Wounded Heart ✔

📖Chapter 2: The Call Home

@ Kolkata

@ Amna Mansion

Amna Mansion had always been more than a home. Perched on its private hilltop, it loomed above Kolkata like a silent guardian. Its ivory façade caught the first blush of dawn. The manicured lawns stretched endlessly. Fountains danced to a rhythm known only to old money and ambition. Within its gates, stories had been written in marble and gold: triumph, tragedy, alliances forged over decades, secrets buried even deeper than the roots of the ancient banyan at the heart of the gardens.

On this particular morning, though, a new story pressed to be told. The air shimmered with a nervous electricity. It carried the crisp scent of polished wood, fresh roses, and something intangible. Expectation, perhaps. Or was it the faint trace of fear? Staff members moved with rehearsed precision. Their whispers slipped through corridors gilded with memories. Cameramen adjusted their lenses, trying to capture not just images but the mythos that lived within these walls.

For the first time in a generation, the Khurana and Kapoor families—names commanding respect and speculation—were to face public scrutiny. The outside world waited, breathless, for the curtain to rise. In the mansion's grandest room, gold-and-cream drapes filtered sunlight onto velvet sofas, where both dynasties sat poised for revelation. Their faces showed practised calm, but their eyes flickered with unease. Today, the gates would open, and the legends would become flesh. Whatever was revealed, nothing would be the same.

Priyal, a young reporter from CVT Channel, stepped forward with her mic. Though her professionalism held steady, her eyes betrayed awe. She cleared her throat and began.

"Good morning, Mr Khurana and Mr Kapoor. I'm Priyal, representing CVT Channel, and it is truly an honour to be here today."

Arnav Raj Khurana, the elder and commanding head of the Khurana family, returned her greeting with calm authority.
"Good morning, Ms Priyal. It is indeed a fine morning to meet you."

Priyal smiled, glancing at her notes, though her excitement was palpable. "The pleasure is ours, sir. The people of Kolkata have long admired both the Khurana and Kapoor families for their grandeur, charity, and unrivalled business empires. But what has always remained a mystery are your children—the heirs of your legacy. Until now, they have been faces unseen, names unspoken. Today, our viewers are honoured to finally be introduced to the next generation."

Arnav's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained sharp. "We are private people, Ms Priyal. For years, we chose to shield our children—not from love, but from the chaos of the outside world."

Aakash Kapoor, seated with quiet dignity, said, "With the threats that accompany power, it was safer to let them have a peaceful childhood away from media glare and the venom of rivals. They deserved normalcy, even if we could not afford it for ourselves." This silenced the murmurs in the room, leaving only admiration in its wake.

"Understandable, sir," Priyal said respectfully, before leaning forward. "Then, if we may—could you introduce your families to our viewers and us?"

Arnav nodded, his tone carrying both pride and gravity as he gestured toward his loved ones. "Well, as you know, I am Arnav Raj Khurana. Beside me is my wife, my partner, my strength—Khushi Khurana. Beside her, my mother, Pooja Khurana, and beside her, my father, Raj Khurana. Next is my younger brother, Yashwanth Raj Khurana, and his wife, my sister-in-law, Aarti Yashwanth Khurana."is gaze shifted, "stand the heirs of our family. In the black tuxedo is my elder son, Abhishek Arnav Khurana, the future torchbearer of our empire. Beside him is Laksh Yashwanth Khurana, my brother's son, proud and promising. And between them," his voice softened slightly, "is my daughter—Aashi Khurana, though today she is also known as Aashi Kapoor. This, Ms Priyal, is my family."