⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟐˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The evening light slanted softly through the curtains, painting the room in a tired gold. Ritvika's voice echoed again, weary yet gentle.
"Tara betuuu, idhar aao Mumma ke paas."
(Tara baby, come here to Mumma.)
But the little girl was in no mood to listen. She giggled from the far corner, her curls bouncing.
"No Mumma, I go skoo!" (No Mumma, I'm going to school!)
Ritvika sighed, brushing a few strands of hair off her face.
"Tara, you'll go tomorrow. Abhi aao yahan." (You'll go tomorrow. Come here now.)
Her tone was soft but firm. Still, Tara shook her head stubbornly and darted to the other corner, her tiny frock flying up as she ran.
Ritvika's patience was wearing thin. This little drama had been going on for an hour now. Her chest felt heavy, her breath uneven from running around after her two-year-old whirlwind.
With a tired groan, she sat on the bed with a thud, rubbing her chest where a faint unease lingered. She reached for the glass of water on the side table and took a few sips, but the discomfort refused to fade.
Her voice softened as she tried again, this time sounding almost pleading—
"Tara betu, Mumma is tired... come here please."
But the little one, lost in her world, squealed again—
"Noooo!"
Ritvika closed her eyes for a second, trying to gather herself. Then frustration took over. She stood abruptly, her voice raised—
"Taraaa! Mumma ne bola na, idhar aao abhi ke abhi!" (Tara! Mumma said come here right now!)
The sharp tone startled Tara for a moment, but instead of coming, she took a hesitant step back.
Ritvika moved towards her, her patience fraying.
"Taraaa..." she called again, her voice shaking with exhaustion and irritation.
Seeing her mother advancing, Tara squealed and began to run again. Ritvika ran too, her heartbeat rising, breath catching as she finally managed to grab Tara's tiny arm.
Her frustration spilled out.
"Tara! Are you not listening, haan? Mumma is calling you for so long—stop running and come here!"
She bent to lift Tara, but the child twisted in protest, tears pooling in her big eyes.
"Nooo! No Mumma!" she cried, little fists hitting the air.
Ritvika, exhausted and breathless, tried to control her tone.
"Tara, don't cry now. I will not make paratha for you if you keep doing this. Come here and eat."
But Tara's wails only grew louder. The sound pierced through the room, through Ritvika's already pounding head.
Her body felt weak, her chest tight — she didn't even have the strength to argue anymore, yet her daughter's stubbornness tested the last thread of her patience.
Ritvika sank back on the bed, pressing a palm to her chest, whispering tiredly—
"Bas, Tara... please, Mumma can't run anymore..."
Tara's cries echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the walls like a tiny storm that refused to settle.
Ritvika pressed her palm over her chest, feeling that dull, heavy ache return. The unease from earlier hadn't left — it was only growing.
"Taraaa bas karo... please, Mumma thak gayi hai," she said, her voice trembling, exhaustion dripping from every word. (Tara, stop it now... Mumma is tired.)
But Tara didn't listen. She threw her toy rabbit to the floor and stomped her little feet, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"No Mumma! Tara angry!" she cried, her nose red and lips quivering.
Ritvika sighed and bent down, her breath uneven as she lifted Tara into her arms despite her body's protest.
"Enough. You're not listening at all."
Her tone was firm now — that of a mother who'd run out of patience but still couldn't bring herself to be cruel.
She carried her to the dining table and set her down.
"Ab chup-chaap baith jao, aur ye khao." (Now sit quietly and eat this.)
She placed a bowl of fruits in front of her.
Tara looked at the fruits, pouted, then pushed the bowl away with her tiny hands.
The apple slices fell on the table and rolled off, one hitting the floor.
That was it. Ritvika's patience snapped.
"Tara!" she said sharply, slamming her hand on the table — not in anger, but sheer frustration.
Tara flinched, her eyes wide, and then came the loud wail.
"Mummmaaa bad! Daddaa! Tara want Daddaa!"
Ritvika froze. Her breath hitched.
"Daddaa?" she whispered, her voice softening.
But Tara only cried louder, repeating the word like a chant.
"Daddaa! Daddaa! Tara want Daddaa!"
Her little fists rubbed her eyes, tears dripping down her chin.
Ritvika pressed her hand to her forehead.
