Paris's Sunday morning was pleasant as the warm sun spread sunshine and warmth. Dewdrops glistered over the leaves of trees, plants, and flower petals as a remnant of last night's drizzle. Along with the chirping birds, there was hustle and bustle of people from all age groups. The fresh morning air rejuvenated everyone.

Many people, young and old visited the old park. As the mature visitors jogged, the elderly basked in the sun rays or had a chit-chat on benches as they feed the birds, and the youth were skating and cycling. Amongst the crowd, a middle-aged man jogged and occasionally greeted the familiar strangers. Since he was regular to this park for a long time, he had made few acquaintances.

At a point, he stopped and glanced at the fit bit attached to his wrist, then he adjusted his earphones and checked the time on his phone, before dumping it in the pockets of his grey Bermuda shorts.

After a few laps, he began gasping for breath and hastily stopped in front of a bench where he had placed his bag. His hands trembled as he unzipped the bag but managed to dig his hand inside. A second later, he pulled out the asthma pump and flopped on the bench, taking deep breathes as he used the pump. The gush of air into his lungs brought back life into him. He smiled wearily as he recollected his wife's words,

"How many times have I said don't exercise so much? You aren't young anymore. Consider your age, please."

After that, he stuffed the pump back into the bag and picked up a sport's bottle. He took quick gulps and poured some water on his palm. He sprinkled some water over his face and then wiped his salt and pepper French beard and ran his wet fingers through his greying hair. Clenching the water bottle tightly, he leaned against the bench.

Sometime later, he noted the time; ten am. Slowly, he got up, picked up his bag, and wore the sling of his bag. As he stepped out, he dialed his driver and asked him to come to the exit. Fortunately, he had to wait only for two-three minutes before he saw his Mercedes Benz stop in front of him. He opened the back door and got in.

"Take me home, Sam." He said while picking up the newspaper placed beside him.

"Yes, Mr. Ali." The young man nodded as he tugged on his driver's cap. He looked at his boss through the rear-view mirror and then began driving. Mr. Ali unfolded the newspaper and leaned against the seat. As the car moved, he began reading the newspaper.

Two security guards opened the long iron gate and the car entered the main gate. Sam drove the car through the long well-paved driveway. There were beautiful gardens on either side. Two men worked on the bushes whilst the water sprinklers drenched the freshly mowed grasses with water. A subtle scent emitted from the soil and grass.

The car stopped in front of the main door of an off-white marble mansion. Mr. Ali picked up the paper and the bag. He unlocked the door but before he opened it, Sam had rushed to his side and opened the door for him.

'Thank you, Sam.' He said warmly. Sam smiled and humbly bowed down a little. As Mr. Ali climbed up the small fleet of stairs to the main door, a butler came running to him. The man dressed in an ivory shirt, black waistcoat and pants extended his hand and Mr. Ali handed him his backpack.

"Take out my asthma pump from inside." He reminded, and the young butler nodded. Then, together they walked into the mansion.

"Zainab, Zainab." Mr. Ali called his wife and a minute later, he heard her voice from upstairs.

"I am coming, Rashid. Don't scream your heads off." A tinge of annoyance evident from her tone.

Rashid shook his head as he took his seat on the plush cream sofa. He rested his arm on the mahogany armrest and unfolded his paper. He continued to read the newspaper. As he read someone held the top of the paper and pulled it from his grip.

"Hey!" Rashid protested and frowned, - "What the hell, Zainab?" He said sternly. A woman dressed in plus size yellow uneven hem Tee and white cigarette pants glared at him with one hand on her hip and the other held the newspaper.

Rashid leaned, extending his hand, - "Give me back the paper."

"Shh, Rashid." – Zainab placed a finger on her lips and leaned, - "Maaz is sleeping, your loud screeching voice will wake him up." She said seriously.

Rashid sighed rolling his eyes, he extended his hand and seized the newspaper from her grip.

"Are you kidding me, Zainab? It is ten in the morning and your Saheb Zaida (Prince) is fast asleep." - He said, annoyed. Zainab frowned and rolled her eyes as Rashid began ranting, - "When I was his age, I had nothing in my pocket. But with my hard work, I managed to establish such a huge empire. When I came to Paris, I was young. I knew no one here. You remember how much we struggled. It was only you, me, and our five-year-old Mehnaz. If I behaved like that son of yours, we would have been begging on the streets or back in Indore—"

"Please stop. Rashid. Don't compare yourself with Maaz." Zainab interrupted him rudely. Rashid laughed sarcastically and then composed himself.

"Compare? Are you serious?" – He let out another amused laugh, - "There is no comparison between us. At times, I wonder if he is our real son or he got exchanged at the hospital." He scoffed. Zainab blinked angrily at him. Rashid leaned in his seat and placed his one leg over the other, resting his elbow on the armrest and held his forearm.

"Please get me juice.' He said with his eyes closed. Zainab kept glaring at him for a moment before turning around. She stomped her feet and grumbling to herself she marched towards the kitchen.

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Rashid entered the room and looked around. He found his son fast asleep on his round bed. The white sheer drapes fell over the bed. Many small pillows were surrounding Maaz as he slept on his stomach, his legs sprawled, and one cushion pressed under his arm. Just above the bedpost, was a huge black and white portrait of Maaz. Rashid looked at it. In the portrait, Maaz wore a suit and posed for the camera. His eyes twinkled as a bright, confident smile adorned his thin lips. A deep dimple visible on his left cheek, a gene he inherited from Rashid. His hair was gelled, and stubbles were trimmed. His figure was tall, fit, and athletic.

Rashid kept looking at the photo with pride. Even though he has a tom-jerry relationship with his son, he was immensely proud of how his son has grown into a young man. As he walked around the bed, he accidentally stepped on a dumbbell that lay lifelessly on the marble floor. He was about to slip but luckily, he grabbed one of the drapes. To steady himself, Rashid tugged on the cloth and it fell. Maaz was alarmed with it falling over him and sat up straight.

"What the ****," He said groggily. He blinked and found Rashid glaring at him. He bit his tongue and quickly removed the white transparent cloth from over him. He looked at his father with his eyes enlarged with horror.

"Dad!" He said. Rashid continued to glare at him, then his gaze fell on his son's bare chest and he frowned harder. Maaz looked down and quickly covered himself with the duvet.

"What is this, Maaz?" – He placed his palms on his hips, - "How many times I told you to dress properly and not sleep half-naked? There are few maids in the mansion, and I don't want them to see you like this." He scolded his son.

"Dad." – Maaz groaned ruffling his hair- "I am not a girl that you are telling me what to wear." He said in a sharp tone and threw his duvet off himself.

Rashid rolled his eyes, -"Girl or boy, both should dress decently." He advised his son. Maaz looked awaywith his eyebrows still furrowed. Rashid warned him to get dressed quickly andcome for breakfast. And when he turned to leave, Maaz began making faces behindhis back. Rashid sensed something and turned around, Maaz instantly fixed hisexpressions and smiled at his glaring father. He eyed him suspiciously beforeturning around and walking out of the room