Chapter 25 The hurt in her eyes
The hurt in her eyes
DHRUV
Something is off.
I’ve been circling that thought for days now, like a tongue worrying at a sore tooth. I keep telling myself I’m imagining it, that I’m overthinking—because I do that when it comes to her, I know I do—but the feeling refuses to leave. It sits heavy in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Sitara has changed.
Not in some dramatic, obvious way. Not in a way that would make it easy to confront or fix. It’s quieter than that. Subtler. Like a room that looks the same but feels colder the moment you step inside.
I lean back in my chair, eyes fixed on a file I haven’t actually read in the last ten minutes. The words blur together, meaningless. My pen rests idle between my fingers.
Did I push too hard?
The question sneaks in, unwelcome but persistent.
Movie night flashes through my mind—how she clung to my arm, how warm she felt pressed against me, how natural it all seemed in that moment.
I’d enjoyed it more than I should have, I know that.
Maybe I let myself forget that this is still new for her.
That comfort for me doesn’t automatically mean comfort for her.
I hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable.
God, the idea alone makes my jaw tighten.
These days, she’s asleep by the time I return to our room. Curled up on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, face turned away from the door. I stand there longer than necessary sometimes, just watching her breathe, wondering if I should wake her, wondering if I should leave her alone.
I always choose the latter.
In the mornings, I wake up alone, the bed cool on her side, sheets neatly arranged as if she was never there. By the time I reach the dining room for breakfast, she’s already seated—quiet, polite, offering smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes.
She doesn’t talk much anymore.
Not the way she used to. Not with that animated sparkle, those rambling explanations that jumped from thought to thought. Now she listens more than she speaks, nods at the right moments, eats carefully. Too carefully.
It’s like her spark has dimmed.
I grip the edge of my desk, the wood biting into my palm.
Is she missing her home?
The thought hits hard, followed immediately by guilt. I told her—I promised her—that we could go whenever she wanted. That she didn’t need to ask. That she wasn’t trapped here.
So why does she look like she is?
I exhale slowly, pushing my chair back. I’ll talk to her tonight, I decide. Properly. No distractions. No half-conversations over dinner. I’ll ask her what’s wrong and actually wait for the answer.
The sharp knock on my door shatters the fragile resolve.
Before I can respond, the door flies open.
“Dhruv—”
Yagini bursts in, breathless, her face pale in a way that makes my heart drop instantly.
“Sitara hurt herself,” she blurts out. “She was in the gym and the dumbbell fell on her leg.”
For a second, everything stops.
The room tilts, like the ground beneath my feet has shifted. Air rushes out of my lungs in one sharp exhale, leaving behind nothing but panic.
“What?” The word comes out hoarse.
I’m already on my feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor as I move past her. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. Years of training, of combat readiness, of crisis management—and none of it matters because this is her.
“Which gym?” I demand, already heading for the door.
“The private one near the west wing,” Yagini says, hurrying after me.
I don’t respond. My stride lengthens, boots echoing against marble floors as I move faster than I should. I know, logically, that she’s probably fine. Bruised. Shaken. That injuries happen.
Logic has no place here.
All I can think about is her pain. Her face twisted in hurt. Her trying not to cry.
By the time I reach the gym doors, my pulse is roaring in my ears.
I push them open.
The first thing I see is her.
Sitara sits on one of the benches, her leg extended awkwardly in front of her. Her hands are clenched in her lap, knuckles white. Her lips wobble as she stares at the floor, blinking rapidly like she’s fighting something back.
My chest tightens painfully.
Then she looks up.
Our eyes meet, and her composure cracks just a little. Her eyes widen, glossy with unshed tears, and something inside me breaks cleanly in half.
I cross the distance between us in seconds, dropping to my knees in front of her without a second thought.
“Sitara,” I say, her name barely more than a breath. “Let me see.”
She tries to smile. Tries. “Hi,” she says softly, and the weakness in her voice feels like a knife to my ribs.
“Hey, princess,” I murmur, my voice gentler than I feel. “What happened?”
Her lower lip trembles. “I was… I wasn’t paying attention,” she admits quietly. “I tried to move it and—” She winces.
I carefully lift her foot, my hands steady despite the storm raging inside me.
Her ankle is already swelling, the skin angry and bruised, purple blooming beneath the surface.
Anger flares sharp and sudden in my chest—not at her, never at her, but at the situation. At the fact that she’s been hurting in ways I didn’t see. At myself for not noticing sooner.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
She nods. “A lot.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her back and lift her up.
She gasps. “Dhruv—wait—”
Her arms automatically wrap around my neck, light but instinctive.
“I’ve got you,” I say firmly, standing up. “Hold on.”
“I’m heavy,” she protests weakly, embarrassment creeping into her tone. “You don’t have to—”
I stop mid-step.
Slowly, deliberately, I look down at her.
Her eyes flicker with uncertainty, as if she’s bracing herself for something. A joke. A comment. Anything.
What she sees instead must shock her, because her brows knit together.
The anger inside me is dangerous now. Controlled, but sharp-edged.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Don’t ever say that about yourself. Not to me. Not like this.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“You are not heavy,” I continue, my voice low and steady. “And even if you were, I would still carry you without thinking twice.”
Her eyes shimmer.
“I mean it,” I add, softer now. “You’re not a burden, Sitara. Not to me. Not ever.”
She swallows, nodding once, and rests her forehead against my shoulder.
I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
I carry her out of the gym, my grip secure, my steps careful. Every part of me is focused on one thing: getting her somewhere safe.
Back in our room, I settle her gently on the bed, propping her leg up with pillows. She hisses when her ankle shifts, and I flinch as if the pain is my own.
“I’ll call the doctor,” I say immediately, already reaching for my phone.
She nods, exhausted, eyes slipping closed.
The doctor arrives quickly—too quickly for my liking, because it means time passed without me realizing it. He examines her ankle, presses gently, asks questions.
“She needs rest,” he says finally. “Ice and elevate.Pain medication if necessary. No strain for a few days.”
I nod, committing every word to memory.
When he leaves, the room feels quieter.
I sit beside her on the bed, my hand hovering uncertainly before resting lightly on her knee, careful not to touch the injured area.
She opens her eyes and murmurs, “you didn’t have to pick me up like that.” murmurs.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I did.”
She studies my face, something unreadable passing through her expression.
“I scared you,” she says softly.
“Yes,” I admit. “You did.”
Her lips curve into the faintest smile, apologetic and tired. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be.”
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my thumb lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
And in that moment, as she leans into my touch with a quiet sigh, I understand something with terrifying clarity:
Whatever has been weighing on her—whatever doubt, whatever poison someone has been feeding her—it ends now.
Because no one gets to make my wife feel small.
Not on my watch.