"Fine, Tara... fine..." she muttered helplessly. She picked up her phone with trembling fingers and scrolled to Vidyut's contact. Her vision blurred for a second, her pulse racing.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then he picked up.
"Ritvika?" his voice came, deep and alert. "What happened?"
Ritvika opened her mouth, but before she could respond, Tara's sobs took over the call.
"Daddaa... Mumma scold Tara... come Daddaa..." she cried brokenly into the phone.
For a second, there was silence on the other end — and then his voice changed.
Cold. Determined.
"I'm on my way."
The line went dead.
Ritvika stared at the screen, breath uneven.
"He... he's coming," she whispered, looking at Tara who still sniffled, her tiny chest heaving.
She sighed and sat down on the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. The weight on her chest grew heavier, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed them there.
Two minutes passed — long enough for her to calm Tara a little, to wipe her tears, but not long enough for her heart to slow down.
Then came the sound — the elevator door opening outside. Tara's head instantly shot up.
"Daddaa!" she gasped, half running, half stumbling towards the main door.
Ritvika's tired eyes followed her — a soft sigh escaping her lips.
And then the doorbell rang.
The door opened before the second bell could ring.
Vidyut stepped inside, his eyes immediately scanning the scene — the mess of toys, the scattered fruit slices on the floor, Tara's tear-streaked cheeks, and Ritvika standing there, pale and visibly drained.
Without a word, he crouched and scooped Tara into his arms.
"Hey... hey, my little one... what happened, hmm?" his voice softened, almost a whisper as he brushed her hair away from her damp forehead.
Tara clung to his collar instantly, sobbing into his chest.
"Daddaa... Mumma scold Tara..."
Vidyut's gaze lifted — to Ritvika.
Her hands were on her waist, her shoulders slightly trembling from exhaustion, eyes dull and glassy.
He stroked Tara's back gently until her sobs turned into small hiccups, her face still buried in his shirt.
Only then did he speak — his tone calm but edged with worry.
"Why are you crying, Ritvika?"
She didn't answer. Just turned away, wiping her eyes roughly with the back of her hand.
Vidyut frowned. "Ritvika?" he asked again, his voice firmer now.
Still nothing. She walked toward the kitchen, her movements slow but tense. He followed her with his eyes — confusion and concern battling on his face.
She finally spoke, her tone low but laced with a bitter laugh.
"Abhi isko Mumma bad lag rahi hai... jab Mumma nahi hongi na tab pata chalega."
(This little one thinks her mumma is bad... she'll understand when her mumma won't be here anymore.)
The words hit him like ice water.
His entire body stiffened. His grip around Tara instinctively tightened.
"What the hell are you saying, Ritvika?" he demanded, his voice dropping low, sharp, and worried.
She didn't meet his eyes. Her hands moved mechanically, pulling out the container of flour, placing it on the counter with a dull thud.
"Nothing," she said curtly. "Just stating a fact."
Vidyut's jaw clenched. He watched her movements closely — the way her hands trembled slightly as she opened the lid, how her breath came out uneven.
"Anyway..." she continued, forcing her tone to sound casual as she turned toward Tara, who was still in Vidyut's arms, eyes wide and wet.
"Now that your Daddaa is here, go and eat those fruits. Mumma is making paratha for you."
Tara nodded weakly, rubbing her nose, and Vidyut slowly set her down.
But his eyes didn't leave Ritvika — not even for a second.
The unease in his chest deepened with every moment, the echo of her words replaying in his mind.
Mumma nahi hongi...
Something wasn't right. And he could feel it in his bones.
—-------
It was a busy Monday morning. Tara's first day at school — and Ritvika's first day at her new office.
Ritvika moved around the apartment, trying to find a paper from her file while still half-combing her hair.
Vidyut, who had stayed over because Tara refused to sleep without him, was helping quietly — a pair of tiny socks in one hand and rubber bands in the other.
"Ritvika, how do you tie these?" he asked, pointing at Tara's hair.
Without looking up, she said, "Leave it... make her wear the socks, I'll do her hair."
Vidyut nodded and crouched in front of Tara, slipping the socks on her little feet as she fidgeted and giggled.
Ritvika came over, quickly tied two ponytails, and adjusted her uniform.
"Done," she said softly, checking Tara once more.
