CHAPTER IV GLASSY CRADLES
The man dragged a chair across the concrete and sat down in front of her like this was a job interview he was mildly bored by.
Same calm. Same infuriating composure. He folded his hands in his lap—clean fingers, trimmed nails, no tremor. The bulb overhead swayed once, twice, then stilled, light settling into something harsh and unflattering.
Ishaani’s wrists had gone numb. Not freed—never freed—just pushed past the point where pain screamed, where t became unbearable for Ishaani to hold her ground or composure.
Now it whispered. A deep, nauseating ache that reminded her with every breath that her body was not winning this argument.
The rope burned where it rubbed bone. Her shoulders screamed every time she shifted even an inch.
“You figured out who I am,” he said evenly. “Good. That means we can skip the introductions. Nayonica usually talked about you."
She stared at him, jaw locked, eyes bright with fury and bloodshot exhaustion. “If you’re expecting me to beg,” she said hoarsely, “you’re going to be disappointed.”
His lips curved, faint and humorless. “No,” he replied. “I’m expecting you to listen.”
Hands grabbed the back of her chair and yanked it sharply. Metal slammed into her spine. The air punched out of her lungs in a brutal rush.
She gasped. Coughed. Bent forward despite herself.
She did not scream. Yet, she couldn't deny the rage surging through her veins, commanding her to headbutt the man in front of her.
“Power,” the man continued, as if nothing had happened, “is widely misunderstood. People think it’s strength. Violence. Guns. Money.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s noise. Power is permission.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting casually on his knees.
“It exists,” he said, “because people allow it to exist.”
Was Rajveer Malhotra genuinely ranting off about Power to Ishaani Rajvanshi?
The girl had grown up surrounded by women who were the epitome of said Strength, Power and Resilience.
He must not have realised that the world had much greater figures out of his pathetically narcissist bubble.
She spat again, and the blood landed on his shoe.
The response was immediate. A fist cracked across her jaw, snapping her head sideways. White light detonated behind her eyes, feeling resonating with one closer to seeing the gates of Heaven, in the most negative way possible.
“Careful,” the man said mildly, holding up a hand. “Not the face too much. She’s supposed to be recognizable.”
Her vision swam as her mouth filled with the copper flavour, she had tasted quite a few times in the ring. She swallowed it down, teeth grinding.
“You see,” he went on, standing now, beginning to pace, “I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be cruel. I was invited to be efficient.”
His shoes echoed with each step.
“The people above me—the ones you’ll never see, never name—decided you were inconvenient. Loud. Interfering.” He paused. “Symbolic.”
She laughed. It broke out of her chest cracked and raw. “Oh, go fuck yourself,” she rasped. “I’m a nobody.”
He stopped.
Turned.
“That,” he said quietly, “is where you’re wrong.”
He crouched again, close enough now that she could smell him—expensive cologne, clean and precise, a scent that did not belong in places like this.
“You are Rajvanshis' youngest, spoilt loved. Vedika Rajvanshi, Ms. Lawyer.....wouldn't she put Delhi on fire if you got hurt?” he asked, looking at Ishaani with a dazed expression, as if determining the next cryptic and disgusting game of his. “That makes you leverage.”
Her stomach dropped like an elevator cut loose.
“Tara Kapoor,” he continued, voice almost conversational. “Vedika Rajvanshi. Devika.” His gaze sharpened. “Powerful women. Dangerous women. Women who dig.”
Her shoulders tensed, betraying her before she could stop them.
“You don’t gain power by being powerful,” he said. “You gain it by deciding who gets hurt.”
He nodded once.
The punch landed square in her ribs.
The scream tore out of her before she could cage it. Pure. Animal. The chair rattled violently as her body folded forward, ropes biting deep into skin already screaming.
Pain exploded—white-hot and blinding. Her vision tunneled. Her lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come.
She wheezed, choking, tears spilling freely now, humiliation and agony blurring together.
“That’s enough,” the man said after a moment. “For now.”
She hung there, head bowed, drool and blood dripping onto the concrete beneath her.
“You were taken,” he continued calmly, “because you are a message.”
She forced herself upright inch by inch. Her breath shook. Her eyes burned through tears, furious and unbroken.
“They’ll kill you,” she whispered. “Every last one of you.”
He smiled wider this time. Cold. Certain.
“They’ll try.”
_______________
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and panic.
Amaya woke choking on air.
