⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟑˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
They all came rushing into the hall—Maa, Chachi, Hridhaan, Atharv, Viyana. Their faces painted in panic. Panic now, when it was already too late.
Aarush's voice shook as he pointed at me, accusing me as if I were some stranger.
"Bhai ne... bhai ne bhabhi ko jaane diya!"
(Brother let Bhabhi go!)
The words echoed in my head. And their eyes—every single pair—burned into me, waiting for me to deny it, to explain.
But why should I?
They didn't deserve my words.
Not when they had stayed quiet every time Ritvika was being torn apart inside these very walls.
Chachi's voice wavered. "Vidyut, what is Aarush saying?"
I didn't answer. My silence was heavier than their questions.
And then Aarush, my little brother, shattered that silence.
"Bhabhi... she left. With Tara. With her friend."
Gasps. Shock. They froze like statues.
Hridhaan's whisper: "Left?"
Aarush's scream: "She left! And Bhai didn't stop her!"
And then—Viyana. Her eyes wet, her voice trembling.
"Bhai... is Aarush telling the truth? Did Ritvika bhabhi really leave?"
Her words pierced straight through my chest. Viyana. My sister who had seen everything, who had watched her bhabhi suffer in silence. She had stood by, lips sealed, while everyone cornered Ritvika again and again. And now she dared to question me?
Rage flared white-hot.
"Atharv, take Viyana inside."
One look was enough to shut her up. She lowered her head and left without a fight—just like always. That was the problem. She never fought. Not for Ritvika. Not when she should have.
Coward.
And Maa—Maa had the audacity to open her mouth.
"Why did you speak to her so harshly, Vidyut?"
Harsh? Harsh?!
The storm inside me erupted.
"Maa, please... stop." My voice cracked like thunder.
"You call this rude? Then what about what you did to Ritvika?" My blood boiled, my fists clenched. "Was that not cruel?"
Her eyes widened, but I didn't care.
"You made her feel unwanted! You made her believe she and my daughter didn't matter in this house! You didn't give them food, Maa. FOOD. You didn't even ask how they were!" My chest heaved, fury tearing through every word.
"And the worst?" My voice broke, bitterness dripping from every syllable. "You looked me in the eye and lied. Lied when I asked if they were okay. Lied when I asked if they had eaten. You lied, Maa."
Every word was fire, searing my throat as I spat it out.
I looked around. At each of them. At their shocked faces. At their silence.
Where was this silence when Ritvika was crying herself to sleep?
Where was this silence when she was insulted, belittled, left alone?
Now they had the nerve to look at me as though I had failed her.
No. The truth was simpler, uglier.
They had failed her.
Every single one of them.
And I hated them for it.
Their silence burned me more than their words ever could. They stood there—frozen, pale, useless—as though they hadn't been the ones who pushed Ritvika to this point.
I wanted to rip the walls apart. I wanted to shake them all until they felt half the torment she had. But what good would it do? The damage was done.
And the cruelest truth—the one clawing through my chest—was that I wasn't innocent either.
I'd stood there too, hadn't I?
I'd raised my voice at her.
I'd accused her.
I'd crushed her with my anger when she deserved my protection.
And now she was gone.
Her words wouldn't stop echoing. "Don't you dare call my daughter yours."
Mine. Not mine.
I had lost her, lost Tara, and worse—I had given her every reason to walk away.
The venom spilled from me before I could stop it.
"You all look at me like I'm the villain. But tell me—what choice did I have? You cornered her until she had no strength left! You broke her, Maa. You all broke her!"
My voice cracked, sharp and raw.
"She was carrying the child in her arms and still felt like a stranger in this house. And I—" My throat tightened, guilt slamming into me like a punch. "I let her feel that. I... let her think she wasn't mine."
My fists trembled. My chest burned. Every breath felt like ash.
Maa flinched at my words, chachi's eyes brimmed with tears, Hridhaan's jaw clenched, but none of them spoke. Not one damn word.
And then Aarush's voice cut through the suffocating silence, trembling, broken.
