10|

Author’s POV

“Mujhe mat sikhaao, main dumb nahi hoon,” Samaira snapped, her small fists clenched at her sides.

Ahaan stood across the table, eyebrow raised, clearly amused.

> “Sirf dumb log hi yeh line bolte hain, Sir kehte hue,” he smirked.

> “Aap irritating ho. Bohot zyada,” she said, glaring at him, still calling him “Sir” like it was a curse word.

> “Tum khud irritating ho, Miss Dictionary Google Edition,” he retorted, flicking her forehead lightly.

> “Aap na—”

Before she could finish, a sharp hiss came from the kitchen.

> “Ouch!”

Both heads turned instantly.

Ritika stood near the gas stove, clutching her finger — a small burn from the hot kadhai. She tried to brush it off, but her wince gave it away.

> “Mumma!” Samaira yelled instinctively, rushing to her.

The word slipped out before her brain could process it. Her feet moved faster than her thoughts.

Ahaan froze.

Ritika, too.

Samaira gently held her hand, blowing on the red patch with panic in her eyes.

> “Careful… aapko lag gaya…” her voice shook. “Main ointment lati hoon, Mumma—”

She stopped.

Realizing what she had just said.

Ritika looked at her. Eyes glossy. Silent. Hands still in Samaira’s.

Samaira’s voice dropped into a whisper.

> “Woh… sorry… ma’am kehna tha…”

But Ritika didn’t let go of her hand.

> “Say it again,” Ritika whispered, crouching down to her height.

Samaira looked at her, nervous. Embarrassed. But soft.

> “Mumma…” she repeated, barely audible.

Ritika broke.

She pulled her into the tightest hug, her burned hand forgotten.

> “Mumma ko bas yahi sunna tha…” she murmured into Samaira’s hair.

Ahaan stood quietly, the fight forgotten. His smirk replaced by something softer — something proud.

---

Later that evening…

> “Tum mujhe ‘Sir’ bolti rahi, aur Mumma ko mumma keh diya?” Ahaan asked, mock-hurt.

Samaira folded her arms.

> “Aap deserve nahi karte ‘bhaiya’ title.”

> “Main toh 'hero’ se kam nahi,” he grinned.

> “Aap ‘bakwaas’ se zyada nahi,” she shot back.

> “Drama Queen,” he muttered.

Author’s POV

The house had quieted down after dinner. Ahaan was on a call in his room, pretending to care about a game update but still secretly smiling at the memory of Samaira and her weirdly dramatic story about how the ketchup “exploded” during lunch.

Samaira… was asleep now. Curled on her side, her stuffed toy under one arm, a tiny smile still lingering on her lips.

But Ritika — Ritika couldn’t sleep.

She sat on the edge of her and Rohit’s bed, eyes stuck on her finger — a soft little burn she got while taking out hot milk for Samaira. Nothing major. But the moment that followed?

> "Mumma! Dhyaan se!!"

One word.

Mumma.

The word had echoed louder than any stadium cheer.

She didn’t even realise when her eyes welled up again.

Rohit walked into the room just then, rubbing his neck tiredly.

But when he saw Ritika sitting there, quietly emotional, he paused.

> “Rits?” he asked, concerned. “Is it hurting?”

She looked up and just shook her head. Her voice cracked as she said—

> “Nahi… woh toh theek hai. Par usne… usne aaj mujhe ‘mumma’ kaha, Ro.”

Rohit’s breath caught mid-motion.

> “Kya?”

> “Haan…” she nodded slowly, blinking back tears. “It just slipped out. Mujhe nahi lagta use bhi pata tha ki uske muh se nikal gaya.”

She laughed softly through her emotions.

> “Par mujhe laga… meri duniya ruk gayi.”

Rohit came forward and kneeled in front of her, taking her hands gently.

> “Rits…” he said quietly. “Pehle ‘papa’… aur ab ‘mumma’…”

> “Mujhe lagta tha main ek din usse apna keh paunga… par us din ke baare mein kabhi socha nahi tha.”

Ritika looked into his eyes, and both saw the reflection of years — years of distance, longing, guilt, and silent prayers.

> “Woh hamari beti hai, Rohit,” Ritika whispered. “Poore dil se. Ab woh keh bhi rahi hai.”

> “Aur sun bhi rahi hai,” he replied. “Apni jagah le rahi hai. Dheere-dheere… lekin poori tarah se.”

They didn’t say anything more.

Just a quiet embrace. Two hearts, finally exhaling.

The room was silent, but their hearts were screaming:Our little girl finally called us her parents.

---

Author’s Note:

She was always theirs.But when she finally said it — Papa. Mumma.It wasn’t just her healing.It was theirs too.

