⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
And then—
"What if I die?"
The words weren't loud.
They weren't even meant to interrupt.
But they did.
Everything stopped.
Doctor Dhruv looked up from his notes, brows furrowing slightly. His pen hovered in mid-air.
Vidyut turned toward her sharply.
And for a moment, no one spoke.
"Ritvika," Vidyut said, his voice dangerously low.
"Don't"
But her gaze was fixed—on the wall, on nothing, on everything she didn't have the courage to speak aloud.
She gave a light shrug, not meeting his eyes.
"I'm just being realistic."
Vidyut's jaw clenched.
"You're being reckless," he snapped.
She looked at him now—calm, as if she had made peace with a storm he was only just recognizing.
"You're not dying."
The finality in his voice made her blink.
He leaned slightly forward, his hand braced on the armrest between them—not touching her, but close enough for her to feel the charge.
"You will take your medicines. Follow every damn instruction. Do your tests. We're not entertaining any of this nonsense. Not here. Not now."
She didn't reply.
But her silence wasn't resistance—it was exhaustion.
The doctor cleared his throat softly, bringing back the clinical air of the room.
But Vidyut's eyes remained on her.
Stubborn.
Unblinking.
Commanding life back into her without even realizing it.
We came out of the hospital... and sat in the car.
Silence stretched thick in the air.
I didn't say anything wrong inside.
All I did was ask a question.
A valid one.
"What if I die?"
Who will take care of Tara?
Who will hold her when she cries? Comb her hair? Put her to sleep?
She's just two.
She won't even remember me properly.
It hurts. Just thinking of it crushes my chest more than this damn illness ever could.
I wanted to ask more.
How much time do I have?
What if I never wake up one day?
What will this treatment cost?
Because... I don't have money.
Not enough to survive. Not enough to save myself.
So yes, I needed to know.
But he—Vidyut—he didn't let me.
The moment those words left my mouth, he pulled me out of the cabin. His eyes... blank. His voice, cold. His grip, tight on my wrist.
I don't understand him.
He's cold. Always has been. Harsh. Unbothered. Distant.
But today morning...
He was different.
Not warm, no. But strange.
He stopped me from lifting Tara.
He took me to the hospital without arguments.
He asked the doctor questions. Like—like I was his wife. Like I mattered.
No.
No.
It can't be care. Not from Vidyut Rajvansh.
He will never—never—care for me.
But... then why?
Why did he buy those medicines for me?
Why did he look at me like that—like he wasn't furious, just... confused? Lost?
I sighed quietly and turned my head toward the window.
I'll need to check the bills for the medicines.
I know they must have been expensive.
Last time, I bought tablets for 5 days and it cost me around ?14,000.
And today's dosage?
They gave too many...
It must've been far more.
I was still drowning in my thoughts—questions stabbing at my heart, one after the other—when the car came to a halt.
I blinked, straightening a little, and looked around.
This... this wasn't home.
This wasn't his mansion.
Then why did we stop here?
My heartbeat skipped. A strange panic settled in my chest.
Was he... was he going to drop us here?
Has he gotten tired of us?
No, no, please no—
I looked toward him nervously, but before I could ask anything, he pushed his door open and stepped out. I watched silently, my hands automatically going to Tara's back as she dozed off in my lap.
And then I saw it.
An ice cream shop.
He was walking straight toward it.
Shrugging quietly, I sat still inside the car. He didn't say anything to me... didn't ask me to come along. Maybe it was just for him. Maybe he needed a break from all this.
But a few minutes later, he returned—this time walking straight to our side of the car. He opened the passenger door, leaned slightly, and asked plainly:
"Which flavour will she like?"
I blinked.
"Huh?" I whispered.
"Flavour. Ice cream flavour."
My gaze fell on the ice cream cones in his hand.
He... he bought it for Tara?
My lips parted to say something, but no words came out.
My throat dried.
My eyes stung.