"Bhai..."
I turned to him, my eyes bloodshot, my heart pounding like a war drum.
"Bhai, why... why was Bhabhi saying her life is uncertain?"
Aarush's question hung in the air like a curse.
Why was Bhabhi saying her life is uncertain?
Uncertain.
The word was poison.
The word was truth.
Because I knew. I had known all along.
Dilated cardiomyopathy.
A slow thief, eating away at her heart, at her strength, at her very life.
And yet—what had I done? Shouted at her. Accused her. Thrown my rage at her fragile body as though she were unbreakable.
My breath tore out of me in ragged gasps. My chest felt hollow, gutted. Guilt dug its claws deeper into me, shredding me from within.
I turned sharply, my knuckles smashing into the nearest wall with a sickening crack. Pain shot up my arm, but I welcomed it—needed it. Better my bones break than carry this weight.
She was a heart patient. My wife. My responsibility.
And I hadn't shielded her. I hadn't cherished her.
I had made her cry until her little girl thought I was a monster.
"Bhai..." Aarush's voice came again, trembling, insistent. "Why was she saying that? Tell me!"
My patience snapped.
My fury—my grief—burst free in a scream that rattled the walls.
The words ripped out of my throat, raw, jagged, soaked in pain.
The silence that followed was absolute.
I stood there, my chest heaving, my fists bloodied, my vision blurring with rage and tears I refused to shed. Their faces blurred before me—shock, horror, fear. None of it mattered.
Because the only face I could see was hers. Ritvika.
The woman I had sworn to protect.
The woman whose heart was failing even as I shattered it further.
And in that moment, my guilt devoured me whole.
The words hung in the air like shattered glass.
"She's dying."
I could feel it in the silence that followed—every face turning to me, eyes wide, mouths open, the air thick with disbelief. Their shock was almost laughable. As if the truth I had just hurled into the room was too monstrous to be real.
Aarush's voice broke through first, thin, trembling. "Bhai... what—what are you saying? What do you mean she's... she's dying?"
His words stabbed at me, but I didn't flinch. My fury was boiling too hot to let guilt soften me.
"What do I mean?" My laugh was hollow, venomous. "I mean exactly what I said. She's a heart patient. My wife. Your bhabhi. She has dilated cardiomyopathy. A disease that is eating her life away, day by day, breath by breath."
I saw them freeze—Maa clutching at her chest, chachi's hand flying to her mouth, Hridhaan stiff as stone. And it enraged me.
"Don't look at me like that," I spat, my voice a blade slicing through the heavy air. "Don't act so shocked. As if you ever cared enough to notice. As if you ever bothered to look beyond your own petty judgments and cruel silences."
My chest heaved, every breath scorching. "You want to know why she said her life is uncertain? Because it is! Because every single day she lives with the shadow of death hovering over her! And instead of making her days lighter, brighter, we—I—made them heavier. More painful. Unbearable."
I slammed my fist against the wall again, pain flaring through my knuckles, grounding me in my fury. "She was carrying a disease in her chest, and what did she get here? Accusations. Neglect. Indifference. Even from me."
My voice cracked on the last word, but I didn't stop. Couldn't. The rage wouldn't let me.
"Don't stand here pretending to be stunned. Every one of you broke her in ways her illness couldn't. And now... now she's gone."
The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of my confession pressing down on all of us. But for me, it wasn't silence. It was a storm—a storm of guilt, fury, and the unbearable truth that I had failed her more than her illness ever could.
Maa's lips trembled as she finally found her voice, a frail whisper in the charged silence. "Vidyut—"
"Stop." My voice cut her off like a blade, sharp and merciless. Her eyes widened, but I didn't give her room to breathe. "Not a single word more, Maa."
I could feel my own pulse pounding in my ears, a storm I could no longer contain.
"You know what burns me the most? When Ritvika and I were living in my penthouse.
.. at least we had peace. At least she wasn't constantly questioned, judged, or made to feel like a stranger under her own roof.
