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What is this?

What kind of person thinks it's okay to wake up their best friend at 5 in the morning, drag them out of bed like a ragdoll, and haul them to Worli as if they're on a mission to save the world?

Well, if you ask Shubman, that person is Ishan, who somehow has enough energy at this ungodly hour to be wide awake, while Shubman's still trying to figure out if this is real life or a bad dream.

Shubman blinks rapidly, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but all he can see is the back of Ishan's head and the blur of the floor beneath him.

Ishan is pulling him by the hand, walking in front of him, and the only sound is of his slippers against the tiles.

He vaguely remembers something about going to bed early last night, but that plan clearly went out the window the moment Ishan barged into his room, armed with an enthusiasm that should be illegal at this hour.

He wants to protest, to ask what could possibly be so urgent that it requires dragging him out of bed like a sack of potatoes, but his mouth refuses to cooperate.

Instead, he lets out a groan that's half complaint, half surrender. Ishan, of course, doesn't even turn around; he just keeps marching forward, a man on a mission, while Shubman contemplates the various ways he might get back at him for this later.

Perhaps something involving a bucket of cold water and an alarm set for 4 AM—revenge is a dish best served early, after all.

Getting into the lift, Shubman decides to lean against the cold wall of the lift in the luxury apartment building and lets his head fall back, closing his eyes in a last-ditch effort to cling to the remnants of sleep.

The lift's gentle hum is almost soothing, a lullaby he didn't ask for but desperately needs.

Only to get smacked by Ishan, jolting him awake with a solid thwack to the shoulder. Shubman's eyes fly open, his dream of drifting back into sleep shattered, and he glares at Ishan, who is already glaring at him.

"Yahan meri fatti padi hai, ki Rohit bhai ne itne gusse mein tujhe kyu bulaya, aur tu hai ki so raha hai?" [Here I am, stressed out about why Rohit Bhai called you in such anger, and you're sleeping?] Ishan hisses, like a black cat that's just had its tail stepped on.

Shubman blinks, trying to process the words through the haze of sleep that still clings to his brain. Rohit bhai. Gussa. Bulaya.

The words float around in his head like puzzle pieces that refuse to fit together. He rubs his eyes, not sure if he's more irritated by the rude awakening or by the fact that he still doesn't have a clue why they're here.

"Sachi, sachi bata Shubi, kya kiya tune?" [Seriously, Shubi, what did you do?] Ishan's voice is a low hiss and his adorable face is scrunched up in worry, the kind of look that Shubman has only seen during an important match or when he has a fight with Aditi.

Shubman's first instinct is to shrug and say, "Kuch nahi," [Nothing] because really, what could he have done that's bad enough for Rohit to summon him at this ungodly hour?

But the way Ishan is staring at him, like he's expecting Shubman to confess to a crime he doesn't even remember committing, makes him pause.

Did he do something? Shubman racks his brain, searching for any memory that might explain why Rohit bhai would be this upset.

He tries to think back to the last few days, but nothing stands out. Was it something he said? Did he accidentally deleted Rohit's Netflix profile last night?

Or did Rohit bhai find out that Shubman was the one who finished his misal pav and not Siraj Miyan, who had to run extra laps during practice because he was falsely accused?

Shubman winces at the memory. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions, a small act of rebellion driven by hunger and the tantalizing smell of the misal pav. But he was sure he had covered his tracks—at least, he thought he had.

Shubman shoots Ishan a pleading look, his eyes wide with desperation. "Ishu, please bata de yaar, what did I do?" [Ishu, please tell me, yaar, what did I do?] Ishan shakes his head, only slightly softened by the usual puppy-dog eyes  by his younger friend.

"Shubi, mujhe khud nahi pata, but jo bhi ho, lagta hai teri lag gayi hai," [Shubi, I don't know myself, but whatever it is, it looks like you're in trouble] Ishan sighs, rubbing his forehead as if trying to soothe a growing headache. He's clearly as confused as Shubman, which doesn't help Shubman's already frayed nerves.

Shubman's heart sinks. He knows Ishan is right—Rohit doesn't get mad without a good reason, and if he's this upset, then Shubman is probably in deeper trouble than he realizes.

But what could it be? Shubman's mind races as he tries to piece together the events of the past few days. He's been careful—at least, he thought he had been. But now, doubt creeps in, and every little thing he's done seems like it could be the cause.

The ding of the lift arriving on the 82nd floor breaks the tense silence, the sound echoing in the quiet, early morning air.

Shubman feels a shiver run down his spine as the doors slide open, revealing the dimly lit hallway leading to Rohit bhai's apartment.

Ishan steps out first, his movements a little too cautious for someone who's usually so carefree. Shubman follows, his feet feeling like they're made of lead as he trudges behind his friend.

They reach Rohit's door, and Ishan hesitates for a moment before raising his hand to ring the bell. Ishan's hand hovers over the doorbell for a moment too long, as if he's debating whether or not it's wise to go through with this.

Shubman can see the hesitation in his eyes, the way his fingers twitch nervously, and it only adds to the gnawing anxiety in his own chest.

The usually confident, carefree Ishan, who never thinks twice before diving headfirst into anything, is now second-guessing himself. That's how serious this is.

Finally, with a small sigh, Ishan presses the doorbell, the birds chirping sound of the door. The birds chirping sound of the doorbell rings out, startling Shubman out of his anxious thoughts.

Shubman shifts uneasily, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't help but imagine all the possible scenarios that could unfold once Rohit bhai opens that door.

Ishan glances at Shubman, his expression a mix of concern and apology, as if he's saying, "Sorry, yaar, but you're on your own now." Shubman gives him a small, resigned nod, trying to mentally prepare himself for whatever is coming.

Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity, and Shubman starts to wonder if Rohit bhai is even home. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding, and they've woken up at the crack of dawn for nothing. Just as that hopeful thought crosses his mind, the door swings open with a soft creak, and there stands Ritika Bhabhi.

