Kanishk

It was about time some chaos unleashed in this house, and that time had come today.

Not because someone had accidentally ripped one of Kyra's books, or because someone stole Kaynaaz's straightener again. Nor was it because of that white cat's constant jumping and pouncing.

It wasn't the kind of chaos which ended with everyone on the floor holding their stomachs as they laughed their asses off. It wasn't the kind that made a family get closer together. It was the type of chaos that brought out all the demons in one's soul. The type which dimmed smiles that hung on everyone's faces for weeks—the kind which spilt not only tears, but blood.

And that chaos, in our family, only had one name.

Aryan Rajvanshi.

Our father's personality over the years has changed from a bright, sweet, and caring one, to something which only the most fucked up person could explain. Growing up, had someone asked me who I wanted to be, my answer was always, "Oh, I want to be like my dad, he's so cool"

Only if someone had told that kid what his father would turn out to be like, he would've abandoned all expectations he'd held for his father.

At first, right after our grandfather's death, my siblings and I had decided to give Dad the space he needed. I'd asked Kay and Kyra to put themselves in Dad's shoes and understand. But those poor girls weren't more than 5 and 3 years old themselves, how much could they understand?

The first bit of rage I'd felt as a kid was when Kyra turned 6.

Dad, who'd been at the birthday parties ever since she was born, hadn't shown up. He didn't care when Kyra called him more times than I could've counted, he didn't care when Mother yelled at him over the phone for being a bad father. He'd only shown up, two days later, with a small teddy bear as a half-felt apology to her.

And what stings the most is knowing that it's the one she sleeps with every night. Even now.

Unfair had cracked something between my sibling and me.. Kyra never again felt like she belonged at well as me and Kay, and yet to this day, she's the first to realise if anything is wrong with either one of us. She never hated us for the way Dad made her feel neglected, and the worst thing, she never hated him for it. Even after all the tears he'd made her cry, after all the fights she'd fought alone, she never stopped seeking his approval.

I stare coldly at my father, my back rigid against the leather-cushioned chair in his office. He exhales a troubled sigh, then meets my gaze. His expression is a storm of anger, disappointment, and frustration—brows furrowed, lips curled into a frown, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

He was mad. But that anger wasn't only directed at me.

"Kanishk, do you realise what this loss has done to us? Do you really think you can pull something off, something bigger to fix this?" He questions, anger lacing his words.

"Calm down, Dad. We can figure something out; it was just a minor breach, and I have it secured. And as for the project we lost, I can come up with better ones," I exhale calmly, "It's not only your company, it's mine too."

"Like hell it is!" he shouts, jumping up from his chair and slamming his hands against the glass desk in front of him. "If it meant something to you, this breach wouldn't have happened in the first place. You're so absorbed in your useless sister's dramas and at your wife's beck and call whenever she snaps her fingers, you've completely lost sight of who you're supposed to be."

He shakes his head, disappointment heavy in his eyes as his hand rubs absently over his chest. "What is wrong with my children? Is Kaynaaz the only one with any sense left in her?"

I stare at him in disbelief, my hands tightening around the arms of the chair. My gaze locks onto his nose, and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to break it with a single punch.

"Are you serious, Dad?" I question, my voice far calmer than the emotions storming inside me, "Do you find pleasure in comparing your children with each other?" I scoff, and his gaze turns to me again.

"I find no pleasure in hurting my kids. Keep a check on your mouth, Kanishk." He spits out, his shoulders practically shaking from the unreasonable rage he's holding on to.

I rise from my chair without a word, smoothing down the fabric of my pants before meeting his gaze, sharp and unflinching. "And what will it take for you to keep my wife's name out of your mouth?" I arch a brow, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt with deliberate calm.

He lets out a low laugh. "Your wife? The one I handpicked for you, only for her to turn out to be useless and incompetent? Ipshita is nothing but a liability, to me and this company." He leans back slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And who's to say the breach wasn't someone closer than you think? Maybe it was your sly little—"

Before he can finish, I lunge forward and grab him by the collar. The smirk stays, but there's a flicker of surprise in his eyes. My jaw locks as I grit my teeth, rage burning through me. My hands tremble against the fabric of his shirt, holding back the violent urge to shatter my father's jaw.

"Say one more fucking thing about my wife from that crude mouth of yours, Dad, and I swear I won't remember that you brought me into this world." I sneer, before releasing him and jerking away.

