Bloodlines and Betrayals

The rain hadn’t stopped all night. The wind howled through the creaking windows, and the old wooden cabin felt alive — whispering warnings in the dark.

Aanya sat by the fireplace, staring into the flames, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea gone cold. Aariv stood by the window, motionless, eyes fixed on the fog beyond the glass.

Something was out there. He could feel it.

“Sab theek hai?” Aanya’s soft voice broke the silence. (“Everything okay?”)

He turned slowly, his face unreadable. “Haan,” he lied. “Bas baarish.” (“Yeah. Just the rain.”)

But the phone in his pocket still burned like a secret.

You can hide her, Aariv. But blood always finds blood.

He hadn’t told her about the message. Not yet. Because something in his gut told him that once she knew, everything would change.

By morning, the storm had passed. The hills shimmered under a thin veil of mist. Aanya decided to go into the small town nearby for some supplies. Aariv offered to go along, but she smiled.

“Main sambhal loongi. Mujhe thodi hawa chahiye,” she said. (“I’ll be fine. I just need some air.”)

He hesitated but let her go.

When she left, the silence returned — heavier this time. Aariv sat on the couch and stared at the old family photo lying on the table. He’d found it while cleaning the cabin — two little boys standing beside their mother, one smiling, one frowning.

He was the one frowning.

Rivan was the one smiling.

And between them, their mother’s hand rested protectively on Rivan’s shoulder.

Always him.

He remembered the day everything shattered.

Flashback — 15 years ago.

“Stay away from her, Aariv!” Rivan’s voice echoed through the house. The brothers stood in their father’s study, both trembling with anger.

“She’s my friend, Rivan! You don’t own people!”

Rivan’s eyes flashed. “You don’t understand love. You never did. Love is… mine.”

Then came the sound of a slap. Their father’s voice — cold, cutting —

“Enough. Aariv, you’ll go to London. You’re weak. Let your brother handle the business.”

Weak.

The word had branded him for life.

And now, years later, he’d found the one person his brother had destroyed — and somehow, he was falling for her.

Aanya walked through the quiet market streets, lost in thought. Everything about this small town felt comforting — the way people smiled, the smell of fresh bread, the laughter of kids running in the rain.

But as she passed a newsstand, a headline caught her eye.

“Mehra Industries Faces Mystery Ownership Dispute After Heiress’s Death.”

Her heart skipped. That name again — Mehra.

She reached for the paper, her hands trembling. The article mentioned a sealed inheritance, a missing will, and a man named Aryan Mehra — presumed dead in a fire seventeen years ago.

And below the headline… a blurred photo of a little girl.

Her.

The world tilted.

She grabbed the edge of the stand to steady herself, her breath shallow.

Later that evening, she returned to the cabin, drenched and shaking. Aariv immediately noticed her pale face.

“Aanya? Kya hua?” (“Aanya? What happened?”)

She handed him the newspaper. “Yeh… main hoon na?” (“This… this is me, isn’t it?”)

He froze. He didn’t know how to answer. Because the moment he saw that photo, he knew she was right.

He looked at her — at the fear in her eyes — and for the first time, she looked like a stranger.

“tumhe kab se pata tha?” she whispered. (“How long have you known?”)

“I didn’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not until now.”

“Jhoot mat bolo, Aariv.” (“Don’t lie to me, Aariv.”)

He stepped closer, desperate. “I swear, Aanya—”

“Bas!” she shouted, tears breaking through her voice. “Tum bhi sab jaante ho… jaise woh jaanta tha.” (“You knew… just like he did.”)

She turned away, but he grabbed her wrist gently, his voice cracking — “I’m not him.”

Silence fell.

Aanya looked up at him — his eyes were storm-dark, full of guilt and something dangerously close to love.

He slowly released her wrist.

Neither spoke. The distance between them now felt impossible to cross.

That night, unable to sleep, Aariv went through the old boxes his mother had left behind. Inside, buried beneath papers, he found a letter addressed to his father.

The handwriting was delicate.

The signature made his blood run cold.

“With love, Aryan Mehra.”

He read the first line —

‘If anything happens to me, protect her. She carries both our blood.’

Aariv’s hands trembled.

His heart stopped.

Aanya carries both our blood.

He stared at the letter, realization dawning —

Aanya wasn’t just the Mehra heiress.

She was connected to him.

To them.