With a messy bun, and dressed in a simple kurta, Ritika bhabhi looks the imagine of domesticity, however, her usual warm smile is replaced by a tight, annoyed look that sends a shiver down Shubman's spine. He can tell she's not exactly thrilled to see them, especially at this hour.

Her eyes sweep over the disheveled duo—Shubman with his hair toussled and falling over his eyes and Ishan, wide awake but slightly disheveled, still clutching Shubman's wrist like he's leading a half-asleep toddler across the street.

She sighs, the kind of resigned sigh that only someone who's lived with Rohit Sharma long enough can master, and steps aside, gesturing for them to enter.

Ritika bhabhi steps aside with that classic, and the two of them shuffle in, trying not to make eye contact, like school kids sneaking into class late.

The house is quiet, too quiet for the Sharma family's house, and Shubman can feel the cool tiles beneath his feet reminding him of exactly how unprepared he is to face whatever mess they've walked into.

Ishan is the first to break the silence, his voice hushed like he's afraid of waking someone up, even though it's clear they've already disturbed the whole household.

"Thanks, bhabhi," Ishan mumbles, managing a small smile, but Ritika bhabhi just shakes her head and closes the door behind them with a soft click.

She leads them through the dimly lit corridor, past framed photos of Rohit bhai lifting IPL trophies, Rohit posing with fans, and it's like walking through a shrine dedicated to Mumbai Indians' greatest hits.

They finally reach the living room, and the scene is as cozy as it is intimidating—plush sofas that look too pristine to actually sit on, and a giant TV that probably plays nothing but cricket highlights and kids' cartoons on loop. The curtains are open, letting the soft glow of the sunrise filter through and cast a gentle light over the room.

Shubman's breath catches in his throat when he spots Sachin sir and Yuvi paa sitting stiffly, their faces lined with worry that doesn't belong on two of the most unshakeable men he knows.

It's like seeing your childhood heroes as ordinary people for the first time—flawed, worried, and far too human. Around them, a swarm of people in suits, likely managers or PR folks, are hunched over laptops, typing furiously, occasionally muttering to each other as they shuffle through piles of paperwork.

At the dining table, Anjali ma'am is pacing with her phone pressed to her ear, her brows furrowed in concentration as she works through a call. Next to her, Anushka bhabhi absently traces the rim of her cup with her finger, not saying a word, just staring at the cup as if it might hold some answers.

Hazel bhabhi sits beside Ritika, her hand gently wrapped around Ritika's in a gesture of comfort, as if she's trying to calm whatever storm is brewing behind her nanad's mind. Ritika bhabhi's usual warmth is missing, replaced by a look that says she's barely keeping it together.

On the sofa, Vamika is fast asleep, her tiny head resting on Virat bhai's thigh, her chubby cheeks squished against his knee in the most adorable way. Akaay is curled up on Virat's shoulder, his little fingers clutching at his dad's shirt as if he's holding on for dear life even in his dreams.

A small smile flickers on Virat's face as he watches over them, but his eyes are distant, lost in whatever heavy thoughts are weighing on everyone in the room.

Across from them, Orion and Aura, Yuvi Paa's kids, are sprawled out on the other couch, completely knocked out, their tiny limbs tangled in a mess of blankets.

It's a strangely domestic scene amidst all the tension—kids snoring softly, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding around them.

And there stands the man of the hour. Rohit bhai, the Hitman—only today, he looks ready to hit someone than the ball. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usually relaxed demeanor nowhere to be found.

His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions like he's run his hands through it one too many times, and he's still in his night clothes—a faded Mumbai Indians tee and a shorts that look like they've seen better days.

Rohit bhai's head lifts slowly, and the second their eyes meet, Shubman feels a jolt run down his spine. This isn't the easygoing Rohit bhai who cracks jokes in the locker room and steals food from your plate when you're not looking. This Rohit bhai looks like he wants to eat Shubman alive.

"Shubman."

At the call of his name, Shubman turns his head to see Aditi and Sara walking toward him. Aditi's wearing an hoodie that probably belongs to Ishan, and Sara's in a casual dress with sneakers, both looking equally out of place.

Sara gives him a tight-lipped smile, the kind that says she's trying to be supportive but can't help wondering what mess Shubman's managed to land himself in this time.

Aditi, on the other hand, has a fierce glint in her eyes—the same one she gets when Shubman accidentally interrupts her and Ishan's date night.

"Shub, how did it happen? Aur tum dhyaan nahi rakh sakte the?" [Shub, how did this happen? Couldn't you have been more careful?] Aditi's voice is sharp, tinged with that particular brand of irritation reserved only for Shubman—like he's a little brother who can't seem to stay out of trouble.

She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head in that way she does when she's waiting for an explanation that better be good.

"Bolo bhi," [Come on, speak up] Sara prompts, and Shubman can feel the walls closing in as he scrambles to piece together some kind of response that won't make him look like a complete idiot.

"I-I, I don't even know ki hua kya hai," [I-I don't even know what happened] Shubman stammers, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide as he glances nervously between Aditi and Sara.

The wrong answer, without a doubt. Shubman feels the weight of the room shift as Sachin sir's usually warm gaze sharpens, those legendary eyes narrowing in a way that sends a chill down his spine.

It's like the master blaster himself is disappointed, and that's a special kind of dread that settles in Shubman's gut.

Yuvi Paa, lounging back on the sofa, raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of disbelief and judgment, as if Shubman has just pulled off the most epic blunder since someone decided to put pineapple on pizza. It's the kind of look that says, 'Kid, you've really stepped in it this time.'

And Virat bhai, the one man who could intimidate half the world with a single glare, lets out a sharp breath that sounds almost like a warning.

It's a sound that cuts through the room like a knife, a clear signal that Shubman is treading on thin ice, and that ice is about to crack wide open.

In that moment, the silence stretches out, thick and suffocating, with Shubman's heart pounding like a drum in his ears, louder than any stadium cheer.

But it's Rohit bhai who steals the show. The way he's looking at Shubman right now, it's like the Hitman himself has decided that today, instead of hitting boundaries, he's going to hit Shubman with the full force of his displeasure.

