I stood on the pavement, the hot air sticking my hair to my forehead. I turned around and looked up at the bus window. There she was—Tanya, the little 7th-grader who had been my only saving grace today. She was small for her age, her pigtails slightly crooked, waving at me with a grin that showed off her new braces.

Tanya: "Bye, Ishu Didi! Don't forget—don't let those big 12th-grade monsters scare you! You’re way smarter than them!"

I laughed, waving back until the bus turned the corner.

I turned toward the gates of Nirmal Society. The transition was jarring. At Viceroy, everything was glass, marble, and silence. Here, it was the sound of Mrs. Sharma haggling with the vegetable vendor and the chaotic screams of kids playing gully cricket.

Thud.

A plastic ball rolled past my sneakers. A little boy yelled, "Didi, ball dena!" I picked it up, feeling the cheap, scratched plastic—so different I tossed it back, a small smile tugging at my lips.

My legs felt like lead as I climbed the stairs. two floors felt like twenty. I reached Apartment 302 and pressed the bell. The familiar ting-tong felt like a reset button.

The door swung open, and the smell of toasted spices and home hit me instantly. There stood Ma. She was wearing her faded blue cotton saree, the one she always wears on Mondays. Her face was a map of worry, but the moment she saw me, her eyes lit up.

I didn't say a word. I just leaned forward, burying my face in the crook of her neck. I felt her warm, soft hand immediately start ruffling my messy hair.

Ma (Shraddha): "Oh, my bacha is home. How was the first day, Ishu? Tell me... how was my girl’s big debut at Viceroy?"

I let out a groan that came from my very soul, my voice muffled by her saree.

Ishika: "Ma... please. If I hear the word 'Viceroy' one more time, I might actually scream. It wasn't a school; it was an audition for a reality show I didn't sign up for."

I slumped onto the sofa with a heavy thud, my head falling back against the cushions. The familiar creak of the springs was the most welcoming sound I’d heard all day. Ma chuckled at my dramatic groan, the sound of the door clicking shut finally locking out the rest of the world.

For a moment, we just sat in the comfortable silence of our small living room. Then, I remembered. I wasn't the only one who had a "first day" today.

I sat up slightly, looking at her. "Wait, Ma... I was so caught up in my own disaster. How was your first day? How does it feel to be the new Hindi teacher at the School?"

Ma paused, a soft, tired smile spreading across her face as she sat down on the edge of the sofa beside me. She smoothed out the creases in her cotton saree.

Ma (Shraddha): "It was wonderful, Ishu. Truly. There’s something so grounding about a classroom where the students actually want to be there. They don't care about my old saree or how much I earn; they were just happy to have a teacher who listened to them. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be."

Ishika: "So, no headaches? No spoiled brats complaining about the lack of AC?"

Ma: (With a light laugh) "None at all. The windows were open, the breeze was enough, and the respect in those children's voices was better than any luxury. I’m happy, bacha. I really am."

Ishika: "I'm glad, Ma. At least one of us had a 'Royal' experience today, even if it wasn't at a 'Royal' school."

The small kitchen was filled with the aromatic steam of ginger and cardamom as the evening settled in. The transition from the stiff, uncomfortable blazer of Viceroy to a soft cotton kurti and trousers felt like shedding a heavy suit of armor. For the first time all day, Ishika felt like herself again.

I stood by the stove, expertly pouring the bubbling chai into two mismatched porcelain cups while maa plated a few Marie biscuits. There were no servants, no gold-rimmed china, and no forced etiquette—just the rhythmic clinking of spoons and the warmth of the stove.

I said (Stirring the tea) "You know, Ma, at school today, I saw a girl throw away a whole sandwich just because the crust wasn't cut straight. And here I am, thinking about how good this ginger smells."

maa: (Smiling, leaning against the counter) "That’s because you know the value of the ginger, Ishu. They only know the price of the sandwich. There is a big difference."

Ma had outdone herself. A plate of steaming, golden-brown pakoras sat between us, their spicy aroma filling our tiny flat. This wasn't a three-course meal served on silver platters like I'd seen at the Viceroy cafeteria, but to me, it was a banquet.

My POV: I watched Ma’s face as she laughed at one of my stories. The lines of worry she had when I first walked in had completely vanished. This—this right here—was the real victory of the day. Not the grades, not the fancy school, but this moment.

Ishika: (Grabbing a pakora and waving it like a trophy) "You know, Ma, they have a 'Gourmet Selection' at school, but I bet none of it tastes like home. I should start a black market for your pakoras. I’d be a billionaire by Friday!"

