Chapter 5 #3
"Is fired. Gone. She left for Singapore a week ago.
" He moved closer, close enough to take her hand.
She didn't pull away, too shocked to react.
"There's no one else, Akriti. There never was.
Not really. I was too focused on business, on empire-building, on running from responsibilities I didn't want. But I'm done running."
"Why?" she whispered. "Why now?"
"Because you almost died. Because I spent three weeks watching you fight for your life and realizing that life—my life—meant nothing if you weren't in it.
" He squeezed her hand gently. "Because I read your journals and saw what real devotion looks like.
What real strength looks like. And I want to be worthy of it. "
"You're saying what you think I want to hear—"
"I'm saying what I should have said three years ago." His eyes burned with intensity. "I'm saying I was wrong. About everything. About you, about us, about what matters. And I'm asking—begging—for a chance to make it right."
Akriti stared at him, searching his face for lies, for manipulation, for the cold indifference she'd grown accustomed to.
She found none of it.
Instead, she saw exhaustion. Guilt. Regret. And something else. Something new and fragile and terrifying.
Care.
He actually cared.
"I'm scared," she admitted quietly. "I'm scared to hope again. I'm scared to believe this is real. I've spent three years building walls, and I don't know how to take them down."
"Then don't," Raghav replied. "Keep your walls. Keep your guard up. Test me. Push me away. I deserve all of it. But let me prove this is real. Let me take care of you. Let me learn about the charity, about your work, about you."
"And if I do? If I let you in? What happens when you get bored? When the guilt fades? When you remember why you left in the first place?"
"Then you burn another one of my cars," he said, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
She gasped, half shocked, half—was that amusement?
"Too soon?" he asked.
"Way too soon." But she almost smiled. Almost.
A knock interrupted them. The doctor entered, carrying charts.
"Good evening, Mrs. Singhania. How are you feeling?"
"Tired," she admitted. "Sore. But better."
"Excellent. Your recovery is progressing well. Another week here, then we can discuss discharge. You'll need extensive physical therapy, of course. And rest. Lots of rest."
"She'll have it," Raghav said firmly. "Whatever she needs."
The doctor glanced between them, noting the shift in dynamics. "Family support is crucial for recovery. I'm glad to see—" He stopped, diplomatic. "I'm glad you'll have help, Mrs. Singhania."
After the doctor left, Akriti looked at Raghav. Really looked at him.
He looked terrible. His clothes were rumpled, his face was gaunt, dark circles shadowed his eyes. He'd lost weight, she realized. From stress, from not eating, from three weeks of keeping vigil by her bedside.
"You look awful," she said quietly.
"I feel awful."
"When did you last sleep? Really sleep?"
"I sleep." He gestured to the chair. "Here."
"Raghav—"
"I'm not leaving you," he interrupted. "I told you. I'm done leaving you."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to push him away. Wanted to protect herself from the inevitable hurt that would come when he changed his mind.
But she was so tired. So weak. And the idea of someone staying, of not being alone, was too tempting to resist.
"Tell me about the charity," he said suddenly, pulling the chair closer to her bed. "The shelter. How did you start it?"
She blinked, thrown by the change of subject. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I read the files. Saw the numbers. But I want to hear it from you. How you built it. Why it matters."
Akriti studied him warily. "You really want to know?"
"I really want to know."
She took a breath, wincing at the pull in her ribs. "It started small. Just volunteering. Teaching basic English. But I saw—" She paused, organizing her thoughts. "I saw women who were broken. Who'd lost everything. And I thought if I could just give them tools, skills, they could rebuild."
"So you started the education programs."
"Yes. Computers. English. Basic math. But then I realized they needed more. Job placement. Legal help. Childcare so they could work." Her eyes grew distant, remembering. "I used my inheritance from my grandmother. Invested it carefully. Built a funding model that could sustain itself."
"You taught yourself financial management for this." It wasn't a question.
"I couldn't ask you for money. You were—" She stopped.
"Gone," he finished quietly. "I was gone."
"Yes." She met his eyes. "So I learned. I read books. Took online courses. Made mistakes. Eventually figured it out."
"How many women have you helped?"
"A hundred and forty-three." Her voice softened with pride. "A hundred and forty-three women who are working now. Supporting themselves and their children. Living without fear."
Raghav sat back, stunned. "That's extraordinary."
"It's necessary," she corrected. "For them. And for me. It gave me purpose when I had none. Gave me a reason to keep going."
"When I gave you none."
She didn't respond. Didn't need to.
"What else?" he asked. "What else did I miss?"
"Why does it matter now?"
"Because I want to know you," he said simply. "Please, Akriti. Tell me."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, she began to speak.
About her love for classical music. How she'd learned violin as a child. How playing it made her feel less alone.
About the books she read. The poetry that spoke to her soul. The philosophy that helped her make sense of suffering.
About the small joys she'd found. Morning light through the temple windows. The satisfaction of teaching someone to read. The quiet pride of balancing a budget successfully.
About her loneliness. The isolation of living in a house full of people who dismissed her. The ache of being married but utterly alone.
She spoke for an hour, maybe more. And Raghav listened. Actually listened. Asked questions. Showed genuine interest.
It was intoxicating. Terrifying. Dangerous.
Because Akriti could feel her walls beginning to crack.
And she didn't know if she had the strength to rebuild them if he left again.
"You're exhausted," Raghav said finally, noting how her words were slurring slightly. "You need to rest."
"Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him.
But belief required trust. And trust required time.
Time she wasn't sure they had.
"Raghav?"
"Yes?"
"Why did you fire Alina?"
He met her eyes steadily. "Because she was a distraction. Because she occupied spaces that belonged to you. Because I needed to make a choice, and I chose you."
"You didn't even know me when you made that choice."
"No," he agreed. "But I knew I'd been wrong. And I knew that if I wanted any chance—any hope—of making this right, she couldn't be part of it."
Akriti's eyes drifted closed, exhaustion pulling her under. But before sleep claimed her, she whispered one more question.
"What if it's too late? What if we can't fix this?"
Raghav leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "Then we'll build something new. From the ashes. Together."
But she was already asleep, her breathing evening out, her face finally peaceful.
Raghav sat back in his chair, watching her sleep, and made a silent vow.
He would spend the rest of his life proving he meant every word.
He would learn everything about her—every fear, every hope, every dream.
He would become the husband she deserved, not the one she'd been stuck with.
And if it took years, decades, a lifetime—so be it.
She was worth it.
She'd always been worth it.
He'd just been too blind to see.