I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t need one.
Because tonight isn’t about protocol or politics or politeness.
Tonight is about making sure a man who walked away from her doesn’t get to pretend it anymore.
Falling
SITARA
I find Bhai-sa near the far end of the hall, mid-conversation with an elderly man I don’t recognize. They’re standing close, heads bent toward each other, it seems like they are engaged in a polite and diplomatic exchange. Bhai-sa looks composed, regal even—until his eyes lift and land on me.
The change is almost instant.
His brows pull together, concern sharpening his features, and something in my chest caves in. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick and stubborn, and blink rapidly because this is not the place to cry. Not now. Not here.
Before Bhai-sa can say anything, Bhabhi-sa is beside me, her hand already at my elbow like she sensed it from across the room. “Sitara,” she murmurs, voice soft but alert. “What happened?”
“He’s here,” I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Bhai-sa excuses himself immediately, not bothering with pleasantries. The old man nods and steps back, forgotten. Bhai-sa’s attention is entirely on me now, sharp and focused in a way that makes my chest tighten all over again.
I tell him everything. About seeing Ayush. About the way my stomach dropped. About the smirk that felt deliberate, cruel. About Dhruv’s hand tightening at my back, about how he went rigid in a way I’ve never seen before. About how he told me to find Bhai-sa and stay with him. About Maharaj Lakshman being pulled aside.
I don’t leave anything out.
Bhai-sa’s face darkens with every word. Not anger exactly—not yet. Something colder. More dangerous. When I finally trail off, he reaches out and places his palm gently on my head, fingers pressing into my hair with a familiarity that makes my eyes burn.
It’s such a simple gesture.
And yet it almost undoes me.
I never really got to know my father. I remember him—his laugh, the way he used to lift me up and spin me around until I squealed—but those memories are few, faded at the edges. I lost him too early. After that, the role of parent, protector, constant—it all fell on Bhai-sa without anyone ever asking him if he wanted it.
He never complained.
So when his hand rests on my head like this, steady and grounding, a part of me wants to lean into it and pretend everything is fine. Because for most of my life, that’s what it meant. Bhai-sa would handle it. Bhai-sa would fix it. Bhai-sa would make sure nothing touched me.
But tonight, something feels different.
I don’t feel safe.
I feel… afraid.
Not of Ayush. Not really.
Of what Dhruv looked like.
I watch Bhai-sa straighten, jaw set, already turning toward the exit. I know that look. I’ve seen it before—in boardrooms, in crisis meetings, in moments when someone has crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.
“I’ll handle this,” he says quietly, and there’s no room for argument.
I nod, because that’s what I’ve always done. Trusted him. Believed him.
Still, as I watch him walk out, a strange ache settles in my chest.
Because I hated the way Dhruv looked.
I hated that the gentle, teasing, warm Dhruv—the one who whispers reassurances, who watches me like I matter, who notices when my hands shake—was nowhere to be seen. In his place was someone else entirely. Someone sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.
