CHAPTER 47! FOUND HER #2
She had stopped wearing diamonds.
In just two days, she had stripped away every trace of the life he had built for her.
Then, his gaze dropped to her left hand.
The ring was still there.
Finally... his eyes rose to meet hers.
Two days.
He had imagined this meeting thousands of times.
Yet in none of his thoughts had she looked so small.
Or so afraid.
"You've been busy," he said softly.
The sound of his voice hit her like physical violence.
Aadhira took a sharp step back. Then another, until the small of her back hit the edge of the kitchen counter.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs, every nerve ending in her body screaming at her to flee.
Aryav took a step inside.
He had forgotten ministers' names, multimillion-dollar contract clauses, and key dates.
But he remembered that she only bit her lip like that-her teeth sinking deep into the raw flesh-when she was utterly terrified.
Small, rhythmically light footsteps echoed down the hallway, breaking the suffocating paralysis of the room.
Ayaan appeared, clutching a bright, crayon-drawn picture in both hands. He stopped dead in the doorway.
His wide, innocent eyes moved from his mother's frozen, colorless face... to the tall man standing in the doorway.
"Papa?"
The word landed with more force than a bullet.
Aryav's composure didn't break, but his posture went utterly rigid. Nobody had called him that in two days.
The word seemed to hang suspended in the cold air, unnerving in its simplicity.
Ayaan took a tentative step forward, clutching his paper tightly to his chest, looking up at Aryav.
"Papa... Are you here to take us home?"
Aryav looked down at the boy. For a fraction of a second-a blink of an eye-the iron control in his eyes faltered.
"Do you want to come home?" Aryav asked, his voice low, raspy from smoke and silence.
Ayaan glanced back at Aadhira, sensing the terrifying tension vibrating through her, then looked back up at his father. "Yes. With Mama."
Aryav's gaze shifted past the child, fixing on Aadhira once more.
"Go and pack your bag, Ayaan."
Ayaan didn't move. He hugged his drawing closer to his chest, looking back and forth between them. "Dada?" he whispered softly.
"Don't fight. Mama cries when you shout."
Aryav's jaw tightened until the muscles in his cheek twitched. He didn't look down at the boy again, but his right hand moved-briefly hovering in the air near Ayaan's head, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his hair, before dropping back to his side without touching him.
"Vivaan," Aryav said calmly.
"Yes, Boss."
"Take him outside."
Vivaan stepped forward immediately, his heavy boots silent on the floorboards, and gently scooped Ayaan up into his arms.
"Come on, buddy. Let me show you the car."
"But Mama-" Ayaan protested, his small brow furrowing.
"Kashvi," Vivaan added under his breath, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Kashvi hesitated for a single heartbeat, her terrified eyes lingering on Aadhira's rigid back before she pulled the door shut behind them.
The lock clicked into place with a definitive, heavy sound.
The silence returned instantly, thicker and more dangerous than before.
A soft draft from the window carried the scent of the kitchen toward the door-ghee, burning tea leaves, and the subtle, unmistakable trace of jasmine oil.
Aryav recognized it immediately.
He took another step inside, closing the distance between the entryway and the heart of the kitchen.
"Don't come one step closer," Aadhira said.
Aryav stopped. His feet planted themselves on the floorboards, obeying her command instantly.
"Why?" he asked.
"Are you insane? You stole my son." Her voice was razor-thin, vibrating with a rage so old and profound it choked her.
"You stood there while they carried him out of my room." She let out a short, bitter laugh that held no humor-only pure, jagged pain.
"Do you even remember that day?"
Aryav said nothing. He stood unmoving, absorbing the accusation like a man accustomed to standing in a storm.
"I do," she whispered, listing the facts without a trace of hesitation.
"You watched me beg to hold my baby. You handed me pills so I'd stop producing milk."
The clock on the wall ticked.
"Do you know what I used to tell people for years? I told them I didn't like children." She met his dark, unblinking eyes directly. "And you are asking me why. Tell me, Aryav... which part of that did you think I'd forgive?"
"None," he said quietly.
She swallowed hard, caught off guard by the absolute absence of a defense. He made no excuses.
He offered no lies.
"None?" she repeated, her throat tight.
"You shouldn't forgive any of it."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you're coming home."
"Never."
Aadhira's hand dropped toward the counter behind her. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the cutlery tray before closing tightly around the thin wooden handle of a paring knife resting beside the tea leaves.
She lifted it between them, the short steel blade glinting under the dim light of the kitchen bulb.
"...Touch me, and I'll make sure you lose me this time for sure."
Aryav didn't flinch. He didn't take a step back, nor did he rush her.
His eyes drifted down to the knife. He watched the subtle tremble in her grip, the white knuckles, the absolute desperation vibrating through her thin frame.
The silence stretched between them for five agonizing seconds. The air felt charged, thick with the weight of seven years of unexpressed horror.
Then, his eyes returned to her face. His left hand-resting loosely at his side-curled slowly into a fist, the tendons straining beneath his skin until his knuckles turned bone-white.
He took one deliberate, unhurried step forward, closing the distance until only an arm's length separated the edge of the blade from his chest.
"Put it down."
"No. Go away from here, Aryav. I hate you," she breathed, her chest heaving.
Aryav stared at the steel point hovering inches from his dark coat.
He looked back up at her, his answer coming several heartbeats later.
"You should."
"I'll never forgive you."
"I'm not asking."
"One day there'll be nobody left afraid of you," she said, her voice dropping into a whisper that cut deeper than the blade she held. "I hope you're alive to see it."
"If that's what you want..." He looked at her, unmoving, his face a mask of cold, terrifying stillness.
"Come home and take your revenge properly, like Mrs. Aadhira Aryav Rai Singhania."
"I am not your wife."
"Then explain why you're still wearing my name." His eyes flicked pointedly to the ring still glinting on her finger.
Aadhira's hand shuddered, the weight of the knife suddenly feeling agonizingly heavy.
Aryav turned slowly toward the exit. He reached the doorframe, his hand resting on the faded blue wood.
He stopped. Without looking back over his shoulder, his voice drifted through the small, suffocating space.
"You're still burning the paratha."
He pulled the door open and walked out.
Inside, thick black smoke was already curling lazily toward the wooden ceiling.
The iron skillet hissed softly on the forgotten burner, the smell of burnt charcoal completely overpowering the scent of cardamom and ghee.
The front door closed with a heavy, quiet click.
Aadhira stood alone in the kitchen.
The knife slipped from her numb fingers, clattering loudly against the floorboards before rolling under the edge of the counter.
She couldn't feel her hands.
She couldn't feel her feet.
Slowly, her knees gave out.
She sank into the old, wobbly chair beside the dining table, her chest hitching as she tried-and failed-to take a complete breath.
The room was empty, but his presence still hung in the air like poison, lingering in the scent of his cologne and the quiet terror he had left behind.