Chapter 21 More than friends, less than forever
Viren Ambani was discharged the next morning, and just as Devaki had insisted, he was moved to the Agnivanshi Palace. The palace's old corridors now echoed with more than just ancestral pride-they carried the heavy silence of recovery, of unresolved tension, and of a daughter's quiet despair.
The newspapers screamed in bold:
Cameras, reports, online reels-everywhere, her slap was playing in slow motion, dissected by strangers. And though people speculated everything-from her temper to her alleged closeness with the star Nakul Rathore-Ivikaa didn't bother clarifying.
She didn't have the energy.
The days that followed were chaotic. Ministers dropped by with their long cars and empty words, businessmen made fake concerned visits while trying to probe into the Ambani affairs, and distant relatives arrived just to be seen at the right place at the right time.
Vayu and Virya shielded her from much of it. They stood by her, fiercely protective, keeping her away from all the noise, letting her just be a daughter. A daughter who had come terrifyingly close to losing her father.
Ivikaa never went to see Adwait during those days. And he, as if knowing what she needed, didn't come in front of her either. No cryptic glances across corridors. No mogra-scented notes. No shared silences. Not even Martin's sarcastic interruptions.
She told herself she was fine.
But truth? She was splintering.
One morning, sitting by her father's bedside, watching him nap with the faint beep of the monitor in the background, the thought hit her like a storm: What if I had been in Paris? What if I had missed this? What if I had returned only to light a pyre?
Her breath hitched.
She couldn't bear to lose another piece of her already fractured world.
She had lost two family members. She would not-could not-lose the man who still called her My princess even through the oxygen mask.
That day, without announcement or ceremony, she quietly decided-India was home. Permanently.
No dramatic board meetings. No press statements. She simply opened her calendar, cleared the coming months, and sent a short message to Alex:
"The House of Iva is moving home. Cancel Paris runway. We'll build the next dream here."
And like that, she slipped into the role she knew best-cold, competent, composed. But only for the world.
For her family, she softened. She sat with her father through meals, read him stories from old books, listened to his every instruction and joke with a smile she reserved only for him.
Maya became her silent anchor. Always one step behind, one glance away. Iva didn't need to ask-Maya always knew. The right reports, the right medicine, the right excuse to leave a room.
Rudra came to see her twice, bearing his usual charm wrapped in a silk of entitlement. He spoke about how well their families fit. How this palace finally looked whole. He reminded her how beautifully their lives could blend.
She listened. Expressionless.
When she didn't respond, he simply smiled and said, "I understand. You're emotional now. I'll wait."
She didn't correct him. What was the point?
Her phone had been flooded with notifications.
#IvikaaAmbaniSlapsSuperstar was trending on every social platform.
Clips from the night's chaos were being replayed on national media. Anchors debated whether she had overreacted, while panelists moral-policed her in prime time slots.
But just when it seemed like the storm would spiral into something uglier-
Rudra had stepped in.
He handled the media like a seasoned puppeteer-offering exclusive behind-the-scenes footage of the actor's drunken misbehavior, a strategically placed statement from the Ambani legal team, and a subtle nudge to a gossip portal about the actor's "habitual misconduct."
Later on, the narrative had flipped. "Ivikaa Ambani Stands Up for Women's Dignity" was now the top headline.
She hadn't spoken to him. Not since the night of the event. But a message had quietly arrived on her phone:
"Handled it. You don't need to worry about the press. - R"
She read his message and locked her phone.
No reply. No thank you. Not even a thought spared.
She just didn't care. Let him handle the media circus-he liked fixing messes he didn't even belong to.
She barely saw Adwait or Maria. Once or twice, she caught Martin in the corridor. Even his sarcasm had gone on a respectful leave of absence. Everyone knew-the Ambanis were healing. And she, the only daughter, had taken it upon herself to hold the broken pieces together.
But at night, when the palace lights dimmed and the quiet crept in, her mind whispered questions she wouldn't dare ask aloud:
Where are you, Adwait?
Why does your silence feel louder than everything else?
And why... even now... do I still wish you would come find me again?
She curled up on the window seat beside her father's room, watching the rain streak down the marble arch, and closed her eyes. The world might see her as the fierce Ambani heiress, untouchable and regal.
