Chapter 24 Him Via JPEG
It was nearly midnight. The glow of her laptop screen flickered against the windows as rain tapped softly outside, but Iva wasn't working anymore.
She was spiraling.
Her fingers hovered over her phone as she stared blankly at the home screen. Her mind, however, was caught somewhere between yesterday's rainfall and the memory of Adwait's breath on her neck.
The way he had held her.
The way she had fallen asleep curled into him like he was home-and she, finally, wasn't lost.
She unlocked her phone and went straight to her gallery, that flutter of excitement rising in her chest. There had to be a picture.
She remembered it so clearly. The early morning light.
His face softened in sleep. That tattoo his flute inking over old cigarette scars.
She'd smiled to herself and clicked the photo like a thief stealing something sacred.
Except...
It wasn't there.
What the hell?
She scrolled. Searched. Nothing.
Her chest tightened. She tried the favorites folder. The cloud backup. Nothing.
Not a single photo of him.
Not even from that rain drenched night with Raha. She remembered that one clearly Raha had pulled out her phone and snapped it.
She texted: "Hey... that photo you clicked of me and Adwait during the rain ride... do you still have it?"
The reply came a few minutes later.
Raha: "Shit, I think I deleted it accidentally when I was cleaning up my gallery. I'm so sorry Iva :(("
Iva stared at the screen.
Unbelievable.
Not a single photo. Not a single proof that any of it him, the rain, the way her heart felt like it was cracking and mending at the same time-ever happened.
The man was everywhere, and yet she had nothing.
No image. No keepsake.
Just... memory.
She tossed the phone aside and muttered under her breath, sarcasm laced with frustration:
"At this point, even ghosts leave better documentation."
Suddenly, something clicked.
Ivikaa sat up straight, eyes narrowing. That weird blank spot in her gallery-no error, no glitch-just nothing. Like the moment had never existed.
She grabbed her phone and texted RED: "Is it possible that a photo can destroy itself? Like... not save at all?"
RED replied almost instantly. "Yes. If there's a facial recognition block coded into the subject. The device won't register or store the face. Advanced anti-surveillance stuff. Government level or bespoke coding."
Ivikaa's fingers froze above the screen.
She typed again, slower this time. "Again... Rudra?"
"Bingo.", RED sent.
She stared at the word for a full minute.
Then smirked and sent a text to him again - "It seems Rudra did an amazing job this time.
I want you to find a loophole in that system.
And also, track down the genius who created this ridiculous algorithm.
Rudra must've hired someone for this. Guess his money finally got tired of sitting around and decided to erase his own brother. "
She tossed the phone aside and let out a dry laugh.
"Who needs photo albums when your love life has a firewall?"
She curled into the pillow, letting her cheek press against the cotton as her eyes landed on the single jasmine resting on the table. The same flower Adwait had wordlessly slipped into her hand that morning. The second time.
She picked up her phone, snapped a picture of it, and smirked.
"Two flowers. Both times Papa was there, and you slipped them to me secretly. Are you scared? If not, next time, give flowers in front of my father." She hit send with an evil smile tugging her lips.
Her phone chimed. "Not just flowers. But food too. I promise. :)"
Iva's eyes widened. Her brows arched. What the hell... he replied to that? She barely had time to process the audacity before another notification buzzed.
"Where is my flute?"
She grinned. "Oh, Martin passed some tea to you too."
His reply came fast. "Where is my flute?"
Persistent. She typed: "I have ;)"
Not even five minutes had passed when she heard a knock on her balcony door.
Her pulse skipped. She opened it.
Adwait stood there, damp from the drizzle outside, eyes unreadable. She stepped forward and hugged him without a thought.
But he didn't return the hug. His voice was flat. "Flute."
She pulled back, startled. "Adwait... what happened?"
His tone softened just barely, but the focus didn't leave his eyes. "Flute."
That was all.
Silently, she went to her cupboard, retrieved the flute from the velvet pouch she'd kept it in, and placed it in his hand.
He was about to leave without another word when her bedroom door creaked open.
Rudra.
The sight of Adwait on her balcony froze him in place.
"What are you doing here?" Rudra snapped, stepping forward, voice sharp and territorial.
Iva stepped in, casually intercepting the energy. "He was just here for his flute. I... accidentally took it."
Rudra stared at her like she'd lost her mind.
Adwait didn't say a single word. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain soaked night like a shadow never meant to linger.
Leaving Rudra and Iva behind-both stunned, but for entirely different reasons.