And then the realization hit me.
She's never had one.
Never. Not even once.
My face must've dropped its colour in that very moment, because I saw him frown faintly in confusion.
I gulped.
How do I tell him?
How do I tell him that my daughter doesn't even know the taste of ice cream?
How do I explain that her mother wasn't even capable enough—independent enough—to give her daughter that one simple childhood joy?
Every time I brought something for Tara...
Maa snatched it away.
Saying, "Don't spoil her, Ritvika. She's already a burden enough."
"She's not your princess. Don't treat her like one."
I couldn't say a word back then.
I was helpless. Dependent. Weak.
And Tara... she just learned to stay silent too.
I looked up at him again, the question still lingering in his eyes.
But all I could do...
was lower mine.
"She will not have it," I said quickly, my voice a little rushed—trying to stop him before he could come any closer.
But before I could even explain why...
Tara, curled peacefully in my lap a moment ago, suddenly lifted her tiny arms with excitement.
"Big man... big man hold..."
She blabbered with a sleepy smile, her arms stretching out toward Vidyut like she had been waiting for him all day.
I looked at her in confusion.
And then—
To my utter shock—
Vidyut stepped forward and scooped her into his arms.
As naturally as if he had done it a thousand times before.
And then... he did something that made my heart stop.
He handed her the chocolate-flavoured ice cream.
Just like that.
No questions. No hesitation. No warnings.
As if she always had the right to things like this.
As if she wasn't deprived of the simplest joys.
I sat there frozen... watching Tara's little fingers clutch the cone with awe, her wide eyes gleaming as she looked at the treat...
She looked up at him, a tiny grin on her lips.
And in that moment—
It hit me.
This was her first ice cream.
Her first ever ice cream.
And not from me.
But from him.
From the man I thought would never care.
"I bought the right ice cream. She likes chocolate,"
Vidyut's voice pulled me back from the haze of my thoughts.
I blinked, startled, and looked up at him.
He was already looking at me.
There was something in his gaze—
Maybe curiosity...
Maybe expectation...
Like he was waiting for a reply.
"Um... voh... I... I don't know what she likes, so..."
I mumbled, my words broken, ashamed of how true they were.
My voice didn't rise properly—didn't even reach his ears fully.
He didn't react.
Didn't ask again.
Didn't push.
Good for me.
Because if he had heard it...
If he had really heard it—
He would've known.
Known that I didn't even know the flavour my own daughter liked.
And what kind of mother doesn't know that?
I looked at Tara again—her little lips smudged with chocolate, eyes gleaming like the world had finally given her a piece of happiness she was craving.
I blinked away the sting in my eyes.
And silently turned my face toward the window.
Because if I stayed looking at them a second longer,
I might've broken.
I don't know what hit me harder.
The sight of her unconscious on the floor night ago...
Or the medical report I found the next morning, tucked away in a drawer like it was some useless piece of paper—not a damn bomb about to explode in our lives.
Dilated cardiomyopathy.
A heart condition.
Serious.
Chronic.
Dangerous.
I had read that word over and over again on the report, hoping—praying—that somehow it would change, disappear, turn into something else. Something less frightening.
But no.
Every time I blinked, it was still there.
The diagnosis.
The medicines.
The dosage.
The warnings.
And then her diary...
Those pages were soaked with pain. Not ink.
A mother writing to her child.
Preparing her daughter for a life... without her.
I didn't want to believe it.
Still don't.
Maybe that's why I took her to the hospital today.
Not just for her.
For me.
To confirm the truth my mind was still refusing to accept.
And when the doctor called her—"your wife"—something in me shifted.
Something tightened.
I didn't correct him.
Didn't even flinch.
Instead, I asked the questions.
Every single one.
As if I had the right.
As if I was... her husband.
As if... I cared.
And when she asked—"What if I die?"
I froze.
Not because of the words.
But because of the terrifying possibility that they might come true.
