56. LOST CONTROL
Four months passed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
They passed in shared spaces, unfinished conversations, and moments that almost meant something.
The house had settled into a rhythm that felt… dangerous.
Too comfortable.
Aarvi moved through it with ease now. Mo hesitation in the corridors, no stiffness at the dining table. She laughed more. Spoke freely. Teased Prisha. Argued with Vedant. And somewhere along the way, she had grown familiar with Yuvan.
Too familiar.
They sat together often—discussing random things, sharing inside jokes from the trip, laughing at the same stupid reels. Yuvan was easy, harmless, warm in a way that didn’t ask for permission.
Vivan noticed.
He noticed everything.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
Yuvan was family.
Yuvan was safe.
And yet—
Every time Aarvi laughed a second longer at something Yuvan said, something inside Vivan tightened.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Something worse.
Irritation.
It crept in silently, when Yuvan leaned closer to show her something on his phone, when Aarvi called his name casually, when she smiled without realizing how close they were standing.
Vivan never snapped. Never reacted.
He just… withdrew.
Answered shorter.
Stayed quieter.
Found excuses to leave the room when they were together.
And that irritated him even more.
Because he had no right.
Somewhere in between these days, Vivan and Aarvi's bond grew lighther. Vivan had told Aarvi about Kiara. About how it had ended. Aarvi had listened without judgment. Without questions. Just nodded once, soft understanding in her eyes.
After that, something eased between them.
The awkwardness that once hovered faded slowly.
They talked freely now, sometimes late, sometimes about nothing at all.
They teased each other.
Flirted, almost, light, careless, friendly.
Too friendly.
But when sometimes, someone would joke—
“You two actually looks good together.”
And both of them would pause.
Smile awkwardly.
Look away at the same time.
Only one month was left.
One month until this marriage—born out of obligation, silence, and misunderstandings—reached its breaking point.
Some days, Vivan looked at Aarvi and felt an unfamiliar pull in his chest.
Not desire.
Not possession.
Something deeper.
He noticed the way she tied her hair differently now. The way she argued with confidence. The way she met his eyes without flinching—and then looked away first.
At night, when the house was quiet, his thoughts betrayed him.
He remembered the weight of her in his arms.
The warmth of her breath against his neck.
The way she had trusted him without question when she was lost.
And then—
He remembered the rule.
One year.
Nothing more.
That knowledge scraped against his nerves whenever Yuvan laughed beside her.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Yuvan.
It was that he didn’t trust himself.
Eleven months were over.
One month remained.
And whatever this was—this pull, this irritation, this quiet unraveling—
It wasn’t going to stay buried for long.
Today was a normal day.
Morning light slipped quietly into the room as Vivan stood near the mirror, buttoning his shirt with practiced ease. He was already dressed—fully, properly—like always.
Aarvi was still inside the bathroom. Late, as usual.
Ever since the first day of their marriage, there had been an unspoken rule. Vivan never stepped out of the bathroom shirtless. Never lounged around casually bare-chested.
Not because he had to—but because he don't want her to feel uncomfortable or awkward because of him.
Before marriage, he used to sleep shirtless. Walk around without a second thought.
Now—he didn’t.
The bathroom door opened, steam escaping with Aarvi as she stepped out, towel wrapped around her hair, already reaching for her makeup pouch. She moved around the room like she belonged there. Like she always had.
Vivan frowned slightly as he glanced down at his shirt.
One button—missing.
He sighed, turning toward the cupboard to grab another shirt when.
“This one looks good,” Aarvi said casually, eyes on her mirror as she applied lip balm. “Why are you changing it?”
Vivan paused. “One button’s missing,” he replied, holding the fabric between his fingers.
Aarvi finally looked at him—and laughed.
She stepped closer, lightly poking his chest. “Hello, Mr. Rich. Instead of changing the whole outfit, you can just attach the button.”
Vivan frowned and smirked at the same time. “I don’t know how to stitch, Mrs. Rich.”
Something about the way he said it—so natural, so teasing—made Aarvi smile without realizing it.
Without another word, she turned toward the drawer. Vivan watched her, already knowing she will come up with some solution.
She pulled out a small box—old, slightly worn—filled with needles, thread, and spare buttons.
