Chapter 42 What He Took From Her
What He Took From Her
DHRUV
The event is everything it’s supposed to be—perfect in the way perfection is rehearsed.
Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling, scattering light across polished marble floors.
Soft instrumental music drifts through the hall, never loud enough to interrupt conversation, always present enough to fill silences before they turn awkward.
Laughter rises and falls in controlled waves.
Men in tailored suits stand with their shoulders squared, women glide past in silk and confidence, power wrapped neatly in elegance.
Hands shake. Cards are exchanged. Names are spoken with just the right amount of interest, just enough emphasis to signal importance.
It’s a language I’ve been fluent in for years.
I’ve done this my whole life—moved from one conversation to another, smiled at the right moments, nodded when expected.
I know when to speak, when to listen, when to step in and when to fade into the background.
I know how to read the room, how to make people feel heard without ever revealing too much of myself.
I know how to be present without really being here.
My body moves on instinct. My mouth forms polite replies about infrastructure projects, educational funding, cultural initiatives meant to preserve heritage while appearing progressive.
I listen closely enough to respond intelligently, store names and faces in neat mental files, remember who prefers praise and who prefers deference.
It’s effortless. Automatic. Like muscle memory.
And yet, I’m only half here.
Sitara stands beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm as though it belongs there—natural, unquestioned, which it does obviously.
Even through the fabric of my jacket, I can feel her warmth, the quiet reassurance of her presence.
Every now and then, her thumb shifts slightly, a small unconscious movement, grounding me more effectively than any practiced breath ever could.
I glance down at her between exchanges, just for a second, just enough to remind myself why I’m standing here at all. Her posture is composed, her expression attentive, but there’s a softness to her that doesn’t belong to this room. It never has. And yet, she fits beside me as if she always has.
I nod along to a comment about policy reform, my response measured and calm, but somewhere beneath all that polished control, I’m acutely aware of the way her fingers curl ever so slightly tighter around my arm—as if she knows when the room begins to drain me.
And for the first time in years, I don’t mind being here, because she’s here.
Because even in a room full of people, she makes it feel less empty.
My eyes scan around the room, I spot Devraj talking to the education minister, Aadhya trying to sneak the rose in his pant’s pocket, and before I could chuckle, my eyes land on him.
Ayush Chauhan.
For a fraction of a second, my mind refuses to place him. Not because I don’t recognize him, but because he doesn’t belong here. He looks wrong in this room, like a glitch you notice only after staring too long. Like someone pasted an old memory into a present that has already moved on without it.
He’s standing near the far end of the hall, half-turned toward a group of men, laughter easy on his lips.
His body language hasn’t changed at all.
The same loose shoulders. The same unbothered tilt of his head.
The same careless comfort of a man who has never had to carry the weight of consequences.
The same face that once stood beneath a mandap, garlands waiting, rituals paused—and chose absence over honesty. Chose silence over responsibility. Chose to disappear rather than look at the woman waiting for him and say no to her face.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
My heart stutters—not in fear, not in surprise.
In rage. It’s immediate and hot and instinctive, the kind that doesn’t ask permission before it takes hold. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped listening to the conversation in front of me until I feel Sitara’s fingers tighten around my arm.
Just slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for me to know. She’s seen him too.
I look down at her, and the change in her expression hits me harder than seeing him ever could.
Her face has gone still. Not composed. Not calm. It’s frozen.
Like her body has locked itself in place before her mind can catch up.
The color drains from her cheeks so fast it’s unsettling, leaving her skin pale, her lips parted just a little.
Her eyes—usually so expressive, so alive—turn glassy, unfocused.
Panic flashes there, raw and unguarded, the kind that slips through defenses because it doesn’t belong to now.
It belongs to then. It drags the past with it like a dead weight tied to her ankle, pulling her backward no matter how far she’s walked since.
And in that moment, something inside me burns with a clarity that makes my jaw clench.
This man didn’t just leave her. He stayed inside her.
He lingered in the quiet doubts. In the moments she questioned her worth.
In the nights she replayed what she could have done differently.
He didn’t walk away clean—he embedded himself in the damage and let her carry it alone.
Ayush’s gaze lifts then, casual, lazy. And lands on us. On her.
I watch his face closely, unwillingly hoping—like an idiot—that I might see something human flicker there. A pause. A tightening. A trace of guilt. Regret. Even discomfort would have been something.
Anything that suggested he understood what he had done. Instead, his lips curve. He smirks. Actually smirks. And in that instant, every polite rule, every carefully practiced restraint I’ve learned over years of rooms like this, fractures—because that smile tells me everything.
He remembers. And he doesn’t care. And then, as if to add effects, he winks at Sitara. It’s such a small gesture. Barely a flick of muscle. Something anyone else in the room might miss or dismiss as meaningless.
But I see it. And something inside me gives way with a sharp, sickening clarity—like a rope snapping under too much tension. That wink isn’t casual. It isn’t clumsy or accidental or born out of awkwardness. It’s intentional. It’s calculated.