But tonight, she was just a daughter. A tired, broken girl still hoping for peace.
That night, hunger nudged Ivikaa out of her father's room. She wandered into the dimly lit kitchen, barefoot, her hair still damp from a late shower. The palace was mostly asleep-except for him.
Adwait stood near the stove, quietly stirring a pot. The scent of cardamom and tea leaves hung gently in the air.
She stopped at the threshold.
A war brewed inside her-between frustration and the urge to say everything she had held back these past few days. Her voice came out clipped, sarcastic.
"You don't need to hide in your own house. I'll move as soon as my place gets renovated. Don't worry, I'll start working on it very soon."
She opened the fridge with a little too much force, grabbing a bottle of water before slamming it shut. She didn't look at him-couldn't.
It wasn't just the sight of him, it was his silence. That unreadable calmness that she used to admire now felt like a wall she couldn't climb.
He stirred the tea once more, then whispered without turning,
"I'm not hiding. I just don't want to add more to your plate."
And then, quietly, he placed a bowl of fried rice on the counter near her. No words. No grand gestures. Just a simple offering, like a peace treaty carved in silence.
She looked at the bowl... then at him.
Her throat tightened, but instead of replying, she turned and pulled tomatoes and cucumbers from the fridge.
Chop. Slice. Her hands moved fast, almost aggressively, as if the vegetables were to blame for everything that had gone wrong.
Why now? Why silently? Why always after the storm?
She gripped the knife harder, frustration bubbling in her chest. And then-slip.
The blade skidded across the tomato and sliced through her finger.
"Ahh!" she yelped, dropping the knife.
Adwait was by her side instantly. No hesitation. He grabbed her hand gently and moved it under the tap, letting the cold water run over the cut. She tried to pull away.
"Let go, Adwait. I said I'm fine."
But he didn't. He only looked at her with those storm-grey eyes-concerned, unreadable, patient.
He left for a second and came back with turmeric. Without asking, he dabbed some on the wound, his touch gentle, reverent.
It stung, and not just the cut.
She jerked her hand back, the dam behind her brown eyes threatening to break again. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the kitchen, her steps echoing louder than necessary.
Adwait didn't follow.
He stood there, staring at the half-cut tomato, the knife smeared with red-not knowing whether it was hers or his own guilt.
It was raining heavily when she returned to her room, hair still damp from the downpour.
Her eyes scanned the scattered sarees across the sofa-remnants of her creative chaos from the morning.
She had been trying to focus on her next couture design, but nothing about her life felt structured anymore.
She reached for the maroon saree-the one that always caught her attention-and as she lifted it against her, Devaki Agnivanshi's words echoed in her mind:
"Adwait bolta hai... main saree mein uski apni lagti hoon."
["Adwait says... I look like I'm his own when I wear a saree."]
The thought stilled her breath. Slowly, almost like muscle memory, she began wearing it.
The blouse first, then the pleats. It slid over her skin like a second memory, familiar and haunting.
Her milky skin shimmered beneath the maroon silk, the jhumkas she clipped on gleaming like little pieces of fire.
She walked toward the long French windows, only to find the outside world blurred in sheets of relentless rain. For a moment, she hesitated. Rain had never been her thing. It was messy. Disruptive. Chaotic. And she was all about control. Perfection.
But maybe... maybe tonight she needed to feel the mess. Maybe tonight the rain matched her.
She opened the door and stepped out, one careful foot after another. The water embraced her instantly, drenching her within moments. She looked up as the sky blurred with tears and rain. Memories surged-her clinging to him on that rainy ride, the warmth of his tea, his silence, his eyes.
And then her tears joined the rain.
A sob escaped her, raw and aching.
She didn't realise when the sound of the rain changed, softened.
She opened her eyes. An umbrella.
He was holding an umbrella above her. Drenched, silent, familiar. Adwait.
She stared at him. That unreadable face. Always a wall, always a whisper.
In a single movement, she took the umbrella from his hand and tossed it away. The rain once again fell on them both, merciless and real.
