5|

Samaira sat curled up on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. The echoes of Rohit's words from earlier still played in her head.

> "Samaira is my daughter."

Three simple words. Spoken to the world. Loud. Proud. Real.

But now... silence.

And something else.

Footsteps.

The door flew open.

Ahaan.

Samaira immediately straightened, her heart hoping for softness. But his face was unreadable-stone cold.

"You really know how to get what you want, huh?" he said, stepping in with a bitterness in his voice that pierced her chest.

Her lips parted slightly. "Sir... kya matlab-"

"You got him to announce it," he cut her off, tone sharp. "Now everyone knows. Sharma surname. Headlines. Paparazzi. You happy?"

Her breath hitched. "Mujhe kuch nahi chahiye, sir... main bas-"

"Don't lie," he snapped. "You wanted all of this. You played innocent. Crying in corners. Hugging dad like he's yours."

Samaira froze, unable to find the words. Her voice wavered.

"Sir... main aapki jagah nahi lena chahti... main sir ko sirf papa ke jaise... dekhne lagi thi bas..."

Ahaan scoffed. "You think he's your dad? What gives you the right?"

And just like that, he turned around and left, slamming the door.

The sound echoed in her chest louder than the room.

Samaira sat back down, trying to breathe through the sting in her eyes. Her heart thudded in her ears.

> Kya maine kuch galat kiya? Kya main sab kuch bigaad rahi hoon?

---

Downstairs, unfamiliar voices filled the hall. Laughter. Comfort. And something that made her freeze mid-step as she peeked from behind the staircase wall.

Virat. Anushka. Vamika.

They stood there-smiling, chatting with Rohit and Ritika like old friends.

Samaira blinked, confused.

> Wait... they're here? But... weren't they not on talking terms? Rohit and Virat sir had a rift... right?

She stepped out slowly, unsure if her presence was even wanted.

Virat was the first to notice. "Ah, look who it is."

She stopped immediately. Her voice came out unsure. "Aap... yahan?"

Virat smiled warmly. "Haan. Tumse milne. We've heard a lot about you."

She looked at Ritika, then Rohit. Then back at Virat.

"Mujhe laga... aap sab ek dusre se... baat bhi nahi karte..."

Anushka stepped forward. "We never had a problem with each other.we' Media ko bas masala chahiye hota hai. But families... they stay connected."

Vamika nodded with a smile. "We've known about you for a while, Samaira. And we're so happy to finally meet you."

Samaira's voice lowered. "Par main toh... main bas... main kisi ke layak nahi hoon..."

Virat moved closer, gentler now. "You're more than enough. And Rohit didn't have to call you his daughter. He wanted to."

Samaira looked down, her voice cracking. "Woh toh keh diya sabke saamne... par... Ahaan sir..."

Her sentence trailed off.

No one pushed her. No one interrupted.

But the silence after her words? It was loud.

---

That night, back in her room, the moonlight spilled across her blanket.

She stared at the ceiling. Quiet. Still. But not calm.

> Main unki beti hoon... ya nahi?

She turned her face to the wall and whispered one last thing into the darkness.

> "Sir... mujhse naraz hain kya?"

Samaira didn’t sleep much.

Her eyes were open long before dawn, staring at the soft glow of the night lamp beside her bed. She hadn’t moved since Ritika kissed her forehead the night before.

The warmth of that moment had faded.Replaced now by something colder.Something quieter.

A sinking feeling that something wasn’t… right.

---

A Strange Silence

Downstairs, the house was bustling.

Not with laughter. Not with music or morning greetings.

But with… tension.

Voices were hushed. Curtains were drawn. Phones buzzed nonstop—followed by quick swipes, anxious stares, and unspoken words.

Ritika spoke on the phone in the kitchen in a whisper, her back turned.

> “No, please… don’t print anything yet. She’s just a child…”

Rohit stood by the balcony, jaw clenched, staring at his own phone. His manager had already called. Twice.

Paparazzi had caught something.

The media knew.

And worse?The people knew.

---

Overheard Words

Samaira wasn’t allowed a phone yet—Ritika had gently explained that yesterday, promising she'd get one later when things settled.

But even without a screen, Samaira felt everything.

She heard the faint murmurs from behind closed doors.

She saw Ahaan slam his door shut.

She saw Ritika sigh deeply into her hands.

She even heard the maid whisper to the cook in Marathi, thinking Samaira wouldn’t understand.

> “Did you see what they’re saying about her online? Poor thing…”

Samaira didn’t understand the words.

But she understood the tone.

That pity-laced tone.

It was worse than anger.

---

Back in Her Room

The toast on her plate had gone cold.The glass of milk sat untouched.

She sat curled up on the floor by the window, her knees pulled to her chest. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her—tired, small, uncertain.

She didn’t know what had gone wrong.

No one had shouted at her.No one had told her she’d done anything bad.

But the air in the house had shifted.Like someone had thrown a stone into a calm lake.

