The air at the abandoned dock was sharp with the scent of gun oil and ocean rust. It was nearly midnight, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp and the headlights of three black SUVs.
Abhimanyu Rajput stood still—composed, dressed in a sharp charcoal-black coat over his fitted shirt, the collar folded neatly, eyes masked in calm calculation.
Ishan leaned closer, scanning the perimeter. "They're late. That's never a good sign."
Abhimanyu didn't flinch. "They'll come. American syndicates love drama."
A dark van pulled in. Three men stepped out, faces shadowed, jackets heavy with the weight of concealed weapons.
The deal began. Coded words. USB drives. Steel briefcases.
Suddenly, a flick of movement behind the containers—too fast.
"Side ho!" Abhimanyu growled, pushing Ishan aside instinctively.
A knife swiped across him—fast, shallow, but it grazed his left side, just beneath the ribs. A sharp sting. He grunted.
Blood seeped quickly, soaking a thin line into his shirt.
Abhimanyu turned, elbowed the attacker, drew his gun, and fired. The masked man collapsed.
Ishan swore under his breath. "Damn, that was close."
Abhimanyu pressed a hand to his side. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"Doesn't look like nothing."
"Khaak kuch nahi hai. Banda sirf chalaak tha, lekin slow." He tightened his jaw, breathing through the pain. "We finish this and leave."
The deal resumed as if nothing had happened. Abhimanyu didn't even glance at his wound again.
Once back in the SUV, Ishan looked over. "You sure you don't need a doctor?"
"I said it's fine." He looked out the window, the city blurring past.
But somewhere between the streetlamps and silence, his fingers hovered again over the cut, his brows drawn tight—like his thoughts were somewhere far away… maybe in a villa in Milan.
_________________________________________
The early morning sun filtered through the high-rise windows of the hotel suite. Abhimanyu sat on the edge of the dark leather couch, his shirt half unbuttoned, a clean bandage strapped around his side.
Ishaan walked in with two cups of coffee, tossing one towards him.
"Here. Black. No sugar. Like your soul."
Abhimanyu caught it midair without even looking. "Book the jet. I'm flying back to Rajasthan."
Ishaan stopped in his tracks. "Back? Abey, weren't you supposed to wait here for that East Coast meeting?"
Abhimanyu took a long sip. "That meeting can happen in India too. Same people, same negotiation, different city."
Ishaan smirked. "Ah. Of course. Rajasthan. Royal Rajput blood calling you home. Or should I say—wife calling you home?"
Abhimanyu's eyes narrowed slightly, the usual calm expression replaced with a dry, almost warning look. "Shut up, Ishaan. Or I'll shoot you and fly solo."
Ishaan raised both hands, grinning. "Okay okay! Don't get all psycho Rajput on me. But it's cute, yaar. You never used to leave meetings halfway for anyone."
Abhimanyu stood up, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves. "I'm not leaving anything halfway. I'm finishing it in my place, on my terms."
"Right," Ishaan nodded, amused. "And if your lovely wife just happens to be there—total coincidence."
Abhimanyu ignored him, grabbing his phone and keys.
But Ishaan's smile faded a little as he watched him. "By the way… I know that cut hurts more than you let on."
Abhimanyu paused at the door. "It's not the worst pain I've handled."
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
And then he left.
_________________________________________
Zara stormed out into the hallway, nearly crashing into Daksh as he approached with his usual unreadable expression.
"You could knock," she snapped, arms crossed.
Daksh's jaw tightened. "I don't knock for chaos."
Zara's eyes widened. "Wow. And here I thought you only spoke in rules and insults."
He turned to Meera, ignoring Zara entirely. "Abhimanyu's back."
All three girls looked at him, stunned.
Dhriti blinked. "But he was supposed to be in the US for—"
Daksh cut her off. "He's in the north wing."
A pause.
"That's all."
And then, he left. Cold. Composed. Regal.
Zara stared after him. "Stuck-up statue. With a stick up his crown."
Meera didn't hear that last bit. Her legs had already started walking toward the wing.
Meera turned the corner just in time to see Abhimanyu walking toward the main hall, his kurta crisp white, hair slightly ruffled from travel. Their eyes met. Just a moment.
Neither spoke.
He gave her a brief nod—acknowledgment, not warmth—and walked past.
She hesitated only a second before following him.
The dining table stretched long under the soft gold of chandeliers. The family gathered, dressed in semi-formal silks and evening wear.
At one end sat Daksh and Abhimanyu, deep in quiet discussion. Their words were hushed, serious.
At the other end, Meera, Zara, Isha, and Dhriti giggled as they shared their childhood stories.
