Chapter 43 Falling
Falling
SITARA
I find Bhai-sa near the far end of the hall, mid-conversation with an elderly man I don’t recognize. They’re standing close, heads bent toward each other, it seems like they are engaged in a polite and diplomatic exchange. Bhai-sa looks composed, regal even—until his eyes lift and land on me.
The change is almost instant.
His brows pull together, concern sharpening his features, and something in my chest caves in. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick and stubborn, and blink rapidly because this is not the place to cry. Not now. Not here.
Before Bhai-sa can say anything, Bhabhi-sa is beside me, her hand already at my elbow like she sensed it from across the room. “Sitara,” she murmurs, voice soft but alert. “What happened?”
“He’s here,” I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Bhai-sa excuses himself immediately, not bothering with pleasantries. The old man nods and steps back, forgotten. Bhai-sa’s attention is entirely on me now, sharp and focused in a way that makes my chest tighten all over again.
I tell him everything. About seeing Ayush.
About the way my stomach dropped. About the smirk that felt deliberate, cruel.
About Dhruv’s hand tightening at my back, about how he went rigid in a way I’ve never seen before.
About how he told me to find Bhai-sa and stay with him.
About Maharaj Lakshman being pulled aside.
I don’t leave anything out.
Bhai-sa’s face darkens with every word. Not anger exactly—not yet. Something colder. More dangerous. When I finally trail off, he reaches out and places his palm gently on my head, fingers pressing into my hair with a familiarity that makes my eyes burn.
It’s such a simple gesture.
And yet it almost undoes me.
I never really got to know my father. I remember him—his laugh, the way he used to lift me up and spin me around until I squealed—but those memories are few, faded at the edges.
I lost him too early. After that, the role of parent, protector, constant—it all fell on Bhai-sa without anyone ever asking him if he wanted it.
He never complained.
So when his hand rests on my head like this, steady and grounding, a part of me wants to lean into it and pretend everything is fine. Because for most of my life, that’s what it meant. Bhai-sa would handle it. Bhai-sa would fix it. Bhai-sa would make sure nothing touched me.
But tonight, something feels different.
I don’t feel safe.
I feel… afraid.
Not of Ayush. Not really.
Of what Dhruv looked like.
I watch Bhai-sa straighten, jaw set, already turning toward the exit. I know that look. I’ve seen it before—in boardrooms, in crisis meetings, in moments when someone has crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.
“I’ll handle this,” he says quietly, and there’s no room for argument.
I nod, because that’s what I’ve always done. Trusted him. Believed him.
Still, as I watch him walk out, a strange ache settles in my chest.
Because I hated the way Dhruv looked.
I hated that the gentle, teasing, warm Dhruv—the one who whispers reassurances, who watches me like I matter, who notices when my hands shake—was nowhere to be seen. In his place was someone else entirely. Someone sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.
It felt like he’d made Ayush his personal responsibility.
Like he wouldn’t stop until something broke.
And the worst part?
I don’t care about Ayush.
Not even a little.
I am glad he left.
I am glad that the wedding never happened.
Because if it had, I would have spent my life shrinking myself to fit into someone else’s indifference. I would have mistaken tolerance for love. I would have believed that being chosen reluctantly was the best I could hope for.
I would never have known what it feels like to be loved by someone gentle.
Someone protective without being possessive.
Someone who looks at me like I am not an obligation but a choice.
I would never have found a family that treats me like I belong—like my presence isn’t something to be adjusted to or endured, but welcomed. I would never have known what it feels like to be seen without having to perform, without having to apologize for existing.
I would never have known what it feels like to be someone’s center of attention.
Always.
The realization hits me so hard it steals my breath.
I love Dhruv.
Not in the abstract, tentative way I’ve been dancing around in my head. Not in the cautious, “maybe someday” sense. Not as gratitude. Not as comfort.
I love him.
I am not falling.
I have fallen.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
I am in love with Dhruv Singhania—not because he loves me, not because he chose me, not because he protects me—but because there is no man on this planet I would trust with my heart the way I trust him.
Because there is no one else whose anger scares me and comforts me at the same time.
Because even when he’s angry, he makes me feel safe.
Watching him walk away in anger to deal with a man who holds no space in my life, the thought that he might get hurt, that Dhruv may do something in anger, makes me want to protect him.
Because if the world turned its back on me tomorrow, I know exactly where I would stand.
With him.
My chest tightens, breath coming too fast, too shallow. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I don’t weigh consequences the way I usually do.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my feet are moving.
The doors loom ahead, heavy and tall, the same ones Dhruv walked through minutes ago. I don’t care what he’s planning. I don’t care what Bhai-sa or Maharaj Lakshman are doing. I don’t care if this is the worst possible timing.
I push the doors open.
Because whatever happens next—
He deserves to know.
And I am done pretending my heart isn’t already his.