⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The hallway outside the room echoed with tension.
“Ritvika, open the damn door!” Vidyut’s voice boomed once again, each knock growing more desperate, more forceful. But inside—silence. Only Tara’s muffled sobs seeped through the closed door, every cry stabbing through his chest like a blade.
He turned abruptly towards Hridhaan, jaw clenched, voice sharp.
“Bring the spare keys. Now.”
Hridhaan didn’t question. One look at Vidyut’s eyes—blazing with fury and helplessness—was enough. He sprinted down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.
Seconds stretched like hours.
Finally, Hridhaan returned, keys jingling in his trembling hands. Without wasting a moment, he pushed the key into the lock, twisting it.
Click.
As soon as the door swung open, both brothers froze.
Ritvika stood near the bed, disheveled, pale, eyes wide and bloodshot. Her breaths came in broken spurts—like she’d forgotten how to breathe at all. Her arms were tightly wrapped around Tara, who was thrashing in her hold, standing on the bed, crying hysterically.
“Mumma is not bad… mumma is not bad… mumma is not bad…” she chanted under her breath like a mantra, over and over again—blank, haunted, like she wasn’t even there.
But Vidyut wasn’t looking at her.
He was only staring at Tara—his Tara—screaming, reaching for him, her tiny arms bruised red from her mother’s tight grip.
His fury exploded.
He stormed into the room and snatched Tara out of Ritvika’s arms, pushing Ritvika back in the process—not with force, but with rage trembling through every inch of him.
“Tara!” he breathed out, holding her against his chest. She instantly buried her face in his shirt, sobbing violently, clutching him like he was her whole world.
She didn’t look back.
Ritvika didn’t react.
She just stood there. Her mouth still muttering, “Mumma is not bad… mumma is not bad…” like she was convincing herself, like she couldn’t hear anything else—not even her daughter’s cries.
Vidyut’s hand moved protectively over Tara’s back, his eyes still locked on Ritvika with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hatred.
The entire Rajvansh family stood behind him now—silent, breathless—watching the scene unfold like a nightmare they never imagined.
Tara was safe.
Manisha took a hesitant step forward, her maternal instincts screaming at her to reach Ritvika—her daughter-in-law was trembling, chanting senselessly, clearly slipping. But before she could even get close—
“No need to go near her, Maa.”
Vidyut’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
His arms were wrapped protectively around Tara, her tiny head buried against his chest, hiccuping from the aftershocks of crying. He didn’t spare Ritvika another glance—not yet.
He turned on his heel and marched straight toward Ritvika, eyes dark, jaw locked, fury rolling off him in waves. With one hand, he grabbed Ritvika’s arm, firm and furious. She flinched—startled, confused—but didn’t resist.
Tears streamed down her face, her lips still trying to form the words—“Mumma is not bad… Tara… Tara…”
“Not here.” Vidyut growled under his breath.
Dragging her behind him, he stormed out of the room and pulled her into a separate guest bedroom nearby. The family started to follow, but the single look he threw over his shoulder—sharp, venomous—froze them in place.
Without another word, he slammed the door shut and locked it.
The sound echoed.
Ritvika stumbled back slightly, panting, her back hitting the wall. Her chest heaved unnaturally, as though she was choking on air. Her hands trembled.
But Vidyut wasn’t looking at her face.
He sat Tara down gently on the bed, kissed her forehead, and then turned—slowly—towards Ritvika.
His steps were slow. Deliberate. Deadly.
He grabbed her wrist again, this time not to hurt—but to show. With his other hand, he carefully lifted Tara’s tiny arm up between them.
His voice trembled.
“Yeh dekho... yeh kya kiya tumne?”
(Look at this... what have you done?)
On Tara’s soft skin—red, angry finger marks. Small, but clear.
Vidyut’s hands were gentle as he held Tara’s arm, but his eyes burned into Ritvika with fire and disbelief.
