Ayaan's POV
The soft glow from the bedside lamp barely illuminated the dimly lit room. The air was still, filled only with the faint sound of the baby's steady breathing. I kept my gaze locked on the door from where Sanya had left a while ago. She had gone to call someone, but a part of me wondered—would she come back? Or would she decide that this wasn't her problem and walk away?
I exhaled, pushing the thought aside. Somehow, her presence earlier had made everything feel a little less chaotic. Like I wasn't completely alone in this.
Shifting my focus back to the baby in my arms, I noticed how her tiny features had softened in sleep. Her long lashes rested against her chubby cheeks, and her small mouth remained slightly open as she breathed rhythmically. She looked so peaceful—so unaware of the mess she had been thrown into.
Carefully, I adjusted her in my arms and moved toward the bed. I lowered myself slowly, mindful not to jostle her too much. Gently, I placed her down, making sure her head rested comfortably on the soft pillow.
She stirred, her tiny body shifting under the comforter. I held my breath.
Would she wake up and start crying again?
Her little face scrunched up for a moment, and I froze. But then, just as quickly, she relaxed, her breathing evening out.
A small chuckle escaped my lips.
"Cutie." I murmured under my breath, shaking my head as I tucked the comforter securely around her tiny frame.
I should have moved away—I could have moved away. But I didn't. Instead, I climbed onto the bed beside her, lying on my side, propping my head up with my arm. I don't know why, but I kept looking at her. Just watching her sleep.
Minutes passed. Maybe even an hour. I wasn't sure.
Then, suddenly, she moved.
Her small fingers peeked out from under the comforter, twitching slightly before stretching out completely. The sight made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I reached out hesitantly, my fingers brushing over the back of her delicate hand. It was so tiny, so fragile, yet warm against my touch.
A soft sigh left my lips as I began tracing slow, soothing circles on her palm.
"I will always be there for you," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.
The words felt foreign yet natural at the same time.
Leaning in, I gently pressed a kiss to her tiny fingers.
For a moment, she remained still. But then, to my complete surprise, her fingers moved again—this time wrapping around my index finger.
Tightly.
My breath hitched.
I stared at our hands, my mind blanking for a second.
She was holding onto me.
Something unexplainable twisted in my chest.
"I will take care of you always," I whispered again, tightening my hold around her tiny hand ever so slightly before tucking it back inside the comforter.
Leaning back against the headboard, I ran a hand down my face. The exhaustion from the day was finally catching up to me, but my mind refused to rest.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table, unlocking it with one hand.
I needed to know what was required for a baby's health. What did she need? How do I take care of her?
Before I could open Google, a sharp knock on my door made me pause.
"Come in," I said, placing my phone down.
The door creaked open, and my parents stepped inside. My father, was dressed in his usual crisp white kurta, his expression heavy with unspoken disappointment. My mother, stood beside him, her hands clasped together, her face a mixture of sadness and worry.
I swallowed. They were upset.
Not because I had done something criminal. Not because I had harmed anyone. But because of this. Because of me, our political image was at stake. Because of me, the media would have a field day. Because of me.
But I didn't care.
I couldn't leave her on the road alone. I wouldn't.
I stood up from my place and gestured toward the couch. "Please, sit."
They took their seats, but the room was filled with silence.
No one spoke.
The air felt thick, almost suffocating. My father rested his elbow on the armrest, his fingers tapping against his temple, a clear sign that he was thinking—thinking about what to say, thinking about how to fix this mess I had created.
My mother kept her eyes lowered, looking everywhere but at me.
They were angry. He was angry.
I clenched my fists, preparing for what was coming.
"Dad…" I finally broke the silence.
"Why did you do that?" He asked, his voice heavy.
I took a deep breath. "I don't know, Dad. I just… I couldn't leave her alone there."
He sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead, before looking at my mother.
She exhaled sharply, finally meeting my gaze. "Ayaan, I am happy you helped her, but you can't keep her with you," she said, her voice soft yet firm.
A strange feeling gripped my chest.
Like something was about to be taken from me.
The tiny face of the baby flashed in my mind—her fragile body, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine, her innocent trust in me.
"Why can't I?" I asked, my voice slightly raised.
"Ayaan. Behave," my father warned sternly.
I looked down immediately. He was right. I shouldn't have raised my voice.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad," I said, forcing myself to stay calm. "But… why can't I keep her with me?"
My father leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto mine.
"First, answer us," he said.
I nodded, waiting.
"Who is she to you?" he asked, his voice measured.
Who is she to me?
My mind went blank for a second.
Who was she to me?
Brother? Uncle? Or… father?
I had no answer.
But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was that tiny girl gripping my finger, trusting me without question.
