Seven years later
Mumbai---- 6:15 AM
“Mummaaa! Draven stole my pencil box!”
“I did NOT steal it. I relocated it.”
“That is stealing!”
Vrikshika Mehta stood in the kitchen, still in her pale blue nightshirt, one eyebrow twitching while stirring coffee.
Seven years.
Seven long years.
She had survived war.
Kidnappings.
Loss.
Love.
Betrayal.
And somehow—
nothing tested her patience like her six-year-old twins.
“Draven.”
Silence.
Dangerous silence.
That alone told her her son was guilty.
V slowly walked toward the dining table.
There sat Draven Dimitriev Mehta.
Dark eyes. Sharp jawline. Serious little face.
Nathan’s exact xerox.
Even the same calm arrogance.
He was eating toast like he hadn’t committed a crime.
Beside him sat Zivara Mehta.
Tiny ponytail. Bright eyes. Overdramatic expression.
Currently glaring at her brother like he had ruined civilization.
V folded her arms.
“Where is her pencil box?”
Draven chewed slowly.
Then calmly pointed upward.
Everyone looked.
The pink pencil box was hanging from the ceiling fan.
Zivara gasped.
V shut her eyes.
“…Draven.”
He shrugged.
“She said my dinosaur drawing looked ugly.”
Zivara shouted—
“IT DID!”
“Because you don’t understand art.”
“It was a potato with legs!”
“It was a dragon!”
V pinched the bridge of her nose.
God.
This boy.
Nathan’s genes truly had no mercy.
Before she could scold further—
Ding dong.
The doorbell rang.
Both twins turned.
Then screamed together—
“NANAAAAAA!”
The door burst open.
A tall man in police uniform stepped inside.
ACP Veer Pratap Rathore.
Shanaya’s elder brother.
V’s protective mamu.
Mumbai Crime Branch officer.
Sharp. Disciplined. Dangerous.
And secretly the twins’ favorite human.
Before he could even remove his cap—
Zivara launched herself at him.
Draven followed two seconds later, pretending he was “too grown up” for hugs.
Veer smirked.
“Morning, monsters.”
Zivara pointed dramatically.
“Draven committed emotional terrorism.”
Draven deadpanned.
“She exaggerates.”
Veer looked at V.
V sighed.
“Don’t ask.”
Veer laughed.
Behind him entered his elder son—
Kabir Rathore, 28.
IPS officer. Followed his father’s path.
And then—
his younger son—
Yuvan Rathore, 23.
Chemical engineering genius.
Brilliant. Lazy. Flirty.
Yuvan looked at the chaos.
“…I came for breakfast. Why does it already feel like war?”
Draven replied instantly—
“You came to eat free food.”
Yuvan blinked.
“…I like him.”
V finally laughed.
For the first time that morning.
Then—
her phone rang.
Hospital.
The smile vanished.
She picked up.
“Dr. Vrikshika speaking.”
The nurse’s panicked voice came through—
“Ma’am, emergency trauma case. Chief asked for you immediately.”
Veer noticed her face change.
“What happened?”
V already moved.
“Hospital.”
Draven instantly stood.
“So early?”
Zivara’s tiny face dropped.
“You promised school drop.”
Guilt.
Sharp.
Instant.
V crouched before them.
Held both faces.
“I know.”
Soft kiss on Draven’s forehead.
Soft kiss on Zivara’s nose.
“Mumma will make it up tonight.”
Draven studied her carefully.
Always too observant.
“…Chief again?”
V nodded.
Draven frowned.
He hated one man.
Dr. Armaan Khurana.
Chief of Trauma Surgery.
Hospital head.
Calm. Powerful. Brilliant.
Too close to Mumma.
Draven never said it aloud.
But he didn’t trust him.
Not one bit.
Zivara whispered—
“Can we come to hospital after school?”
V smiled softly.
“If Nana doesn’t bribe you both with ice cream.”
Veer coughed innocently.