There's murder in those eyes—a quiet, simmering rage that promises a world of trouble. Shubman knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he has well and truly screwed up.

Shubman shifts his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much space he's taking up in a room full of cricket legends and their significant others.

His palms are starting to sweat, and he can almost feel the floor beneath him turning to quicksand. The tension is so thick, you could cut it with a butter knife.

And here he is, standing in the eye of the storm, desperately wishing he could teleport himself back to his bed and pretend this is all a bad dream.

Rohit bhai finally pushes off the wall, his posture slow and deliberate, like a tiger circling its prey. "Shubman," he says again, but this time his voice has that dangerous calm, the kind that makes you rethink all your life choices up to this point. "Tu mujhe yeh bata... tujhe lagta hai, yeh sab yahan kyun baithe hain? Party karne aaye hain kya?" [You tell me... do you think everyone is sitting here for a party?]

Shubman swallows hard, his throat dry. "Nahi, bhai," [No, bhai] he manages to squeak out, and immediately regrets how pathetic he sounds. The room feels smaller by the second, with everyone's eyes drilling into him like he's the most interesting spectacle they've seen all week.

Ishan, who was his supposed ally in all this, is suddenly very interested in the carpet pattern. Traitor. Shubman wants to elbow him in the ribs.

Rohit bhai takes a step forward, and Shubman instinctively steps back. "Toh phir, tu bata, tu kya samjha raha tha media ko?" [Then, tell me, what were you explaining to the media?] he continues, his voice rising just a notch, enough to let Shubman know he's hanging on a very thin thread.

Shubman racks his brain, trying to remember if he's said anything, anything at all, that could have set off this chain of events. Media? What media?

"Arey bhai, mujhe toh kuch yaad bhi nahi kiya maine bola," [Look, bhai, I don't even remember what I said] Shubman stammers, his voice hitting that awkward pitch where it cracks somewhere between a squeak and a full-blown whine.

The kind of pitch that makes even him cringe a little on the inside, like he's thirteen all over again and his voice is still figuring itself out. "Main toh sirf—" [I was just—]

But Rohit bhai's not having any of it. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes fixed on Shubman with a look that could cut glass. It's that kind of deadly calm you see in action movies, where the villain's about to make his move.

Except this isn't a movie, and Shubman's pretty sure he's the poor sap about to get it. Rohit's hand reaches for the TV remote on the coffee table, and Shubman can almost feel his heart doing flips, like it's got a mind of its own and is ready to bail on him.

Click. The TV flickers to life, and Rohit bhai's gaze is locked onto Shubman, unblinking, like he's waiting to see the exact moment his younger teammate realizes just how deep a hole he's in.

The room goes quieter than a stadium in the final over of a match, and the air feels heavy, almost like the collective disappointment is pressing down on Shubman's shoulders.

And then, there it is, right on the big screen. His own face, staring back at him, frozen in mid-laugh like a deer caught in the headlights. Shubman's first thought is, 'Yeh toh mai hoon,' [That's me] but his eyes are drawn to the real problem flashing beside his face—a photo that makes his heart stutter in his chest. Good or bad, he can't quite tell yet.

Shubman gets that goofy smile on his face, the one where his dimples pop out, and he's suddenly not in the Sharma living room anymore. His mind is replaying the last time he saw her—Mrignaini.

She had this aura like she owned the world, and her beauty, oh man, it was the kind of beauty that you left you breathless. He had barely known her for 24 hours, but here he is, smiling like a lovesick teenager.

But that dreamy, lost-in-thought grin only lasts a second before reality slams back in, hard. His smile falters when he notices everyone staring at him. Ishan's wide-eyed, giving him the 'Are you insane? Smile now? Seriously?' look.

Sachin sir and Yuvi Paa are leaning forward like they're analyzing a match replay, and Rohit bhai, well... Rohit bhai looks like he's about two seconds away from throwing the remote at his head.

Shubman swallows, feeling his face heat up. He tries to wipe that stupid smile off his face, but it's too late. Rohit bhai has seen it. Everyone has.

And now, his older brother figure looks even more dangerous, if that's even possible. There's a vein popping on Rohit's forehead, and that never means anything good.

"Shubman..." Rohit's voice is low, with that deadly calm that sends a chill down Shubman's spine. "Tu has raha hai?" [Are you laughing?]

Shubman freezes, his breath catching as Rohit bhai's voice slices through the tension in the room like a knife.

That deadly calm, the one that makes even the boldest of men think twice before opening their mouths, sends a shiver down his spine.

Rohit's eyes are locked onto him, unblinking, and Shubman can feel the weight of that stare pressing down on him like a thousand tons.

In that split second, Shubman wishes he could rewind time, take back that stupid, involuntary smile that has now sealed his fate. But it's too late.

The damage is done, and he's standing there like a deer caught in headlights, his mind scrambling for something—anything—to say that might save him from the wrath he knows is coming.

But words fail him. All he can do is stare back at Rohit, swallowing hard as he tries to keep his cool. The room feels like it's getting smaller, the walls closing in, and all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart in his ears. Everyone else is holding their breath too, waiting for the explosion they know is inevitable.

"Tu has raha hai, Shubman?" [Are you laughing, Shubman?] Rohit repeats, his tone deceptively calm, but there's an edge to it that makes Shubman's blood run cold.

The older man takes a step closer, and Shubman instinctively takes a step back, his legs feeling like jelly. There's no escape, though. Not from this.

"Bhai, main—" [Bhai, I—]

"DADA!"

Shubman freezes as the room's tension is suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Rohit's daughter, Samaira. She bursts into the room, her tiny feet barely making a sound on the floor as she makes a beeline for her father, her hair flying wildly behind her.

"Dada!" she squeals, her voice full of excitement, completely oblivious to the brewing storm between the two men.

Rohit's hardened expression softens instantly as he scoops her up into his arms, the earlier fury melting away as he turns his attention to his daughter.

