Chapter 45: Mine

Evening lights glowed warmly as they entered Veeresh’s company.

It was meant to be a small celebration—music low, laughter polite, glasses clinking softly. Veeresh stood tall, pride evident as he introduced Poornima and the children to his team.

“This is my family,” he said simply.

One of the business partners smiled awkwardly and said, almost casually, “So… stepkids?”

Veeresh stiffened.

Poornima felt it instantly. She held his hand, grounding him, whispering with her touch to let it pass. But Veeresh turned to her, eyes sharp—not at her, but at the moment.

“Leave my hand,” he said quietly.

Her heart skipped. For a second, she feared he might say something harsh, something that would spiral.

He didn’t.

He stepped forward, voice calm but unshakeable.

“They are not my stepkids,” he said clearly. “They are mine. I may not be their birth father—but not everything meaningful comes from birth.”

The room went silent.

“Some bonds,” he continued, “are formed without blood. And those are the ones that stay forever. That’s the bond I share with them.”

Someone else muttered, “But they’re Muslim—”

Veeresh didn’t let the sentence finish.

“I don’t mind,” he said firmly. “Religion has never been a problem for me. We will celebrate everything—Diwali, Eid, all of it. They are mine.”

His gaze moved across the room, unwavering.

“And nobody comments on my family. Especially not my kids. Especially not my wife.”

He turned slightly, his voice softer but resolute.
“She is Poornima Khan Raishinghania.
My children—Rudra Khan Raishinghania, Mannat Khan Raishinghania, Ramir Khan Raishinghania.
And Kayan and Kavya Raishinghania.”

He paused.

“They are all mine. This is the last time anyone comments on my family.”

A beat. Then—

“Now,” he said, gesturing lightly, “enjoy the party.”

He turned away, signaling Poornima and the children to relax, to enjoy. But the fire in his chest didn’t fade. Veeresh walked straight to the bar.

Ramir noticed immediately. He leaned toward Poornima. “Mom… go with dad. He’s angry. I hope he doesn’t drink too much.”

Poornima didn’t hesitate.

She went to him, stood beside him, her presence steady. “Veer,” she said softly, placing her hand over his. “Don’t drink much. Be calm.”

He looked at her—really looked—and the tension eased.

She kissed his cheek, gentle and grounding.

Veeresh smiled then, the storm settling. “Okay,” he said quietly.

And in that crowded room, surrounded by noise and opinions, Poornima knew something with absolute clarity:

This man would never let the world define his family.

He already had.