Gurpreet gently pulled away from her daughter, dabbing her nose with her wrinkled hands. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through her phone contacts, eyes scanning the names with focus.

Khyati furrowed her brows, watching her mother in confusion.

"Mum, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern.

"Calling someone who has to answer my questions," Gurpreet said through gritted teeth, finally finding the contact.

Khyati glanced at the screen, her stomach twisting—her mother was calling someone she despised to the core. Even after all these years, Khyati had never fully understood the depth of her mother's hatred.

"Poonam," Gurpreet spat, her voice laced with venom. She didn't bother adding ji like she once used to—a habit abandoned long ago. The last time she had spoken that way was before Armaan and Avantika's deaths—her brother and sister-in-law.

"The only reason I called you after all these years is for you to give me the right answers," she continued, her tone sharp and unwavering. "Or else, you'll have to face the consequences."

"H-Hello..." Poonam Aunty stammered, her hesitation evident.

Khyati could hear the tremble in her voice, and for a brief moment, she felt a flicker of unease. What had happened between them that still sent fear rippling through Poonam after all these years?

"You heard me, Poonam," Gurpreet said coldly. "The only reason I called you after all this time is for answers. And you will give them to me—correctly."

There was silence on the other end, followed only by a deep, shaky breath.

Gurpreet swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat, but the fire in her eyes didn't waver. When she spoke again, her voice was sharp, unrelenting.

"Did Armaan's baby make it out alive?"

A sharp inhale came from the other end of the line. For a moment, there was only silence—thick, suffocating, heavy with unspoken truths.

"Poonam." Gurpreet's voice was dangerously low now, each syllable cutting through the silence like a blade. "I asked you a question."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Poonam whispered, but her voice wavered, betraying her.

A bitter chuckle escaped Gurpreet's lips. "Lies." Her grip on the phone tightened. "Here I find a boy in Khyati's house—a carbon copy of my Armaan—and you still have the audacity to say you don't know?" Gurpreet's voice had dropped, low and controlled, but dangerously sharp, like a storm just before it breaks.

Poonam's breath hitched. "Gurpreet... I—I can explain—"

"Explain?" Gurpreet cut her off, her voice trembling with fury. "Then explain! Have you given my blood to someone else? Name them, damn it!"

She slammed her hand against the kitchen counter with a loud thud, making Khyati flinch. The sheer force of her mother's anger sent a shiver down her spine. She had never seen her like this—so unhinged, so consumed by rage and desperation.

On the other end, Poonam let out a quiet sob. "Ya... I—" She hesitated, her voice breaking.

Gurpreet's nostrils flared as she gritted her teeth. "Say it, Poonam. Say it!"

Khyati held her breath. The truth was seconds away from shattering everything they knew.

Poonam's breath was ragged on the other end of the line. Gurpreet could hear the hesitation, the fear.

Then, in a single, shaky breath, Poonam finally broke.

"Shubman and Pashmina Gill," she whispered, her voice barely above a croak.

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

Khyati's eyes widened. Her breath hitched as the names registered in her mind, and suddenly, it felt like the floor beneath her had vanished. She stumbled back a few steps, gripping the edge of the counter for support.

Aryaman's step-parents.

The realization crashed over her like a tidal wave.

The people she had known for years—the ones she had visited countless times, shared meals with, laughed with—had been keeping a truth this colossal from her. From all of them.

She had always harbored her doubts—small, fleeting moments where something felt off, where a question would rise in her mind only to be dismissed as overthinking. The resemblance, the way Shubman and Pashmina had been overly protective of Aryaman, how they'd always avoided discussions about his early years.

But still...

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned to her mother, whose face was carved with unfiltered rage. Gurpreet's breaths were harsh, shallow, as if the weight of the truth was suffocating her.

"They... they had him?" Khyati whispered, her voice barely audible, struggling to process the revelation.

Gurpreet's grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles turning white. "They stole him," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "They took what was ours and built a life on lies."

