⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
Two days had passed.
Ritvika's routine had settled into something resembling calm — or at least the illusion of it. Her medicines were now on schedule, her rest regulated.
And Vidyut... well, Vidyut had become a silent but constant presence. Always around. Always watching. Never saying much, but never missing anything either.
It was dinner time.
The soft clinking of cutlery and occasional toddler babble filled the otherwise quiet dining space. Tara sat happily on her "big man's" lap — her plate in front of her, tiny hands smearing dal all over the roti like a proud chef.
Vidyut didn't complain.
Not even when she dropped half her food on his shirt.
Not even when she chewed with her mouth open and looked up at him with wide, messy grins.
Ritvika observed it all quietly, trying to make sense of this odd picture in front of her. It had become a pattern — for the past week, Tara refused to eat unless she was seated on Vidyut's lap.
Last night, Ritvika had gently tried to stop her.
"Tara, aaj Mumma ke paas baith jao, okay? Big man thak gaye hain..."
(Tara, today sit with Mumma, okay? Big man must be tired...)
But the moment those words left her mouth, Tara's face had crumbled.
What followed was a meltdown so loud and so intense that Ritvika had stood frozen, shocked beyond words.
Tara — her calm, composed Tara — had wailed like her entire world was collapsing.
Only one thing calmed her.
Vidyut.
Or more precisely — his arms.
He had simply lifted her in silence, letting her bury her face in his neck, and continued eating with one hand while cradling the toddler in the other.
And since then — Ritvika hadn't dared to interfere again.
Dinner ended.
Ritvika picked up the plates, but before she could even move to wash them, Vidyut had already stood up — lifting Tara effortlessly into his arms, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Without a word, he began walking toward their room.
Ritvika followed.
Silently.
The room was dimly lit — peaceful, calm — or at least, it was supposed to be.
Vidyut gently placed Tara onto the bed, tucking the corner of the blanket around her tiny feet, his palm smoothing her curls. She blinked up at him once... then suddenly sat up.
"Ileam."
Her voice was firm. Clear. Determined.
She tugged at his shirt, looking straight at him with those big doe eyes.
Vidyut blinked.
Here we go again.
It had started two nights ago — ever since he'd handed her her first tiny chocolate cone. Now, it had somehow turned into an addiction. An after-dinner demand. A non-negotiable bedtime routine.
"Ileam... big man... ileam..." she repeated, her hands patting his chest now, trying to get her point across.
Ritvika, who had just folded the extra blanket, sighed and intervened.
"Betu, abhi nahi. It's bedtime, okay? We'll eat tomorrow," she said softly, reaching out to pull Tara toward her.
But Tara had already shifted — clutching Vidyut's neck tighter, her face now buried in his shirt.
Vidyut groaned inwardly.
How was he supposed to say no to that?
He cracked a small smile, brushing her cheek.
"Okay. Let me order, my kitten."
He reached for his phone.
"Vidyut, no," Ritvika said, stopping him, a hint of strictness in her tone.
"She'll get used to it. Tomorrow."
But Vidyut had already opened the app.
Too late.
His thumb moved swiftly, and the order was placed.
Three cones.
Two chocolate.
One strawberry.
He didn't look up as he completed the payment, but he felt Ritvika's eyes on him — puzzled.
She hadn't said anything yet, but her silence was loud.
Why three?
Why strawberry?
Vidyut didn't say it aloud, but the answer hovered in his mind — simple and matter-of-fact.
Because two nights ago, when Tara had asked again, he'd casually asked Ritvika her favorite flavor.
She had hesitated.
Then quietly replied, "Strawberry."
And he'd remembered.
Of course he did.
Soon enough, the doorbell rang.
And just like that — ice cream time officially began.
Three cones.
Two chocolate.
One strawberry.
No questions asked.
Vidyut handed Tara her cone with the same seriousness as if he were giving her a royal decree. And Tara — oh Tara — she grabbed it like her life depended on it.
Her tiny fingers clenched the cone so tightly that the chocolate dripped between them. Her little mouth was already covered in melting smudges, cheeks smeared, nose shining with a cold drop. But nothing — absolutely nothing — matched the pure joy on her face.
She sat proudly on Vidyut's lap, her head occasionally bumping against his chest as she giggled, babbled, and munched away. Every time she said something — broken words, half-sentences — Vidyut nodded seriously, as if he understood every little blabber.
"Big man... choco fall... catch it!"