"I'm disgusted to call you my father. The only reason I still care is because my mother does, because she still loves an asshole like you."

He exhales sharply, and for a moment, I see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes. Then he steps forward and grips my arm, not with force, but with something dangerously close to desperation.

"No, Kanishk, listen, okay? Those words... they came out of anger. You wouldn't leave me. You're my son. I know you," he says, voice uneven, almost pleading.

And I nearly laugh at the sudden shift in his tone, at the crack in his carefully built façade. I shove his hands off me and turn away, walking toward the door without another word. Let him rot in his loss and beg God for forgiveness. I owe him nothing.

But before I can leave, his voice breaks through the silence.

"Kanishk, wait—please."

I hear the scuffle of his shoes against the floor, then feel his hand grip my shoulder, not forceful, but firm. "Don't walk away from me. Not like this. I... I didn't mean it, not truly. You know how I get when I'm angry," He pleads, "We have to figure out what to do with the breach."

I don't turn around. My shoulder stiffens beneath his grip, but I don't pull away this time. For a moment, there's only silence, his heavy breath behind me, my thoughts warring in the quiet. Part of me wants to walk out and never look back. But another part—the part that's still a son, still tethered by blood and memory—hesitates.

I slowly exhale, jaw clenched. I hear him shift behind me, the tension between us now coiled into something sharper.

"I'm going to handle it," I continue, turning slightly to glance at him from over my shoulder. "But if you ever drag Ipshita into this again, I won't hesitate to break your face next time."

He releases my shoulder before clearing his throat and letting out a stiff hum, "You won't have to handle it, so don't worry about it," he says calmly, "I've got a way to make the company stronger now, and the project won't be necessary."

My eyebrows furrow, and I slowly turn to face him, "I don't understand, what are you talking about? Dad, the company doesn't need to be stronger—"

"Yes, it does, that's how business works, you don't stop until you die."

I let out a scoff before rolling my eyes, "And what possibly is going to make it any stronger than it already is? Even with a new project, it'll only add to what we have."

He shakes his head before his demeanour changes again. The soft pleading face gone, replaced with the same crude one I've always seen these days, "Your sister is going to help us."

"What does Kay have to do with any of this?" I question, my head tilting to the side.

He clicks his tongue before letting out a low laugh, "Not Kaynaaz, why would I drag her into all of this when she's already busy?" He questions obviously, "Go get Kyra, she's probably in her room scribbling in that diary of hers like always." He sighs.

I narrow my eyes at him, ready to ask him another question, but he waves his hand as if dismissing me and turns around, "Hurry up, I have to go out for dinner after this."

He sinks back into his chair, the leather groaning beneath his weight as he leans into it for comfort. His head drops against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and he places a hand over his chest, rubbing the spot gently, almost absently, as if trying to soothe something.

I let out a breath before stepping out of his office, feeling the suffocation lift off my heart like magic. I walk down the hall, peaking downstairs for a moment to look for my wife. My heart soars when I see her quietly laughing with Mom on the sofa, both of them whispering among themselves. I smile softly and approach Kyra's door.

A soft knock and I hear a gentle voice, "Come in"

I turn the knob of her door and step in quietly. Kyra's lying back in bed, and for once, there isn't a book in her hands. Her fingers move quickly over her phone, a soft smile playing on her lips. She pauses, sensing my presence, and when her eyes find mine, that smile stretches wider, lighting up her whole face.

"Bhaiya, aap office nhi gye?" she questioned, keeping her phone away.

(You didn't go to work?)

I walk closer to her bed, smiling at her as she sits straight up in her bed.

"Kuch kaam tha, kisse baat kar rahi thi?" I raise an eyebrow at her.

(I had some other work. Who were you talking to?)

She looks at her phone for a moment before shaking her head, "Koi nhi, aapko kuch kaam tha?"

(No one, did you need something?)

I stare at her for a moment, noticing the sudden flush on her face.

huh. weird.

"Dad's back", I inform her, waiting for something, fear or sadness, to flash across her expression, but she just stares at me blankly.

"I know," she shrugs, "Mom ne bataya."

(Mom told me)

"And you don't feel anything about it?" I ask, wording my sentence carefully.

She lets out a soft sigh before shaking her head, her shoulders slump, and she stares at me softly, "I'm fine, He's here, he's safe, that's all that matters."

