Samira stepped out of her cabin, her phone still pressed to her ear as she listened intently to Chandika’s update.

“Every child has reached home safely, ma'am,” Chandika reported, her voice warm with quiet relief. “They’re doing much better. Therapy has helped them more than we expected.”

A faint smile touched Samira’s lips. “I’m glad to hear that. Thank you for letting me know. You and your team have done a remarkable job, Chandika.”

Before she could say more, the atmosphere in the room shifted like a sudden gust of wind. Prabhakar Naidu stormed in, fury practically radiating off him, his eyes immediately locking on Niyati.

"Where is my daughter?" he demanded, his voice rough, clipped, barely masking the rage brimming beneath.

Samira’s expression changed instantly. Turning away, she spoke, her voice steady but curt. “Chandika, I’ll call you back later.”

She ended the call without waiting for a response.

“How the hell would I know where your daughter is?” Niyati snapped, meeting his glare with equal fire. Her tone was sharp, defiant, fearless.

“Don’t play games with me!” he roared, eyes blazing. “You were the last one to speak with her—and now she’s missing!”

"Yes, I did speak with her," Niyati said, standing her ground. "But that doesn’t mean I know where she is—or that I’m responsible for what happened.”

“You’re damn right you’re responsible!” he growled, stepping closer, menace in his tone. “Why the fuck did you tell her about Roshan Gupta?”

Niyati’s expression hardened, her voice turning cold and measured. "She asked me. And I told her the truth. I didn’t lie, I didn’t twist anything. I stated facts—facts you chose to bury, even from your own daughter.”

His face contorted with fury. “You insolent bitch!” he spat and raised his hand to strike her.

But before the blow could land, a firm hand caught his wrist mid-air. Prabhakar froze in place, his expression momentarily stunned.

At the same moment, Aryahi yanked Niyati back protectively, and Surya stepped between them, his stance tense and ready.

Samira had stepped in quietly, but her voice rang out like thunder.

“Mind your words, Mr. Naidu,” she said, her fingers still gripping his wrist before she let it go. “And I will not tolerate any form of disrespect toward my team. Not in this office.”

The room fell into a tense silence.

Then she added, calm but firm, “Your daughter will be home safe and sound by the end of the day. That’s a promise.”

Prabhakar said nothing. His breathing was ragged, his eyes bloodshot with frustration. “Fine,” he muttered. It wasn’t agreement—it was resignation. He knew he couldn’t go to the police. If they got involved, the truth would come out—why she went missing, or rather, why she ran away from her own home.

"If she doesn’t return by the end of the day," he said, his voice low and threatening, "trust me—I’ll make sure you all regret crossing me."

He turned sharply, ready to leave, but was stopped by a calm, pointed voice behind him.

"Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Naidu?" Samira asked, her tone deceptively gentle.

He froze mid-step. His shoulders tensed as he closed his eyes for a moment, visibly restraining the anger boiling inside him. Then, reluctantly, he turned back.

"I apologize," he said stiffly, barely meeting Niyati’s eyes.

Niyati didn’t answer. She simply crossed her arms and stared at him. Every muscle in her face screamed defiance, but when she caught Samira’s warning look—a silent command, a plea for peace—she grit her teeth and muttered, “Fine. I’m sorry too.”

The words tasted like gravel in her mouth, but she said them—for Samira’s sake, not his.

Samira waited until the door closed behind him before calling out softly, “You can come out now. Your father’s gone.”

From the corner of the room, the wooden door to the small library creaked open.

A girl—young, slender, with wary eyes and a guilty expression—stepped forward.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “How did you know I was in there?”

Samira simply pointed toward the shoe rack.

A pair of sandals sat neatly beside the others—small, unfamiliar, and very telling.

“Shit,” Niyati muttered, realizing they’d given her away.

Aryahi clasped her hands together and offered a sheepish “Sorry”.

Surya grinned like a child caught red-handed by his mother. “Busted,” he said under his breath.

