⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The sun had almost dipped behind the horizon when Vidyut finally stepped into the mansion.
His shoulders slouched, exhaustion lining every feature of his face. The day had been long — unnecessarily long — filled with meetings, decisions, signatures… people. He needed silence. Just silence. Some water, maybe. And five damn minutes to breathe.
He tossed his coat carelessly onto the couch, loosened his tie, and called out, his voice heavy and disinterested —
“Lata kaki… paani laana…”
(Lata kaki… bring water…)
Silence.
Nothing echoed back. Not even a faint shuffle of footsteps.
His brows furrowed.
Odd.
A mansion like this never echoed with silence. There was always something — a servant walking, the television playing in another room, or Tara’s high-pitched babble from somewhere.
But today… nothing.
Just as his feet moved forward—
A broken sob sliced through the silence like glass.
He stilled.
“Mumma…”
His eyes shot to the staircase.
And then he saw her.
Tara.
Standing on the fourth step.
Barefoot.
Tears streaking her flushed cheeks, her nose runny, lips trembling, eyes swollen and red like she’d been crying for hours.
And then—blood.
His heart stopped.
“Tara!” he shouted, all exhaustion vanishing in a second as he rushed forward.
There was a gash on her foot—just above her ankle. Her knees were scraped and red, possibly from falling while trying to climb. Her tiny legs were trembling as she clutched the railing with all her might.
“Mumma… Mumma… no wake up… Tara pull… no come…” she sobbed in broken, slurred cries that made his throat close.
Vidyut’s stomach dropped.
He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.
In a flash, she was in his arms. Her little hands clutched at his collar, her face buried in his shoulder, shaking with every silent hiccup that came out like a whimper.
She felt too hot. Too tired. Too drained.
“Shhh… hey… Tara, I’m here… I’m here… what happened, baby?” he whispered, voice shaking, but her cries only grew louder.
She kept pointing toward the corridor, toward the rooms, her words broken and desperate—
“Mumma… floor… mumma no open eye… Tara cry… pull… she no come…”
His blood ran cold.
Floor?
No open eye?
Unconscious?
Ritvika.
He felt something coil painfully in his chest.
Still holding Tara close, he sprinted through the hallway, heart thudding against his ribs like it would explode.
No, no. She couldn’t be—
He didn’t even want to complete the thought.
His mind screamed to stay detached.
But his heart?
His heart was already racing towards her.
Vidyut pushed open the door to their room, Tara sobbing softly in his arms—
And then he froze.
Completely.
His breath hitched in his throat.
The sight before him knocked the air from his lungs.
Ritvika.
Lying motionless on the floor.
One hand twisted beneath her head.
Her saree barely clinging to her shoulder.
A glass—shattered.
Water spilled around her like a silent witness.
Shards glittering under the fading sunlight.
Her face was pale.
Unnaturally pale.
Lips slightly parted.
Lashes still.
Chest barely rising.
For a second, Vidyut forgot how to breathe.
The weight of the room—the chilling silence, the bitter coldness of the floor, the trembling child in his arms—closed in on him like a trap.
Tara wriggled in his grip, her tiny finger pointing toward her mother.
“Mumma… fall… Tara say wake… Mumma no hear… Tara cry… cry much… Mumma no get up…”
Her voice cracked as she buried herself into his chest, exhausted from crying for four straight hours.
His heart dropped.
No.
No.
No.
This wasn’t happening.
“Ritvika…” he whispered, snapping out of his daze.
He gently placed Tara on the bed—away from the glass—and rushed to her.
Falling to his knees, his hands trembled as they reached for her cheek.
Cold.
Too cold.
He shook her lightly.
“Ritvika—get up. What the hell…”
His voice cracked.
Nothing.
“Ritvika!” this time louder, panicked.
Still nothing.
He leaned in, desperate, listening for her breath.
Faint.
So faint.
But there.
His heart slammed against his ribcage.
Low blood pressure?
Sugar drop?
Exhaustion?
Dehydration?
What the hell was wrong with her?
His eyes scanned the room, searching wildly for answers—anything.
Tara was sitting now, quietly sniffling, her thumb back in her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at her mother.
Vidyut pressed his palm against Ritvika’s forehead.
Burning.
But it didn’t feel like a fever.
It felt like something worse.
“Damn it…” he muttered, his chest tightening with dread.
His phone.
Where was it?
He scrambled to grab it from his pocket, his fingers fumbling.
His voice trembled as he dialed, but just before the call connected, he whispered low, eyes never leaving Ritvika’s pale, still face.
"Don't"
Without thinking twice, Vidyut slid his arms beneath her still form and lifted her into his arms.
She was light.
Too light.
Weightless—like a dying feather.
His jaw clenched as his gaze dropped to her face—limp, pale, lifeless. Behind him, Tara’s soft sobs echoed like background noise he could no longer ignore.
