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I slam the door of my hotel room, my entire body vibrating with rage. The image of Simran holding our son—my son—burns vividly in my mind, reminding me of the betrayal I’ve just uncovered. I pace the room, my hands clenching and unclenching as I try to grapple with all these emotions coursing through me.

How could she do this to me? How could Simran keep my own child from me? The questions pound in my head, each one fuelling the fire of my anger. I grab the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand and take a long, burning swig. The alcohol does nothing to dull the pain; if anything, it only makes it worse. I drink more, hoping to numb the agony ripping through me, but it’s useless.

My body still trembles with rage.

“Veer,” I whisper, tasting the name of my son on my lips. A son I didn’t even know existed, until a few hours ago. A son whose precious first months of life I’ve missed, moments I can never get back again.

The cruel irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. I let out a bitter laugh, taking another gulp of whiskey. History, it seems, has a sick sense of humour.

I was born out of wedlock, too, a secret my mother kept from my father, Pratap Walia, for four long years. The pain of growing up without a father’s name, the stigma that followed me through my childhood—it all comes rushing back, threatening to drown me. The whispers, the rumours, the shame—I’ve lived with it every single day of my life. And now, Simran is trying to inflict the same fate on my son.

She knew what I’d gone through, she knew how much it hurt, and yet she kept my son from me. She has deceived me in the worst possible way. The rage takes hold of me again, hot and suffocating. I take another swig, the whiskey burning down my throat, but it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to numb this pain. In a fit of fury, I hurl the bottle against the wall, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces, just like my heart. Tears stream down my face as I slump to the floor, my body racked with sobs.

“Why, Simran? Why?” I whisper through the tears. “How could you do this to me? How could you keep him from me?”

The memory of that night in the club eighteen months ago flashes through my mind. I had opened up to Simran and had shared glimpses of my painful past with her, something I’d never done with anyone before. She knew, at least in part, the struggles I had faced growing up without a father. And yet, she chose to keep Veer a secret from me.

I slam my fist into the floor, the sharp pain radiating up my arm, but I don’t care. On the contrary, I welcome it. Anything to distract from the agony swirling inside me. But the memories just won’t stop. Though Dad had taken my mother and me under his protection, and now, had publicly claimed me as his son, the damage had already been done. Those years of secrecy had shaped my entire childhood, leaving the scars that are a part of me now. And I know I’ll carry them until my last breath.

But I won’t let Veer suffer like I did. Never! I stand up, ignoring the broken glass crunching under my feet. Now that I know about Veer, now that I’ve held my son in my arms, nothing will keep me from him. Not Simran, not society, nothing. I will be a part of Veer’s life, come what may.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I vow to myself. “I’ll fight for every right as his father. Veer will never know the pain of growing up without a father’s love and acknowledgement.”

A flicker of hope blooms my heart, a belief that it’s still never too late to fix things. The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive Simran for her deception. The trust between us is shattered, perhaps beyond repair. And right now, my focus is solely on Veer. Even if Simran tries to stand in my way, I will fight for my son. I’ll fight for my place in his life, no matter the cost. I refuse to let history repeat itself. Veer will have a father who loves him, who acknowledges him, and who will never abandon him.

Simran may have betrayed me, but I won’t let her take my son away from me. Not now, not ever.

The phone beside me starts to ring as I sit on the floor, drunk and raw with emotion. I glance at the caller ID. It’s him—my father, Pratap Walia. My hand trembles as I reach for the phone. I haven’t spoken to him since I left for New York, only sending a vague message about some urgent business that had cropped up.

But now, in the wake of everything that had happened in the last few hours—learning about my son and finding out about Simran’s betrayal—a bitter taste lingers in my mouth. I can’t help but wonder how my father must have felt when he discovered my existence. Had he felt the same gut-wrenching betrayal? The same flood of emotions I’m drowning in now?

The urge to know makes me pick up the phone, even though I’m not in the right state to talk. I hesitate, my hand trembling as I swipe the answer button.

“Vishnu,” my father’s voice booms through the speaker. The moment I hear his familiar voice, something in my heart cracks wide open. His tone is laced with concern, and I know he’s been trying to reach me all day to know if I’m okay.

“Why have you been ignoring my calls? What’s so urgent that you left without even telling me in person?” His tone is demanding, but beneath that edge, there’s an underlying layer of worry that pricks me like a thorn.

I stay silent. What the hell can I even say? My throat tightens, and all I can hear is my own laboured breathing.

“Vishnu, are you alright?” His voice softens, and in that instant, fresh tears spring to my eyes. Even though he’s miles apart, he can sense that something is wrong with me.

I bite back the sobs that are threatening to escape, but I can’t hide it. The silence on my end speaks volumes of my current state of mind.

“You’re scaring me, son. What’s wrong? Where are you? Don’t make me come there just to make sure you’re fine.” His voice rises, his concern giving way to frustration, maybe even fear. “I can feel it, Vishnu. Something is clearly amiss. Talk to me.”

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. My hands shake as I clutch the phone, feeling like a lost child again—helpless, vulnerable, and in pain.

“How…” My voice breaks, and I try again. “How did you feel when you first found out… about me?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. I can almost hear him processing my question. I know I’ve caught him off guard.

“Why are you asking me this, Vishnu? Why now?” His voice is quieter now, more controlled. “And have you been drinking?” he asks sharply. “This isn’t like you, son. You never lose control like this.”

I fight back another wave of tears, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t tell him about Veer yet. I’m not ready for that. But I need to know. I need to understand what he went through because now I’m living that same nightmare—the nightmare of missing out on knowing about my own son.

“I… I had a dream,” I lie, my voice hoarse. “About Mom… about how you found out about me. It felt so real. Like I could feel everything you were going through—the shock, the betrayal. The weight of having something so important kept from you… for no justifiable reason.”

He buys the excuse, I think. I hear him sigh deeply, and then he speaks again.