She was sick, and still, she smiled there.
She laughed there. We were building something—quiet, fragile, but ours. "
My fists tightened at my sides, nails biting into skin.
"And then I brought her here. I thought.
.. I thought bringing her into this house would mean family, warmth, support.
But the day we stepped through these doors, all we got was poison.
Accusations. Cold stares. And you—" my glare burned into her "—you made her feel like she didn't belong.
You treated her as if she was some outsider daring to demand too much.
You turned my daughter into a stranger."
Maa flinched, and for a fleeting second, I saw her chest rise with guilt—but it didn't matter. Nothing could undo what had been done.
"I regret it, Maa." The words tasted like ash on my tongue, but they were the truth I could no longer bury. "I regret ever bringing Ritvika and Tara into this house."
The silence that followed was deafening. Their stunned faces blurred in front of me—chachi's shock, Aarush's guilt—but I couldn't look at them anymore. I couldn't breathe in the suffocating air of this cursed house.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed into my room, slamming the door behind me. The echo of it reverberated through the mansion, a final statement, leaving them all frozen in place, while my own chest burned with fury and regret I couldn't claw out of myself.
the silence screamed louder than any chaos outside.
Shattered glass glinted in the dim light, broken fragments of what once stood intact—the reflection of Ritvika's breaking heart.
A chair knocked aside, a photo frame lying face down, curtains drawn in haste as though even the light had been banished.
My fists clenched. My jaw ached from the grind of my teeth. Every breath burned inside my chest. This wasn't just a room—it was her silent cry. She had wrecked these things not out of madness, but out of suffocation. Out of pain. Out of helplessness.
And I had done nothing.
A storm rose inside me, thunderous and venomous. My rage was not just at what I saw—it was at what I remembered. Her past uncoiled before me like a serpent, hissing, biting, poisoning me with every detail.
Her family—the very people who should have shielded her—had shackled her instead. Their cruelty had clipped her wings before she could even take flight. They had silenced her laughter, crushed her innocence, branded her existence as a burden.
And then... that bastard she was married to.
My nails dug into my palm until the skin threatened to tear.
Her ex-husband, the man who wore the mask of a husband but played the devil behind closed doors.
He had broken her spirit with his hands, his words, his shadows.
Every bruise on her body had been a testimony of his monstrosity.
And his family—those parasites—had stood by, feeding on her suffering, justifying her cries as weakness, locking her in a prison of humiliation.
I could almost see him. That bastard. His smirk. His raised hand. His threats. My rage surged so violently I slammed my fist against the wall. Pain shot through my knuckles, but it was nothing compared to the fire inside.
If he were alive and in front of me, I would have torn him apart. Brick by brick, bone by bone. No plea, no mercy, no grave deep enough to hide what I would have done to him.
But even that fury couldn't drown the guilt clawing at me.
Because hadn't I, too, treated her like them in the beginning? Hadn't I mocked her, doubted her, dismissed her silence as weakness? Hadn't I turned my back when she needed someone to just... listen?
Even now, when she was breaking inside, when her body fought a battle with every beat of her fragile heart, I had failed her. Failed to shield her from venomous words. Failed to stand between her and the cruelty of my own family.
Her past had scarred her. But my present was wounding her.
And the shattered room was proof. Proof of how far I had let things slip. Proof that she had reached her limit. Proof that I, Vidyut Rajvansh—the man feared by everyone—was powerless where it mattered the most.
For the first time in years, fear coiled in my chest. Fear not of losing battles, power, or blood. But of losing her.
And if that happened, it would not just be her past that destroyed her. It would be me.
My chest heaved like a furnace, every breath dragging flames through my veins. They had touched her. Bruised her. Broken her. The woman who was mine. My wife. My Ritvika.
How dare they?
The very thought sent red across my vision, blood pounding in my ears like war drums. I could see them all—her tormentors lined up in front of me.
If I had them before me now...