That maybe... someday soon... she won't be here.
And Tara would be alone.
I didn't know what to say.
So, I pulled her out of that room before she could say anything else.
We were in the car. Silent.
And that silence?
It was loud.
Deafening.
She didn't say a word.
But I knew she was thinking too much.
I could see it in the way she looked out of the window.
The way her arms wrapped tightly around Tara.
And then I did something I never thought I would do.
I stopped the car.
Walked out.
Straight into the ice cream shop.
I don't even know why.
Maybe because Tara had been through enough.
Maybe because... I needed to see her smile.
I came back with two cones.
One in each hand.
Opened her door and asked,
"Which flavour would she like?"
And when Ritvika's face dropped, something clicked.
Something... didn't feel right.
She hesitated.
Eyes wide.
Like I'd just handed her a grenade, not a cone.
And when Tara, in her usual bubbly innocence, reached out for me saying, "Big man... big man hold,"
I didn't think twice.
I picked her up.
Gave her the chocolate cone.
And as Tara giggled, licking the chocolate cone with pure delight,
I turned my gaze to Ritvika.
She just sat there.
Still.
Silent.
Blank.
So I asked,
"She likes chocolate, right?"
And her response—
"Um... voh... I don't know what she likes, so..."
She stumbled over her own words.
Didn't even meet my eyes.
And that—
That made something shift inside me.
She didn't know what her daughter liked?
Her own daughter?
My brows pulled together.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel just slightly.
That one sentence...
refused to leave my mind.
Why doesn't she know?
Why... doesn't a mother know her own child's favourite?
A quiet suspicion started to rise in my chest.
I didn't say anything.
But I didn't ignore it either.
They entered the house quietly—Tara nestled in Vidyut's arms, her head now resting sleepily against his shoulder. The rare peace on her tiny face made the silence feel warmer than usual.
Ritvika followed behind, her footsteps hesitant but steady.
Vidyut climbed the first few stairs without turning back, but halfway through, he paused.
His brows furrowed.
The soft sound of footsteps made him glance over his shoulder.
Ritvika.
She was ascending too—one hand on the railing, a quiet exhaustion in her movements.
"Wait."
His voice was firm but not loud.
She froze mid-step.
"Doctor ne kaha tha—you're not supposed to take stairs," he added, turning fully now to face her.
Ritvika blinked, unsure whether to argue or explain. Her hand loosened on the railing.
Before she could respond, he shifted Tara slightly in his arms and said—
"Come. There's a guest room on the ground floor. You'll rest there."
His tone allowed no protest. It wasn't a request. It was a decision.
And she knew arguing would mean nothing.
She gave a tiny nod.
Vidyut turned again, but this time didn't walk ahead. He waited—for her to come back down safely.
That moment—brief and wordless—spoke louder than anything else.
Vidyut led her into one of the guest rooms on the ground floor—quiet, neatly arranged, smelling faintly of fresh linen and sandalwood polish.
Without saying a word, he walked over to the bed and gently laid Tara down. The child stirred slightly but didn't wake, her small body curling under the weight of sleep.
He pulled the blanket over her carefully, tucking it around her shoulders with a precision that felt oddly practiced... or perhaps instinctive.
Ritvika stood near the door, unsure whether to step forward or stay still. Her body ached, but something inside her was heavier than her limbs—the confusion, the silence, the unfamiliarity of this moment.
Vidyut didn't say anything.
He walked past her and left the room.
Her breath hitched for a second—was he upset again?
She looked down at Tara and slowly moved to sit beside her, brushing her tiny curls off her forehead.
Just then—
The door creaked open again.
She turned around, startled.
Vidyut stood there with a glass of water in his hand.
"Paani."
(Water.)
One word. No expression.
He didn't meet her eyes as he walked in and placed the glass on the side table next to her.
Vidyut didn't walk out this time.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. His voice was low, sharp, and quick.
"Bring the medicines I gave you earlier. Now."