And in that moment, I realized—I wasn't sure who she was to me.
But I knew one thing for sure.
I was hers.
She was mine to protect.
The room was suffocatingly silent.
My father sat on the couch, his fingers pressed against his temple as if trying to suppress a growing migraine. My mother sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her brows knitted in deep thought. They were waiting—waiting for me to say something that would make sense.
But I didn't have an explanation that would satisfy them.
I exhaled, gripping the edge of the couch. My gaze flickered toward the bed, where the baby lay wrapped in the comforter, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath.
"She is my daughter from now on."
The words left my mouth, steady and final.
The weight of my declaration hung in the air, freezing everything around us. My father's eyes widened for a second before narrowing. My mother's lips parted slightly, shock flickering across her face.
A pin could drop, and we'd hear it.
Then came my father's exhausted sigh, the kind that spoke volumes, the kind that said I should have expected this.
"Daughter? Seriously?" He rubbed his forehead as if I had given him the worst headache of his life. Maybe I had.
"Ayaan." His voice was dangerously calm. "Do you even understand what you're saying?"
I met his gaze, unwavering. "I do."
He scoffed. "Without marriage, how do you plan on keeping a daughter with you?"
I clenched my jaw. "I'll be a single father."
Mom gasped softly. Dad inhaled sharply.
The disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable.
"Ayaan." My mother finally spoke, her voice softer than my father's but carrying the same weight of concern. "It's not just about you. It's about her too."
She gestured toward the baby.
"She will need a mother," Mom continued. "She will need a mother's love."
I exhaled harshly.
"Mom… do you really think that in today's world, someone will treat my child like their own?" I asked, my voice lower now, laced with frustration.
A beat of silence.
They didn't have an answer.
Or maybe they did but knew that I wouldn't like it.
Dad leaned back, running a hand through his hair. His jaw was clenched, his politician-like composure slightly slipping.
"Fine," he finally said. "You want to raise this child, you do it. But understand this—" He straightened, his eyes pinning me down with a cold intensity. "This isn't just about some noble gesture. This is a responsibility that will change your entire life. Every decision, every step—you will not be the same Ayaan anymore."
I swallowed hard.
I knew that.
I already wasn't the same Ayaan anymore.
Dad stood up, adjusting his clothes. He walked toward me, stopping inches away before placing a firm hand on my shoulder.
"Take care of my granddaughter," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Or else, you know what happens."
A chill ran down my spine.
This wasn't just a warning.
It was a promise.
I nodded. "I will."
His eyes lingered on mine for a second longer before he stepped back.
I knew he would accept her as my daughter. Because my family has huge place for womens in our heart, especially my dad.
I turned to Mom.
She was by the bed now, sitting beside the baby. Her fingers gently ran over the soft, fine hair on the baby's head. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something undeniably tender in the way she looked at her.
Dad stood behind her, watching.
"She looks so pale," Mom murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "Tomorrow, I need to massage her with oil."
I blinked.
A small chuckle escaped me.
Dad smirked, shaking his head. "Here we go."
Mom shot him a glare before turning back to the baby.
And in that moment, despite all the arguments, despite all the tension—
I felt something settle in my heart.
This was my daughter.
And no matter what, I would protect her.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching my mother fuss over the baby. She carefully tucked the blanket around her tiny body, her fingers gentle, like she was handling something far too precious to risk breaking.
"She needs proper nourishment," Mom muttered. "Look at her tiny wrists, so fragile."
Dad sighed beside her. "You're already treating her like your granddaughter."
"She is my granddaughter," Mom snapped, giving him a pointed look. "My son just declared it."
Dad pinched the bridge of his nose, but I caught the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
I knew this was shocking for them, but a part of me also knew they weren't entirely against it. At least, not like I had imagined.
Dad sighed and turn to look at me "I am going to see off my daughter." He said and started going outside.
Daughter? Sanya? Is she leaving?
My mom looked at me and asked "are you not going to see her off." She asked tucking the baby and moving away. From there standing from the bed.
I swallowed hard. How was I supposed to explain that we weren't exactly on good terms? That we hadn't even spoken in almost a year? Even though we talked just today. It was not like before. Instead, I forced a neutral expression.
"I don't want to leave the baby," I murmured, pretending to adjust the edge of the blanket. "I'll just make a call to her."
Mom narrowed her eyes slightly but didn't argue. She nodded, started heading toward the door, then stopped abruptly. Turning back, she gave me a long, searching look.
Mom didn't look entirely convinced, but she chose not to press further. Instead, she sighed and walked out of the room.
As soon as she left, I exhaled, relieved that I had dodged another conversation I wasn't ready to have. My eyes drifted toward the baby, sleeping so peacefully, unaware of the chaos in my mind.