His gaze did not linger on the gathered family.
It went straight to Veeransh. Standing behind the noise, Veeransh remained unnoticed by everyone else. But not by him.
Their eyes met.
The man descended the grand staircase as the cigarette resting between his fingers burned slowly, its thin trail of smoke curling upward like something deliberate, something dangerous. It did not suit the elegance, but showed passion.
"Welcome, bhai."
The voice pulled every eye toward him. Even Veeransh's.
It was Krishav Singhania.
The youngest son of Lalita Singhania. The man who, at an age when most were still learning the language of power, already commanded seven out of the seventeen companies under the Singhania empire. There was no arrogance in the way he stood, but there was something different.
Krishav's gaze did not wander across the room, nor did it acknowledge the elders seated composedly or the younger ones scattered in careless ease. It cut through the noise, through the layered hum of conversations and clinking glassware, and found only one person.
To Veeransh.
Kairav was off the sofa before the sentence finished. He crossed in three steps and pulled his younger brother into a hug that was less greeting and more collision, the way brothers who genuinely like each other tend to embrace. "Kris, my brother."
"Bhai," Krishav let out a faint smile as the burnt ash of the cigarette crumbled and dropped to the ground.
"You look like you've been buying half the country again," Kairav said, pulling back slightly, his tone teasing.
"Only the parts worth owning."
"Of course," Kairav replied, shaking his head. "Leave something for the rest of us, no?"
"That depends," Krishav said, his voice smooth, "on whether the rest of you can afford it."
The elders hovered at the edges, sipping chai, while the youth circle sprawled across sofas and Bombay sandwiches, samosas, pakoras, and chilled beers flowing freely.
Shreya and Aastha grabbed both their brothers and dragged them over to the couch and forced them down.
"Finally, Mr. America shows up," Shreya said, eyeing his bags. "So… where are my gifts? Don't tell me you came back empty-handed."
Aastha flipped her hair with a smirk. "I hope you didn't forget—I want that limited-edition designer bag and a Mac."
Kairav chuckled, slipping off his sunglasses. "Relax, both of you. I didn't fly halfway across the world without bringing something worthy of my very demanding sisters. Your Ayesha bhabi picked out every gift for the whole family," he said casually, "They're all in the third car."
Ayesha smiled confidently, "Don't worry, guys, my choices are the best."
"What about me, di?"
The voice seemed to come from nowhere, followed by the sharp, deliberate echo of heels striking marble from above. The room fell into a hush, every gaze instinctively lifting toward the staircase. And then, she appeared as if the moment itself had been waiting for her.
Jhanvi Suri.
Draped in a red gown that clung to her form with boldness, the high slit revealing just enough to command attention, she was impossible to ignore. Her sleek, straight hair framed a face that felt familiar, yet entirely transformed. Her eyes, deep reddish-brown, held an intensity that lingered. And her bold red lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile.
"There's a lot for everyone, my sissy," Ayesha said warmly as she stepped forward and wrapped Jhanvi in a tight hug, the sisters holding onto each other for a moment.
Aarav leaned closer to Koustuv and whispered, "Bro… they look exactly the same, yaar."
Koustuv rolled his eyes and muttered back, "Bruh, they're twins… what were you expecting, difference?"
Veeransh had had enough of the noise and the suffocating display of wealth, so he quietly slipped into the kitchen, intending to check if the preparations were going smoothly. What he didn't notice, however, was the way Krishav's gaze followed him sharp, unwavering, tracking his every step until he disappeared from sight.
Krishav's eyes flickered back only when Jhanvi's voice cut in, laced with playful annoyance. "Baby, where are you looking at?" she said, lightly tapping his arm. "Look at me—I'm the important and pretty one here."
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes teasingly. "Or did someone just walk in and steal all your attention?"
Krishav exhaled softly, dragging his gaze back to her. "Relax, Jaan… I'm right here, aren't I?"
She wasn't convinced, crossing her arms with a small pout. "Physically, yes. Mentally? Pfft, I'm not so sure."
* * *
The mansion had fallen into a hush once the last footsteps of the members faded upstairs, silence settling like a heavy curtain over the Singhania estate. Lalita's voice, calm yet commanding, cut through it.
"Kairav. Krishav."
The brothers paused, exchanging a brief glance before turning. Lalita's gaze softened, but only slightly. "Call your wife-to-bes."
Ayesha and Jhanvi walked to them.
Lalita studied them all, then spoke, low and deliberate. "These alliances are not merely marriages. They are legacies. You will uphold the Singhania name. And also honour the union of two souls bound by love."
Krishav's eyes flickered, unreadable. Kairav smirked faintly.
"And you both," Lalita added looking at the twins, her tone sharpening, "are not my bahus, but my daughters." Lalita's fingers brushed tenderly against the girls' cheeks, her touch almost indulgent. "Sonia's daughters are truly beautiful, so graceful," she murmured with a soft smile. "Well, she is my dear friend. It was only natural some of....my charm would find its way to you, both."
