⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐.（2）˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
It was 5:00 AM.
The world outside was still wrapped in silence. No birdsong, no breeze. Just the soft, muffled hum of ceiling fans and the occasional creak of an old wooden frame.
But inside the room, Vidyut sat wide awake on the couch.
His eyes weren't red from crying.
They weren't bloodshot from anger either.
They were simply—
Tired. Overwhelmed. And hollow.
His gaze had not moved from her—Ritvika.
Lying still.
Her arms gently wrapped around Tara who was curled into her chest, sleeping peacefully now.
That peacefulness—he had learned tonight—came at a cost Ritvika never spoke of.
Vidyut hadn't slept all night.
Not even for a second.
Because hours ago, when he had stumbled upon those strips of medicine, something inside him had shifted.
At first, he tried to brush it off. But curiosity clawed at his chest.
So, he did what anyone would.
He clicked a photo of the medicines.
Sent it to his doctor friend.
And when the reply came back—
He stilled.
"These are medications for advanced cardiac conditions.
Looks like treatment for Dilated Cardiomyopathy.
Why are you asking, Vidyut?"
That name hit him like ice water down his spine.
Dilated Cardiomyopathy.
His fingers trembled.
He didn't want to believe it.
Didn't want to assume anything.
Didn't want to pin this terrifying truth on the woman who... who still hid pain behind half-smiles.
But the unrest in his chest wouldn't stop.
He searched.
Every drawer. Every corner. Every clue she might've left behind unintentionally.
And then...
He found it.
Tucked between neatly folded sarees, was a file.
The very sight of it made his throat go dry.
He opened it slowly.
And there it was—clear as daylight.
"Name: Ritvika Kapoor.
Diagnosis: Moderate Dilated Cardiomyopathy.
Symptoms: Shortness of breath, extreme fatigue, irregular heartbeats, fainting spells.
Treatment Plan: Lifelong medication. Regular monitoring. Possibility of advanced interventions."
He read it.
Again.
And again.
Ten times.
And every time—It said the same thing.
He had tried to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't hers.
But then, he found her diary.
Hidden away in the drawer beneath the mirror.
Leather-bound. Worn at the corners.
Its pages slightly curled.
Its ink stained in places... as if tears had dried on them.
And when he opened it—
The truth spilled out.
Raw. Unfiltered. Unbearable.
He read it all.
Her apologies to Tara.
Her fear of death.
Her guilt. Her isolation. Her breakdowns.
Her helpless efforts to be strong... for a daughter she didn't even know if she'd be alive long enough to raise.
Now, as the orange sun slowly touched the sky outside the window,
Vidyut sat there.
Still.
His eyes glued to her sleeping form.
His mind a riot of thoughts.
How long had she been carrying this?
Why didn't she tell anyone?
Why did she lie to him?
But more than anything—
Why did this truth hurt... this much?
The light in the room had changed.
The early morning sun filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden beams on the floor, on the walls—on her face.
Ritvika stirred.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
Breath shallow.
Limbs aching.
The world coming back to her in fragments.
She blinked—once, twice—and the blurred outlines began to take shape.
And then she saw him.
Vidyut.
Sitting on the couch.
Still.
Motionless.
Back slightly hunched. Hands resting on his knees. His suit jacket long discarded. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Eyes—
Eyes fixed on her.
Unblinking. Unreadable. Unmoving.
Like he'd been there all night.
Like he hadn't even breathed.
Confused, she blinked again, the heaviness in her chest pressing down painfully.
Her voice came out soft, hesitant... barely a whisper— "Aap?"
(You?)
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't even move a muscle.
He just kept staring.
As if the moment he blinked, she'd disappear.
As if something in him was still trying to register what he had seen... what he had learned.
And then—his lips parted.
His voice low, hoarse. Breaking at the edges.
"Yeh... yeh tumhari reports hain?"
("These... these reports... are they yours?")
No anger.
No softness.
Just a rawness that sliced through the silence like a blade.
Ritvika froze.
Her breath hitched.
She followed his gaze—and then she saw it.
The file.
Her file.
The one she had hidden.
The one that held the truth she had locked away from the world.
It lay open on the small table near him—every page unfolded. Exposed. Read.
Her heart thudded painfully.
Her fingers trembled under the blanket.
Panic rose in her chest like a tide.
How much had he seen?
How much had he read?
Her mouth parted, trying to find words... excuses... anything—
But nothing came.
Only the sound of her own loud, terrified heartbeat.
