INNOCENT BILLIONAIRE

Whispers of Truth

The ancestral mansion stood as a monument to timeless grandeur, its stately corridors bathed in a hushed glow that seemed to breathe with the weight of history. Marble floors, polished to a mirror-like sheen, stretched beneath ornate ceilings, their intricate plasterwork casting delicate shadows that danced with every flicker of the crystal chandeliers above. The hallways, lined with sepia-toned family portraits in gilded frames, whispered of legacies and secrets, each mahogany door—painted a deep, regal hue—a portal to stories etched into the very walls. The air carried a faint blend of aged wood and wax polish, a scent that clung to the mansion like a memory, heavy with the promise of truths yet to be unveiled.

Haider moved through the corridor with purpose, his tall, defined frame cutting a striking silhouette in a navy-blue kurta that shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s glow. The kurta’s gentle luster was offset by crisp white churidar trousers, their clean lines accentuating his athletic build, while neatly rolled cuffs hinted at a restlessness that simmered beneath his polished exterior. Tufts of dark hair tumbled handsomely over his brow, framing sharp, expressive eyes clouded with worry. Tonight, tension clung to him like a second skin, weighing heavier than the perfectly ironed fabric that draped his shoulders. His polished black juttis whispered against the marble as he paused at the door to his sister’s room, the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine garlands drifting from within, the air taut with an unspoken anticipation that bound the siblings in a delicate web of secrets.

He rapped lightly on the door, the sound a soft echo in the vast hallway. Moments later, Anaya appeared, her slender frame framed in the doorway, her face etched with a fatigue that seemed to sap the light from her once-vibrant features. Stray strands of her glossy auburn hair clung to her temples, damp with the weight of sleepless nights spent searching for Shreya. Her soft green salwar kameez, its pale fabric adorned with delicate silver embroidery, sagged slightly, as if mirroring her exhaustion, blending into the dull evening light that filtered through the room’s tall windows. Her hazel eyes, shadowed with worry, met Haider’s, and she mustered a weak smile, gesturing for him to enter. The room was a haven of quiet elegance—velvet maroon bedcovers bunched beneath her, a rosewood dressing table adorned with jasmine garlands, and a crystal vase catching the last rays of twilight, scattering prisms across the pastel walls.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Haider said, his voice steady but brimming with a desperate expectancy that seemed to ripple through the room as he stepped inside, his kurta catching the soft glow of a brass lamp.

Anaya settled onto the edge of her bed, the maroon velvet crinkling under her weight.

“What’s on your mind, brother?” she asked, her tone gentle but tinged with the weariness of endless questions, her fingers absently toying with the embroidered ends of her dupatta.

Haider hesitated, the weight of their shared history pressing against his chest like a stone. How could he broach the subject of Shikha, the woman whose absence had carved a chasm between them? The silent war between Anaya and Shikha was no secret, but its origins remained a shadowed mystery, elusive as the fading light outside. He took a breath, his eyes searching hers for a crack in her guarded facade.

“I need to know about Shikha,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“What did you tell her two years ago?”

Anaya’s brows knit in confusion, her hazel eyes narrowing as she leaned forward.

“What did you just say, Haider? I couldn’t catch a single word—slow down!” Her voice, though soft, carried a faint edge of exasperation, her fingers tightening around the dupatta.

He exhaled sharply, steadying himself against the tide of frustration.

“I’m asking about two years ago,” he said, his tone measured but laced with urgency.

“What did you say to Shikha right before everything fell apart?”

Anaya’s eyes widened, a fleeting shadow of something haunted passing over her face, as if a ghost had slipped through the room. She reached for a half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, her hands trembling faintly, the liquid catching the lamplight in a shimmering dance. Dark strands of hair clung to her temple, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead as she darted glances toward the window, the ceiling—anywhere but Haider’s piercing gaze.

“What exactly are you digging for?” she asked, her voice quivering like a plucked string, her fingers tightening around the glass.

Haider’s tone hardened, his patience fraying like the edges of his rolled cuffs.

“What did you tell her when I left? Did you even pass on my message?” His words were a challenge, each syllable heavy with the weight of two years of unanswered questions.

Anaya sipped the water, her gaze fixed on the glass as if it held the answers he sought.

“I told her what you asked me to,” she said, her voice cloaked in a feigned calm that rang hollow in the fading light.