Her body screamed in protest as consciousness slammed back into her. Bruises bloomed across her arms like spilled ink. Her shoulder was immobilized, ribs bound tight. The ceiling spun violently before resolving into harsh fluorescent light.
“Ishi—” she croaked.
A nurse was at her side instantly. “Easy. You’ve been unconscious.”
“Where is she?” Amaya rasped. “Where’s Ishaani?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
She tried to sit up. Pain detonated across her chest.
“I need the police,” she snapped. “Now.”
They came quickly. Two officers, notebooks out. She spoke through clenched teeth, every word sharp and precise. The bike. The car. The impact. The men.
“The number plate,” she said urgently. “I remember it. I remember it.”
She repeated it once. Then again. Then a third time, just to be sure.
Outside the ward, hell broke loose.
Sneha Rajvanshi paced like a storm caged in silk and marble, voice cracking as she screamed into her phone. “That’s my child. Do you understand me? My child.”
Devika stood unnervingly still. Too still. Her jaw was locked so tight it trembled. “Who can muster up the foolish strength to,” she said quietly, “—to abduct her. The whole of Delhi knows who the Rajvanshis are.”
Vedika was already in motion. Laptop open. Screens alive with code and maps and blinking points.
“C1PH3R,” she said into her headset, voice lethal. “I need everything. Cameras. Toll booths. Now.”
She exhaled sharply. “I don’t trust the police,” she muttered. “And I don’t have time for them to be incompetent."
Tara was sitting on the chair, fully composed and the only giveaway to that composure was how unfocused her light brown orbs were.
Indeed, Tara was furious; Enough to actually rip open with her nails whoever took Ishaani.
She couldn't understand the mindset of this coward who could drop so low,as to taking the youngest sister of the woman who was working against you.
She knew it was someone who was already in her tabloids yet again, the numbers were too large to speculate a certain name.
Her hands clenched as she felt her chest aching, which she tried her hardest to soothe, rubbing her hand to the spot right above her cardiac muscles yet it seemed impossible because even her breathing was far too shallow to calm her nerves.
She was supposed to be right here.
Her mind betrayed her, replaying it in fragments she couldn’t stop.
Ishaani buttoning her shirt, hair still damp, humming under her breath.
Tara slipping up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. Chin resting on her shoulder.
“Why go?” Tara had murmured. “Stay. Just this evening.”
Ishaani had smiled, leaning back into her. “You’ll be buried in work with Vedika di. And Amaya’s dragging me.”
Tara had kissed her neck. Soft. Lingering. “Come back fast.”
“I always do,” Ishaani had said.
The memory shattered.
Tara sucked in a broken breath as she pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, in distress.
This was not the time to sit back and reminisce like a widow.
She wouldn't let down her own self like that.
She knew Ishaani would be back in four days and that was it.
She was Tara Kapoor, whose will always had a way, even without the aspect of will lingering.
Vedika didn’t look up. “We will find her, Devika.”
Devika cracked her knuckles slowly, as she looked up at Vedika immersed in her screen, most probably looking at the camera recordings from C1PH3R already.
Sneha wiped her tears and straightened, spine rigid with resolve. "Your Father will do something. I know he will."
Devika and Vedika looked up in unison, or better said, glared at each other, simultaneously rolling their eyes.
"If he was what a father should be, then I'd be every woman's father figure." Vedika murmured, as she glanced over at Tara who had eyes such glassy to deem them broken, already.
________________
Two days felt like two years—time stretched thin, skinned raw, left bleeding at the edges.
The house stopped breathing the moment Ishaani vanished.
It didn’t creak the same way anymore. Didn’t hum with its familiar, lived-in warmth.
Even the air-conditioning sounded wrong—too loud, too mechanical, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was supposed to mourn.
Lights stayed on in empty rooms, harsh and accusing.
Cups of chai went cold where they were abandoned, thin skins forming on the surface.
Phones buzzed and buzzed and buzzed again, each vibration a tiny electric shock that crawled up the spine and lodged in the throat.
Tara hadn’t slept.
Not really. Not properly. Not even accidentally.
She sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, feet flat on the floor like she was bracing for impact.
The mattress still smelled like Ishaani—perfume, sweat, and something warm and unmistakably alive—and it made her chest hurt in a way that felt structural, like a crack running straight through bone.
Every time she closed her eyes, her mind betrayed her.
Images came uninvited, sharp and cruel, little films she couldn’t turn off.
Ishaani crying. Ishaani bleeding. Ishaani calling her name and not being heard.
