21. SITUATION
VEERANSH:
I didn't know why I was angry. That was the worst part.
Anger, I understood. I lived with it. I controlled it.
I used it like a blade, sharp, clean, precise.
But this... this was different. It burned without direction.
It pressed against my ribs, heavy and restless, like something clawing its way out.
I left her outside that room with her mother's tears still fresh on her face, and instead of relief, instead of satisfaction, I felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.
I stormed into my study and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the shelves.
The silence that followed was brutal. I paced once.
Twice. My fists clenched and unclenched like they were searching for something to break.
She had looked at her mother like the world still held meaning.
Like love was real. Like safety existed. And somehow... that infuriated me.
I stopped near my desk, dragged a hand through my hair, and exhaled sharply.
"Damn it." The room felt suffocating. The air too thick.
My pulse refused to slow. I pressed the intercom button with unnecessary force.
"Send her here," I snapped. "Now." The line went dead.
I leaned against the desk, staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
I didn't know what I wanted from her. I just needed her here.
Minutes passed. Too many. The door creaked open softly.
She stepped inside. Still in that saree.
Still fragile. Still looking like she might fall apart if the air shifted wrong.
Her posture was stiff, trained. Hands folded in front of her, eyes lowered.
She stood near the door like she didn't belong anywhere else.
"y...ou call me." she asked quietly.
Her voice was hoarse, but steady. That alone irritated me.
"Coffee," I said sharply. "Bring me coffee."
Her head lifted slightly in surprise. "N-now?" she asked.
"Did I stutter?"
She shook her head quickly. "I... I w-will," she said, already turning.
She walked carefully, slowly, like every step required calculation.
The saree restricted her movement. I could see it in the way she struggled to keep balance, one hand hovering near the wall for support.
She almost tripped near the doorway. I didn't move.
I didn't help. I watched. Because control meant not reacting.
Because if I reacted, I didn't know where it would end.
She disappeared down the hall. I exhaled harshly and sat down, fingers drumming against the desk. My thoughts were chaotic, media headlines, my mother's accusing eyes, Aarohi's tears soaking into her mother's shoulder. Weakness. I despised it.
The door opened again after what felt like too long. She entered slowly, carrying a tray with both hands. Her arms trembled just slightly, not enough to spill, but enough that I noticed. A cup of coffee. Steam faint but present. She walked toward the desk, eyes fixed on the floor.
"coffe," she said softly.
She set the tray down carefully. Too carefully. She took half a step back, waiting.
Something snapped.
She flinched immediately. "I—I'm s-sorry," she said quickly. "I w-walk slow in... in this..." Her words trailed off.
I stared at the coffee. My phone buzzled, a notification. The Singhania enterprise pulled back his offer with me. Cause he thinks the project will not profitable to him. That was it. The last thread snapped.
In one sharp, violent motion, I swept my arm across the desk. The tray flew. The cup shattered against the wall. Glass exploded across the floor. She screamed, not loudly, but sharply, ducking instinctively, hands flying up to shield her face. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
My breath came hard, uncontrolled. She froze where she stood, eyes wide, body shaking violently. I slammed my palm onto the desk again and hissed sharply. A sharp pain sliced through my hand.
Blood.
I looked down. A shard of glass had cut into my skin, thin but deep enough to bleed steadily. The sight of it grounded me for half a second. She noticed immediately. Her fear shifted, something else replaced it.
Concern.
Before I could stop her, she moved.
"No," I started.
Too late.
She rushed forward, kneeling beside me, saree pooling awkwardly around her feet. "Y-your h-hand," she whispered urgently. "Y-you're b-bleeding."
"Leave it," I snapped. "Get out before I lose all control and harm you."
She didn't listen. She never listened when it mattered. She grabbed a handkerchief from the tray, untouched by the destruction, and pressed it gently against my palm. Her touch was light. Careful. Infuriating.
"I s-sorry," she murmured, eyes focused on my wound. "I d-didn't w-mean t-to..."
I yanked my hand back. "I said leave!" I barked.
She flinched, but stayed. Instead, she hurried to the cabinet, grabbed a bandage with shaking fingers, and came back. She wrapped it around my hand gently, painfully slow, like she was afraid I might shatter again. Her breath trembled with every movement.
"You should... c-cover it," she whispered. "It c-can g-get infected."
Something twisted violently in my chest. I looked at her, really looked. Her hands shaking. Her eyes red. Her voice barely holding together. And yet she was kneeling on broken glass for me.
Before I could say anything, the door opened.
"What is going on in here?"
My mother's voice cut through the chaos. She stepped inside and stopped short. Her eyes took in everything at once. The shattered glass. The overturned tray. The blood-stained handkerchief. Aarohi kneeling at my feet. Her gaze snapped to me.
"Veer."
Then to Aarohi.
"My child, don't move!"
Too late.
Aarohi turned instinctively toward her. "M-ma'am, w-wait."
My mother stepped forward and gasped sharply. She had stepped on a shard of glass.
"No!" Aarohi cried.
She lunged forward without thinking, grabbing my mother's arm to steady her. But her own foot came down wrong. She cried out sharply. I saw it instantly. A piece of glass embedded in her foot. Blood spreading against the white marble.
The room froze.
My mother panicked instantly. "Aarohi! Oh god, your foot!"
Aarohi shook her head, pain etched across her face. "I-it's o-okay," she whispered. "P-please... d-don't s-step... th-there."
She was still protecting someone else. Even now.
