CHAPTER 3 Echoes in the Glass #2
“Exactly,” Kanta agreed, a dark, satisfied gleam in her eyes.
“Aara is a tolerable nuisance. If, by some miracle, he did decide to take her to his bed, or even marry her, it would not be a catastrophe. She is controllable. She understands social hierarchy. Unlike Mihika, she knows exactly how their world works.”
The family sat in their gilded cage, unaware that their arrogant dismissal of human emotion was about to collide with a force of nature they could not comprehend.
They believed they had permanently broken the bond between Rudra and Mihika.
They did not understand that true love, forged in the fires of grief and survival, does not break.
It merely goes dormant, waiting for a spark.
***
It had been a few weeks since the brief interaction at the school. The weekend had finally arrived, bringing with it a glorious, unseasonably cool breeze that swept off the Arabian Sea and blanketed the city.
The Grand Ocean Park was an expansive, beautifully curated green space that separated the high-end residential skyscrapers from the coastal highway. It was heavily guarded, a haven for the ultra-wealthy to walk their pedigreed dogs and let their nannies push imported strollers.
Rudra wore a casual, dark Henley shirt that stretched tight across his broad shoulders, and dark denim. Even in casual attire, he possessed an intimidating, regal aura that caused passing pedestrians to subconsciously give him a wide berth.
Aryan was running slightly ahead of him on the paved path, his dark hair catching the wind. For the first time all week, a genuine smile touched Rudra’s lips. Seeing the boy in the open air, away from the silent confines of the penthouse, was a balm to his scarred soul.
“Don’t go too far ahead, Aryan,” Rudra called out, his deep voice carrying over the sound of the distant crashing waves.
“I’m going to the duck pond, Papa!” Aryan shouted back, his little legs pumping as he veered off the main path onto a cobblestone trail that led toward a large, decorative water feature surrounded by weeping willows.
Rudra increased his pace, keeping the boy strictly in his line of sight.
“Mr. Rathore-Chauhan!”
Rudra’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He recognized the musical, aggressively cheerful voice immediately.
He turned to see Aara Sharma jogging lightly toward them.
She was dressed in an immaculate, pastel floral sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, carrying a woven picnic basket.
She looked exactly like a page out of a lifestyle magazine.
“Miss Sharma,” Rudra acknowledged her, his tone perfectly polite and perfectly frozen.
“What a wonderful coincidence!” Aara beamed slightly out of breath as she reached him. “I come here every Saturday to read by the water. I had no idea you and Aryan frequented this park.”
Rudra highly doubted it was a coincidence. The private security details of high-profile families were notoriously leaky if enough money changed hands, and Aara’s sudden appearance felt orchestrated.
“It is a public park,” Rudra stated simply, turning his body slightly to keep his eyes on Aryan, who had reached the edge of the pond and was looking at the ducks.
Aara, sensing the dismissal, quickly stepped into his line of sight, opening the wicker basket. “I actually just finished baking these this morning. Double chocolate fudge brownies. I know Aryan has a sweet tooth. I thought perhaps he might like one? And you as well, of course.”
Rudra looked at the perfectly arranged baked goods. He wanted nothing more than to walk away from this transparently calculated interaction, but his strict adherence to courtesy, drummed into him from a young age, won out. He motioned for Aryan.
“Aryan, come here for a moment,” Rudra called.
The boy turned away from the pond and jogged back toward them. He stopped next to his father, looking cautiously at the teacher. “Hello, Miss Aara.”
“Hello, Aryan!” Aara knelt, holding out a napkin with a large, decadent brownie on it. “I baked these today. I thought you might like a treat while you look at the ducks.”
Aryan looked up at Rudra for permission. Rudra gave a curt nod.
“Thank you,” Aryan said politely, taking the brownie in his small hand. He took a tentative bite. “It’s good.”
“I am so glad,” Aara smiled, standing back up and directing her gaze at Rudra.
“I find baking so therapeutic. It’s so important to have a warm, domestic element in a child’s life, don’t you think?
Especially when...” she let the sentence trail off delicately, the implication heavy in the air.
Especially when they don’t have a mother.
Rudra’s eyes darkened to pitch black. A dangerous, lethal chill radiated from his body. “My son lacks nothing, Miss Sharma.”
