Kiara stood frozen in her room, the world tilting on its axis. The man before her was no longer the father who had carried her on his shoulders, who had wiped her tears after nightmares. He was a stranger, his eyes hollowed out by a fear she couldn't comprehend.
"Papa," she whispered, the word a broken thing. "You were my hero. You taught me to be brave, to think for myself. And now... you're selling me off like a piece of property?" A sob ripped from her throat. "How can you do this to me?"
Vikram's face was a mask of stone, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. "It is for your own good, Kiara. You must trust me."
"Trust you?" she screamed, the pain turning to fury. "When you're destroying my life? I won't do it! I'd rather die than marry a stranger!"
The words hung in the air, a dangerous challenge. And then, Vikram moved.
His hand went to his pocket, pulling out a small, unassuming bottle. The world slowed to a nightmarish crawl.
"Papa... no..." Kiara's voice was a strangled plea.
He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on some distant, terrible horizon. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the cap and poured a cascade of white pills into his palm.
"NO!" The scream tore from the very depths of Kiara's soul. She lunged, a desperate, flailing thing, but he was faster. He threw the pills into his mouth, a grotesque, final gesture.
She crashed into him, her fingers clawing at his mouth, trying to pry it open, but he swallowed convulsively. The empty bottle clattered to the floor.
"VARUN!" Her shriek was pure, undiluted terror.
Varun burst into the room, his face draining of all color as he saw his father stagger, his hand clutching his throat. A guttural, choking sound escaped Vikram's lips before his eyes lost focus and he crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.
---
The hospital waiting room was a sterile, soulless purgatory. Kiara sat hunched over, her body wracked with silent, violent tremors. Each breath was a struggle. I killed him. My words killed my father.
When the doctor emerged, his face was grim. "We've pumped his stomach, but the damage is severe. He's conscious... but he's refusing further treatment. He says he won't allow us to administer the antidote."
Kiara stared, uncomprehending. "W-What? Why?"
"The patient is of sound mind. He has the right to refuse," the doctor said, his voice heavy with helplessness. "If he doesn't receive the treatment, his organs will begin to shut down. He has hours, at most."
The floor fell away from beneath her. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. She saw her mother's smiling face, then the devastating emptiness that followed her death. Not again. Please, not again.
She collapsed against Varun, her body convulsing with sobs. "I can't... I can't live without him, Varun. I can't."
Holding her tight, Varun led her to the ICU. The sight of her father, so small and pale amidst a tangle of wires and beeping machines, shattered what was left of her heart.
She fell to her knees beside the bed, her hands gripping the cold metal railing. "Papa," she wept, her voice raw. "Please. Don't leave us. Don't leave me. I'm begging you."
His eyes, clouded with pain, slowly focused on her. There was no anger there, only a profound, terrifying resolve. "The... pain... is too much, beta," he rasped, each word a struggle. "I can't go on... unless I know... you are safe. Married. Settled."
The ultimatum landed like a physical blow, colder and crueler than any knife.
Kiara's world narrowed to this single, impossible choice: her father's life or her own.
She looked at his ashen face, at the faint, blue tinge to his lips. She saw the little girl who had lost her mother, and the woman who could not bear to lose her father. Every dream, every hope, every flutter of her heart for Yuvaan—it all turned to ash.
A sound of utter desolation escaped her, a wounded animal surrendering. Her body went limp, all fight extinguished.
"Okay," she breathed, the word tasting of death. A torrent of hot, silent tears streamed down her face. "I'll marry him. I'll do whatever you want. Just... just please live."
A single tear traced a path through the stubble on Vikram's cheek. He gave a weak, almost imperceptible nod. "Then... I will... get treated."
As a broken Kiara staggered out, supported by a shell-shocked Varun, the doctor entered. He closed the door and looked at Vikram. The frail man on the bed opened his eyes, the pain and weakness seeming to recede, replaced by a grim, victorious light. He gave a slight, deliberate nod.
The doctor's shoulders slumped, not in medical failure, but in moral defeat. The crisis, the refusal—it was all a brilliantly orchestrated lie. A father had just emotionally eviscerated his daughter, using the weapon of her own love for him, all to steer her away from a darkness he could not begin to explain.