Her father—I would make him taste his own medicine. Every word of cruelty he had hurled at her, I would carve it back into his skin. Let him carry the scars of his venom until his last breath.
Her mother—silent accomplice. I would force her to stand in a room where her daughter's cries echoed endlessly, never allowing her ears a moment of peace. She had ignored Ritvika's voice once; I would ensure it haunted her forever.
Her ex-husband—the bastard. My fists curled, veins tightening against my skin. Him, I would break slowly. One bone at a time, savoring his screams the way he savored her pain. I'd rip away his pride, his arrogance, his very breath, until he begged for death. And then I'd deny him that mercy.
His parents—their smug faces, their cruelty disguised as tradition. I'd chain them to the very shadows they forced her into, strip them of every comfort they once flaunted, make them crawl in the dirt they thought she belonged to.
The fire inside me roared, burning with the hunger to destroy every bastard who had dared to touch her, to break her.
I wanted to rip them apart piece by piece, make them bleed for every drop of her tears.
Her father, her mother, that cursed husband, his vile parents—each of them deserved to suffocate in the very darkness they threw her into.
But then—my chest clenched. A deeper, crueler truth hit me like a blade.
What made me any better?
I remembered the first days of our marriage. The suspicion that had clouded my mind. The venomous whispers I had let myself believe—that she was a gold digger, that she wanted my wealth, my name, my house. That her tears were nothing but performance, her gentleness a mask.
How easily I had doubted her.
I had looked into those wide, innocent eyes and seen deceit where there was only pain.
I had mistaken her silence for cunning, her brokenness for manipulation.
I had called her fake—if not in words, then in my thoughts.
I had questioned her every move, every gesture of care, as if she were trying to buy her way into my life with her sweetness.
And all this while... she was fighting for her life.
A heart that betrayed her with every beat. A past that left her bruised inside and out. A child she cradled with everything she had left. And I—her own husband—stood there doubting her, labeling her as someone unworthy, someone greedy.
The guilt was a weight crushing my ribs, heavier than any anger I felt toward her tormentors. Because at least they were strangers—monsters in the shape of family. But me? I was supposed to be her shield. Her safe place. Her one refuge. And instead, I had added another wound to her chest.
My hand curled into a fist and slammed against the wall, the impact jolting up my arm, but it wasn't enough. No pain I inflicted on myself could measure up to what I deserved.
I thought of her face—the quiet dignity in her eyes when she bore my suspicion, the way she never defended herself, never shouted back, never demanded proof of her innocence.
She just endured. As if she was used to being misunderstood.
As if she expected me to treat her the same way others always had.
God, what kind of man did that make me?
I wanted to tear apart her tormentors, yes. But more than that, I wanted to tear apart the version of myself who once believed she was anything less than pure.
She wasn't the gold digger. She was the gold I never deserved to touch.
And that truth burned me alive.
The storm inside me wouldn't settle. My fury burned red hot, but beneath it, the guilt kept crawling higher, choking me.
I remembered her face when she walked away—eyes steady but broken, shoulders squared like she was carrying an invisible weight. She left like a woman who had accepted too much already. But what struck me harder, what gutted me raw, was what she didn't take with her.
Her clothes. Her medicines.
The room was still scattered with the evidence—bottles of pills that should never be missed, strips of tablets carefully arranged, reminders of the illness gnawing at her heart. She had left them all behind.
Why?
Because she didn't care for her life anymore? Because I had made her feel so unwanted, so crushed, that even her survival didn't matter to her? Or because in that moment of leaving, Tara was her only thought—her only reason to breathe?
My chest clenched so tightly I thought it would cave in. A patient with dilated cardiomyopathy—walking out into the world without her medicines, without rest, without care. What had I done?
I had spent nights watching her take them, reminding her when she forgot, silently tracking her doses like it was second nature. And now, the thought of her out there, trembling with weakness, her heart struggling with every beat, without those medicines to anchor her— it was unbearable.
The guilt deepened like a blade twisting in my ribs. I had driven her to this. I had pushed her so far she chose to walk away empty-handed, with only Tara in her arms. She didn't even think of herself.