The words landed like a stone in still water, ripples of doubt spreading through Haider’s chest.

“Oh, really?” he said, his voice sharp with bitterness, reverberating against the pastel walls.

“Then why didn’t she ever call me back? Why did she vanish from my life like I was nothing?”

Tears slipped down Anaya’s cheeks, streaking through the faint powder dusted delicately on her face, her shoulders trembling as she hugged herself.

“I don’t know, Haider,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of her own turmoil.

“I don’t know why she didn’t call you.”

Guilt clenched Haider’s heart, but before he could soften, a storm swept into the room.

“Haider!” The word cracked like a whip, slicing through the fragile air.

Arman, their father, stood at the threshold, his tall, imposing figure filling the doorway. His sharply tailored charcoal-grey suit gleamed under the chandelier’s light, its crisp lines accentuating his commanding presence. His silver hair was brushed meticulously back, but his strong, angular face was marred by an icy scowl, his dark eyes glinting with barely contained fury.

“How dare you make your sister cry?” he thundered, his voice chilling the room like a winter wind.

“She says she’s innocent, and you’re shouting at her over that foolish girl who left you without a word?”

“But Dad—” Haider began, bracing himself against the onslaught, his navy kurta shifting as he squared his shoulders.

“Go to your room,” Arman cut him off, his tone brooking no argument.

“Stop chasing after her. Have you even bothered looking for Shreya, or are you too caught up in your own pathetic drama?” His words were a blade, slicing through Haider’s defenses.

“Do your work before I lose my patience.”

Haider clenched his fists, the urge to retort burning in his throat, but he swallowed it, casting a final glance at Anaya. She sat curled on the bed, her green salwar kameez pooling around her, tears glistening like dewdrops on her cheeks. He slipped past his father’s steely glare, retreating down the dim corridor, the marble floors echoing his heavy steps like a requiem for his resolve.

He entered his own room, a sanctuary of deep blues and burnished woods that felt both comforting and confining. The king-sized bed, draped in cool navy linens, beckoned as he flopped onto his stomach, pressing his face into the linen pillow, its crisp scent a fleeting balm. The room was a study in understated elegance—polished rosewood furniture, a sleek brass lamp casting a soft glow, and tall windows framing the twilight gardens outside, where jasmine vines swayed in the evening breeze. But the tranquility was shattered by Arman’s voice, bellowing from the other end of the hall, its wrath vibrating through the thin walls.

“Garima!” Arman’s voice roared, now directed at Haider’s mother.

“Tell your son to stop playing Romeo and focus on his responsibilities, or you know what I’m capable of!”

Garima appeared moments later, her slender, regal figure gliding into Haider’s room like a floral breeze after a storm. Her cream silk saree, embroidered with pale gold threads, shimmered softly, its elegance a quiet contrast to the tension that lingered in the air. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and the faint scent of lavender and sandalwood followed her, a soothing presence that seemed to calm the room itself. She sat beside Haider on the bed, her touch gentle as she stroked his dark hair, her nimble fingers a balm to his battered spirit.

“Why, Mom?” Haider murmured, turning to rest his head in her lap, his eyes brimming with vulnerability as he clutched at the comfort she offered.

“Why does Dad treat us like this?”

Garima’s expression softened, her eyes clouded with a sorrow she kept hidden.

“It’s just his way, beta,” she said, her voice a gentle lullaby.

“You know your father.”

“But Mom—” His voice thickened, trapped by years of unspoken longing, the words caught in his throat like thorns.

“Shhh,” she hushed, threading her fingers through his hair, her touch drawing him toward sleep.

“Rest now, Haider.” Her gentle lull coaxed his troubled mind into a fragile peace, the world fading into the soft rhythm of his own heartbeat.

In the dim corridor beyond, Garima paused, her elegant figure framed against the flickering chandelier light. Sorrow clouded her refined features, her thoughts swirling with secrets the mansion seemed to guard. Why did Arman always take Anaya’s side? How could she reveal to Haider the truth—that he and Anaya were not truly siblings? The cruelty of fate, and the weight of silence, tightened around her heart like a vise. Yet, within the soft-lit rooms and tension-thick air, a stubborn hope endured, love lingering just beneath the surface, waiting to crack open the truths this family had buried for so long.