27.KASHMIR
VEERANSH:
Night stretches longer than it should. I'm still in my room, suitcase open on the bed, clothes folded with mechanical precision. Shirts. Jackets. Files. Everything has its place. Everything is controlled. The phone rests between my shoulder and ear as I confirm details one last time.
"Yes," I say. "Early morning flight. Private terminal. No delays." A pause. "Hotel?" I listen, eyes flicking to the window where the city lights glow faintly in the distance. "Good. Increase security. Discreet."
Another pause. "No press. No leaks." I end the call and set the phone down. Kashmir is arranged. Flights. Hotel. Transport. Documents. Everything.
I zip the bag shut and stand there for a moment, staring at it like it's evidence of something I don't want to name. I haven't left this room for over an hour. Not because I couldn't. Because I didn't want to see her.
That realization irritates me. I roll my shoulders, grab my keys, and step out into the corridor. The house is quieter now, staff movements minimal, lights dimmed. I walk aimlessly at first, letting my thoughts burn themselves out.
Then I see her. She's standing near one of the pillars outside my room. No, not standing. Leaning. Her shoulder rests against the cold stone, head slightly bowed, hair falling forward as if holding herself upright is taking effort.
She looks tired. Not just sleepy. Drained. I stop without realizing it. "What are you doing here?" I ask sharply. She startles, straightening immediately, pain flashing across her face before she hides it.
"I." Her voice comes soft and broken, breath catching between words. "I wanted to ask." I step closer. "Ask what?" She swallows. "I packed all my clothes. But my documents... they're not here."
I already know. "I arranged that," I say.
"You don't need to worry." Relief flickers across her face, fleeting.
"Oh," she murmurs. "Okay." I watch her sway slightly.
"Since when are you standing here?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Tell me." "I came at eight," she says slowly, carefully forming each word.
"But you told me not to come inside your room ever. "
My jaw tightens. "So I stood outside," she continues. "Your door was closed. So I waited." I glance at my watch. It's past nine. Over an hour.
Something sharp twists in my chest. I remember the rules. The ones I dictated coldly on the first day, voice flat, eyes indifferent. Never enter my room unless called. Never question my privacy. Disobedience will have consequences.
I had spoken like a man laying down terms for a contract. Not like someone giving orders to a human being. She shifts her weight slightly, wincing despite herself. "I didn't want to interfere in your personal life," she adds quietly.
The words land harder than they should. Personal life.
I laugh under my breath, short, humorless.
What personal life? I look at her properly now.
She's pale again. Tired lines etch her face.
Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her like she's afraid they might betray her if she lets go. She waited. Because I told her to.
I don't say anything for a moment. Then, evenly, "Go to your room." She nods immediately. "Yes." "Be ready by seven," I add. "Sharp." "Yes."
She turns to leave, moving carefully, like every step costs her something. I watch until she disappears down the corridor. Then I turn back into my room and close the door. The silence hits harder this time.
I lean my forehead against the door briefly, then straighten as if caught doing something weak. This wasn't part of the plan. She was never supposed to wait for me like that. Never supposed to follow rules so blindly they hurt her.
I pull my phone out again and scroll to a number I haven't called in months.
One ring. Two. "Veeransh?" comes the familiar voice.
"This is unexpected." "Are you awake?" I ask.
"For you? Always. What happened?" I move to the window, staring out into the dark.
"I need to talk," I say. A pause. "Then talk. "
The words spill out slower than I expect. "I forced a marriage," I say flatly. Silence. "Explain." "I married her for property," I continue. "Used threats. Control. Fear."
Another pause, longer this time. "And?" "I hurt her," I admit. "Not once. Repeatedly." My grip tightens around the phone. "She obeys everything. Even when it hurts her. Even when it doesn't make sense."
"Veeransh," my friend says carefully, "are you asking for legal advice or moral absolution?" "I don't need absolution," I snap. Then quieter, "I need to know something." "What?" "Can someone forgive that?" The question hangs between us, raw and exposed. He exhales slowly. "That depends." "On what?"
"On whether you're asking because you want forgiveness, or because you're afraid she won't." I don't answer immediately. My gaze drifts unconsciously to the corridor outside, to where she stood for over an hour because of words I spoke without thought.
"I don't know," I finally say. My friend's voice softens. "That might be the most honest thing you've said." I end the call without another word. The room feels too small. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. Forgiveness. It's not something I've ever needed.
