The soft ticking of the clock in the psychologist's room still echoed in Veer's ears like a ticking bomb, each second reminding him how fragile everything had become.
One session.
Just one.
And yet it felt like someone had reached inside and shaken the very foundation of who he was.
He stepped out of the car and walked up the marble steps of the Rathore mansion. The place that had once been a palace to the world... but to him, it was just a house with too many empty rooms and too many untouched memories.
His mind swirled with everything the psychologist had said. That maybe it wasn't just trauma. Maybe it was something... deeper. Something split. A war within his own mind. A disorder. A darkness not born from anger, but from fracture.
And the worst part?
He believed it.
Because even now, with every step, he could feel it.
That part of him.
The part that watched. The part that waited. The part that hurt people without meaning to — then vanished, leaving Veer to pick up the pieces.
The heavy front doors creaked open, snapping him out of his thoughts.
His breath caught in his throat.
His mother.
She was stumbling in through the entrance, her heels clicking unevenly, perfume and alcohol clinging to her like a fading memory of the woman she used to be.
"Ramu! Ramu, where the hell is my wine?" she slurred, then paused, blinking until her eyes finally focused on him.
A wry smile curved her lips. "Oh. Look who's home. The crown prince returns."
Veer clenched his jaw.
"Where were you, Maa?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
"Out," she said dismissively, brushing past him and nearly tripping on the carpet. "Unlike you, I have a life."
He didn't reply. He'd heard this before.
It was the same story on loop — ever since he could remember.
There were photos hung on the mansion walls — frames dusted weekly by the help but forgotten by the people in them. Pictures of a family. A mother, a father, a child.
Smiling.
Happy.
But they were just that. Pictures.
He hadn't seen his parents smile at each other since he could remember?
Because after his third birthday, the videos changed.
He remembered watching them secretly — late at night, in his father's study. Footage of his parents during Gauri Poojan — laughing, teasing, hands intertwined. His mother in red, his father in white — a vision of everything Veer wished they still were.
But then came the videos from the following year.
Less laughter. Less touch.
By the time he turned five, they didn't even look at each other in the recordings.
And now?
Now, they didn't even pretend.
His mother lost herself in parties and wine. His father in political meetings and power plays. And Veer? Veer was the collateral damage of a love story that never made it to the happily ever after.
He turned from the hallway and headed upstairs, hands stuffed in his pockets, the air heavy around him.
The therapist had said: "You're aware of what's happening. That's a good sign. But your mind is at war with itself. The other... part of you — does he know you're seeking help?"
Veer hadn't answered.
Because deep down, he knew.
Knew that the next time that side of him took over, the apology wouldn't be enough. Therapy wouldn't be enough. Not unless he understood why he was like this. What broke inside him that day — and if it could even be fixed.
As he closed his bedroom door behind him, Veer slid down against it, letting the weight of the day crush him.
He hated what he had become.
He hated that he had hurt Aaradhya — the only light he had seen in years.
But most of all...
He hated that he wasn't sure if he could stop it from happening again.
The clinking of silverware and the occasional chirp from the courtyard were the only sounds that filled the vast dining hall that morning.
Veer stepped down the final stair, his footsteps echoing off the marble like a reminder that he was alone, even in a house full of people.
His father was already seated at the head of the long teakwood table, the morning paper stretched wide between his hands. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched beside him, the aroma of cardamom wafting in the air, stubbornly refusing to fill the silence.
"Good morning, Papa," Veer said, his voice low but steady.
A hum. Non-committal. Wordless.
He didn't even look up.
Veer took the seat a few places down from him. It had always been like that — not too close, not too far. Just enough space for silence to sit comfortably between them.
The butler placed a plate of paratha and fruits in front of him, but Veer wasn't hungry. Not really.
His father finally spoke, flipping a page without sparing a glance. "There's a business meeting this Saturday. Important deal. You need to be present."
That was it. No explanation, no conversation. Just a statement, like he was assigning a task to an employee.
And then, as casually as he'd entered the room, his father folded the paper, stood up, and walked toward the main gate of the mansion — briefcase in one hand, phone pressed to his ear with the other.
No "how are you."
No "how was your night."
No "I heard you've been seeing someone... a therapist."
Veer didn't expect those things anymore. He hadn't for years.
Still, a part of him — the younger part, the forgotten part — kept hoping that one day, his father would turn around mid-step, sit back down, and ask him if he was okay.
But he never did.
As the door shut behind his father, Veer sat staring at the untouched food.
Even the warmth of the paratha felt forced. Like everything in this house — warmth that pretended to be real but never quite reached the skin.
And maybe that's why he was the way he was.
Because when love is absent, silence becomes a language.
And Veer had learned it far too well.
The gates of the college loomed ahead, too familiar, too suffocating.
Veer stepped out of the car, the warm morning sun doing little to settle the unease churning in his chest. His grip tightened on the door as he adjusted the strap of his bag — and then he saw her.
Aaradhya.
Walking toward him. Head high. Eyes focused. The air shifted the moment she entered his frame of vision.
His breath hitched.
No.
Not now.
She was close, too close. His fingers twitched at his sides. He didn't want this to happen again. Not here. Not like this.
"I want to talk to you," she said, firm but calm, standing in front of him like she had every right to demand answers.
"I'm busy, Aaradhya," he replied, avoiding her gaze, keeping his voice level. "Not right now."
"You weren't busy yesterday when you came to my hostel," she snapped, stepping in again.
He backed away slightly. "Please... don't."
But she followed him as they walked toward the main building. His muscles were tight with tension. His mind was screaming at him to leave — now.
Then something shifted.
It happened like it always did — slowly, then all at once.
His own thoughts began to dim. Like a volume dial being turned down on his consciousness. He could still see everything, feel everything... but he wasn't in control anymore.
Not again.
He was no longer speaking.
Someone else was.
And then her fingers brushed against his wrist.
His skin burned.
He closed his eyes — God, don't let this happen again —
And when he opened them, the words weren't his.
"Firefly, you're here to meet me."
Aaradhya's hand recoiled instantly, her eyes wide with confusion — maybe even fear. "What...?"
He stepped toward her, closing the space between them. Their bodies brushed. His breath hitched, again, but this time... it wasn't in restraint. It was in surrender.
He lifted a hand, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. "How is your exam preparation going? I would've taught you myself, but you know... between studies and business, it's hard. Being the crown prince isn't just a name."
"You think I care?" she shot back. "I hate you. Don't touch me."
She yanked his hand away — violently this time — and he should have stopped there.
But the other part of him... didn't.
He moved closer again, voice low, dark, almost soft. "Everything's going to change between us. We'll be together soon. I can't wait for the day you're mine."
Aaradhya's voice cracked with fury — "Stop! Don't even say another word."
And that's when he grabbed her wrist — forceful. Wrong. Desperate.
And then — a tear.
One, delicate tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
It was all it took.
His breath caught in his throat. Something inside him shattered.
He let go.
Stumbled back a step like he'd been hit in the chest.
"I'm sorry..." he whispered, his voice hoarse, real, his. "I wasn't in my right mind. Please... don't come near me again. I can't protect you from me."
He turned, his steps uneven, hands shaking, heart pounding with disgust at himself.
And this time, he didn't look back.