Why does this girl never stay angry at him? He slapped her not even a month ago, and she's pretending as if it never happened.

"Kuch kaam tha, Bhaiya?" she repeats her question, making me nod.

I hesitate for a moment before pointing to the door, "Dad's calling you."

"Oh," she says softly, the word barely above a whisper. She nods once, then reaches for her phone, fingers curling around it with practised ease.

For a second, she just sits there, staring at the screen, but her eyes flick back up to me, searching my face for something unspoken. Not blame. Not fear. Just... understanding.

She slides off the bed without a word, phone still in hand, and walks toward me. Her steps are quiet, almost hesitant, but there's no fear in them, just a tired sort of acceptance as if she's ready to hear whatever he has to say.

I step aside to let her pass, and she offers me a faint smile as she does. Then, without another glance, she walks ahead, her figure small and steady as she makes her way down the hallway toward our father's office.

I follow behind, the silence between us speaking louder than anything either of us could say.

As she stands in front of the door, I softly grab her arm, holding her outside for a moment, "I'll be right here, you don't have to suffer alone in there with him, okay?"

She nods in response before turning the knob and stepping inside.

"Ah," my father exclaims, "And the princess decides to finally step out of the castle." He sighs dramatically as he eyes my sister, annoyance coating his face.

"Hey Dad, how was your trip?" She gives him one of those dimpled smiles, her hands folded in front of her chest as a shield.

My hands fists as I see him roll his eyes and let out an unbelievable scoff.

"How about we skip your stupid formalities and get to the point, Kyra? Tum mera phone kyu nhi utha rahi thi? Kitne missed calls aaye the? Did you think I'd let it pass?" His chair makes an uncomfortable sound as he slips out of it before standing straight. "Did you have fun pretending your father didn't exist?"

(Why weren't you picking up my calls? How many missed calls did you get from me?)

Kyra's smile vanishes in an instantand she stands still, staring at him with quiet intensity. Her shoulders tremble—just slightly—but enough for something in me to twist painfully.

I take a step forward, instinctively wanting to shield her, to defend her. But she beats me to it. Her voice, though soft, cuts through the room with surprising steadiness.

"You've got to be like my father for that to happen, Dad, but good for you, you don't act like one at all." She lets out a soft scoff, and I stand frozen in my place, stunned by her reply.

Dad steps forward, closing the distance between them, but Kyra instinctively backs away, her arms still held protectively in front of her.

The anger on his face unsettles even me, sharp and merciless. I can see it building, the cruel edge of his temper ready to lash out. His lips curl with disdain, and his eyes blaze with something colder than rage. He's going to hurt her, not with fists, but with words that cut deeper.

"So you've grown wings now to huh?" He says angrily.

My sister stared at him emotionless, like his words were simply bouncing off the shield she held in front of her.

"What do you want, Dad? Other than to torture me for the mistakes I didn't make?" she speaks to him calmly.

What the hell happened to this girl while Dad was gone? Because that is not my sister.

I can see dad's anger rise, and before he dares to do something which might make me beat him up, I rush forward, separating him from Kyra.

"Dad, I'm getting late for work, let's get this over with, okay?" I look at him with a warning in my eyes, and he steps back reluctantly before turning to his chair again.

"Now that you know your brother is getting late, I think it's better if you listen to me without your nonsense in between." He passes a look to Kyra, before his hand reaches to rub his chest again, "Kyra, you remember what we talked about the other day?" He questions.

I pause, my brows drawing together as I try to recall what he's talking about. Kyra doesn't say a word, just stares at him, eyes hard and cold, before giving him a single, curt nod. My stomach knots. I clench my fists at my sides, the silence between them thick with something unspoken. And then it clicks. The realisation crashes into me, swift and unforgiving. I finally understand what he wants from her and why she's standing there, so still, so quiet.

"No," I growl at him, rage taking over me like a monster I'd never recognised.

He's going to get her married. For business. Like he did me.

I will kill him before that happens.

"Yes," his gaze remains on me for a second before returning to Kyra, "Marriage. I'll get you married when I find the perfect groom, and you're going to marry him happily." He smirks, like he's got a brilliant plan plotted in his head.

I rush to his table, slamming my hand against the glass just like he had only sometime ago, "You are fucking kidding me, Dad. She hasn't even finished her master's. What is wrong with you?" My knuckles turn white as I grip the edge of the desk.

