The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, but inside the Mehta-Sinha house, there was no peace. Phones buzzed nonstop, cameras flashed through windows, and social media was ablaze with news nobody had prepared for.
Riya sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands resting lightly on the swell of her belly. Four babies. The news should have been private, a secret to cherish between her and Ayaan. Yet now, it was public — splattered across every news feed, every gossip channel, every cricket fan’s timeline.
Her eyes drifted toward the living room chaos. Ishaan, her nephew, was busy assembling a Lego tower with a fierce concentration that only a four-year-old could muster. Meanwhile, Arisha was draped in a tutu that had somehow acquired a suspicious smear of peanut butter and was busy “decorating” the walls with crayons.
Isha’s voice cut through the noise as she ushered the twins toward the kitchen. “Arisha, please no more peanut butter murals! Ishaan, don’t put that dinosaur in the toilet again!”
“Art is subjective,” Vikram joked from the doorway, smirking as he tried to retrieve the soggy dinosaur from the bathroom.
Riya forced a laugh, but her mind was elsewhere — on the viral storm that had just broken. She remembered the moment the intern had taken that reckless photo in the hospital corridor, unaware of the chaos it would unleash.
Her phone vibrated violently, and she glanced down to see countless messages flooding in. Cricket fans expressing shock and excitement, reporters demanding interviews, and friends sending a mix of congratulations and concerned warnings.
Ayaan joined her on the sofa, gently taking her hand. “They found out early,” he said softly. “Maybe too early.”
Riya sighed. “Too early is right. I wasn’t ready for the world to know. I wanted to tell the cricket board first… but now, there’s no turning back.”
Her voice cracked, and Ayaan squeezed her hand tighter. “You’re not alone in this. We’re in it together.”
Before Riya could reply, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen. Both turned just in time to see Arisha waving a crayon triumphantly, her tutu smeared in a new shade of purple, while Ishaan looked sheepish, clutching a half-eaten cookie.
Isha groaned, wiping her hands on her saree. “I swear, these kids are the true definition of ‘living chaos.’”
Aarav stepped in, holding the twins carefully. “I’m starting to think Ishaan is secretly a tiny tornado.”
Neha laughed as she took Arisha from Aarav’s arms. “And Arisha is his accomplice.”
The family shared a brief smile, a bubble of calm amid the storm outside.
Later that afternoon, Isha took charge, gathering everyone in the living room for an emergency meeting.
“We need to control the narrative,” she announced firmly. “No unauthorized interviews. No speculation. We tell the story our way.”
Riya looked around at the faces she loved — her husband, her uncle, her best friends — and felt the familiar warmth of their support.
“Isha’s right,” Aarav said. “We’re in this as a family. And that’s how we’ll get through.”
That evening, as the sun dipped low, Riya sat quietly with Ayaan, the house finally settling after a day of whirlwind activity.
Four little heartbeats. Four new lives. Four stories yet to be written.
And together, they would face whatever came next.
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