Page 18

“How long?” I repeat, keeping my anger in check. “Days? Weeks? Months?”

“It’s been… more than a year,” she snaps.

The admission throws me.More than a year?

“You mean he’s not helping you raise your son?”

Her eyes blaze with indignation. “He doesn’t have to. I’m perfectly capable of raising my son, Vishnu. And why are you even bringing him into all this?”

“Because what if he’s the one threatening you?”

“It’s not him.” She shakes her head, her voice firm.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just know it’s not him, Vishnu. Topic closed.”

I’m stunned by her certainty, by the fierce defence of him. Before I can question her further, her phone buzzes. “Who’s calling at this time?” I ask, suspicion lacing my words.

“Please, stop overcrowding me,” she snaps, flashing the screen at me. It’s Julie, her assistant. I nod, allowing her to take the call. Simran steps out onto the balcony, leaving me to stew over her evasive answers.

I head to the living room, replaying our conversation. Her reluctance to talk about her boyfriend feels off. What kind of man was he? One who would abandon his child or one who’s now suddenly interested in his rights as a father?

Lost in thought, I’m startled by a soft cry from the room next door. It must be her son. I glance towards the balcony. Simran is still engrossed in her phone call with Julie, oblivious to her child’s distress.

For a moment, I hesitate. Part of me wants to ignore the cry, to maintain the emotional distance I’ve been clinging to since discovering Simran’s new life. After all, this child represents everything that’s changed, everything that Simran has kept hidden from me. But there’s another part, a part I can’t quite suppress, that urges me to check on the baby. What if the baby is scared or needs someone?

I take a deep breath and move towards the room, convincing myself it’s just the responsible thing to do. The door creaks slightly as I push it open, revealing a nursery bathed in soft, warm light. There, just beside Simran’s bed, is a baby cot, and within it, I see him—Simran’s son.

The baby boy is on his stomach, his tiny fists waving in the air as he struggles to turn over. His face is all scrunched up in concentration, and without even realising it, I draw closer despite my reservations, fascinated by his innocent determination. As I approach, he manages to roll onto his back, letting out a triumphant gurgle.

Then, he looks up at me, and the world comes to a standstill.

Those eyes. I know those eyes. They’remyeyes, staring back at me from a face that’s an unmistakable blend of Simran and me. The shape of his nose, the curve of his cheeks—it’s like looking at my own baby pictures.

My heart thunders in my chest as the truth crashes over me. This isn’t just Simran’s son. This ismyson.Ourson.

Rage erupts within me, hot and wild, like a volcano of betrayal and shock. My vision blurs, my hands trembling with barely restrained fury. How could she keep this from me? Keephimfrom me? How dare she rob me of knowing my own flesh and blood?

But before I can drown in that anger, the baby—my son—lets out another soft cry, pulling me back to the present. Without thinking, I reach into the crib and lift him into my arms. He feels so small, so delicate, yet so right in my embrace. He looks up at me, his tiny hand reaching out to touch my face, and I’m overcome by a surge of love so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.

Tears, hot and unbidden, spill from my eyes, and I let them fall. The last time I cried like this was when I was twelve, and my mother lay on her deathbed. The grief of losing the only person who meant the world to me back then was overwhelming, but what I feel now is entirely different. Discovering that a part of me—my own flesh and blood—has existed all this time, and was kept from me.By her.By the woman I secretly wanted in my life but could never admit, not even to myself.

CHAPTER 5

VISHNU

*Eighteen months earlier*

The club was a blur of faces and bodies as I made my way to the bar. I ordered a double whiskey, neat, and retreated to a secluded corner at the bar counter. As the alcohol burned its way down my throat, the memories I’d suppressed for so long began to surface.

I was born out of wedlock, a secret my father kept buried for years. I was about four, and by the time he learned of my existence, he was already married and had a daughter, Meher. His political career was just starting to take off at that time, and admitting to having a son from an affair would have ignited a scandal, threatening to ruin everything he had worked for.

After knowing about me, he had taken over my responsibility secretly, all in a hush-hush manner, but it was never enough for me. I had a loving mother, but I still craved the love and support of my father, who was barely present in my life. Forget living with us, he would hardly visit us once a month. When I was twelve, my mother passed away, and my dad sent me off to boarding school in Dehradun with the promise that he’d finally accept me as his son before the world once I graduated.

I remembered the day I graduated, filled with hope and excitement. At 22, I thought I was finally going to take my rightful place in the Walia family, just like Dad had promised. But instead, I was relegated to the servant’s quarters, and was offered a position as his bodyguard—the only way I could be close to the man who was my father but could never publicly acknowledge me.

So, I became his shadow, always present but never truly seen. I protected him, his family, his reputation—all the while burying my own dreams and desires. I did it for my mother, Vandita, to honour the promise I made to her on her deathbed. To always stand by him, to protect him. No matter what.