A quiet, ugly reminder delivered with confidence.
I was here first. I did this to you. And nothing happened to me.
My jaw tightens before I realize I’ve clenched it. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough that it almost grounds me. Almost. I can feel my pulse hammering, heavy and fast, like my body has already decided what it wants to do before my mind can catch up.
I want—no, I need—to move.
To cross the room. To grab him by the collar and drag him out of whatever false civility he’s hiding behind. To make him look at me. To make him say her name out loud, without mockery, without smugness, without that lazy cruelty men like him mistake for charm.
I want him to understand what he did. Not in abstract terms. Not as a “mistake” or a “change of heart.” I want him to understand the humiliation. The waiting. The silence. The way she learned to smile through something that broke her quietly.
The images come unbidden, vivid and frightening in their clarity.
Throwing him across the room.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Until that expression cracks. Until the arrogance drains from his face and something human—something real—seeps out in its place.
Until he apologizes.Not because he’s cornered. Not because it’s expected. But because he finally understands that what he did mattered.
“Dhruv—” Her voice cuts through the noise in my head like a blade through fog.
I stop. I turn back to her, and the sight of her hits harder than anything Ayush could have done.
She’s shaking. Not enough for it to be visible to people here, not trembling hands or rattling breath that would draw attention.
It’s subtler which is more hurtful. I can feel it in the way she presses closer to my side, like she’s instinctively seeking cover.
In the way her fingers dig into my sleeve, not gripping, not pulling—just holding on.
In the shallow rise and fall of her chest, breaths cut short before they’re finished.
Her eyes keep moving.
From him. To me. Back to him.
As if she’s bracing herself for something—unsure whether the danger is what he might do next… or what I might do.
That realization twists something sharp and painful inside my chest.
Because that fear doesn’t belong in her eyes anymore.
Not because of him. Not because of anyone.
He doesn’t get to take up space in her like this. He doesn’t get to rattle her with a look, a gesture, a memory. He doesn’t get to remind her of a version of herself that felt small and disposable and easily abandoned.
I breathe out slowly, forcing my body to stay where it is even as every instinct screams at me to move. My anger doesn’t fade—it just tightens, coils inward, turning colder, more deliberate.
I shift just enough to put myself between her and him, even though the distance hasn’t changed. Even though the room is full of people and light and sound.
Because she needs to feel it. That she’s not alone in this moment. That whatever he thinks he still has over her—whatever satisfaction he thinks he earned—it ends here.
I glance down at her once more, my voice low, steady, meant only for her. A promise without needing to say the words. He doesn’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here. And I swear to myself, with a quiet certainty that settles deep in my bones—This will not be left unfinished.
“I have something important to deal with,” I say, and the words come out clipped, my jaw locking mid-sentence. “I’ll be back.”
It sounds like an order. The realization hits immediately, sharp and unpleasant. I hate that it sounds like that. Hate that my voice carries authority even when I don’t want it to. “Please,” I add, softer this time, forcing myself to slow down. “Find Devraj. Stay with him. Don’t leave his side.”
Her fingers curl around my bicep.
Not tight. Not desperate. Just… there. Warm. Real. Anchoring me for half a second longer than I deserve. The kind of touch that reminds you that you’re still human when everything inside you wants to turn feral.
“He doesn’t deserve your time,” she says quietly.
Her voice doesn’t shake, but her eyes do. And that does something ugly to my chest.
She’s right. He doesn’t. But this isn’t about him deserving anything. This is about what he took. I look down at her—really look this time—and the room fades into the background. The polished floor, the murmured conversations, the glittering lights—all of it disappears.
All I see is her.
The girl who once stood in front of a mirror and searched her own reflection for a reason she was left behind.
The girl who learned to make herself smaller in her own head.
The girl who convinced herself she was charity—something given, not chosen.
I know this runs from way before him, but his abandonment felt like the final blow, and I do not like that, nor will I tolerate it.
He planted that poison inside her. Watered it. And then walked away untouched, clean, smiling. I lean down just enough that my mouth is near her ear, my voice meant only for her. “I won’t be long.”
Her grip tightens for one brief second—just long enough for me to feel how badly she doesn’t want me to go. Then she lets go. And something inside me hardens.
I turn sharply, scanning the room, my gaze cutting through faces and bodies like they’re not even there.
Lakshman. King of Jodhpur. He’s mid-conversation, laughing lightly, glass in hand, completely at ease. Our eyes meet—and the change in his expression is immediate. The smile slips. His posture straightens. He knows something’s wrong.
I don’t slow down.
I step into his space, close enough that he has no choice but to feel the shift in the air. I lean in, my voice low, controlled, every word measured.
“We need to talk,” I say. “Now.”
He inhales sharply, the sound barely audible. “Dhruv—”
“Now,” I repeat, quieter than before, but heavier. Final.
There’s no threat in my tone.
Just certainty.
I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t need one.
Because tonight isn’t about protocol or politics or politeness.
Tonight is about making sure a man who walked away from her doesn’t get to pretend it anymore.