Complete silence fell over the house after Aryaman's outburst. Everyone had retreated to their rooms, fast asleep—everyone except Pashmina and Shubman. They lay wide awake, with little Innayat nestled between them. Shaken by her brother's anger, she refused to sleep alone, the scene playing over in her mind like a terrible nightmare—too heavy to bear on her own.

Aryaman had shut himself in his room after dinner, trapped in a whirlwind of betrayal. For fifteen years, he had lived a life built on falsehoods—a reality that was never truly his. The truth now echoed in every corner, unfamiliar and unforgiving.

Shubman exhaled sharply, his breath uneven, hands trembling at the thought of a home without Aryaman. No more playful banter echoing through the halls, no more harmless mischief to lighten the mood, no more sudden bursts of laughter that made even the dullest days feel alive. The silence left behind would be deafening.

Beside him, Pashmina blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the shadows. Hours ago, they had been a family untouched by cracks—whole, happy, complete. Now, everything felt fragile, as if one more harsh word could send them all crumbling beyond repair.

Between them, Innayat stirred, her tiny fingers curling around Pashmina's arm even in sleep, as if holding on to whatever was left. The night stretched on, thick with questions neither of them dared to ask.

Pashmina bit her lip, willing away the tears that threatened to spill. She turned carefully, prying Innayat's tiny fingers from her arm with delicate precision. The little girl shifted slightly in her sleep but didn't wake.

As Pashmina rose to her feet, Shubman turned his head, his tired eyes following her in the dark. His voice was quiet but firm.

"Where are you going?"

Pashmina gulped, her throat dry, as she looked at Shubman. The faint glow from outside cast soft shadows on his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Going to check on Aryaman," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Shubman sat up slightly, his brows knitting together. "Pashmina... give him some time," he said, his voice low but firm. "He's hurt. He might not want to see anyone right now."

She hesitated, gripping the edge of her shawl. "I know," she admitted. "But I can't just sit here and do nothing. What if he—" She stopped herself, unwilling to voice the fear clawing at her chest.

Shubman sighed, running a hand through his hair. He understood her worry, felt it just as deeply, but Aryaman's anger was still raw, and his silence even louder. "At least knock first," he finally said.

Pashmina nodded and turned toward the door, stepping into the dark corridors. She wrapped her arms around herself as a chill settled deep in her bones. The house, once filled with voices and warmth, now felt hollow. Each step felt slow, heavy, as if the silence itself was dragging her down. She reached Aryaman's door, her breath uneven, licking her lips as she raised her hand to knock.

But she didn't have to.

The door was slightly open.

She frowned. Aryaman never left his door open, especially not when he was upset. A strange unease crept over her as she hesitated, her fingers hovering over the wood. Then, carefully, she pushed it wider.

The room was still, untouched. The bedcovers lay exactly as they had been, undisturbed. The air inside felt stale, too quiet.

Her chest tightened. Aryaman wasn't here.

"Aryaman?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Panic tightened its grip around her chest. Where was he?

She rushed to the bathroom, pushing the door open with trembling hands. Empty.

Spinning around, she hurried to the balcony, hoping to find him standing there, lost in thought. But the space was silent, the night breeze swaying the curtains ever so slightly. He wasn't there either.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she turned and ran back toward her room, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself to stay calm. She couldn't wake Innayat. Not yet.

Shubman sat up the moment she entered. One look at her face, and he knew.

"He's not there," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Shubman swung his legs off the bed, his expression darkening. "Did you check everywhere?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Pashmina nodded, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "The bathroom, the balcony... he's gone, Shubman." The words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Shubman ran a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn't help. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before speaking.

"Let's check the rest of the house first," he said, his voice steadier now.

Pashmina gave a quick nod, swallowing the fear rising in her throat. Without wasting another second, she turned toward the kitchen while Shubman moved down the hallway.

The dim light from the street outside barely touched the corners of the house, leaving everything cloaked in heavy shadows. She checked everywhere, especially the backyard swing—Aryaman's spot whenever he was sad. But he wasn't there.

Shubman's voice called out from somewhere near the staircase. "Not here."

She bit her lip, moving faster, pushing open the door to the storage room. Empty. The unease in her chest tightened. Aryaman wouldn't have just walked out—would he?