Ritvika’s own gaze fell on the marks.
And she gasped—like someone had stabbed her.
Her chest heaved again.
One hand went to her heart as a sudden sharp pain struck—tightness, burning up her chest and throat. She stumbled, trying to speak, trying to defend herself, to say it wasn’t what it looked like—but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
Her breathing turned shallow, fast, erratic.
Her eyes began to blur.
“T-Tara…” she whispered hoarsely, reaching out—but her hand dropped weakly.
She wasn’t just breaking emotionally anymore—her body was giving up.
But Vidyut was too consumed by rage to notice yet.
His voice came out sharp and cracking—
She looked up at him, tears pooling again—but she couldn’t speak.
Her breaths were fast, shallow, like she was drowning on dry land.
Vidyut’s fury was real. But even in his rage—something in her face flickered through the cracks of his anger.
A sound escaped her throat—not a sob. A gasp. A strangled wheeze.
And then—she swayed.
Still standing.
But barely.
And Vidyut’s expression finally flickered.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong
She was slipping.
I didn’t realise it at first—too consumed in rage, too blinded by Tara’s cries, too focused on the red marks on her delicate arms. I had pushed Ritvika away—yes, gently—but still, I had pushed her.
But now...
Now, she stood there trembling, her breath growing shallower by the second, her lips pale, and her eyes fluttering open and shut like they were fighting to stay conscious. Her hands were still shaking, chanting mindlessly under her breath—
“Tara… Tara… Mumma’s not bad… Mumma’s not bad…”
What the hell is happening?!
“Tch—Ritvika?” My brows furrowed as I stepped closer, my anger suddenly… stalling. Something wasn’t right. Her chest was rising and falling too fast, like she was gasping for air that wasn't reaching her lungs. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.
No. No no no. Not now.
My body moved before my mind did. thankfully, the emergency medicine the doctor had prescribed was with me. My hands fumbled as I opened the strip and popped one pill out, rushing to her side. She was swaying, her body cold under my grip.
I placed the pill on her tongue and poured water carefully down her throat.
“Ritvika… breathe. Dammit—just breathe properly!” I said hoarsely, my hand on the back of her head as I helped her lie down on the bed. Her body gave in, collapsing like a paper doll. Her lips moved, still whispering Tara’s name.
I brushed the strands off her forehead, sweat clinging to her skin.
“Sleep. Just sleep now…” I whispered, my voice cracking. Her eyes closed slowly, finally surrendering to rest.
But my storm was far from over.
I turned my head—and there she was. Tara, sitting curled up on the corner of the couch, face red, tears trailing down her cheeks as she hiccupped softly.
“Bal Mumma…” she whispered, her little voice breaking with every syllable.
My heart shattered.
I walked over to her, lifted her gently into my arms. She instantly wrapped herself around me like she was terrified I’d disappear too. Her sobs were quieter now, but no less painful.
“Shh baby… shh. Dadda's here… Dadda's not going anywhere…” I mumbled, rocking her slowly, rubbing her back, my own eyes burning with unshed guilt.
It had been three hours.
Three long, silent hours since Ritvika had fallen asleep after her episode.
Vidyut hadn’t moved from the couch. His posture was rigid, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled tightly, but his gaze—his gaze never left the woman lying on that bed.
The room was dim, save for a sliver of sunlight creeping in through the curtains. The air was still heavy. Too heavy.
Tara wasn’t in the room anymore. She had refused to leave at first, clinging to Vidyut’s neck and crying “Bal Mumma” over and over again. But after much insistence—gentle words, repeated reassurances, and Manisha’s soft coaxing—she had finally gone out with her daadi. Still hiccuping.
Now, the silence was pressing against his ears.
And then—a stir.
Ritvika’s lashes fluttered. Her brows creased slightly, the dull ache behind her eyes and chest bringing her slowly out of the medicated slumber. Her breathing was still shallow, but steady now.
