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I can see her mind racing, processing what this means for her carefully planned life and her business commitments.

“You can’t do this, Vishnu. You have to give me some time. I can’t just fly to—”

“Two weeks,” I cut her off firmly. “That’s all you have.”

Without another word, without touching the breakfast she so carefully prepared, I turn and walk away. I can’t bear to see the confusion, hurt, anger, and frustration warring on her face. I can’t let myself be swayed by her emotional plea for more time.

As I close the main door behind me, a small voice in my head whispers that maybe she’s right about everything—about the time we need, about my forgiveness, about our future, and about how my responsibilities might leave no room for us to grow as a couple. But I push that voice down and lock it away with all my other doubts.

Because right now, I can’t afford to doubt. Not when my son’s future hangs in the balance.

CHAPTER 17

VISHNU

Few Hours Later

I pace across the room, my gaze fixed on the sketch of the joker mask lying on the table before me. Simran is off to her boutique with Abhay and the rest of the guards. I stayed back with my team, trying to connect the dots on this masked man. The vivid grin on the joker mask that he’s been wearing every time he’s come face to face with Simran or me feels like a deliberate taunt. And now, staring at this sketch, it’s as if the mask itself is mocking my inability to capture the man behind it.

My team stands in silence, awaiting further orders as my thoughts race.

“Why a joker mask?” I mutter, more to myself than to them. “It’s not random. It’s specific, intentional. It must surely mean something—symbolise something. Find out everything you can about this mask. Any historical significance, connections to logos, organisations, even brands. Also, dig into Jack Thompson’s past too. I want a complete background check on him—his entire life story, including the circumstances of his death. I need every detail,” I instruct my team.

My men nod, immediately springing into action, but my mind remains restless. Amidst all this, I’m also awaiting the progress from my lawyer, who’s handling the legal formalities for Simran’s and my wedding here in New York. And that reminds me, I’m yet to talk to my family and break this shocking news to them.

The intercom buzzes sharply, breaking my train of thought.

The guard’s voice comes through as I answer. “Sir, your father is here. He is headed towards the elevator to meet you.”

“What?” I bark into the intercom, my voice filled with disbelief.

For a moment, I am completely stunned. Dad is here? It is impossible. Absolutely impossible. How can Dad be here without my knowledge? Dad never travels anywhere without my explicit planning and security arrangements. How could he come all the way here without me being informed?

“How is that possible? Why wasn’t I informed?” I shout again, my mind racing through security protocols, potential breaches, and all that he has risked to come here unannounced. For what? Before I can process further, the door swings opens and there he is—Pratap Walia, my father, standing just a few feet away from me. His presence takes up the entire room, commanding it effortlessly like only he can.

I freeze again before abruptly ending the call and stride toward the door, anger and disbelief coursing through me.

“What are you doing here, Dad? Why... why didn’t I know you were coming? Why wasn’t I informed?”

He raises his hand to silence me, cutting through my questions and concern.

“You weren’t informed because I instructed them not to. To meet my son, I don’t need anyone’s permission—not even yours,” he says, a slight smile playing on his lips. I open my mouth to argue, but he continues. “And before you ask about security lapses, let me reassure you I didn’t do anything reckless. Ayaan arranged everything. His special guards handled my travel in a private jet. No one in India, apart from Ayaan and Meher, even knows I’m here in New York.”

“Meher knew you were coming?” The anger in my voice is now directed at my sister for not informing me. She’s going to hear from me later, as usual, for breaching protocol.

“She’s my daughter.” Dad simply shrugs. “And she did what I asked her to do—to keep it from you. Now, can we keep this question-answer round for later so that I can at least hug my son?”

His next words, laced with raw emotion, stop me cold.

“Besides, I have never been away from you for this long ever in my life. This was the first time, and I missed you, son.”

Something inside me cracks. He is right. This is the longest we’ve ever been apart. For years, I’ve been his shadow, standing by his side through everything—protecting him and guarding his every step. Wherever his political work takes him, I am always right beside him. These few days apart… this distance—it’s new to us both.

I close the distance between us and pull him into a tight hug. Dad’s hands stroke my back with a tenderness that still feels new—an affection he’d withheld for so many years before acknowledging me publicly as his son just eighteen months ago.

“I missed you too, Dad,” I admit quietly.

As we hold each other, memories flood my mind. The journey from being an unknown son to becoming his most trusted protector, the transformation of our relationship from distant and fractured to deeply connected. The political risks he faces daily, the constant threats to his life—all of these have only drawn us closer.