Chapter 33 Silk Curtains, Steel Resolve
The room was dark. Moonlight filtered in through sheer curtains, dancing on the newly polished floor. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock cried out - strange for the city, but her home had always held echoes of the wild.
Iva tossed in her sleep, her breath growing uneven. Her fingers clenched the bedsheet, pulling it taut.
And then, the memories returned.
The cold bite of duct tape pressed against her skin. The metallic scent of blood-hers-mixing with dust and mildew. Her wrists raw from the restraints. The chair she was tied to creaked every time she moved, mocking her.
They never spoke to her. Not with words.
They drowned her in silence, and water.
Day after day, they submerged her-forcing her under until her lungs screamed and her body thrashed. Each time she surfaced, gasping, they laughed. Not loud, not maniacal just soft, casual, like it was routine.
Then came the electric shocks. Small at first. Controlled. But they escalated. Her body convulsed against the straps, her mind fragmenting with each jolt. Her screams went unanswered. She was a ghost already.
No food. No water. Just drugs.
They laced her veins with something bitter. Numbing. Time blurred. Day and night collapsed into each other.
And then the worst.
Hands that hovered too long. That pressed her shoulders down. The way they looked at her like she wasn't a person anymore just a broken thing.
But they never got that far.
Because Ivikaa Ambani, even sedated and starved, had venom in her blood. The moment one of them slipped up-loosened a strap, turned his back-she had bit his ear clean off. The scar on his cheek? Her doing.
He never touched her again.
The others grew cautious.
She wasn't prey. She was a rabid animal they couldn't tame.
She woke up with a sharp gasp, her breath catching mid scream. The silk sheets clung to her damp skin. Her pulse raced. Her body shook.
But her eyes were clear.
She sat up, holding her knees to her chest, letting the memory pass through her like a wave.
She grabbed her phone with trembling hands and dialed Adwait's number.
One ring. Two.
Then she cut the call.
Without thinking, she rushed out of her room, her bare feet thudding softly against the marble floor. When she reached his door, she raised her hand to knock but before her knuckles touched the wood, the door opened.
Adwait stood there, surprised. His hair was tousled, his cream shirt slightly wrinkled, paired with casual brown pants. But all that faded when he saw her face.
Without a word, he pulled her into his arms.
"Ivikaa... kya hua?" His voice was low, steady-but the tension in it betrayed his worry.
[What happened?]
"I... I can't sleep," she admitted, her voice cracking. Her eyes were wild with fear, but when she shut them, the memories came rushing back.
He didn't ask questions. He simply led her inside, guided her to the bed, and tucked her in like she was made of glass and he'd seen her shatter before.
"I'm here," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair off her face. "You're not alone. Nothing will happen to you."
She buried her face in the pillow.
"They're not letting me sleep, Adwait," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The nightmares... they're back again."
He stood up and walked to the wardrobe, quietly pulling out the one thing that had always calmed her-the flute.
He sat back down, placing her head gently on his lap.
And then he played.
Soft. Soulful. Like moonlight in sound.
Each note wove through the darkness in her mind, silencing the screams, softening the memories. Her fingers clutched the comforter, but her breathing began to slow.
The music wrapped around her like a shield.
She still didn't trust herself-her thoughts, her reactions, her strength.
But this?
This moment?
This person?
She trusted him with all the broken pieces.
And slowly... she slept.
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Iva stood in the center of the grand hall, tablet in hand, eyes sharp, lips pressed together in quiet command.
The house was a whirlwind of movement-five interior teams, each assigned to different sections, moved like clockwork around her.
Maya, true to her promise, had brought in the best: antique specialists, marble workers, textile curators, and even a lighting consultant from Paris.
Maya breezed in with updates and sketches. "Living room paneling's almost done. Should we go with the emerald velvet or stick to the muted peacock silk for the drapes?"
"Peacock silk," Iva said without looking up. "Emerald is too loud for morning light."
She turned and made her way upstairs, where an architect was showing her a structural change on the second floor. Her boots clicked against the marble, echoing like a countdown.
She paused outside a room that once belonged to Ridhima and Suraj. Without a flicker of emotion, she surveyed the now-stripped space. "Tear it down. This entire section will be the gym. Full mirrored wall on one side, and I want a meditation alcove at the back."
The workers nodded, already sketching out dimensions.
Adwait's childhood room was no more. It had been stripped, expanded, and now opened into what would soon become Iva's private sanctuary. She had merged two rooms-his and the adjacent guestroom-into one grand suite.
"I want hand-carved wall panels imported from Jaipur here," she pointed, "and the skylight above the bed stays. Natural light only. No chandeliers."
"And this one?" Maya asked, stepping into the room next door where demolition had just ended.
"My walk-in," Iva said, stepping through the dust like it didn't touch her.
"Floor-to-ceiling wardrobes, glass-fronted for bags and shoes, and a separate island for jewelry.
The marble should be black with gold veins.
