CHAPTER 47! FOUND HER
Heyyy! ??
So... I'm back.
Did you guys miss me?
...No? Yeah, I figured. ????
But here I am anyway. I know some of you are probably thinking, "Yeh ladki ek din bhi upload kiye bina nahi reh sakti." ??
And honestly... you're not wrong. What can I do? You're all just too adorable. ??
But do you know what you've done? You made a tiny mistake. ??
Giving 100+ votes on a single chapter has officially raised my expectations. ???
Now don't blame me if I become a little greedy. From now on, I'll be waiting for the same love every time... warna main thoda sa nakhre dikhaungi. ????
So yes... congratulations. You created this monster. ??
Thank you for all the love, support, and crazy amount of votes. They genuinely make my day!
Now enough talking...
Enjoy the chapter! ???
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The pressure cooker whistled long before the morning sun reached the kitchen floor, its sharp sound echoing through the small farmhouse and breaking the early morning quiet.
There were no grand hallways here, no servants, and no luxury-just an old kitchen with chipped cabinets, plain curtains blowing gently in the breeze, and a dining table old enough that one leg had been steadied with a folded square of newspaper.
The air smelled rich and comforting: fresh butter, warm potatoes, and cardamom tea.
Aadhira stood at the stove, flipping a crisp aloo paratha onto a steel plate and spreading a layer of ghee over the top.
Soft, sleepy footsteps padded down the hallway behind her.
"Mama..."
She turned around.
Ayaan stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with a small fist, his hair sticking up in every direction.
Without a word, Ayaan walked over and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her.
Aadhira placed a hand on his head, taking in his warmth and the faint, sweet scent of baby powder that still lingered on his skin. "Good morning, baby."
After a moment, he looked up, his brow furrowed. "Good morning, Mama... when are we going home?"
Aadhira paused.
She turned down the burner and knelt so she was at eye level with him.
"You don't like it here?" she asked gently.
"I do," he murmured.
"Then why do you want to go back?"
He frowned, his tiny fingers tugging at the edge of his shirt as he struggled to find the words.
"I miss Dada. And Bua, and Chachu... everyone." He paused, looking toward the stove, then added softly, "...And Papa likes your parathas too."
Aadhira's hand stilled.
She spread another layer of ghee over the paratha, her wrist heavy, pooling far too much on the golden crust.
She smoothed his messy hair back.
"I know you miss them, sweetie."
"Can we go to them?" he asked, his dark eyes wide and searching.
"Yes, we can, but not now."
"Can we call them?"
"Not yet."
His shoulders slumped, a heavy sigh escaping his small chest.
"But soon," she said, forcing a reassuring smile before kissing his forehead.
"Now, I have a job for you."
His eyes brightened instantly.
"What job?"
"Go wake up Kashvi Aunty. Tell her if she isn't at the table before breakfast gets cold, you get to eat her paratha."
His eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Really. Go!"
Ayaan spun around and sprinted down the hall. "Kashvi Aunty! Wake up! Mama said I can eat your food!"
A tired groan echoed from one of the bedrooms.
"Nahi Ayaan, main aa rahi hu!"
Fifteen minutes later, Kashvi stumbled downstairs, dramatically resting a hand on her forehead.
"Bas paanch minute aur sone deti..."
Aadhira handed her a hot mug of tea as she pulled her hair into a messy ponytail before sinking into the wobbly chair. "Barah ghante so chuki ho."
"Haan, toh? Recovery chal rahi thi meri. Par is shaitaan ne jaga diya."
Ayaan giggled from across the table, his feet swinging under his chair.
"Mama says I'm her secret weapon."
"You definitely are," Aadhira said softly.
When Ayaan finished eating, he carried his plate carefully over to the sink.
"I'm going to draw now!"
"First finish your breakfast."
"Mama, I am done! Please let me go, I have important things to draw."
"Fine, but stay where I can hear you," Aadhira called out after him.
"Okay!" He ran off, and soon the faint, rhythmic sound of crayons scraping against paper drifted back down the hall.
As the child's laughter faded, the easy warmth in the kitchen evaporated. Kashvi set her mug down with a soft click against the wooden table.
"So... what's the plan?"
Aadhira slowly folded a kitchen towel, lining up the edges with deliberate, precise care before setting it by the sink.
"If we stay in India, Aryav will find us," Kashvi said softly. "Right now, he thinks we left the country because of those fake flight tickets. But once he realizes they were a distraction, he's going to start searching for real."
"I know."
