25.PLANNING
VEERANSH
I don't sleep. Not really. I lie on the bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the house settles into its night rhythm, distant footsteps, a door closing somewhere, the faint hum of electricity running through walls older than most people who fear my name.
Sleep would require quiet. And my mind refuses to be quiet. I see her again, the way her body sagged when dizziness took her, the way my arms caught her without thought, the way she fit there like she had always belonged.
That's the problem. I sit up abruptly, irritation tightening my chest. Belonging is a dangerous idea. I reach for the glass of water on the side table, take a slow sip, then another. It doesn't help. The dryness in my throat isn't physical. I told myself everything I did today was practical.
She was injured. She needed rest. The temple visit was a risk. Carrying her wasn't emotion, it was efficiency. That's what I tell myself. And yet. My jaw tightens. I remember the sindoor.
The moment the pandit handed it to me, I had felt something shift, not in my heart, but in my control.
A subtle tightening, like a lock clicking into place.
I hadn't hesitated because of ritual. I had hesitated because once I touched her there, something would become real.
And it did. I exhale sharply and stand, pacing the room.
Why did I notice the way her eyelashes trembled when I filled her maang.
Why did it matter that a little of it fell onto her nose.
Why did I remember my mother's words, a good omen, with irritation instead of dismissal.
I don't believe in signs. I believe in leverage.
Strategy. Cause and effect. But tonight, the house feels different.
Too aware. I step out into the hallway, my movements silent, automatic. I don't consciously decide where I'm going until I'm already standing outside her door. I stop. My hand hovers near the handle. This is unnecessary.
She's resting. She's safe. The staff will inform me if anything happens. I lower my hand. And still, I don't move away. I listen. Nothing. No sound. No movement.
I turn slightly, checking the corridor, empty.
Then, against my better judgment, I open the door quietly.
The room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp.
She's asleep. Curled slightly on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting near her chest. Her foot is elevated on a cushion, bandage clean and intact.
Her face is relaxed in sleep in a way I haven't seen before. No tension. No fear. No apology written into her posture. Something in my chest tightens sharply. I take a step inside before I can stop myself. Her hair is loose, spilling across the pillow, still faintly damp from the morning.
A thin line of sindoor marks her maang, darker now, settled. It shouldn't matter. It does. I stand there longer than I intend to. Long enough to notice the slight frown that creases her brows even in sleep. Long enough to register how thin she looks against the too large bed.
Long enough for a thought, unwanted, intrusive, to take root.
I stiffen. That thought doesn't belong to me.
I turn away abruptly and leave, closing the door quietly behind me.
Back in my study, I activate the security panel.
The cameras flicker to life across the screens, corridors, garden paths, entrances.
I tell myself I'm checking the perimeter. I zoom in on one feed. Her balcony. Empty. I switch feeds. Her door. Closed.
Another. Garden. Still. Only when I'm certain she's exactly where she should be does the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. This is vigilance. Not obsession. I summon the head maid again.
She arrives quickly, cautious. "Any change?" I ask. "No, sir," she replies. "Madam ate dinner properly. Took her medicine. She's sleeping now." "Good," I say. She hesitates.
"Sir, Madam asked if she could go to the garden again in the morning. Just to sit." My immediate response rises like fire. "No." The word comes out sharper than intended. The maid flinches. I exhale slowly, reining myself in.
"She can sit near the window. Not outside. Not alone." "Yes, sir." "And." I pause. "Make sure she doesn't skip meals. Or medicine." "Of course." The maid turns to leave, then hesitates again.
"Sir, she worries about bothering you." My jaw tightens. "She doesn't need to worry," I say flatly. The maid bows and leaves. I sit down heavily in my chair. Why does that sentence irritate me.
Why does the idea of her worrying about me feel wrong, like something is reversed, misaligned. I rub my face with both hands. This isn't how this was supposed to go. She was meant to be a means to an end. A signature. A name. A formality.
Not a presence that lingers. Not a silence that feels too loud when she's not in the room. Not a wound that aches in my chest when I imagine her falling again. Jealousy. The word surfaces again. I reject it immediately.
Jealousy implies competition. No one is competing. She is mine. The thought settles in my mind with disturbing ease. Mine to protect. Mine to restrict. Mine to control.
And control. Control is something I understand. I glance once more at the camera feed showing her door. Still closed. Still safe. I lean back, eyes closing briefly. I don't confess feelings.
I don't name them. I don't weaken myself by calling obsession what it is. But as the night stretches on, one truth becomes unavoidable. Whatever this is growing inside me. It isn't temporary. And it will not let her go.
Dinner is quiet. Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that waits for someone to say the wrong thing.