"Iva, are you okay? Did he-did he do anything to you? Why did you touch his flute?" Rudra asked, rushing to her side, panic seeping into his tone.
She instinctively moved away. "Rudra, you're overreacting."
"I am not overreacting! You touched his flute.
He's obsessive about it. The last time Papa touched it without telling him, Adwait blasted the entire West Wing.
" His voice had turned high strung and breathless.
"He's not normal, Iva! He's unstable. He burned down a section of the palace over a bloody wooden stick.
Now you took it? Are you insane? I told you he's psycho-"
She cut him off, her tone turning diamond-hard. "Rudra. It's fine. He asked. I returned it. He can never harm me. You know why?" She looked him straight in the eye. "Because I'm Iva."
Her voice carried the weight of inherited fire and earned defiance.
Rudra left, slamming the door behind him, but his stormy words remained suspended in the air like smoke.
Iva stood there, unmoving, chewing on silence.
Did she hurt Adwait?
No. She didn't think so. But then again, he was like this with anyone else. The man the world saw distant, cold, untouchable was not the man who brought her flowers like secrets and watched over her during storms.
He had changed. No he hadn't. He was different only with her.
She wouldn't be able to sleep until she knew for sure. She needed to talk to him. She made her way to the West Wing. The corridors were unusually quiet, dimly lit with antique sconces casting sleepy shadows.
Maria was in the hallway, arranging fresh lilies in a brass vase. Iva stopped her. "Where's Adwait's room?"
Maria looked at her like she'd asked for the nuclear codes. "He just left home."
"Okay, good. So now tell me which one is his room."
Maria hesitated. "He'll freak out if you go in there. He doesn't let anyone inside not even house staff. It's... sort of his thing."
Iva arched a brow. "And if I just want to look around?"
Maria sighed. "Fine. But don't touch anything. He'll know."
"How? There's no camera, right?"
"No. None in any bedroom. Not even his. But still don't move a thing. Even if you shift something an inch, he'll notice."
That only piqued her curiosity more.
With feather light fingers, she pushed open the door.
The scent of the sea hit her first-salt, breeze, and something uniquely him. The balcony doors were ajar, letting in the sound of waves crashing far below. The curtains swayed like ghosts in a hush of beige, royal blue, and soft golden threads.
The room wasn't just royal. It was curated. Thoughtful. Silent.
A grand chandelier glittered above her, and she genuinely forgot to breathe for a second. Every piece of furniture-hand-carved wardrobes, velvet sofas, antique side tables-seemed to whisper stories. It was opulence without vanity.
She stepped toward a side table that looked older than the house itself. On it rested a worn copy of the Bhagavad Gita. In Gujarati.
"Religious... but in regional fonts. Of course. Even his spirituality isn't basic," she murmured.
Next to it was a photo frame Adwait with his Dadi. It was the only photo she'd ever seen of him.
No social media. No newspaper articles. No tagged wedding photos. No family portraits. "He doesn't exist online, and offline... well, if you haven't seen him in person, you might doubt he exists at all."
She reached for the frame but paused.
Maria's words rang in her ears: Don't. Touch. Anything.
Ugh. But she really wanted that photo. Or at least a copy.
Sneakily, she pulled out her phone and snapped a quick picture. She knew it would be deleted.
"So, Mister I-Do-Not-Exist-Online... here you are. Gotcha! I hope it stays in my phone.," she whispered, giggling.
She turned to leave, but then noticed a drawer slightly ajar.
Curiosity is a dangerous thing.
She tiptoed over and peeked inside.
Hair clips. A drawer full of her hair clips.
Iva's brows shot up.
Her jaw dropped slightly. Then she smiled. Wide.
"Obsessive, mysterious, paranoid, poetic... and now a hair clip collector?" She shut the drawer, laughing under her breath.
She tried calling him. Once. Twice. No answer.
So she sent a message: "I'm near your room. Waiting for you."
Then she walked to the end of the corridor and sat down quietly on the marble steps of the staircase, resting her head against the carved wooden railing. The silence of the West Wing wrapped around her like a velvet fog.
She closed her eyes.
Time passed maybe an hour, maybe more.
And then she felt it.
A familiar warmth.
A shawl draped softly around her shoulders. A shift in the air. His scent. His silence. He was here.
She opened her eyes slowly. He was sitting right behind her on the steps, quiet as the night itself.
"I'm sorry, Adwait," she whispered, turning her head just enough to see his face, "I didn't know the flute was so important to you. Sorry for hurting you."
His expression was unreadable and eyes blank like still water.
But the moment she said "hurt", something flickered across them. A shadow of emotion. A bruise, maybe.