And Vidyut actually bent to pretend he caught the imaginary chocolate drip.
Across them, Ritvika sat quietly, her untouched cone slowly melting in her hand.
Her eyes didn't move.
Not from Tara.
Her baby.
Her world.
Her heart.
Tara's laughter echoed through the room, mixing with the occasional hum of the AC, the soft clink of a spoon, and Vidyut's faint chuckles. The sight was something straight out of a dream — the kind Ritvika didn't dare to dream anymore.
But tonight...
Tonight her daughter looked happy.
Free.
Safe.
And that— that was everything.
Ritvika's heart clenched, but not with sadness. With something warmer... something lighter.
All she ever asked from life was her daughter's smile.
And today... someone else was making that happen.
Someone else was holding her.
Feeding her.
Understanding her.
Caring for her... like a father would.
Ritvika looked down quickly, her fingers tightening around the cone.
She didn't know what this was.
Or where it was going.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time... she allowed her heart to just watch.
And melt.
Silently.
It took some convincing... and a dozen yawns,
but eventually, Tara's eyelids began to droop.
She curled further into Vidyut's chest, her little cone now discarded, her hands sticky and face sweet-smelling.
Vidyut wiped her mouth gently with a soft cloth, his touch careful, precise — as if she'd shatter under pressure.
Her lashes fluttered a few more times before she finally gave in, sighing softly against his shirt.
"Goodnight, kitten," he murmured under his breath, brushing her curls back from her forehead.
He adjusted her on the bed, tucking her under the blanket properly this time — away from Ritvika's arms, remembering the doctor's strict orders.
Once she was settled, Vidyut turned to Ritvika.
She was sitting at the edge of the bed, silently watching.
He didn't speak.
Just walked to the cabinet, opened the newly organized drawer, and pulled out the evening dose of tablets.
A glass of water in one hand.
The medicines in the other.
He walked back and stretched it out toward her.
"Time," he said softly. Just one word.
Ritvika blinked at him — slightly startled, as if she forgot she was the patient here.
She took the tablets wordlessly, avoiding his eyes.
His fingers brushed hers briefly as he handed the glass.
It was quiet again.
But this time, the silence didn't sting.
It settled between them like a blanket — heavy, but not suffocating.
Ritvika drank the water, placed the glass back on the side table, and whispered a faint, "Thank you..."
Vidyut didn't reply.
Just gave her one lingering glance...
...and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a calm hush.
The night had wrapped the room in a rare, serene quiet.
The soft hum of the air conditioner.
The faint rustle of bedsheets.
And the gentle, even rhythm of Tara's breathing — nestled like a tiny koala into Vidyut's arms, her limbs curled protectively around his.
Vidyut, for once, seemed still.
No frowns.
No walls.
Just his hand resting lightly on Tara's back, as if guarding her dreams.
But not all was calm.
Ritvika stirred.
Her legs shifted under the blanket. Then again.
And again.
Her brows creased slightly. A small frown tugged at her lips.
She pressed a palm lightly over her chest — right where the dull ache had been blooming for days now. It wasn't pain exactly, just... pressure, like something inside her was tightening with every breath.
Her other hand searched beside her, adjusting the pillow, trying to find that one angle — that one position — where the weight in her chest would ease.
But it didn't.
She turned on her side, winced.
Back again.
Then sat up halfway before lying down once more.
A soft breath hitched in her throat.
Her body was tired, deeply tired... yet sleep refused to come.
Or rather, her body wouldn't let it.
Her fingers curled into the bedsheet, her jaw tightening briefly as she closed her eyes harder — as if willing her heart to calm down.
It didn't.
Her heartbeat wasn't fast... but irregular. Off-beat.
A thump.
Then a pause.
Then a hollow echo.
The warmth of Tara and Vidyut on the same bed should've been a comfort — it was, in ways. But her chest felt heavy... as if her heart was pleading for rest her body didn't know how to give.
She clutched the corner of the blanket, trying not to make a sound.
Because if they woke up—
If he noticed—
If Tara stirred—
No. She couldn't let that happen.
So she lay there.
Eyes wide open in the dark.
Breath shallow.
Heartbeat unsteady.
Praying silently that morning would come quick...
And her strength wouldn't run out before it did.
Vidyut wasn't a light sleeper.
Years of shielding his emotions, building his empire, staying prepared for the worst — they had taught him how to sleep through chaos.