Author’s POV

The morning light filtered softly into the Sharma residence. The mood inside was warm — a contrast to the chaos waiting outside.

In the kitchen, Ritika was humming a tune while flipping parathas on the pan. Her finger still had a tiny bandage, and beside her, Samaira stood awkwardly, trying to help but mostly just watching like a wide-eyed student.

> “Mumma, I—I mean, can I put the butter?” Samaira asked shyly, correcting herself mid-sentence but not too late.

Ritika turned with the softest smile, trying not to tear up again.

> “Of course, chef Samaira. Just not the whole slab this time, okay?”

Samaira giggled, her cheeks slightly red.The word "Mumma" still felt new on her tongue. But right.

Just as they placed the plates on the table, a maid rushed in—

> “Ma’am, bahar reporters aa gaye hain!”

Ritika froze.

> “Reporters?”

---

Outside — Sharma Residence

Cameras flashed wildly. Paparazzi had gathered near the gate, zoom lenses pointed straight at the main door. Word was out. Rumours were flying — “Rohit Sharma's long-lost daughter?”, “Why was she hidden?”, “Who is Samaira Sharma really?”

Rohit had just returned from his morning run. His eyes narrowed the moment he saw the crowd.

The moment he stepped out of his car, chaos exploded.

> “ROHIT! WHO IS SHE?”“WHY NOW?”“IS SHE REALLY YOUR BIOLOGICAL DAUGHTER?”

> “Was she hidden because of image issues?”“Did you abandon her at birth, Sharma?”

That. Was. It.

Rohit threw his water bottle down with a loud thud and stormed toward the gate. His bodyguards struggled to hold the media back.

> “ENOUGH!!” he roared, voice sharp like thunder.

The cameras paused for a heartbeat.

> “She is MY daughter. Meri beti. Biological. Legitimate. Aur sabse badi baat — meri jaan.”

> “You think you can just throw mics in our faces and question a 13-year-old's existence? Shame on you!”

He pointed at the flashes blinding his front porch.

> “Agle baar kisi ne mere ghar ke bahar aa kar meri beti ke baare mein bakwas ki na... I’ll make sure legal notices pahunch jaayein tum sabke offices mein.”

His voice dropped, but the warning was even more chilling.

> “She’s not a scandal. She’s my child.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Back inside, Samaira had run to the window, trying to peek. Her eyes widened at the sight of cameras, her heart racing.

But just as fast, Ritika pulled her away gently.

> “Papa sambhaal rahe hain,” she said softly. “Tum bas breakfast khao.”

Samaira clutched her plate tightly.

> “Woh… woh mujhse kyun itna… protect karte hain?” she whispered.

Ritika just smiled.

> “Because tum unki duniya ho, beta. Tumhe abhi bas vishwas rakhna hai.”

---

Author’s Note:

They questioned her existence.He reminded the world —She wasn’t a rumor. She was his.And no one touches what’s his.

Author’s POV

After the paparazzi storm had died down, the Sharma residence felt strangely still.

Rohit was pacing the living room, jaw clenched, checking his phone every few seconds for updates. Ritika sat on the couch, rubbing her temple, while Ahaan stood by the balcony, watching the security guards double up at the gate.

Samaira?

She was in her room, silent, overwhelmed.

> She hadn’t spoken much after the chaos. But the way she had watched Rohit yell at the media… there had been something in her eyes.

A mix of awe. And a tiny drop of… comfort.

---

In Ahaan’s Room

Ahaan scrolled through the internet—his jaw tightened as he read the vile comments.

> “She’s faking it for fame.”“Sharma just trying to fix his image.”“Poor kid—must be a PR stunt.”

He slammed the phone shut and muttered under his breath,

> “Gutter ke log bkl…”

He stood up and stormed toward Rohit, finding him in the hallway.

> “Papa,” his voice was quiet but laced with fire, “Agar kisi ne uske baare mein fir se kuch bola na… toh mujhse bardaasht nahi hoga.”

Rohit stopped mid-step, looking at his son.

> “I know, beta… Mujhe bhi nahi hota.”

> “Woh ab sirf tumhari behen nahi hai, Ahaan. Tumhari zimmedaari bhi hai.”

Ahaan nodded, slowly.

Author’s POV

The decision was made.

After long nights of thinking, hushed conversations, and soft glances filled with concern — Rohit and Ritika had finally agreed.

> Samaira would be going to Dhirubhai Ambani International School.The same school where Ahaan was in 12th grade.The school that whispered his name in every hallway, that girls secretly wrote about in diaries, that cricket boards cheered for because of him.

> Ahaan Sharma — captain of the school cricket team, top scorer, head boy, and yes… the heartthrob with a fanbase wider than Mumbai’s skyline.

But this wasn’t about him now.

This was about Samaira.