She turned, ready to walk back inside-anger and vulnerability colliding-when she felt him. His forehead gently leaned against her shoulder. He didn't speak. He didn't beg. He just was.
And she didn't move.
"Jitna dard se dur rakhna chahta hoon, utna hi dard de raha hoon," he said, his voice loud enough to pierce the rainfall. "I'm sorry for hurting you."
["The more I try to keep you away from pain, the more pain I end up causing," he said, his voice cutting through the rainfall."I'm sorry for hurting you."]
Ivikaa turned around and embraced him. Her arms wrapped around him fiercely, and for the first time-Adwait hugged her back. Tightly. Desperately.
He didn't just hold her. He felt her.
His hands slid along her bare back, trembling. She could feel the storm within him too-regret, longing, helplessness. He wanted her. But something, somewhere, chained him.
And then-
"Iss saaree mein naa... bilkul meri apni lag rahi ho." He said it.
["In this saree... you really look like you're mine." He said it.]
That was it.
Every ounce of doubt, anger, and pain evaporated into the rain. Her stubbornness, her questions, her wounds-everything melted.
"Main sirf apni lag sakti hoon par tumhaari apni ban toh nahi sakti, hain naa?" she whispered.
["I can only seem like your, but I can never truly be yours, right?" she whispered.]
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
So he held her tighter.
Trembling from the rain and emotion, she smiled faintly.
She understood him now. She had fought so much-against him, for him-and perhaps the fight wasn't against him at all, but against her own need to understand a man who wasn't built to be understood.
He moved away and sat on the wet floor of the courtyard.
She, without hesitation, lay down beside him and then he too laid down.
The silence between them was louder than any words.
"I'm sorry for behaving rudely," she murmured, fingers brushing his hand until they entwined.
"Because of me, you hurt yourself a lot," he said, guilt laced in every syllable.
She felt his hand grip hers tighter. No regrets.
"I was being stubborn. I forgot... you have your reasons, your world."
The rain fell harder-like even the sky couldn't hold it in anymore.
Adwait got up and extended his hand.
"Yahan nahi. Bimar ho jaogi."
["Not here. you'll fall sick."]
She smiled, gave him her hand, and they walked back inside.
She settled below the step, back facing him.
He was sitting behind her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him.
Slowly, his fingers reached up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face.
Then, with the softest touch, he slid his hand back and carefully removed the hair clip holding her hair in place.
"Adwait... I don't want this distance. It hurts me. I'll respect your reasons, but don't push me away."
His next words stopped her breath. "We can't be just friends, Ivikaa."
She looked up at him, her smile wide and relieved.
"I know," she whispered. "Just promise me... if someone ever wears those nose pins... let it be me."
He looked away, as if protecting a secret.
"I wish... main aapko apni bana sakta," he confessed.
[Wish I could make you mine.]
Her heart stilled.
He pulled a tiny packet from his pocket-her bindi packet. It was a single bindi, protected in the tiniest plastic pouch.
She froze.
He gently peeled it off and leaned in. Carefully, reverently, he placed it right in the center of her forehead.
"Ab lag rahi ho..." he whispered, his voice husky with something she didn't dare name.
[Now you look like..]
She blinked, stunned by the weight of that small, unspoken gesture. It wasn't about tradition. It wasn't about appearance. It was about belonging.
"Adwait ki?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them, her eyes locked with his.
[Adwait's?]
He didn't answer with words. But the way he looked at her-that softness, that ache, that unguarded heat-said everything.
She laughed. "So you roam around with this now?"
"Saw you from the second floor. Maroon silk, Parisian beauty, jhumkas... obviously for someone." He smirked, flicking her jhumka lightly.
And without thinking, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He froze behind her-speechless, still as stone-caught off guard by her kiss, by her softness, by the way she leaned into him like she belonged there.
Then slowly, almost uncertainly, as if afraid she'd vanish, his hand slid around her waist. Fingers trembling at first, then firm with intent. He pulled her gently but completely into his chest, her back flush against him.
She let herself melt into him, her breath hitching as his warmth seeped through the wet fabric of her blouse.
Her eyes fluttered shut, not in fear or hesitation-but in surrender.
As if, in that one quiet embrace, her chaos found a rhythm.