"I beg you... don't blame them," Poonam pleaded. "It was our choice to give him away. They took him in with love, raised him as their own. Please, Gurpreet Ji, don't do anything—"

"You don't get to decide anything now, Poonam," Gurpreet cut in, her voice ice-cold. "So shut up."

And with that, she ended the call.

Gurpreet stood motionless, her fingers still curled around the phone as if she were willing it to break. Her shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath, rage simmering beneath the surface.

Khyati swallowed hard. "Maa..." she started, her voice hesitant, unsure whether to calm her or question her further. "What are you going to do?"

Gurpreet finally turned to her, eyes burning with a fire Khyati had never seen before.

"I'm bringing him back," she said, the words edged with unshakable determination. "No more lies. No more stolen blood. Aryaman belongs to us."

Khyati's breath caught. Bringing him back?

Gurpreet barely took a step before Khyati grabbed her wrist, desperation lacing her grip.

"No, Maa. Don't," Khyati pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please... let it be what it is."

Gurpreet turned sharply, yanking her hand free. "Let it be?" she repeated, disbelief twisting her features. "After everything? After they took my grandson—your nephew—and raised him as if he were never ours?"

Khyati's throat tightened. "He doesn't know, Maa," she whispered. "To him, they're his parents. They raised him with love. Tearing him away now... it's not right."

Gurpreet's face hardened, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like she was holding back an earthquake of emotions. "Not right?" she echoed bitterly. "What's not right is that my grandson was stolen from me! That I was made to grieve him when he was alive all along! And you expect me to walk away?"

Khyati felt her own frustration building. "And what if you do this and he hates you for it? What if he doesn't want to come back? Have you thought about that?"

The words hit Gurpreet like a slap, but she didn't waver. "He's my blood," she said, her voice like steel. "And blood always finds its way home."

Khyati's hands trembled. "Maa... please."

But Gurpreet had already made up her mind. She turned, her decision set in stone.

"I'm bringing my grandson back," she declared, before striding toward the door.

And this time, Khyati wasn't sure if she could stop her.

Gurpreet stormed toward the living room, her steps heavy with unrelenting rage. Khyati followed close behind, her heart hammering against her ribs, terrified of what her mother might do.

But just as Gurpreet reached the doorway, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Her breath hitched.

There he was.

Aryaman.

Laughing.

He was goofing around with Jaymeet, playfully shoving him as they exchanged teasing remarks. His carefree chuckle rang through the room, his eyes gleaming with mischief. The sight was almost disorienting—he looked just like Armaan. Every feature, every movement. It was as if her son had been resurrected, standing before her, completely oblivious to the truth of his existence.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. They stole my grandson from me. Made me grieve him like he was dead when he was alive all along.

She had spent years drowning in sorrow, mourning the loss of both her son and the child he left behind—only to learn that they—Shubman and Pashmina—had raised him in blissful ignorance. They erased us from his life and gave him their name, their love, their lies.

Her chest burned, her fury reigniting like an uncontrollable wildfire.

Khyati saw the shift in her mother—the way her breathing grew shallow, her shoulders tensed, her eyes darkened with something almost... possessive. She wasn't just angry. She wanted him. She wanted her grandson back, no matter what it took.

"Maa," Khyati whispered, reaching out to stop her, but Gurpreet didn't move.

Her eyes were glued to Aryaman, her lips pressing into a thin line.

He wasn't theirs. He was hers.

And he was coming back, whether he wanted to or not.

Then, with a voice firm and unwavering, she spoke—cutting through the air, silencing the entire room in an instant.

"Aryaman, have you ever wondered why you don't look like either of your parents?"

The impact of her words was immediate. The laughter died. The easygoing energy in the room vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating silence.

Aryaman, mid-joke, froze. His expression twisted in confusion, his body stiffening as he turned to face Gurpreet. "What?" His voice was caught between a scoff and genuine uncertainty. He let out a short, awkward laugh, glancing at Jaymeet as if searching for reassurance.

