The days in the Raichand mansion had settled into a new, strangely domestic rhythm. The dark, sprawling estate, once a silent monument to Aman’s isolation, was now filled with the chaotic, vibrant energy of a family.

Aarav, at three and a half years old, was a miniature tornado. He treated the endless marble corridors like his personal race track, his small footsteps echoing constantly. A man had surprised everyone, including himself, by transforming into a fiercely protective, incredibly patient father. The man who ruthlessly dismantled corporations would spend hours building block towers, only to let Aarav happily smash them down.