The bathroom will attach through here-freestanding tub, heated flooring, rainfall shower.
Everything matte black and brass. Parisian with a Ambani soul. "
Downstairs, she walked into the study where Virya was flipping through fabric samples.
"Virya," she said, arms crossed, "are you sharing your room with Ritika or planning to keep your bachelor pad vibe?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, sharing. Obviously. She has opinions."
"Then ditch the neon light bar and choose a calmer palette," she said, tossing him a sample book. "Talk to the textile team about the drapes. You want them blackout or sheer layering?"
Virya grinned. "Since when did you become HGTV?"
"Since I became CEO and landlord. Choose wisely. Your fiancée will thank you."
She moved next to Vayu's section. "Your room's next. Any specific requests?"
"Just soundproof it. For my music," he winked.
"Noted. And Papa's room-no change in layout. But change his bed. Back issues. Keep the temple intact. It's non-negotiable."
The entire house buzzed like a hive around her. She wasn't just redesigning walls and furniture-she was rewriting the space where power lived. This was no longer just the Rajput House.
Iva stood beneath the towering ceiling of the main hall, flipping through chandelier designs on her tablet-Art Deco, French crystal, modernist minimalism. None seemed right. She wanted something that made people look up and remember.
Just then, she sensed someone walking toward her.
Martin.
He moved through the marble hallway with his usual composed grace, holding a small black velvet box. No words, just a half-smile as he handed it to her.
On the top, her name was written in delicate Hindi script-?????.
detail only one person would bother with.
She flipped open the lid. Inside lay a single, real mogra flower-fresh, fragrant, delicate. Next to it was a small silver container, cool to the touch.
She opened it.
Kheer. Her kheer. Homemade, by the smell of it. Saffron-rich, topped with slivered almonds and rose petals. She blinked. It hit her then-how long it had been. She hadn't spoken to him in days. Family, business, renovations-she barely had time to remember to eat, let alone think of him.
Her smile came and went in an instant.
She shut the box and looked up at Martin, her smirk returning like armor.
"Tell him to come in person," she said, tilting her head. "I don't talk to messengers."
Martin gave her a look, unimpressed.
"I'll let him know he needs to come in person with a six-piece orchestra, childhood regret, and possibly a bullet wound. You know, just to match your standards."
After delivering his trademark sarcasm, Martin gave her one last pointed look, then turned on his heel and left, taking the flower and the kheer with him, along with the weight of words unspoken.
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By evening, Iva was still neck deep in work. She had her earpiece in, instructing one of the interior teams about lighting for the east corridor. Her tablet was in one hand, her heels clicking softly against the marble as she descended the grand staircase.
Mid-sentence, distracted, she missed a step.
Her breath hitched-gravity pulling at her-when suddenly, firm hands caught her waist in one swift, practiced motion.
She froze for a second, eyes shut tight in that instinctive panic. But the moment she felt the warmth of the touch, the way his fingers steadied her like a memory-she smiled.
Adwait.
Of course. He would come.
She had sent his messengers back. First Jatin. Then Martin.
But Adwait Agnivanshi never needed an invitation. Only a reason.
And she was always reason enough.
She slipped out of his arms and walked to the back garden-the only part of the house still untouched. A decision pending. A name not yet chosen.
Adwait followed quietly, his footsteps a few beats behind hers. Iva sat down on the grass without a word, dropping her tablet beside her and barking orders through her earpiece like the world couldn't move without her say-so.
He disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he had a small bag in his hand. He sat down beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She cut the call, finally noticing him.
"Why did you call me?" he asked, opening the container in front of her.
"Because this is the only way I could make you come," she said with a tired smile, leaning her head against his shoulder like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.
"Matlab?"
[Means?]
"Matlab yeh ki... khana," she sighed. "It's the one thing that always works. One bowl of kheer and you show up. It's practically our love language."
[Means... this food]
"Yeah," he smirked. "Otherwise we've got nothing in common."
Without another word, he lifted a spoonful of kheer and fed it to her. She closed her eyes, eating slowly, like she finally had space to breathe. He didn't say a word, just kept feeding her silently. Then, with a gentle hand, he reached up and pulled the clutcher from her hair.
She didn't protest.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"I had to go out of town," he said, simply. He didn't offer more.
His eyes scanned the space around them. "You've given this place a whole new identity. Looks like the garden's the last frontier."
"Hectic doesn't even begin to cover it," she muttered. "Still haven't decided on the name for the house."
Suddenly, something lit up in her eyes. She sat upright and looked straight at him.
"Wait you always name things with such layered meaning. Help me out. What should I call it?"
He looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you want it to reflect your family?"
"Mostly for Dadi, Leelaben Ambani. Almost everything in the family is named after her. And Papa's moving here for the first time permanently, so it should feel like home to him too."
"Like the LM Ambani School and LM Ambani Hospitals?" he asked.
"Exactly."
He held her gaze for a long second, then said softly, "How about Leela Rêve?"
