⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟔˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
Vidyut's POV
The first thing that hit me when I opened my eyes was pain. A solid, pounding headache that throbbed behind my temples, as if someone had driven nails straight through my skull. I blinked against the sharp sting of morning light, my throat dry, my body heavy.
It took me a moment to realize I wasn't in my own room. The ceiling, the curtains, the faint scent lingering in the air—different. Strange.
I shifted, and that's when I felt it—something warm and small weighing down my arm. Turning my head, I froze.
There she was. Little Tara, sprawled across my arm like it belonged to her, tiny fingers curled tight around it. Her breaths came soft and steady, her chest rising and falling in rhythm, her face pressed close enough that her hair tickled my skin.
For a long second, I just stared. She fit against me so perfectly, so naturally, that it unsettled me. A smile, small but real, tugged at my lips before I could stop it. Without thinking, I leaned down and pressed the faintest kiss against her cheek.
The sweetness of the moment was enough to disarm me completely. But reality hit just as quickly.
My gaze shifted beyond her, to the other side of the bed. The sheets there were empty, untouched now, though I knew they hadn't been all night. The space where she had been.
And just like that, the smile faded.
The pounding in my head didn't ease. If anything, it grew sharper as I tried to think. What the hell had happened last night?
Fragments flickered through my mind—neon lights, glass after glass, the bitter burn of alcohol. The club. That much I remembered. But after that... nothing. A blank. How had I reached here? Why was I in this room, of all places?
I pushed myself up, wincing as the movement rattled my skull. My eyes scanned the room, searching. The bed was empty on the other side, the sheets already cold. My jaw clenched.
"Ritvika?" I called once, my voice rough, but silence pressed back at me.
A restless unease crawled under my skin. I got up, checking the corners, even the washroom. Nothing. My patience snapped, and my voice rose, echoing against the walls.
"Ritvikaaa!"
Footsteps hurried from outside, and then the door pushed open. She appeared, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.
"Why are you shouting?" she snapped, her tone sharp.
But her irritation barely registered. My gaze had already caught on something else—her.
For a moment, everything inside me stilled. She wasn't in her usual simple dresses. She stood there in a soft pink shirt tucked neatly into white pants, her hair loose around her shoulders, no trace of makeup on her face. Natural. Effortless. Beautiful.
My breath hitched without permission. I had never seen her like this before, and for the first time in a long while, I forgot about the pain in my head, forgot about the questions clawing at me.
All I could do was stare.
Her voice snapped me out of my trance.
"Why are you shouting? Do you want to wake Tara?" she hissed, walking quickly to the bed. She bent down, gently patting Tara's back to make sure the little one didn't stir.
I should have cared. I should have apologized. But my eyes... they refused to leave her. The way her hair fell forward as she leaned over the child, the faint crease of concern on her forehead—damn it, she looked like she belonged in this space, like she was the warmth I didn't deserve.
I was still staring when something caught my peripheral vision. My gaze shifted—toward the tall mirror propped against the corner of the room.
And then—my entire body froze.
Wide eyes. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn't me. It was... it was some ridiculous version of me, draped in a baggy, pink pajama set splattered with delicate floral designs.
My mouth fell open in shock.
"What the—" I muttered under my breath, blinking rapidly, as if the image would vanish if I looked again. But no—it stayed. Mocking me.
my breath came in sharp, uneven bursts—not from Ritvika's beauty, not from the hangover, but from the horrifying realization of what I was wearing.
My jaw tightened, eyes snapping away from the mirror and landing squarely on her.
"Ritvika... yeh—yeh kya hai?" (Ritvika... what is this?) I demanded, pointing at the ridiculous floral pajamas. My voice was still hoarse from last night, but the outrage carried well enough.
She blinked at me, confused. "What... what do you mean?"
I gestured wildly at myself. "This! Yeh clown costume mere body pe kaise aaya? Pink... flowers?" I almost growled the last word, disbelief and embarrassment tangling in my throat.
Her lips twitched—like she was holding back a laugh. "You don't remember?" she asked, voice quieter, careful.
I narrowed my eyes. "Remember what?"
She sighed, straightening her shirt nervously.
"Last night... you came here soaked in rain, shivering, muttering only one word—'cold.
' You wouldn't take the towel, wouldn't listen to me.
.. so I..." she hesitated, cheeks heating, ".
..I gave you Roohi's nightwear. It was the only thing that could fit you. Sort of."
My glare sharpened. "Sort of? Tumne mujhe—" I gestured at the floral set again "—is mein daal diya?"
