Morning sunlight streamed through the tall French windows of the Mehra mansion, touching every corner of the vast drawing room with a lazy, golden glow. The house stood like an emblem of power immaculate, marble-floored, and intimidatingly silent except for the occasional clink of a teacup or the rustle of newspapers.

At the center of that perfection stood Lakshya Mehra, twenty-five, tall, lean, and effortlessly composed, though his stillness often concealed a thousand storms.

Across from him sat his father, Rajesh Mehra, the towering figure behind the Mehra Group of Industries, a man whose voice alone could silence a room. His words, though calm, carried the finality of orders rather than suggestions.

“You keep saying you want to start your business, Lakshya,” Rajesh said, his tone measured, “but what’s wrong with the one already built for you? This empire, these companies, these offices, they are yours. Everything you see around you is yours.”

Lakshya’s gaze remained steady. “That’s precisely the problem, Papa,” he said quietly. “Everything already is mine. I’ve never had the chance to create anything of my own… I just want to see my potential. I just want to know the fruit of hard work.”

Rajesh’s expression hardened. “Don’t speak like a child. Building something new means risk, waste, and arrogance. You’re lucky you don’t have to struggle for your foundation. You were born into success.”

Lakshya’s voice didn’t rise; if anything, it grew softer, almost weary. “But you did struggle, didn’t you? You built all your abilities from nothing. That’s what I want too, to create, to fail, to learn. You call it arrogance. I call it living.”

From behind them, the quiet shuffle of footsteps broke the tension. His mother, Sarla Mehra, entered with a silver tray of tea. Her face was gentle but distant, as though she’d long accepted her role as the quiet bridge between father and son.

“Have some tea,” she murmured, setting the tray down carefully. “Conversations go better when they’re not fueled by anger.”

Rajesh exhaled but didn’t touch the cup. “Anger? I’m only trying to teach him responsibility.”

Sarla gave a small, sad smile. “Sometimes responsibility and freedom walk the same road, Rajesh. You can’t chain one without suffocating the other.”

Before Rajesh could respond, another voice joined, older, stronger, and sharper. Savita Devi Mehra, Lakshya’s grandmother, sat in her carved wooden chair, her eyes watchful beneath the rim of her spectacles. She had the kind of authority that didn’t need volume; presence alone was enough.

“Freedom,” she said, her tone clipped. “That’s what every generation demands before realizing they’re nothing without their roots.”

Lakshya turned to her respectfully. “Dadi, I respect the roots. But maybe my branches want to grow in a different direction.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “And maybe your branches will break if they go too far from the tree.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that filled every corner of the room. Lakshya looked at each of them, the father who wanted him to obey, the mother who wanted peace, and the grandmother who wanted control disguised as care. He felt like a visitor in a home built for him but never truly his.

“If this empire is mine, then why do I need permission to breathe?” he finally spoke, and his voice was quiet yet cutting. “I studied in England; I understand that world. I see opportunities there that don’t exist here. I’m not saying I’ll abandon everything I just want to explore, build something with my own hands, and make my own mistakes. Is that too much to ask?”

Rajesh leaned forward, his voice rising. “And what happens when you fail? When your so-called freedom costs you everything? You think this family will clean up your mess?”

Lakshya’s jaw tightened. “If I fail, I’ll learn. But if I stay here, I’ll never even begin.”

Rajesh slammed his palm against the table, making the teacups tremble. “As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll remember I built this family’s name. You won’t jeopardize our family’s reputation by pursuing fantasies abroad.”

Lakshya met his father’s glare calmly. “Then maybe I need my own roof.”

The words hung between them like smoke. Sarla closed her eyes briefly, as if praying the moment would pass. Savita Devi’s expression didn’t change; only her fingers tightened slightly on her walking stick.

“Mind your words,” she warned her grandson, half proud, half disappointed.

Lakshya turned away, too worn out to argue further. “I’m going out,” he said quietly and walked out before anyone could stop him.

Outside, the air felt fresher, not because of the weather but because it wasn’t controlled by his father’s empire. He walked across the wide driveway, past rows of cars and manicured hedges that screamed discipline, not comfort.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message flashed on the screen from his best friend, Bhumi Kapoor.

“Are you still alive, or has your father finally buried you under a business proposal?”

He couldn’t help but smile. Only Bhumi could speak to him like that with humor sharp enough to slice through his worst moods. He quickly typed back:

“Barely alive. He’s planning my future like it’s a merger deal.”

“Good… Maybe he can merge my life with someone rich too. My parents are hunting grooms like it's the Diwali sale season.”

“I need a break. Are you free?”

“For ice cream? Always.”

He smiled brightly, quickly drove his car out of the mansion, and stopped after four hours to glance into her house. She came running toward him wearing denim dungarees and a white T-shirt, still keeping her two pigtails, a hairstyle she always wore whenever she was home.

“Run, Simba… Otherwise, they’ll sell you on the Diwali sale… It’s like ‘Dulha mil raha hai… dulha mil raha hai!’”

He burst into laughter and quickly accelerated to get away from there. They stopped at their favorite ice cream parlor, and Bhumi ran inside while he looked for parking.

Bhumi had already reserved their favorite spot by the window, with two ice cream cups, one chocolate fudge and one mango. She looked like she belonged to another world: messy bun, bright eyes, and a smile that could melt cynicism.