Shubman breathes a silent sigh of relief, grateful for the temporary reprieve, though he knows it won't last long. He's seen Rohit's temper before, but never directed at him, and he'd prefer it stay that way. For now, he watches as Samaira wraps her tiny arms around Rohit's neck, her giggles filling the room.

As Rohit cradles Samaira in his arms, Shubman's mind races, trying to piece together a way out of this mess. The room feels thick with unspoken words, and he can almost hear his heartbeat thudding in his chest. But then, something in his peripheral vision stops him cold.

His Mrignaini.

She's standing just outside the doorway, her soft blue kurti flowing gracefully as she adjusts the dupatta over her shoulder, completely unaware of the tension hanging in the air.

The simple elegance of her outfit—a sleeveless blue kurti paired with white plazo pants—catches the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal.

Is that a violin playing in the background? Where the hell is that even coming from? Shubman shakes his head slightly, trying to focus. He's pretty sure no one in the house plays the violin, and he definitely didn't install background music in his life. But there it is, playing in his mind like the soundtrack to a slow-motion scene in a movie.

Aankhon mein teri...

Ajab si, ajab si, adaayein hain

Ho...

Ankhon mein teri...

Ajab si, ajab si, adaayein hain

Dil ko bana dein jo patang

Saansein ye teri vo hawaayein hain

The wind teases Radhika's long hair as she walks towards him, her graceful steps barely making a sound on the polished floor. Shubman's eyes follow her, mesmerized. It's like she's floating through a dream sequence, and he's the hapless bystander.

He glances around quickly, half-expecting someone to start tossing flower petals or for slow-motion doves to fly by because that's just how dramatic this moment feels.

Seriously, though, where is the wind coming from in a closed apartment? It's like the universe is conspiring to make him look like a lovesick fool.

Shubman clears his throat, hoping to break the spell, but all he manages is an awkward cough that echoes louder than intended in the quiet room.

Radhika glances at him, puzzled, her brows knitting slightly, but there's no way she can know the chaos currently playing out in his head.

He feels like he's been dropped into one of those over-the-top romantic Bollywood scenes where the hero just can't get his act together because the heroine is standing right there, looking like she stepped out of a dream, and all he can do is stare.

Why is his heart beating so fast? It's not like she's saying anything extraordinary or even looking at him in any particular way. She's just standing there, for crying out loud, probably trying to figure out why the crazy guy across the room is gawking at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Shubman tries to snap himself out of it—this is ridiculous, he tells himself. Get a grip. But Radhika brushes a stray hair from her face, and it's like time slows down again, that violin in his head cranking up to full volume, and Shubman knows he's hopelessly lost.

The whole situation is absurd, but he can't help it. Everything about her—the way she moves, the soft smile she gives when she finally notices him, the way she adjusts her bangles as if it's the most important thing in the world—it's like a perfectly choreographed moment that he has no control over.

It's funny, really. He knows he's making a complete fool of himself, and yet, here he is, in his own world, with his own soundtrack, unable to do anything but watch her.

"Why is the panel silent now?"

The question slices through the air, momentarily freezing the room. For a heartbeat, it feels like even the walls are holding their breath, waiting to see who will break the tension.

"It's Shubman Gill's life," the woman with glasses and short hair finally speaks, her voice carrying that blend of exasperation and patience usually reserved for explaining something glaringly obvious to someone who just doesn't get it.

"Haan, he's a cricketer, a big one at that, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a right to a personal life. He's still a human being at the end of the day, na. The girl could be anyone. Maybe she's his girlfriend, maybe even his fiancée! And who are we, sitting here, to question the girl? Matlab, hum hain kaun yeh poochhne waale?" [Yes, he's a cricketer, a big one at that, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a right to a personal life. He's still a human being at the end of the day, right? The girl could be anyone. Maybe she's his girlfriend, maybe even his fiancée! And who are we, sitting here, to question the girl? I mean, who are we to ask?]

As she finishes, the room collectively exhales, a shared breath no one realized they were holding in. The cricketers, the WAGs, Aditi, Sara, and Shubman exchange looks, their faces a mixture of surprise and relief, all directed towards this woman who, despite her simple saree and unassuming presence, is now the unexpected defender of Shubman's personal life.

It's as if she's pulled a reverse card on the entire discussion, leaving the panelists fumbling for their next move.

But just as Rohit Sharma allows himself the briefest sigh of relief, his eyes land on his sister, Radhika—his Khargosh—who is also in the room, quietly watching the same news. She hasn't moved since the discussion started, but her eyes have widened, the kind of widening that signals something has shifted deep inside.

Radhika is suddenly a portrait of shock, her large, expressive eyes brimming with tears she hasn't yet allowed to fall. She stares at the screen, the image of Shubman with a girl—her—isolated in a frame, blown up for all of India to dissect and discuss.

She didn't know. No one told her. She didn't even see the photo before this moment, and now it's plastered on every channel, every phone screen, every pair of eyes in this room.

Rohit, cradling Samaira in his arms, can feel the panic rising in his chest, mirroring the panic in Radhika's eyes. He's always been the big brother, the one who can fix things with a well-placed word or a comforting hug, but right now, he's not sure what to do.

He knows Radhika, knows how deeply she feels things, how intensely she reacts to the unexpected. And this—this is more than just unexpected. It's an invasion, a violation of her carefully maintained privacy, her quiet, gentle world.

She turns to him, her gaze pleading, as if asking for answers, for reassurance, for anything that can make this go away. Tears are now gathering at the corners of her eyes, ready to spill over at the slightest nudge.

Rohit feels a lump form in his throat, his mind racing as he tries to come up with something—anything—that can make this better. But what can he say? What can he do?

His little Khargosh, his Ridhu, is hurting, and for the first time, Rohit Sharma feels completely, utterly powerless.

Rohit's mind races, scrambling for the right words, but they slip through his fingers like sand. He looks down at Samaira, her tiny face calm and unaware of the turmoil around her.

For a moment, he wishes he could swap places with her—ignorant of the world's chaos, safe in the cradle of innocence. But there's no escaping this.