She blinked once. Twice. A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted slightly, placing a hand over her head.
And then—panic.
Her eyes darted frantically around the room. Her limbs pushed her up in a sitting position as she mumbled hoarsely—
“Tara… Tara? Kahaan hai meri baby?”
(Where is my baby?)
Vidyut stood up silently, stepping closer from the couch.
“Ritvika…” he spoke, calm but firm.
She turned instantly, her eyes wide, throat dry.
He sat at the edge of the bed, keeping distance, but his voice remained soft—controlled. His gaze was intense, but not unkind.
“Tara is fine. She’s with Ma… outside. Safe. Don’t worry.”
Ritvika’s shoulders loosened a little, but her eyes still searched around in restlessness. He noticed—every micro expression, every flicker of pain.
“I didn’t want her to go either,” Vidyut added gently, “but she needed a little break. Her eyes were swollen from crying. And… you needed rest.”
There was silence again. A fragile kind. Like a glass thread between them.
And then, he exhaled. Long and heavy.
Ritvika blinked at him, still drowsy, still dizzy.
“Why didn’t you let me be with her…” her voice was hoarse, broken.
Vidyut sat beside her again, his tone gentler now, more composed but edged with restrained hurt.
“You and I both know, Ritvika… today, you overreacted. She’s just a child.
A child, Ritvika,” he repeated softly.
“You scared her. Do you even realise what happened? She called me ‘Dadda’, and you…” he shook his head.
“Logically, I am her Dadda now. We’re married, whether you like it or not. That little girl… she’s mine too.”
Ritvika lowered her eyes, tears brimming again. Her throat was dry but her inner voice screamed.
"You and me both know, Ritvika, that today you overreacted. She’s just a child. A child! Do you understand what happened if she called me Dadda? Logically, I am her Dadda, whether you accept it or not. She is my daughter too now."
His voice wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t cruel.
But it struck harder than any scream ever could.
"You scared her," he continued, each word heavy with restrained anger. "Why did you shout at her like that? She just called me Dadda. And you reacted like..."
I didn’t hear the rest.
I couldn’t.
I just sat there.
Blinking.
Breathing.
But not really here.
How do I tell him?
How do I tell him what really scared me?
How do I explain what those words—just one word: Dadda—meant to me?
Because once… once, I had let Tara try.
Just once.
I had told her—softly, sweetly—"Beta, say Vidya dadi, she’s your dadi, na?"
And Vidya—Vidya had stood up with rage in her eyes.
She had looked at my little girl, not even two years old, and raised her hand. Raised her hand to slap her.
I had stopped her. That day. Barely.
But her words—her venom—still ring in my ears like poison etched into my bones.
"Don’t you dare teach her to call me Dadi. That girl is a bad omen. Don’t spread it in my house. I’m not her Dadi, samjhi?"
A bad omen.
She called my daughter—my baby—a bad omen.
I had stood there frozen, Tara clutching my dupatta, confused and afraid, and me?
I couldn’t protect her the way I should’ve.
And today… when I heard Tara say Dadda...
My mind—it didn’t think.
It just screamed no.
No, not again. Please not again.
I couldn’t bear to hear the same cruel rejection.
Not from him.
Not from the man who, despite everything, despite his anger and coldness and unpredictability, had become Tara’s safe space.
Her big man.
The only man she ever ran to.
I didn’t want that broken.
I didn’t want her broken again.
So yes—maybe I shouted.
Maybe I reacted too fast.
Maybe I was unfair.
But all I saw in that moment was the flash of Vidya’s raised hand.
The way Tara flinched.
The way I failed her.
And this time, I didn’t want to fail.
Even if that meant becoming the villain in her little world for a while.
I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat, the weight in my chest suffocating me again.
I couldn’t even look at Vidyut now.
He wouldn’t understand.
He couldn’t.
Because how do you explain the kind of fear that doesn’t even let you hope?