"I don't mind you taking my things," he said quietly. "It's just... the flute. It's very personal."
His voice held weight, not volume.
She turned fully and wrapped her arms around him in apology. He hugged her back, firm, grounding like he needed it too.
"Rudra said you blew up the West Wing because Abhay uncle touched your flute..." Ivikaa asked slowly, her voice uncertain, her brows drawn together. She studied Adwait's face, searching for a reaction.
Adwait gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His expression remained calm-too calm.
"Seriously? Even Abhay uncle said something..."
Adwait's gaze drifted into the distance, as if he were watching a memory replay. When he spoke, his tone was devoid of any anger or sorrow just a chilling, eerie neutrality.
"He took my flute because I wasn't obedient. Because I didn't bow like the rest. He touched something that meant more to me than my own life. He didn't just touch it, he stole it, hid it... was about to break it."
His voice didn't rise. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face. Just flat, factual quiet.
Ivikaa stared at him. Her pulse slowed, her fingers curling around the hem of his shirt.
"And so... you blew up this wing?" she asked carefully.
He tilted his head, his lips curling into the faintest, crooked smile.
"That was his home. His favorite side of the palace. I wanted him to feel what it's like... when someone rips away your most priceless possession." His eyes flickered, sharp with dark triumph.
Ivikaa's jaw dropped. "Next time someone calls me dramatic, I'll remind them your bar is palace demolition." A breath of laughter escaped her lips, startled but genuine. "I'm actually kind of proud right now."
Adwait shrugged lightly, still unmoved. "I'm no saint."
She turned towards him, lips twitching but eyes slightly narrowed. "What about me then? I touched your flute. Will you blow up a room for that too?" she teased, but there was a subtle thread of nervousness beneath her sarcasm.
He met her gaze, steady and unreadable. "Your intentions weren't impure." His voice softened. "You took it without asking. That part I... struggle with. I'm not used to people touching what's mine."
A flicker of guilt crossed her face. Her smile faded, replaced by something more vulnerable an ache she hadn't expected to feel.
"Still. I touched something I shouldn't have." Her voice dipped as she turned her face away, trying to mask the sting in her eyes. "It's not like I even have the right to touch anything that belongs to you..."
She turned her body slightly, curling in on herself just a bit, like someone who knew they'd crossed a line.
There was a pause.
Then his voice came, firm but quiet.
"Ivikaa. Idhar dekho."
[Look at me.]
His hand reached out gently, two fingers brushing under her chin, turning her face back toward him. His touch was soft, reverent.
"I've been alone most of my life. Alone and very... clear about what's mine, what's safe, what stays untouched." He swallowed, gaze resting deeply on hers. "The idea of someone taking my flute it made me... spiral. But here."
He reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
A worn, passport-sized photograph. His own.
Ivikaa's breath caught.
He held it between his fingers and offered it to her.
"Aapko meri photo chahiye thi na?" he said quietly, a small tug at the corner of his lips.
["You wanted my picture right?"]
She blinked, stunned, then let out a nervous, sheepish laugh. Her heart was in her throat as she took the photo like it was made of glass.
She immediately curled into his side again, hiding her embarrassment and her wonder all at once.
"How did you even know...?" she mumbled, her words muffled in the crook of his neck.
Adwait smirked, and this time, there was a glow in his expression. "Ivikaa ko kya chahiye... yeh Adwait ko pata nahi hoga toh kisko hoga?"
["If Adwait doesn't know what Ivikaa wants... then who will?"]
And just like that, words deserted her.
She stared at him, eyes wide with something tender. Something unspoken.
Then he gently pulled the flute from behind her and offered it to her again.
"You wanted to touch what's mine? Now learn how to play it."
Her jaw fell open slightly. The same man who blew up an entire wing of the palace when his father dared to take his flute... was now placing it in her hands.
She touched it reverently, running her fingers over the beautifully carved words: Veer ki Vani.
"I can teach you." He said it so simply, but Ivikaa could feel the weight of it. Trust. Memory. Pain. Offering. All in one.
Blowing up palaces and now blowing flutes your range, Mr. Agnivanshi, is truly explosive.
He guided her fingers, adjusting her hold. She struggled with the rhythm, the breath, the technique. But he was patient. And that made all the difference.
Somewhere between broken notes and stolen glances, she found herself smiling.
How it started... and how it ended.
And they say romance is dead. Try gifting your war weapon to a girl.
So much for privacy-turns out all she needed was guilt, a staircase, and a hug to hack the Adwait system.
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