Samira couldn’t help but smile. “Running away doesn’t solve the problem, Nivedita.”

“I know,” Nivedita murmured, her shoulders slumping. “But when my father asked me to meet Roshan, I said no. And then—he went ahead and fixed the engagement. It’s supposed to happen this Sunday.”

She looked down at her feet, voice trembling. “I didn’t know what to do. So I left. And after that... I had nowhere to go. Then I remembered that Aryahi akka(sister) works here, so I came.”

“For now, go back home,” Samira advised gently.

“No, you don’t understand,” Nivedita said, shaking her head. “I said no to just meeting the guy, and he still arranged the engagement. Now that I’ve actually run away, he’ll go straight for marriage. I know him. He won’t stop.”

Samira folded her arms. “Then tell him clearly. Say it to his face. And if he still doesn’t listen, file a complaint.”

“As if that works,” Nivedita scoffed.

“It does,” Samira said, unwavering. “You live in Banjara Hills, right? Who’s the Circle Inspector there?”

“Srenik,” Niyati replied, rolling her eyes. “And he’s so annoyingly upright.”

“That’s exactly why he’ll help,” Samira said. “Once you file a formal complaint, he won’t care who’s standing in front of him, he’ll follow through.”

Niyati nodded. “He’s stubborn, honest… and yeah, really stubborn. He’s just right for this.”

Nivedita took a long breath, her fear slowly dissolving into cautious hope. “Okay. I trust you all.”

Samira handed her a phone. “Take this. Use it if you need help. Anytime.”

Nivedita accepted it with both hands, her gratitude shining through her eyes. “Thank you, ma’am. And thank you all… truly.”

She slipped her feet into her sandals and headed toward the door. But just before stepping out, she turned back with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added playfully, “Next time, I’ll remember to hide my sandals too—just in case I need to run away again.”

Everyone smiled. For a fleeting moment, the tension lifted—replaced by warmth, solidarity, and the quiet strength of women standing together.

Abhi Ram stepped into the house, calling out with familiar ease, “Sam!”

"Samira appeared from the hallway, her face brightening with a fond smile. Behind him walked Bhoomi, his fiancée—quiet and poised, her eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and polite shyness.”

“Hi, vadina,” Samira greeted, using the endearing Telugu word for sister-in-law. She stepped forward and side-hugged Bhoomi, who returned the gesture with a soft smile.

“Make yourself at home, vadina,” Samira said, gesturing toward the living room.

Bhoomi took a seat beside Abhi on the couch, folding her hands into her lap with a gentle grace.

“So…” Samira began, tilting her head with a curious smile.

“Actually,” Bhoomi began, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “we came to see the house. If everything feels right, we’re planning to move in after the wedding.”

Samira nodded just as the front door opened with a burst of lively energy. Aryahi, Niyati, and Surya stepped in, their faces lighting up at the sight of Bhoomi.

“Hi! You must be Bhoomi vadina,” Aryahi said with a cheerful smile. They introduced themselves and, in no time, drew her into conversation—the kind that flows easily, as if between familiar souls, even on a first meeting.

Amidst the cheerful chaos, Samira gently tapped her brother’s shoulder and gestured for him to follow her. They stepped out onto the balcony, the warm afternoon light bathing them in gold.

She looked at him, her expression suddenly more serious. “Aren’t you going to live with our parents after marriage?”

Abhi leaned on the railing, silent for a moment. “I told them I wanted to live separately,” he said calmly. “They didn’t agree at first, but I convinced them.”

Samira frowned, arms folded. “But why?”

Abhi turned his gaze toward the far-off horizon, as if gathering the weight of unspoken words.

“Because I saw what they did to you on the engagement day,” he said, his voice lowering. “The coldness in their eyes. The things they said—and the things they didn’t. I can’t forget that.”

