My Mr. Artist

Chapter 13

Saransh stood by the window of his office, gazing at the restless city lights below. The phone was still pressed to his ear, faint noises crackling from the other side. A small smile played on his lips—one he wasn't even aware of.

"Sir, you called?" his assistant, Neil, knocked before entering.

"Hm. Dial Arnav's number and give it to me once the call connects," Saransh instructed, moving back toward his seat. Kiyah's muffled voice murmured in his ear, too soft to catch. He wished more than anything that he could be there. That Saira was with Kiyah was something he still struggled to believe.

Why had Saira gone to the mahal? And from what Kiyah said, this wasn't even her first time visiting...

He knew he'd neglected his sister. In truth, they'd hardly spoken in the last three years. As children, their bond had been unshakable. But when Saransh left for abroad at eighteen, Saira had been only thirteen—a bright, talkative girl. After that, he was never home long enough. Then came five years of complete silence, no calls, no visits, only distance. By the time he returned, work consumed him, and the gap between them had become impossible to ignore.

He was proud of the woman she'd grown into—polished, intelligent, a company secretary by degree—but she'd grown quiet too. Reserved. A shadow of her true self. It pained him to see her that way.

The incident three years ago had fractured the family beyond repair. Everyone had retreated inward, bottling their grief and guilt. Saransh, already distant, had only drifted further. That house, once a place of laughter, had become hollow.

But the memories lingered. Childhood echoes—the quiet boy his mother had doted on, the elder brother who shielded them from their father and grandfather, the chachu and chachi who whisked them out to play, the grandmother weaving stories of gods each evening, baby cousins who cried whenever he reached for them, and the troublesome younger sister who'd chatter endlessly about anything and everything while he pretended not to listen.

A sigh slipped from him, heavy, and he pulled himself out of the past just as the sound of drunken chatter drifted through the still-open call. Their words tumbled like alien whispers.

"Sir, Arnav is on the line," Neil said once the call connected. Saransh took the phone and waved him out.

"Ansh?" Arnav sounded weary, frowning. He'd just come home, ready for dinner, when Neil had called.

"Arnav, I need you to get to this place immediately," Saransh said briskly, explaining the situation in clipped detail before sending the address.

_

Arnav had no idea how he'd ended up in this mess. He was exhausted, craving nothing but sleep till noon, and now here he was. After the call, he'd cursed Saransh under his breath the whole way.

When he arrived, he spotted them at a corner table. Saira, head knocked against the table, completely passed out. Kiyah, as he remembered from the photo Saransh once showed him, was drinking leisurely, staring out the window like she belonged to another world.

Ring... ring...

"Ansh, can't you wait a second? And why are you calling me from your assistant's phone?" Arnav snapped. This was Saransh's fourth call. He couldn't remember ever hearing him this anxious. Not since that incident. For three years, Saransh had been cold, mechanical, a man stripped of emotion.

"My call's still connected to Saira's phone, and I don't hear anything from their side. Just get there fast," Saransh half-yelled, his voice sharp with concern.

"They're fine. I see them. Relax," Arnav sighed, hanging up before Saransh could reply. He headed toward their table.

"Hey..." Saransh's yell echoed in his empty office when the line cut. He paced, phone clutched tight in both hands, lifting it back to his ear to catch any sound at all.