Vidyut stood up, handing over Tara's water bottle. "You found your papers?"
"Yeah," she said, sliding them into her bag. "Thanks."
He nodded. There was a short silence — not awkward, but distant.
Tara looked between them, smiling brightly. "Daddaa, Tara schoooo go"
(Dadda, Tara will go to school!)
Vidyut smiled faintly. "Haan, jaayegi." (Yes, you will)
"Give me five minutes," Vidyut said, adjusting his watch. "Let me also get ready. I'll drop my little princess to school today."
Ritvika just nodded. He smiled faintly and walked toward the washroom, closing the door behind him.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Ritvika's smile faded. She turned toward Tara, who was still lost in her tiny world — innocent, unbothered, untouched by life's cruelties.
Ritvika walked slowly to her, crouching down so she could meet those curious little eyes. "Tara baby..." she said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Today you're going to school for the first time, right?"
Tara's eyes lit up. "Yes, Mumma! Tara big girl now!"
A small chuckle escaped Ritvika's lips, but it trembled halfway. "Haan, bilkul big girl." She nodded, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "Now listen to Mumma for a minute, okay?"
Tara tilted her head, all attention. "Hmm?"
Ritvika took a slow breath, her voice calm yet heavy. "Baby, you know... sometimes, people go very far away. So far that we can't see them anymore. But that doesn't mean they stop loving us."
Tara frowned in confusion. "Like where, Mumma?"
Ritvika smiled faintly. "Like... in the sky. Some people become stars."
"Stars?" Tara's eyes widened.
"Yes, baby. Stars — the shiny ones I showed you in your book, remember?"
"Yes, Mumma!"
"Toh, when God really loves someone, He calls them to the sky. They help Him take care of others from up there." Ritvika's words wavered slightly, but she held her smile. "And when we miss them, we just have to look up. Because stars never go away... they keep watching us."
Tara blinked, her small hands now resting in Ritvika's. "Then they come back?"
Ritvika's throat tightened painfully. "No, baby... they don't come back. But you'll still feel them — here." She placed Tara's little palm over her chest. "Right here. Because when people go away, they start living in our hearts. That's how they stay with us forever."
Tara stared at her hand, then at her mother's teary eyes. "Mumma... you will stay in my heart too?"
Ritvika couldn't hold it anymore. Her lips quivered as tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
"Always, baby. Always. Even if Mumma goes very, very far one day, Tara will never be alone.
You'll still have Dadda, and everyone. And most of all.
.. you'll have Mumma here." She pressed Tara's tiny hand against her heart again.
Tara frowned, still not understanding the finality behind her words. "But I don't want you to go far, Mumma."
Ritvika smiled through her tears. "Mumma doesn't want to go either, baby. But if one day I have to... promise me you'll still smile. Promise me you'll still draw, sing, and tell Dadda all your silly stories. Promise Mumma you'll be her brave girl."
Tara nodded slowly, her eyes soft. "Tara blave girl. Mumma promise."
Ritvika's heart cracked wide open as she pulled Tara into her arms, holding her tightly — breathing her in as though this moment could last forever. "That's my good girl..." she whispered, pressing trembling kisses on her daughter's hair.
Tara giggled softly, completely unaware of the storm inside her mother's chest. "Mumma crying?"
Ritvika shook her head quickly, wiping her tears with a shaky smile. "Nahi baby, Mumma not crying... just too happy. My Tara is growing up so fast."
She kissed her again — once, twice, as if sealing a memory — and whispered one last time, voice barely audible,
"And remember, baby... even when you can't see Mumma, she'll still be shining for you, just like a star."
Outside the washroom, the tap turned off. Vidyut's footsteps approached. Ritvika hurriedly blinked away her tears, stood up, and fixed Tara's collar — leaving no trace of the heartbreak that had just unfolded in the quiet morning.
The car came to a slow halt in front of the bright, cheerful building that smelled of crayons and new beginnings. Little children ran about in tiny uniforms, clutching their parents' hands, some crying, some laughing.
Ritvika turned back from the passenger seat and smiled at Tara, who sat in her car seat with wide, curious eyes and a small bag strapped across her shoulders.
They three came out of the car
"Tara baby, look—school!" Ritvika said softly, brushing her daughter's cheek.
"Mumma come too!" Tara said immediately, grabbing Ritvika's shirt in her small fist.