Aara blanched, realizing she had overstepped her fingers tightening on the handle of the basket. “Oh, no, of course not! I simply meant—”
But whatever Aara was about to say was cut off by a sound that would alter the trajectory of their lives forever.
Aryan, who had turned back toward the pond while chewing his brownie, suddenly froze. The brownie slipped from his fingers, hitting the cobblestones with a soft thud, shattering into pieces.
The little boy stood rigid, his dark eyes wide, fixated on a figure sitting on a park bench beneath the shadow of a large weeping willow, about fifty yards away.
The woman was dressed simply in a faded pair of jeans and a loose, white linen shirt.
Her long, dark hair was tied back in a messy braid.
She was sketching in a small notebook, completely oblivious to the world around her.
She looked thinner than before, her cheekbones sharper, the vibrant, earthy energy she once possessed seemingly dimmed.
But the silhouette, the grace of her hands, the unmistakable curve of her profile...
Aryan let out a sound. It wasn’t a word at first. It was a high, fractured gasp, a sound of such shock and overwhelming, desperate hope that it made Rudra’s heart slam against his ribs.
Then, the boy screamed.
“MAMA!”
The word ripped through the quiet park like a gunshot.
Rudra’s head whipped around so violently his neck cracked.
Aryan was already running. He wasn’t just running; he was sprinting with every ounce of strength in his tiny body, his arms outstretched, his face a sudden, catastrophic mask of tears.
“MAMA!” Aryan screamed again, his voice cracking, stumbling over his own feet, righting himself, and running faster.
Rudra felt the air leave his lungs. Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. His dark eyes locked onto the figure under the willow tree.
At the sound of the scream, the woman on the bench froze. The pencil slipped from her fingers. She turned her head slowly, as if moving underwater.
The moment Mihika’s eyes locked onto the tiny, running figure of the little boy, the notebook fell from her lap.
“Aryan,” she breathed, the word carrying over the wind.
She didn’t stand up. She physically collapsed. Her knees hit the grass with a heavy thud, her arms flying wide open just as a chaotic, sobbing, heavy mass of a seven-year-old boy slammed into her chest.
***
Rudra was already moving. He ran behind Aryan, his long, powerful strides eating up the distance in seconds, with Aara following confusedly in his wake.
But as Rudra closed the distance, his boots skidded to a halt on the grass a mere ten feet away. He stood paralyzed, stripped of his power, stripped of his wealth, dismantled by the scene unfolding before him.
Mihika was on her knees, clutching Aryan to her chest with a ferocity that bordered on violent.
She was sobbing, great, chest-heaving, agonizing sobs that wracked her entire frame.
Her hands were frantic, buried in the boy’s dark hair, cupping his face, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, her tears mixing with his.
“My baby,” Mihika wept, rocking him back and forth, her voice completely broken, raw with a year of unendurable agony. “Oh god, my sweet boy. You grew so tall. You’re so big. My beautiful baby.”
Aryan was clinging to her like a drowning victim to a life raft. He had buried his face in the crook of her neck, his small fingers digging painfully into the linen of her shirt. He was laughing and crying simultaneously, a hysterical, joyous cacophony.
“Mama! Mama, I found you!” Aryan wailed, refusing to loosen his death grip on her. “I looked everywhere, Mama! I kept your picture! I knew I would find you! Don’t leave me again! Please, please don’t leave me!”
“I’ve got you,” Mihika cried, kissing his wet cheeks frantically. “I’m right here. I’ve got you, my heart. I’ve got you.”
Rudra stood ten feet away, staring at the woman he loved with every breath in his body.
For twelve months, he had been force-fed a narrative of betrayal.
He had been told she was a thief, a liar, a woman who had used them and discarded them for a richer life.
He had spent a year building a fortress of ice around his heart to survive the agony of her abandonment.
But as he watched her now, watched the heartbreaking, catastrophic love radiating from her every movement... the ice shattered.
It didn’t just break; it exploded into a million pieces.
Rudra was a man who possessed a genius-level intellect. He could read people, analyze motives, and dismantle corporate lies in seconds. And looking at Mihika right now, he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he had been lied to.
No woman who looked at a child with such devastating, soul-tearing love could have ever abandoned him willingly.
No woman who wept as if her heart was being ripped from her chest had run away of her own accord.
The bank statements, the farewell letter, the private investigators—it was all a manufactured, fabricated lie.
Someone had taken her from them. Someone had forced her to leave.