My Mr. Artist

Chapter 42

Kiyah's breath hitched, her pulse stumbling. 'Dadu wants to meet you'.
The words clanged in her mind like a bell that refused to stop ringing.

Her fingers twitched against Saransh's. "Right now?" she whispered, as if repeating it would soften the weight of it.

He nodded, his expression unreadable but his hand firm around hers. "Don't be scared, Kiyah. I'm with you."

She wanted to believe him, wanted to soak in the quiet strength in his voice—but her chest tightened all the same. This wasn't just anyone. This was Dadu—the pillar of the Awasthi family, the man whose shadow stretched across generations, whose word could make or break bonds.

Saransh must have sensed her fear because he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. "Breathe. He's not a monster. He just... needs to hear the truth from us. From me."

She swallowed hard, then nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

_

They walked through the grand halls of the mansion, every step pulling her deeper into the heart of a world that wasn't hers. Chandeliers gleamed overhead, the air thick with the murmur of relatives in distant rooms. But here, in this corridor, there was only silence—thick, daunting silence.

Saransh stopped outside a heavy wooden door, pausing for a moment. He squeezed her hand once more before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, filled with the faint scent of sandalwood and the soft tick of an old clock. On a high-backed chair sat Dadu, his presence commanding even in stillness. His sharp eyes flicked first to Saransh, then to Kiyah, assessing, measuring, weighing without a word.

Kiyah instinctively lowered her gaze, but Saransh's grip pulled her closer, steadying her at his side.

"Dadu," Saransh said, voice even, respectful but unwavering. "This is Kiyah Sharma, an architect, hired my our company and my girlfriend."

The old man's gaze lingered on her, a silence stretching long enough to make Kiyah's chest ache. Finally, his deep voice broke it.

"I know who she is."

Kiyah froze. Her heart lurched, but she dared to look up. His eyes—sharp, piercing—were not entirely unkind, but they carried the weight of disappointment, of traditions betrayed.

He paused, staring at the couple in front of him—a young man with a stern jaw, and a little maiden torn between nerves and bravery. Then his attention shifted to the papers on his desk. Divorce papers. The very ones his grandson had placed there when he first entered the study today, as his first greeting after the accident.

A sigh rumbled from deep within him.

"You are different, Saransh. Brave—yet foolish. I cannot understand you. Perhaps no one in this family ever will. What does she have... that Daksha does not?" His voice was low, yet it cut sharper than a whip.

Kiyah's stomach knotted, her instinct screaming to step back, to vanish. But Saransh stood unflinching.

"I don't know," he said, his tone steady, his gaze fixed. "Because my eyes never searched for another. My heart never gave me permission to compare my beloved." His voice grew firmer, resonant. "Daksha and I are over. Actually we never started and you also knew about our contract right, then why ask! That truth won't change. Kiyah is not my choice, Dadu. She is my only one."

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Dadu leaned back slowly, his gaze narrowing as it shifted between the two of them. Kiyah's breath faltered, but Saransh's thumb brushed slow, steady circles against her hand, grounding her, reminding her she wasn't alone.