She broke the first time one of the images stayed too long.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sobbing collapse. No wailing grief. Just a sharp inhale that never finished, like her lungs forgot the next step. Her hands curled into the bedsheet, nails digging down until her fingers ached, until the pain gave her something solid to cling to.
“Stop,” she whispered to herself, voice cracking in the quiet room. “Stop it. She’s alive. She’s alive.”
The words didn’t believe her.
Downstairs, Devika was on her fourth call with the police commissioner. Her voice was calm—too calm—flat and cold enough to freeze blood mid-vein. She didn’t shout. She didn’t have to. Her anger sat dense and heavy in the room, a blade laid flat against the throat.
“You have a missing girl,” Devika said evenly. “From a family you are very aware of. If you fail here, this will not stay a police matter. Do you understand me?”
There was murmured reassurance on the other end. Too much reassurance. Too little substance.
Devika listened for another five seconds, then hung up without a goodbye. She slammed the phone onto the table so hard the screen spiderwebbed outward in a violent bloom. Amaya flinched from the couch, arm in a sling, face still bruised and pale, eyes shadowed with guilt and exhaustion.
“I should’ve fought harder,” Amaya said hoarsely. “I should’ve—”
Devika rounded on her instantly. “Stop,” she snapped. “You don’t get to bleed and blame yourself in my house. Not today.”
The words were sharp, but not unkind. Amaya swallowed and nodded, eyes glassy, jaw tight as she forced the guilt back down where it belonged—for now.
Sneha Rajvanshi was a wreck in motion.
She couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stand still. She moved from room to room like if she paused for even a second, her heart would shatter under the weight of it all.
Her hands wrung constantly, sari pleats crushed and forgotten, elegance abandoned entirely.
She murmured Ishaani’s childhood nickname under her breath like a prayer, like a spell she could chant hard enough to bend the universe.
“Shona,” she whispered to no one. “My shona.”
When the police stalled, when hours crawled by with no updates and no answers, Sneha did something no one personally wanted her to do. Yet, a mother's love knew no bound and held no such ego satiating dignity for herself.
Hence, she called the girls’ father, her husband, Rajeev Rajvanshi. The man was somewhere between Dubai and London, yet as soon as Sneha mentioned the reputation of the Rajvanshis, his youngest daughter, he moved like a thunderstorm.
The conversation had been short, sharp and brutal. Words like knives, old wounds ripped open without ceremony. And for the first time in a long time, the man did something right.
He rang up the police headquarters like a fucking storm—reputation, money, and rage wrapped in a tailored suit. Threats were made without being spoken aloud. Careers were mentioned. Transfers. Inquiries. Names dropped with surgical precision. All in all, the effect was immediate.
Files moved. Phones rang. Orders were barked. People stood straighter. Voices lowered.
Vedika watched it all from her laptop, fingers flying, eyes bloodshot but razor-focused.
Her server was open—too open. Windows stacked on windows, lines of code scrolling endlessly, maps lighting up with blinking points like a city full of nervous stars.
C1PH3R’s presence pulsed through the system, an unseen partner tugging threads faster than human hands could manage.
“This took them long enough,” Vedika muttered, jaw tight. “We should’ve had this twelve hours ago.”
Tara hovered behind her, useless hands clenched at her sides. She hated this part. Hated watching. Hated not knowing where to put her body, her strength, her fury. Every time Vedika leaned closer to the screen or sucked in a breath, Tara’s heart jumped violently into her throat.
“Anything?” Tara asked again, voice hoarse and fraying.
Vedika didn’t look up. “I’ll tell you when there is.”
Hours bled into each other. Night smeared into morning and then into another night without anyone noticing when the sun rose or fell again. Tara tried to eat once and gagged halfway through. Tried to lie down and felt like the mattress was swallowing her whole.
So she paced instead.
The courtyard. The hallways. The living room. And finally—inevitably—Ishaani’s room.
That was the worst.
Everything was exactly where she’d left it. Shoes by the door. A half-read book on the bedside table. A hair tie looped around the knob of her drawer like she’d meant to grab it later and forgotten. Tara stood in the doorway for a long moment, chest tight, vision blurring, before stepping inside.
The silence hit her like a blow.
She crossed the room slowly, reverently, as if Ishaani might still be under the duvet, breathing softly like a lump on the bedsheet, as if Ishaani was still somewhere in there if only, Tara searched heard enough.
