⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟓˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The hiss of the pan filled the kitchen, but my hands wouldn't stop trembling. Tara sat on the slab, her tiny legs dangling, fingers tucked safely in her mouth as she watched me. I forced a smile at her now and then, but inside, my chest was tightening with every second.
This was the first time since Tara's birth that I was living alone. No family around. No familiar presence to silence the shadows. Just me... and her.
The silence of the flat pressed against my ears, broken only by the crackle of oil and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Yet every sound outside — the slam of a door in the building, the faint rumble of traffic, even the wind scraping against the windows — made me flinch.
My heart raced so violently that I had to grip the counter to steady myself.
Then came the rain.
It started as a whisper, a soft drizzle against the glass, and within minutes, it poured with a ferocity that made the night feel colder, darker. The sudden drop in temperature raised goosebumps on my skin, my fear rising with the storm.
I stirred the pan, my knuckles pale around the spoon. Every creak of the house, every distant echo made me turn sharply, expecting someone—something. Shadows danced with the flickering light above, twisting the walls into shapes that fed my anxiety.
I glanced at Tara. She blinked at me with those wide innocent eyes, as if she sensed the storm inside me. My daughter... my little strength. Yet even she was unusually quiet, as though she too was wary of the night wrapping around us.
Alone. Truly alone. And in that moment, even the simplest act of cooking felt like walking through a battlefield of ghosts.
-
I spooned the last bite into Tara's mouth, forcing myself to smile at her tiny claps of victory.
But my eyes kept darting to the window, to the darkness outside that seemed to press closer with every drop of rain.
I had always feared nights like these—storms, thunder, shadows.
And now, with Tara, that fear was sharper, heavier.
My heart had grown more fragile since her birth, every beat tied to her safety.
I kept my phone close to me on the table, screen glowing like a small shield aganst the suffocating silence. Every few seconds, my gaze flicked toward it—my only connection to a world beyond these walls, my only comfort if something went wrong.
"Bas thoda sa aur, Tara," I whispered, quickly helping her finish. I wanted her full and safe before my own nerves betrayed me.
Just as I pushed the plate aside and reached to lift her—
Everything went black.
The hum of the refrigerator died. The weak yellow bulb above us blinked once and vanished. The entire flat sank into suffocating silence, cut only by the roar of rain outside.
My breath hitched painfully. The air itself felt heavy, pressing against my chest. My fingers froze around Tara, clutching her too tightly as if the darkness could steal her away.
Not now. Not when I was alone. Not when the storm outside was howling.
The pitch-black room swallowed everything—the outlines of furniture, the walls, even my own sense of balance. And in the thick darkness, my fear exploded, raw and unrestrained.
My hand trembled as I groped blindly across the table, searching for the phone I had kept so close. Tara whimpered against me, sensing my fear, her tiny fingers digging into my blouse.
"Shh... it's okay, baby... it's okay..." My voice cracked, sounding nothing like reassurance. My breath hitched with every heartbeat, ragged and shallow. The sound of rain pounding against the windows only made the silence inside louder.
Then it came—
A thunderclap so violent it shook the very walls.
I flinched hard, my pulse slamming in my throat.
My fingers finally brushed the cold surface of my phone, and I clutched it desperately, pressing the glowing screen to my chest as if it could ward off the storm.
Tara whimpered again, and I pressed frantic kisses to her damp curls, whispering nonsense just to fill the darkness.
Seconds stretched like hours. My mind was screaming with shadows, with the silence, with every fear that had lived inside me since childhood. Alone. Always alone. And now... with her.
Then, suddenly—
The light returned.
The bulb flickered back to life, weak but steady, casting the room in its pale glow. I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my chest heaving as if I had just surfaced from drowning.
I pressed my cheek to Tara's hair, eyes stinging, whispering to myself more than to her, "We're okay... we're okay now."
I set Tara down gently on the couch and hurried from one corner of the house to the other, checking every latch, every bolt, every single window. My hands shook as I slid each lock into place, the echoes of the storm outside pushing my fear higher with every gust of wind.
Only when I was certain everything was sealed did I scoop Tara back into my arms and rush toward the bedroom. My chest was still tight, my heart thundering, but I forced a smile for her sake.