My chest tightened violently.
For the first time, I felt something dangerously close to fear.
Blood on marble is louder than shouting.
It spreads fast. Unforgiving. Impossible to ignore.
My eyes locked onto her foot before my mind caught up with the reality of it, the shard embedded near her heel, crimson blooming against the pale floor, her toes curling instinctively in pain she was trying desperately not to show.
She didn't scream.
That, more than anything, unnerved me.
My mother's breath hitched. "Oh god, Aarohi, don't move. Don't move at all."
Aarohi shook her head weakly, her grip tightening around my mother's wrist as if she was the one afraid the other might fall. "I-it's f-fine," she whispered, voice shaking violently. "P-please... d-don't s-step... th-there."
She was bleeding. She was hurt. And she was still worried about someone else.
Something inside me snapped, cleaner, sharper than anger.
"Enough."
My voice cut through the room like a command issued on instinct.
Both of them froze.
I crossed the room in two strides, crouching in front of Aarohi before anyone could object. Glass crunched under my shoes as I pushed pieces aside with my foot, clearing space.
"Sit," I ordered.
She looked at me, startled.
"I said sit," I repeated, firmer.
Her body obeyed before her fear could catch up. She lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the couch, hands gripping the fabric tightly, knuckles white.
My mother stared at me like she didn't know who I was anymore. "Veer..."
"Not now," I said sharply, not looking at her. "Call the doctor. And tell the staff to clear this room. Carefully."
She hesitated, then nodded and stepped back, already issuing instructions to the staff waiting anxiously outside.
The room emptied fast. Too fast. Too quiet.
I knelt in front of Aarohi again.
She tried to pull her foot back. "D-don't," she whispered. "Y-you'll... c-cut y-yourself."
The words landed somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
"Stay still," I said.
She did.
I examined the wound with a clenched jaw. The glass wasn't large, but it was lodged deep enough that pulling it out without care would worsen the bleeding.
"You should've told me," I muttered.
Her eyes flickered up. "I t-tried," she said softly. "I d-didn't w-want t-to... c-cause m-more t-trouble."
Trouble.
That was what she thought she was.
I reached for the first-aid kit on the side table, ripping it open with one hand. Clean cloth. Antiseptic. Tweezers. My hands, steady in boardrooms, in negotiations, in hostile takeovers, paused for half a second.
This wasn't a deal.
This was a human being.
I looked at her face. She was pale. Sweat beaded at her temple. Her lips trembled as she fought to stay quiet.
"This will hurt," I said flatly.
She nodded once. "I k-know."
I removed the glass carefully. She gasped sharply, fingers clawing into the cushion, but she didn't scream. Not even when blood flowed faster, staining my fingers red.
My chest tightened painfully.
I cleaned the wound, wrapped it carefully, tighter than necessary, but secure.
"You should've been wearing footwear," I snapped, irritation bleeding into my voice.
She flinched immediately. "I—I d-didn't w-want t-to... d-dirty the f-floor," she whispered.
The absurdity of it hit me like a blow.
Dirty the floor.
I stood abruptly, turning away before my expression betrayed something I didn't understand.
"Sit here," I said. "Don't move."
She nodded quickly, obedient.
My mother returned then, doctor in tow, panic etched deep into her face. "Oh my god," she breathed when she saw the bandage. "My child... are you alright?"
"I—I'm f-fine," Aarohi said automatically.
The doctor knelt to check the wound, nodding approvingly at the bandage. "You did well," he said to me. "She's lucky it didn't hit deeper."
Lucky.
The word echoed mockingly.
The doctor continued examining her, checking her pulse, her temperature, her throat.
"She's exhausted," he said finally. "Physically and emotionally. Her body is running on stress. She needs rest. And calm."
Calm.
In my house.
My mother's gaze hardened as she looked at me. "Did you do this?" she asked quietly.
The room stilled.
Aarohi's head snapped up. "N-no," she said quickly, panic flashing across her face. "It w-was a-accident."
My mother didn't look convinced.
I didn't answer.
Silence stretched.
The doctor cleared his throat. "I'll prescribe pain medication and antibiotics. She shouldn't put weight on that foot tonight."
My mother nodded. "I'll take her to her room."
"No," I said immediately.
Both of them looked at me.
"She'll stay in the guest suite near the medical wing," I added. "It's closer. Easier to monitor."
Aarohi looked confused.
My mother studied me carefully, searching for cruelty, for control, for motive.
Finally, she nodded. "Fine."
The doctor left. The staff moved quietly, cleaning the glass with reverence now, as if afraid the floor itself might bleed again.
My mother helped Aarohi up slowly.
"Aarohi, lean on me," she said gently.
Aarohi hesitated, then glanced at me, uncertain.
I held her gaze for a moment.
Then nodded once.
She leaned on my mother.
As they walked out, Aarohi looked back at me.
Just once.
There was no fear in her eyes this time.
Only something quieter.
Confusing.
Unsettling.
The door closed behind them.
I stood alone in the wreckage of my study. Broken glass. Blood stains. An overturned tray. Evidence.
I pressed my bandaged hand against the desk, breathing slowly, trying to regain control.
I had told her to leave.
She didn't.
She had chosen to stay. Chosen to help. Chosen to bleed.
For me.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I stared at the floor for a long time before whispering, so quietly even I barely heard it.
"What are you doing to me, Aarohi?"
No answer came.
But for the first time since this marriage, I wasn't sure I wanted the silence back.