But something about tonight felt... off.
It wasn't the sound.
Not the movement.
It was something far quieter. Subtler.
Something missing.
He blinked his eyes open, the soft light from the hallway casting a dim glow across the room.
Tara was still nestled against him, her tiny breaths warm against his arm.
But Ritvika...
She wasn't asleep.
He turned his head slightly — and saw her.
Not sitting. Not panicking.
But still.
Too still.
Her eyes were open, but distant.
Her chest rose in uneven intervals.
Her lips slightly parted.
One of her hands was pressed over her chest, the other fisting the bedsheet so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
She didn't even notice him watching.
She was trying to stay silent.
Trying to hide it.
Vidyut sat up, slowly. Carefully — not waking Tara.
His eyes didn't move off Ritvika for even a second.
"Ritvika," he whispered.
No response.
Her eyes flicked towards him for a split second, and she immediately turned her face away, blinking hard — as if trying to fight something.
"Are you okay?"
A beat.
Then her head moved — a small nod. Barely there. A lie he could see from a mile away.
His jaw tightened.
Without another word, he gently placed Tara on the middle of the bed and got up. Crossing over to her side, he crouched next to her.
"Don't lie to me."
She didn't answer.
"Your breathing's not normal," he said, tone softer now, yet edged with concern. "Your heart?"
Ritvika closed her eyes, ashamed that he had noticed. Ashamed of her body, her helplessness, her weakness.
"I... I'm fine," she whispered.
"Stop that."
He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and held it out to her.
"Pani lo. Dheere-dheere."
(Have water. Slowly.)
She hesitated, but took it with trembling hands.
He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, still watching her like a hawk.
"Any pain?"
"A little... tightness. Just... can't breathe right," she confessed finally, in a cracked whisper.
He nodded once, then without waiting for her to ask — opened the drawer, took out the backup medicine the doctor had instructed to keep in case of nighttime discomfort, and handed her the correct one.
"Take this."
She blinked. "You... you remember which—"
"Obviously," he said sharply. "I don't joke with health."
She swallowed it, and he handed her the water again, then waited. Watching every flicker of discomfort on her face like it was code he needed to crack.
After a few minutes, her breathing settled... just a little.
And that's when he said it. Quiet. But firm.
"If this ever happens again, you wake me up."
She turned her face away, blinking back tears.
"I didn't want to trouble—"
"You're already troubling me by staying quiet," he said, voice low but piercing. "You're not doing anyone a favour by suffering silently."
She didn't respond. She couldn't.
Because for the first time in a long time... someone was seeing her. Not the mother. Not the wife. Not the patient. Just her.
And maybe... that was what hurt the most.
He stood up then, adjusting the blanket around her, and walked to the other side of the bed.
But not before glancing back once.
"Sleep. I'll keep checking," he muttered, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She looked at him, the corners of her eyes shimmering.
And this time... she didn't argue.
???????
Morning light trickled through the half-pulled curtains, casting golden stripes on the tiled floor.
The air was still. Quiet.
Tara remained curled between the pillows, her small chest rising and falling rhythmically, lips parted slightly, her tiny fist tucked under her cheek.
But Ritvika was already awake.
She sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Tara, her hand automatically reaching to check her daughter's forehead — habit. Just a mother's instinct.
When she turned her head, her breath caught for a second.
Vidyut was standing by the window.
Back facing her.
Dressed in his usual black shirt and trousers — the top button undone, sleeves rolled halfway. A mug of coffee rested in his hand, untouched. His other hand in his pocket. Silent. Watching the morning unfold beyond the glass.
There was no chaos in the room, no loud words or dramatic tension — just this odd, rare calmness that made her heart flutter and ache all at once.
She sat there, watching him.
He stood there, lost in thought.
And then... as if sensing her gaze, he turned.
Their eyes met.
There were no sarcastic remarks this time. No questions. No walls.
Just a long, quiet stare.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, tone unreadable.
She blinked. "Better than last night."
"Pain?"
"No... just a little heaviness."
He nodded.
"Breakfast mein kya logi?" he asked.
(What will you have for breakfast?)
Ritvika raised her eyebrows. "You're asking me?"
"Hmm," he shrugged.
She gave a small, surprised smile. "Whatever's there. I'll eat."
Vidyut didn't move immediately. His eyes lingered on her face — tired, pale, but calm now. And that calmness? It unnerved him more than her silence.