(You made me wear this?)
This time, her lips actually curved into the tiniest smirk. "At least you didn't freeze to death," she shot back. "Be grateful."
Grateful. Grateful! I clenched my fists, the humiliation burning hotter than my hangover. The fact that she had seen me like this—helpless, out of control—itched in my chest. My eyes locked onto hers, unwilling to let go, daring her to laugh again.
With a frustrated exhale, I snatched my phone from the side table. "I'll call my men. They'll bring me fresh clothes in ten minutes—"
Her voice cut through, calm but firm. "No need."
I stopped mid-dial, frowning.
She crossed her arms, meeting my gaze. "I've already dried your clothes from last night. You can change into them and go. No need to arrange anything else."
For a moment, silence hung heavy between us. I should've snapped. Should've reminded her not to interfere in my decisions. But my eyes—traitorous eyes—refused to leave her. That pink shirt, those white pants, her hair tumbling loose, that stubborn crease on her forehead...
My throat worked once before I leaned just slightly forward, voice dropping low enough that it reached only her ears.
"Main kahin nahi jaa raha."
(I'm not going anywhere.)
Her breath hitched.
For a second, her wide eyes just stared at me—too close, too stunned. I could see the way her breath caught, the way her shoulders stiffened at both my nearness and my words.
Then she blinked, and something sharper replaced that frozen silence. "And why?" she whispered, voice trembling but steady enough to pierce me.
My jaw clenched, my chest rising with a stubborn breath. "Main yahin rehne wala hoon." (I'm going to live here.) The words came out like a sulking child's vow, yet I meant every syllable.
Her face twisted, shock flooding into anger. "What the hell are you saying? You're gonna live here?"
I didn't flinch. Instead, I walked past her and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, like I owned the space already. "yes"
That set her off. Her voice sharpened, every word like a strike. "No! Change your clothes and leave. My house—" her tone cracked, full of fury, "I will not keep you here!"
But I didn't move. Didn't blink. "Main nahi jaaunga." (I won't go.)
Her fists balled, her chest heaving. "And why? Why will you stay here? This is my house!"
I lifted my head finally, meeting her eyes with a steady flame. "Aur tum meri wife ho." (And you are my wife.) My voice was low, unyielding. "Toh main yahin rahoonga." (So I will live here.)
The air between us snapped. Her face drained of color before it flushed with something fiercer.
She stepped forward, words spitting like fire.
"Ohh, wife? And where was this wife word when you—" her voice cracked, trembling now with something more than anger, "—when you behaved so badly with me? "
Her words slammed into me harder than any bullet could. For a heartbeat, I froze. My throat locked, my fists curled, but I had no answer. The images from those nights clawed back at me, sharp and ugly. Her trembling voice, her eyes shining with hurt, made something inside my chest twist.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stared at her, my mask of stubbornness slipping for the first time.
Her words lashed at me like a whip—sharp, merciless, true. For a second, my chest caved in, my breath stalled, and I could almost see myself through her eyes: the man who had wronged her, accused her, scarred her.
I almost broke. Almost let that guilt spill out, almost reached for her to say the words clawing at my throat.
But then—
No, Vidyut. You can't lose like this.
Not after everything that's happened.
Not after the way I hurt her.
Not after accusing her when she already carried the weight of that horrible past.
Not after reading those file pages that told me truths I never should have ignored.
And certainly not after knowing how weak her condition really is.
My jaw locked, my spine straightened. I shoved the guilt down, buried the softness that tried to surface. I couldn't afford it—not now, not here.
So I forced my eyes to harden again, forced my voice to stay calm, even as my chest thundered.
"Main yahin rahoonga, Ritvika."
(I will stay here, Ritvika.)
Unyielding.
Unmoved.
Because if I falter now... I lose her.
Her eyes burned into me, sharp with fury.
"Enough of this, Vidyut! You will not stay here," she snapped, her voice trembling with both rage and disbelief.
I opened my mouth, the words spilling before I could stop them.
"Ritvika, please... I—" My throat tightened. "I know I've wronged you. I know what I did was unforgivable. I'm sorry... I'm so damn sorry."
Her expression flickered for just a second—shock at my apology—but her anger returned fiercer, shielding the crack in her defenses.
"Sorry?" she shouted, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"You think a sorry will erase everything?
You think your guilt gives you the right to force yourself into my home? "
Her voice rose, sharp, loud—
And then suddenly, it broke. Her breath hitched.