But tonight. Tonight, the idea that she might never forgive me doesn't feel like victory. It feels like something I won't be able to control. And that realization unsettles me more than any consequence ever has.
Morning comes before I'm ready for it. I wake before the alarm, the habit ingrained so deeply it feels instinctive rather than trained. The house is still dark, silent in the way only early mornings can be.
No staff footsteps. No voices. Just the low hum of the mansion breathing around me. I shower quickly, mechanically. Cold water. Sharp focus. I dress in layers suited for travel, dark shirt, jacket, watch clasped tight around my wrist.
By the time I step out of the room, I'm already composed.
Already in control. At least on the surface.
My bags are outside, being loaded into the car.
Everything is on schedule. She should be ready too.
Seven sharp. That was clear. I glance at my watch as I reach the hallway.
7:00 a.m. I stop. Her door is still closed.
I wait. 7:05. Nothing. A flicker of irritation rises, automatic, familiar, but it doesn't settle the way it usually does. Instead, it sharpens into something restless. 7:10. I exhale slowly and walk toward her room. I don't knock. I open the door. The sight inside stops me mid step.
She's standing near the mirror. Not moving. As if frozen. She's wearing a red saree, deep bridal red, draped carefully around her small frame. The mangalsutra rests against her collarbone.
Sindoor marks her maang, darker than usual, precise. The chuda circles her wrists, bright and unmistakable. She looks like she belongs to a moment far larger than this quiet morning.
She turns when she hears the door. Her eyes widen instantly. Fear flickers across her face, not dramatic, not loud, just there, sudden and instinctive. "I." Her voice trembles. "I'm so sorry. But."
She trails off, words tangling, breath uneven. I say nothing. I just look at her. Not because I'm angry. Because I'm caught.
She stands there like she's bracing for impact, fingers curling into the edge of her saree, shoulders tight, waiting for me to correct her, scold her, undo something she's already done. But there's nothing to undo.
She followed the instructions. All of them. Exactly. A maid slips past me quietly, heading inside to pick up her bags. I finally speak. "Let's go." Her head lifts in surprise. "You're not." "I said let's go." She nods quickly, relief flooding her features so fast it almost looks painful.
She walks toward the door carefully, slower than she probably wants to, managing the saree, her injured foot.
I don't rush her. Outside, the morning air is crisp.
The car waits. I open the door for her without thinking.
She hesitates, then gets in, settling awkwardly into the seat.
I close the door and sit beside her. The driver pulls away.
The mansion disappears behind us. For a while, neither of us speaks. The city passes by outside the window, waking up slowly. Then softly. "I didn't talk to Suhana," she says. "Can you give me your phone?"
I glance at her. "She said call me when you leave." I hand her the phone. She looks at the screen. "It's locked." "2289," I say. She freezes. "You told me the password?" "Yes." She doesn't ask why. She enters it carefully. The phone unlocks. She dials.
"Suhana," she says when the call connects.
"We're leaving early. I'm sorry I couldn't meet you.
" A pause. Her lips curve into a small smile.
"Okay. Yes. Thank you." She listens, nodding.
"You too." She ends the call and hands the phone back to me.
Our fingers brush briefly. She flinches like she's done something wrong.
Then the car window starts sliding down.
She startles, eyes widening. "How?" she murmurs, confused.
"It's opening by itself?" I notice her hand resting on the switch.
"Your hand," I say. "Where?" she asks, panicking slightly.
I reach over and gently move her hand away.
The window stops. "Oh," she whispers. "Sorry. I don't know the switch."
I say nothing. Because for once, silence feels safer than words.
The airport comes into view soon after. Private terminal.
No cameras. No noise. We move quickly through security.
She stays close, instinctively. On the plane, she takes the window seat.
I sit beside her. As the engines roar to life, she grips the armrest unconsciously.
The plane lifts. The city shrinks beneath us. She watches through the window, eyes wide, awe mixing with nervousness. I don't look at the view. I look at her reflection in the glass.
The red of her saree against the pale light. The way she presses her lips together when the plane tilts. The way she doesn't ask questions, about where we'll stay, how long we'll be gone, what happens next.
Trust. Or resignation. I don't know which is worse. As the plane steadies, she exhales slowly. Because I don't yet know what this trip will change.
Only that something already has. And I'm not sure I'm ready for what comes next.