"Remember the time Meera fell into the lotus pond trying to copy Zara's dance?" Isha laughed, mid-bite.
Zara grinned. "She was trying to be a swan, ended up as a soggy duck."
Meera threw a piece of roti at her. "You pushed me!"
"Never proved," Zara said, smug.
Across the table, Daksh's gaze shifted subtly. "Immature as ever," he muttered.
Zara raised her brow. "Careful, Crown Prince. If you keep watching me like that, people will think you have feelings."
Daksh didn't blink. "I don't. I have headaches."
"Oh, how tragic. Must be hard carrying the weight of your ego and your crown."
For the first time, he smiled—faint, sharp, lethal. "And yet, I still carry it better than most carry their manners."
The table fell silent for a second.
Then, laughter.
Isha whispered to Meera, "They're going to either kill each other or get married."
Meera smiled faintly, though her eyes lingered on Abhimanyu, who hadn't laughed. His focus never left his conversation with Daksh. But once—just once—he looked her way, and she knew he wasn't as detached as he pretended to be.
The long dining table glows under the chandelier's soft golden light. Zara, Isha, Dhrithi, and Meera are mid-laughter over a childhood story when the heavy doors creak open.
In walks Ishaan Verma, tall, sharp, with a smirk that spells mischief. Dressed in a slate grey Indo-western with jet-black detailing, his very presence draws a pause in the conversation.
Zara, whispering with narrowed eyes:
"Who's the royal smugness?"
Without missing a beat, Daksh, seated beside Abhimanyu, speaks up — tone clipped and formal:
"Yeh Ishaan Verma hai. Mera aur Abhimanyu ka purana dost."
Abhimanyu, eyes still fixed on his plate, says in a low tone:
"Mujhe laga tu agle hafte aayega."
Ishaan, strolling in with all the arrogance of an old friend who knows too much:
"Shaadi ho gayi hai teri, aur main next week aata? What kind of best friend would that make me?"
He turns to Meera, mock bows with a playful gleam in his eye.
"So you're the Meera. Rajasthan ki Rani and the woman who—dare I say it—tamed Abhimanyu Rajput?"
Meera, calm and composed, simply says, "Just Meera is fine."
Ishaan, chuckling:
"Meera ji it is then. But let me warn you—I come with equal parts drama and loyalty."
Abhimanyu, glaring faintly:
"Ishaan, zyada mat bol."
Ishaan, grinning, raises a brow:
"Arre bhai, possessive much? Kya baat hai…"
The room chuckles lightly, while Abhimanyu's jaw tightens—his irritation barely masked. Zara nudges Daksh with a smirk, whispering:
Zara: "Tum dono ke dost bhi tum jaise hi hain."
Daksh, dry as ever:
"Be glad I don't let them stay long."
By the time it reaches midnight
The clinking of silverware dies down. Laughter fades into soft murmurs. As the servants begin clearing plates, Daksh folds his napkin with precise elegance.
Daksh, crisply to the table:
"Hum chalte hain. Kaafi kaam pending hai."
Abhimanyu, standing beside him, gives a small nod. His expression unreadable, as usual.
"Zarurat ho to office wing mein mil lena."
The brothers leave together without much fanfare. Just a shared glance. No warmth, but complete understanding.
As they pass, Ishaan is already leaning back in his chair, watching them with a knowing smile.
Ishaan (to Abhimanyu, just loud enough):
"Tu bhool gaya kya, main honeymoon pe aaya hoon. Not for business."
Abhimanyu, turning halfway:
"Tameez mein reh. Don't push it."
Ishaan, with a lazy salute:
"Relax, dulhe raja. Bhabhi ko aur unki bridesmaids ko garden tour dila ke aata hoon."
Abhimanyu stares him down for a beat. But Ishaan simply grins and waves him off like a pesky mosquito. Meera, Zara, Dhrithi, and Isha are already on their feet.
The moonlight bathes the marble paths. Lanterns flicker gently. Laughter spills as Ishaan leads the four women down the cobbled way, dramatically narrating palace tales and clearly enjoying the company.
Zara, giggling:
"I think I prefer Ishan to Daksh."
Ishaan, with a mock bow:
"Zara ji, finally someone appreciates me."
Meera, finally relaxing after days of tension, smiles as she watches the girls. For once, she isn't thinking about Abhimanyu's silence or his sudden departures. Just the ease of laughter. Lightness.
But far behind, near the corridor, Abhimanyu Rajput stands in the shadows, watching.
Guard:
"Sir, aap andar chalein?"
Abhimanyu, eyes fixed on the group, voice low and almost to himself:
"Nahi… Woh bas… Bas dhyan rakho."