The morning sun filtered in through the glass windows of the Malhotra mansion casting a golden sheen on the sleek marble floors and muted beige walls. The dining area, all modern wood and soft lighting, buzzed quietly with murmurs and the occasional clink of cutlery.

A toddler's giggle echoed, sweet and sudden.

Seated at the far end was Dadu, white haired but sharp eyed, feeding tiny bits of fruit to Misha, 12 months old ball of chaos and cheer who was perched on his lap and babbling enthusiastically. Her tiny fingers tugging at the old man's glasses as he patiently indulged her. He chuckled softly, adjusting the frames back on his nose, only for her to repeat the crime. The warmth between the oldest and youngest Malhotra was infectious. Her cheeks were chubby with delight, her giggles echoing like music across the table.

Tanya, Misha's mother, stood by the breakfast counter pouring fresh juice into a glass while Atharv, her husband, sat at the table scrolling through his tablet. His face bore no particular expression, composed and practical, like always. Vedant's mother moved silently across the space, checking the toast, adjusting the flowers on the table, her presence quiet but constant.

Then came the sound. Measured steps down the marble staircase.

Vedant.

Dressed immaculately in his black suit, crisp and commanding, every line sharp and deliberate, he descended the stairs like he belonged to gravity itself, graceful yet grounded. His tie was knotted to precision, his watch face gleaming subtly beneath his cuff. He carried an aura not of arrogance, but of authority born out of self made success.

He acknowledged the room with a single glance. A quiet nod to his mother. No words exchanged with his father, whose gaze flickered up briefly from the newspaper.

But when Vedant reached his grandfather, he paused.

"Good morning, Dadu," he said, his voice a rare softness.

"You're late," the old man teased gently.

Misha stretched her arms toward him. No hesitation. No doubt. He didn't resist.

He bent down, lifting her up with a tenderness so at odds with his usual stillness. She patted his cheeks with her small palms like she was checking if he was real, and he let her. No smile. But a quietness took over him, a softness that didn't need to be announced.

Her giggles lighting up something in the air, he held her close but a part of him... stilled. Like his body remembered how to be soft, but his mind hadn't caught up yet.

Warmth wasn't something he rejected, He just... didn't know where to keep it yet. So he held her tighter, not to comfort her but to remind himself, this is how it should feel, even if it never had.

"Back to your throne," he told her eventually, handing her back to Dadu.

She pouted.

And with that, he turned.

Minutes later, Vedant slid behind the wheel, the engine purring to life beneath his touch. The drive was silent, save for the muted hum of the city outside and the calculations forming in his mind, negotiations, projections, mergers. Numbers and instincts danced like old friends in the recesses of his thoughts.

Whitestone Consulting wasn't a legacy. It was a rebellion. A statement. A carefully constructed empire born not from inheritance, but grit. Vedant had built it brick by brick, code by code, number by number.

When he refused to join Malhotra & Co., the family business managed by his father and uncle and now run by Atharv he'd become the quiet scandal of the house. But he hadn't looked back.

His car pulled up to the Whitestone headquarters, sleek, mirrored, unapologetically modern, much like the man himself. Guards greeted him, which he returned with a nod of quiet acknowledgment. He wasn't warm, but he wasn't distant either. Just enough.

The elevator bay awaited him. Without much thought, he walked toward the one farthest to the right, his private elevator, usually off limits to others. His shoes clicked softly against the marble floor as he entered, pressing the button for the 27th floor. The doors slid shut with a whisper.

Just as he entered the elevator his phone buzzed. It was a call from his Personal Assistant, A voice broke through the other side, "Sir, the Verma file is updated. Also, your 10:30 with GlobalTech is in the East conference room."

"Noted," Vedant replied. "Anything else?"

"Just... um, we might need to push the branding pitch to Friday."

"We'll discuss it post-lunch," he said.

"Push the Mittal proposal to Thursday. Tell legal I want that clause redrafted. And reschedule the onboarding meet, I'm not attending unless the CFO's in the room."

His tone was clipped, efficient, standard Vedant Malhotra. But mid call, something shifted.

His gaze drifted idly at first, toward the lower corner of the elevator floor.

A pendant.

Not shimmering, not grand. It sat there like a forgotten secret, small, delicate, and almost shy against the cold sheen of marble. His words faltered.

"I'll call you back," he said, more to the silence than to the person on the other end.

He crouched slowly, picking it up by its slender gold chain, the warmth of it suprising as if it still remembered the skin it once clung to. The pendant was a diya. No encrusted diamonds. No shine for attention. Just a diya, in its raw, unadorned grace.