She sat on the bed and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in deeply, desperately.
“Come home,” she whispered into the fabric, voice breaking at last, as she breathed in heavily. “Please. Just come home.”
Tara Kapoor unraveled quietly.
That was always the most dangerous way.
From the outside, there was nothing to see.
No hysteria. No screaming fits. No glass shattered against walls or knees giving out in front of witnesses.
If anything, she looked composed—too composed.
Spine straight. Jaw set. Voice clipped and precise, like every word had been vetted for weakness before being released.
She gave instructions instead of asking questions.
Managed instead of mourning. Held the world together with sheer force of will and muscle memory.
But inside her head, the floor had caved in completely.
The silence did not stay silent. It never did with her.
Her mind, traitorous and sharp, filled every empty space with images she had not asked for and could not stop.
Ishaani laughing earlier that evening, head tipped back, eyes bright and careless.
Ishaani’s voice, warm and intimate in her ear: Baby, come see me when you get home?
Ishaani buttoning her shirt, fingers quick and familiar.
Ishaani turning at the door, smiling—alive, vivid, real.
The memory struck like a blade between the ribs.
Tara sucked in a breath that burned all the way down. Her chest spasmed, lungs forgetting their rhythm. “No,” she whispered to the empty room, the word thin and useless. “No. Don’t do that.”
But the images did not listen.
They twisted.
Her brain took Ishaani’s face and rewrote it with fear.
Took her mouth and silenced it. Took her body and stilled it in ways Tara could not unsee.
The pictures sharpened, grew cruel. Tara’s hands clenched into fists so tight her nails carved crescent moons into her palms, skin breaking just enough to sting.
She shot to her feet and began to pace like a caged animal. Three steps to the window. Turn. Four steps back to the bed. Turn again. Her movements were precise, restless, like if she stopped moving her thoughts would catch her.
Control, she told herself fiercely. You need control.
She grabbed her laptop from the desk, fingers stiff, opened files she already knew by heart.
Timelines. Accounts. Names stacked neatly in rows.
Data that usually soothed her—logic, causality, systems she could bend and break if she had to.
Normally, this was her sanctuary. Numbers didn’t lie. Patterns didn’t betray you.
Tonight it was all fucking meaningless.
The words blurred on the screen. Letters swam, refused to line up. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark glass of the monitor—eyes too bright, face pulled too tight. She slammed the laptop shut with a sharp click that echoed in the room.
“What if I missed something?” she muttered aloud, the sound of her own voice grounding and horrifying at the same time. “What if I pushed too hard? What if this is my fault?”
The word landed heavy. Ugly and Loud.
Fault.
She laughed once, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping her throat. “Of course it is.”
Because Tara Kapoor believed in causality the way some people believed in God. Actions had consequences. Pressure created fractures. You did not poke vipers and then act surprised when they struck.
And Ishaani—sweet, reckless, stupidly brave Ishaani—had been standing far too close to her when she did the poking.
Her knees gave out without warning.
It wasn’t graceful. One second she was standing, the next she was on the floor, back hitting the side of the bed hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.
She slid down until she was sitting there, legs drawn in, breath coming too fast and too shallow.
This was the crack—not the shatter, but the fissure running straight through her carefully built composure.
“I told you to be careful,” she whispered hoarsely, staring at the opposite wall like it might answer her. “I told you.”
Her throat closed around the words. Heat burned behind her eyes, furious and unwelcome. Tears gathered despite her, betrayal on top of betrayal. She scrubbed at them angrily with the heel of her hand, like she could wipe the weakness clean.
This is not who you are.
But who she was did not matter when the person she loved might be bleeding somewhere alone.
She curled forward, arms wrapping around her middle like she could physically hold herself together. Her breathing stuttered. Once. Twice. Then it collapsed entirely. A sound tore out of her chest—low, broken, animal—before she could stop it.
“I can’t—” she gasped, words tangling and tripping over each other. “I can’t lose you. Not you. Anyone but—fuck—”
Her forehead hit the floor with a dull thud.
Her shoulders began to shake, violently now, grief ripping through her defenses with no regard for dignity.
This was not the controlled sorrow she allowed herself in daylight.
This was the feral kind. The kind that lived in bones and screamed in the dark.
The kind that whispered what if over and over until the future felt poisoned beyond repair.
Every horrible possibility lined up neatly in her mind, precise as ammunition.
What if they hurt her?
What if they broke her?