After a moment, she softly asked, "Did you sleep at all last night?"
He didn't answer.
She gave him a look. "Vidyut..."
"I wasn't sleepy," he replied simply. "And someone had to keep checking you, right? In case madam decided to faint again."
His tone was dry, but she caught the concern hidden underneath.
Her smile faltered.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice almost too low to hear.
Vidyut looked at her for a second... then turned his face slightly, like he hadn't heard it.
"Don't say it unless you mean it," he muttered, sipping his coffee.
"I do," she said softly. "For yesterday... for the medicine... for staying up... for Tara... and for this morning too."
Vidyut exhaled, not looking at her.
"Stop. That's too much gratitude for one day."
A small chuckle escaped her lips.
And for a second — just a second — the air between them felt less heavy.
Less like strangers.
Less like two people stuck in a forced bond.
And maybe... a little more like something in between.
Something unnamed.
?? ?
The dining table was unusually quiet.
Tara sat in her high chair, swinging her little legs happily as she munched on the corners of her paratha, her mouth smeared with a mix of ghee and mango pickle she had sneakily grabbed from Vidyut's plate.
Vidyut didn't mind.
He just sighed and wiped her chin for the third time, shaking his head.
Across the table, Ritvika sat stiff, her fingers nervously pinching the corner of her dupatta.
She hadn't eaten much — only picked at her food, lost in her thoughts.
And then, suddenly—
"Vidyut..."
His name left her lips hesitantly, barely above a whisper.
Vidyut looked up from his plate, his brows lifting slightly in curiosity.
"Hm?"
She swallowed, eyes flicking away from his intense gaze.
"I... I wanted to talk about something," she said, her voice uneven.
He didn't reply. Just waited.
Tara dropped a piece of paratha on the table and giggled.
"I... was thinking," Ritvika started again, "maybe I should... I mean— I could... start working?"
That made him pause mid-chew.
His gaze slowly lifted to meet hers.
She fidgeted under his stare, rushing to clarify. "Not something big or anything... maybe part-time or... from home— I'll manage everything, Tara, house— I just... I need to, for myself. And for the expenses too."
The words came out jumbled, uncertain — almost like she was ready to take them back the second he frowned.
But he didn't.
He just leaned back in his chair slightly, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair as he studied her. Not with anger. Not even annoyance.
Just... unreadable calm.
"Why now?" he asked.
Ritvika blinked, caught off guard. "I— I don't know. I've been thinking about it since long. I just... never had the chance. But now—"
Her fingers clenched. "I don't want to feel... helpless again. Not when Tara's future is at stake. Not when my treatment will need money I don't have."
Her voice had turned lower by the end, almost ashamed.
Vidyut sat still.
Tara babbled something in her own world.
And then—he picked up his glass, took a sip of water, and said in a flat tone:
"We'll talk about this in the evening."
His tone was calm, neutral. Not harsh. Not soft either. Just... final.
Ritvika blinked.
Just that?
No reaction?
No discussion?
No permission?
Nothing?
Her fingers curled into her lap under the table. A dull ache spread in her chest—not from disappointment, but from the quiet confirmation of what she'd expected.
He doesn't want me to work.
She nodded faintly, eyes lowered.
Across the table, Vidyut didn't notice her expression. Or maybe he did. But said nothing.
But her thoughts were elsewhere now—circling around one silent sentence she didn't dare speak aloud:
"Maybe... he still sees me as a burden."
And with that, she stood up to take Tara to wash her hands... leaving behind her courage half-spoken and hopes half-heard.
?? ?
The sky outside was drenched in dusky orange as evening wrapped itself around the mansion. The soft whir of Vidyut's car pulling into the driveway was all it took—
Her eyes lit up like fireworks as she squealed, "Big man!!" and before Ritvika could react, she jumped off the bed with her wobbly steps and bolted out of the room, her tiny feet tapping against the marble floor.
"Tara—! Tara, wait!" Ritvika called out, panic rising in her throat as she chased after her daughter, her heart thudding wildly.
This wasn't new. For the last two days, Tara had developed a habit—the moment she heard the sound of Vidyut's car, she'd dash out like a little storm, eager to be in his arms before he even stepped through the door.
But this time...
As Ritvika tried catching up, her foot bumped against the edge of the side table near the corridor. She stumbled slightly, and before she could regain balance, a large ceramic flower pot tipped off the table's edge.
The sound of shattering clay echoed through the hallway.