Ma: (Chuckling as she sipped her tea) "Oh, so now you want to be a businesswoman? I thought you wanted to be a doctor!"

Ishika: "I’ll be both! Dr. Ishika, Specialist in Chai and Surgery."

We weren't just eating; we were celebrating. I picked up a Marie biscuit and held it poised over my cup like a diver on a high board.

Ishika: "Okay, Ma. 3... 2... 1... Dunk!"

We both plunged our biscuits into our tea. It was a high-stakes game. My biscuit started to crumble at the edges, and I pulled it out just in time, shrugging it into my mouth with a triumphant grin. Ma wasn't so lucky—half of hers took a swim in her tea.

Ma: "Hey! That’s cheating! Your tea is colder than mine!"

Ishika: "Excuses, excuses! The 'Viceroy' student wins the Great Biscuit Race of 2026!"

We both burst into giggles, the sound echoing off our modest walls. For a while, I forgot about Ruhaan’s smirk, the cold stares of the girls in the hallway, and the weight of the scholarship.

The massive wrought-iron gates groaned open as a blood-red Porsche tore through the driveway, its engine a predatory snarl in the dead of the night. It screeched to a halt exactly in front of the sweeping main stairs.

Ruhaan stepped out, the gravel crunching under his boots. His leather jacket caught the moonlight, making him look more like a rebel than a student. Without looking back, he tossed his keys into the air. A waiting servant caught them with a hurried bow.

Ruhaan: (Coldly) "Park it. Don't touch the settings."

He didn't wait for a response. He strode into the foyer, his footsteps echoing against the high vaulted ceilings. The mansion was tomb-quiet, draped in shadows that seemed to watch him. He moved with a practiced arrogance, the gait of a man who knew every brick of this palace was bought by his name.

He reached the foot of the grand staircase, ready to disappear into his wing of the house. But a voice—sharp, cold, and heavy with authority—sliced through the darkness.

"You're eighteen now, Ruhaan. But that doesn't mean the clock stops for you. Late again."

Ruhaan’s jaw clenched instantly. He stopped, his eyes closing for a brief second as he exhaled a long, frustrated breath. He slowly looked up toward the upper deck.

There stood Ranveer Rajvanshi.

Wrapped in a charcoal silk night robe, he looked less like a father and more like an emperor overseeing a failing province. Between his fingers, a cigar glowed a dangerous orange, its smoke curling like a ghost around his head. His eyes weren't filled with parental concern; they were dark, piercing, and calculating.

ruhaan dnt tuned dint looked he just answerd ..

Ruhaan: "I was celebrating my win. My team worked for that."

Ranveer: (Scoffing, the smoke from his cigar swirling dismissively) "A win? A mere football match, Ruhaan? You’re celebrating child’s play while I’m moving mountains in the boardroom. You waste your energy on grass and a ball."

Ruhaan took a step closer to the stairs, his eyes locked onto his father’s like a predator.

Ruhaan: "Celebration? You wouldn't know the meaning of the word. To you, a celebration is just a press release. To me, it’s the only time I feel alive away from this tomb."

Ranveer: (Voice like grinding stones) "It is this 'tomb' that buys your freedom, Ruhaan. It is my name that clears your path. You are nothing but a shadow of my success."

Ruhaan: (Letting out a sharp, jagged laugh) "Then maybe it’s time I stepped out of the shadow and burned the sun down! You talk about discipline? You don't have discipline, Mr. Rajvanshi. You have a script. You’re not a father; you’re just a CEO who’s pissed off that his favorite product has a mind of its own."

The word "Dad" or "Papa" didn't even hover in the air. It hadn't been used in this house for years.

Ranveer: (Leaning over the railing, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper) "Be careful, boy. I built this empire. I can just as easily write you out of the final chapter."

Ruhaan: (Snapping his fingers, the sound echoing like a gunshot) "Do it! Delete me! Remove me from the balance sheet! Because the only thing 'fake' in this city is the smile you wear for the cameras. This isn't a home, and you’re not a 'Dad'. You’re just the man who pays the bills for a life I never asked for!"

Ranveer Rajvanshi didn't move. He stood like a statue carved from granite, the only sign of life being the glowing ember of his cigar. He took a long, slow drag, the smoke obscuring his face for a second, making him look like a ghost in his own palace.

Ruhaan didn't just walk; he prowled through the center of the living room, his boots clicking rhythmically on the marble. He stopped directly beneath his father, tilting his head back, his smirk sharpening into a blade.

