Chapter 4 #3
Refused to shower until Vikram threatened to have him removed.
Refused to leave for even a moment.
The nurses brought him coffee. The doctors updated him every few hours. His family came and went, leaving flowers and prayers.
And Raghav sat there, holding her cold hand, begging her silently to survive.
*
On the third day, his security team arrived with findings.
"Sir, you need to hear this."
Raghav looked up, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. "What?"
"The bomb. It was professional. Military-grade. Expensive."
"The Kapoors—"
"We don't think so, sir. The placement, the timing—it suggests someone with inside knowledge. Someone who knew which car you'd be using. Someone who knew your schedule."
Ice flooded his veins. "Inside knowledge."
"Yes, sir. We're investigating, but—" The security chief hesitated. "Sir, we think the target was you. Not Mrs. Singhania."
The words hung in the air, terrible in their implications.
Someone in his own organization wanted him dead.
And Akriti—innocent, forgotten Akriti—had nearly died in his place.
"Find them," Raghav said, his voice dropping to something lethal. "Find whoever did this. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care what it costs. Find them."
"Yes, sir."
They left him there, alone with his guilt and his rage and his broken wife.
He'd built an empire. Made enemies. Played dangerous games.
And she'd paid the price.
*
On the fourth day, a nurse brought him Akriti's belongings. What had been recovered from the wreckage.
"We thought you might want these."
Her purse. Burned at the edges but mostly intact. The emeralds she'd been wearing, now in a plastic bag.
And a small notebook.
Raghav's hands shook as he opened the purse. Inside, protected by the leather, were photographs.
Their wedding photos.
She'd kept them. Carried them with her.
Him in his sherwani, young and arrogant. Her in her bridal red, hopeful and beautiful. Them together, garlanded, married.
A family she'd believed in.
A husband who'd abandoned her.
There was also a dried flower. A red rose from her bridal bouquet, preserved carefully between two pieces of paper.
She'd kept it. All these years. Kept this tiny piece of the worst day of her life because it was also the day she'd become his wife.
And he hadn't kept anything.
Hadn't saved a single photo.
Hadn't bothered to remember what she'd looked like.
The notebook was small, leather-bound. He opened it with trembling fingers.
It wasn't a journal. It was a list.
Things I Know About Raghav:
- He likes his chai with extra cardamom - He reads late at night when he can't sleep - His favorite color is navy blue - He's allergic to shellfish - He hates being late - He touches his jaw when he's thinking - He's brilliant at chess - He carries the weight of expectations like armor - He's lonely, even though he'd never admit it - He deserves to be loved, even though he doesn't think so
Page after page of observations. Small details she'd collected like treasures. Evidence of how carefully she'd watched him, studied him, tried to know him.
While he couldn't have listed a single thing about her.
Raghav pressed the notebook to his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the unconscious woman in the bed. "God, Akriti, I'm so sorry."
And then, for the first time since the explosion, her fingers twitched.
Just the slightest movement.
But he felt it.
"Akriti?" He leaned forward, gripping her hand. "Akriti, can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered.
"Doctor!" he shouted. "DOCTOR!"
Medical staff rushed in, pushing him back as they checked her vitals.
"She's responding to stimuli," the doctor said, surprised. "This is good. Very good."
"Is she waking up?"
"It's possible. Let us check—"
But Akriti's eyes had already opened. Barely, just slits, but open.
She looked around, confused, frightened. The oxygen mask muffled her attempt to speak.
"You're safe," the doctor said gently. "You're in the hospital. You were in an accident."
Her eyes found Raghav, standing there in days-old clothes, unshaven, hollow-eyed.
Recognition flickered.
"You're here," she whispered, the words barely audible through the mask.
"I'm here," he confirmed, his voice breaking. "I'm not leaving. I swear to God, I'm not leaving."
She stared at him for a long moment, something like wonder in her bruised face.
Then her eyes closed again, and the monitors showed her slipping back into unconsciousness.
"Is she—"
"She's okay," the doctor assured him. "This is normal. Her body needs rest. But she recognized you. That's an excellent sign."
You're here, she'd said.
Like it was a miracle.
Like she'd stopped believing he ever would be.
Raghav sank back into the chair, his whole body shaking.
She'd woken up. She'd seen him. She'd spoken to him.
And then she'd slipped away again, leaving him alone with the devastating realization of everything he'd destroyed.
Everything he'd lost before he'd ever known he had it.
Everything he would spend the rest of his life trying to rebuild.
If she let him.
If she survived.
If it wasn't already too late.