He didn't know it had been lying there since yesterday. That even though he'd taken this very elevator the day before, it had escaped his eyes, tucked quietly into a corner, waiting. Hours had passed. A full day. And yet only now did he see it.

This wasn't just jewellery. It was memory molded in gold, worn, loved, and lived in. It didn't belong here and it had no business being in his private elevator, a space only he used. And it definitely wasn't his.

His fingers turned it over, slow and searching. There was a warmth to it, even though it had no right to be warm. It looked like it held stories. Like it had once rested close to someone's heartbeat. Like it had soaked in years of whispered hopes, prayers, perhaps even grief. It looked like... love.

A soft furrow formed between his brows.

"Who wears a diya around their neck?" he murmured, not judgment, not sarcasm. Just... quiet intrigue.

Unaware that two floors below, the answer was typing up a project report with a mug of coffee beside her, unknowingly working for the man now holding a piece of her heartbeat.

Her Boss. Her husband to be.

"How did you get here?" he whispered again, the words more reverent now. There was something oddly human about the pendant, an aura, a softness. Something warm that didn't belong in a place full of glass walls and impersonal efficiency.

He slipped it into the pocket of his coat carefully... almost respectfully with a gentleness he hadn't shown towards anything in years. Fingers lingered. Like he didn't want it to feel abandoned again.

The elevator dinged.

Vedant straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. He stepped out of the elevator, making his way towards the East Conference Room for the meeting.

His strides were purposeful, measured every bit the man who built empires from silence.

There was something else resting against his chest now. Not weight. Not burden.

Just... a small, golden question.

The report was nearly done, columns aligned, numbers double checked, margins tidy enough to please even the most obsessive reviewer. And still, something inside me felt off.

It wasn't a loud thought anymore. Just a dull ache that lingered somewhere near my ribs. A part of me kept replaying yesterday retracing every step, every corner, every second where I might've dropped it. But there was nothing. No memory of it slipping away. Just... absence. Quiet and maddening.

It was stupid, really. Getting worked up over a lost pendant. I could've bought another. But the weight around my neck had always made me feel a little less... alone. And now, it was gone.

I shook my head. Not now.

The screen in front of me flickered slightly as I saved the file. Back to work. Numbers didn't care how sentimental you were.

I leaned back, stretched my shoulders a little, and let my mind drift back to this morning. I'd almost taken the elevator again, the same one i took yesterday. It was muscle memory, really. I had no idea. Then... i saw it. A sign clear as daylight.

PRIVATE ELEVATOR - ENTRY RESTRICTED.

My stomach had dropped.

Oh.

So that's why everyone stared at me yesterday like I'd waltzed in wearing a clown wig. When I'd strutted out of that same elevator like I owned the floor, only to find a dozen stares piercing through me like I'd committed a felony.

It made sense now. That awkward silence. The side glances.

Because apparently, I'd taken the private elevator. It must be the CEO's. First day and I'd already marked myself as the idiot article who couldn't read signs. Great.

I wanted to shrink into the floor.

Gripping my file tighter, I'd turned and walked swiftly toward the common lift, pretending I hadn't just humiliated myself across an entire office floor without even knowing it.

A knock on my cubicle wall snapped me back. Neha stood there, lips glossed, manicured fingers fluttering with a file.

"Hey, Diya, can you finish these by EOD? Recons, vendor follow ups, and the pending sheet from Friday."

"That's not on my assigned list," I said, barely looking up.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm stepping out post lunch. Migraine. You're super fast, right? Shouldn't take long."

Before I could reply, she dumped the file on my desk and breezed off like she hadn't just offloaded her workload on me without warning.

I stared at it for a second. Considered pushing it back. But then I took a deep breath and rolled up my metaphorical sleeves. Not because I had to. But because it would be done right, if I did it.

She didn't come back after lunch. I didn't expect her to.

The rest of the day blurred into rows, data, vendor codes, missed coffee breaks. By the time I finally shut down my system, the office was emptying out and the sky had turned a faint, inky blue.

My phone buzzed.

Maa: Aa rahi ho? Khana thanda ho raha hai.

On my way, I texted back.

I packed slowly, dragging my bag over one shoulder. No calls, no chatter. Just the sound of elevator dings in the distance and the faint hum of lights.

As I stepped out of the building, something tugged at me to stop. To breathe.

And then I saw them.

A patch of sunflowers, growing wild along the edge of the lot near the side wall. They shouldn't have looked that bright in this dying light, but they did. Like they hadn't noticed the sun had already left.

Sunflowers.

The corners of my lips lifted, just a bit. The first real shift in hours.