"It's not like her studies her doing her any good anyway. She's always stuck in her dumb diary." He looks at her, disappointed, before sinking into his chair comfortably.

My jaw ticks, and the last shred of restraint I'd been clinging to finally snaps. I'm a breath away from lunging at him, ready to throw every consequence to hell. But before I can move, Kyra steps forward and gently places a hand on my shoulder.

I turn to look at her.

And it breaks me.

Behind the calm she's trying so hard to wear, her eyes shimmer with pain, raw, quiet, and buried just deep enough to fool anyone but me.

"Kanishk," she says softly, "Let me fight my own battle."

That's all it takes for me to take two steps back and let her stand in front of our father.

"Dad," she starts, a hollowness in her voice I've only heard when she's talking to him, "why do you hate your own daughter so much? Does it hurt you? To see my face and remember your father? Is that so?"

"Kyra—" My dad says with fury, but she cuts him off.

"No, listen, Dad," She steps forward, her front leaning over the edge of the desk as she stares at him, "Is this all your kids are to you? A business deal? Isn't it what I asked you that day? The same day you slapped me? That's all we are, right? A business deal, everything is a fucking deal to you." Kyra finishes.

I stare at her for a minute, astonished at the words she'd said, the way she'd spoken my mind in words I could never form myself. My eyes set on my father, and I immediately spotted the tension in his shoulders. He rubs at his chest uneasily, trying to form words to reply to his daughter.

"Shut your filthy mouth," he says, a usual tone in his words, "What has happened to you? Have you forgotten who you're talking to? Is this how you talk to your father?"

Kyra knocks the nameplate off Dad's desk with a sharp swipe, the metal clattering to the floor. Both of us flinch at the suddenness, but she doesn't hesitate.

She glares at him, eyes blazing, voice rising with every word.

"Is this how you treat your children?" she yells. "You marry one off to a stranger, manipulate the other into med school, and ruin the third's life by blaming her for something she never wanted in the first place?"

Her chest heaves as the silence crashes in around her words, fury vibrating in the air like a storm about to break.

Dad opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out.

His face twitches as if struggling to form the sentence. He tries to stand, one hand pressing against his chest, the other gripping the edge of the desk.

"Kyra, I—" he tries again, but his voice falters, breath catching in his throat.

There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes. His lips move, but nothing follows. For a moment, he just stands there before his shoulders slump, and he leans heavier against the desk, rubbing at his chest with slow, uneasy circles.

It's not rage anymore.

It's something else.

Before I can move forward to check on him, Kyra speaks again.

"Dad, it's laughable," she says, her tone shaking, "The fact that the person whose death you're so angry over is probably watching you ruin your own kids' lives and wondering, what the hell his son has become."

She lets out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head as the weight of her words hangs heavy in the room.

"Dadu would've never wanted this," she says, voice tightening. "And it's not my fault. I was just a kid."

Her throat bobs slightly as she swallows hard. The emotion's rising, creeping in under her skin, but she doesn't let it show. Not yet. Not when the man in front of her still doesn't deserve to see her break.

Dad's face goes pale. Not angry-pale, not flushed with rage—but ghostly, ashen. His hand grips his chest more tightly now, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His other hand reaches blindly for the edge of the desk, but it slips. He stumbles back a step.

"Dad?" I say, voice low but alarmed.

Kyra looks up, mid-breath, confusion flickering across her face.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just a hoarse wheeze. His chest rises sharply, then shudders. His knees buckle.

"Dad!" I shout this time, rushing forward just as he collapses sideways, hitting the floor with a dull, sickening thud.

Kyra gasps. Her eyes go wide.

He's on his side, curled slightly, one arm still clutching his chest, the other twitching as if trying to push himself up. His breath comes in short, rapid bursts. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, flicker between us in panic.

I drop to my knees beside him. "Call someone!" I yell to Kyra, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "Dad, can you hear me?"

His lips part. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a strangled sound, half breath, half groan.

"Kyra!" I snap again, louder this time.

She fumbles for her phone, her composure cracking as the scene finally registers. The colour drains from her face, and her hands tremble, but she nods and starts dialling.

"I-I'm calling," she says quickly, voice tight.

Dad's body jerks once, before going frighteningly still.

My heart lodges in my throat.

"Dad, stay with me, stay with me, okay? Help's coming."

But I don't know if he hears me.