"Come, my munchkin," I whispered, placing her carefully on the bed. "Now we sleep, hmm?"
But before I could pull the blanket over her, Tara's small body stiffened. Her little face scrunched, her lips wobbling—and then her voice pierced the silence, high-pitched and trembling.
"Dadda paas jaana!"
(I want to go to dadda)
Her cry shattered what little calm I had managed to gather. My breath caught. Tara's fists pounded weakly against the mattress as tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. "Mumma... Dadda paas jaana!" she insisted again, her voice breaking with the stubborn desperation only a child could carry.
I pulled her into my lap, rocking her gently, kissing the wetness off her cheeks. "Shh... Tara, my baby... it's too late now. Tomorrow, hmm? Tomorrow we'll go to Dadda."
She hiccuped, her sobs slowing only slightly as her wide eyes searched mine. "Plomise, Mumma?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. "Yes, I promise. Tomorrow we'll see Dadda. But tonight, we sleep, my love. Only sleep."
Her little arms wrapped around my neck, clinging tightly. "Okay... tomollow," she whispered, her voice small, shaky—but a promise in itself.
I laid her back gently, humming low and steady until her breaths softened, though her little fingers still held tightly to mine—as if letting go meant losing the promise.
The night had finally granted me a fragile peace. Tara's soft breaths rose and fell against my arm, her little body curled close to mine. For the first time since Roohi left, I felt my eyelids grow heavy, the storm outside fading into a distant hum.
And then—
I turned instinctively toward Tara. She stirred slightly but did not wake, her tiny hand still gripping the edge of my nightdress. My throat tightened as I gently freed myself, every muscle tense, my heartbeat hammering so hard I feared it would wake her.
Another ring. The sound echoed through the empty apartment like a warning.
My palms dampened. My legs refused to move at first, the weight of every fear I had ever carried pressing down on me. Alone. With Tara. In the dark.
I swallowed hard, forcing my trembling feet onto the floor. Each step toward the living room felt heavier than the last, the echo of the bell replaying in my head.
By the time I reached the door, my breath was uneven, my chest constricting with panic. My fingers hovered just above the latch but refused to touch it. A thousand thoughts collided in my head—what if it wasn't safe? What if someone had followed me? What if...
I pressed a hand to my racing heart, trying to steady the storm inside me, but the fear only tightened its grip.
My hand trembled against the latch, every nerve in my body screaming not to open it. But the ringing had stopped—replaced by a silence so thick it only fed my panic. I needed it to end, needed to know.
Slowly, cautiously, I pulled the door open.
And then I froze.
There he was.
Vidyut.
He stood in the doorway, rain pouring behind him like a curtain, his entire frame soaked through.
Droplets clung to his disheveled hair, sliding down the sharp lines of his face.
His shirt clung to him, heavy and wet, and his stance—unsteady, swaying just slightly—was nothing like the man I had always known, the man who carried himself with unshakable control.
My breath caught, my lips parting but no sound escaping.
He didn't look like Vidyut Rajvansh. Not the ruthless, immovable man who terrified even silence itself. He looked... broken. Shattered. Almost unrecognizable.
And the sight terrified me more than the doorbell ever could.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the door, knuckles white. The air between us carried the sharp tang of rain—and something else. Something bitter. My heartbeat roared in my ears, every instinct telling me to step back, to shield Tara from whatever this was.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the man I thought I knew, standing drenched and disheveled at my threshold, looking at me with eyes that carried a storm darker than the night outside.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The storm outside howled, and inside my chest, my heart beat just as violently.
Then it happened.
Vidyut stumbled forward, his steps uneven, his body lurching dangerously toward me.
Before I could even react, he was across the threshold, the weight of his soaked frame crashing into mine.
My knees buckled under the sudden impact, but somehow—somehow—I caught him before he could collapse entirely onto the floor.
"Vid..." My voice trembled as his name left my lips, broken and unsure. "Vidyut... aap—" The rest of the sentence refused to come out. My throat closed, strangling the words before they could form.
And then it hit me.
The sharp, pungent smell. Alcohol.
It wrapped around me instantly, suffocating, familiar in the worst possible way. My nose scrunched, my stomach twisted, and in that single instant, I was no longer standing in the apartment with Vidyut. I was dragged back into a nightmare I had spent years trying to bury.
