ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

18.** CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Rohan stood in his father's grand studio, a room that mirrored the power and influence of the Lashari name. The dark mahogany furniture exuded elegance, the walls lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books, trophies, and framed photographs of Mir Lashari with prominent figures. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn slightly, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to stream in, casting long shadows across the room.

Mir Lashari sat behind his massive desk, his demeanor one of satisfaction. His sharp, calculating eyes scanned a document in front of him before glancing up at his son.

"Well done, Rohan," he said, his voice steady and laced with approval. "You've managed to clean up a mess that could have caused irreparable damage to our name." He set the glass down and leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward the papers before him. "The complaint withdrawn, the resolution papers signed—finally, this chapter is closed."

Rohan, standing by the tall windows, his hands in his pockets, remained silent. He stared out at the sprawling estate, the manicured gardens below a stark contrast to the turmoil he felt inside. The praise from his father, something he had sought all his life, now felt hollow.

Mir Lashari continued, unaware of his son's inner conflict. "You see, Rohan, this is why I trust you. You understand the stakes. You understand what it means to protect our legacy. These people—" he waved his hand dismissively, "—they can scream and shout, but in the end, they always come to their senses. Money and influence solve everything. And you've proven you can wield both effectively."

Rohan turned slightly, his emerald eyes meeting his father's gaze. "It wasn't easy," he said, his voice measured. "The family didn't want to sign at first. They were desperate, clinging to their principles."

Mir Lashari smirked. "Principles," he scoffed. "A luxury they can't afford. What good are principles when you can't feed your family? They realized that, eventually. And you made sure they did."

Rohan's jaw tightened. He remembered Meher's face, her eyes filled with defiance and pain. Her words echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. "You think this is fixing things? You've destroyed my family's peace."

"Yes," Rohan said, his voice low, almost detached. "They realized."

Mir Lashari studied his son for a moment, his expression softening into one of pride. "You've grown into a man I can rely on, Rohan. When I see you handling these matters, I know the future of our name is secure. That girl, her family—they're insignificant. What matters is that you've ensured they won't be a problem anymore."

Rohan felt a flicker of irritation but suppressed it. "They won't be," he said flatly, turning back to the window.

His father rose from his chair, walking over to stand beside him. Placing a hand on Rohan's shoulder, he said, "Good. This is how we maintain power, son. By making sure every loose thread is tied, every potential threat neutralized. You've done well."

Rohan nodded, his expression unreadable. Mir Lashari mistook his silence for agreement and continued, his tone lighter now. "You know, we should celebrate this victory. The fundraiser is coming up, and it'll be the perfect opportunity. I'll make sure everyone knows the role you played in keeping things in order."

"Do whatever you think is best, Daddy," Rohan replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Mir Lashari chuckled, patting his shoulder. "That's my boy. Always thinking ahead." He stepped back, picking up his glass again. "Go, take some time for yourself. You've earned it."

Rohan left the studio, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor. His father's words repeated in his mind, but they did little to ease the knot in his chest. The weight of his actions bore down on him, and no amount of praise or promises of power could erase the image of Meher's tear-streaked face or the haunting sound of her voice.