Yuvan muttered—
“Corrupt cop.”
Kabir replied—
“Wrong department.”
Chaos resumed.
And V walked out.
White coat in hand.
Hair tied.
Doctor mode back.
By 7:40 a.m., Mumbai traffic had already become unbearable.
Rainwater from last night still clung to roads. Rickshaws squeezed between buses like they had no fear of death. Horns screamed endlessly.
V drove through it all almost mechanically.
Coffee half-finished.
Hair tied into a clean knot.
Mind already switching from mother… to doctor.
Still—
Draven’s annoyed little face stayed in her mind.
“Chief again?”
That boy noticed too much.
Too much like someone she had spent seven years trying not to remember.
AstraCare Multispeciality Hospital – Mumbai
The moment V stepped through the sliding glass doors—
everything changed.
The outside world disappeared.
Now only antiseptic smell.
Fast footsteps.
Stretchers.
Machines.
Panic.
Blood.
Life.
Death.
Her world.
“Morning, Dr. Mehta.”
“Nurse update?”
“ICU 3 is stable.”
“Dr. V, trauma patient shifted.”
Voices everywhere.
She moved fast.
White coat flowing behind her.
Controlled.
Sharp.
Untouchable.
OT corridor.
Armaan was already there.
Dark charcoal shirt beneath his coat.
Surgical gloves in hand.
Calm.
Unreadable.
Only one look at V.
“…You’re late.”
V removed her watch.
Deadpan.
“…Forty-two seconds.”
Armaan looked at his own watch.
Then at her.
“…Still late.”
V walked past him.
“…Then save the lecture for after surgery.”
Tiny corner of his mouth lifted.
That almost-smile he rarely gave anyone.
Three-hour trauma surgery.
Messy.
Complicated.
Liver rupture.
Internal bleed.
Critical drop.
Kabir’s accident case from Crime Branch.
Political pressure.
Media pressure.
Everything.
Still—
V and Armaan worked like clockwork.
No wasted movement.
No panic.
Only precision.
Only survival.
When they finally stepped out—
mask off.
Gloves discarded.
Hands washed.
Exhaustion settled.
Armaan leaned lightly against corridor wall.
“…You missed breakfast again.”
V kept signing files.
“…You noticed?”
“…I always notice.”
Silence.
V ignored that.
Professional.
Always.
Before either could continue—
tiny footsteps.
Fast.
Chaotic.
Then—
“MUMMAAA!”
V looked up sharply.
Zivara came sprinting through corridor.
School uniform half untucked.
Hair messy.
Draven right behind her.
Less dramatic.
Still annoyed.
Veer Mamu behind them.
Already looking tired.
V blinked.
“…Why are you here?”
Zivara proudly announced—
“Half-day.”
Draven corrected.
“Teacher emergency.”
Veer sighed.
“And these two blackmailed me emotionally to bring them here.”
Yuvan, beside him, muttered—
“Mostly her.”
Pointing at Zivara.
She grinned.
No denial.
Armaan’s expression softened.
He crouched slightly.
“…So school escaped you again?”
Zivara immediately hugged him.
Sweet chaos.
“…Doctor uncle!”
Draven visibly stiffened.
Already irritated.
Armaan noticed.
Amused.
“…And why do I have murder in my direction from that face?”
Draven crossed his arms.
Dark eyes narrowed.
Serious.
Small.
Territorial.
“…Because you’re standing too close to my Mumma.”
Silence.
Then—
Yuvan burst out laughing.
Kabir coughed into fist.
Veer looked away.
V shut her eyes.
God.
Not again.
Zivara groaned—
“…Dravennn.”
Armaan slowly stood.
Looked at V.
Then at Draven.
Then almost smiled.
“…Noted.”
Draven didn’t smile back.
At all.
Mini Nathan.
Without knowing why.
Without knowing who.
And somewhere—
very far from Mumbai—
someone who shared the same eyes…
still had no idea how much of himself lived in that little boy.