"You useless woman!" His voice—my ex-husband's voice—roared in my head, harsh and venomous. A phantom sting spread across my cheek as if his palm had just struck me again.
I blinked rapidly, my breaths coming shallow, but the echoes wouldn't stop.
"You think you're worth anything? You think anyone will love you?"
The slam of a bottle. The heat of his rage. The suffocating fear.
My grip on Vidyut tightened, not out of choice but out of reflex, as though my body was fighting to keep him from becoming that man. But my mind... my mind froze completely.
The apartment blurred. The thunder outside sounded too close. And all I could do was stare at him—at Vidyut—through wide, terrified eyes, my lips trembling, my body stiff as a statue.
The alcohol on his breath. His stumbling weight against me.
It was too close. Too much.
My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat a cry of panic.
I couldn't breathe.
My body was rigid, every muscle locked in fear. The storm outside raged on, but the storm inside me was louder—old voices, old bruises, old wounds clawing back to life.
Then, against all that noise, I felt it—his hand.
Clumsy, trembling, but gentle. Vidyut's fingers brushed against my cheek, his palm resting there as though trying to steady me, steady himself. His touch wasn't rough. It wasn't harsh. It wasn't him.
"Shh..." His voice broke, unsteady and slurred, but still softer than I'd ever heard. "Darne... ki jarurat... nahi hai. Main... uski tarah...tarah....nahi hoon."
(Shh... there's no need to be afraid. I'm not like him.)
My breath hitched, my eyes widening as the words sank in. For a moment, I didn't know what to feel. My mind screamed at me to recoil, to run, but my body... froze under a different kind of weight. Not terror. Something else. Something I wasn't prepared for.
His thumb brushed the corner of my face clumsily, almost as if wiping away a tear that hadn't yet fallen.
"I... I'm... so... sorry." His words tumbled out, broken, hoarse. "Soo... sorryyy."
The apology sliced through the haze, lodging deep inside me. Shock flared in my chest, stronger than the fear had been a moment ago. My lips parted, but no sound came.
Vidyut Rajvansh—the man feared by everyone—was apologizing. To me.
And in that fragile, rain-soaked moment, I didn't know what terrified me more—his nearness, or the truth in his words.
"Coo... coldzzz..." The word trembled out of his lips, almost like a helpless child's, making my heart jolt.
That's when it hit me—he was drenched. From hair to toe, rainwater dripped from him, soaking the floor beneath his unsteady steps. For a moment I just stood frozen, staring. Then instinct broke through fear.
"Come..." I whispered, steadying his arm, though my hands shook violently. His weight pressed against me, his steps stumbling, but somehow I managed to guide him towards the room.
Tara's soft breathing filled the air, her tiny frame curled peacefully on the bed. I carefully made Vidyut sit on the couch by the side wall, away from her. He slumped there, hair plastered to his forehead, droplets sliding down his jaw.
I rushed to the cupboard, pulled out a towel, and came back quickly. My hands extended it towards him, firm despite the way my heart still hammered.
"Take the towel," I said, my voice low, controlled.
But he didn't move. His eyes stayed lowered, heavy with something unreadable. He just shook his head, refusing.
"Vidyut..." I urged softly, pushing it closer to him.
Again—nothing. Just that slow shake of his head, as if he didn't deserve even this little comfort.
The towel felt heavier in my hands. I swallowed, unsure whether to press again... or simply do it myself.
For a long moment, I just stood there, towel in my hand, his silence pressing heavily against me. My fingers tightened around the fabric as I waited, hoping he would take it. But Vidyut didn't move—his eyes stayed lowered, his jaw set as if he hadn't even heard me.
A helpless sigh escaped my lips. He won't...
Gathering courage, I stepped closer. My hand trembled as I lifted the towel, hovering above his head for a second.
The air between us felt too thick, too intimate.
But then his damp hair clung to his forehead, water dripping down the side of his face, and without thinking further I pressed the towel gently against it.
His head tilted slightly, allowing me space. My chest tightened at the silent acceptance.
Slowly, carefully, I began rubbing the towel through his wet strands, drying each lock the way I do for Tara after her baths. Water drops clung to my fingers, the warmth of his skin brushing against my knuckles.
