It was past midnight, but the hospital wing reserved for the rich glowed gently under the white tubelights.
Rohit leaned back against the plush recliner, taking in the atmosphere.
The air slled faintly of antiseptic and lavender, and the lighting was bright and soothing.
As Rohit looked around, a smirk tugged at his lips. Every nurse that passed through the corridor, seed as if they had stepped straight out of a fashion magazine.
It was a stark contrast to the general ward they had just left behind, and for once, he didn’t mind the change. The treatnt reserved for the privileged was already beginning to show.
The receptionist’s expression turned notably pleasant the mont she recognized their identities, and from there, everything moved along without a hitch.
The doctor, beyond thrilled, gladly accepted a ₹2 lakh (200,000) bribe to produce a simple false dical report claiming amnesia for Rohit. Since the bills were issued in the house’s na, both Rohit and Akhil were promptly shifted to the private wing.
Normally, ₹50,000 was enough for the deed, but the price had increased fourfold due to the high-profile individuals involved.
Rohit chuckled as he noticed the stark difference in enviornnt.
"The waistlines of the current staff clearly didn’t co with the degree alone."," he muttered under his breath. They looked more like massage therapists from the luxury spas of Tokyo.
It amused him. ’Indians didn’t discriminate against skin color, caste, or even religion half as much as they did against class.Here, money is the ultimate passport. An ugly man with deep pockets would still be worshipped like a demigod.
Ironically, despite being born rich, Rohit had lived like a fool—believing in fairy-tale ideals of honesty, hard work, and justice. Ideas that only looked good in dramas but didn’t work in the real world.
That was one of the reasons he chose this overhyped hospital, which was known more for serving the rich than for providing optimal treatnt. In a place where dical ideals took a backseat to money, no one should question the kind of report he needed.
He sighed and glanced at the iPhone X in his hand which felt more like an ancient relic from 2017. The previous Rohit had dragged it along far too long. Fortunately, the boy liked brands, at least. Society had taught him that much.
The date glowed on the screen: January 15, 2024. The week after he had died in Japan.
He checked all the weekly headlines. Nothing about his death. Not a whisper. The only buzz was about Qualcomm’s CEO, who had mysteriously been pardoned in court. His wife had filed for divorce without asking for alimony, sparking rumors of an affair with an unnad man.
Rohit’s smirk sharpened.
So the rich really can wipe away their sins with money, he thought bitterly. That bastard who killed is walking free. But not for long.
This life wouldn’t be wasted. Once he fulfilled this body’s unresolved stories, his true mission would begin and that would be to engulf this man’s business empire and leave him to rot in street like an oridnary mutt.
His phone buzzed.
A ssage from Akhil: [Our parents are here. Mine and yours. Together.]
Rohit recalled how close their families had beco. Akhil’s father, a judicial magistrate, and Rohit’s father, a powerful businessman, had bonded over their sons’ friendship. Now, they were bound like family.
He sighed again and slipped the phone aside. Suterling can wait. Right now, other matters were more urgent.
A soft knock preceded the doctor’s arrival. This ti, he brought company. It was a stunning nurse with a practised smile. The doctor was more polite now, every gesture rehearsed and respectful.
"Good evening, Young Master Singhania," he said warmly. "I hope everything is to your liking."
Rohit gave a small nod.
The doctor gestured to the nurse beside him. "She’ll be attending to your needs tonight. Don’t worry, everything’s been arranged exactly as per our... understanding." He added a wink.
Rohit smirked, amused—but the smile froze the mont the double doors flew open.
A woman stord in with authority. Behind her followed a lady bodyguard, and trailing them were two uniford police officers.
The lady body guard herself stopped at the door barring the police constables who stood outside helplessly.
This daring lady was none other than Ragini Singhania—adopted mother of Rohit Singhania and wife of Raj Singhania. A housewife by role, but the true decision-maker of their household."
Everything about her scread power.
Click here for image*
She wore a saree draped with regality, as if she were a queen reborn from an ancient dynasty. Her gaze was sharp yet graceful, fierce yet composed. Every movent commanded respect.
Her skin was flawless. Her posture upright with a height no less than 5,8. Her figure so perfect that even the "model" nurses looked ordinary in comparison.
She didn’t just look like a woman from a wealthy household—she looked like the one who ruled it.
The room fell into silence.
And Rohit... finally sat up straighter—not out of fear, but due to instinct ingrained from years under her presence. Even the doctor and nurse subtly stiffened as she entered the room.
She saw Rohit sizing her up, his head, hands, and shoulder wrapped in bandages—yet her expression remained unmoved.
Without a word, she took a seat near his chair, eyes fixed on him. Not once did she look at anyone else, as if their very presence held no weight..
Rohit, however, was completely shaken. As his initial nerves cald, he found himself unable to look away.
She was breathtaking.
Though she wore a traditional saree, the way the fabric flowed across her body only hinted at the sculpted curves beneath.
His gaze wandered—from her poised face, down her graceful neck, to the soft hint of cl.e.a.v.a.g.e frad by the blouse of her saree, subtly revealing the fullness of her b.u.s.t. His eyes continued downward, tracing the elegant curve of her refined waist and the perfectly aligned fall of her thighs.
’Holy shit... her body must be incredible.’
His thoughts were in disarray. And when she leaned slightly toward him, he instinctively looked up—only to quickly rein himself in. Her sharp, unwavering stare t his with chilling precision, knocking the air from his lungs.
Her presence was overwhelming. Commanding. Cold. Distant.And yet... impossibly alluring.
Only one conclusion crossed his mind, ’Damn, it’s really different to see for real up close. I think it will be hard to get her.’
Sensing the tension and his place in the room, the doctor quickly stepped in. "Don’t worry, Mrs. Singhania. The young master is in capable hands."
He paused briefly, glancing at Rohit before continuing nervously, "He’s sustained a head injury, and... there are so complications."
The doctor was so tense that sweat beaded on his forehead. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word amnesia, instead opting for vague phrases.
This ti, he managed to capture Mrs. Singhania’s attention.
"How much ti will it take?" she asked curtly.
The doctor looked at the nurse, who understood the unspoken cue and replied in a composed, professional tone.
"Unfortunately, madam, your son has lost his mories. It’s uncertain if or when they’ll fully return. However, he is physically stable and can be discharged tomorrow after a routine check-up."
A flicker of emotion passed through Ragini’s face. Tension, perhaps fear of sothing, but it was quickly masked by her practiced calm. She turned her gaze to Rohit.
"How are you feeling, son?" she asked, reaching to check the wounds on his shoulder.
Rohit flinched. "You... Mother?"
Ragini looked at the doctor, who offered a sympathetic nod.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Rohit asked sothing none of them expected."Then... why aren’t you giving a hug?"
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