“I want to go to Tara,” Ritvika whispered, her voice barely holding strength.
Vidyut’s face turned serious again. “No, Ritvika. She’s scared of you right now. Let her—”
But she didn’t listen.
She got up, ignoring the throbbing pain in her chest and rushed out.
She stopped at the sight.
There, in the living room, sat Hridhaan with Tara in his lap, a teddy bear in her arms. She was giggling softly, her face still red and puffy, but calmer.
“Tara…” Ritvika whispered, taking a step forward.
Tara heard her voice.
Her whole body stiffened.
When Ritvika stepped forward to take her into her arms—Tara wriggled out of Hridhaan’s lap, dropping the teddy bear and ran a few steps away.
“NOOO! Mumma shout!!”
Tears streamed down her little cheeks again as she backed away, visibly scared.
Ritvika froze. Her heart… shattered into shards.
Vidyut stepped in quickly, picked up Tara and held her close. Her tiny body trembled as she clung to him, hiccupping.
“Shh… bas baby… shh…” he said, patting her back.
His own heart ached hearing her cries. But he turned to Ritvika with a soft look and said—
“Bring the chocolate ice cream. Fridge mein rakha hai. She’ll calm down.”
Ritvika nodded, her legs almost giving away as she stumbled toward the kitchen.
She returned moments later with the small bowl of chocolate ice cream. She knelt down in front of Tara, holding the bowl out gently.
“Tara baby… dekho… Mumma brought your favourite. Chocolate wali… just how you like it,” her voice cracked.
Tara didn’t move.
She looked at Vidyut, then at the ice cream.
Still silent.
Her tiny fingers trembled a bit… before she finally reached out and took the bowl.
She didn’t say anything, but sat beside Ritvika on the carpet, licking the spoon quietly. Her head leaning slightly against her mother’s shoulder.
?? ?
The long dining table was lit warmly under the chandelier as the family gathered for dinner.
Lakshay was sitting at the head of the table, a soft smile on his face as he held Tara in his lap.
The little one was calmer now, her eyes still puffy from the day’s chaos, but her energy slowly returning with every loving gesture thrown her way.
Manisha served food while Ritvika, unusually silent, helped with the bowls. Vidyut sat beside her, his eyes shifting between her and Tara every few seconds, as if anticipating something.
Suddenly, Lakshay chuckled softly, tapping Tara’s cheek.
"Bacche, bolo Dadu," he said cheerfully.
(Say Grandpa.)
And just like that, the room fell into a heavy silence.
Everyone’s eyes shifted to Ritvika.
Tension bloomed like smoke in the air. Manisha paused mid-bite, Hridhaan lowered his spoon, even Aarush looked up in slow motion. They were all expecting the same — that Ritvika would snap, pull Tara back, or raise her voice again.
Even Vidyut’s fingers instinctively reached out, holding Ritvika’s hand under the table, firm yet gentle — as if bracing her.
But she didn’t react.
No anger.
No protest.
No sudden outburst.
Just a calm, genuine smile curved across Ritvika’s lips as her eyes stayed on Tara. A peaceful acceptance in her gaze.
Vidyut glanced at her sideways, stunned. That small smile, that silent surrender — it was louder than any scream she could’ve thrown before.
Lakshay, unaware of the ripple his words had caused, repeated happily, "Bolo Dadu, bacche."
But Tara had her own ideas tonight.
With her tiny hands flailing and her chubby cheeks puffing, she suddenly turned and pointed toward Vidyut.
"DADDA!" she exclaimed.
A collective pause again.
Then a few chuckles. Then smiles.
And before anyone could speak again, she added sweetly —
"Dadi!"
"Dadda!" again at Vidyut, clapping now.
And finally, after a few fumbled tries, "Daduuuu!" came out, soft and unsure, but it was there — clear as day.
