17.
The late morning sun was gentle, filtered through soft clouds that hovered over Udaipur's lakeside garden—just warm enough for a picnic, just quiet enough for the day to feel personal.
Aarav Singh Chauhan stepped out of the matte-black Defender, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots announcing his arrival long before anyone noticed who he was.
He didn't come draped in royal silks or traditional kurtas.
Instead, he wore dark tapered jeans cuffed just above weathered boots, a loose oatmeal-colored T-shirt, and a linen overshirt rolled at the sleeves.
A few beaded bracelets, a pendant that peeked out from beneath his shirt, and a pair of vintage sunglasses.
If anything, he looked more like a travel photographer or a poet wandering through Rajasthan than the prince of Amritnagar.
But the heads turned anyway.
Staff members straightened their name tags. Some parents nudged each other. Whispers buzzed softly.
"That's him... Aarav Singh Chauhan."
"Gosh he's so charming!"
"He's funding this entire event, I heard."
"He doesn't look like a prince."
"And yet, he feels like one."
"Only if our government was replaced by people like him".
A few older locals folded their hands instinctively in greeting. Aarav acknowledged them with a kind smile and folded his hands as well saying, 'Namaste'.
A modest press corner had been arranged near the floral entry arch. One of the organizers led him there, a little nervous, unsure how much formality to maintain. Aarav made it easier by offering a handshake.
The reporters gathered quickly, careful but curious. A senior journalist asked, "Yuvraj Aarav, thank you for joining us today. Would you be open to sharing a few words?"
He nodded, slipping off his sunglasses and hooking them into his shirt. His voice was even, warm but measured.
"Well only Aarav would be fine and I'm not really a man of speeches," Aarav chuckled, glancing at the open garden where children were playing, laughter filling the air. "But this place... these moments—they remind me of someone."
The crowd stilled, sensing the shift in tone.
"My father, Suryaraj Singh Chauhan, passed away three years ago. He taught me that a title means very little unless you show up for the people who trust you. He believed in building more than forts or legacies. He believed in building belonging."
He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words.
"I didn't come here today as a prince. I came because this was something he would've loved—a day without ceremony. Just connection. Simplicity. Joy. I hope we remember that those things build stronger kingdoms than politics or money ever can."
A short silence followed. Then soft applause began—genuine and respectful. It wasn't for his title. It was for his clarity. His warm eyes. But no one failed to notice Aarav's missing warm and mischievous smile. But of course people won't question that.
Aarav gave a small nod, stepped back, and rejoined the quiet edges of the event. He reached for a cup of lemon soda from a nearby stall and leaned against a tree, watching the children with a fondness.
Aarav had just set his drink down when the inevitable question came.
"Yuvraj Aarav, I mean Aarav Sir, aapke chahne waale poore desh mein hain... jab aap rajya ke uttaradhikari hain, log aapse ek aur sawaal bhi poochhna chahte hain—shaadi kab kar rahe hain?"
Aarav smiled politely, brushing his fingers along the cuff of his shirt.
"I think the media imagines my wedding more than I do," he replied with a casual chuckle, but there was something quiet behind his eyes.
"For now, I'm focused on building my business.
Marriage... doesn't quite fit into that timeline yet. "
Some chuckled. Some looked disappointed. Some pressed further. But Aarav's expression stayed calm, until the stillness was shattered.
A deep rumble echoed through the garden path.
Engines. Heavy, slow, and deliberate.
All eyes turned.
Two matte black SUVs halted at the arched gate of the lakeside venue. They didn't belong to the school. Or the event. Or to any local security detail.
Aarav's brows furrowed. His jaw stiffened slightly as his fingers curled against the chilled glass in his hand.
One by one, men dressed in black stepped out—broad, sharp, and clearly trained. Their presence was too refined to be chaotic, too intimidating to be casual. Their silence was their announcement.
Then, the passenger door of the first SUV opened.
And the air shifted.
Out stepped Shaurya Shekhawat.
For six years, his name had been a whisper. A myth wrapped in mafia rumors, a ghost whose face the media never managed to capture. His photo had become a collector's item. His legacy, a legend soaked in fear and awe. A person who never allowed any media
But here he was. In the flesh.
His black kurta was sharply tailored, falling over darker trousers. His jaw was unshaven, his presence untouched by time—only darker, leaner, more contained. The air around him felt heavier. His expression? Blank, unreadable, as if he'd never felt emotion in his life.
The garden erupted.