I swallowed hard, focusing only on the movements—dab, press, ruffle. My heart beat loud in my ears, afraid he might hear it.
When I finally pulled the towel back, his hair was damp but no longer dripping. I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realized I was holding, quickly averting my eyes.
I noticed his shirt clinging to his skin, completely drenched. His trousers too were soaked, the fabric heavy with rainwater. My heart gave a nervous skip.
He couldn't stay like this. But... what could I do? I didn't have a single piece of his clothing.
I bit my lip, mind racing. Something dry... anything... My gaze flickered to the corner cupboard, where a small bag sat. Roohi's bag. She'd left a few nightwears here during her stay.
My eyes widened. Should I...? No, that's ridiculous...
But then again—what choice did I have? He needed to change. My face heated at the very thought of handing Vidyut Roohi's cotton nightwears. Oh god, what if he actually wears them?
I squeezed my eyes shut, groaning under my breath. "This is insane..."
But a part of me couldn't stop imagining Vidyut—stoic, feared Vidyut Rajvansh—standing in Roohi's floral pajamas.
The corner of my lips twitched, despite the storm outside.
With reluctant steps, I fetched the biggest one I could find—a loose cotton set, pale pink with tiny prints scattered across it. It looked ridiculous in my hands. Still, I clutched it and walked back, each step heavier than the last.
He sat there slouched on the couch, drops of water sliding down his neck. My throat tightened.
I cleared my voice softly, holding the folded nightwear out.
"Umm... you... you should change."
The words tumbled out awkwardly, and the second they left my lips, regret hit me. My cheeks warmed, and I almost wanted to snatch the clothes back.
But before I could, Vidyut's hand moved—swift despite his drunken haze. He took the bundle from me without a second thought, muttering under his breath, voice hoarse and trembling.
"Colddd..."
The sight of the feared Vidyut Rajvansh clutching a pink night suit and shivering like a lost boy nearly made me blink in disbelief.
The moment he disappeared into the washroom with that atrocity in his hands, I regretted it—every single second. What was I even thinking? Giving him—Vidyut Rajvansh, the man who made grown men tremble—a pink floral night suit?
I paced the room, clutching my arms tightly, my heart still unsettled from the storm outside... and the storm inside me.
The click of the door snapped me still. He stepped out—barefoot, damp hair clinging to his forehead, but it wasn't the sight of him that made my eyes widen.
It was the outfit.
The pink cotton nightwear hugged his broad shoulders awkwardly, the floral prints stretched so wide they looked like they might faint under the effort.
The baggy sleeves ended almost mid-forearm, while the pants—God save me—the pants clung just enough at his thighs before giving up completely and hanging loose at the bottom.
For a second, I forgot to breathe. Then, heat rushed to my face as a laugh bubbled up my throat, desperate to escape. I slapped a hand to my lips, but the sound still slipped out—half-snort, half-chuckle.
He looked at me, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing dangerously, which only made it worse. The image of the feared Vidyut Rajvansh, standing like a scowling giant in pink florals, was just too much.
"Y-you..." I stammered between muffled giggles, "...you look like—like a—like a bodyguard forced into... Roohi's pajama party!"
His glare deepened, but the absurdity of it nearly doubled me over. I bit my lip hard, fighting the laugh that shook in my chest, my whole body trembling.
Swallowing down the last trace of giggles, I wiped my eyes, forcing composure. "Sit. Here," I said firmly, guiding him back to the couch. He didn't resist, just sank into it heavily, his damp hair falling into his eyes.
I rushed to the kitchen, my heart thudding, and returned with a glass of lemonade. Setting it in front of him, I said softly, "Drink this."
His head shook immediately, eyes slipping away, lips pressing into a pout that looked more like defiance than drunkenness. He pushed the glass away, muttering incoherently.
"Vidyut..." I warned, my patience thinning. He turned his face, ignoring me entirely.
With a sigh, I caught his jaw gently but firmly, turning his face toward me. "Enough. Drink it," I said, pressing the glass against his lips. He made a sound of protest, muffled, but I didn't budge. A few seconds later, he finally gave in, gulping the lemonade down in uneven sips.
When I pulled the glass back, his lashes fluttered, his throat working slowly as he swallowed. He slumped further into the couch, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and for the first time that night, I felt a thread of calm slip into me.