Within minutes, one of the staff members arrived with a brown paper bag—neatly packed, sealed from the pharmacy.
Vidyut took it from his hand and closed the door behind him.
Ritvika watched silently, unsure of what to expect.
He walked to the side table, opened the packet, pulled out a strip, and carefully checked the label. Then, without saying a word, he poured water into the glass and held out a tablet to her.
"Afternoon dose," he said, curt and firm.
Her hand shook slightly as she took it from him, her eyes cautiously flickering to his face—but his expression gave nothing away.
After she swallowed the medicine, he quietly gathered the rest of the strips, placing them into the drawer beside the bed. Then, straightening up, he spoke again.
"Let me shift our things here in this room."
That one word stopped her.
She blinked, confused, caught off guard.
"Our?" she whispered, her voice brittle.
He didn't turn to her fully, just nodded faintly and said flatly,
"You don't need to leave your room. Me and Tara will stay here. You can stay in your room. Besides, Lata kaki isn't home, so no one will tell Maa."
My head snapped toward her.
Ritvika.
She said it so casually—"You don't need to leave your room..."
I stared at her, blinking once. Then twice.
Excuse me?
What kind of twisted kindness was this?
Why is she suddenly acting like she's the homeowner offering me a spare guest room?
"You don't need to leave your room..."
Why?
Why shouldn't I shift to this room?
I folded my arms like a villain from a saas-bahu serial.
Logically, yes, my room is bigger.
It has my wardrobe, my air purifier, my three types of pillows for three types of moods, and my perfectly positioned charger next to the left side plug point.
But.
But.
I glanced behind me.
Tara.
She was now comfortably sprawled across the middle of the bed, one chubby arm flung across my pillow, snoring softly with her mouth slightly open like she had conquered the world.
My heart did a weird thing.
I cleared my throat.
Also... this room is closer to the kitchen.
Tara wakes up in the middle of the night asking for random things—milk, water, sometimes even "Biiiiig Man"
So if I stay here, it's... efficient.
Purely efficient.
But
I was supposed to say "great idea", march back to my room, and enjoy my five-star mattress in full king-size glory. But my feet didn't move. At all.
Instead, I blurted out,
"I'll stay here. With Tara. She gets scared without me at night."
And as soon as I said it—I wanted to whack my head against the wall. Who even says that?
Ritvika gave me that tiny, confused look—brows furrowed, lips parting to ask the obvious.
I quickly added,
"Besides, this room is on the ground floor. Doctor said you shouldn't climb stairs unnecessarily. What if Tara needs something at night? You shouldn't keep running up and down."
Logical, right?
Still, she looked like she was about to say something else, so I did what any self-respecting man would do—
I threw my final trump card.
"And Lata kaki is returning tomorrow morning."
I folded my arms, shrugged coolly.
"Tara will make noise. You'll need help. You can't lift her. So I'll be here... for assistance."
Assistance?
Even I didn't believe myself anymore.
But she just blinked at me again, clearly too drained to argue. I turned my back before she could say anything further, already feeling... strangely accomplished?
Why did I suddenly want to stay in a room that will have pink teddy bedsheets and two sleep-talkers?
No idea.
But something told me—I wasn't leaving this room anytime soon.
The late afternoon sun spilled soft golden light through the curtains as peace finally wrapped itself around the room.
Tara, like a tiny kitten, had curled herself on top of her mother—her soft breaths syncing with Ritvika's slightly heavier ones. Both were asleep, exhaustion claiming their bodies, but their faces finally held calmness.
It wasn't loud, or dramatic, but there was something deeply intimate about the scene. For once, Ritvika wasn't worrying about her next breath, the medicines, the weight of survival.
Maybe—just maybe—the burden felt a little lighter today.
She didn't say it out loud, but she needed someone too.
And the way Vidyut behaved today... it made her feel just a little... held.