From the bed came a small, innocent voice, soft and sleepy, cutting through the storm like sunlight breaking clouds.
"Daddaaaaa..."
We both froze.
Tara sat up, rubbing her little fists against her eyes, her curls tumbling down her face. She looked at us with half-squinted eyes, a pout forming as she stretched her arms.
"Daddaaa... paash aao..."
(Dadda... come near.)
Ritvika's entire body stilled, her anger clashing with shock, while my chest clenched at the sound—one word undoing every defense I had.
Her voice rang like a prayer in my ears.
"Daddaaaaa... Tara misshh you... come naa..."
Before Ritvika could stop me—before even my own mind could interfere—my feet were already moving. The moment those tiny hands stretched out for me, I scooped her up into my arms. Her little squeal of delight hit me straight in the chest.
"Yaaayyy! Daddaaa aa daye! Daddaaa aa daye!" she chanted, her soft giggles bubbling against my shoulder. Her fluffy cheeks pressed to my face, her warmth sinking into my bones.
(Dadda has come)
I kissed her crown, my throat tightening.
"Yes, my princess... Dadda has come," I whispered, my voice rough but full of a tenderness I didn't know I had.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Ritvika's face—utter shock written across her features. She moved quickly, her voice tight.
"Tara, come here. Come to Mumma."
But our daughter only tightened her grip, burying her face against my neck.
"Noo Mumma. Tara stay with Daddaaa... Daddaaa no leave me."
Her words stabbed through me, both soft and sharp, undoing every chain I'd wrapped around my own heart.
Ritvika bent closer, her tone urgent, her eyes flicking daggers at me.
"Tara, Dadda has to go to work. He can't be here with you."
I felt Tara's little pout before I saw it. She pulled back just enough to whimper,
"No Mumma... Dadda here only."
Ritvika's jaw tightened, her voice sharper now.
"No, Tara. Dadda has very important work. He has to go."
Her eyes cut into me, warning me, begging me silently to agree. To step back. To walk away.
But I didn't.
Instead, I kissed Tara's chubby cheek, holding her closer, and said with quiet certainty,
"Yes, princess. Dadda will be here only with you. I have no work."
Her tiny arms squeezed tighter around my neck, her giggle breaking into my chest.
And Ritvika's eyes... they froze, her breath faltering, as if the ground beneath her feet had just been ripped away.
Tara's fingers tugged at my collar as she babbled, her voice bubbling with excitement and reprimand all at once.
"Daddaaa... Tara missss youu... no come... no playyy... bad, very bad!" Her little pout deepened, cheeks puffed like a tiny storm. She thumped her fist on my chest, her gibberish spilling faster.
I chuckled weakly, but the smile didn't reach my eyes. Her words weren't just gibberish—they carried weight.
"Dadda no see Tara... Tara cryyy... mumma cryyy... dadda shout mumma... bad, dadda bad!" she accused, her round eyes narrowing in mock anger.
My heart stilled.
Behind her words, behind the babyish lisp and broken sentences, was truth. The truth of what she had seen. What I had done.
I tried to soothe her, "No, princess... dadda—" but she cut me off, her pout trembling.
"Looi maasi said... dadda bad... bad dadda." Her voice cracked as she repeated what she must have overheard. Then, softer, her little hand cupped my jaw as if demanding my honesty. "Dadda shout mumma? Haan?"
Her innocent gaze burned through me.
My throat closed. I couldn't deny it. I couldn't lie to her.
The weight of my sins pressed heavy on my chest, so much that I couldn't lift my head. I dared to glance at Ritvika, standing stiff near the bed. Her eyes—watchful, guarded, hurt—met mine for a second before I looked away. I couldn't hold her gaze.
Not when her daughter had just voiced the things she herself never said aloud.
Not when the purity of that little soul had just painted me in my true colors—loud, cruel, unworthy.
For the first time, my arms tightened around Tara not with possession, but with guilt so sharp it almost broke me.
Ritvika snatched Tara from my arms, her movements sharp, almost desperate.
She tried to peel our daughter away from me, but Tara clung tighter, tiny fists wrapped around my shirt.
Ritvika's face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line before she stormed out of the room, muttering under her breath—
The bitterness in her voice dug straight into my chest. I froze, Tara still in my arms, watching her disappear through the doorway.
Minutes later she returned, her hair slightly ruffled, eyes red as though she had cried on her way out. But what caught my attention was the thin file clutched in her hand. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, scanning quickly. My brows furrowed.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice lower than intended, confusion mixing with unease.