I reached into my tote and pulled out my mini camera. It was always with me, tucked between files and water bottles, waiting for a moment like this. I took the shot. Just one. Then another, from a lower angle. They looked... stubborn. Like they bloomed for themselves, not for anyone else.

That, I understood.

🪔

At home, Maa had kept dinner ready. Warm, barely steaming. She didn't ask why I was late. Probably knew the answer.

Papa hadn't come home yet.

I ate in silence, rinsed my plate, then shut the door to my room with a quiet finality.

Everything was in its place, books stacked, pens aligned, highlighters capped in colour-coded rows. My little world, organized, unbothered. Mine.

I changed into a loose tee, tied my hair up, and pulled out the audit textbook from the stack. CA Finals weren't going to pass themselves. Not unless the Institute got hit by lightning and started handing out mercy degrees.

I slid into my chair, clicked on the video lecture. The professor's voice filled the room, calm and low. My pen hovered. Notes already half formed in my mind.

And yet, somewhere in the background, behind all the balance sheets and business risks, the echo of today remained...

A restricted elevator.

A sunflower patch.

And a space at my collarbone that suddenly felt too empty.

I didn't dwell. I couldn't afford to.

There was too much to do.

And too much I couldn't control.

So I did what I always did when things slipped out of place

I focused on what hadn't.

Vedant Malhotra shut off his desktop screen and leaned back against the leather of his chair. Meetings were wrapped, pitches aligned, and projections under control. Efficient. Predictable. Controlled. Just the way he liked his days.

His gaze drifted across the massive glass windows of the top floor. The city outside was slowing, lights blinking into life, horns softening with distance. A moment of stillness he rarely indulged in, but tonight... it lingered.

He picked up his phone, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out.

The drive home was quiet. He didn't bother with music. Just the soft whir of the engine, the occasional flick of turn signals, and thoughts pacing restlessly behind his temples.

Home, if that's what it was, stood tall and pristine in its elegance. A place too perfect to belong to anyone emotionally.

He headed straight to his room. Kicked off his shoes. Rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

And that's when he felt it again.

The pendant.

Still in his coat pocket. Still warm somehow.

He exhaled sharply, almost annoyed at his own forgetfulness. Yet, as he held it again, something about the weight of it paused him.

He crossed to his study, opened the drawer furthest back, the one no one touched and carefully placed the diya pendant inside, tucking it between old letters, spare cufflinks, and business cards that had outlived their utility.

He didn't know why he kept it.But he didn't want to throw it away either.

Not yet.

By the time he came downstairs, the dining table was set, the air already thick with an odd stillness. Vedant had changed into a white t-shirt and black sweatpants, his version of comfort. Yet even the softness of cotton did nothing to dull the tension slowly beginning to coil around the room.

"Late night?" Daddu asked, voice warm but weary. He sat at the head of the table, silver-framed glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

Vedant offered a nod.

Daddu smiled softly. "The world may crash, but your schedule won't shift."

Vedant's mouth tilted into the ghost of a smile.

Plates clinked. Water poured. The quiet kind of family dinner most would envy. Everyone in their place. Serving spoons passed. No raised voices.

Until his father spoke.

"You're twenty-eight now, Vedant," he began, casually. "Atharv is twenty-seven and already has a daughter. When are you planning to settle down?"

A single second stretched like static.

Vedant didn't look up. He chewed slowly, deliberately. His father's voice always had that effect, like a glass shard slipped inside a velvet glove.

"I'm not," he replied finally. Cool. Sharp. Final.

"You're not?" His father repeated, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "If you don't have anyone in mind, we can-"

From the other end, his Chachu tried to cut the tension with false lightness. "No pressure, beta. If there's someone you like, we're not the type to interfere..."

"There's no one," Vedant snapped, gaze still fixed on the half-torn piece of roti on his plate. "And there won't be anyone."

Vedant's expression didn't flinch. His voice didn't waver.

A beat of silence.

Then his father spoke again, this time with the cold detachment Vedant knew too well.

"Then we'll start looking for a match. We've given you enough time to figure things out on your own."

And that was it.

The final shove.

Vedant dropped his spoon with a soft clink, pushed his chair back, and stood. His plate was half full. The food untouched.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't look at anyone.

Just turned and walked out, past the table, past the judgment, past the history that haunted this house like wallpaper no one dared to peel back.

Upstairs, his footsteps echoed softer. But the fury burned louder.

Downstairs, Daddu said nothing.

He'd watched the entire thing unfold from behind tired eyes and a heart too old to intervene. Yet something in his grandson's face, tightened jaw, clenched fists, silence laced with restrained anger unsettled him more than anything else.

He leaned back slowly in his chair, as if bracing for a storm that hadn't even begun yet.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

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