small face serious now. She gently took his injured hand in both of hers, inspecting it like a doctor with years of experience and a heart far too soft for the world.

“Your hand has oui oui (injury) ,” she said, frowning. “So you can’t eat with your hands.”

She looked up at him, nodding as if confirming a decision only she had the authority to make.

“I will feed you, okay?”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Even Arin looked shocked.

Arnav-Arnav Singh Rathore-the man who had turned himself into iron over the years, the man who hated being touched, who despised weakness, who had built walls so high no one dared climb them-

Was melting.

Not slowly.

Completely.

He cleared his throat. “Angel, I can eat by myself. I am not that hurt.”

She shook her head immediately, ponytails bouncing.

“No.”

Then she tried to sound stern. Tried.

“Giant uncle, shhh. I will feed you. You eat, okay?”

Did he raise his voice?

No.

Did he argue?

No.

The man who never allowed anyone to speak over him nodded like a child being scolded by his mother.

And I realized something then.

Avanya didn’t just live in this house.

She owned it.

The Rathore Empire didn’t belong to us anymore.

It belonged to her.

We were all her puppets.

And we were proud to be.

I have seen Arnav break men without lifting a finger.

I have seen him walk through blood, chaos, and darkness like it was nothing more than a hallway he owned.

I have seen him deny pain, affection, rest-everything human.

But this?

This scene in front of me rewired something deep inside my chest.

Avanya sat on his lap like she belonged there, small hands carefully holding a spoon as if it were the most important responsibility of her life. Her legs dangled freely, crocs lightly tapping against his thigh every time she shifted.

She leaned forward with complete focus, scooping just enough food, then pausing-always pausing-before bringing it toward his mouth.

“Slow,” she murmured to herself, not to him. “Or giant uncle will get hurt.”

Arnav didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t command.

He simply waited.

She raised the spoon toward his lips and looked at him with those wide eyes that held far too much care for a seven-year-old.

“Does it hurt more now?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “No, angel. It’s fine.”

She didn’t look convinced. She brought her free hand up and gently touched his bandaged knuckles, barely grazing them, like even air might hurt him.

“Tell me if it hurts,” she warned. “I will stop.”

I swallowed.

The man who never told anyone anything-was being instructed.
And he accepted it.

She finally fed him the spoonful, watching his face like a hawk, searching for even the smallest sign of discomfort. When he swallowed without a flinch, relief washed over her features so openly that it almost hurt to witness.

“Okay,” she nodded. “Next bite.”

Across the table, Arin scoffed under his breath.

“Huh,” he muttered, stabbing his food harder than necessary. “Before, he hated her existence. Now look at him. Eating like a five-year-old.”

I shot him a look, but Arin continued, voice lower now, half-jealous, half-disbelieving.

“I think bhai has officially lost his mind.”

Did Arnav hear him?

No.

Because Arnav wasn’t here anymore.

His entire world had narrowed to the child sitting on his lap.

Avanya tilted the spoon again, then paused mid-air. Her eyebrows knitted together.

“You didn’t chew properly,” she said seriously.

Arnav blinked. “….I did.”

She shook her head. “No. Chew more. Your hand is injured. Body needs energy.”

Arin froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.

I looked away for a moment because something sharp pressed behind my eyes.

Arnav actually chewed slower the next time.

Not because he was told.

But because she asked.

She fed him again, then again-every bite followed by inspection, concern, and a quiet question.

“Still okay?”
“Pain?”
“Too hot?”
“Drink water?”

She held the glass for him too, carefully tipping it just enough, her tiny fingers trembling slightly from the effort. Arnav supported the bottom of the glass with his uninjured hand, but he let her lead. Always her.

At one point, a drop spilled onto his shirt.

Avanya gasped. “Oh no!”

Before anyone could react, she wiped it with the sleeve of her own white tunic, completely unconcerned about the stain it left behind.

“I will clean later,” she declared. “First you eat.”

Something moved in Arnav’s throat.

He looked down at her-not like a king, not like a protector, not like the ruler of anything.

But like a man who didn’t realize he still had a heart until someone placed it back in his hands.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She frowned, offended. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

She looked at him like the answer was obvious.

“Because you are family.”

The table went silent.

Arin stopped breathing for a second.

And I-

I clenched my jaw.

Because that word-family-meant something very different to each of us.

And yet, she used it so easily.

She fed him the last bite and smiled, satisfied.

“Finished,” she announced. “Good boy.”

(A/n; anya beta he is mafia king atleast don't insult him this much🤧😭)

Arin choked.

I almost laughed.

Arnav didn’t react.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t correct her.

He simply nodded once, like being praised by her mattered more than any title he had ever earned.

Avanya finally leaned back against his chest, tired but content, and rested her head there for a second. Arnav instinctively adjusted his arm around her, careful not to hurt his hand, careful not to disturb her.

Iron didn’t just melt.

It yielded.

And as I watched them, I understood something terrifying and beautiful all at once-

This little girl wasn’t changing him by force.

She wasn’t fixing him.

She was reminding him of something he had buried so deep that even he forgot it existed.