His heartbeat thudded steadily against her spine, anchoring her to this moment, this storm, this man.
No more explanations. No more distance.
Just skin, breath, and silence speaking what words never could.This-this was peace.
"Main aapko dard mein nahi dekh sakta, Ivikaa. Par main apna pura wajood bhi aapko nahi de sakta."She nodded.
["I can't bear to see you in pain, Ivikaa. But I also can't give you my whole self."]
"I don't want all of you. Mujhe toh wahi kaafi hai... ki main tumhari apni lagti hoon."
["I don't want all of you. For me, it's enough just to feel like I'm yours."]
She squeezed his hand and giggled. "We can't be friends, Adwait. I saw the desire in your eyes. That was enough for me."
He kissed her hair gently.
"I don't regret anything. But I wish..." He stopped.
She understood.
She always had.
"Is it allowed?" she whispered, eyes flickering to his lips-playful, nervous, a little breathless.
He leaned in, almost giving in-but paused just short. His control always came with chains, yet tonight, it was unraveling thread by thread.
She kissed his cheek again, slow and sure.
He responded, not with words-but with lips to her neck.
A soft gasp escaped her, a moan he wasn't ready for.
It startled her too-how natural it felt.
As if she was always meant to be in his arms. His world, once locked like a forbidden temple, had left its door slightly ajar. And she stepped in without knocking.
"Please forgive me," he murmured against her neck, voice thick, fingers brushing against her waist.
"One condition," she teased, still breathless.
"Of course... you and your conditions," he smirked, trying to hide the tremble in his voice.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, mischief dancing with vulnerability.
"Hugs done... kisses done... ab sex bhi?"
[now sex?]
His jaw tightened. For a moment he was stone again. Then a smile tugged at his lips-a slow, dangerous, beautiful one that reached his eyes.
She didn't wait for a reaction.
Then, without warning, she said, softer this time, "Go. Change. Come to my room in ten minutes."
He nodded and left, not looking back-because this time, he knew she would be waiting.
----------------
She changed too, pulled on her softest shorts and a loose tee. Tried to dry her hair, failed miserably. Her heart wasn't listening. Her brain had gone to Goa.
Then a knock.
She opened the door and immediately dragged him in like a smuggled secret. No drama. No small talk.
"Bahut dino se main so nahi paayi, Adwait. Aaj mujhe sona hai," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
["I haven't been able to sleep for many days, Adwait. Tonight, I want to sleep," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.]
He understood. Maybe for the first time without words.
They slipped into bed, and finally-finally-there was no hesitation. No awkward space, no unsaid boundary. Just warmth. Just him and her.
Then slowly, his hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her back to his chest. Her breath caught.
But she didn't resist.
She let herself sink into him, eyes closed, a smile breaking through tears she didn't even realise were still there.
After a moment, he whispered into the silence, a grin tugging at his lips, "Is this allowed?"
He chuckled softly against her hair. "And I'm not stopping you," she replied, gripping his hand tighter on her stomach.
For the first time, they were just two people who didn't need to pretend. No designer facades. No untouchable masks. No arguments. No riddles.
Just skin. Breath. Truth.
His fingers played with her hair gently, then slid up-pausing only to tuck a few damp strands behind her ear. His knuckles brushed her cheek, reverent, like he was memorising something precious.
She turned her head slightly and kissed the side of his face-no hesitation, no questions. Just quiet knowing.
He didn't speak. Just kissed her hair in return, arms pulling her closer like she was the answer to a question he hadn't dared to ask for years.
She let herself melt into him-her back against his chest, his breath in sync with hers. She reached under the blanket and found his hand, lacing their fingers slowly.
No declarations. No promises.
Just truth.
Just stillness.
She whispered into the silence, almost to herself-
"Sukoon... "
["Peace..."]
This wasn't attraction.
This wasn't passion.
This was safety.
This was surrender.
And for the first time in weeks, they both fell asleep-not as wounded individuals, not as uncertain halves, but simply as two people who had stopped fighting the current and allowed themselves to drift together.
Held. Heard. Healed.
Of course, the first man who makes her feel like home also comes with a do-not-enter sign on his heart.
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