Author's Pov:

The clang of weights and the rhythm of his own breath still echo faintly in his body as he steps into his study at dawn. It is barely six, but his day has already begun with precision—an hour at the gym, a cold shower, and now, black coffee steaming in his hand. The city outside is just waking, but for Reyan, the pace has been set long before sunrise.

By seven, he is at the headquarters of the Mewar Group, the glass façade of the tower gleaming in the morning light. His arrival is quiet, but the effect is not. Staff straighten their backs, conversations drop to whispers, and the air sharpens with the awareness of his presence. Reyan is not a man who raises his voice often—he doesn't need to. Authority lives in his gaze, in the way his steps carry command without effort.

Inside the boardroom, he moves through updates, contracts, and strategies with relentless focus. Numbers, projections, negotiations—his world is built on precision, on never letting a single thread slip from his grasp. He listens more than he speaks, yet when he does, the room bends to his words. His younger brother Neil sits across the table, sharp and capable, but even he defers to Reyan's lead.

And yet, beneath the efficiency, there lingers the thought that chased him out of sleep at three in the morning: marriage. Family. Children. For years, he buried it beneath discipline and empire-building, but today it presses closer, heavier, as if the silence of his own home has finally become too loud to ignore.

He pushes the thought aside as a new file is slid in front of him. Work demands his undivided attention, and He has never allowed himself distraction. But as his hazel eyes scan the pages, a quiet voice at the back of his mind whispers of a future not yet written.

The day stretches into night, as it always does for him. Meetings bleed into calls, numbers into negotiations. By the time he leaves the glass tower of the Mewar Group, the city is cloaked in darkness. It is close to midnight when he finally drives through the iron gates of his home.

He usually keeps to his routines—breakfast in his study, lunch with his secretary Ankur at the office, and dinner, more often than not, alone. Sometimes the household staff serves him; sometimes his mother waits, though he has asked her not to. She already shoulders too much—her philanthropic work, her care for the extended family, her endless responsibilities.

Yet lunch is different today. As he opened tiffin he knows who prepared the food. He always do. The flavors are never quite the same as when the cook makes it—there is a warmth, a quiet tenderness folded into each bite that cannot be imitated. He never speaks of it, never makes a show of gratitude, but he carries the awareness in silence. It is his mother's way of bridging the distance between them, and his way of accepting her love without letting her exhaust herself further.

Yet tonight, as he steps into the quiet warmth of home, he finds her waiting. His mother rises from the sofa when she hears his footsteps.

"You're late again," she says gently. "Freshen up and come down. Dinner is ready."

He exhales, shaking his head. "Mom, why are you waiting at this hour? I told you—please don't."

But she insists, her eyes soft but unwavering. And he knows better than to argue with that kind of tenderness. So he goes upstairs, changes, and returns.

At the dining table, she serves him herself. His favorite dishes appear before him—he notices, though he says nothing. She has been trying to close the gap between them ever since he returned from abroad, years ago. He respects her efforts, but he guards his heart too fiercely to lean into them. Attachment leads to expectation, and he has taught himself not to expect.

They eat mostly in silence. Finally, his mother says quietly, "Day after tomorrow is marriage anniversary party. Be there, Beta."

He looks up, his fork pausing midair. He never forgets: his parents marriage anniversary—he always wished them, give gifts, or at least call whenever he is out of town—but the celebrations are another matter. Parties mean the same old charade: girls in glittering dresses, eyes full of calculation, parents nudging them forward like pawns. He despises the performance, the vulgarity of it all. His patience wears thin in such moments, and he refuses to put himself in situations where his anger might crack through his composure.

"There's a project," he replies evenly. "It needs my attention."

It is not a lie, but not the full truth either. His mother tilts her head, a small, weary smile curving her lips. "At least try."

They both know what "try" means. A gentle refusal in softer words. He nods anyway.

When the meal is over, his mother reaches for his plate, but he stops her. Rising, he carries it himself, rinsing it under the kitchen tap before setting it aside. She watches him, a mix of pride and unspoken sorrow in her eyes.

"Be happy," he tells her softly, almost gruffly. "Take care of yourself the way you do for everyone else."

She wants to hug him then—her firstborn son, tall and strong, yet carrying walls higher than she can reach. She settles for a smile. She is proud of her son, yet in the quiet corners of her heart she prays to God—"send someone into my Reyan's life who will truly love him, give him the warmth I could never fully offer, the tenderness he has always deserved."

Later, as he lies in bed, he turns the thought over in his mind. He does not blame her, and never will, but he vows one thing: his children will never feel the distance he felt. They will know his time, his presence, his care. They will never doubt his love.

With that silent promise, sleep finally claims him, pulling him under the weight of another long day.

***