The knock comes at 12:07 p.m.
Not hurried.
Not hesitant.
Measured.
I'm still standing near the dining table, staring at the empty mug Darian left behind after his call. The apartment feels different without cameras — quieter, like it's listening.
Another knock.
Darian steps out of the study. His expression shifts the second he hears it.
"Are you expecting someone?" I ask.
"No."
That single word carries history.
I open the door.
The woman standing outside looks like she belongs to a boardroom, not a doorstep.
Cream silk sari. Minimal jewelry. Perfect posture. The kind of elegance that doesn't need effort.
Her eyes move over me — not rudely. Not warmly. Just… assessing.
"Nandini Malhotra," she says.
Not "Hello."
Not "Good afternoon."
Just her name.
Behind me, Darian says quietly, "Ma."
The air changes.
She steps inside without waiting to be invited. Not aggressively — just confidently. As if she's never been denied entry in her life.
Her gaze sweeps the apartment.
The couch.
The balcony doors.
The dining table.
Then it rests on me again.
"So," she says softly, "you're the girl who turned my son into a headline."
There's no anger in her voice.
That's worse.
I keep my posture straight. "I believe we both contributed to that."
A small pause.
Her eyebrow lifts — not offended. Interested.
Darian moves closer to us. "Ma, this isn't necessary."
"Oh, I think it is," she replies calmly. "When the entire country debates your marriage, a mother is allowed curiosity."
She finally sits.
Not waiting to be offered a seat.
I sit opposite her.
Darian remains standing.
Interesting.
"You handled the livestream well," she says to me.
That surprises me.
"Thank you," I reply carefully.
"You didn't cry prettily," she continues. "You cried honestly. That's rare."
I don't know whether that's praise or warning.
"I didn't plan to cry," I say.
"Good," she says. "Planned emotion is exhausting."
Darian exhales slowly. "Ma."
She turns to him now. "Do you know what your father used to say?"
He doesn't answer.
"That power attracts storms," she continues. "The question is not whether the storm will come. It's whether the house survives."
Her eyes return to me.
"I am trying to determine if you are shelter… or lightning."
The room goes still.
"I'm not trying to destroy anything," I say quietly.
"I don't believe you are," she replies immediately.
That catches me off guard.
"I believe you are unpredictable."
That lands harder.
"Unpredictable isn't the same as dangerous," I say.
"For legacy families," she says gently, "it often is."
Darian steps forward now. "She is not a liability."
Nandini's gaze softens — just slightly — when she looks at him.
"You once said the same thing about Riven."
Silence.
That was deliberate.
I feel something tighten in my chest.
"This isn't about Riven," Darian says.
"It never is," she replies.
She stands slowly.
"I did not come here to threaten you," she says to me. "If I intended harm, you would already feel it."
That is not comforting.
"I came," she continues, "because my son does not survive emotional collapse well."
Her tone changes there.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Concerned.
"I will not interfere," she adds. "But I will observe."
She walks toward the door.
Before leaving, she pauses beside me.
"Love is not the problem," she says softly. "Power imbalance is."
Then she leaves.
The door closes.
The apartment feels heavier.
I look at Darian.
"Was that a warning?" I ask.
He rubs a hand over his face.
"That was restraint."
I lean back against the wall.
"She doesn't hate me."
"No."
"She doesn't trust me."
"No."
A pause.
"Do you?" I ask.
He looks at me.
Really looks.
"I'm learning how to," he says.
It's not romantic.
It's not dramatic.
But it's honest.
And somehow that feels more dangerous than anything his mother said.