And the most dangerous thing in the world…..

Was a man like Arnav Singh Rathore
who finally had something to lose.

If someone had told me a few weeks ago that I would sit at my dining table and watch Arnav Singh Rathore argue-softly-with a seven-year-old about breakfast portions, I would have laughed in their face.

Not because it was impossible.

But because Arnav Singh Rathore did not argue.

He commanded.

He decided.

He ended conversations before they even began.

And yet here he was.

The moment Avanya finished feeding him, wiping her tiny fingers against the edge of his plate like a responsible adult, Arnav spoke again-his voice quieter than usual, careful, almost unsure.

“Come now,” he said, adjusting her slightly on his lap. “It’s my turn. I’ll feed you.”

She shook her head immediately, ponytails swaying with determination.

“No,” she declared. “Baba will feed me.”

Her logic was absolute, her tone final.

Arnav raised an eyebrow, something between amusement and disbelief flickering across his face.

“No, angel,” he said gently. “I’m fine now. Look.” He lifted his bandaged hand slightly. “Perfectly fine.”

She stared at it, eyes narrowing, assessing like a tiny doctor.

For a moment, she said nothing.

We all waited.

Then she tilted her head, thinking deeply, lips pursed in concentration. After a few seconds, she nodded-slow, serious.

“Okay,” she agreed. “You can feed me. But slowly.”

Arnav’s mouth twitched.

I swear, I saw pride there.

He broke off a small piece of dosa, careful not to make it too big. Just as he was about to lift it toward her mouth, his eyes flicked down, sharp as ever.

Tomato.

Before I could say anything, Arin blurted out from across the table.

“Bhai,she doesn’t eat tomato.”

I turned to him instantly.

Arin froze under my stare.

That....was strange.

(A/N; Acha hua mai to Blind hu warna yeh dekhkr 2 tbsp pani mai dub girti)

He remembered.

Not just remembered-he remembered fast, instinctively, like it mattered.

Arnav didn’t comment. He simply removed the tomato piece from the dosa without a word and placed it aside. Then he adjusted the bite and held it up to her.

Avanya opened her mouth obediently, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

One bite.

Then another.

Slow. Careful. Measured.

She chewed thoughtfully, eyes occasionally flicking up to Arnav’s face, as if making sure he was still okay. Arnav watched her just as closely, every movement registered, every expression noted.

Halfway through the dosa, she suddenly raised her hand.

“Stop.”

Arnav froze mid-motion.

“Yes?” he asked.

She patted her stomach proudly. “I am full.”

I blinked.

Arnav frowned slightly. “But you barely ate.”

She looked at him like he had just said the most ridiculous thing.

Then she lifted her palm and placed it dramatically on her head.

“Ofoo, giant uncle,” she sighed. “I am little, na.”

She stretched her hands to show size comparison. “And my tummy is little too. So I eat little.”

Then she grinned.

“When I grow up like you, my tummy will grow too,” she announced confidently, “and then I will eat a lot. Like monster uncle.”

Silence.

Then-

Arin choked so hard on his food that I had to slap his back.

I almost lost my composure.

Arin glared at her. “Shut up. I don’t eat that much.”

She turned slowly toward him, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t,” he argued.

She paused. Thought. Tilted her head.

“Ohhh,” she said suddenly, realization dawning. “Right.”

Arin relaxed slightly.

Then she continued sweetly, “You don’t eat much because you only spill other people’s food on the floor. And that’s it.”

(A/N; Jaa rhe hai hum anya ke pass roast classes lene)

Checkmate.

Arin stared at her, speechless.

Then he muttered under his breath, “This little troublemaker.…”

Arnav looked at me.

I looked at him.

For the first time in years, we shared the same thought-

What is happening to our house?

Arnav cleared his throat, regaining control-at least outwardly.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do one thing. Drink a little juice or shake.”

She wrinkled her nose immediately. “I don’t like apple.”

“Shake?” he suggested.

She nodded enthusiastically. “Shake.”

He lifted the glass, guiding it carefully to her lips. She drank barely half, then pushed it away.

“Enough.”

Arnav didn’t argue.

Breakfast ended quietly after that.

Then, without asking, Arnav lifted her into his arms. She curled into him naturally, like she had always belonged there. He carried her toward the wash area, setting her down gently and helping her wash her hands-slow, careful, protective.

I watched it all in silence.

The man who once refused to sit at this table.

The man who despised weakness.

The man who built walls instead of bridges.

He was standing there now, water dripping from his fingers, helping a child rinse soap from her palms.

And I knew.

This was not a phase.

This was not a moment.

This was a beginning.

And for the first time in a long time-

I wasn’t afraid of what came next.

Arnav settled into the sofa opposite me, his posture relaxed on the outside, but I knew better. That man never truly relaxed.

I took the armchair beside the sofa, the afternoon light filtering in softly, while Avanya sat on the rug with Tuffy, giggling as she tried to make him balance a soft toy on his nose. Every time it fell, she laughed like the world had just gifted her a miracle.

Arin walked past us, heading upstairs with a book tucked under his arm.
“Study,” he muttered, already half lost in his own world.