I sat back, staring at him slumped against the couch. His eyes were half-lidded, his breaths heavy, and yet... something about him felt too present, too aware. Why had he even come here like this? In the middle of the night, drenched, drunk—what was he thinking?
I bit my lip, questions swirling in my head. My chest tightened as I studied his face, the shadows under his eyes, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.
And then—without warning—his hand shot forward, wrapping around my wrist.
"Vidyut—" I gasped, startled, but before I could steady myself, he tugged hard.
The world tilted, and the next thing I knew, a shriek tore out of my throat as I landed directly on his lap. My palms pressed against his chest instinctively, the heat of his damp skin radiating through the thin fabric of Roohi's ridiculous floral nightwear.
My breath hitched. His hold was firm, unyielding, even in his drunken haze. I froze, caught between pushing away and being unable to move at all. His gaze, heavy and clouded, locked onto mine.
The shriek still echoed faintly in my ears, my heart hammering so violently I thought it might burst.
His grip on me didn't loosen, His eyes—bloodshot, unfocused—searched mine with a kind of desperation that made my chest tighten.
"Ritvika..." His voice cracked, thick with slurred edges. "I'm... I'm sorry. So... damn sorry."
The words tumbled out, broken and messy, but real. His hand trembled where it held me, his jaw clenched like he was holding back more than his drunken stupor could contain. "I... never should've... treated you like that. You... you didn't deserve... any of it."
I froze, caught off guard. The Vidyut Rajvansh I knew didn't apologize—he commanded, he burned, he tore everything down.
But now, his voice was raw, almost boyish in its ache.
For a moment—just a fleeting heartbeat—something inside me melted.
The walls I had built against him wavered as my eyes blurred faintly.
But then reality slammed back in. He was drunk. He didn't mean any of this. Tomorrow, he'd be different again. I couldn't allow myself to drown in words uttered under intoxication.
I stiffened and pulled back, forcing myself to stand, my legs unsteady as I took a step toward the bed. "You need rest," I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady, "I'll sleep with Tara. You stay here."
I turned, determined to put space between us.
But before I could move another step, something heavy pressed against me. Vidyut had followed, stumbling forward, and suddenly his head dropped into my lap.
My body shrank back instinctively, my breath faltering. His damp hair clung to my nightdress, his weight anchoring me in place. "Don't... don't leave me," he murmured, voice muffled, fragile in a way that terrified me more than his anger ever had.
I sat frozen, every nerve in my body alive, unsure whether to push him away or simply let him stay there—this broken, vulnerable version of him I had never seen before.
His head rested heavily in my lap, damp hair sticking to my skin, the warmth of his breath brushing faintly against me. My hands hovered awkwardly in the air, trembling, not knowing whether to touch him or push him away.
Every muscle in me screamed to move, to create distance, but something in his voice had robbed me of that strength. That raw whisper—don't leave me—echoed in my chest louder than the storm outside.
I stayed still, frozen in a conflict that clawed at my heart. This wasn't the Vidyut who commanded rooms with silence, whose words cut sharper than blades. This was someone else entirely—fragile, broken... and terrifyingly human.
Minutes stretched. His breathing slowed, uneven at first, then heavier as the pull of sleep took over. His weight grew heavier against me until it was almost unbearable.
Carefully, painstakingly, I shifted. My hands slid beneath his head, guiding it onto a pillow. He stirred once but didn't wake. His features, usually hard and unyielding, were softened by sleep, shadows of exhaustion etched deep around his eyes.
I adjusted him gently until he was lying properly, the ridiculous floral nightwear making him look almost boyish instead of fearsome. My throat tightened at the sight, but I quickly turned away, unwilling to let the weakness in my heart grow.
Silently, I climbed into the bed on the other side. Tara stirred in her sleep, rolling closer, her tiny body becoming the barrier between us. I wrapped an arm around her, clinging to her warmth like it was my anchor.
But sleep never came to me. My eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling in the dark, mind racing. Every word, every glimpse of his broken state replayed in my head, tangling with the shadows of my past and the storm outside.
The rain pounded harder against the windows, but inside, it was the storm within me that refused to quiet.
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Next chapter Vidyut's Pov
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