He held her gaze

“A parent's home should be a place of safety, not a place where you feel invisible, or worse—unwelcome. I failed you, Samira. And I carry that with me. But I don't want to make the same mistake again.”

His voice steadied, but there was weight behind every word.

“I want Bhoomi to walk into a home that doesn’t ask her to change or stay quiet. I want her to feel safe—seen. To laugh loudly, to be messy, to cry if she needs to—and not feel judged for any of it. I don’t want her to feel like a guest in her own house.”

He looked at Samira then. The anger had faded; all that remained was a quiet, tender honesty.

“And I want that same place to be one where my sister can walk in anytime and know she belongs. No explanations. No permission. Just open arms. That’s the kind of home I want to build.”

Samira didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes shimmered, her heart full. Then she stepped forward and hugged him, tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder.

He held her close, resting his hand gently on her head in that familiar, protective gesture they both remembered from childhood.

A voice interrupted their moment—Bhoomi's.

“This place… your home—it feels so warm, Samira,” she said from behind them.

Samira turned to her, smiling.

“Thanks to your would-be husband,” she smiled, teasing lightly. “He found this place.”

Abhi shrugged modestly. “I may have found the house... but they turned it into a home.”

“Guys! What are you doing out there?” Niyati’s voice rang out from inside. “Come in already!”

They shared a quick smile and walked back in.

As Samira entered, Aryahi caught her by the hand and led her to the puja room. From a small, decorated altar, she picked up a silver tray. On it sat a neatly folded saree, delicate glass bangles, a fresh string of jasmine flowers, betel leaves and nuts, and a tiny ornate box filled with vermilion.

“What’s all this?” Samira asked, puzzled.

“It’s Bhoomi vadina’s first visit here,” Aryahi replied with mock seriousness.

Samira gasped. “Oh no—I completely forgot!” She bit her tongue in embarrassment.

Aryahi offered the tray to her. “You do the honours. Go.”

“Why me? You do it,” Samira protested.

Aryahi gave her a look, half-exasperated, half-tender. “Samira, you’re not understanding.”

“I get it,” Samira said, smiling slightly. “But tell me—whose home is this?”

“Ours,” Aryahi said without hesitation.

“And who is Bhoomi to us?”

“She’s our vadina.”

“Exactly,” Samira said with a smile. “So what difference does it make if you give it or I do? It’s coming from all of us, from our home.”

Aryahi stared at her for a second and then threw up her hands. “You know what—I quit.”

They laughed and walked back to the living room together, where everyone had settled into the soft warmth of the evening light. Aryahi placed the tray gently on the coffee table, then turned to Bhoomi with a smile.

“Vadina, come here,” she said.

Bhoomi rose, a little unsure, as all eyes turned to her.

“Wait,” Niyati said suddenly, nudging Abhi Ram forward.

Abhi stepped up beside Bhoomi, his face soft with affection. With a reverent hand, he dipped his fingers into the vermilion and gently applied it to Bhoomi’s forehead. Then, he picked up the jasmine flowers and tucked it lovingly into her hair. Taking the bangles, he slid them onto her wrists one by one, their soft chime ringing like a quiet blessing.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

Aryahi handed Bhoomi the saree, placing the betel leaves and nuts on top. Bhoomi received it with both hands, her eyes brimming with emotion.

Samira stepped forward and fed her a sweet.

“Welcome home, vadina,” she said softly.

Aryahi, Niyati, and Surya followed, each feeding her a sweet and offering the same heartfelt words.

“Thank you,” Bhoomi said, her voice trembling slightly, touched by the gesture.

Later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, they all walked Abhi and Bhoomi to the car. With heartfelt gratitude, the couple thanked everyone once again for their warmth and welcome.

As they drove away, Bhoomi leaned back and looked at Abhi.

“They’re so sweet and lovely,” she said with a soft smile.

Abhi glanced at her, then back at the road, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And also… a little crazy too.”

She laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. And somewhere in that laughter, home found its way to her heart.