But peace, in its truest sense, had a short lifespan—especially when Vidyut Rajvansh entered the room.
Not to spread calmness.
But to start his next episode of 'Vidyut's Grumpy Health Patrol.'
He stepped inside, looked around once, and froze at the sight of Tara comfortably sprawled across Ritvika's chest like a tiny mountain of trouble.
Vidyut's eyes narrowed.
The man had just spent an entire day pacing in hospitals, hearing about side effects and cardiomyopathy, and now this?
He marched forward, his voice sharp, low, and unmistakably Vidyut-ish.
"Ritvika! Utho..."
(Ritvika! Get up...)
No movement.
"Ritvika!" he repeated, a little louder.
Ritvika's eyes fluttered open, brows furrowed as she tried to focus. "Kya hua?"
(What happened?)
Vidyut pointed at Tara dramatically.
"Why is she sleeping on you? Do you not remember what the doctor said?"
Ritvika blinked, still waking up.
He scoffed, crossing his arms.
"Breathless ho jaogi toh phir mujhe bolna mat ki help karo. Tumhari condition mein, tumhe zyada weight uthana hi nahi chahiye. And she's literally using you as a pillow."
(Don't blame me later if you feel breathless. You're not supposed to lift weight in your condition—and right now, she's your personal cushion.)
Ritvika looked down at Tara, who was sleeping peacefully—her hand clutching Ritvika's dupatta like a lifeline.
"Main... main usse uthana nahi chahti thi," Ritvika mumbled, guilt creeping in.
(I... I didn't want to wake her.)
Vidyut rolled his eyes.
"Of course. Because you're Mother India. Let the toddler nap, even if it means you pass out again."
Before she could reply, he leaned forward gently, scooping Tara up with practiced ease, and placed her carefully on the pillow beside Ritvika.
Then he straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, muttering:
"Ab aaram karo. Aur drama mat create karo unnecessarily."
(Now rest. And don't create unnecessary drama.)
Ritvika simply blinked, too stunned—and too touched—to say anything.
Maybe he wouldn't say it in a thousand words...
But today, he'd said enough.
Vidyut had just turned to leave when her voice — soft, hesitant — stopped him.
"Rukiye..."
(Wait)
He halted mid-step, brows slightly furrowing.
She stood up from the bed slowly, careful not to wake Tara who was now curled peacefully near the pillows.
She walked toward him, fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of her dupatta.
"Umm... yeh jo medicines hain... yeh kitne ki aayi thi?"
(These medicines... how much did they cost?)
He raised an eyebrow.
"I-I mean, I don't have money right now," she added hurriedly, looking everywhere but him. "But main dheere dheere de dungi... promise..."
(I'll give it back slowly... I promise.)
For a second, Vidyut didn't say anything. His jaw tightened faintly.
Then—he scoffed. Actually scoffed.
He turned around fully this time, shoving one hand into his pocket, his voice dropping into that dangerously calm, signature Rajvansh tone:
"Tumhe lagta hai main woh insaan hoon jo dawaiyon ke paise gin raha hoon?"
(Do you think I'm the kind of man who counts the cost of medicines?)
Ritvika blinked, caught off guard.
He stepped closer, towering over her now.
"Do you know the value of the watch I wore yesterday? Just the strap costs more than your entire medical file."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The car outside? Its one tyre costs more than your treatment."
She gulped.
He wasn't boasting.
He was just... stating facts. Bluntly. Harshly.
But that didn't stop the guilt from crawling up her spine.
Still, she mumbled, "Par—"
He cut her off, voice flat.
"Main paise nahi le raha."
(I'm not taking any money.)
Then after a beat, his tone dropped softer, but only slightly:
"And next time, don't insult me by offering it."
He turned away again, already halfway to the door, his words hanging heavy in the air.
Ritvika stood frozen in place, unsure what stung more — the reminder of his stature...
Or the fact that... for the first time, someone had done something for her without keeping score.