Her gaze flickered toward the corner of the living room, near the old wooden chair by the window—Aryaman's another spot. It was where he always sat when he was upset, staring out in silence, lost in thought. She hurried toward it, hoping, praying.

But the chair was empty. The cushion still slightly indented from earlier, as if he had been there, but now, he was gone.

Just as she turned to head back, she heard Shubman's voice again, sharper this time.

"Pashmina."

She rushed to where he stood by the front door. His hand was on the latch, his jaw clenched.

"It's unlocked," he muttered. His eyes met hers, dark with worry.

Her breath hitched.

Aryaman was gone.

Pashmina's fingers tightened around the doorframe as the cool night air brushed against her skin. The world outside felt vast, eerily silent, as if it had swallowed Aryaman whole.

"He left..." The words barely escaped her lips, fragile and disbelieving.

As soon as Shubman heard those words, he moved—swift, instinctive, like something primal had taken over. His legs carried him before his mind could catch up, the cold air slapping against his skin as he stormed toward the gate.

The guard, half-drowsy a moment ago, straightened in alarm as Shubman reached him. The flickering glow of the lantern cast restless shadows over his face.

"Aryaman," Shubman's voice was sharp, breathless. "Did you see him leave?"

The guard blinked, adjusting his shawl as if trying to gather his thoughts. "Yes, sahib," he said slowly. "He walked out... some time ago."

"Why would you let him go?" Shubman's voice rose, thick with frustration as he grabbed the guard by the shoulders, giving him a rough shake. His grip was firm, his anger barely contained.

The poor man trembled under his hold, his eyes wide with fear. "Sahib... I-I didn't stop him," he stammered. "He just walked past me. What could I have done?"

Pashmina, alarmed by Shubman's outburst, stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Shubman, stop," she urged, her voice laced with worry. "This isn't his fault."

Shubman's chest heaved, his fingers twitching before he finally released the man. He turned away, raking a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. The truth was suffocating—Aryaman had left, and they had no idea where he had gone.

The guard hesitated, then spoke again, his voice cautious. "He seemed... lost in thought. Angry. But not in a hurry."

Pashmina let out a quiet sob, pressing a hand over her mouth as she turned to Shubman, desperation pooling in her eyes. "Could he have gone to Jaymeet?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Shubman's shoulders stiffened. Jaymeet. Aryaman's person. The one he always turned to when the world felt too much. If there was anywhere he'd go, it was there.

Without hesitation, Shubman yanked his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving fast, almost clumsy, as he dialed. The ringing seemed to stretch forever, a hollow sound against the night's silence.

One ring. Two. Three.

Then, finally—Jaymeet's voice, thick with sleep. "Hello?"

Shubman didn't bother with introductions. "Is Aryaman with you?"

A pause. Too long. The kind that made Pashmina's stomach churn. 

Shubman's patience snapped. His grip tightened around the phone as he barked, "Jaymeet, answer me! Is he with you?" His voice rang out into the quiet night.

Jaymeet, standing on his balcony, ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the figure sitting on the edge, shoulders hunched, lost in thought. He swallowed before answering quietly, "Yes... he's here, Shubman."

Shubman closed his eyes for a brief moment, relief crashing into him like a wave, only to be replaced by something heavier.

"Put him on the phone," Shubman demanded, already moving toward the car.

Jaymeet hesitated, glancing back at Aryaman, who hadn't moved, hadn't even acknowledged his presence. "I don't think he wants to talk," he admitted.

Shubman clenched his jaw. "Tell him we're coming."

Jaymeet nodded, stepping toward Aryaman, his voice softer now. "Bro... they're on their way."

Aryaman didn't react. He just stared ahead, as if he hadn't heard a word.

Shubman was driving recklessly, the car swerving slightly as he pushed the accelerator harder than necessary. The tires screeched slightly as he took a sharp turn, his mind clouded with worry, frustration, and a desperation he couldn't shake.

"Shubman, slow down!" Pashmina's voice broke through the tense air, her hand flying to his arm. "We need to reach him, not crash before we get there."

Shubman exhaled sharply but didn't loosen his grip. His jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "I can't—" His voice cracked before he could finish. "I can't just—"

Pashmina's fingers tightened around his wrist, grounding him. "I know. But this isn't helping."

Shubman let out a shuddering breath and eased his foot off the accelerator, forcing himself to steady the car. The streetlights blurred past, the city eerily silent at this hour, but inside the car, the storm was relentless.