What if she’s calling for you and you’re not there?
Tara slammed her fist into the floor, pain blooming sharp and bright. “Stop,” she choked. “Stop it. Stop.”
But the spiral had teeth.
She remembered Ishaani sleeping in her arms just nights ago, warm and soft and utterly trusting. The weight of her head against Tara’s shoulder. The way she’d murmured, half-asleep.
Do whatever you want. Just stay.
The memory sliced deep and clean.
“I stayed,” Tara sobbed quietly, voice cracking under the truth of it. “I stayed. Why wasn’t that enough?”
Guilt bled into everything. Every sharp word she’d ever thrown. Every moment she’d chosen strategy over softness, caution over closeness. Every time she’d assumed there would be more time. What if Ishaani thought—wherever she was—that Tara hadn’t loved her enough?
That thought shattered what little restraint remained.
Tara cried then. Fully. Soundlessly. Her body folding inward as if it couldn’t hold the weight anymore. She pressed her mouth into her sleeve to smother the sounds, as if grief itself required permission to exist. Her tears soaked through fabric and skin alike, hot and relentless.
Time stopped behaving. Minutes stretched. Hours dissolved. Nothing moved except the ache in her chest.
When she finally lifted her head, her face was blotchy, eyes red and furious with exhaustion. She wiped at them again, slower this time, forcing herself to breathe deep, measured breaths until the shaking eased.
You don’t get to fall apart forever.
She pushed herself to her feet, unsteady but upright, and caught her reflection in the darkened mirror across the room. The woman staring back felt like a stranger—eyes too sharp, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth, pain etched into lines that had not existed before.
She turned away.
Her gaze landed on the chair by the window.
Ishaani’s hoodie lay draped over it, forgotten in the rush of life before everything broke.
Tara picked it up with reverent hands and pressed it to her chest, just for a second—no, longer than that.
She breathed in deeply, desperately, filling her lungs with the familiar scent of soap and warmth and home.
And for the first time in two days, she let herself miss her without fighting it.
The breakthrough came ugly and late, the kind that didn’t arrive with triumph but with dread crawling up the spine.
Vedika’s screen pinged.
Once.
Twice.
The sound was small, almost polite—but it cut through the room like a blade.
Vedika’s posture changed instantly. Her shoulders squared.
Her fingers stilled mid-air. Every muscle in her back went taut, as if her body had recognized the danger before her mind fully caught up.
The glow of the screen reflected sharply in her eyes as she leaned closer, scanning, cross-checking, pulling threads with ruthless speed.
“We have the car,” she said.
Three words. Flat. Controlled. Nuclear.
The room snapped to attention like a gunshot had gone off.
Amaya lurched forward from the couch despite the sharp hiss of pain tearing from her chest, her sling forgotten.
Sneha froze mid-step, one hand hovering uselessly in the air as if she’d been reaching for something solid and found only smoke.
Tara’s breath caught so hard it hurt, her lungs locking around it like they refused to cooperate with reality.
“Found where?” Devika demanded, already moving closer, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
Vedika didn’t look up. Her fingers were flying now, windows stacking over each other—maps, timestamps, grainy satellite images blooming into clarity. “Abandoned,” she replied. “Industrial area. East end. Burn marks on the engine.”
She zoomed in, jaw tightening. “They tried to erase it.”
The words settled heavy. Erase meant time. Planning. Intent.
“Registered?” Tara asked quietly.
Her voice did not shake, but her hands did. She clasped them behind her back to hide it, nails digging into skin, grounding herself through pain. Her gut had already started screaming, instincts flaring hot and ugly.
Vedika’s fingers paused over the keyboard.
Just for a second.
That second stretched impossibly long. It felt like standing on the edge of a drop, waiting for gravity to remember you existed. Tara’s pulse roared in her ears. Sneha’s breathing turned shallow and uneven. Even the hum of electronics seemed to hold its breath.
Vedika exhaled slowly.
Then she read the name aloud.
“Ishicka Malhotra Sen.”
Silence detonated.
It wasn’t quiet—it was violent. The kind of silence that slammed into the room and knocked the air clean out of it.
“What the fuck,” Devika said frustrated.
"This bitch" Tara muttered, venom lacing the syallables, as she matched Vedika's glare.
______________________
A/N:- Dear Readers,
For the context, Ishicka Malhotra Sen is Rajveer's wife, I don't know why my dumb self needed to add that, but I overthink to a great degree. So, just decided to put it out there.