Everyone laughed, their hearts softening in that moment. Vidyut looked at Ritvika, only to find her eyes shimmering with a mix of relief and emotion.
He squeezed her hand slightly.
???????
The room was cloaked in silence, broken only by the rhythmic tick of the antique wall clock and the soft hum of the air conditioner. Moonlight streamed in through the sheer curtains, casting silver shadows across the wooden floor.
Tara lay curled between them, her tiny body nestled into the soft duvet, clutching her plush elephant. Her little mouth was slightly open, a trail of dried drool on her cheek — completely unaware of the emotional turmoil her one word had stirred hours ago.
“Dadda.”
That single word had echoed in Vidyut’s head all evening like a stubborn drumbeat. Not because of the word itself — but because of how Ritvika had reacted.
And now, as he lay beside her in the darkness, unable to sleep, it gnawed at him.
He turned slowly to face her. Ritvika lay on her side, her hand resting protectively over Tara’s back, her body tense despite her stillness.
“Ritvika…” he spoke softly, unsure how to start.
She didn’t respond.
“Are you awake?”
A slow inhale. Then a quiet, hesitant “Hmm?”
Vidyut exhaled. His voice dropped even lower.
“Why… did you react that way today? When Tara called me… Dadda?”
She tensed immediately.
There was a pause. A long one. Long enough for Vidyut to hear his own heartbeat.
Then she slowly turned, shifting just enough to meet his eyes.
Her face was barely visible, but in the moonlight, he caught the paleness of her skin. The way her lower lip trembled faintly before she pressed it tight.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she said quietly.
“I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.”
“No,” he replied gently. “That wasn’t just surprise, Ritvika. You went silent. You looked like you saw something... you weren’t ready to see.”
She looked away.
“You’re overthinking.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” He paused. Then added even more softly:
“You can talk to me, you know. I didn’t mind it… I was just—”
He stopped mid-sentence, searching for the right word.
“I was… happy. I didn’t know I would be. But I was.”
Her breath hitched.
Vidyut watched her carefully now.
She sat up suddenly, as if the walls were closing in.
“You shouldn’t be,” she murmured, brushing her hand over her face.
“You shouldn’t get attached. She’s not yours.”
The words were quiet.
But they stabbed deeper than any scream could have.
Vidyut remained still.
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” he asked slowly. “You think I’ll hurt her if she gets attached to me?”
Ritvika didn’t answer.
“Or you think I’ll walk away? That someday I’ll say ‘she’s not mine’ and disappear?”
She looked at him — really looked — her eyes glistening in the moonlight now.
And then shook her head, almost imperceptibly.
“I just didn’t want to hope.”
Her voice broke. “I don’t want her to hope.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Vidyut didn’t push her further.
Instead, he laid back down, his fingers gently brushing over Tara’s soft curls.
Ritvika slowly lay back down too, facing away from him this time.
And though both their eyes were open, they said no more.
But sleep never came to Vidyut.
His mind... had wandered too far now.
He stared at the ceiling as his thoughts began to untangle themselves like an unraveling thread.
Tara is two.
Ritvika is just twenty-three.
She must’ve gotten married at... what? Twenty? Maybe even younger.
Why?
Why would a family marry off their daughter so young in this day and age?
Unless…
Unless they were trying to cover something.
Unless something had already gone wrong.
And then… Vidya’s words came rushing back.
“She snatched my son away. She destroyed everything.”
Vidyut clenched his jaw.
Snatched?
And then another wave crashed into his mind — the contradiction.
Ritvika said he died in a car accident.
Vidya spoke worse, like Ritvika had a hand in what happened.
Which one was it?
What was the truth?
Was Vidya just a bitter, controlling mother?
Or...
Was Ritvika hiding something darker?
Vidyut’s eyes fell on the woman sleeping inches away from him.
He had seen her break down over Tara’s fever. Seen her cry silently in corners. Seen her fight with her eyes when her lips stayed quiet.