Coming back to him, she opened it and said without thinking, “Take off your shirt.”
Vivan raised his brows.
A slow smirk appeared on his lips as he began unbuttoning it, deliberately this time.
Aarvi froze.
“No—no—no, wait,” she said quickly, placing her hand over his. He stopped, brows raised higher now.
“I’ll attach it like this only,” she added, a little flustered. “Don’t… don’t remove it.”
Vivan shrugged, amused. “Okay.”
She stepped closer.
Very close.
Close enough that he could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her fingers brushed against his chest as she held the fabric steady. Aarvi focused entirely on the missing button, threading the needle carefully, her brows furrowed in concentration.
Vivan didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe properly.
He watched the way her lips pressed together as she worked. The way a loose strand of hair escaped her towel and brushed her cheek. The way she didn’t hesitate—didn’t feel awkward—being this close to him anymore.
Once, this distance would’ve felt impossible.
Now, it felt… familiar.
Her fingers grazed his skin accidentally.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
And instinctively, his hand reached her waist, fingers curling around her softly but firmly, pulling her back against his chest.
Aarvi hissed, finally looking at him with wide eyes.
“Vi… Vivan, what are—”
He shushed her, placing his finger on her lips.
His other hand began making slow circles on her waist, unhurried, deliberate, sending a sharp shiver down her spine. Aarvi looked at him—those innocent eyes, so open, so unaware of what they were doing to him.
He can’t.
Her being this close, this vulnerable. He can’t.
He leaned in.
Too close.
Now suddenly they could feel each other’s breath, warm and uneven, mingling between them. Aarvi gulped, placing her hand on his chest to make some distance, but she failed.
Instead, her fingers clutched his shirt, as if wanting more, as if asking without words.
His lips trembled.
He wanted to stop.
She wanted to push him away.
But the closeness, the intimacy—neither of them could pull away. Not this time.
Vivan pulled her closer, as if he was breathing from her, as if he needed her air to survive. Needed her. His hand slid up to her jaw, thumb brushing her skin as he leaned in more.
He tilted his head.
And Aarvi couldn’t control herself anymore.
This closeness was too much to fight.
She closed her eyes.
So did he.
They forgot the consequences.
They forgot their past.
It was just them.
He leaned in, their lips inches apart, almost touching—trembling, aching, desperate.
But they didn’t touch.
Instead, Vivan leaned toward her neck.
And the moment his lips touched her skin—that was it.
Aarvi shivered violently.
A gasp slipped past her lips.
“Vi… Vivan,” she whispered, almost inaudible.
And him—goosebumps erupted all over his body at her skin beneath his mouth. He sucked at her skin, a soft, unmistakable smooch sound filling the room. Aarvi clutched his shirt tighter.
This was the first time she had ever been this close.
This intimate.
His hand moved from her jaw to her nape, holding her there, pushing himself deeper into her skin.
This time, he took her skin between his teeth—biting lightly before sucking harder.
Aarvi tilted her head back instinctively, giving him more space. Out of pleasure. Out of desire. Out of wanting more.
Her hand slid into his hair, fingers clutching his strands, pulling him closer—wanting to feel him, the pleasure, the intimacy.
The pin fell from her hand—the one she’d been using to stitch.
But did she care?
Did they care?
No.
Never.
He bit harder this time.
Aarvi let out a muffled moan,
“Ahh—”
And he knew it then.
He had marked his territory.
He lifted his head slightly, eyes dark as he checked the mark.
It was there.
Red.
Obvious.
Real.
A slow smile curved his lips as he placed a long kiss over it, easing the sting, claiming it all over again. He moved lower—toward her collarbone
And then—
Someone knocked on the door.
Reality crashed in.
They pulled apart instantly.
Sudden awareness. Sudden guilt. Sudden heat.
Aarvi’s eyes widened.
So did Vivan’s.
What had they done?
It hit Vivan all at once.
Not because Aarvi had stopped him—
but because she had tried to.
And still… he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
The realisation twisted something painfully inside his chest. Realisation followed fast, sharp and suffocating.
The knock came again, louder this time.
Vivan turned quickly, his movements stiff, guilt clinging to him as he walked to the door. He opened it only a little—his body instinctively blocking the view inside, hiding Aarvi from whoever stood outside.