And the way her hands trembled when Ritika broke the news at dinner.

---

Dining Table – Sharma Residence

“Beta,” Ritika said gently, placing a brochure beside Samaira’s plate, “We’ve completed the formalities… you’re starting school next week.”

Samaira’s eyes widened slightly as she glanced at the name on the top:Dhirubhai Ambani International School.

Her heart skipped.

Before she could speak, Ahaan—who was scrolling through his phone—looked up.

> “Same school?” he asked, raising a brow.

Rohit nodded.

> “Haan. Toh tumhari zimmedaari badh gayi.”

Ahaan gave a small sigh but didn’t argue. He looked at Samaira and said, not unkindly—

> “Wahan ke kids… they can be a little much. Tum ready ho?”

Samaira fidgeted.

> “Main… koshish karungi, sir.”

Ahaan nodded. “Bas kisi ki baaton mein mat aana. And don’t trust people easily, samjhi?”

Samaira blinked — surprised at the concern hidden in his low tone.

---

Later that Night – In the Bedroom

Ritika sat at the edge of the bed, watching Rohit pace.

> “I still think it’s too much pressure for her…”

Rohit stopped. “Pressure har jagah hoga, Rits. At least yahaan Ahaan hai. She won’t be alone.”

> “Alone toh abhi bhi hai…” Ritika whispered. “…sir keh kar bulati hai.”

Rohit softened.

> “Let her take her time. Papa kehna ek raat ka decision nahi hota.”

He exhaled deeply.

> “Woh keh chuki hai… ek baar. Bas uske dil mein bharosa phir se ban raha hai.”

Ritika leaned her head on his shoulder.

> “Tu wapas se overprotective ho raha hai…”

> “Aur nahi toh kya? Uske liye main pura world ke samne lad chuka hoon, Rits. Ek school kya cheez hai?”

They both smiled — tired, emotional… but full of hope.

---

Author’s POV

Upstairs, in her own room, Samaira stared at the school uniform folded neatly on her bed.

> White and grey checkered skirt. A tie she didn’t know how to knot. A blazer that felt too big on her shoulders.

But the part that scared her the most?

> The badge. Dhirubhai Ambani International School.

The world where everyone already had friends, confidence, and pasts.

And she… was just trying to remember how to breathe.

She closed her eyes, whispering softly to herself:

> “You’re strong, Samaira.You have a papa now. A mumma.Ahaan sir might hate you sometimes…But maybe, just maybe, someone will smile your way tomorrow.”

---

Author’s Note:

She’s entering his world — where lights are bright and judgments sharper.But Samaira? She’s holding on.To her strength.To her papa’s hug.And to the hope that maybe, someday… someone will call her “the heart” of the school too.

Author’s POV

The house was calm that evening. No loud voices, no cricket commentary in the background, no buzzing phones.

Just quietness.

Ritika had gone to the doctor for her mild burn. Rohit was stuck in meetings.

Ahaan was lounging on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his iPad while Samaira tiptoed around the kitchen, trying to make herself a simple cup of warm milk.

He glanced up once — just to check — and noticed her struggling with the stove knob.

> “Arey chhod, main kar deta hoon,” he said, standing up.

She blinked at him, surprised by the offer. He walked over, twisted the knob smoothly, and handed her the glass after warming the milk.

She hesitated before taking it.

> “Thank you... Ahaan... bhaiya.”

Silence.

The word had slipped out. Soft. Almost like a breath.

Samaira realized a beat too late, eyes going wide.

Ahaan froze mid-turn. His brows rose.

> “Kya kaha tumne?” he asked, not with anger... but surprise.

Samaira clutched the glass tighter.

> “I-I’m sorry… woh... galti se...”

Ahaan didn’t say anything for a second. He just looked at her — this tiny 13-year-old with scared eyes, who once refused to call him anything other than "sir".

And now she had called him “bhaiya.”

He looked away for a moment, then smirked — a tiny, real one.

> “Galti thi? Ya sach?”

Samaira stared down at her milk.

> “Pata nahi... bas dil se nikal gaya.”

For once, Ahaan didn’t tease. He just nodded slowly.

> “Theek hai… par ek condition hai,” he said.

She looked up, confused.

> “Milk ke saath chocolate bhi banani padegi mujhe. Real ‘bhaiya’ ka yeh farz hota hai,” he added, his voice lighter now.

Samaira finally smiled — small, hesitant, but it reached her eyes.

> “Toh aap mujhe chocolate banana sikhayenge, bhaiya?”

Ahaan sighed dramatically.

> “Kya musibat le li maine…”But there was a grin tugging at his lips.

---

Author’s POV

Some bonds aren’t born. They’re built — brick by brick.

And sometimes, all it takes is one accidental word…

...to make two broken hearts stitch something whole.