And Vidyut—he just stared at her.
As if waiting.
As if hoping that the next words out of her mouth would prove it all false.
Her throat burned.
Words clung to her tongue, heavy and dry, as she struggled to sit upright, her hands weakly gripping the bedsheet.
"Yeh... yeh reports... kahan se..."
("These... these reports... where...")
Her voice faltered. Her gaze flickered, blinking away the panic clouding her vision.
But Vidyut didn't move.
Didn't soften.
He stood up slowly, walked toward the table, and picked up the file—the open, damning truth.
And then the medicines.
He held both in his hands now, turned to her, and asked again—his voice no longer broken, but edged with something rough... raw... commanding.
"I'm asking you something, Ritvika."
"Are these yours?"
He held them up—files and tablets like loaded weapons.
His jaw was clenched.
Eyes dark.
Not angry.
But strained. Too strained.
Her lips parted again, blinking fast, trying to gather enough breath, enough courage to speak.
"Woh... woh... main..."
("I... I...")
She looked so lost.
So cornered.
Like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck that wasn't stopping.
But Vidyut didn't let her finish.
"Yes. Or no."
Sharp. Precise.
Each syllable landing like a blow.
Ritvika flinched.
Her spine stiffened, her mouth trembling.
The silence between them was a battlefield—filled with invisible fire and words that couldn't be unsaid.
Her fingers gripped the bedsheet tighter as tears welled in her eyes.
She didn't have the strength to lie.
Didn't have the energy to run.
Didn't have the will to hide anymore.
But she also didn't have the courage to answer.
And yet, he waited.
One word.
Yes.
Or no.
Ritvika tried to shift—her arms trembling, breath uneven—as she slowly sat up, inching toward the edge of the bed.
She didn't know what she was doing. Maybe trying to stop him. Maybe trying to hide what was already exposed.
Her eyes locked onto the reports in Vidyut's hand.
She moved.
She dragged her tired body forward, her fingers reaching out, desperate to grab the files from him.
But—
"Stop."
His voice sliced through the air like a whip.
She froze.
"YES OR NO."
That same tone. Commanding. Unyielding. Unforgiving.
She stilled completely.
Vidyut didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
He stood there—rigid, bracing for impact—hoping... stupidly hoping that she would say it wasn't true.
That these files were someone else's.
That the medicines weren't hers.
That this wasn't real.
That she was okay.
That she wasn't... dying.
But then—
"Yes."
It was just a whisper.
A breath. A ghost of a word.
But it shattered him.
That single word crushed every flicker of doubt.
Every wall of denial he had tried to build around the storm that had been brewing inside him since last night.
His heart dropped.
Yes.
These were hers.
The pills.
The reports.
The disease.
Hers.
He stepped back as if her truth had physically knocked him off balance, the papers trembling slightly in his fingers.
And she?
She sat there—silent, head bowed—her hair falling over her face like a curtain.
Not moving.
Not crying.
Just accepting.
As if she had no right to defend herself anymore.
And for a long moment... there was nothing but the loud sound of Vidyut's heart breaking in a room that had never felt colder.
The word had barely left her lips—
"Yes."
But it crashed like a storm in the middle of the room, thunderous in its finality.
Vidyut stood frozen, his breath lodged somewhere between disbelief and something unnameable. The reports trembled slightly in his hand—not from the fan... from his grip.
His throat was parched. Jaw clenched.
"Kab se?"
(Since when?)
His voice came out low. Flat. Too calm for the earthquake raging within.
Ritvika didn't move.
She didn't even blink.
Her eyes—wide, stunned—fixed on the papers in his hand, as if just the sight of them had stolen her voice.
He took a sharp breath and stepped closer, his tone turning colder now.
"Main pooch raha hoon, Ritvika. Kab se hai yeh... yeh illness?"
(I'm asking you, Ritvika. Since when... when have you had this illness?)
Still nothing.
Ritvika's lips parted, but no sound came. She looked lost—like her body was here but her mind was still catching up.
"Huh?"
It came out in a whisper—confused, stunned—like her ears couldn't believe what he was asking.
"Main dobara nahi poochunga."
(I won't ask again.)
His voice was sharper now. Firm.
Not loud, but laced with command.
"Since when do you have this?"
Finally—her eyes fluttered shut, and her lips trembled as she whispered:
"It's... it's been a week... I just found out a week ago."
Vidyut stared at her.
A week?
He looked down at the prescription again. The dates. The dosage.