She didn't answer. She didn't even spare me a glance. Her silence burned more than words could.
I stepped closer, trying to peek into the file, but Ritvika shifted it away, her jaw tightening. She took Tara from me tighter and said instead—
Her voice cracked on the last word.
"Leave? Where are you going?" I demanded, my chest tightening, but she ignored me, brushing past with Tara in her arms.
The room fell silent, but her presence lingered heavy in the air. My eyes caught the file she had left behind on the table.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, I reached for it. My fingers hesitated on the cover before I flipped it open.
My breath stilled.
A résumé. Ritvika's résumé.
The truth hit like a hammer to the ribs. She was going for an interview.
My throat tightened as I stared at her name printed neatly on the top of the page, the carefully listed qualifications, her past experience. She had even stapled her certificates at the back.
She was preparing to step out... to work again.
Not at my company. Not under my protection. Somewhere else. Somewhere that would demand her hours, her energy, her health.
My fists clenched around the file, knuckles turning white. My jaw locked so tight it hurt.
If I hadn't lost my temper... if I hadn't thrown my ego in her face... she would still be in the VR Empire. She would still be managing from home, handling things online without pressure. At least there, I could make sure she wasn't burdened.
But now... now because of me... she was forcing herself into another company. Another environment. Long hours, travel, stress. With her condition. With her weakness.
The weight of guilt crushed me.
I glanced toward the bathroom door, where I could faintly hear Ritvika's soft voice coaxing Tara to splash in the water.
My chest burned. My mistake wasn't just pushing her away. My mistake was pushing her into this.
The bathroom door opened with a creak, steam curling out as Ritvika stepped out, her arms wrapped around Tara, who was giggling softly, playing with water droplets on her tiny hands.
The sight should've softened me. But all I felt was the file burning in my hand, and the weight of everything I had just realized crushing down on my chest.
I moved forward immediately, my words tumbling out before I could stop them.
"Ritvika... don't do this. Please."
Her brows arched, her eyes narrowing. "Don't do what?"
"Don't take this step. You don't have to go out, not in this state... not when your health—"
Her sharp laugh cut me. "Oh, now you remember my health? Where was this concern when you were shouting at me hnm?"
I swallowed hard, guilt burning my throat.
"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have. I lost my temper.
But this—" I held up the file, shaking it lightly, "—this isn't the solution.
Work in VR Empire if you want to, I'll fix everything.
You won't have to step out, I'll make it easy for you. Just... don't do this to yourself."
She turned her face away, her hands busy dressing Tara in a soft frock. Her movements were deliberate, almost mocking me with her silence.
"Ritvika, I mean it." My voice cracked. "Your health isn't suitable for this kind of burden. Please, listen to me."
Finally, she looked at me. Fierce. Cold. "You don't get to tell me what is suitable for me, Vidyut. Not after everything."
Her words sliced through, and I couldn't reply.
I watched helplessly as she tied Tara's hair in two tiny ponytails. The little one giggled, kicking her legs, oblivious to the storm tearing me apart.
"Fine," I muttered, defeated, "but you're taking Tara with you?."
"Yes," she said without hesitation, her tone firm, final.
I clenched my jaw. "She can stay here... with me. You don't need to drag her along, Ritvika."
Her eyes shot to mine, fierce fire blazing in them. "No. I can't trust you. Not with my daughter. Never."
The words hit harder than any slap. My chest tightened, my throat closing as I tried again—begging, pleading—"I'll take care of her. I swear I'll—"
But she turned away, cutting me off, refusing to hear a single word.
No matter what I said, she didn't bend.
Something in me snapped then. I pulled out my phone, my hands trembling but my voice hard.
"Bring my clothes here. And the important files too," I ordered my man on the other end.
Ritvika froze, half turning towards me.
I hung up and looked at her, my jaw set, my heart burning.
"Okay then," I said quietly but firmly, "I'm also coming with you."
Her eyes widened for a heartbeat when I said I was coming with her—then her face hardened, fury spilling in every line of her features.
"You?" she spat, her voice sharp like shards of glass. "You're unbelievable, Vidyut. You destroy everything, you hurt me, you break me... and now you want to tag along as if nothing ever happened? Why? So you can suffocate me more?"
Each word pierced deep, but I didn't fight back. How could I? She was right. I had destroyed everything.
Her voice rose. "You think I want you near me? I don't. I can't breathe when you're around. You make my life hell, Vidyut. Hell."