Ritvika blinked, her smile faltering. "No, baby. Mumma can't come inside. Tara will go with Ma'am, okay?"
"No! Mumma also come! Dadda also come!" Tara said, shaking her head stubbornly, her lips trembling.
Ritvika sighed gently and exchanged a glance with Vidyut, who stood on the other side holding Tara's tiny water bottle. "Tara betu, you have to go alone, na? All babies are going without their Mummas. See?" she said, pointing toward the group of children being led inside.
But Tara's grip tightened on her shirt, eyes glistening. "No Mumma. Tara no go. You also come."
The teacher smiled kindly. "It's okay, Ma'am. Happens the first day. We'll take her in a little while."
Ritvika crouched down, holding Tara's face in both hands. "Baby... Mumma will be right here when school ends, okay? Promise. Mumma and Dadda both will come to take you home."
Tara sniffled. "Promise? Pinky?"
A tear escaped Ritvika's eye before she could stop it. She smiled weakly and hooked her pinky with Tara's. "Promise."
After a few more minutes of coaxing — and a few hiccupping sobs — Tara finally agreed to go inside with the teacher. Her small hand slipped out of Ritvika's, and she looked back twice before disappearing behind the classroom door.
The moment she vanished, Vidyut exhaled sharply and turned to Ritvika. "Ritvika, let's think again, hmm? She's so small. If you say, I'll go inside and bring her out right now. She'll cry without you."
Ritvika's eyes were fixed on the colorful gate that had just swallowed her daughter. Her voice was soft, distant.
"She'll have to learn to live without me someday... might as well start now."
Vidyut froze, frowning. "What does that even mean?"
Ritvika blinked, realizing what she'd said. She forced a smile. "Nothing. Just... first day, you know? I'm getting late for the office."
"Wait—" Vidyut said, shaking his head, still unsettled. "I'll drop you. You're not going alone."
"Vidyut, it's fine—"
"No. I said I'll drop you." His tone was calm but firm, leaving no space for argument.
Ritvika gave a small sigh and nodded. "Okay."
A faint silence hung between them as they walked back to the car. The morning breeze carried the faint echo of Tara's laughter from inside the building — unaware of the silent heaviness that followed her parents as they drove away.
It was 12:10 in the afternoon.
Ritvika stepped out of her office, her shift finally over. The sun was high, and the city buzzed with the usual mid-day rush. She hailed an auto and sat inside, tired but peaceful.
As the auto moved, her phone buzzed. She opened it and saw a message from Vidyut.
"Ritvika, I'm stuck in a very important meeting. I won't be able to come to pick her up from school. Please manage today."
Ritvika read it twice and simply typed back — "Okay."
The auto stopped near Tara's school after fifteen minutes. It was a small building with colourful walls, designed especially for tiny children. The board outside read: Little Steps Play School. The dispersal time was 12:30, so she still had a few minutes left.
She exhaled softly, relieved that she was on time. Soon the bell rang, and laughter filled the air as kids began running out—some holding their teacher's hands, others searching for their parents among the crowd waiting outside.
Ritvika stood near the gate, her eyes scanning every tiny uniform until she spotted her own little sunshine — Tara — walking with her tiny bag resting crookedly on her shoulder. The moment Tara saw her, her face lit up with the widest smile.
"Mummmaaa!" she squealed, running as fast as her little legs could.
Ritvika bent down and opened her arms wide, catching her little one into a tight hug. Tara's arms wrapped around her neck, her giggles echoing against Ritvika's shoulder. That one hug was enough to melt away all the exhaustion of the day.
"Mumma missed you so much," Ritvika whispered, pressing a kiss on Tara's hair.
"Tara tooo!" she said, her tiny voice full of love.
As they pulled away, Tara's eyes caught something shining on the roadside — an ice-cream stall.
"Mumma, ileam!" she pointed eagerly.
Ritvika chuckled and nodded. "Okay, one small ice-cream, but then we'll go home."
The next few minutes were pure joy — Tara happily licking her cone, ice-cream smudged on her cheeks, while Ritvika watched her with a soft smile. The crowd around the school slowly dispersed; cars drove away, parents walked hand in hand with their kids. Soon, the gate area looked almost empty.
That's when Ritvika noticed something.