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
Adwait looked at her with that quiet gravity only he had-the kind that made everything sound like prophecy.
"Leela-for your grandmother. Her name.
Her legacy. Her roots. But also-Leela in the divine sense.
Krishna's Leela-the cosmic play, the beautiful chaos, the story unfolding with purpose even when it looks unpredictable.
Rêve-French, for dream," he said.
"So Leela Rêve becomes... a dream born out of legacy, divine play, and maybe a little madness.
" Because this house isn't just concrete and chandeliers.
It's your dream. Your second chance. A reclaiming. "
Iva blinked, letting the weight of it settle.
"Leela Rêve," she whispered, tasting it slowly. "A dream born from legacy."
Adwait gave a small nod, plucking a blade of grass between his fingers. "And because only you could pull off something as poetic as naming a Rajput fortress in half-Gujarati, half-French."
She smirked. "Of course. I'm a multilingual mess with excellent taste."
"And delusions of grandeur," he added dryly.
She laughed, soft but real this time. "So it's final. Leela Rêve."
"Written in stone. Or at least on a very expensive brass nameplate," he said, leaning back.
He slowly pulled out a delicate flower from the small bag and gently handed it to her.
Iva's lips curled into a soft smile as she tucked it into her hair, the bloom resting perfectly against the dark strands.
For a moment, everything else faded-the chaos, the stress, the weight of the world-leaving only that quiet, tender connection between them.
The sun dipped lower behind them, casting gold over the half-finished garden and the two of them-builders of broken things, and now, dreamers of houses with names like Leela Rêve.
Meanwhile, on the other side, Maya was showing Viren Ambani his newly renovated room. She carefully noted the minor changes he requested. As she was about to leave, Viren suddenly spoke, his voice low but sharp.
"So, where were you when Iva went missing?" he asked, sitting down heavily in the chair, eyes fixed on her.
"She went to a café," Maya replied, avoiding his gaze.
"She didn't," Viren interrupted, his voice rising with controlled anger. "Did you forget who I am? Who I was? Just by looking at her, I knew exactly where she went-and what happened to her."
Maya swallowed hard. "Sorry, sir. It was a miscalculation."
"Miscalculation?" Viren's glare cut through her like a blade.
"It could have cost her life, Maya. I made you her PA for a reason-and it seems you're more of her PA than the protector you were supposed to be.
Have you forgotten that I'm a minister? I was the Defence Minister when she was kidnapped by the Russian Mafia.
I wanted you by her side to keep her safe. Have you forgotten your real job?"
Maya bowed her head slightly. "I know, sir. I was hired to protect her. To be her bodyguard, her shield from every harm. To make her life easier and safer."
Viren stood up, his expression softening slightly. "Maya, meri beti mujhe jaan se bhi zyada pyari hai. Agli baar meri beti ko bhi kuch ho gaya, toh..." His voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken threat. Then he turned and left.
After his conversation with Maya, Viren walked into the hall and saw Iva surrounded by swatches, plans, and a tired kind of determination that had etched itself permanently into her expression.
"Hello, princess," he said gently.
"Papa," Iva said, her face softening as she immediately stood and hugged him.
He looked around, eyes scanning the nearly completed interiors with a quiet pride. "The home will be ready very soon," he said, admiring the blend of heritage and modern elegance. "But I'll miss Devaki and Raghav."
Iva pulled back slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit. "Papa... with the recent collapse in the Agnivanshi holdings, even Devaki aunty and Raghav uncle got dragged into it."
"I know," he said, his tone laced with genuine concern. "And I feel bad for them. I never wanted them to suffer. Especially Devaki. The things she's done for me-the help, the support-" He trailed off, his eyes distant. There was something unspoken in his voice, a sentiment not fully said.
For a moment, Iva caught it.
His face was smiling-but his eyes weren't. A flicker of something deeper passed through his features, so fleeting that anyone else would've missed it. But she didn't.
Devaki Agnivanshi and Raghav uncle-how could she forget? They weren't enemies. They had been nothing but kind, warm, and open-hearted. It was Devaki who insisted Iva stay at the Agnivanshi palace once. It was Devaki her father had trusted-deeply.
Was he hinting at something?
Did he somehow know?
Iva kept her expression neutral, but her mind had already shifted into overdrive.
If I ruin the Agnivanshis... they'll fall with them. Devaki aunty. Raghav uncle. People who never wronged me. People papa respects.
Was that what he was trying to tell her?
But how could he know?
No. He doesn't know. Not yet. Not everything.
Still, the weight of the moment sank in. This isn't a game of vengeance anymore. It's a war with casualties-and I can't let good ones fall just because they're tied by blood.
"I won't act on impulse," she told herself. "I'll move with precision."
Her fingers curled slightly as she looked back at her father, smiling as if nothing had changed-when everything had.
They say you can't build a home and burn bridges at the same time. Clearly, they haven't met me.
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