He gently placed Ritvika on the bed.
But the moment her body touched the mattress—
“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back.
Blood.
Bright red.
It stained his palms.
His heart skipped.
His eyes widened as he scanned her body.
Tiny shards of glass—sharp and cruel—were embedded in her arm and lower back.
Some had pierced straight through her thin kurta, others dug directly into her skin, blooming red around each wound.
“Damn it, Ritvika…” he muttered, his voice strained, breaking.
He yanked open the bedside drawer and grabbed a pair of tweezers, hands trembling. With slow, careful precision, he began removing the shards, one by one.
Her skin flinched slightly under his touch, but she didn’t wake.
Not even a sound.
Not even a sigh.
Each shard brought more blood.
His throat ran dry.
A bead of sweat traced down his temple as he silently prayed—
Just move… just groan… say something.
But she lay there—breathing shallow, uneven.
He stepped into the bathroom, returned with a clean cloth, and gently dabbed the bleeding wounds, trying not to press too hard. As he wiped, his eyes fell on the bruises near her wrist—faint, but there.
From what? When?
He didn’t know.
Didn’t want to know right now.
Grabbing his phone again, he dialed the number without hesitation.
“Come now.” His voice was low, urgent.
“Emergency. She’s unconscious. Bleeding. I don’t care where you are—just get here. Now.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
Didn’t answer questions.
He ended the call.
When he turned back, his chest tightened further.
Tara had crawled near her mother’s feet, tugging weakly at the blanket, her tiny face blotchy with dried tears.
“Mumma… wake…” she whispered, lips trembling.
“Mumma sleep bohot?”
(Mumma sleeping too much?)
Vidyut rushed forward and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, her small body nestling into him like a broken bird.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, chin resting on her head, his eyes locked on the woman lying still in front of him.
Too still.
Too quiet.
And this silence… it was killing him.
Vidyut gently settled Tara onto the couch, brushing her sticky hair away from her face. The soft whimpers escaping her lips were no longer loud cries—but tired, broken hiccups. The poor child had been crying for hours.
He knelt down and lifted her feet slowly.
His breath hitched.
There it was—small cuts, red scrapes, and faint bruises across her heel and toes. Tiny feet that had climbed up and down the stairs, had walked barefoot around broken glass, had waited and cried for someone to come.
“Kya zarurat thi neeche aane ki, pagli…” he muttered under his breath, swallowing the knot in his throat.
(What was the need to come downstairs, silly girl…)
She didn’t respond. Her eyelids were half-drooped.
She was exhausted. Her energy drained.
But when he gently touched her ankle, she flinched.
“Bas, bas… ho gaya. Ab kuch nahi hoga.”
(It’s okay now… Nothing will happen anymore.)
He stood and got the first aid box. Kneeling again, he began wiping her feet with a damp cotton cloth. One bruise after another, he cleaned them—soft hands, steady gaze. He applied antiseptic, knowing it might sting.
Tara whimpered, trying to pull her feet away.
Vidyut immediately leaned forward.
“Dekho, big girl bano… ekdum strong wali baby ho tum, right?”
(Look, be a big girl… you’re a strong baby, right?)
Tara sniffled, watching him with wet lashes. She nodded slowly.
He gave a faint smile—tired, but reassuring.
After bandaging the bruises gently with small, colorful plasters he found in the box—probably some random purchase by Lata kaki—he cupped her face.
“Done. Ab pain gaya.”
(Now the pain is gone.)
Tara pointed weakly toward the bedroom, her lower lip trembling again.
“Mumma…chol layi?”
(Mumma… got hurt?)
His chest ached at her words.
He pulled her close, hugging her tight again.
“Mumma bas so rahi hai, okay? Thodi der mein uthenge.”
(Mumma is just sleeping, okay? She’ll wake up soon.)
But even he didn’t know if those words were true.
His eyes shifted back to the room, to that fragile figure on the bed.
Unconscious. Pale. Still.
The door creaked open again.
The doctor entered with his emergency kit in hand, eyes scanning the scene—Tara asleep on the couch, bandaged and drained, and Ritvika unconscious on the bed, still and pale.
Vidyut stepped aside silently, watching every move with unblinking eyes as the doctor quickly moved toward the bed and began checking her vitals.
He touched her pulse, checked her temperature, gently examined the wounds from the glass—some shallow, some bleeding deeper than they should. He frowned.
Then he flashed a penlight into her eyes and listened closely to her breathing through the stethoscope.
He didn’t say a word for the next few minutes. But his expressions… they were enough to make Vidyut’s chest tighten.
“How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor finally asked, his tone calm but grave.
Vidyut blinked. “I… I don’t know. I found her like this when I came home—maybe… maybe an hour ago? I wasn’t home.”
The doctor gently removed his gloves and turned toward Vidyut.
