The clock hands sliced through the stillness of the night, a stark vertical twelve announcing midnight's arrival. Shadows deepened, swallowing the room, but sleep remained a distant country. A restless energy thrummed beneath Armaan's skin, a cold, creeping certainty that he was being exiled, not from a land, but from the warm circle of his own family. What sin, he wondered, twisting onto his back and staring at the darkened ceiling, had warranted this slow, agonizing banishment? All he had done was speak his truth, voice the emotions that clawed at his insides.

For what transgression am I being punished? He questioned himself, pushing himself upright against the headboard. For refusing blind obedience? For daring to defy tradition by rejecting Ruhi, their carefully chosen bride? For silently rebelling against the matriarch's unjust decrees, those pronouncements that brooked no argument? For having the sheer audacity to love Abhira?

He shook his head, dismissing the last question. Abhira, in truth, wasn't the root cause. She hadn't even been present for the cabin debacle; she was merely a convenient target for blame, a scapegoat because she possessed the courage to question Dadisa and her rigid, often unethical, ways. Abhira, that courageous soul, had inadvertently stumbled into the crosscurrents of their family's tumultuous affairs. She had dared to challenge the very foundations of their established order, to expose the cracks in Dadisa's iron authority. If I had dared the same, would my fate be any different? Rejection, exile – severance from the very family I was meant to uphold.

As conflicting emotions warred within him, Armaan's thoughts circled back to his precarious position within the Poddar lineage. Abhira had been a catalyst, undeniably. She had peeled back layers of comfortable illusion, revealing harsh truths that had long been obscured. She had illuminated the carefully constructed façade of his father's affections, forcing him to confront the hollowness beneath the surface, the subtle yet pervasive neglect he had unknowingly endured.

Questions, sharp and insistent, pricked at his consciousness. Why this constant othering? Why am I perpetually treated as an outsider within my own bloodline? Even adopted children, he suspected with a pang of bitterness, received more unconditional love and acceptance than I, the biological son of Madhav and Shivani. I am a product of their union, wasn't I? A living, breathing testament to their love.

A bead of sweat traced a cold path down his temple, a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging within. Madhav's flesh and blood. An unbreakable tie, in theory at least.

Armaan swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards cool beneath his bare feet. He moved to his desk, picking up a pencil and notepad, needing to give form to the chaotic thoughts swirling in his head. He began to write, listing points as they solidified:

"Point 1 - Shivani was not Grandma's choice. Rejected from the start."

"Point 2 - Madhav defied her, loved and married Shivani regardless."

"Point 3 - I am the product of that defiant union."

"Point 4 - Vidya, the chosen one, then married Dad, nurturing me as her own before Rohit arrived."

He stared at the stark points, the connections suddenly blazingly clear. He wrote beneath them: "Explanation: I am Shivani's blood son. That's why. Bad blood."

Armaan let out a short, mirthless laugh. Bad blood. He remembered Kaveri's pronouncements of "pride," those formal, distant acknowledgements instead of the simple warmth of "I love you." And then the carefully orchestrated "acceptance" – the day she finally uttered "I love you," the day she embraced him as a true grandson – it had coincided, tellingly, with his impending wedding to Ruhi. She was gaining a daughter-in-law, yes, but one carefully selected for docility, for a lack of independent spirit. That was her ideal "bahu." A brilliant woman, Kaveri Poddar, brilliant in her subtle manipulations, tragically limited by her rigidly traditional worldview.

The veneer of education, the outward trappings of high society – these had earned her respect, unquestioning obedience even. But beneath the surface, Armaan now saw, lay a mind stubbornly resistant to true enlightenment. Education was meant to unlock minds, not reinforce prejudices. My Grandma never truly understood that. He brought his hands together in a slow, ironic clap. All that mattered was status, outward appearances, respect in the eyes of others. Kaveri Poddar, for all her outward sophistication, remained chained to a deeply backward way of thinking. This was the woman who had judged Shivani, who judged him.

He had long swallowed the narrative that Shivani had been a disruptive force, a home-wrecker. Lies. His mother, he now understood with a painful clarity, had been no such thing.

Life, it seemed, had become a cruel echo, repeating her story, casting him in the lead role. Abhira, his Abhira, was Shivani. Ruhi – compliant, eager to please – she was Vidya. And he, trapped in the middle, was Madhav, teetering on the precipice of repeating his father's mistakes. Destiny, or perhaps the lingering karmic residue of his father's past, had woven a tangled web. He, a lawyer trained to dissect and analyze, had been blind to the pattern until now. If fate, if some higher power, hadn't intervened... he shuddered to think of the life he might have sleepwalked into, a life defined by regret. Destiny, in its inscrutable wisdom, had offered him a chance at something different.

Armaan turned towards the window, the moon a silver disc in the inky sky. Time, he thought, a surge of resolve hardening his spine. Time to take the first step. Time to unravel this tangled thread and finally set everything right. He clasped his hands together, the quiet click echoing in the stillness of the room – a small sound, but a promise nonetheless.

How does this revised chapter feel now? Do you think these refinements have made it stronger? 

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RE-WROTE THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER AND THIS BOOK IS OFICIALLY UNDER EDITING AND SOME CHAPTERS WILL BE TOTALLY CHANGED AND RE-WRITTEN.

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