A little boy — perhaps four or five years old — sat quietly on a bench near the guard's office. A tiny water bottle lay beside him, his bag still on his lap. He looked around but didn't move.
Frowning slightly, Ritvika took Tara's hand and walked towards him.
"Hey, little baby," she said softly, crouching down to his level. "Didn't you go home yet?"
The boy shook his head silently.
"Why? What happened?" she asked gently.
Before the child could answer, the school guard walked closer.
"Madam, he'll go by 2 p.m.," the guard said.
Ritvika frowned. "But why so late? Every child has already gone home."
The guard sighed. "His father comes late, ma'am. He works nearby and picks him after his shift ends at 2. Every day it's the same."
Her brows creased in confusion. "Then... can't his mother come?"
The guard's voice lowered, almost apologetic.
"He doesn't have a mother, ma'am. She passed away last year. It's just him and his father now."
Ritvika froze for a moment, her eyes slowly turning towards the little boy again. He was playing with the strap of his bag, innocent and unaware of the emptiness around him.
Something inside her ached — a slow, sharp sting that crawled up her chest.
She looked down at Tara, still holding her hand, and then back at the boy.
A sudden thought pierced her heart.
What if... one day, Tara stood like that? Waiting? Alone?
Her vision blurred slightly. Her chest felt heavy. The tiny laughter of the children who had left moments ago still echoed faintly in the background — but for Ritvika, the world had gone silent.
She blinked rapidly, forcing a smile as she lifted Tara into her arms.
"Let's go home, betu," she whispered.
Tara nodded, wrapping her tiny arms around her neck — completely unaware of the storm that had started inside her mother's heart.
The auto rumbled softly as it moved through the narrow lanes. Tara sat beside Ritvika, swinging her tiny legs and humming something she'd learned at school.
"Mumma, today Tara make flower with clay! Teacher say Tara best!" she chirped, showing her small fingers covered with a little dry clay.
Ritvika smiled faintly, brushing the clay off her daughter's hand, but her eyes weren't really seeing. Her mind was still trapped back at the school gate — in that small image of the little boy sitting alone, waiting... waiting for someone who'd never come again.
Her chest tightened.
Her hands trembled slightly as she held the corner of Tara's bag.
The auto slowed down at a signal, and she found herself staring out blankly — at mothers holding their children's hands, at school buses leaving, at the small happiness she feared Tara might one day lose.
Her breath hitched.
A whisper echoed in her mind — "He doesn't have a mother, ma'am."
Her throat went dry.
The thought replayed again and again, haunting her until it became unbearable.
Tara tugged her dupatta.
"Mumma... you listen? Tara tell something..."
Ritvika blinked and looked at her daughter's curious eyes. She forced a soft smile, but her voice came out faint.
"Haan, betu... bolna..." (Yes, baby... tell me...)
But even as Tara spoke, her words blurred into the background. Ritvika's heartbeat grew louder than her child's voice — uneven, heavy. She didn't want to imagine, but her mind did it anyway. What if I'm not there one day? What if Tara waits like that boy... alone...
The thought broke something inside her.
By the time they reached their apartment, Ritvika felt hollow — as if her body was moving, but her soul lagged somewhere behind. She paid the driver, picked up Tara's school bag, and slowly climbed the stairs.
Inside, the flat felt too quiet.
She looked around — the living room scattered with toys, Tara's crayons on the table, her small shoes lying near the door. Everything screamed life, yet Ritvika felt her breath hitch again.
She turned to the wardrobe and opened it.
Rows of tiny dresses hung neatly inside — pink frocks, yellow jumpsuits, tiny socks folded in pairs. For a moment, she simply stared at them, her vision blurring again.
Then she turned — Tara stood near the bed, looking at her with innocent confusion.
And something inside Ritvika shattered.
She rushed to her and hugged her tightly — so tightly that Tara squeaked in surprise. Tears slipped silently down Ritvika's cheeks and dampened her daughter's hair.
"Mumma?" Tara whispered softly.
Ritvika didn't answer. She just held her close, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the child's back.
After a while, she composed herself, wiped her tears quickly, and said softly,
"Chalo, betu, let's change your clothes first."
She changed Tara into her soft home frock, fed her lunch gently — spoon by spoon — as Tara tried to talk in between bites.