“Mr. Rajvansh, I’m going to ask you something important. Does she have any medical history? Any chronic illness, condition, recent treatments… is she on any medication?”
Vidyut shook his head instantly. “We just… we just got married a few weeks ago. I don’t know.”
A pause.
The doctor’s face tensed slightly.
“It’s important to know that,” he said seriously. “Her condition right now—weak pulse, low blood pressure, possible dehydration, delayed response—this isn’t just physical exhaustion or a faint due to heat. Something is going on internally.”
Vidyut’s throat went dry. “But… she was fine… I mean—”
“She’s been unconscious for more than just an hour,” the doctor cut in.
The world stopped.
Vidyut’s brows furrowed sharply. “W-What…?”
“Judging by her body’s response, the time it’s taking her to regain even partial awareness… she’s been unconscious for several hours.”
Several hours.
Those two words felt like a blow.
His legs felt weak suddenly.
He looked toward Ritvika again—still breathing, yes, but unnaturally quiet. Her hand slightly twitching as if trying to move. A strand of her hair stuck to her sweat-laced forehead.
She had been lying there all this time… Tara had been crying for hours...
He hadn’t been here. He had doubted her.
And now… now she lay here, fragile and frighteningly still.
The doctor was still speaking. “Once she regains consciousness fully, please ask her or someone in the family if she’s under any ongoing medication, or has a diagnosed condition. We’ll have to run a few more checks, just to be sure.”
Vidyut could only nod faintly, unable to form any coherent response.
The guilt had already begun crawling up his throat.
After the doctor left, silence returned to the room — thick, heavy, and unsettling.
Tara’s eyes were swollen from the hours of crying, her tiny body limp with exhaustion. She hadn’t spoken a word since the doctor checked her mother. Just clung to Vidyut’s shirt like a fragile little doll.
He took her in his arms, not with warmth… but with care — silent, mechanical, precise.
He gently placed her on the bed, away from Ritvika’s side. One hand supported her back while the other unbuttoned her stained dress, his movements careful, avoiding the bruises on her knees.
Her little hands reached up mid-sleep, fumbling with his collar.
"Big.. big man… no mumma…" she murmured groggily, lips quivering.
He didn’t answer.
Not a single word.
He changed her into a soft cotton T-shirt and pyjama from a small bag placed nearby. Then tucked her under the blanket, placing her stuffed bunny near her chest — she instantly hugged it like she always did.
Within minutes, Tara drifted into a shallow, tear-drenched sleep, soft whimpers occasionally escaping her lips.
Vidyut stood still beside her, his tall figure casting a shadow that stretched across the entire bed.
His eyes then travelled… to the other side.
To the still figure of Ritvika — lying there, unconscious.
The bruises on her arms were still faintly red. Her skin pale. That crack near her lip hadn’t healed.
With a sharp exhale through his nose, Vidyut walked toward the empty chair across the bed — not too far… but not close either.
He sat down — slow, rigid — elbows on knees, eyes fixed.
Not on Tara.
Not even on Ritvika.
But on nothing.
His jaw ticked.
A storm sat behind those blank eyes, but not a single emotion leaked through.
The room was still, but not quiet. The soft humming of the fan, Tara’s slow breaths, and the occasional rustling from Vidyut’s shifting seat filled the space.
And then…
A faint stir.
Ritvika’s eyelids fluttered, her lashes trembling as if pulled down by an unseen weight. Her throat was dry. Eyes blurry. For a moment, she couldn’t place where she was. Everything around her looked unfamiliar — distant shadows, a soft blanket, Tara’s tiny shape curled near her, and…
A dull ache spread through her entire body. Her head spun, and a sharp, pulsing pain throbbed down her side.
She winced — trying to sit up — but her body protested.
“Ahh…” a soft groan escaped her lips, her hand reaching her side instinctively.
And in a second —
Vidyut stood up.
He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until then.
Her movement, her groan — it pulled something within him. His long strides brought him to her side as she tried to rise with trembling arms.
“Mat uthho,” he said, voice stern but lower than usual.
(Don’t get up,)
But Ritvika — dazed, unsure — still tried.
Her fingers slipped.
And before her body could fall back — his hands caught her.
An instinct. Again.
His arm wrapped behind her back, holding her gently yet firmly as she struggled to sit. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second — hers blurry, confused, lost. His unreadable.
“Main… main theek hoon…” she murmured weakly, swallowing hard.
(I… I’m fine…)
“Haan?” his jaw clenched, sarcasm sharpening his words.
“Theek ho? Shaabaash. Kamal hai. Pehle beech kamre mein behosh padhi thi, ab bol rahi ho theek ho?”
(Really? Fine? Amazing. You were lying unconscious in the room, and now you’re claiming you're fine?)
Ritvika looked away.