It matched.
But that didn't ease the storm inside him.
"Aur tumne kisi ko nahi bataya?"
(And you didn't tell anyone?)
She didn't answer. Her silence was her confession.
Vidyut exhaled harshly, running a hand down his face. His heart was slamming inside his chest, not from rage, but confusion. Conflict.
He turned away for a second—just one second—to keep his face from giving away too much.
And behind him, Ritvika sat still... like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
The silence sat heavy between them. Thicker than before. Colder.
Vidyut turned back toward her, his eyes sharp now—emotionless on the surface, but brimming with something unspoken underneath.
"Tumne... kisi ko bataya?"
(Did you... tell anyone?)
Ritvika slowly looked up, confusion flickering in her eyes.
"What?"
He stepped forward again, this time placing the prescription and reports down on the table—right in front of her.
His voice was firmer now, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Your family... do they know? Your mother? Your father? Did you tell anyone or not?"
Ritvika lowered her gaze.
Her fingers clenched the edge of the blanket, knuckles turning white.
She didn't answer.
"Ritvika!"
Her name slipped out like a warning this time.
She flinched.
And then slowly, painfully, she shook her head.
"Nahi..."
(No...)
"Kisi ko nahi bataya."
(I didn't tell anyone.)
Her voice was barely a breath, but it echoed in his chest like thunder.
Vidyut's jaw tightened.
His eyes narrowed.
His mind was screaming.
"Why didn't you tell anyone? It's such a serious illness... and you— you stayed silent?"
She didn't reply.
What could she say?
That she didn't want to burden anyone?
That she was scared they'd treat her like a dying liability?
That for the first time in years... her daughter was happy, and she didn't want to ruin that?
But how could she say all that... when her voice refused to come out?
So instead, she just sat there.
Still.
Shaking.
Ashamed.
His voice cut through the silence—sharp, clear, but carefully controlled.
"Ritika... I'm asking seriously."
Main abhi tak patience se baat kar raha hoon, aur ab jo poochunga... uska jawaab sirf sach mein chahiye."
(I'm dealing with you patiently so far, and now whatever I ask... I want only the truth.)
She looked at him, her lips trembling slightly. Fear clouded her eyes—not of him, but of what might come next.
He took a breath.
"You said you only found out about this… this illness a week ago?"
She immediately nodded, breath catching in her throat.
"I... I swear... mujhe sach mein sirf ek hafte pehle hi pata chala... I swear I'm not lying."
("I... I swear... I actually only found out a week ago... I swear I'm not lying.")
But no sooner did the words leave her mouth, her chest visibly heaved.
Her breaths were quick. Shallow.
One hand moved unconsciously to her sternum, fingers pressing gently as if trying to ease the pressure.
Vidyut noticed immediately.
Her face had gone pale again.
"Ritika—hey, slowly," he said, stepping closer, voice low but steady now.
"Breathe. Deep breaths... dheere..."
She tried. She really tried.
But the sudden anxiety, the confrontation, the exhaustion—everything crashed into her like a wave.
Her hand shook.
Her lower lip quivered.
And for a second, he saw it.
The breaking point.
Vidyut's hand reached out instinctively and rested gently over hers, guiding her palm away from her chest.
His voice dropped to a whisper now—no edge, just concern.
"Ritvika..."
She blinked at him, trying to hold herself together.
He sat down beside her—this time not with anger, not with command—but something that bordered too closely on care.
"Theek hai... okay? Just tell me something..."
He waited for her nod. She gave it.
Vidyut's voice was low, but firm.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
She blinked. Slowly. Her gaze shifted toward the bed where Tara lay curled up, still asleep.
"Tumhare parents?? Kisiko bhi nahi bataya?"
(Your parents?? Didn't you tell anyone?)
Ritvika didn't answer.
Instead, she turned slightly, her hand moving to lift the blanket over Tara.
"Let me just wake her up... it's already—"
"Ritvika," Vidyut interrupted, his voice a notch sharper, "I'm not done talking. Answer me."
She froze.
For a second, she didn't even breathe.
Then she whispered, without turning around—
"Main bas... I didn't want to worry them."
Her voice broke on the last word.
Ritvika's voice barely escaped her throat.
"Main handle kar sakti hoon... you don't need to worry."
She turned away slightly, brushing Tara's hair with trembling fingers, trying to act like her world wasn't falling apart.
But Vidyut wasn't buying it anymore.
He took a step closer, his voice calm—but sharp enough to sting.