Krishav caught Kairav's eye, and the brothers exchanged a quiet, knowing smile, laced with mischief.
"Now go."
Krishav and Kairav obeyed without a word. Years of discipline and unspoken rules moved their feet before thought could interfere. Ayesha followed Kairav, her presence composed, almost ornamental in its perfection, while Krishav trailed behind Jhanvi, distracted as ever, her attention caught somewhere between her reflection and her own thoughts.
Kairav's steps faltered, his narrow eyes behind his glasses widening, lingering far too long. Attraction bloomed uninvited, a dark heat uncoiling in his chest at the sight of those clean, sharp features—the structured jawline holding echoes of resilience, the wheatish skin smooth under labor's faint sheen, black hair falling in an effortlessly rebellious tousle. It clashed violently with Ayesha's soft presence at his side, her sapphire eyes and promised vows a gilded cage. Guilt twisted sharp, but the pull lingered, forbidden and intoxicating, stirring something primal beneath his sophisticated veneer.
Kairav did not realize he had slowed down until Krishav stopped beside him. "What happened, bhai?" Krishav murmured under his breath, glancing sideways.
But Kairav did not respond immediately.
"Arre Kris," Kairav murmured, adjusting his glasses as if to sharpen the vision. "Who's this guy? The one juggling those gift boxes like a pro. Looks... familiar, somehow."
Krishav followed his gaze. Something quietly knowing moved across his face, and he slid both hands into his pockets, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't say anything immediately. He let the pause sit.
"Bhai, that's Veeransh. Remember Pawan Kaka?" He inquired.
Kairav frowned, trying to place the name, but his eyes refused to leave Veeransh.
Something clicked. His face transformed, nostalgia flooding his composed features, glasses slipping down his nose as boyhood rushed back. "Haan bhai, how can I forget Pawan Kaka? He practically raised me when I was in India. More than half my childhood memories have him in them."
A faint smile touched his lips before fading. "Where is he? I haven't seen him yet." he asked, still looking ahead.
There was a pause.
Jhanvi, who had been walking slightly ahead, studying her nails with the kind of disinterest that only she could make look elegant, said it the way she said most things—plainly, without decoration.
"Expired."
Silence crashed like a thunderclap. Kairav and Krishav snapped toward her, shock rippling across their faces. Kairav's intellectual mask fracturing into raw dismay, mouth parting in horror. Ayesha, standing beside Kairav, looked equally taken aback. "Jhanvi," she muttered, her tone low with disapproval.
Jhanvi finally glanced up, unfazed. "What? That's what happened."
"What?" Kairav turned to look at her, then at Krishav, his voice low and disbelieving. "What do you mean, expired?"
Krishav exhaled slowly. His smirk was long gone now. "One month ago," His voice was quieter than usual, stripped of its usual easy confidence. "There was an accident. He didn't make it." He paused, looking down at the floor for a brief moment before looking back up. "He was a good man. Really good. The kind you don't find easily."
Kairav was quiet.
The kind of quiet that has weight to it, that presses down on the shoulders. He had grown up with Pawan Kaka's voice as part of the background music of his childhood; the gentle scolding, the patient explanations, the warm hand on the back of his head when he was younger and scared of things he didn't have words for yet. Now it was a month-old absence that no one had thought to call and tell him about.
"May his soul be in peace," Kairav said quietly, and he meant it in the way that doesn't require volume. "He deserved every kindness this world could give. And more."
Krishav nodded. Then he looked back toward the boy. "Veeransh is his son."
The words were simple. They shouldn't have done anything. And yet Kairav's eyes moved back to the boy and something rearranged itself in the understanding of what he was looking at. This was Pawan Kaka's boy. This careful, quiet young man lifting boxes in a room full of noise and celebration, doing his work without complaint, without seeking notice—this was the son of the man who had spent years pouring patience and warmth into a household that wasn't his own. There was grief tucked somewhere in the line of Veeransh's shoulders. Kairav could see it now that he knew to look. The kind of grief that doesn't announce itself, that simply becomes part of the way a person holds their body, a little more contained, a little more deliberate. A person carrying something heavy had learned not to let it show in their face.
Kairav's chest felt strange. Tight, almost.
"You okay, bro?" Krishav asked, his tone laced with a hint of curiosity.
Kairav blinked, as if pulled out of something he should not have been in to begin with. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, I'm fine."
Too quick. Too rehearsed. Ayesha stepped closer to him, her presence grounding, familiar. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch soft but possessive in its own way.
"We should rest," she said, her voice calm, controlled. "It's been a long day."
Then, turning slightly toward Krishav, she added with a polite smile, "Right, devar ji?"
Krishav gave a half-nod, rubbing the back of his neck, "Haan, bhabi. Some rest would do everyone good."
* * *
At exactly half past one in the morning, when the world had sunk into that peculiar silence which feels heavier than sleep, a call slipped through the darkness like a blade. It rang once, twice, echoing faintly through the stone walls of a villa that seemed less like a home and more like a secret kept alive.