“Main… sar bas ghoom gaya tha sab…”
(Everything just… spun suddenly…)
“Achha? Aur kaafi der se spin ho raha tha ya sirf tab hua jab tum floor pe chali gayi?”
(Oh really? Has it been spinning for a while or just when you collapsed on the floor?)
There was a sharpness in his voice, but no shouting. Just cold questions. Sharp. Pointed.
She didn’t answer.
He noticed her lips trembling. Her hand gripping the blanket. Her shoulders rising and falling too quickly — not out of fear of him… but as if breathing itself was an effort.
Something inside him twisted.
But he masked it — quickly.
“Tara was alone. She was bleeding. She cried for four hours.”
His voice wasn’t just angry — it was controlled. Too controlled.
Ritvika’s eyes immediately darted to Tara, still asleep. Tears welled up. Her lips opened to say something—but closed again.
Vidyut’s eyes narrowed.
“Tumhe kuch chahiye? Paani?”
(You need something? Water?)
She nodded faintly.
He handed her the glass from the nightstand.
Their fingers brushed.
For a second, he thought of asking her more questions. About her health. About what happened. About what exactly went wrong.
But then…
His brain reminded him of her secrets.
The showroom. Lady’s words. Everything else.
So instead, he stepped back.
“Rest karo. Jab theek ho jao, baat karenge.”
(Rest. When you're fine, we’ll talk.)
And with that, he moved back to his chair.
Back to silence.
Back to suspicion.
But now… with a hundred more questions burning quietly in his mind.
The silence settled again, heavy — but not peaceful.
Vidyut sat on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed straight ahead. Yet… his gaze kept pulling back. Again and again — to the fragile figure on the bed.
Ritvika.
She hadn’t said a word since sipping the water.
But he noticed the moment her eyes drifted to the little bundle lying beside her.
Tara.
Still asleep, cheeks tear-stained, lips parted in uneven breaths. Her tiny fists curled near her chest, her ankle bandaged now — but the dried stain of blood still faintly visible.
Ritvika’s heart clenched.
She slowly shifted on the bed, ignoring the sharp pull of pain in her ribs. Her arm stretched with great effort, and her trembling fingers reached Tara’s forehead.
"Bacchu..." she whispered in a breathless tone, her voice breaking as she brushed back a strand of Tara’s hair.
Her fingers moved gently — reverently — as if the very act of touching her child might shatter something inside her.
She bent slightly, pressing her lips to Tara’s temple.
Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring everything again — this time not from illness, but guilt.
Her hand moved to Tara’s wounded foot, barely grazing it. She winced as if the wound was on her own skin.
Her fingers hovered… then softly traced the cotton bandage.
A soft sniff escaped her. She didn’t sob — she couldn’t. Her body had no strength left.
She just… ached.
“I’m sorry, betu…” her lips moved in silence this time, not daring to wake her daughter.
Vidyut was watching.
He had seen a lot in life — drama, fake tears, manipulation, performance.
But this?
This was not performance.
This was not drama.
This was a mother silently falling apart.
Still, he didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
Because with every passing moment, his mind and heart were at war.
Vidyut's eyes lingered on Ritvika as she gently stroked Tara's hair, her breath shaky. The room was thick with unspoken emotions, yet a storm churned within him — a storm that had been building for days.
He couldn't ignore it anymore. The nagging feeling that something was off. The layers of mystery surrounding Ritvika, her sudden collapse, and the way her health seemed to deteriorate faster than he could understand.
He couldn’t stand to see her so vulnerable anymore.
His fingers gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles white. He couldn't just sit there in silence.
“How did this happen?” His voice was gruffer than he intended, but the weight of his questions was unavoidable.
Ritvika didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers were still caressing Tara’s soft hair, her touch tender and soothing.
“Ritvika,” he repeated, his voice edging on impatience. He needed answers. “How did this happen?”
She flinched slightly, her gaze darting away from him, but she didn’t pull her hand back from Tara. Instead, she lowered her eyes.
The silence between them grew heavier.
“Do you have a medical history?” he asked, softer now, but still pressing. “Why did this happen all of a sudden?”
He felt a rush of frustration, not directed at her but at the unknowns. He had no idea what to make of this situation. The fact that she had kept so much hidden from him. How was he supposed to help her if she refused to share the truth?
Her breathing became shallow as she slowly looked back up at him. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes, but there was no answer.
Vidyut’s voice came out harsher this time. “If you don’t tell me everything, how do you expect me to help?”
Ritvika hesitated, her throat tightening with emotions.
“I… I don’t have a medical history,” she finally whispered, her words barely audible.
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NEXT CHAPTER SPOILER!!
"Please... please keep her away from me."
Her voice trembled—barely a whisper, yet sharp enough to slice through the silence.
"She'll only get hurt… she has to break the habit of being around me… because if I die—"
She choked on her words, tears blurring the rest.
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