"Handle? Jaise kal kiya tha? By fainting on the floor for hours?"
Her back stiffened. She didn't turn.
"Woh... woh us wajah se nahi tha," she whispered, eyes cast down, "I just didn't eat anything, bas weakness thi."
Her words stumbled.
But Vidyut's eyes didn't miss the way her fingers curled into her palm. Or the flicker of panic in her eyes.
He knew.
She was lying.
"Enough," he said firmly, walking to the cupboard. "Get ready."
She turned sharply this time, surprised.
"Kya?"
(What)
"We're going to the hospital," he said, already pulling out a dupatta and setting it near her.
"Right now. No excuses."
Her lips parted to protest—but nothing came out.
She saw the finality in his expression. The way his jaw had tightened. His eyes cold, unreadable.
There was no point arguing anymore.
Because for the first time...
Vidyut Rajvansh had decided to care.
And there was no turning back now.
"Main kahin nahi jaa rahi."
Ritvika's voice was soft, but firm — or so she hoped.
(I'm not going anywhere.)
But Vidyut didn't even look at her as he pulled out a blazer from the wardrobe.
"We're going."
"Par maine... I've already gone for a check-up. Doctor ne—"
"I've talked to someone too," Vidyut cut in, his tone tight, holding no room for negotiation.
"He's a senior cardiologist. And he told me exactly what this illness is. It's dangerous, Ritvika. And you... you're already in the moderate stage."
She stiffened. Her throat tightened as she fumbled for words.
"You need a full review. Proper scans. A treatment plan. Not half-spoken lies and guesswork," he said, eyes briefly flickering toward her.
"Now, get Tara ready."
Ritvika blinked, lips parting to protest again—but she didn't. She couldn't.
What was the point?
She turned to the bed, her eyes moist as she bent slightly to lift Tara.
But before her hands could even wrap around the sleepy child, Vidyut's hand stopped her.
"No," he said, his voice calm but laced with command.
"Tumhari condition mein heavy weight uthana mana hai. I'll take her."
She looked up at him, stunned, lips trembling.
For a second, just a second, there was something unspoken in his eyes—concern? Guilt?
But it vanished too quickly.
He carefully picked Tara up in his arms, adjusting her sleepy body against his chest. The little girl murmured a soft "Mumma..." in her sleep, but didn't stir.
Ritvika silently picked up Tara's bag of essentials, her heart aching.
Because this wasn't just a hospital visit anymore.
This was the beginning of something she was never ready for.
The walls were pristine white, shelves lined with medical journals, a small potted plant by the window, and the faint humming of the air conditioner in the background.
Dr. Dhruv Maheshwari, one of the city's finest senior cardiologists, adjusted his glasses as he looked up from the reports.
Vidyut and Ritvika sat across from him, the silence heavy between them.
Tara sat quietly on Ritvika's lap, her big curious eyes scanning the room, tiny fingers gripping her mother's dupatta. There was no mischief in her today—just quiet alertness, as if even she understood something wasn't right.
Dr. Dhruv flipped the final page of the file before setting it down with a soft sigh.
"Hmm... these reports confirm Dilated Cardiomyopathy," he said, folding his hands calmly on the table.
"It's not in the severe stage, but moderate is serious enough. You've started medications, I can see."
Ritvika nodded faintly.
"Yes... only from 2-3 days."
The doctor's brows lifted slightly.
"And before that?"
"I didn't know... I mean, I just found out last week."
Dr. Dhruv offered a gentle nod, then glanced at Vidyut before asking,
"You fainted recently, right?"
Ritvika's hands stiffened slightly around Tara.
"Yes... actually I... I was feeling a little... chest pain, and weakness. I thought it was just stress or not eating properly..."
The doctor jotted something quickly on his pad.
"That's not uncommon. These medicines," he pointed to a list beside him,
"can cause fatigue, nausea, and dizziness—especially when started. But the fainting spell... that's concerning. Her BP must've dropped sharply."
Vidyut's jaw clenched faintly, but he didn't say a word—his eyes fixed sharply on every word the doctor said.
"Any swelling in feet? Breathlessness at night? Palpitations?" the doctor asked methodically.
Ritvika nodded softly,
"Breathlessness... sometimes. Mostly when I lie down straight."
The doctor made another note.
"Okay. I'm changing these medicines," he said, writing a new prescription,
"and adding something for your BP support. You'll need to be careful for the next few weeks. No stress, no physical strain. Absolute rest when needed."
