Chapter 4: Fractures

A week later, Kabir Mehra returned from his business trip. It was already ten o’clock at night.

The monsoon clouds hung heavy in the Mumbai sky as his car pulled into the driveway. Usually, the entire house would be buzzing at his arrival—the staff on alert, lights turned on, his favourite snacks waiting on the dining table. But tonight, the bungalow was quiet. Even the night watchman barely stirred.

In the past, my daughter and I would wait up for him, no matter how late it was. But tonight, Pari had already bathed and gone to bed, and I wasn’t in the main bedroom—I’d moved to the guest room on the second floor.

No more waiting by the window, no more hurried steps to greet him at the door with Pari in my arms, pretending everything was perfect.

When I heard the familiar sound of the car engine, I was standing on the balcony, staring at the message I’d received six days ago: that record of his vasectomy surgery.

The city below was alive with the honking of cars, but up here, everything felt far away—like I was floating outside my own life, looking in.

Even now, opening it made my eyes sting with tears.

I pressed the phone to my chest, blinking hard to hold back the tears. The words on the screen blurred, then sharpened again, each one a pinprick.

"Ananya, as long as you’re willing, just nod your head. I’ll treat Pari as my own. From now on, she’ll be my only daughter—no, my only child."

The words echoed in my mind, sweet and sharp. For a moment, I wondered: was this all I wanted? Someone to claim us, even if only in private?

I stared at those words for a long, long time, until the screen went dark, until I heard Kabir Mehra’s footsteps coming upstairs, then going down again from the main bedroom on the third floor, stopping outside the guest room where I was.

His steps, once familiar and comforting, now sounded like the approach of someone I no longer knew. The air was thick with old arguments and unsaid apologies.

Then, a knock on the door.

"Ananya, open the door."

His voice was impatient, the command clear. I wiped my tears quickly, not wanting him to see any sign of weakness.

I hastily wiped my tears and shoved my phone under the pillow.

My hands trembled. I smoothed my hair, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to summon the courage to speak.

"I’m sleeping. If there’s anything, let’s talk tomorrow—"

My voice cracked mid-sentence, but before I could finish, he’d already opened the door from the outside.

The sound of the latch clicking open made my heart skip a beat. Of course he had a key—this was his house, after all.

I was startled, then quickly sobered. This is Kabir Mehra’s house—of course he has every right to come in.

For a moment, I looked at the floor, feeling like a guest in my own home.

"Why did you move to the guest room?"

He seemed displeased, his voice colder than usual.

He stood in the doorway, hands in pockets, his jaw clenched. Even tired from his journey, he radiated authority.

I slowly sat up, looking at him. After a long flight, there was still fatigue on his face. He rubbed his brow, his voice a bit hoarse.

I noticed the faint stubble on his chin, a rare sign of neglect. But his eyes—dark and sharp—missed nothing.

I forced myself to ignore the ache in my heart and looked away. "I haven’t been feeling well lately. I didn’t want to get you sick."

My excuse sounded weak, but it was all I could manage. I hugged the pillow to my chest, trying to appear casual.

"I don’t care about that. Move back."

His words left no room for argument, as if my feelings were a minor inconvenience.

When I didn’t move, he frowned slightly. "Ananya?"

There was a note of warning in his voice, the same one he used with junior staff when things didn’t go his way.

"I want to sleep. You should rest early, too..."

I tried to sound firm, but my voice quivered at the end.

Kabir didn’t reply. He walked straight to the bed, leaned over, and actually picked me up in his arms.

My heart pounded as he lifted me, his grip as strong as ever. But this time, instead of excitement, I felt only a chill.

"It’s been a week. Don’t you want to?"

His words, once thrilling, now felt like a demand. He leaned in, lips searching for mine.

As he spoke, he lowered his head to kiss me.

But I turned my face away.

The rejection surprised us both. I braced myself for what would come next.

He was surprised, then his expression quickly darkened.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. For a moment, I saw hurt in his eyes—then it was gone, replaced by coldness.

"Ananya, what kind of drama are you doing now?"

The accusation stung. I looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. In the silence, the ceiling fan clicked softly overhead, indifferent to our pain.