The Impossible Heir

5. Blood Will Tell

The confrontation on the balcony hung in the air like smoke.

Svetlana’s eyes, sharp and gleaming, bore into Akash as he crouched in the shadows of her father’s office.

“Why,” she repeated slowly, “are you sneaking around here?”

Akash straightened, his mind racing. The faint moonlight traced the outline of her face — beautiful, distant, unreadable. A dozen lies formed in his head, but the detective in him knew better than to overplay.

“I was looking for a letter,” he murmured, his tone calm, almost bored. “Your father misplaced something important. He asked me to find it.”

Svetlana didn’t move. She studied him with unnerving stillness, like she was deciding whether to call the guards or not. Then, unexpectedly, she turned away.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” she said quietly, stepping into the hall. “This house has eyes everywhere. If they see you where you don’t belong…”

Her voice trailed off.

Akash remained motionless until her footsteps faded. His chest tightened. Did she believe him—or had she chosen silence for her own reasons?

---

The next day dawned loud with chaos. Wedding planners, decorators, and caterers flooded the Rathore mansion. Maya shrieked orders, servants scurried, and Svetlana retreated into her usual cool detachment.

Akash kept his head down, moving through the noise like a shadow, though his thoughts churned. His secret room was filling with damning evidence, yet he still needed the final proof — the shipment itself.

But fate had other plans.

By afternoon, as the families gathered to head to the Singh estate for a ritual meeting, a scream shattered the mansion’s rhythm. A servant rushed in, breathless.

“Katrina madam… accident!”

Every head snapped up. Maya gasped, Zain went pale, and Mrs. Rathore clutched her pearls. Within minutes, cars screeched out of the driveway, rushing to the hospital.

Akash rode silently with them, his detective’s calm hiding the storm inside. Accidents in his line of work were rarely just accidents.

---

The hospital was chaos. Nurses darted through halls, doctors barked orders, family members cried out in panic. The Singh family was huddled near the emergency ward, their wealth and power suddenly meaningless in the sterile white halls.

Mr. Singh’s usually commanding presence was cracked. He paced like a caged lion, his fists clenched.

When the doctor emerged, his face grim, the entire hall fell silent.

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said. “We need an urgent donor. Her type is rare. If we don’t find a match soon…”

His silence said the rest.

Mrs. Singh broke down, clutching her husband’s arm. Zain cursed under his breath. The Rathores began whispering nervously — what if the wedding alliance collapsed under this tragedy?

“I’ll do it,” Akash said suddenly.

Every head turned.

“I’ll donate,” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice steady.

The Rathores laughed cruelly. Maya scoffed. “You? As if your blood could match hers.”

But the doctor, desperate, pulled out a kit. Minutes later, the results came back.

“He’s a match.”

The corridor froze.

Mr. Singh’s eyes widened, a flicker of recognition — then suspicion — flashing across his face.

Within the hour, Akash was lying on a hospital bed, the needle in his arm feeding life into the fragile body of Katrina Singh. He stared at the ceiling as blood left his veins, his mind oddly calm. He had faced bullets, knives, and betrayals before. But never had his life felt so tangled in destiny’s web.

---

When the procedure was done, Mr. Singh himself escorted him aside. They stepped into a quiet consultation room.

The patriarch’s face was stern, but his voice was softer than before.

“Who are you?”

Akash blinked. “You know who I am.”

“No.” Mr. Singh’s jaw tightened. “I know who you say you are. But blood doesn’t lie.”

He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “I asked the doctors to run a DNA cross-check while they tested compatibility.”

Akash’s heart stopped.

Mr. Singh unfolded the paper, his voice rough. “The results show a ninety-nine percent paternal match. You… are my son.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

Akash staggered back, his mind a whirl of disbelief. His breath caught in his throat. He had grown up an orphan, fighting for survival in Mumbai’s backstreets, never knowing where he came from. And now — this?

“Impossible,” he whispered.

But Mr. Singh’s eyes, though sharp, held a rare flicker of emotion. “Your mother was Rukhsar. She disappeared years ago with my child. I searched everywhere. I thought… I thought you were dead.”

Akash’s world tilted. Memories of a mother’s fading lullaby, fragments of a childhood cut short — they surged back with crushing clarity.

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling for the first time in years. “Why… why keep it quiet then? Why not tell them?”

Mr. Singh’s eyes hardened again. “Because truth is dangerous. The Rathores don’t know, and they mustn’t. Not yet. You’re in their house. I don’t know why, but I can see it in your eyes — you’re hunting them.”

Akash said nothing, his silence confession enough.

“Good,” Mr. Singh muttered. “But tread carefully. You are my blood, and Katrina’s life is tied to yours now. Whatever mission you’re on — finish it. But don’t reveal who you are. Not to the Rathores. Not even to your wife.”

The weight of secrecy pressed down harder than ever.

Akash clenched his fists, his voice low and steady. “Understood.”

---

Back at the hospital hall, Maya sneered when she saw him return. “So the beggar finally proved useful,” she mocked, tossing her hair.

Svetlana said nothing, but her eyes lingered on him longer than usual, unreadable, as if she sensed something had shifted.

Akash walked past them silently, his expression cold. But inside, his world was in flames.

He was no longer just a detective undercover. No longer just a man enduring insult for justice.

He was a Rathore enemy.

He was a Singh heir.

He was a son who had just been found.

And now, every move he made could cost him everything.

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