Chapter 3
It's Sunday night, and I'm sitting on most least romantic resturant i have chosen to spend with Kartik, aka the PT teacher.
"So Ruhi? Do you really don't have any interest in dating someone rn?" He asked while chewing his food .
I looked at him, confused for a moment, then offered a small smile. “No, Kartik. I really don’t.”
He paused chewing and raised his brows, acting more surprised than he actually was. “Still stuck on your past or just waiting for some fairytale?”
“Neither,” I replied softly, stirring the straw in my mocktail. “It’s just… I’m not ready.”
Kartik leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “You know, Ruhi… you’re the only English teacher I’ve seen who looks like she walked out of a classic novel simple, quiet, graceful. But also the hardest to read.”
I chuckled under my breath. “Is that a compliment or feedback from a colleague?”
“Both,” he said with a grin, stealing a french fry from my plate.
I didn’t stop him. That was Kartik easygoing, always smiling, never giving up.
Ever since I joined the school three years ago, he had been kind to me. Too kind, honestly. From carrying my lesson folders to bringing me morning chai on exam duty days, he never missed a chance.
And I… well, I kept drawing the line, gently but clearly.
But it didn’t stop him from trying.
“It’s not you, Kartik,” I said after a pause. “You’re a really nice guy.”
“Ah, the classic ‘nice guy’ zone,” he said dramatically, placing his hand on his chest like I’d stabbed him.
I shook my head, laughing quietly.
“You know what I think?” he continued, his voice a bit more serious now. “You’re waiting for something big. Something different. Maybe even dangerous.”
I looked away, biting my lip. I didn’t know what I was waiting for, honestly. Just… not this. Not now.
“Maybe,” I murmured, “or maybe I’m just figuring myself out first.”
He nodded, not offended. That’s what I liked about Kartik he understood without pressure.
“Alright, Ms. Ruhi Agarwal,” he said, raising his water glass like it was champagne, “to figuring ourselves out. And to PT teachers who don’t know how to take a hint.”
I clinked my glass with his, smiling.
That’s how our dinner went quiet, kind, and full of things left unsaid.
After dinner, Kartik insisted on dropping me home, but I politely declined again.
“I like walking,” I told him with a soft smile, wrapping my dupatta a little tighter around my shoulders as the night breeze picked up.
He looked at me for a long second before sighing. “Text me when you reach, okay? It’s late.”
I nodded, giving him a quick wave as I turned to leave.
The streets weren’t too crowded anymore. Mumbai had a way of slowing down after 10 p.m. the chaos quietened, but never truly disappeared. I walked along the footpath, letting the soft sound of my sandals and distant traffic fill the silence.
It was peaceful.
Until it wasn’t.
As I passed a narrow alley between two shops, something made me stop.
Maybe it was the faint groan. Maybe it was the strange silence..Or maybe it was just instinct.
I turned slowly and peeked in.
And then I froze.
There, lying on the cold ground, was a man. His suit was torn, shirt stained with blood, face bruised and barely visible in the dim streetlight.
My heart skipped a beat.
Panic.
Fear.
Then… concern.
Without thinking, I stepped closer, my phone already in hand.
“H-Hello?” I called out softly, keeping my distance. “Are you can you hear me?”
He moved slightly. A painful sound escaped his lips, like even breathing hurt.
My fingers trembled as I turned on my flashlight and stepped closer.
His features were sharp under the blood. His face unfamiliar but... striking, even in pain. Like he didn’t belong here not in this alley, not in this country.
And yet, here he was. Abandoned. Broken. Alive.
“Oh God,” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him, gently placing a hand near his shoulder. “You need help…”
His eyes fluttered open just a little. Deep. Dark. Dazed.
“Don’t…” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, accent thick, “No police…”
I blinked. “What?”
“No… police,” he repeated, this time weaker.
I stared at him, confused and scared. Who was this man?
But more than anything else, I felt one thing
He didn’t have time.
I had to do something.
Gripping my phone tightly, I made a quick decision. “Okay. No police. But I can’t leave you here.”
I stood up, looking around. There was a small clinic nearby, the 24-hour one near the stationery shop.
I rushed out of the alley and flagged an auto.
“Please,” I begged the driver. “There’s an injured man. He’s barely conscious. Help me take him to the clinic. I’ll pay anything.”
The driver looked reluctant but eventually followed me back.
And together, we carried the stranger the bloodied, mysterious stranger into the rickshaw.
As it sped off into the night, my heart pounded.
I had no idea who he was.
But something told me…
This moment was going to change everything.
The clinic was nearby so I take him there but
The clinic refused.
“He needs surgery, madam. This is beyond our facility,” the nurse said with worry in her eyes. “There’s a hospital nearby. But he must be admitted properly identity, family, someone to sign the forms…”
I looked at the man lying unconscious on the stretcher. His breathing was shallow, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his shirt.
“I’ll take him there,” I said, my voice trembling but steady.
The auto driver helped again no questions asked, just worried glances. When we reached the hospital, the emergency team rushed in immediately, wheeling him inside.
“Madam, please come,” the receptionist said, handing me a clipboard. “We need details. Name? Relation? Do you have his ID?”
My heart raced, the only thing I had was an invitation on a name , to Lorenzo de Romano
“I… I don’t have his ID right now,” I mumbled, staring at the man behind the glass doors being prepped for surgery.
“We can’t proceed without consent,” the doctor said firmly. “We need a legal guardian or family member to sign this.”
I looked down at the form.
Then at him.
And without thinking—
“I’m his wife,” I blurted out.
The words left my mouth before I could even process them. My hand trembled as I signed the paper.
“His name?” the nurse asked gently.
I swallowed. “Lorenzo. Lorenzo… Romano.”
She nodded, taking the paper from me.
It was done.
Just like that… I became someone’s wife.
A stranger’s wife.
They wheeled him into surgery.
I sat in the waiting area, the clock ticking so slowly it felt like time itself had stopped. My dupatta was stained from his blood. My phone buzzed with missed calls from Kartik.
But I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
Two hours later…
A doctor finally stepped out, his expression neutral.
“He’s stable. We managed to stop the internal bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood. And… there’s something else.”
My body stiffened. “What?”
“There was trauma to the head,” he explained. “He’s going to live, but… he may have lost some of his memory. We won’t know how much until he wakes up.”
My lips parted, but no words came out.
Memory loss?
“You’re his wife, right?” the doctor asked again, just to confirm.
I nodded slowly. “Yes… I am.”
Inside the hospital room…
The lights were dim, the machines beeped softly.
He lay there his face calmer now, bandages across his forehead, one arm strapped with IV tubes.
I stood near the window, hugging my arms to my chest.
What had I gotten myself into?
But I couldn’t just walk away.
Not now.
Not after he almost died in my arms.
And definitely not when he had no one else