Ripples. Whispers. Walls.

---

Ahaan’s Room

Upstairs, Ahaan was on his phone. His school friends had already begun flooding the group chat.

> “Bro, your parents adopted a random girl?”

> “Publicity stunt?”

> “She looks so middle-class, man. Why her?”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t defend.

He just stared.Then threw his phone on the bed and walked away.

---

Night Again

That night

She didn’t speak at all.

Ritika sat beside her anyway, brushing strands of hair from her forehead. Samaira’s eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.

“Do you want to talk?” Ritika whispered.

Samaira shook her head softly.

Just one whisper escaped her lips.

> “Did I do something wrong, Ma’am?”

Ritika’s heart broke in two.

She didn’t answer.

She just held her, tighter than ever.

---

💭 Author’s Note

She didn’t have a phone.But she had ears.She had eyes.

And a heart that felt things deeper than most.

The world doesn’t always need a screen to hurt you.Sometimes, silence is enough.

And Samaira was drowning in it.

Author’s POV

The house was dimly lit, the hum of the AC the only sound in the late evening silence. Everyone thought Samaira was in her room. She was—but she had come downstairs to look for her sketchbook. The one she always forgot on the living room table.

She padded across the corridor, barefoot and quiet.

And then she heard it.

From the kitchen.

> “Sir ki beti hai na yeh chhoti wali…”“Haan par kuch alag si lagti hai. Na kapdon ka sense, na tameez.”“Hamesha chup rehti hai. Attitude dekha kal? Ritika ma’am ki bhi baat nahi sunti.”“Rohit sir bhi na… itna pyaar karte hai, jaise bas wohi bacchi ho iss ghar mein…”

The words hit her like bricks.

Her breath stopped.

She wasn’t supposed to hear that. She wished she hadn’t.

She slowly backed up, lips trembling, eyes glassy, her sketchbook slipping from her fingers onto the floor with a soft thump.

The maids turned.

And so did he.

Rohit Sharma had just entered the house.

He heard the tail end of their words.

He saw the sketchbook fall.

He saw Samaira’s face.

And in that single second—he knew.

He knew they had broken something inside her.

---

The air shifted.

It wasn’t just anger now. It was rage.

Rohit stormed into the kitchen like a tidal wave. His jaw was tight, eyes blazing.

> “Kya kaha tumne?”

The maids fumbled.

He didn’t let them answer.

> “Tumne meri beti ke baare mein kuch kaha abhi?”

Silence.

Just guilt and fear.

> “Meri beti par tum comment kar rahi thi? Kapdon pe? Nature pe? Tameez pe?”

His voice echoed.

> “Usne kya kiya tumse? Usne kab badtameezi ki? Usne toh aaj tak jawab bhi nahi diya kisi ko!”

He slammed his hand on the table. A glass wobbled and fell.

> “Yeh ghar hai uska. Aur main… uska BAAP hoon.Tum logon ko lagta hai tum kissi aur ke ghar mein kaam kar rahi ho?Samaira is not 'chhoti wali.' She is my daughter. My blood. My soul.”

His voice dropped low. Dead serious.

> “Agar dobara uske baare mein ek shabd  bhi bola na…I swear, kal se out of my house.”

---

Upstairs, Samaira sat at the top of the stairs, hidden in the shadows.

She heard it all.

Every. Word.

And for the first time in days—her heart felt seen.

Her eyes welled up, but this time…

Not because she was hurt.

Because someone had finally stood for her. Loudly. Publicly. Fiercely.

Her Papa.

Author’s POV

The house was asleep.

But Samaira wasn't.

And neither was Rohit Sharma.

He sat alone in the living room, the TV playing on mute, the glow flickering across his tired eyes. He hadn’t touched his coffee. His mind had been storming for hours now—ever since he saw those disgusting online comments.

“Gold digger kid.”“Why is she acting like a Sharma?”“She doesn’t look like them.”“Charity case, maybe?”“Desperate for attention.”

Some even went as far as mocking her smile, her clothes, her presence in a family photo posted hours ago by Ritika.

Rohit had slammed his phone on the table.

He could take trolls for himself—but for her?

Not a chance.

He got up and headed upstairs.

But Samaira... she had already heard enough.

No one knew she’d seen trolls.

Until Rohit gently knocked.

“Can I come in?”

A pause.

Then a faint, “Ji…”

He entered. She was sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, face blank. She looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

He sat a distance away, on the bean bag.

“Tum theek ho?” His voice was cautious.

She didn’t answer. Just looked down.

“I know... maine suna sab,” he said softly. “Online. Woh sab jo log likh rahe hain.”

Her lips trembled. “Main… kuch nahi kiya sir. Still…”

He stood up. Walked over.

“Tumne kuch galat kiya hi nahi, Samaira.”

“Main…” she whispered, “Main Sharma nahi hoon na. Toh…”

He knelt in front of her.

His voice was low but sharp. “Tum Sharma ho. Tum meri beti ho.”