Ruhaan: "What happened, Mr. Rajvanshi? Got silent? No lectures on 'discipline' tonight? No boardroom strategies for your failing son?"

He let out a dry, mocking laugh that echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.

Ruhaan: "Ahh... I got it. You’ve realized it, haven't you? You have no right to delete me. You have no right to even raise your voice."

Suddenly, Ruhaan spread his arms wide, his gesture sweeping across the velvet curtains, the priceless paintings, and the gold-leafed pillars of the entire empire.

Ruhaan: "This empire... this name... these walls. Dadaji didn't leave them to 'The CEO'. He left them to me. Only me. You’re just the man keeping the seat warm until I decide to sit in it."

Ranveer didn't flinch. He slowly took the cigar from his lips, his hand steady as a mountain, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke that drifted toward Ruhaan like a warning.

Ranveer: (Voice low, vibrating with a terrifying calm) "The ink on a will might give you the house, Ruhaan, but the blood in your veins gives you nothing if you don't know how to carry it. You think you own this empire? You don't even own your own temper."

Ruhaan: "I own enough to know that you’re working for my future, not yours!"

Ranveer: (Stepping closer to the railing, leaning down with a piercing gaze) "Then remember this: A King without a crown is just a man, but a Prince without a brain is just a tragedy. Dadaji gave you the keys, but I built the locks. You can own the building, but I own the power that keeps the lights on. Without my signature, your 'empire' is just a pile of very expensive stones."

Ruhaan: (His smirk faltering, teeth gritting) "Is that your best shot? Threatening my allowance?"

Ranveer: (A cold, razor-thin smile touching his lips) "It’s not a threat. It’s a reality check. You want to be the man of the house? Then stop acting like a spoiled brat playing dress-up in his father's shoes. You claim this empire is yours? Then prove you’re strong enough to hold it, because right now, you’re just a boy shouting in a big, empty room."

Ruhaan took another step up, bridging the distance between him and the upper deck until they were almost at eye level, separated only by the ornate gold railing.

Ruhaan: (His voice dripping with acid) "If I'm just a 'tragedy' in an expensive suit, then who, Mr. Rajvanshi? Who is your golden boy? Who is the perfect specimen you want to showcase in this empty, hollow business of yours?"

He paused, a sick, twisted smile spreading across his face as he watched his father’s expression.

Ruhaan: "Oh, I know. That bastard. Your bastard. The one you keep hidden in the shadows while you pretend to be the perfect man of society."

Ranveer: (His voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating bass) "Don't you dare, Ruhaan. Do not cross that line."

Ruhaan: (Snapping, his voice echoing like a thunderclap through the foyer) "OR WHAT? Will you slap me? Like always? Like every time I remind you of the truth? Then come down! Come down and do it! I don't care about your strikes, and I don't care about your blood!"

Ranveer’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck stood out like iron cables. For the first time, the stoic King looked shaken. The cigar between his fingers was forgotten, burning dangerously close to his skin, the ash crumbling onto his expensive silk robe. He looked at Ruhaan not as a son, but as a mirror reflecting his own darkest sins.

The heavy, toxic silence between father and son was suddenly sliced open by a voice that sounded like honey poured over a razor blade.

From the shadows of the west wing, Rubeena Rajvanshi emerged. She was the definition of cold perfection. Dressed in a flowing silk red nightgown that trailed behind her like a pool of blood, she looked every bit the mistress of the manor. Her skin glowed from a top-tier nighttime routine, and her face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and calculated expressions.

She moved with the grace of a panther, her fake nails clicking against the marble railing as she leaned over, looking down at Ruhaan with a smile that never reached her sharp, predatory eyes.

Rubeena: "My, my... such a loud voice for such a quiet house. Have you forgotten your manners to talk, boy? Or did you leave them at the football field along with your common sense?"

Ruhaan didn't even look at her. He kept his burning gaze fixed on Ranveer, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger toward the woman in red silk.

Ruhaan: (His voice a jagged, dangerous snarl) "Mr. Rajvanshi... ask your wife to stay quiet. Tell her to take her velvet tongue and her fake concerns back to her room. Tell her to shut it... or I will snap. And believe me, you won't like the sound when I do."

The word "wife" came out of his mouth like a curse. He didn't call her Mom. He didn't even call her by her name. To him, she was just another piece of expensive furniture Ranveer had bought to fill the void.

