A few days later, an extravagant celebration was underway. The grand estate was filled with his parents' family, cherished relatives, and esteemed high-ranking officers, all gathered to honour the birth of the next British Lord. Joyful melodies filled the air, while laughter echoed through the opulent hall adorned with shimmering chandeliers.

Distinguished gentlemen mingled with elegantly dressed ladies, and servants in crisp uniforms weaved through the crowd, balancing trays of delicacies and sparkling champagne. Months of meticulous planning had gone into this lavish affair, a true reflection of the family's prestige and hopes for their son's future.

She sat like the queen she was—proud and strong—Conrad in her arms, wrapped in a silk cloth. Her hair was braided with flowers, her sari brilliant red.

Theodore-Norman stood beside her in his best tux, smiling like a man who held the world in his hands. The councilman congratulated them. "His Lordship... a fine boy. Congratulations."

He shook Theodore's hand. Bowed to her respectfully.

"A perfect young lord."

"Thank you." His gaze drifted to the babe in Siya's arms, a small hand curled around her finger. A smile softened the sharp edges in his face.

"Our son."

Later that night, she nestled beside the sprawling window, lost in her thoughts. The glow of the silver moonlight cast a shimmering silhouette around her, illuminating the gentle curves of her figure. Cradled in her arms lay Conrad, a delicate bundle whose tiny mouth latched onto her breast, suckling contentedly. The soft rhythm of his hungry movements seemed to harmonise with the stillness of the night, filling the room with a sense of warmth and peace.

She barely noticed Theodore's footsteps, bare feet across marble, but the bed dipped as he sat behind her. One arm slid over her waist, his hand settling between her and their baby.

"Can't sleep?"

"No, I was thinking something. She leaned closer. Hair tickling her cheek. She could feel the heat of his bare chest against her back, his skin warm and familiar."

"About what?" he murmured, thumb tracing slow circles on her hip—gentle, soothing.

"We should leave from here, Theodore. Can't you just leave the side of the British government and let's go away from here? Things are changing soon; the country will be free, you know that too."

He went very still. His hand stilled on her hip. The silence stretched long, heavy—only broken by the soft suckling of their son at her breast.

Then, slowly, he turned her to face him.

Not harsh.

Not angry.

But with something deeper—something raw.

"You want me to walk away from my name... my title... everything I was born into..."

His voice dropped.

"And become nothing?"

She looked up at him—not afraid. Not pleading.

"Just be alive," she whispered. "Be ours. Not a lord. Not a soldier. Just... you."

A beat.

He closed his eyes.

"I am British by blood."

"But..." his voice cracked, "I am yours by choice."

When he opened his eyes again, they were wet.

"Then we don't wait for change."

His hand cupped Conrad's tiny head gently.

"We run before it comes."

"Yeah, let's go away to the South, let's lay low. For some time. I believe things are going to get super messy around."

He looked out the window—toward the dark horizon, where the wind stirred the tamarind trees like restless souls.

"South..." he repeated softly, as if testing the word.

"No grand estate. No servants. No title."

"A name no one knows. A child who grows up free of crowns and bloodlines."

His fingers brushed Conrad's cheek—so small, so fragile—and then found hers, lacing through them.

"You'll have to teach me how to live quietly," he murmured with a faint smile. "I've never been good at disappearing."

But then his voice hardened—low, certain.

"We leave in three days."

"Before council meetings resume. Before they notice what I've hidden... and what I plan to steal away."

His eyes met hers in the moonlight.

"I'm not running from duty anymore."

"I'm running toward my family."

And for once, he didn't sound like a lord.

He sounded like a man finally free.

He signed the resignation letter and delivered it to the queen's officials, intending to leave his duties at the British Raj and return to London with his family.

Three days later, they discreetly departed for the lush landscapes of southern India, leaving the impression that they had vanished back to London. The letter was crisp and final:

"I hereby resign my post and titles under the British Raj, effective immediately."

No explanations.

No drama.

Just a profound silence where a lord once stood.

In the soft light of dawn, they slipped away—

a quiet carriage,

a bundled child,

a wife wrapped in silk and secrets.

Southward they travelled—through thick forests, past sleeping villages, where English voices faded into Tamil songs on the breeze.

In Madurai, first—a small house behind a jasmine vineyard.

Then farther still—to a fishing village near Kanyakumari, where the sea met three oceans... and no one asked who they were.

They changed their names in whispers. Lived simply. He fished sometimes—with hands unaccustomed to honest labour but willing to learn. She taught children under banyan trees—reading not laws or loyalty—but stories of freedom and love.

And when Conrad laughed—chasing goats down dusty paths with sunburnt cheeks—

He didn't sound like Lord Norman's son.

He sounded like India.

They believed Theodore had returned to tea parties and Parliament shadows.

But he wasn't there.

He was here.

Kneeling in sand.

Washing clothes at dawn.

Holding his son beneath monsoon skies...

Finally free.

Months passed like sand through hours. Life was quiet. Simple. Every day was a new dawn, every night a new moon.

But not everyone was satisfied with silence.

She still helped the rebels. Fed them. Treated their wounds when they were hurt. Passed on messages she found in passing conversations or whispers. She was a ghost in the shadows—a rebel too. Just like him.

But he still watched her like a hawk. Guarded her like a jewel. Never truly letting go. Just like that, Siya gave birth to another son in the monsoon of 1946

Conrad was 2 and a half now. The monsoon rain fell in sheets—drumming on the tin roof like a thousand tiny feet. The air was thick with petrichor and salt from the nearby sea.

She laboured in their small room—candle flickering, wind howling through the cracked window.

He held her hand again.

Just like before.

No midwife.

No titled guests.

No soldiers at the door.

Only him, Mary—the old maid who'd followed them south out of loyalty—and Conrad, wide-eyed and quiet as he peeked in once before being sent to play with fisherchildren under sheltered eaves.

And then—

A cry. New. Stronger than thunder.

Another son. Slimy, red-faced, wailing into freedom.

He took him first—cradled him close against his chest—like he was holding something too precious to trust even gravity with.

"Another traitor," he whispered, voice breaking. "God help us both."

"Brother?" Conrad asked —one small finger reaching out to touch a tiny fist that curled around it instantly.

And she laughed—a sound pure as rainwater—as she leaned into Theodore's shoulder:

"Yes."

"You're not alone anymore."

Outside, the storm raged on.

But inside?

They were whole. He named him Dev, just like Siya wanted.

(Dev died in the battle between the police and the rebels. To honour him, she named her second son Dev.

Dev Siya Norman held the newborn—Dev Siya Norman—close to his chest, rain still tapping like prayers on the roof above.

The name sat heavily in his heart.

Dev.

Not just a son.

A memory. A fire that refused to die. A man who'd loved her... who'd fought for her people... and bled for a dream he'd never live to see.

And yet—

When she whispered it—the name trembling on her lips—he didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

He only nodded, quiet as monsoon dark, and said:

"Then let him carry your fire."

And as he placed little Dev into her arms—their second son with wide-open eyes, so unlike Conrad's green—he kissed her forehead gently.

"Not Dev," he murmured, "but my Dev."

Because this child wasn't born of war or loss.

He was born of love. Of choice. Of escape.

And though the first Dev had died fighting chains—

This one?

This one would grow up free.

Just like them all.

"They left behind palaces, titles, and thrones... for each other."

Should they hide quietly 🏡 or rise again ✊

Comment if you'd run for love... even if the world chased you. 🌍🔥