The air in the high-end boutique was cool, silent, and smelled of distilled luxury. Racks of meticulously curated designer wear stood like works of art, and the only sounds were the soft rustle of fabric and the discreet footsteps of personal stylists. This was a world away from the bustling Causeway, a private shopping experience reserved for those for whom price was an abstraction.
In the center of it all, reflected in a full-length, gold-leafed mirror, was Kiara Shetty.
At twenty-one, she was the pampered, carefree younger daughter of Vikram Shetty, and her life was a testament to his success. Dressed in a casual-but-expensive cashmere hoodie and designer jeans, she held up a stunning, sequined gown against herself.
"Oh, holly molly!" she breathed, her eyes sparkling. "This is it. This is the one for the Lalwani's gala next week. It's absolutely perfect, isn't it?"
Her friend, Anya, lounged on a plush velvet sofa, sipping a complimentary glass of champagne. "It's divine. But your wardrobe is already bigger than this store, K."
Kiara laughed, a sound as light and bright as the chandeliers overhead. "A girl can never have too many options! It's a fundamental law of the universe." She glanced at the stylist. "We'll take this. And the emerald green one I tried on earlier, just in case."
The stylist merely nodded with a professional smile, used to such whims.
Kiara's phone, a sleek, latest-model device encased in glittering crystal, buzzed. It was a text from her brother, Varun.
Varun:Where are you? Dad wants everyone home for dinner. No excuses.
Kiara rolled her eyes, her perfectly manicured fingers flying over the screen.
Kiara:Chill, bro. Just finalizing gala looks. I'll be there. Don't have a meltdown. What the fudge is with the sudden family meeting anyway?
She slipped the phone back into her Birkin bag without waiting for a reply. As she turned to examine a pair of exquisite heels, she was completely oblivious to the two men in impeccably tailored suits standing near the entrance. They looked like fellow wealthy clients or security for the store, but their eyes, sharp and constantly moving, belonged to her father's Reeva guards.
"You know," Anya said, "my brother heard a rumor from his college. That new guy, Yuvaan Pratap Singh? The one whose family owns half of South Mumbai? He's supposedly back in the city. Total recluse, but people say he's… unnervingly beautiful."
Kiara waved a dismissive hand, the bracelet on her wrist—a graduation gift from her father—catching the light. "Probably just another trust-fund kid with a bad attitude and a good dermatologist. Now, these shoes or the silver ones? Holly molly, this is a real crisis."
She laughed again, the sound echoing in the rarefied air. The weight of her father's secret, the hunting Daayans, the reincarnation of a God-Gift—it was all a universe away from the gilded cage of her privilege. She was the precious, protected jewel at the center of a coming storm, a storm whose name was Yuvaan Pratap Singh, and she had no idea that the walls of her golden world were about to be tested.
The Pratap Singh mansion was a monument to old money and cold grandeur. Marble floors echoed with silence, and the portraits of stern ancestors seemed to judge the living from their gilded frames. In this hushed, oppressive atmosphere, a flicker of warmth—both literal and figurative—was often seen as a threat.
The threat today came from Bhoomi Pratap Singh.
A middle-aged woman with eyes that held a permanent, distant haze, she moved with the fragile uncertainty of a ghost in her own home. In her hands, she clutched a simple brass diya, its wick soaked in oil. A desperate, maternal need had compelled her out of her secluded wing. Her Yuvi was out in the cruel world, and she had to pray for his safety.
Mumbling a soft prayer, she tried to light the diya near an extravagant, flammable silk decoration. Her hands trembled. The matchstick flared, slipped, and caught the edge of the fabric. A small, hungry flame began to climb the decoration, its orange tongue a stark contrast to the room's sterile palette.
Panic ensued. A staff member shouted. Within moments, the fire was extinguished, leaving behind only a blackened, smoldering patch and the acrid smell of burnt silk.
The commotion drew the vultures.
"What is the meaning of this?" a sharp voice cut through the chaos. Susheela, Bhoomi's sister-in-law, stood there, her designer sari impeccable, her face a mask of fury. She didn't look at the damage; her glare was fixed on Bhoomi. "Who let this mad woman out of her room? Is this how we run a household now? Allowing a lunatic to burn the place down?"
Bhoomi shrank back, the diya shaking in her hands. "I… I only wanted to pray," she stammered, her voice a thin thread. "For my Yuvi. He needs God's blessings. He is all alone…"
"He is alone because he is cursed!" The new voice was heavy with disdain. Vinod, Susheela's husband and Yuvaan's uncle, strode in. His face was a colder, more brutal version of his wife's. "How many times must we have this conversation, Bhoomi? Look at what his birth brought! His father, my brother, died in that 'accident' the very night he was born. And you…" He gestured at her trembling form. "You lost your mind. No doctor, no treatment has cured you in twenty-five years. That boy is a blight on this family."
For a moment, sheer terror gripped Bhoomi. But then, a spark ignited deep within her—the fierce, unbreakable core of a mother. She straightened her spine, a defiant gesture that seemed to surprise even her.
"Do not… do not call my son those names," she said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. "He is my son. My Yuvaan. He is not a curse."
"He is, and you are proof of it!" Susheela shot back.
The scene was interrupted by the arrival of their children: Aakash and Riddhi, who shared their parents' cold entitlement, and the youngest, nineteen-year-old Angad. While his siblings watched with detached amusement, Angad's face filled with distress.
"Mummy, Papa, please," Angad said, stepping forward. "Stop this. Can't you see you're frightening Chachi? It was just a mistake."
His intervention was like throwing a match into a powder keg.
"You stay out of this, Angad!" Aakash snapped. "This is an adult matter. You're always soft on her, and it's why she keeps causing these scenes."
"He's right," Riddhi added, sneering. "Go back to your video games and let the adults handle the family's disgrace."
Angad stood his ground, his kind eyes pleading with his parents, but he was outnumbered and outranked. Vinod pointed a stern finger at Bhoomi.
"Take her back to her room," he ordered the staff, his voice final. "And make sure she is not disturbed. We will deal with the… consequences of this later."
As the staff gently, but firmly, led a heartbroken Bhoomi away, her whispered prayers for her "Yuvi" were the only sound of resistance in the cold, unforgiving mansion. The fire was out, but the embers of resentment and a mother's love continued to smolder, waiting for the son who was her only reason to endure.
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