"He has contacts everywhere, Aadhira. He owns a massive security enterprise. He even manages security infrastructure for banks in Switzerland."
Aadhira turned to face her.
"I know what he's capable of."
Kashvi waited, her eyes tracking every shift in Aadhira's quiet posture.
Aadhira walked over to her jacket hanging by the door, pulled a thin blue folder from the inside pocket, and laid it on the wooden table.
Kashvi pulled it toward her and opened it. Inside were three new passports, flight tickets, hotel reservations, train passes, and detailed route maps.
"You set all this up?" Kashvi asked, looking up in disbelief.
"Under whose names?"
"A series of shell companies," Aadhira explained, her voice even.
"I finalized it yesterday. We fly to Zurich, but we don't stay there. We take a train to Lucerne, then another train, and then a local bus." She reached down and pointed to a tiny, isolated mark deep within the Swiss Alps.
Kashvi leaned in closer to the map.
"I've never even heard of this place."
"That's the point. Nobody knows us there. Nobody will look for us there."
Kashvi looked up from the documents, studying Aadhira's face.
"When are we leaving?"
Aadhira listened to Ayaan humming a soft, wordless tune in the other room, then looked down at the tickets.
"Today."
.
.
.
Outside the house, a black Mercedes sat parked near the dirt curb, engine dead, its polished paint coated in a thin layer of roadside dust.
Aryav stood beside it. His eyes never left the modest farmhouse across the road.
Forty-eight hours.
Forty-eight hours of fake identities.
Four stolen vehicles.
Two forged passports.
One farmhouse hidden between forgotten roads.
She had treated him like a man who could be outrun.
She should have known better.
His gaze moved slowly over the property, cataloging every detail with the cold precision of a man evaluating enemy territory.
A cracked flowerpot resting on the step. A pair of small children's shoes drying near the door.
A hand-washed blanket hanging from a rusty wire.
He looked at the cracked exterior, the water-stained window frames, the warped wooden porch.
His gaze stopped on the small refrigerator visible through the window-two cheap magnets holding an overdue electricity bill underneath.
Nothing in that house had been bought without counting money.
Every chair was different.
Every plate had survived another home.
She had built a life here in forty-eight hours. Without him. None of it belonged to his world, yet somehow, she had made it hers.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fine linen handkerchief, and wrapped it tightly around his knuckles.
He stepped up to the faded blue door.
He knocked twice.
The door never touched his skin.
He unwrapped the linen, folded it with practiced ease, and tossed it into the small bin beside the stoop before the door opened.
Kashvi froze, her hand gripping the wood of the doorframe so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Aryav looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"Move."
Kashvi's throat tightened.
"...No."
Aryav didn't argue.
He didn't raise his voice. His gaze slowly dropped to her hand resting on the frame. Just her hand.
Five seconds. Six. Seven.
He never touched her. He never needed to.
Kashvi pulled her hand back and stepped out of the doorway.
From inside, Aadhira's voice drifted down the hall. "Kashvi, who's at the-"
The spatula slipped from Aadhira's hand, striking the iron skillet with a sharp, metallic clatter.
She didn't finish the sentence.She couldn't.Air refused to enter her lungs. The room contracted instantly, shrinking until the walls seemed to press against her ribs, suffocating her.
A low, violent ringing bloomed in her ears, drowning out the gentle rustle of the curtains and the faint scraping of Ayaan's crayons in the next room.
A tailored dark coat. Rain-dampened hair. The faint scent of expensive cologne slicing through the warm smell of cardamom tea.
Aryav.
For two days, she had rehearsed this exact nightmare. In every version she built inside her head, she screamed.
She fought. She threw whatever was within reach, or she grabbed Ayaan and ran until her chest burned.
Now, staring at him, her knees went numb. She couldn't even remember how to breathe.
Aryav didn't step forward immediately. He stood rooted in the small, narrow entryway, letting the silence stretch until it became heavy enough to crush the breath out of the room.
The pressure cooker hissed on the stove, a sharp jet of steam escaping into the air.
Somewhere outside, a stray dog barked twice, the sound muffled by the thick winter morning.
Aryav didn't look at her right away. His dark eyes drifted slowly, deliberately across the low ceiling, taking in the water stains near the light fixture.
He looked at the chipped green cupboards, the ancient clock ticking unevenly on the wall, and the scattered box of crayons resting on the wooden counter.
He cataloged every single imperfection.
There was flour dusted on her sleeve.
A tiny red burn mark on the inside of her wrist.
Her hair smelled faintly of jasmine oil, pinned up with a cheap plastic clip.