“Maa is calling you,” Vedant said from the other side.
Vivan nodded once.
He glanced back at Aarvi—just once. As if he wanted to say something.
Explain. Apologise.
But he didn’t.
Not this time.
He is too flustered to do that.
He stepped out and shut the door behind him.
The room fell silent again.
Aarvi turned slowly toward the mirror.
And froze.
Her neck.
The mark.
Fresh. Darkening.
His.
Her fingers rose to touch it without thinking. The moment her skin brushed it, she hissed softly—the pain sharp, undeniable.
A hickey?
Her stomach flipped violently.
She dropped her hand, staring at her reflection like she didn’t recognise herself.
She hadn’t stopped him.
Why?
The answer scared her more than the mark itself.
Her mind replayed the moment uninvited—the way he had held her, the way she had melted into him, the way her body had responded before her thoughts could catch up.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Her heart pounded.
This wasn’t just closeness anymore.
This wasn’t an accident.
She swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the mirror.
One truth settled deep in her chest—
This wasn’t just a moment.
It was a line crossed.
And there was no pretending it hadn’t happened.
Finally, Aarvi loosened her towel.
Slowly. Carefully.
She let her hair fall freely over her shoulders, fingers trembling just a little as she did—enough to hide the mark. Enough to pretend nothing had happened.
Then she moved downstairs.
Vivan was already seated there.
And the moment she reached the last step, her eyes found him.
Their gazes collided.
Just for a second.
Aarvi looked away instantly, her breath hitching as the weight of what they had done crashed back into her.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her kurti as she lowered her eyes, heat crawling up her neck.
And Vivan?
Shy—actually shy—Vivan.
His ears turned red first. Then his cheeks followed. He looked away quickly, running a hand through his hair as if that could cool the fire burning there. His heart thudded hard, uneven.
He wanted to apologise.
God, he really wanted to.
But how do you apologise for something that neither of you had stopped?
He didn’t know how to face her. Not after that. Not after losing control so completely.
Aarvi moved ahead and sat down—
Not beside him.
But beside Prisha.
The space between them felt louder than words.
Vivan noticed instantly.
Something sharp pricked his chest—irritation? hurt? guilt?—he couldn’t tell. But he swallowed it down, forcing himself to relax.
She’s flustered, he told himself.
Of course she is.
And she was.
Too flustered to sit beside him. Too aware of his presence. Too aware of herself.
Then,
“Aarvi, beta,” Pragya’s voice rang out casually, “tie your hair. Khane mein baal aa jaayenge.”
Aarvi froze.
Suddenly, she was aware of everything.
The room.
The people.
The eyes.
Her hand rose halfway to her hair, hesitation written all over her face. She opened her mouth to respond—
Nothing came out.
Her gaze flicked toward Vivan without meaning to.
And he was already looking at her.
Understanding dawned instantly in his eyes.
Before he could stop himself, words spilled out—soft, rushed, honest.
“Maa… let her,” he said, voice slightly uneven. “She—she’s looking beautiful.”
Silence.
Then “OHHHH—beautiful, haaan?” Prisha sang out dramatically.
Vedant whistled.
Aarvi’s cheeks flamed as she dropped her gaze, her fingers tightening in her lap.
And Vivan?
His ears turned an even deeper red.
But no one knew.
No one knew that their blush wasn’t because of teasing.
No one knew that it wasn’t shyness.
It was because of something else.
Something that had already changed everything—
Something very big.
Very intimate.
They left for office.
Ofcourse separately.
Aarvi drove her own car now—bought on loan, but hers. The decision itself felt like a quiet statement. Independence. Control. When she parked inside the company premises and stepped out, there was no hesitation in her stride.
Inside the office, everything felt… normal.
No whispers followed her anymore. No lingering stares. No hushed discussions about her and Vivan. The chaos had settled, and with it, the curiosity of people. Aarvi had stopped being news.
She moved through the corridors confidently, returning greetings, settling into her cabin, working with a calm authority that felt natural now.
Meeting Vivan at work had become normal too.
Walking into his cabin for discussions.
Talking to him openly in meetings.
Sharing professional opinions without lowering her voice.
She called him Vivan now—no sir, no formality—and no one questioned it anymore.
