ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

25.** Chapter Twenty-Five**

The corridors of the Lashari mansion were dim and silent as Rohan made his way from his room down to the dining hall. His footsteps were slow, heavy—as if each step was weighed down by the conversation he'd just had with his father. His mind was a restless storm, but he tried to school his features into something calm, detached. In this house, as long as his grandfather was here weakness was blood in the water.

When he entered the grand dining room, the air was thick—almost suffocating. The chandelier above bathed the long mahogany table in a soft, golden light, but even that warmth couldn't melt the icy tension that settled over the room.

There, at the head of the table, sat Sartaj Lashari—Dada Jaan himself. His grandfather's mere presence seemed to command the room: his broad shoulders stiff, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Despite his advanced age, Sartaj Lashari retained an aura of ruthless authority. His hawk-like gaze lifted immediately to Rohan as he entered.

At his right was Mir Lashari, nursing a glass of water, his face composed into that familiar political mask of grim patience. Beside him sat Zahra, Rohan's mother, her delicate features tight with quiet concern, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Rohan swallowed hard and forced himself to walk forward. The clinking of cutlery against fine china was the only sound as the servants moved silently, setting bowls of steaming food in front of them.

"Come, Rohan," Sartaj's voice cut through the silence, deep and commanding. "Sit."

Rohan obeyed, taking the seat opposite his grandfather, feeling the full weight of three generations of Lashari expectations pressing down on him.

The meal began in an unbearable, loaded silence. Only the faint clatter of forks against plates punctuated the thick air. Rohan barely touched his food, staring at it as if it might attack him. His thoughts kept spiraling—about Meher, about the marriage, about the accident, about everything that had brought them to this moment.

"So," Sartaj Lashari finally spoke, cutting through the quiet like a blade. His sharp gaze pinned Rohan in place. "You've been busy."

The sentence, seemingly casual, was a dagger cloaked in silk.

Mir Lashari shifted slightly in his seat but said nothing. Zahra's hand twitched toward her water glass, her lips tightening.

Rohan set his fork down slowly, carefully, and met his grandfather's stare. "I've been handling some matters," he said, his voice even, giving away nothing.

Sartaj leaned back slightly, his chair creaking, a slight smirk curving his mouth. "Handling, hmm? Funny. From what I've heard, your version of 'handling' leaves a trail wider than the Indus River."

A beat of silence.

"Business is secure," Rohan said, jaw tightening. "Everything's under control."

"For now," Sartaj said, voice low and full of warning. "But you and I both know, boy, that nothing stays buried forever."

Rohan clenched his fists under the table. He hated how Sartaj saw right through him—how he always had. This was the man who had built an empire from nothing, fought battles with his bare hands, and turned enemies into ashes. In Sartaj's eyes, Rohan was still unproven. Reckless. Weak.

Mir Lashari cleared his throat, trying to cut through the crackling tension. "Let's finish dinner in peace," he said, voice deceptively light but his eyes flashing a silent warning toward both his father and his son.

Sartaj chuckled darkly, turning his attention back to his food.

The rest of the meal was a grim exercise in endurance. Rohan barely ate, pushing food around on his plate while his mind raced. He caught glimpses of Zahra looking at him with worried, motherly glances, but he couldn't meet her eyes. Not tonight.