The house felt….normal.
Too normal.

Arnav turned to me, his expression shifting into business mode. “Dad, Mr. Wilson wants to meet you regarding the upcoming project.”

I nodded. “The overseas expansion?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The logistics contract and the acquisition overlap. He wants clarity before finalizing the numbers.”

That explained the urgency. Wilson was not a man who waited.

Arnav continued, voice lower now. “But we can’t leave Avanya here without you. And taking her outside...” He paused, jaw tightening. “It might be risky.”

I leaned back, thinking. He was right. The outside world was no longer just roads and meetings-it was unpredictable. Dangerous. Especially now.

“I’ll handle it,” I said after a moment. “Don’t worry.”

He nodded, trusting me without question, and we shifted into work mode.

We discussed timelines first-the staggered rollout of the new manufacturing units, the phased investment plan, and how Wilson wanted a faster return window than we were comfortable with. I pointed out the regulatory delays, the land clearances, the labor contracts that still needed renegotiation.

“He’s pushing for a thirty percent stake,” Arnav said. “Too much control.”

“Which is exactly why we don’t give it,” I replied calmly. “We counter with twenty-two, capped voting rights, and operational oversight stays with us.”

Arnav’s lips curved slightly. “That’s what I told him last time.”

We moved to numbers-profit projections, risk buffers, insurance clauses. It was a conversation we’d had a thousand times before, smooth and precise, like chess played without a board.

And yet, my eyes kept drifting.

Avanya was now lying on her stomach, whispering something to Tuffy like it was a top-secret mission. He wagged his tail, utterly devoted. She suddenly looked up at us, waved, and flashed that dimpled smile.

Something in my chest tightened.

Arnav noticed. He didn’t comment.

“We’ll schedule the meeting here,” I said finally. “No external movement. Security stays tight.”

“That works,” Arnav agreed. “I’ll inform Wilson.”

Just as he finished speaking-

A sharp shout cut through the air.

“Ahhhhh—!”

The sound sliced straight through me.

Before my mind could process it, my body was already moving. Arnav was on his feet at the exact same second, his expression transforming into something raw, something fierce.

Then came the cry.

Avanya’s cry.

Not loud-
but scared.

That was enough.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t question. We ran.

Straight toward the sound.

And whatever waited at the end of that hallway-

It was about to face us.

----------------👉🏻👈🏻------------

Hello my cutie potatoes, my little hearts, my chaos-loving souls 🤍

Come here, sit properly, let me talk to you for a bit because this is a news note, not just a formality.

Okay first of all-

I am sorry.

Like genuinely, from the bottom of my dramatic author heart.

I did say I’ll update last night, and then-boom-nature decided to test my patience. For the past two days, the place where I live has been full-on rain, thunderstorm, dramatic lightning like some villain’s entry scene.

Because of that, there were constant power cuts. Light aayi, light gayi, phir aayi, phir gayi.

My phone? Not cooperating. VPN? On strike. Laptop? Completely down like it said, “Mujhse na ho payega.”

So yeah, yesterday’s update didn’t happen-not because I didn’t want to, but because the universe clearly wanted to humble me.

Now finally, the light is back, I charged my laptop like it’s my lifeline, and here I am-updating you.

So please…..
forgive your anuvae🥺
I promise I didn’t disappear on purpose.

Now, IMPORTANT THING 👀
That feeding scene?
That soft, melt-your-heart, iron-turning-into-warm-silence scene?

✨ All credit goes to Coco. ✨

Yes. Coco literally said, “Anuvae didi, do this.”

I just wrote it. The idea, the emotion, that beautiful core-hers.

And honestly? It turned out to be one of my most favorite parts of the chapter. I loved writing it. I loved imagining it. And judging by your reactions….. you loved reading it too.

So Coco-if you’re reading this-this scene belongs to you 🤍

Now listen carefully, my Anuvians.
If there is anything you want to see in the upcoming chapters-any moment, any interaction, any soft scene, any intense one-tell me.

Drop it in the comments. I will try to add it in my POV, in my style, but keeping your wish alive. This story is mine to write, yes-but it is ours to feel.

And now…...
👀 14th February.

Yes. Valentine’s Day.

Be ready.
Because your anuvae is planning something that you might not be expecting….
or maybe….
some of you secretly asked for it.

I won’t say more.
I’ll just say-don’t miss that update.

Next chapter is coming very soon, but yes-your anuvae needs motivation too 😌
So let’s do this:
• Around 75 votes
• And lots of comments

No pressure, no strict target-
but you know na, I love reading your comments. I literally read every single one and reply because that’s my favorite part. So comment, dude. Please. Pretty please.

I’m talking in a very stern voice right now….
but emotionally, lovingly, dramatically 🫶

Okay, enough gyaan for now.
Bye-bye, my cutie potatoes.
We’ll meet very soon.

And yes-
I’m going to sleep now.
I know it’s morning.
But I haven’t slept the whole night, so for me-it’s good night.

Good night.
Take care.
Miss me a little till the next chapter drops 💫