Radhika's breath catches in her throat, a sharp intake that stabs at Rohit's heart. He knows that sound—it's the prelude to a flood of emotions she's kept dammed up. And when Radhika lets go, it's like a monsoon breaking over a parched earth, sudden and overwhelming.

But she doesn't cry. Not yet. Instead, she stands frozen, eyes fixed on the screen, the tears trembling on the edge of her lashes, refusing to fall. Her silence, usually her shield, now feels like a trap, suffocating her as she tries to process what she's seeing.

"Khargosh?"

Sachin paaji's voice slices through the tension like a warm knife through butter, gentle yet firm, carrying that unmistakable authority wrapped in kindness.

It's the voice of someone who's seen it all, who knows how fragile these moments can be. Rohit turns his head just slightly, enough to catch Sachin's concerned gaze, but not enough to break the tenuous connection between him and Radhika.

Sachin's eyes are soft, his brow furrowed with worry, but there's a calmness in his presence that steadies the room, like a lighthouse in a storm.

Radhika's shoulders shudder as she takes in a shaky breath, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world has paused, holding its breath alongside her.

Sachin's voice, so gentle yet so powerful, is like a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of the abyss she's teetering on. Rohit can see it in her eyes—the conflict, the overwhelming surge of emotions that she's trying so hard to keep bottled up, even as they threaten to spill over.

He doesn't know what to say, what to do, to ease her pain, but he's grateful for Sachin's presence. There's something about the way Sachin moves, the way he steps into the room, his pace unhurried, his demeanor reassuring, that makes everything feel a little less terrifying, a little more manageable.

Rohit feels a small, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, Sachin will know what to say, how to reach Radhika in a way that he can't right now.

"Khargosh," Sachin says again, his voice softer this time, as if he's trying to coax her out of her shell. He moves closer, careful not to intrude, but close enough that Radhika can feel the warmth of his presence.

He looks at her with those wise, compassionate eyes, the kind that have seen the best and worst of life, and something in his gaze seems to resonate with her.

Radhika blinks, and the tears that have been hovering at the edges of her eyes finally spill over, silently rolling down her cheeks.

She turns slightly towards Sachin, her lips trembling as she struggles to find her bearings in this emotional storm. She's still silent, still mute, but the way she looks at

Snapping out of her shock, Radhika's hands come alive, her fingers moving with a desperate urgency as she begins to sign wildly, trying to wrestle her swirling emotions into words.

Her bangles jangle with each motion, the tiny bells on her jhumkas chiming softly as they sway with her every gesture, creating a rhythm of their own. It's as if her whole being is trying to communicate, to clear the misunderstanding, but the more she tries, the more tangled her signs.

She's signing so fast, so frantically, that it's hard to keep up, her hands cutting through the air in sharp, frustrated movements, as if by sheer force she can make the world understand the turmoil inside her.

The signs are disjointed, some half-formed, others repeated as if she's trying to grasp at the right words but they keep slipping away from her.

It's the way she moves, the way her entire body seems to be involved in this frantic attempt to communicate, to make someone, anyone, understand what she's feeling.

Her eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, dart between Rohit and Sachin, pleading silently for someone to make sense of the mess that's unraveling around her.

She's not just trying to express herself; she's trying to hold onto something, anything, that can anchor her in this moment, something that can help her navigate the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Sachin doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. Instead, he reaches out and gently cups her face with one hand, his thumb brushing away her tears with the tenderness of a father comforting his child.

"Radhika, hume tujh pe bharosa hai. We know ki kuch galat nahi hua hai. We know," [Radhika, we trust you. We know that nothing wrong has happened. We know] Sachin's voice, low and steady, carries the kind of assurance that comes from a lifetime of being a rock for others.

His words aren't hurried or forced; they flow naturally, like a gentle stream soothing a scorched land. His thumb continues its slow, comforting movement across her cheek, each stroke like a silent promise that everything will be alright, even if it doesn't feel like it right now.

Radhika's hands falter in mid-air, her fingers curling slightly as if trying to grasp the reassurance Sachin is offering her. The frantic energy that had consumed her moments ago begins to ebb away, leaving behind a quiet, trembling stillness.

Her eyes, still glossy with tears, lock onto Sachin's, searching his face for the truth she desperately needs to believe in. There's a vulnerability there, a raw, exposed nerve that only someone who cares deeply can see.

Sachin doesn't waver. He holds her gaze, his expression full of that gentle wisdom he's known for, the kind that makes you feel like everything is under control, even when the world around you is spinning out of orbit.

Anjali Ma'am steps forward, her presence as calm and reassuring as a lullaby sung in the quiet of night. Her voice, soft yet firm, carries the kind of warmth that only a mother can offer, a soothing balm for the frayed nerves and tangled emotions that fill the room.

"Haan, bache," [Yes, dear,] she begins, her words as gentle as the touch of a mother's hand on a fevered brow, "mujhe pata hai ki tu kuch galat kar hi nahi sakti." [I know you can't do anything wrong.]

Radhika's breath comes in uneven waves, as if the very air around her is too thick to inhale properly, her body still trembling under the weight of unspoken fears and unvoiced thoughts.

Her eyes flit from Sachin's calm gaze to Anjali Ma'am's warm, motherly presence, and then to Virat bhai and Yuvi Paa, who both nod gently, their expressions mirroring the unspoken assurance that she is not alone, that she is surrounded by people who know her heart, who trust her intentions without question.

Ritika and Anushka bhabhi approach Radhika with a softness in their steps that speaks of their deep affection and understanding.

Ritika, her eyes filled with concern and empathy, reaches out a hand, her touch as light and comforting as a whisper in the dark. She places it gently on Radhika's head, brushing a strand away from her forehead.

"Tujhe pata hai na," [You know, don't you,] Ritika begins, her voice as tender as a mother's lullaby, "Ki main shayad Ro pe utna bharosa na karoon jitna main tujhpe karti hoon. Meri pehli bachi hai tu. Aai Baba hai, lekin maine aur Rohit ne tujhe pala hai. Hum dono sab theek kardenge. Tu bas tension mat le." [that I might not trust Ro as much as I trust you. You are my first child. Aai and Baba are there, but Rohit and I raised you. We will fix everything together. You just don't worry.]