"Mumma, Tara friend name is Pia! She give cholate! Teacher say good girl!" she giggled.
Ritvika smiled faintly but her eyes seemed distant.
"Hmm... that's nice, betu," she murmured.
Tara continued her chatter, waving her tiny hands, excited. But Ritvika's mind... it was somewhere else — tangled between fear, disease, and the cruel uncertainty of tomorrow.
After some time, Tara began to yawn. Ritvika stroked her head lovingly.
"Betu, mumma will listen to all your talks at night, okay? Abhi na, you sleep for a while."
"But mumma—"
"Shhh... just sleep, meri jaan," Ritvika whispered.
She lay beside her until Tara's breathing turned soft and steady. Her hand lingered on her daughter's hair for a long moment, and then she got up quietly.
Hours passed.
She cleaned the kitchen, folded clothes, arranged the toys — all like a machine. Her hands moved, but her mind didn't stop.
By evening, the silence of the house began to grow heavier. The same thoughts that she'd pushed away all day returned, sharper this time — the boy, his loneliness, her illness, the fear of what might come.
Her chest began to ache again. A slow, painful throb. She pressed her palm against it and tried to breathe.
She walked to her drawer, took out her medicines, and swallowed them dry. But nothing helped. Her vision swam slightly, and her breathing turned uneven.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and finally broke — silent tears streaming down her cheeks as her body shook softly.
For once, she didn't try to hide it.
The pain was not loud... it was quiet, deep — the kind that hollowed you from within.
And in that moment, Ritvika realized — she wasn't crying for herself anymore.
She was crying for the little girl who might one day wait... just like that boy.
—--
The soft scent of roses filled the small flower shop. Vidyut stood quietly by the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the bouquets arranged neatly on the shelves.
"Sir, which ones should I pack?" the florist asked politely.
Vidyut's gaze lingered on a bunch of small white lilies tied with a pink ribbon. "This one," he said after a pause. Then his eyes shifted to a bouquet of red and peach roses — elegant, mature, graceful. "And that one too."
The florist smiled as he started wrapping both. "Two bouquets, sir?"
Vidyut nodded slightly. A rare, soft smile touched his lips.
"Yes. One for my daughter — she had her first day at school today."
The florist's hands paused mid-wrap, and he smiled warmly. "Oh, that's sweet, sir."
Vidyut's expression softened even more as he looked at the second bouquet.
After a heartbeat, he added quietly, almost to himself,
"And one... for my wife. It was her first day of office."
There was a flicker of hesitation in his tone — as though the word wife carried a weight he still wasn't used to.
The florist handed him both bouquets with a grin. Vidyut paid, nodded curtly, and turned to leave.
Outside, the sky had turned dusky — shades of orange fading into violet. He walked towards his car, the two bouquets resting carefully on the seat beside him. For a brief moment, he just sat there, looking at them — one delicate and small, the other large and elegant.
A faint smile curved his lips.
For a man who had spent most of his life chasing power and silence, these two people had somehow become... his peace.
He checked his watch. 6:25 PM.
Perfect timing. He'd reach before dinner. Maybe Tara would hug him — she always did. And Ritvika... maybe she'd finally stop pretending she wasn't exhausted.
He was just about to start the car when his phone buzzed on the dashboard.
He frowned — it was his security head, the man he had appointed to keep watch near Ritvika's apartment discreetly.
The unease crept in almost instantly.
He picked up the call.
"Yes, Rajesh?" his voice was firm.
The phone pressed tighter against his ear as Rajesh's voice came through, low and hesitant.
"Sir... Ritvika ma'am... she—she went out somewhere."
Vidyut's brows furrowed instantly. "What do you mean went out? Where?"
There was a pause. The man's voice trembled slightly.
"I—I don't know, sir. But..."
Vidyut's tone sharpened. "But what, Rajesh?"
"Sir... ma'am didn't take Tara baby with her. I saw the little one by the window of the apartment. The window was closed, but—" Rajesh hesitated, then blurted,
"—but it looked like she was crying. Should I go and check?"
For a split second, Vidyut froze. His mind went blank — no air, no sound. Then it hit him all at once.
"I'm coming," he barked, his voice like thunder through the phone.
"Check right now, damn it!"
He ended the call before Rajesh could reply. The next second, the car engine roared as Vidyut hit the accelerator hard.
