Chapter 4 #2
Mohan's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, full of sympathy. "Sometimes those things align. Sometimes they don't."
"And when they don't?"
"We survive. We find joy where we can. We keep living."
"Yes," Akriti said softly. "We survive."
She didn't see the motorcycle following them.
Didn't see the man riding it pull alongside at the traffic light.
Didn't see him attach something to the undercarriage of the Range Rover.
Didn't hear the soft click as it magnetized into place.
The light turned green. They moved forward.
Thirty seconds later, the world exploded.
*
The bomb was professional-grade military. Ranveer had spared no expense.
The Range Rover lifted off the ground, the explosion tearing through metal and glass and flesh. The sound was deafening—a thunderclap of destruction that shattered windows in nearby buildings.
The vehicle flipped, landing on its roof in a shower of debris.
Then silence.
Terrible, absolute silence.
Broken by screaming. People running. Chaos erupting.
Inside the wreckage, Akriti couldn't move. Couldn't think. Pain—everywhere, blinding, consuming. The emeralds at her throat were slick with blood. Her saree was torn, smoking. She could taste copper.
"Mohan Uncle," she tried to whisper, but no sound came.
From the front seat, there was no response. No movement.
Her vision blurred. Darkness crept in at the edges.
The last thing she saw before unconsciousness claimed her was the jasmine flowers from her hair, scattered across the shattered dashboard, stained red.
*
Raghav was standing in the burned-out shell of his warehouse, his clothes covered in soot, when his phone rang.
"What now?" he snapped, expecting another crisis.
"Sir." It was his head of security, and his voice was shaking. "Sir, there's been—you need to get to Breach Candy Hospital. Now."
"Why? What happened?"
"Sir... your wife... the car... there's been an explosion."
The world stopped.
Everything—the warehouse, the fire, the business, the empire—all of it ceased to exist.
"What?" The word came out strangled.
"The Range Rover. It exploded on Malabar Hill Road. Mrs. Singhania was inside. She's—sir, it's bad. You need to come now."
The phone fell from his hand.
His wife. Akriti. The car he'd told her to take. The car he'd—
"No." The word was a whisper. Then louder. "No. No. NO."
He was running, shouting for his driver, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't get the car door open.
Someone helped him. Someone drove. He didn't know who.
All he could see was her face that morning. Composed. Beautiful. Empty.
I'm just a social obligation.
"Faster," he ordered. "Drive faster."
"Sir, we're already—"
"I SAID FASTER!"
The hospital appeared through the windshield like a mirage. He was out of the car before it fully stopped, running through the emergency entrance.
"Akriti Singhania," he gasped at the reception desk. "Where is she?"
"Sir, you'll need to—"
"WHERE IS MY WIFE?"
A doctor appeared, his scrubs already bloodstained. "Mr. Singhania?"
"Where is she? Is she—" He couldn't say the word.
"She's in surgery. Critical condition. We're doing everything we can."
"I need to see her—"
"That's not possible right now. The injuries are extensive. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, head trauma—"
"No." Raghav's legs gave out. He caught himself against the wall. "No, she can't—she was just—we were supposed to—"
"Sir, I need you to sit down—"
"I sent her," Raghav whispered, the realization crushing him. "I sent her alone. In that car. She wasn't supposed to be in that car alone."
The doctor's expression was sympathetic but professional. "The driver didn't survive. I'm sorry."
Mohan. Dead. Because of him.
And Akriti—beautiful, brave, broken Akriti—was fighting for her life.
Because of him.
"The waiting room is this way," the doctor said gently.
Raghav let himself be led, his mind fracturing. Images assaulted him—Akriti on their wedding night, looking so young and hopeful. Akriti standing in the library, telling Alina she wasn't a servant. Akriti watching his car burn with dead eyes.
I've been alone for three years. One more night won't make a difference.
Her last words to him.
God. Her last words.
The waiting room was sterile and cold. He paced, unable to sit, unable to think, unable to do anything but replay every cruel word, every dismissal, every moment he'd treated her like she was nothing.
His phone buzzed. Vikram.
"Is it true?" his father's voice was hoarse.
"Yes."
"We're coming."
The family arrived in waves—Vikram and Savitri first, her face streaked with tears. Then cousins, aunts, uncles. The waiting room filled with Singhanias, all of them stunned, horrified.
Priya was crying. Meera looked sick with guilt.
And then Alina appeared.