Ritika brushes a loose strand of hair away from Radhika's forehead, her touch light and soothing, the way you might comfort a child who's just woken up from a nightmare.

There's a fierceness in Ritika's eyes, the kind of quiet determination that comes from years of looking out for someone you love more than yourself.

Anushka bhabhi, who has always been a quiet pillar of strength, stands beside Ritika, her eyes soft yet unwavering. She doesn't need to say much—her presence alone is enough to convey a world of reassurance.

She reaches out, gently taking Radhika's other hand in hers, the warmth of her grip steady and comforting. "Agar kisi ne tujhse panga liya na, toh tu bas mujhe bata dena. Mere pati ko dekha hai tune? Aur tu toh apne Virat bhai ko jaanti hai. Tujhe protect karne ke liye woh kuch bhi kar sakte hain." [If anyone messes with you, just tell me. Have you seen my husband? And you know your Virat Bhai. He would do anything to protect you]

The words are light, almost teasing, but beneath them lies a promise as solid as a rock. There's no need for dramatic declarations; the quiet strength in Anushka's voice, the way she holds Radhika's hand, says everything.

It's a reminder that she's not alone, that no matter what storm rages outside, she has a family that will stand by her, protect her, fight for her if need be.

But Radhika's eyes, still shimmering with the remnants of doubt, search for the one person whose reassurance she desperately seeks. Her Rohit bhai.

She spots him standing slightly apart from the others, his usual air of confidence softened, as though he's holding back the full force of his emotions just for her. Their eyes lock, and in that instant, Radhika feels a familiar wave of comfort wash over her, a feeling only he can bring.

There's no need for words between them—Rohit's expression alone conveys everything she needs to hear. The depth of his love, his unwavering protectiveness, envelops her like a warm blanket on a chilly night, grounding her, making her feel safe.

Rohit remains still at first, allowing the moment to linger, giving her the space she needs to steady herself. But when he finally moves, it's with a quiet resolve that mirrors the bond they share.

He places Samaira down and steps forward, each movement deliberate, as though every step is a silent vow that he will always be there for her, come what may.

When he reaches her, there's no hesitation. Rohit pulls Radhika into a tight embrace, his arms encircling her with a mix of protection and reassurance.

Radhika melts into him, burying her face in his shoulder, allowing herself, just for a moment, to be the little sister who can lean on her big brother, letting the storm around her fade into the background. The familiar scent of home clings to him, bringing with it a sense of peace that only he can provide.

"Sab theek ho jayega, Khargosh," [Everything will be alright, Khargosh] Rohit murmurs, his voice low and steady, the same tone he always uses when he wants to keep her from worrying. "Main hoon na. Tu bas mujhe bata, kya karna hai. Main sab sambhal loonga." [I'm here. Just tell me what to do. I will handle everything.] His words, simple yet profound, act like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of her fears, grounding her in the unshakable certainty that as long as Rohit is by her side, nothing can truly harm her.

Virat watches the scene unfold with a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of the unbreakable bond between Rohit and Radhika.

He's seen this fierce protectiveness before, in the way Rohit has always been willing to go to any lengths for his sister, but today there's an added intensity to it, a determination that burns in Rohit's eyes as he holds Radhika close.

Virat knows, without a doubt, that Rohit will not rest until he's found the person responsible for this mess, the one who dared to drag his sister's name through the mud. There's a fire in Rohit that no one should underestimate, especially when it comes to Radhika.

Shubman stood there, his mind doing somersaults as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Radhika, who had always seemed so composed, was clinging to Rohit bhai like he was her lifeline.

Shubman's first thought was, "What the hell is going on?" For a split second, he wondered if he had wandered into some parallel universe where things just didn't add up. Why was Radhika hugging Rohit bhai so tightly?

He looked around the room, feeling like he had accidentally crashed a family gathering he wasn't supposed to be a part of. Everyone's expressions—Sachin sir's authority, Ritika bhabhi's worried gaze, and Anushka bhabhi's support—only deepened his confusion.

Before Shubman could dig himself deeper into his own puzzled thoughts, Yuvraj Paa, who had been quietly watching the drama unfold, gave him a light pat on the shoulder, jolting him back to reality.

"Arre, tu itna tense kyun ho raha hai, Gill?" [Hey, why are you so tense, Gill?] Yuvi said with a grin that didn't quite match the serious atmosphere. "Radhika toh Rohit ki behen hai, yaar. Tujhe pata nahi tha?" [Radhika is Rohit's sister, buddy. Didn't you know?]

And just like that, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Radhika is Rohit bhai's sister? How had he not known that?

Shubman felt like someone had just handed him the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly everything made sense—the protective way Rohit had pulled her close, the emotional undercurrent running through the room, even the way Radhika had always been treated with such gentle affection by everyone around her.

Shubman mentally kicked himself for not figuring it out sooner. All those moments he had spent with Radhika, thinking she was just a sweet, quiet girl, now felt like he'd been watching a movie without subtitles.

The realization hit him hard, leaving him standing there feeling equal parts relieved and embarrassed. Relieved that the hug wasn't something romantic that he'd have to awkwardly deal with, and embarrassed because he hadn't connected the dots earlier.

His mind flashed back to all their interactions, and with this new information, they took on a whole new meaning. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the way Rohit always seemed to keep an eye on her, the way she was included in every little thing, not just as a friend or guest, but as family.

But Shubman didn't have time to dwell on his own mix of emotions. The room was still heavy with the tension of the moment, though it seemed to be easing now that Rohit had Radhika in his arms.

There was something so solid, so reassuring about the way Rohit held her that made it clear to Shubman just how deeply he cared for his sister. It wasn't just a brotherly hug; it was a full-on 'I've got you, no matter what' kind of embrace.

"Shubman, idhar aa." [Shubman, come here.]