"We'll bring him home, Shubman," Pashmina murmured, as much to herself as to him.

Shubman swallowed hard, his mind still tangled with the fear of what they would find when they reached Jaymeet's. He didn't answer, but his hands tightened on the wheel. He wouldn't leave without Aryaman. No matter what.

The car sped through the empty streets, Shubman's hands rigid on the wheel, his jaw clenched tight. The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic beat of Pashmina's anxious fingers tapping against the headboard.

As soon as they reached Jaymeet's house, Shubman barely waited for the car to stop before pushing the door open. His strides were quick, urgent, his heart hammering against his ribs. Pashmina followed closely behind, her breath uneven.

Jaymeet stood at the door, tense, his phone still clutched in his hand. He stepped aside without a word, but flinched as Shubman stormed past him, his voice ringing through the house.

"Aryaman Singh Gill, come down this instant!" Shubman's voice thundered through the house, sharp and unyielding.

Pashmina hurried after him, her breath unsteady, dread curling in her chest.

At the top of the stairs, Aryaman stood, his face worn but his stance unshaken. He wasn't going to back down.

Behind him, Khyati and Rajvir Sandhu looked on, their eyes clouded with sorrow. They felt for Pashmina and Shubman, but there was nothing they could do.

On either side of Aryaman stood Daljeet and Gurpreet Randhawa—his real family. Their expressions held no doubt, only certainty.

Shubman's eyes burned with rage as he took in the sight before him—the unknown woman holding Aryaman's shoulder as if she had any right to claim him. 

Without hesitation, he strode up the stairs, each step deliberate, unwavering. His gaze remained locked on Aryaman, the boy he had raised, the son he refused to lose. No matter what anyone said, there was only one true home for him, and Shubman was going to bring him back.

Shubman's fingers curled around Aryaman's wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. His gaze bore into the older woman's eyes, daring her to challenge him.

"Let's go, Aryaman," he said, his tone leaving no space for defiance. "I'm not here to argue."

 Aryaman didn't pull away, but he didn't move either. His jaw tightened, the conflict within him plain on his face. Daljeet's expression darkened, while Gurpreet's hold on Aryaman's shoulder tightened, as if afraid he would slip away.

Gurpreet Randhawa stepped forward, her sharp gaze boring into Shubman's, daring him to defy her. "You think you can just walk in and take my grandson?" Her voice was steady, laced with quiet fury.

From the bottom of the stairs, Pashmina watched, her heart lodged in her throat.

She tightened her hold on Aryaman's arm, as if anchoring him in place. "He is Aryaman Armaan Randhawa," she said, her tone final, daring Shubman to say otherwise. "And I will not let you take him."

A slow, bitter smirk tugged at his lips as he scoffed. "So, the witch finally returns," Shubman drawled, his tone dripping with contempt. "After destroying her own family, she dares to stand here and claim Aryaman?"

"You speak so boldly," she mused, tilting her head. "But tell me, Shubman... if he truly belongs to you, why is he standing here? Why hasn't he left with you?"

Her words sliced through the air like a dagger. Shubman felt them, but he refused to let them sink in. Not now. Not ever.

Shubman exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. His grip on Aryaman's wrist tightened, but the younger man didn't pull away—he simply stood there, caught between two worlds.

"You think this proves something?" Shubman's voice was razor-sharp. "That blood alone defines family? That years of love, of raising him, of standing by him mean nothing?" He took a step closer, his voice low, steady. "I know my son. I know his heart. And I know he won't turn his back on the ones who never turned their backs on him."

Aryaman's jaw tensed, his fingers curling at his sides. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in.

Gurpreet chuckled, slow and deliberate. "Then let him decide," she said, her eyes gleaming. "No more games, no more words. Let him choose—his past or his future."

Khyati and Rajvir stood back, sorrow dulling their features. Jaymeet felt a tear slip down his cheek, looking at Aryaman, whose eyes had lost their usual spark.

Shubman's voice came again, quieter this time. "Aryaman..."

Aryaman swallowed, his throat tight. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, the echoes of every memory—every moment—crashing together like a storm.

But then, he removed Shubman's hand from his wrist. His stance shifted, his shoulders settling into something heavier, something final. He lifted his chin, his voice steady—void of hesitation, void of doubt.

"I'm staying."