She moved toward Raghav, concern on her face. "Raghav, I'm so sorry. This is terrible—"
"Don't." His voice was barely human.
"I just wanted to—"
"I said don't." He looked at her, and she stepped back from what she saw in his eyes. "This is my fault. I sent her alone. I put her in that car. I—"
"You couldn't have known—"
"GET OUT."
Alina froze.
"GET OUT!" Raghav roared. "GET OUT OF HERE! YOU DON'T BELONG HERE! YOU'VE NEVER BELONGED HERE!"
"Raghav—" Vikram started.
"She needs to leave. Now. Before I—" He couldn't finish. His hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking.
Alina backed away, her face pale. "I'll... I'll be at the hotel if you need—"
"I won't." His voice was flat, dead. "Pack your things. Go back to Singapore. Our working relationship is terminated."
"You don't mean that—"
"Every word. You're fired. Get out of my sight."
Savitri gently guided Alina toward the exit. Once she was gone, she returned to her son.
"Beta—"
"I killed her, Maa," Raghav whispered. "I killed my wife."
"She's still alive. She's fighting—"
"Because of me, she has to fight. Because I was too busy with warehouses and meetings and my goddamn empire to protect her." His voice broke. "What have I done? What have I done?"
Savitri pulled him into her arms, and for the first time since childhood, Raghav Singhania wept.
*
The surgery lasted eight hours. Eight hours of pacing. Praying. Breaking down. Raghav didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Just waited, surrounded by family who didn't know what to say.
Finally, the doctor emerged, exhausted.
"She's alive," he said, and the collective exhale was audible. "But the next forty-eight hours are critical. We've repaired what we could—broken ribs, punctured lung, fractured femur, severe lacerations. But there's swelling in her brain. We've induced a coma to reduce the pressure."
"A coma?" Raghav's voice was hoarse.
"Medically induced. It gives her body time to heal without the stress of consciousness. But Mr. Singhania—" The doctor's expression was grave. "Her injuries are extensive. Even if she wakes, there may be complications. Memory issues. Physical limitations. It's too early to tell."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes. But prepare yourself. She doesn't look—it's not easy to see."
Nothing could have prepared him.
The ICU was harsh with fluorescent lights and the steady beep of monitors.
Akriti lay in the bed, almost unrecognizable beneath bandages and tubes.
Her face was swollen, bruised purple and black.
An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth.
IVs snaked from both arms. Her leg was elevated, wrapped in a cast.
She looked so small.
So broken.
Raghav's knees buckled. Vikram caught him, helped him to the chair beside the bed.
"Akriti," he whispered, reaching for her hand. It was cold, limp. "God, Akriti, I'm so sorry."
The monitors beeped steadily, indifferent to his anguish.
"I'll leave you alone," Vikram said quietly.
"No—stay. Please." Raghav couldn't take his eyes off her. "I can't—I can't be alone with this."
But eventually, Vikram had to leave. They all did. Visiting hours were strict.
Except Raghav refused to go.
"Sir, you need to—"
"I'm not leaving her." His voice carried absolute finality. "I left her alone once. That nearly killed her. I'm not doing it again."
The nurses looked to the doctor, who sighed and nodded.
"Fine. But don't interfere with her care."
Raghav stayed.
Hour after hour. Through the night. Into the next day.
He watched her breathe. Counted each rise and fall of her chest. Monitored every beep of the machines keeping her alive.
And slowly, as exhaustion pulled at him, memories surfaced.
Their wedding. She'd been so young, barely twenty-one. Her hands had trembled as she'd placed the garland around his neck. Her eyes had been full of nervous hope.
He'd felt nothing.
Their wedding night. She'd waited for him, dressed in that elaborate red lehenga. When he'd told her it was just a business arrangement, her face had crumpled for just a second before she'd schooled it into acceptance.
He'd felt relief.
The morning he'd left. She'd been sleeping when he'd packed his bags. He'd paused at her door, hearing her soft breathing. He could have said goodbye. Could have left a note. Could have shown even basic courtesy.
He'd felt nothing.
Three years of nothing.
Three years of neglect while she'd lived in his house, among his family, carrying his name, being humiliated and dismissed and forgotten.
"What have I done?" he whispered into the sterile hospital air. "What have I done to you?"
No answer. Just the steady beep of her heartbeat.
He stayed by her side for three days straight.
Refused to eat until Savitri forced food into his hands.