They both have lunch together. Conversations flowed without awkward pauses. No tension. No stiffness.
She was comfortable.
And he noticed that.
The way she spoke without thinking twice. The way she laughed freely. The way she no longer looked around before addressing him. Aarvi had found her place—both in the office and beside him.
Aarvi seated in her cabin longer than usual.
Lunch hour had already begun, and normally, without thinking twice, she would’ve walked straight to Vivan’s office. It had become… routine. Easy. Comfortable.
Today, it wasn’t.
The memory of the morning brushed against her nerves again—too close, too intimate, too real. Her fingers tightened around her phone as she scrolled once, then stopped.
She dialed Yuvan.
“Free?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
A chuckle came from the other side. “I am. Actually—” a brief pause, then, “I’m in Vivan’s office.”
Aarvi blinked. “Oh.”
There was a second of silence. Then she smiled—soft, instinctive. “Okay. I’ll come.”
She ended the call and stood up, smoothing her kurta, steadying herself before walking toward Vivan’s office.
Inside, Vivan sat behind his desk, files open, laptop screen glowing—but his attention wasn’t on either.
Yuvan stood near the couch, leaning casually, talking about something animatedly.
Then the door opened.
Without a knock.
Vivan’s gaze lifted instantly.
Aarvi stepped in.
For a fraction of a second, everything else faded.
Yuvan’s face broke into an easy grin. “Hey.”
He moved toward her without hesitation—and before Vivan could even process the thought, Yuvan wrapped her into a hug.
Not rushed.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Too long.
Vivan’s jaw tightened.
His fingers stilled on the desk, pen caught mid-air. The ticking clock on the wall suddenly felt louder than it should’ve. He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on them—not openly staring, but not looking away either.
A second passed.
Then another.
Something twisted low in his chest.
He cleared his throat.
The sound was sharp. Deliberate.
The hug broke.
Yuvan stepped back, still smiling. Aarvi did too—but she didn’t look at Vivan. Not even once.
She moved past him, settling beside Yuvan on the couch, folding her dupatta carefully over her lap.
Vivan’s gaze followed her unconsciously.
Why didn’t she look at him?
He shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders once, as if trying to ease an invisible pressure. His eyes dropped to the file in front of him, but the words blurred.
He wasn’t angry.
That was the worst part.
He was… unsettled.
The space she chose today wasn’t beside him.
And somehow, that bothered him more than it should have.
He tapped his pen once against the desk. Then again.
Stopped.
Lifted his eyes—only to find her laughing softly at something Yuvan said.
That tight feeling returned.
Stronger.
They were finally having lunch.
Vivan ate silently, mechanically, barely tasting the food on his plate.
His posture was composed, controlled—but his irritation simmered just beneath the surface, growing heavier with every passing second.
In front of him, Aarvi and Yuvan talked continuously.
Too easily.
Too freely.
Their voices overlapped, laughter slipping between bites, as if the room belonged only to them. Aarvi leaned slightly toward Yuvan while speaking, her expressions animated, eyes bright in a way Vivan hadn’t seen directed at him today.
He stabbed his roti a little harder than necessary.
Then it happened.
Yuvan scooped up some sabzi with his spoon, lifted it, tasted it first—face scrunching for a second as if judging the flavor—then, without a second thought, brought the same spoon toward Aarvi.
“Try this,” he said casually.
And she did.
She leaned in and tasted it.
From his spoon.
His leftover!!
Something snapped.
Vivan’s fingers curled instantly, fist tightening so hard his knuckles paled. His jaw clenched, muscles ticking as he turned his face away, eyes burning at the sight he refused to watch any longer.
His chest felt tight. Too tight.
Why did that bother him?
It shouldn’t.
It wasn’t wrong.
It was harmless.
Friends did that.
But the image burned anyway—her lips where Yuvan’s had just been, the intimacy of it casual, unthinking… effortless.
Vivan pushed the plate slightly away, appetite gone.
His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he inhaled slowly, trying to calm the heat raging under his skin.
He hated this.
Hated how possessive the thought in his head sounded.
“She’s not yours,” he reminded himself silently.
And yet—
His gaze flickered back to her once more before he could stop himself.
Aarvi was smiling.
Unaware.
And that made it worse.
~?~