He covered the fifteen-minute drive in barely five.
Red lights blurred, honking cars swerved out of his way — he didn't care. His heart pounded louder than the rushing wind outside.
When he finally screeched to a halt in front of the apartment building, Rajesh was already there — standing near the gate, holding a crying Tara in his arms.
Vidyut didn't even lock the car. He ran.
"Tara!" he called, voice shaking as he reached them.
The moment she saw him, Tara's teary eyes widened. "Daddaaa..." she sobbed, her tiny arms reaching out.
He took her from Rajesh's hold immediately, hugging her close, his hand rubbing her trembling back.
"Tara... shh, baby, what happened? Why are you crying, hmm?" he whispered, trying to steady her tiny hiccups.
"Mumaaa... mumaaa..." she whimpered against his shoulder, her small fists clutching his shirt tightly.
His jaw tightened, fear crawling deeper into his gut. He looked at Rajesh, his eyes blazing.
"Where is she?"
Rajesh swallowed hard. "Sir, I—I saw Ritvika ma'am leaving. I thought she'd just gone for a short walk or maybe to get something. But she didn't come back, and then I heard Tara baby crying inside. The window was shut. I—I didn't know what to do—"
Vidyut's glare cut him off. His voice came low and lethal.
"You dumb fool. You're telling me this now?"
Rajesh dropped his gaze instantly, trembling.
Vidyut's grip on Tara tightened protectively as he snapped,
"Go. Find her. Right now. I want her location in two minutes — not more."
"Yes, sir!" Rajesh stammered and rushed away.
Vidyut exhaled harshly, trying to calm Tara's sobs, but his mind had already spiraled. The world around him blurred — the air felt heavier, darker.
He looked up toward the apartment window, his chest tightening.
Something inside him whispered that this night wasn't ordinary.
Something was wrong.
Vidyut's pulse was racing. His phone buzzed again — another update from the guards.
"Sir... it's been almost fifty minutes since Ritvika ma'am left. Still no sign of her."
He clenched his jaw, the weight of those words sinking in.
Fifty minutes.
Tara was still in his arms, her small fingers fisting his shirt, tears streaking down her cheeks. She refused to let go.
He exhaled sharply, running a trembling hand over her hair.
"Damn it..." he whispered, helplessness clawing at his chest.
Then, pulling out his phone, he dialed a number — his voice hoarse but commanding when it connected.
"Bhai..." came a confused voice from the other end — Aarush.
"Aarush, come to the address I'm sending you — fast. As soon as possible!" Vidyut barked, pacing near the car. His tone was sharp, urgent, leaving no room for questions.
"W-what happened—"
"Just come!" Vidyut cut the call before Aarush could finish.
Within minutes, Aarush's car pulled up in front of the building. He stepped out, confusion written all over his face — but froze the moment he saw Vidyut's expression.
Vidyut didn't waste time. He handed Tara to him, along with his phone — the screen already opened to a cartoon video.
"Take care of her," he ordered, his voice softer but trembling underneath. "I'm coming."
Aarush instinctively reached out, "Bhai, at least tell me what—"
But Vidyut had already turned away, his focus razor-sharp on the road ahead. His men rushed toward him with updates, explaining what little they knew, while Aarush stood there holding Tara — now sniffling quietly, watching her father's retreating figure.
As Vidyut got behind the wheel, his patience finally snapped.
Every call from his security team ended the same — no update.
"What do you mean no trace?!" he roared into the Bluetooth. "You have one damn job! If you can't find her in five minutes, you're done!"
His men scrambled, fear in their voices as they assured him they were trying.
Then — the phone buzzed again. Rajesh's name flashed on the screen.
Vidyut picked up instantly.
"Sir!" Rajesh's voice came, hurried and nervous. "We found ma'am's location. It's showing on G.V. Road."
Vidyut's grip tightened around the steering wheel.
"Send me the coordinates."
The message pinged on his screen — and before Rajesh could say another word, Vidyut slammed the accelerator.
The tires screeched.
The car shot forward, slicing through traffic, his heartbeat thundering louder with every passing second.
G.V. Road.
His mind was a storm — fear, fury, dread — all mixing into one unbearable rush.
Just one thought burned in his head.
Ritvika. Please be okay.
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