CHAPTER 11 The Weight of the Crown #3
The name echoed in Kalyani’s mind; a ghost suddenly resurrected in the afternoon sun.
It was impossible. It defied all logic and reason.
But the child sitting on the bench was the undeniable spitting image of her dead son, Dev, when he was eight years old.
It was as if someone had pulled a photograph from her family album and breathed life into it.
Driven by a sudden, magnetic compulsion, Kalyani abandoned the public promenade. She made a beeline across the grass, walking directly toward the boy on the bench, her eyes locked onto his face, desperate to see if the illusion would shatter upon closer inspection.
Before she could get within ten feet of Aryan, a massive wall of muscle stepped directly into her path.
Girish Rao, sensing the unauthorized approach, materialized from the shadows of a nearby tree. He held up a firm, uncompromising hand.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Girish said politely but firmly, his stance blocking her. “This is a private event. I must ask you to step back.”
Kalyani blinked, pulled out of her trance by the intimidating security guard. “I... I apologize. I meant no harm. I just... the boy...”
Aryan, hearing the commotion, looked up from his cake. He possessed the natural, innocent friendliness that Mihika had so carefully cultivated in him. He slid off the bench and walked over, peering around Girish’s massive leg.
“It’s okay, Uncle Girish,” Aryan said cheerfully. He looked up at the old lady. She looked sad, and her eyes were wet. Aryan held out his paper plate. “Hello. Would you like a piece of my birthday cake? It has chocolate frosting.”
Kalyani looked down at the boy. Up close, the resemblance was even more staggering.
The shape of his eyes, the exact arch of his eyebrows...
it was Dev. It was her beloved, reckless, tragically deceased son staring back at her.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
How could this be? Dev had died in a car accident years ago, shortly after a wild private university party. He had left no wife, no children.
“Thank you, child,” Kalyani whispered, her voice trembling. She didn’t take the cake, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face. “You are very kind. What... what is your name?”
“My name is Aryan,” the boy replied proudly, standing tall. “Aryan Rathore-Chauhan.”
Kalyani’s mind spun. Rathore-Chauhan. The billionaire family. The untouchable elite. How could a boy with the Rathore-Chauhan name possess the exact, genetic blueprint of her dead son?
“Aryan!”
The bright, musical voice called out across the grass.
Aryan turned. “I’m here, Mama!”
Mihika jogged over, the yellow fabric of her sundress catching the wind. She slowed her pace as she saw the elderly woman and the tense posture of Girish.
“Is everything alright?” Mihika asked, stepping up to Aryan and placing a protective, gentle hand on his shoulder.
Kalyani looked at Mihika. She was a beautiful, radiant young woman.
But looking at her features, Kalyani was even more confused.
Aryan did not share a single physical trait with this woman.
The boy was a genetic copy of Dev, and perhaps a bit of someone else, but certainly not the woman holding his shoulder.
“Hello,” Kalyani said, her voice shaking slightly, intimidated by the sudden appearance of the billionaire’s wife. “I am sorry to intrude. I was just passing by. Your son... he offered me some cake.”
“He is a very sweet boy,” Mihika smiled, her maternal pride evident. She looked at the older woman, noticing the expensive pearls and the lingering sorrow in her eyes. “Are you alright, Ma’am? You look a bit pale.”
Before Kalyani could answer, the air around them suddenly grew heavy and charged.
Rudra stepped up behind Mihika. He didn’t say a word, but his sheer, towering presence instantly dominated the space. He placed his large hand on the small of Mihika’s back, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto Kalyani, assessing the threat level of the stranger who had approached his son.
Kalyani felt a sudden, intense wave of intimidation.
The billionaire’s protective aura was an impenetrable wall.
She realized she was staring, and she realized the absurdity of her thoughts.
This was the Rathore-Chauhan heir. Whatever ghosts she was projecting onto the child, they were born of her own grief, not reality.
“I am fine, thank you,” Kalyani said quickly, taking a step backward, leaning heavily on her cane. She forced a polite, trembling smile. “You have a beautiful boy. Truly. Happy Birthday, Aryan.”
“Thank you,” Mihika beamed, oblivious to the genetic earthquake that had just occurred in the old woman’s mind.
“Thank you!” Aryan waved cheerfully.
Rudra gave a curt, dismissive nod, turning his attention back to his wife and son, subtly guiding them back toward the center of the party, away from the stranger.
Kalyani Desai stood on the public promenade, the coastal wind whipping her silver hair around her face. She watched the family walk away. She watched the tall, imposing billionaire lift the boy onto his shoulders, and she watched the beautiful mother laugh.
She gripped the silver handle of her cane until her knuckles turned white.
It was Dev, Kalyani thought, a sudden, desperate obsession taking root in the fertile soil of her grief. I know my own blood. That boy has my son’s face.
As she turned and walked slowly back to her waiting car, Kalyani Desai made a silent vow to find out exactly how a piece of her dead son had ended up in the fortress of the Rathore-Chauhan empire.