Some screamed in shock. Others gasped.
"He's real?"
"That's him?"
"Oh my god—Shaurya Shekhawat!"
"Isn't he dangerous?!"
"No are you mad? He has a heart of a gold".
Reporters broke formation, scrambling toward him. Parents froze. The organizers stammered apologies. Students and kids gawked.
His guards didn't let anyone near. Arms out, blocking the chaos. Forming a wall around him like he was untouchable.
Aarav didn't move.
He couldn't.
His legs had turned to water. His vision blurred, and yet everything around Shaurya came into crystal focus.
Six years.
Six years without a call. A whisper.
Six years of waiting, pretending, hoping.
Six years of burning questions and silent answers.
And now... he was here.
Not in a dream. Not in a memory. But here—standing across the same garden.
Aarav blinked rapidly, but the tears pushed forward anyway.
His heart whispered before his voice could catch up:
"6 saal lag gaye iss buddhe ko..."
His laugh was silent. His ache, loud. The corner of his lips twitched as if unsure whether to smile or break down.
Because somewhere deep down, in the smallest, stupidest, most fragile part of him... Aarav thought,
He came back for me.
The chaos around Shaurya had begun to dull into reverence. His presence alone was enough to command silence—even the most eager reporters quieted, too stunned to shout. Cameras clicked without flash, almost afraid to anger the man who hadn't been seen by the public in six long years.
Then, something unexpected.
Shaurya's posture shifted. He bent forward slightly, opening the door to the second SUV.
And out came... a child.
A little boy, no older than five, stepped down from the car. He was dressed neatly in a collared shirt tucked into tailored trousers, a navy-blue backpack strapped to his tiny shoulders. A mop of raven hair framed his bright, inquisitive face. But it was his eyes that stopped the world.
Molten gold and and black. Intense. Unblinking.
The crowd melted.
"Awwww!"
"He's adorable!"
"He's Vayu Shekhawat!"
"He looks so like Veer Shekhawat".
"His dad is a hottie himself".
The boy blinked once, then lifted a tiny hand and waved shyly. A soft smile curled on his lips.
But Shaurya remained unmoved—his body a fortress. He didn't smile, didn't speak. He simply placed a hand protectively over the boy's head.
And that's when it hit Aarav.
His breath hitched.
He knew those eyes. That posture. That blood. The eyes which every Shekhawat has, except Shaurya.
The boy was a Shekhawat.
Aarav's mind spiraled back—almost four or five years ago, a memory sharp as glass.
The announcement. The party that shook the underworld.
The night Shaurya Shekhawat declared the birth of the Shekhawat heir and invited every underworld don to exist. Even many businessmen around India were invited as well and somehow the media got to know it.
Since then they have been trying to follow Vayu whenever he's out with Veer Shekhawat.
Aarav hadn't been there, but he'd heard every whisper.
He remembered the headlines.
He remembered the silence that followed.
And most of all... he remembered the photos. The world knows Vayu.
Vayu.
The boy's name was Vayu.
His nephew.
His baby sister's baby.
Aarav smiled looking at the little boy who was still waving at the crowd smiling at them. A star he is. But soon Aarav smile replaced with a frown.
Shaurya hadn't come here for him.
He hadn't even known Aarav was here.
He'd come... as a guardian. For Vayu. Nothing else.
Aarav felt the ground tilt beneath him. The strange glimmer of hope that had just sparked inside him dimmed out like a candle in the rain.
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
The warmth in his chest drained, replaced by the all-too-familiar sting of abandonment. Of misplaced expectation.
"He didn't come for you, Aarav," his mind hissed.
"He still doesn't cares."
Aarav's jaw clenched. He turned his face to the side, away from the crowd, blinking fast. No tears, not here. Not now. He wouldn't give the world that satisfaction.
Not even Shaurya.
Before those molten Shekhawat eyes could meet his own again, before Shaurya could spot him in the crowd, Aarav stepped back—calmly, precisely, like a man trained to never show a crack.
And he walked.
Past the clapping students, past the stunned teachers, past the media still gathered like moths to flame.
He disappeared into the restroom building beside the garden, the door swinging shut behind him.
Only then did he let his breath catch. Only then did he exhale the ache lodged in his chest like a blade.
He leaned over the basin, staring into his own reflection.
His face was pale. Cold. Hollow.
He muttered under his breath, a bitter chuckle slipping out, "Hum bhi kya soch baithe. Aarya needs to leave".