It's Virat bhai, his tone leaving no room for argument. Shubman feels his stomach drop, nerves twisting into tight knots as he forces his feet to move towards where Virat is standing, his posture straight and eyes serious but not unkind.

Behind Virat, Anushka bhabhi watches with a gentle, reassuring smile, her presence somehow making the impending conversation seem a little less daunting.

As Shubman approaches, Virat studies him for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in every nuance of the younger man's demeanor—the nervous fidgeting, the uncertainty clouding his usually bright gaze, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched as if bracing for impact.

"Kake, relax," Virat bhai says, his voice softening as he places a firm hand on Shubman's shoulder. "Kuch nahi hoga tujhe. Bas yeh bata, kya hua tha jab yeh photo li gayi thi?" [Nothing will happen to you. Just tell me, what happened when this photo taken?]

Shubman swallows hard, trying to gather his thoughts. "Bhai, yeh kal ki baat hai. Jab apne aur Rohit bhai ne mujhe practice ke baad dressing room mein bheja tha, tab Radhika ji apni dress ki doree bandhne mein struggle kar rahi thi. Maine bas madad kar di, aur kaise yeh photo click hua, mujhe bilkul pata nahi. Jo iss photo mein dikh raha hai, vaise kuch bhi nahi hua tha, bhaiyya." [Bhai, this happened yesterday. When you and Rohit Bhai sent me to the dressing room after practice, Radhika Ji was struggling to tie her sari. I didn't do anything. I was just trying to help her]

His words spill out in a nervous rush, each syllable laced with the anxiety of trying to clear up what could so easily be misunderstood. Virat stands there quietly, his face giving away nothing, and the silence that follows feels like it could stretch on forever.

Shubman's heart thuds so loudly he's sure everyone in the room can hear it. Then, finally, Virat's serious expression softens just a bit, and he gives Shubman a small nod, the kind that says, "I've got you, don't worry."

"Main samajh gaya, Shubman," [I understand, Shubman] Virat says, his voice now much kinder, like he's talking to a little brother who's gotten himself into a bit of a mess.

Shubman feels the tension in his chest start to ease up, but not entirely. Because while Virat bhai might be on his side, there's still the matter of Rohit bhai.

And that's no small thing. Shubman steals a glance at Rohit, who's still got his arms around Radhika like he's making sure the whole world knows she's under his protection.

Shubman doesn't know how to read that look on Rohit's face—it's a mix of worry and something else that makes Shubman's nerves spike all over again.

He turns his eyes back to Virat bhai, giving him the most pleading look he can muster, the kind that says, "Please, bhai, help me out here," without him actually having to say the words.

It's a look Shubman's perfected over the years, one that usually works like a charm on his mom when he needs to wiggle out of trouble.

Virat bhai catches the look and raises an eyebrow, half-confused, half-amused. "Kya hai?" [What is it?] he asks, already knowing the answer but wanting Shubman to say it out loud.

Shubman doesn't bother with words, just nods his head slightly in Rohit's direction, eyes wide with that same unspoken plea. It's the classic younger sibling move—let the elder brother handle the heavy lifting when things get tricky.

Virat follows Shubman's gaze, then lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as if to say, "Yeh toh bachchon wali harkatein hai." [These are childish antics.] He reaches out and ruffles Shubman's hair, an affectionate gesture that's also a little teasing, like he's amused by how nervous Shubman is.

"Arey, toh seedha bol na," [Hey, just say it directly,] Virat says, his tone light, as though they're just chatting and not trying to defuse a potentially awkward situation. "Kya aise idhar-udhar ishare kar raha hai?" [Why are you making signals like this?]

Shubman manages a small smile at that, but the nerves haven't entirely disappeared. He glances back at Rohit, who's still got that big-brother protective vibe going strong, the kind that makes Shubman feel like he's about to get a lecture even if Rohit doesn't say a word.

Virat, sensing Shubman's lingering anxiety, gives his shoulder another reassuring squeeze before calling out, "Rohit, yeh bacha hai, maaf karde." [Rohit, he's just a kid, forgive him.]

Rohit arches an eyebrow at Virat's comment but stays silent, his arms still crossed like he's deciding whether to let Shubman off the hook or give him the full 'big-brother' treatment.

Shubman, feeling the weight of Rohit's stare, shuffles awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets, waiting for whatever comes next.

There's a pause, the kind that makes you feel like everything's moving in slow motion, stretching time just a little longer than is comfortable.

With a resigned sigh, Rohit finally loosens his hold on Radhika, gently brushing away a stray tear from her cheek with his knuckle.

He leans in, murmuring something just for her, words too soft for anyone else to catch, but whatever he says, it brings a small, comforting smile to her lips.

She nods slowly, her eyes still glassy but no longer stormy, like she's found some peace in his words.

Rohit turns his attention to Shubman, his face stern but not unkind. He steps closer, his footsteps echoing slightly in the quiet room, making Shubman's heart beat just a little faster.

Shubman straightens up instinctively, trying to project calm and confidence, even though inside, he feels anything but.

As Rohit stops right in front of him, the height difference between them becomes more apparent, a visual reminder of the seniority and experience that Rohit carries.

For a moment, Rohit just looks at Shubman, his eyes searching, like he's trying to gauge the younger man's sincerity, or maybe just gathering his own thoughts.

The room stays quiet, everyone watching with bated breath, aware of how important this moment is for both men.

Finally, Rohit speaks, his voice steady but laced with the concern he's been holding onto. "Shubman, tu bata, sach mein kuch nahi hua na?" [Shubman, you tell me, nothing really happened, right?] His tone is probing but not accusing, giving Shubman a chance to explain himself.

Shubman takes a deep breath, blocking out the weight of everyone else's eyes and focusing solely on Rohit. "Nahi bhai, kuch bhi galat nahi hua. Radhika ji ki dress ki doree khul gayi thi, aur unhe madad chahiye thi. Bas maine help kar di, aur pata nahi kaun wahan chhupkar photos le raha tha. Maine kabhi socha bhi nahi tha ki aisa kuch ho jayega." [No, Bhai, nothing wrong happened. Radhika Ji's dress string came undone, and she needed help. I just helped her, and I have no idea who was hiding and taking photos there. I never even thought that something like this would happen]

Rohit listens closely, his gaze locked on Shubman's face, taking in every word, every nuance.