The dining table stretches long between us, polished wood reflecting the warm overhead lights.
My mother sits at the head, composed as always.
My sister lounges to her right, phone abandoned for once, eyes alert with curiosity.
I sit in my usual place. The chair beside me is empty. I don't look at it. "Bring Aarohi," I tell the maid calmly. The words land heavier than they should. My sister's brows lift slightly.
My mother's gaze flicks to me, not surprised, but observant. She notices everything. Always has. "Yes, sir," the maid replies, already moving. I don't turn my head when Aarohi enters. I hear her first.
The careful steps. The hesitation before moving closer. Then she's beside me. I feel it, the subtle shift in air, the quiet presence that has started registering before sound. She sits slowly, careful with her foot, her movements controlled like she's afraid of disturbing something invisible.
I glance at her. She's wearing a soft pastel kurti tonight, hair tied loosely, sindoor still present. Her face looks calmer than it did yesterday, but the shadows beneath her eyes haven't disappeared. She picks up her spoon. Eats slowly.
Deliberately. As if every movement is being graded. "You look better today," my mother says gently. Aarohi looks up and nods. "Yes, mother." The word lands again.
Mother. My sister notices it this time. I see the spark of surprise, and then delight, in her eyes. She smiles at Aarohi. "You're settling in quickly." Aarohi lowers her gaze, a faint blush touching her cheeks.
"I'm trying." The conversation drifts for a moment, about food, about weather, about trivial things that usually mean nothing to me. I watch Aarohi instead. She eats only half her portion before pausing. Pushes the plate slightly away.
I don't comment. I file it away. My mother sets her spoon down suddenly. "I think Aarohi should go on a vacation," she says thoughtfully. I look up instantly. The table stills.
"A vacation?" I repeat. "Yes," my mother nods. "She's been through a lot. A new place, a new life. A change of surroundings might lighten her mind. Her health will improve too." My sister's eyes light up immediately.
"Oh yes," she says excitedly. "You two have to go on a honeymoon." The word hangs in the air like a challenge. Honeymoon. I feel Aarohi stiffen beside me. I don't look at her, but I sense it.
The way her shoulders tense. The way her fingers curl into her napkin. I lean back slightly, expression neutral. "That won't be happening," I say calmly. My sister frowns. "Why not?"
"Because she's still recovering," I reply evenly. "Travel isn't ideal." My mother studies me. "Recovery doesn't mean isolation," she says gently. "A change can heal more than medicine." I hate that she's right.
"I can arrange something controlled," I counter. "Short. Safe." Aarohi finally speaks. "I'll go wherever you say," she says quietly. The words shouldn't affect me. They do.
Because she isn't asking. She's submitting. And something in that compliance twists uncomfortably inside my chest. My sister grins, clapping her hands softly. "See? She's ready. Just say yes, brother."
I don't respond immediately. My mind runs through scenarios with ruthless efficiency. Travel means exposure. Exposure means eyes. Eyes mean risk. Risk of what.
I don't know. And that's the problem. "I'll think about it," I say finally. It's a concession. Small, but deliberate. My sister beams like she's won something. My mother nods, satisfied.
"Good," she says. "Happiness shouldn't be forced. But it is necessary." Happiness. Another word I don't trust. Dinner continues, but I'm no longer listening. My attention keeps drifting back to the idea of her away from this house.
Away from my rules. My surveillance. My reach. The thought is unsettling. At the end of the meal, Aarohi tries to stand. I catch the movement instantly. "Sit," I say quietly.
She freezes, then sits back down, startled. "I'll call the maid," I add. My mother raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The maid helps Aarohi up carefully and escorts her out. As she leaves, my sister leans toward me, voice teasing.
"You're very attentive," she says. "Didn't know you had it in you." I don't smile. "Don't read into things that don't exist," I reply flatly. She chuckles. "Sure, brother."
Later that night, I find myself back in the study, staring at nothing. Vacation. Honeymoon. Words that imply closeness. Privacy. Space without walls. Space where I wouldn't be able to watch her every step.
I don't like that idea. I pull up files on my laptop, private resorts, secured locations, places where movement can be controlled without being obvious. If she goes anywhere. It will be somewhere I can still manage.
I pause. When did she become a factor in my decisions. I close the laptop sharply. This isn't emotion. It's responsibility. She is under my name now. Under my protection.
And protection sometimes looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like possession. I lean back in my chair, eyes closing briefly. My sister thinks this is romance. My mother thinks this is healing.
They're wrong. If I let her leave this house with me. It won't be for happiness. It will be because I need to see what happens when she's closer. When there are no walls. No staff. No witnesses.
And that realization. That I want to know. Is the most dangerous thought I've had yet.