And yet, she carried secrets like shadows stitched into her soul.
He turned away.
Closed his eyes.
But the questions remained open.
?? ?
The early morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains, falling in golden streaks across the bed. Tara was still asleep in her small cot on the side, her teddy tucked safely in her arms, while the silence in the room felt unusually comforting.
Ritvika stirred first. She shifted slightly, trying to sit up, but paused the moment she felt a weight draped across her waist.
Vidyut’s arm.
It wasn’t possessive—just resting, as if even in his sleep he needed to be sure she was there. Ritvika stiffened for a second, the awkwardness of the moment crawling up her neck in the form of heat. But when she turned slightly to look at him, her features softened.
He wasn’t the Vidyut Rajvansh the world saw. Not here. Not now.
He was just a man—breathing evenly, hair slightly tousled, his long lashes casting shadows under his eyes.
She tried again to move without waking him, but as she did, his grip around her waist slightly tightened.
Vidyut opened his eyes slowly, blinked a few times, and then looked at her—really looked at her. She tried not to squirm under the intensity.
“I never really got your answer last night."
Ritvika turned her face away.
“What answer?"
“Tumne aise react kyun kiya jab Tara ne mujhe dadda kaha?”
(Why did you react like that when Tara called me dadda?)
The tension returned instantly.
Ritvika took a deep breath. “Main bas... shock ho gayi thi. Mujhe laga tumhe pasand nahi aayega. Bas.”
(I was just... shocked. I thought you wouldn’t like it. That’s all.)
“Ritvika... tumhe lagta hai main itna chhota sochta hoon?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.
(Ritvika… you think I think so small?)
She didn’t answer. Instead, she got up, gently pulling his hand off her waist, walking towards the washroom. Her steps were calm, but her heart was chaotic.
Vidyut lay there, watching her retreat. Something wasn’t right. That response—it wasn’t the whole truth. He could feel it in her tone, in the way her shoulders stiffened, in the way she avoided his gaze.
He sighed, pushing back the duvet and sitting up, rubbing his face with his hands.
The memories from last night swirled in his mind again—the way Ritvika looked almost haunted, the way she broke down later after Tara ran away from her.
★
The golden morning sun spilled softly into the dining area, draping the room in a warm hush.
Breakfast was almost done. Plates clinked softly, the family engaged in mellow conversations, but Vidyut had been quiet—too quiet for Ritvika to not notice.
He hadn’t spoken much since last night. And when their eyes met once or twice, he had looked away, thoughtful, distracted.
Ritvika sat quietly, her fingers absently stirring the spoon in her coffee cup, her eyes occasionally flicking towards him. Something was different today. She could feel it.
And then, without any build-up, Vidyut finally spoke, his voice low but firm.
"I have to leave for a business trip," he said, glancing briefly at Lakshay and Manisha before his eyes settled on the empty spot in front of him again.
Ritvika's hand paused mid-stir. Her eyes immediately shot up to look at him, blinking slowly. A business trip? Her chest tightened a little, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. He had gone on work before—but this felt… different. Sudden.
Manisha frowned slightly. “Achanak kyun, beta?”
("Why so suddenly, son?")
Vidyut didn't delay his answer.
"Urgent hai. Kuch kaam pending tha, jo abhi immediately sort karna padega."
("It's urgent. Some work has been pending, and now I have to sort it immediately.")
Lakshay nodded, placing his cup down.
"Aur kitne din ke liye jaa rahe ho?"
("And how many days will you be gone?")
Vidyut leaned back slightly in his chair, running a hand over his jaw.
"Abhi nahi pata. Jaise hi kaam complete hota hai, I’ll come back."
("Don’t know yet. I’ll return as soon as the work is done.")
Parul added curiously, “Toh jaa kab rahe ho?”
("So when are you leaving?")
"Shaam tak," Vidyut replied simply.
("By evening.")