And the worst part? Neither did I.
When she was standing in front of me, begging for peace, I had looked at her through the eyes of a man blinded by rage, not love. I didn't see the fragile heartbeat inside her, the one fighting against time every second. I saw only the woman I wanted to cage, to bind, to control.
Now all I could see was the void she left behind—her medicines abandoned on the table, like a silent reminder of how carelessly I had treated her.
My hand dragged down my face, rough, desperate. Fear coiled in my gut, darker than my anger. If anything happened to her out there—if her body gave up because she missed a single dose—it would be on me.
The thought alone was enough to shatter me.
==
Sleep never came that night. How could it, when every shadow in the room screamed her name? The abandoned bottles of medicine glared at me like silent accusations, each one a reminder of how badly I had failed her.
But guilt alone doesn't fix anything.
I am not a man who begs fate. I bend it. Break it. Twist it until it submits. And when it comes to Ritvika—my woman—there is no chance in hell I will leave her survival to luck.
So I made my decision.
At dawn, when the world outside was still heavy with silence, I gathered every strip, every bottle, every single thing she needed.
My hands shook—not from doubt, but from the sharp edge of fear I would never admit out loud.
Fear that she wouldn't even touch them. Fear that she might think of them the way she thought of me—useless, unwanted.
But I wasn't giving her the choice to neglect herself. Not with her life hanging by a fragile thread.
Her address wasn't a mystery. Nothing in this city is hidden from me.
Especially not her. She might think she slipped away into some quiet corner, but this is my territory.
Every street, every building, every rented apartment—nothing escapes my sight.
And certainly not the place where she now lives, holding my daughter in her arms.
My woman. My blood. My responsibility.
I sealed the medicines in a box with my own hands, ensuring nothing was missed.
It wasn't just a parcel—it was a lifeline.
Her lifeline. And if she hated me for sending it, so be it.
I would rather face her hatred a thousand times than face the thought of her collapsing somewhere, Tara crying helplessly at her side.
I gave the order personally. My men knew better than to question. Within minutes, the box was on its way—straight to her door.
I didn't write a note. What could words change now?
She wouldn't believe them. Not after everything I've done, everything I've said.
No, all I could do was act—make sure that even when she pushes me away, even when she curses my name, she cannot escape the truth: her life is tied to me. Her survival rests on my hands.
And if fate thinks it can steal her from me the way her family tried, the way her past tried—then fate will have to go through me first.
The phone buzzed against the table, pulling me from my restless thoughts. I reached for it without thinking, expecting some routine update from my men, maybe confirmation about the parcel. But the moment my eyes landed on the subject line, every muscle in my body went rigid.
Resignation Letter.
And then I saw her name.
Ritvika.
For a second, I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred, a hot red mist crawling at the edges. I opened the mail with hands that trembled, not from weakness—but from the storm clawing inside me, threatening to tear everything apart.
She had done it.
She was walking away from me completely. Not just from my house. Not just from my family. From me. From my world. From everything that bound us together.
My jaw clenched so tight I could feel my teeth grind against each other. Every line of that damned letter cut through me like blades, her cold formality twisting deeper than any insult could. No emotion. No hesitation. Just a clean break.
As if I was nothing more than a name on her payroll.
As if the nights, the fights, the fire between us meant nothing.
My hands curled into fists, the phone creaking under the pressure. How dare she? After everything I had endured, everything I had claimed, everything I had given—even if I gave it in the wrong way—how dare she think she could erase me with a single letter?
The resignation wasn't just a document. It was defiance. A declaration of war.
My chest burned with equal parts fury and despair. She didn't understand. She couldn't. She thought she was freeing herself—but all she was doing was pulling the trigger on a rage she wouldn't be able to contain.
I slammed the phone onto the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty room.
━━━━━━?? ━━━━━━
Next part will be updated on Friday…
But if we hit 1K followers on Wattpad, I’ll surprise you all with an early update on Wednesday!
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