He looked at both of them now.
"Someone has to monitor her. Meals should be regular, sleep on time. No lifting weights—not even the child for too long. And most importantly... avoid emotional triggers."
His tone turned firmer.
"Stress will make this worse. And if ignored... it can go from moderate to critical very quickly."
Vidyut remained quiet, but his shoulders had straightened now—more alert, more aware.
He was listening.
Carefully.
Every instruction, every line.
As the doctor wrapped up the consultation and handed over the prescription, his voice dropped softer.
"If you need counseling or support... don't hesitate to ask. Chronic illnesses can take a toll mentally too."
Ritvika gave a nod, her throat thick with unshed emotions.
She could feel Vidyut's stare on her face—calculated, unreadable—but said nothing.
As Dr. Dhruv slid the prescription papers across the table, he turned his attention toward Vidyut with a more professional tone.
"Now, Mr. Rajvansh, since your wife is on a strict cardiac regimen from today, there are a few lifestyle changes you'll have to supervise closely."
The words—your wife—hung heavily in the air.
Ritvika's fingers stiffened slightly on Tara's shirt.
And Vidyut?
He didn't flinch outwardly, but something in his jaw clicked. A pause. A subtle shift in the breath.
Not because the word was unfamiliar... but because, for the first time, it wasn't part of some forced arrangement or household announcement.
It came with responsibility.
With weight.
With reality.
Dr. Dhruv continued, unaware of the effect of those two words.
"Low-sodium diet. No heavy fried food. Greens, pulses, less oil. Avoid packaged items."
He tapped the paper.
"Strict meal times. Small walks—not more than 10–15 minutes. No stairs. And absolutely no stress. Understand?"
Vidyut gave a sharp nod.
Ritvika's eyes remained downcast, her heart pounding—part from fear, part from shame.
"Also, she'll feel dizzy often in the coming days. Don't let her move around much alone—especially with a child in hand. Make sure there's someone at home when she's active."
Dr. Dhruv's gaze flickered between the two.
"Recovery is possible. But this stage requires support — not just pills."
That word again.
Support.
The kind Ritvika never asked for... and Vidyut never thought he'd have to give.
For a second, neither spoke. Only Tara shifted on Ritvika's lap, mumbling softly under her breath, bored of the long talks.
"Are there any questions?" the doctor asked finally.
But Vidyut didn't respond immediately.
Because right now...
His mind wasn't on questions.
It was on a single, unexpected realisation:
She's sick.
Really sick.
And he was the only one... who knew.
Just as Dr. Dhruv was about to move on to his next patient, Vidyut leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, brows furrowed.
His voice was low—firm, focused, and laced with a kind of protectiveness he hadn't registered himself.
"You said no stress—but what if she doesn't sleep at night? She's been restless for days."
Ritvika blinked, surprised. Even the doctor paused, registering the question with a nod.
"That happens. The heart and brain are connected—restlessness, anxiety, insomnia are all part of it. Mild sedatives can be prescribed, but emotional stability matters too."
Vidyut nodded quickly, and continued:
"And these dizziness spells—how long will they last?"
"Depends on how her body reacts to the new meds. For now, avoid any physical strain—bending, lifting, sudden movements."
Another pause.
Another question.
"What if she feels breathless at night?"
His tone sharpened unconsciously.
"Do I keep an oximeter? Or should I take her to emergency?"
Ritvika's gaze snapped up to him—this man who had barely looked at her days ago was now asking all the right questions. For her.
Dr. Dhruv smiled slightly.
"Keep an oximeter. If her oxygen drops below 90 consistently or she faints again—don't wait. Bring her in immediately."
Vidyut didn't even let the silence settle.
"Is there anything she should absolutely avoid? Like... climbing stairs? Carrying Tara?"
He looked at Ritvika briefly—then corrected himself,
Ritvika's eyes burned suddenly. She looked away.
Dr. Dhruv's voice softened.
"Let her rest. You'll have to take over a lot of the daily load, at least for a few weeks. She's stable, but fragile."
And with every word, Vidyut—without even realizing—nodded like a man accepting instructions for someone who was... his.
Not because of a marriage certificate.
But because somewhere, he'd already taken the role.
Everything was going smoothly. Vidyut had asked all his questions, and silence settled in the room.
That’s when Ritvika finally spoke—her voice soft, but her words sharp enough to slice through the calm.
“What if I die?”
━━━━━━?? ━━━━━━