ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

22.**Chapter Twenty-Two**

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass as Rohan stepped onto the lawn. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, exhaling deeply. For the first time in days, he had woken up feeling rested. The comfort of his own room, his own bed, had done wonders to ease the tension that had coiled in his body like a serpent.

The rhythmic barking of Zoro and Tara had roused him from sleep, and without much thought, he had wandered outside in nothing but his sweatpants. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting golden hues over the estate, painting the sky in delicate shades of pink and orange. There was a brief moment of peace as he stood there, his bare feet pressing into the cool dewdrop-covered grass, letting the morning stillness seep into his bones.

Then, with a small smirk, he crouched down, calling his dogs over. Zoro, the black German Shepherd, leaped forward eagerly, his tail wagging, while Tara, the white Swiss Shepherd, followed with playful energy. Rohan ran his hand through their thick fur before playfully wrestling with them, laughing when they lunged at him, paws pressing into his chest.

But then—he felt it.

A presence.

His movements slowed as he turned his head slightly, his eyes landing on the figure standing on the balcony overlooking the garden.

Sartaj Lashari.

His grandfather stood there, his posture rigid, his sharp eyes assessing. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face, but Rohan knew that look all too well. It was a silent judgment, a quiet condemnation wrapped in the armor of stoicism.

Disappointment. Again.

Even from a distance, he could feel the cold disapproval emanating from the older man's stance. Rohan held his grandfather's gaze for a moment longer, his body still, waiting—but Sartaj simply turned away.

Not a word. Not a nod. Just a slow, deliberate turn before he disappeared back inside.

Rohan let out a bitter breath, his fingers tightening around Tara's fur. Of course.

The moment was ruined.

He let go of the dogs, standing up, suddenly feeling the morning chill against his bare torso as his mood soured. Without another glance at the balcony, he walked back inside, his bare feet making soft thuds against the marble flooring as he entered the grand hall.

And there, standing tall in the center of the room, was his grandfather.

Sartaj Lashari's sharp gaze swept over him, assessing, disapproving. The older man didn't need to raise his voice to command attention—the sheer authority in his presence was enough.

"There are house helps in this house," Sartaj said, his voice low and steady, the reprimand laced with quiet steel. "Does it suit you to go around half-naked?"

Rohan froze for a split second, his body going rigid at the words. He could feel the sharpness in his grandfather's gaze, as if he were looking at something beneath him, something unworthy.

There it was again. That quiet condemnation, the subtle way in which his grandfather always found something to disapprove of, something to remind Rohan that he didn't fit the mold of what a Lashari should be.

His jaw tensed as he met Sartaj's gaze, a flicker of defiance flashing in his eyes. He didn't say a word, but his silence carried a weight of its own—an unspoken rebellion against the man who had never seen him as enough.

Just then, movement from the side caught his attention. His father, Mir Lashari, had entered the room, already dressed for the day, his crisp white kurta ironed to perfection.