Her eyes widened a little, as if still not believing that.

“I fired those maids,” he added, jaw clenched. “Kisi ko bhi haq nahi hai tumhare baare mein bolne ka. Ghar ke andar ho ya bahar. Tum meri zimmedaari nahi ho, tum mera hissa ho.”

Samaira stared, stunned—not just by the words, but the rage he carried for her.

“aap itna… gussa kyun ho sir?” she asked, quietly.

His eyes softened. “Kyunki kisi ne meri beti ko takleef di.”

She blinked.

“Main… ajeeb nahi hoon?” her voice cracked.

He shook his head. “Tum meri ho. That’s all that matters.”

She was silent for a long time.

“Par main sabki nazar mein… bas ek extra hoon.”

He reached out—slowly—and held out his hand.

“Tum mere liye sab kuch ho.”

She stared at his hand.

Then hesitantly placed hers in it.

Warm. Soft. Fragile.

She still called him sir.

But that night, she let her fingers stay in his a little longer.

And Rohit knew—this wasn’t a full beginning.

But it wasn’t the end either.

It was... something.

Author’s POV

The morning was heavy.

It wasn’t because of the weather.

It was because she didn’t come out of her room.

Samaira didn’t eat breakfast. Didn’t even touch the hot chocolate Ritika had left outside her door. She’d just sat on her bed, hugging her legs, eyes swollen from a night she didn’t let anyone witness.

Downstairs, the Sharma home felt unusually quiet.

Until the bell rang.

Ding-dong.

Ritika opened the door... and froze.

In walked Virat Kohli—no guards, no paps, no press—just him. Behind him was Anushka, calm yet alert. And beside them, Vamika, taller than ever, with eyes scanning the house curiously.

“Where’s she?” Virat asked immediately.

“In her room,” Ritika said softly.

“Is he okay?” Anushka nodded toward Rohit, who was standing near the dining table, silent, arms crossed.

Ritika just sighed. “He hasn’t said a word since last night.”

Virat looked at his brother-in-arms. “Ro”

Rohit didn’t answer.

"RO,” Virat repeated, louder.

Finally, Rohit looked up.

“What the hell is wrong with people, Virat?” His voice cracked—not out of fear but helplessness. “She’s thirteen. And they’re tearing her apart online like she’s… like she’s public property.”

Virat’s jaw clenched. “I know. I’ve read everything.”

Anushka added, “They’ve crossed a line.”

“There are edited videos going viral now,” Vamika said, her voice sharp. “With captions like ‘Why is she suddenly a Sharma?’ ‘Charity adoption?’… it’s insane.”

Rohit shook his head. “She doesn’t even have a phone. And still she knows.”

“She overheard the maids, right?” Virat asked quietly.

Ritika nodded. “She hasn’t spoken a word to me since.”

Virat walked toward the staircase, but paused. “Do you want me to talk to her?”

Rohit looked up at him—his eyes heavy. “No.”

Then, surprisingly, he turned toward Ritika. “Call the media. Right now.”

Everyone stared.

“What?” Anushka said in disbelief.

“I said—call them. I’m going LIVE in 30 minutes.”

“Ro…” Virat tried to interrupt.

“No, Virat. If I don’t stand for my daughter today, she’ll never believe she belongs here.”

---

30 Minutes Later – Press Conference (Private Live Broadcast)

Rohit sat straight, hands on the mic.

“This is for those asking ‘Why her?’... ‘How?’... ‘Does she deserve to be here?’”

He took a deep breath.

“She’s my daughter. Biologically. Legally. Emotionally. Every damn way.”

He leaned closer.

“And if you think trolling a 13-year-old will make me regret bringing her into my life—you're messing with the wrong father.”

The press was silent.

Virat stood behind him, arms folded.

Ritika and Anushka sat beside, stone-faced.

Vamika recorded everything on her phone—this wasn’t just a statement, this was history.

Rohit continued.

“I’ve faced fast bowlers. But this? This hatred? It’s slower... but far more poisonous. And it stops today.”

"She is my daughter.and i will not be lenient now""Legal actions will be taken"

---

Back home…

Samaira sat inside her room.

She hadn’t heard the press conference.

But when Virat sir knocked softly and entered with Vamika mam, she looked up—panicked.

“I’m sorry sir—main—main sach mein kuch—”

“Shhh,” Virat said gently. “No one’s angry.”

Vamika walked over and sat beside her. “You okay, champ?”

She hesitated, then nodded faintly. “Ji…”

There was a pause.

Then Virat said something that shocked her:

“Tum Sharma ho. Tum hamari ho.”

Her lips parted in disbelief.

He smiled. “And I don’t care what the world thinks.”

Vamika added with a smirk, “And between you and me… I think you’ve handled this way better than a lot of grownups I know.”

Samaira blinked—eyes wet—but said nothing.

Just a small nod.

Still scared.

Still unsure.

But for the first time in days…

…she felt less alone.