Rubeena: (Her eyes narrowing, the "honey" in her voice turning to ice) "Such a colorful vocabulary for someone who owns so much 'refined' property. Ranveer, are you going to let him—"

Ruhaan: (Cutting her off with a roar) "I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP! This is a conversation between the owner and his manager. Employees don't get a vote!"

Ranveer’s face went from stoic to a terrifying shade of crimson. He stepped toward the railing, his voice booming like a physical blow.

Ranveer: "ENOUGH, RUHAAN! You have stepped over the ledge. Apologize.

Ruhaan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle pulsed violently in his cheek. He looked at Rubeena—who stood there with a look of wounded elegance—and then back at his father. His eyes were twin pits of black fire.

Ruhaan: (His voice a low, lethal hiss) "Sorry? My foot to this woman. You want an apology, Mr. Rajvanshi? Look for it in the stocks you trade, because you won't find it here."

Ranveer: (Roaring) "This lady is your mother, Ruhaan! Act like it!"

Ruhaan: (Snapping back, his voice cracking the silence like a whip) "A STEP-MOTHER! And your 'dearest' wife. Don't you dare confuse titles with truth! I had only one mother, and her name isn't written in fake nails and silk nightgowns. I would sooner cut my head off at her grave than say 'sorry' to this woman!"

She wrapped her slender, manicured hands around Ranveer’s shoulders from behind, her chin resting lightly near his ear. Her touch wasn't one of comfort; it was one of possession.

Rubeena: (Her voice a low, soothing purr, loud enough for Ruhaan to hear) "Oh, come on honey... leave it. This boy clearly doesn't know the first thing about manners. Don't waste your precious time or your health here. Let’s go to our room... the night is too beautiful for such common shouting."

She didn't even look at Ruhaan. She treated him like a piece of broken furniture—something annoying that needed to be ignored.

Ruhaan’s stomach turned. The sight of her "comforting" his father was the ultimate insult to the memory of his own mother. He let out a sharp, jagged scoff that sounded like a dry sob.

Ruhaan: "Yes, go, Mr. Rajvanshi. Your 'dearest' wife is calling you. Go back to your silk sheets and your lies. Follow the script. Act like the perfect husband in the perfect house."

He stepped back into the shadows of the staircase, his eyes shimmering with a mix of hate and deep-seated pain.

Ruhaan: "Run away from the mess you made. It’s the only thing you’re actually good at."

The heavy oak doors of the master suite didn't just close; they shuddered under the force of Ruhaan’s fury. The thud echoed through the hallway like a gunshot, a final door closing on his sanity.

Inside, the room was a masterpiece of cold, modern luxury—minimalist, expensive, and utterly soulless. It was a room designed for a prince, but tonight, it felt like a tomb.

🌪️ THE BREAKDOWN

Ruhaan didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The moonlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough to show him the silhouettes of his "perfect" life.

With a guttural growl, he swung his arm across the marble console table. A priceless Ming-style vase—one that Rubeena had picked out to "elevate" his room—shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

"I HATE THEM !" he screamed, the word tearing from his throat, raw and bleeding.

Then, he turned on the wall. The solid, cold stone that held up the Rajvanshi legacy. He pulled back his fist and slammed it into the expensive wallpaper.

Thud.

He didn't feel the pain. He only felt the heat in his chest.

Thud. Thud. He punched again and again, his breathing coming in ragged, animalistic gasps. He wasn't just hitting a wall; he was hitting his father’s indifference, Rubeena’s fake smiles, and the suffocating weight of a crown he never asked for.

Finally, a sickening crack echoed. It wasn't his bone—it was the plaster. A spiderweb of fractures bloomed where his knuckles had struck. Only then did he stop.

His hand dropped to his side, blood beginning to seep from his scraped knuckles, dripping onto the pristine white carpet. He leaned his forehead against the cold, damaged wall, his chest heaving.

The sound of the final showpiece—a heavy, handcrafted crystal sculpture—shattering against the marble floor felt like a punctuation mark to his breakdown. The room was now a graveyard of expensive things, the air thick with dust and the metallic scent of his own blood.

Ruhaan’s legs finally gave out. The adrenaline that had been fueling his rage evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. He stumbled toward his massive king-sized bed and collapsed onto it, face-first.

He didn't even bother to pull the covers over himself. He lay there in his leather jacket, his boots still on, his injured hand throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The pristine white silk sheets were soon stained with the crimson drops from his knuckles, but he didn't care.

In this moment, the "King of Viceroy" looked like nothing more than a broken boy.

Ruhaan: (Muffled against the pillow, his voice cracking) "I hate this... I hate all of it."