Ritvika's eyes widened in horror. The pot was falling—straight towards where Tara stood, tiny arms stretched towards the entrance, squealing for her big man.
"TARAAA!" Ritvika screamed, instinct taking over.
She lunged forward, grabbed Tara's waist, and pulled her into her arms—shielding her body around the child just in time as the heavy pot slammed onto the floor inches behind them, breaking into sharp-edged pieces.
Clay splinters scattered.
Tara gasped and clung tightly to her mother, startled. Ritvika panted, her hands trembling around her daughter's frame, her heart pounding in her ears.
She didn't even realize that Vidyut had just opened the front door, stepping in at the exact moment—only to witness the chaos, the broken pot, the terrified child, and Ritvika cradling her on the floor, whispering shaky words of comfort.
His expression froze—eyes darting from the shattered pieces... to the way Ritvika was shaking.
To the way Tara was clutching her mother like she'd seen something monstrous.
Silence reigned, but the tension screamed.
And in that one second—everything stilled... before it exploded into reaction.
Vidyut just stood at the doorway—frozen.
Then, in the very next breath, he dropped the files from his hand and rushed forward, his footsteps echoing sharply through the silence.
"Ritvika!" his voice came out harsher than he meant, filled with alarm as he knelt beside them.
"Tum thik ho? Kahin lagi toh nahi?"
(Are you okay? Did you get hurt anywhere?)
Ritvika didn't answer—she was still shielding Tara, her arms wrapped protectively around the little girl like a human shield, breathing hard.
Vidyut gently touched her arm, scanning her face.
"Ritvika..." his voice softened now. His eyes flickered to her arms, her legs, checking for any sign of injury. Once convinced she wasn't hurt, his gaze immediately dropped to the trembling child in her lap.
"Tara..."
Tara was sobbing now, her face buried in Ritvika's chest, her tiny shoulders shaking with fear.
"Hey hey hey... baby..." Vidyut whispered, gently prying her from Ritvika's arms and lifting her into his own.
"It's okay, shhh... you're safe, kitten." His palm rested on her back, patting softly.
Tara clutched his shirt tightly, her sobs muffled in the fabric.
"You scared Me, kiddo," he murmured, kissing her temple, "but you're okay now. Big man is here, hmm?"
He sat back on his heels, holding her close, rocking slightly.
"It was just a pot... nothing happened. You're okay, I got you," he whispered as she slowly began to calm down in his arms, her sobs subsiding into soft hiccups.
Ritvika watched—still on the floor—her heart full, her limbs still shaking, but somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, her eyes locked on Vidyut, and for a second, she saw it.
Not the arrogant man she had known.
Not the cold-hearted husband.
Once Tara finally began to quieten—her hiccups slowing, her tiny hands gripping his shirt with less panic—Vidyut gently stood up, holding her with practiced ease.
But his gaze was no longer just on the little girl. It drifted back to Ritvika, still seated on the floor, her breaths shallow, hands trembling slightly as the weight of the moment finally settled in.
Without a word, he stepped toward her and extended a hand.
She blinked at it, unsure.
"Utho," he said softly.
(Get up.)
Ritvika hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His grip was steady, warm. Slowly, he helped her to her feet.
But she swayed.
"Careful," he muttered, placing his free hand at her elbow to steady her.
He guided her to the couch nearby and made her sit down. His eyes scanned her again—top to bottom—just to be sure she hadn't been hurt.
"Kahi lagi toh nahi?" he asked again, more firmly now.
(Did you hurt yourself anywhere?)
Ritvika shook her head, her voice barely a whisper.
"Nahi... main thik hoon..."
(No... I'm fine...)
Still, Vidyut crouched in front of her, Tara nestled against his shoulder, now completely calm and on the verge of sleep.
He took a moment, just observing her, then exhaled sharply.
"Tumhare jaise careless logon ko zyada sambhalna padta hai."
(People as careless as you need extra supervision.)
Ritvika looked up, startled. But before she could snap back, his tone softened unexpectedly.
He looked away, patting Tara's back.
"Tum dono ek saath gir jaate toh?"
(What if both of you had fallen together?)
There was no anger in his voice. No sarcasm.
Just... concern.
Unspoken, but heavy in the air.
And Ritvika?
For the first time in a very long while, she let herself lean back into the couch, watching the man before her cradle her daughter as if she was his own.
━━━━━━?? ━━━━━━
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