Jaymeet—who had been standing close by, enjoying the moment—suddenly felt his stomach drop. His Naani never spoke without purpose. If she was saying something like this, it meant something.

"Maa, stop," Khyati pleaded, grabbing her mother's arm, but Gurpreet didn't so much as flinch. Her eyes never wavered from Aryaman.

"You heard me," she continued, her voice deceptively calm, yet heavy with something far more dangerous. "Haven't you ever questioned it? The lack of resemblance? The way your so-called parents always avoid talking about your early years?"

Aryaman's brows drew together, his jaw tightening. "I—What are you even saying?" His voice wavered slightly, as if his mind was struggling to keep up with the weight of her words.

Jaymeet shifted uncomfortably beside him. "Naani... maybe—"

"Stay out of this, Jaymeet," Gurpreet snapped, her patience razor-thin. "This isn't about you."

Jaymeet flinched. Khyati tightened her grip on her mother, a desperate attempt to hold her back. "Maa, please, not like this."

But Gurpreet wasn't listening.

She took a slow step forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Aryaman's. The boy who had been stolen from her.

"You deserve the truth, Aryaman. And I'm the only one willing to give it to you."

The room remained silent, thick with anticipation.

Jaymeet's hands clenched into fists, his mind racing. Aryaman looked like he was on the edge of something—anger, confusion, or maybe denial.

And Khyati knew it.

She knew that once this truth was spoken, there would be no taking it back.

Aryaman's throat went dry. His heart pounded, a slow, heavy thud against his ribs.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he muttered, his voice sharp, defensive. The laughter, the ease—all of it—was gone.

Gurpreet didn't blink. Didn't waver.

"The truth." Her voice was controlled, but beneath it, there was something unshakable. Something final.

Aryaman let out a tense, breathless laugh. "This is ridiculous," he said, shaking his head. He turned to Jaymeet. "Tell her to stop. Whatever game this is—"

Jaymeet didn't speak. Didn't move.

And that silence—his silence—sent something cold slithering down Aryaman's spine.

His stomach twisted.

No.

No, this wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

He turned back to Gurpreet. "I don't know what sick joke this is, but you need to stop." His voice was strained now, a crack forming beneath his anger.

But Gurpreet only took another step forward, eyes burning with conviction.

"You're not Shubman and Pashmina Gill's son."

The words hit like a gut punch.

Aryaman recoiled, his breath hitching. "Shut up."

"They took you," she continued, relentless. "Took you from us and raised you as their own. You are Armaan's son. My grandson."

Aryaman's world tilted.

His head shook automatically. "No." His voice was hoarse. "You're lying."

Aryaman's world tilted, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His gaze darted around the room, searching—begging—for someone to deny it.

But no one spoke.

Jaymeet stood frozen, his usual easygoing demeanor shattered. The others exchanged uneasy glances, too stunned to react.

Only Khyati knew.

And Aryaman saw it now—the guilt in her eyes, the way she looked at him like she had been carrying a burden too heavy to bear.

His chest tightened. "No," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "You're lying."

His gaze snapped back to Gurpreet, who stood unmoved, unwavering.

She tilted her head slightly, challenging him. "Am I?"

Aryaman's stomach twisted violently. His mind raced, trying to piece together years of moments—things he had ignored, brushed off, never questioned.

The lack of resemblance. The hushed conversations. The way his parents always dodged questions about his childhood.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "You're insane," he spat, shaking his head, but his voice wavered, betraying him.

Gurpreet took a step forward. "Then prove me wrong," she said calmly. "Go ask them."

Aryaman stiffened.

He wanted to scream at her, to shut her down, to erase the seed of doubt she had just planted in his mind.

But he couldn't.

His body moved before he could stop it. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

Jaymeet finally blinked, breaking free from his shock. "Aryaman—" he called, but Aryaman was already gone.

The door slammed shut behind him.