When she saw him, she grinned. “Look who escaped the corporate dungeon.”

Lakshya sat opposite her, exhaling. “Barely. I think my dad would rather chain me to the boardroom table than see me step out of the country.”

“Typical.” She scooped a big bite of ice cream. “Parents think our lives are PowerPoint presentations measurable, predictable, profitable.”

He chuckled softly. “Are your parents still after your marriage?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t even start. My mom has a new obsession — matrimonial apps. Every time I pass by, she’s swiping through profiles like she’s shortlisting contestants for a reality show.”

He laughed , the first real laugh of the day. “You know what’s amusing? My father would probably approve. He’s already found me a perfect bride.”

Bhumi looked mock-shocked. “Oh really? Who’s the lucky girl?”

He leaned back, smirking. “Apparently… you.”

She blinked. Then burst out laughing so hard she nearly dropped her spoon. “Me? Oh god… That’s the most tragic thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, smiling. “Apparently, the ‘Mehra heir’ needs a cultured, well-known family girl. And your parents fit the bill.”

She wiped a tear from laughing. “So basically, we’re both trapped in the same soap opera, Marriage.”

Their laughter drew curious glances from nearby tables, but neither cared. When it faded, Bhumi looked at him closely.

“You’re serious about leaving, aren’t you?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have plans, connections, ideas… but I need investment. My father said he’ll give me everything only if I marry. Otherwise, I have to stay here and work with him. I don’t know what to do now.”

Her smile vanished. “So that’s the deal? Freedom in exchange for marriage?”

“Exactly,” he said quietly. “It’s not even about love or partnership, just control. He wants to make sure I’m tied down before I can make choices.”

Bhumi sighed, stirring her ice cream absentmindedly. “I just finished my graduation. I want to go to London for fashion design. But they keep saying, ‘Girls don’t live alone abroad. The world is unsafe. Dreams can wait.’”

Lakshya leaned forward. “Dreams don’t wait, Bhumi… people do.”

Her eyes softened. “And what if dreams break us?”

“Then at least they’ll break us for the right reasons.”

The conversation paused there, not because they ran out of words, but because both understood exactly what the other meant. Two people, suffocated by expectations, holding on to their ambitions like fragile secrets.

Bhumi broke the silence first. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, right? You and I grew up in the same colony, rode the same school bus, and had the same fights.”

He smiled. “You still owe me for that stolen lunchbox.”

She grinned. “And you still owe me a lifetime supply of chocolates for lying about my math test score to save me from my mom.”

They laughed again, but this time the laughter had warmth, not escape.

An hour later, they walked out with cones in hand. The Mumbai air was humid, filled with the smell of sea and street food. Bhumi glanced at him sideways.

“Do you ever feel like we’re stuck? Like our lives are on pause until someone else presses play?”

“All the time,” he said quietly. “That’s why I need to leave. Not to run away, but to start breathing. Their control is suffocating me. I believe this chain will tighten around my neck, and I’ll die one day.”

She nodded with a faint smile. She felt the same way. Their problems were different, but both had parents who wanted to control their lives and didn’t understand that their children had dreams too. She sighed.

“You’re lucky. At least you have clarity on your direction. I just know where I don’t want to stay.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s a start.”

She stopped walking suddenly and faced him. “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“No matter what happens, you’ll go. You won’t give up your dream because of them.”

He hesitated. “And what about you?”

“I’ll find a way too,” she said. “Maybe not today, but someday. You’ll see me in London, Paris, or somewhere else one day, walking the streets with my fashion sketches, drinking overpriced coffee, pretending I’m a big deal.”

He laughed softly. “You don’t have to pretend. You already are.”

She gave him a playful nudge. “Flattery won’t get you out of buying the next round of ice cream.”

They walked and talked for hours. The city shimmered in gold as his car sped along the quiet road beside the sea. Bhumi leaned out of the window, her hair whipping around like a wild flag of freedom.

“You’re insane,” Lakshya said, grinning.

“I’m alive…” she shouted into the wind. “For once, I don’t want to think about marriage or rules or stupid social boxes.”

He smiled, watching her laugh genuinely, recklessly, beautifully. For the first time in days, his chest didn’t feel heavy. After a while, she turned serious.

“If our families ever decide to marry us for real, what would you do?”

He looked at her, thoughtful. “Probably run.”

She laughed. “I’d run too. But imagine their faces if we ran away together. They’d faint.”

He burst out laughing. “Front page headline: Heir and Neighbor’s Daughter Escape with Two Ice Cream Cones and Zero Regret.”

They laughed until they couldn’t breathe, until all the anger and frustration melted into something lighter. She quickly said,

“Dude, you’re my best friend, and I’m not going to marry you; that’s confirmed truth.”

“Same thoughts,” he replied. “You’re my best friend, and I want to make it clear that I don’t see you as my wife or anything else. You’re my cutie pie and ice-cream partner.”

For a brief, beautiful moment, it felt like the world wasn’t closing in on them anymore. When the laughter faded, Bhumi rested her head back on the seat.

“You’ll go to England, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll make it amazing there?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Because if you give up, I’ll kill you.”

He smiled. “Deal.”