The villa stood alone, swallowed by shadows, its towering glass panes reflecting nothing but the pale stretch of the moon. Inside, the air was still. Too still. As if even time hesitated to move within its confines.
The phone rang once.
The man who answered the call did not rush. He sat in a high-backed chair carved from ebony, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass held loosely between his fingers. His hands were rough, the kind that spoke of violence rather than labor, veins faintly raised beneath pale skin. The phone vibrated once more before he finally reached for it, lifting it to his ear with unhurried grace.
"Hello."
His voice was low, calm, threaded with something dangerous that did not need to announce itself.
On the other end, there was a pause. It came through careful and clipped, shaped by years of practice at concealing things.
"They are here. They arrived today."
The man let the silence stretch. His gaze drifted toward the glass wall before him, beyond which the night stretched endlessly. The moon hung there, full and indifferent, its light pouring into the room like a silent witness.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So," he murmured, almost to himself, "the entire Singhania family gathers at last."
His fingers tightened slightly around the glass. The liquid inside shifted, thick and dark, catching the moonlight in a way that wine never truly could. He swirled it slowly, watching the way it clung to the crystal, leaving behind streaks like traces of something alive.
"Finally," he added, voice dipping lower, "a feast worth waiting for."
On the other end, the voice hesitated, as if measuring its next words carefully.
"So what is the plan now?"
He did not answer immediately. He walked toward the far wall, which was made entirely of glass, floor to ceiling, the kind of architectural arrogance that announces itself as wealth and power in the same breath. The moonlight came through it in a long silver sheet, falling across the floor, reaching toward him as he stepped into its edge.
"Wait," he said simply. "Watch. Have patience."
"Hmm...you always say that," the voice replied. "But patience does not feed hunger."
At that, the man's lips curved, not into a smile but something sharper. "Ah," he said, "but it makes the hunger unbearable. And that is what makes the indulgence divine." He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip. The liquid moved like velvet, leaving behind a faint stain that he did not bother to wipe away.
"You are certain this is the right time?"
The man let out a quiet breath, almost amused. "There is no such thing as the right time," he said. "Only the moment you choose to take what has always belonged to you."
He turned slightly, stepping away from the glass. For a heartbeat, the shadows swallowed him whole. And then he moved forward. The darkness peeled back, inch by inch, revealing him.
Tamas Nikunj.
The name existed in certain circles the way legends do, spoken with reverence that stood uncomfortably close to fear and pretended not to notice it. In the world that knew him by daylight, he was an institution. The finest art gallery dealer across continents, a man whose eye could assign value where others saw nothing, whose reputation was so immaculate that even governments trusted his judgment over their own. His collection was whispered about. His taste was treated as something almost sacred.
But that was only the version of him that lived in daylight.
The man standing beneath the moon was something else entirely. Something the daylight had been carefully crafted to hide.
He was striking in the way forbidden things often are, wrong in a way the eye cannot name at first glance, yet impossible to ignore. His suit was dark and perfectly tailored, fitting him like it had never belonged to anyone else. His hair fell in stark contrast, black threaded with white, swept back from a face that did not soften with age but seemed carved by it. He was the kind of handsome that unsettled more than it admired.
A horizontal scar stretched across the bridge of his nose, clean and old. Another ran vertically over his left eye, pale and deliberate, the mark of something that had once tried to leave a permanent end. And when the moonlight fully reached him, his eyes revealed themselves. Not dark, not human.
Red.
Not the red of irritation, but of embers that had burned far too long, steady, quiet, and entirely alive.
"The entire Singhania family," he said again, softer this time, almost to himself. "All of them. Together. In that house." He looked down at the glass in his hand, tilting it slightly so the moonlight caught the surface of the liquid inside. "And my appetite has been open for quite some time now."
There was a beat on the other end. The kind of beat that contains things that will not be said.
"I will find a way to get you invited to the wedding."
Tamas smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. "Darling," he said, and the word carried a particular quality. "Do not trouble yourself. I will be invited. Not through your arrangements." He paused, letting the moment breathe. "You have not yet understood what effect your father carries. What doors his name opens, even now. The Singhanias will send for me themselves. They simply don't know it yet."
The silence on the other end stretched one second longer than comfort allows.
"Yes, well. Whatever." The voice had gone slightly flat. "I am hanging up."
The line went dead.
Tamas stood with the phone a moment longer than necessary before setting it down on the surface beside him with a quietness that was almost ceremonial. Then he raised his glass again and finished what remained in it, slowly, without rush, the way a person finishes something they have earned. The red coated his lips for a moment before he pressed them together. He looked out through the glass at the city and the moon above it, and his red eyes reflected neither with any warmth. His thumb moved once across the rim of the empty glass. A slow, idle gesture.
"Soon," he said quietly, to no one and to everything all at once.
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣
Guide:
bhabi - sister-in-law
devar ji - brother-in-law
haan - yes