I stood there, silent, taking it all. My fists clenched, not in anger, but to stop myself from crumbling. I knew I deserved every word she threw at me.
"Stay away from me. Stay away from my daughter," she hissed, holding Tara closer to her chest.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay calm. "Say whatever you want to me, Ritvika... I won't answer back. But I'm not staying here."
Her nostrils flared. "You can't come. Do you hear me? I don't want you with us!"
I shook my head slowly, stepping closer—not too much, just enough that she knew I meant every word.
"You'll go for your interview. And when you go inside, when they question you, when they make you wait for hours... where will you leave Tara?"
Her lips trembled, but she pressed them tight, refusing to answer.
"See?" My voice softened, breaking against my own guilt. "I'll take care of her. Just in the car. That's all. You can go in without worrying, and when you come back, she'll be right here with me."
Ritvika's glare burned through me, but I didn't back down.
"Please," I whispered, my throat raw. "Let me do at least this much... let me take care of her."
She didn't say yes. She didn't even look at me again. But I saw her grip on Tara tighten, saw the storm raging inside her eyes.
And I knew—I wasn't giving up.
The sharp chime of the doorbell cut through the heavy air. My men stood there, arms full of my clothes and essentials. I didn't wait for Ritvika's permission—her glare was enough of an answer. Turning to her, I asked quietly, "Washroom?"
Silence.
I didn't need her words; I walked in anyway.
The cold water against my face gave me a moment's clarity. But when I stepped out, towel around my neck, the living room felt too empty. My chest tightened—she was gone.
I rushed outside, half-dressed, still buttoning my shirt, and there she was. Ritvika, clutching Tara, purse, and that damn file like lifelines, scanning the road desperately. Her eyes were sharp, her steps hurried. She wanted out. Out from me.
I moved fast. "Ritvika—come with me."
She ignored me, waving at every passing cab that refused to stop. Each second passing was tightening the coil of panic in me. She was late—I could see it in the way her hands trembled around Tara's little body.
Finally, I stepped closer, lowering my voice, forcing steadiness into it. "You'll get late. Stop wasting time. Come with me."
Still she resisted, jaw tight, eyes burning. But when no cab slowed down, when minutes stretched too long, her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Tara fussed in her arms.
And then—reluctantly, angrily—she walked toward my car.
I exhaled, a slow, shaky breath. Victory didn't feel sweet. It felt desperate.
The car purred to life, but inside, the silence was suffocating. Ritvika sat stiff beside me, Tara tucked in her lap, her eyes fixed out the window as if I wasn't even there.
My grip tightened on the wheel. The words sat heavy on my tongue until they finally broke free. "I'm sorry... for everything."
No reaction.
I glanced sideways—her face remained cold, distant, her hand patting Tara absently while her eyes flicked down to the watch on her wrist every other second. Her silence was louder than any scream.
I tried again, softer this time. "I know I've hurt you... more than I should have. I can't take it back, but—"
Her voice cut through like a knife, calm yet sharp. "Tara is here. Don't."
My chest clenched. She didn't even look at me, didn't even give me the satisfaction of her anger. Just a warning, and then her gaze was back on the watch, ticking away the seconds I had left with her.
I swallowed hard, focusing back on the road. She didn't need to shout. Her silence... her indifference... was worse than any curse.
The car rolled to a halt, and my eyes lifted to the tall glass building in front of us. STARLIGHT—the letters glared down, bold and intimidating, almost mocking.
I felt Ritvika's hesitation before I even looked at her. Her hand tightened around Tara, her gaze shifting nervously between the massive building and her own outfit, as though she didn't belong here.
Before she could drown in that hesitation, I reached forward and carefully lifted Tara from her arms. She resisted for a heartbeat, but then let go. Tara nestled against me, tiny fingers clinging to my shirt, and Ritvika's hands fell empty at her sides.
She still looked uncertain, eyes darting to her clothes, to her shoes, to the entrance that loomed above. My chest tightened. I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice.
She froze, I knew she heard it, but her face remained unreadable—guarded, refusing me even the smallest reaction.
I tried again, softer this time, almost pleading. "All the very best."
Her only answer was a stiff nod. No smile, no glance. She pressed her lips to Tara's cheek, whispered something I couldn't hear, and then stepped out of the car.
My gaze followed her, step after step, until the big glass doors swallowed her whole.
Even then, I couldn't look away. Tara shifted in my arms, but I didn't move.
My eyes stayed fixed on that building, on the woman walking into it—on the woman who, no matter how far she went, carried every last piece of me with her.
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