There's an unmistakable honesty in Shubman's voice, a sincerity that's hard to fake. Behind Rohit, Radhika watches, her hands fidgeting slightly, like she wants to jump in but decides to hold back.

After what feels like an eternity, Rohit's stern expression softens. He places a hand on Shubman's shoulder, the grip firm yet reassuring. "Mujhe pata hai tu achha ladka hai, Shubman. Par samajh, meri behen hai woh. Uski protection mera farz hai. Aur media wale kabhi bhi kisi ki image kharab karne se pehle sochte nahi hai. Ab mujhe samajh mein nahi aa raha hai ki iss situation se tum dono ko kaise nikaloon." [I know you're a good kid, Shubman. But understand, she's my sister. Her protection is my duty. And the media doesn't think twice before ruining someone's image. I just don't know how to get both of you out of this situation.]

Shubman feels a knot tighten in his stomach at Rohit's words, understanding the gravity of the situation. There's no easy way out of this mess, and the fact that Radhika is involved makes it even more delicate.

Rohit's grip on his shoulder is a reminder of the responsibility that's been placed on both of them, a responsibility Shubman hadn't fully comprehended until now.

The thought of how this incident could affect Radhika, someone so innocent and pure-hearted, weighs heavily on him.

Rohit's eyes narrow slightly, not in anger but in deep thought, as he continues, "Tu samajh raha hai na, Shubman? Yeh sirf tumhara nahi, uska bhi naam hai jo daav par laga hai. Aur agar kuch galat interpret kiya gaya toh sabse zyada usi ko problem hogi. Usey samajhna hoga ki aaj ke zamane mein logon ka kaam hi hai kisi ke character pe sawal uthana." [Do you understand, Shubman? It's not just your name at stake; it's hers too. And if something is interpreted wrongly, she'll be the one facing the most problems. You have to understand that in today's world, people's job is to question someone's character.]

Shubman nods quickly, his voice earnest as he replies, "Main samajhta hoon bhai, aur mujhe yeh bhi pata hai ki aap Radhika ji ke liye kitne protective hain. Main aapko yeh vishwas dilana chahta hoon ki main kabhi bhi unka kuch bhi bura nahi hone dunga." [I understand, Bhai, and I also know how protective you are of Radhika Ji. I want to assure you that I would never let anything bad happen to her.]

Rohit studies Shubman for a few more seconds, weighing his words carefully, before giving a decisive nod. "Theek hai, Shubman. Main janta hoon tu galat nahi karega, lekin yeh zaroori hai ki hum is situation ko bahut carefully handle karein. Issi liye maine meri PR team ko bula liya hai." [Alright, Shubman. I know you won't do anything wrong, but it's important that we handle this situation very carefully. That's why I've called my PR team.]

Before Rohit even finishes his sentence, one of the PR team members—Rohan, or maybe Samir, honestly, Shubman can never keep track of these guys in their sharp suits and crisp shirts—steps forward.

With a seriousness that seems to be their default setting, he clears his throat and begins laying out their plan, his tone a mix of urgency and confidence.

"Sir, humare paas do tareeke hain yeh scandal solve karne ke liye," [Sir, we have two ways to resolve this scandal,] Rohan starts, pulling out a sleek tablet and tapping away with practiced ease.

"Pehla option hai, ek public statement dena. Isme hum keh sakte hain ki yeh photo ek misunderstanding hai aur isse deliberately Shubman sir ki image ko kharab karne ki koshish ki gayi hai. Ek controlled leak ke through, ek exclusive interview arrange kiya ja sakta hai jismein Shubman sir directly clarification de sakte hain. Isse media ko ek clear message milega aur public ko bhi pata chalega ki yeh sab kuch misunderstanding hai." [The first option is to give a public statement. We can say that this photo is a misunderstanding and that it was deliberately taken to tarnish Shubman Sir's image. We could arrange an exclusive interview through a controlled leak where Shubman Sir can directly clarify. This will send a clear message to the media and also inform the public that it's all a misunderstanding.]

Rohan hesitates for a moment, glancing at his colleagues with an almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the group. His voice is steady, though it carries a hint of caution. "Sir, humare paas ek aur option bhi hai, lekin yeh thoda zyada complex hai." [Sir, we have another option as well, but it's a bit more complex]

Rohit's eyebrows knit together, signaling that he's all ears and ready to dive into the details. Shubman, meanwhile, feels a knot tighten in his stomach. The seriousness of the situation has morphed into a high-stakes chess game, and he's not entirely sure he's comfortable with the pieces on the board.

Rohan clears his throat again, trying to balance formality with the gravity of the situation. "Pehla option—jaisa ki maine kaha, ek public statement release karna. Yeh kehna ki yeh photo ek misunderstanding hai aur Shubman sir ki image ko deliberately kharab karne ke liye banaaya gaya hai. Yeh option effective ho sakta hai, lekin isme ek risk hai. Media ka response unpredictable hai aur log isko as a 'spin' de sakte hain. Ho sakta hai ki yeh approach Shubman sir ki image ko theek karne ki bajaye aur zyada controversy create kar de." [The first option—as I mentioned, is to release a public statement, saying this photo is a misunderstanding and was deliberately taken to tarnish Shubman Sir's image. This option could be effective, but it comes with a risk. The media's response is unpredictable, and people might see it as a 'spin'. It could end up creating more controversy rather than fixing Shubman Sir's image.]

Ishan, who has been quietly listening, finally chimes in with a touch of curiosity. "Toh aap kya suggest kar rahe ho? What is the second option?" [So what are you suggesting? What is the second option?]

"A marriage of convenience."

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Shubman pagal ho chuka hai. Bhai maut se ghira hua hai aur isse violins sun rahe hai. But yeh end ki baat sunke, iske maan mein ladoo futa hoga.

Pasand aaya, toh vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