Chapter 34 Faces in the Fog
Iva had always known how to make headlines - this time, she did it with grace and strategy. At the Agnivanshi dinner table, just as the meal was served, she dropped her bombshell.
"I'm donating a significant amount to the Agnivanshi Foundation," she said with a soft smile, her tone as casual as if she were complimenting the chef.
Rudra almost dropped his glass.
The room froze - just for a second - before it resumed its natural rhythm.
But the sharpest eye in the room didn't miss the flicker of panic in Rudra's usually impassive gaze.
His mind screamed for answers: Why was she being so.
.. cordial? After what had happened, this wasn't the reaction he expected. Not even remotely.
She hadn't seen him since the day she was kidnapped.
And yet, there she was-poised, composed-leaning in to whisper words meant for him alone, "Thank you, Rudra. For saving me. I didn't want to worry Papa, so I lied about what really happened. But I always knew you would help Maya. You did... didn't you?"
That last line was gentle but razor-sharp - a test in silk wrapping.
Rudra looked at Maya. She remained quiet. Stoic.
Then her phone buzzed. She casually pulled it out and typed something, not bothering to look up.
A second later, Rudra's own phone pinged under the table. He glanced at the message:
He exhaled slowly. Relief replaced panic. So... she didn't know.
Yet.
He leaned back in his chair and played the role he was best at - charming liar. "Of course," he replied smoothly. "Anything for Iva."
The dinner resumed with mild chatter - surface-level conversations, polite laughter.
Then, as if rehearsed, Adwait walked in and quietly took his seat, nodding at the others. He didn't say much, only ate silently.
Viren Ambani cleared his throat and raised his glass.
"I'd like to formally invite everyone to a gathering next week - our new home is nearly ready. There's something important I'd like to announce. Your presence is required."
The room nodded in agreement.
Maya excused herself to take a call. Her face said more than her words ever could - pale, tight, and angry. Iva noticed immediately and got up as well.
Minutes later, she found Maya pacing in her room, phone in hand, voice sharp and rattled.
"I told you to monitor them! How could this happen? We're flying in tonight. No, not tomorrow. Tonight."
She hung up and almost jumped when she saw Iva at the door.
"What happened?" Iva asked, already guessing the answer.
"London branch. One of our models was caught with drugs. It's a PR nightmare waiting to happen."
Iva didn't flinch. Her brain went into planning mode. "Alright. We're flying out tonight. I'll inform Papa."
Maya nodded, still fuming. "Also... can we crash at your friend Ashton's place? Just until we sort this out."
"Ashton? Yeah, of course." Iva gave a half-smile, thinking of her old friend - wild, loyal, and definitely unpredictable.
She turned toward the door.
"Let me go tell Papa. Pack for four days. And don't forget the damage control kit," she added, already walking out.
Maya blinked. "What's in the damage control kit again?"
"Crisis-proof lipstick, blackout sunglasses... and legal immunity," Iva called over her shoulder, smirking.
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The Agnivanshii estate had quieted down after dinner.
The staff were clearing the tables, the chandeliers hummed with soft light, and the air carried the faint scent of jasmine and burnt sugar.
Iva walked slowly through the hallway, her heels echoing on the marble.
She paused outside Adwait's room, inhaled once, then knocked.
The door opened instantly - as if he'd been expecting her.
Adwait stood in a white t-shirt and black cotton pants, barefoot, his hair slightly damp from a recent shower. His eyes scanned her face quickly, quietly.
"London?" he said, before she could.
She blinked. "How did you-?"
"You're not exactly subtle when your storm is about to hit. You look like you're carrying twelve files in your brain."
Iva smiled tiredly and stepped in.
"I'm leaving tonight. There's an issue at our London branch. One of the models got caught with drugs - it's bad press, and I have to be there for damage control."
He didn't say anything at first. Just closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, watching her.
Adwait straightened and walked toward her. "You haven't rested since the renovations started. You barely sleep, you barely eat. And now, an international scandal? Just say you want to escape."
"I don't escape, Adwait. I conquer," she replied.
"Right," he said dryly. "Like you conquered the idea of telling me about your nightmares."
Her eyes lowered.
He sighed, softened. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Because if I fall apart, the rest will too. And because... I knew you'd show up anyway."
He didn't respond - but there was something in his eyes. A flash of that fierce protectiveness she could never unsee once noticed.
She walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down.
"I just came to tell you... I'll be gone for a few days. Don't disappear while I'm away."
He turned toward her and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.
"You'll call me when you land?"
"Maybe."
He narrowed his eyes.
"I said maybe. Depends on how dramatic the jet lag is."
"You never change," he muttered.
She smiled faintly. "You like that."
He didn't deny it.
Then she leaned forward, placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and stood up. "Don't miss me too much."
As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her. "Ivikaa?"
She turned back.
"If you fall... even a little... fall towards me. Not away from me."
She didn't reply. Just nodded once - a subtle promise wrapped in silence.
Just as Iva turned toward the door, her hand on the handle, Adwait pulled her back-swiftly, wordlessly into a tight embrace.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't planned. It was instinct.
His arms wrapped around her like a shield against the world, and for a moment, she forgot London, the scandal, the exhaustion clinging to her bones. She felt her chest rise and fall against his, his heartbeat steady and grounding, as if it had been waiting just to remind her she was not alone.
She didn't pull away.
Not this time.
Her face pressed against the crook of his neck, and his palm gently cupped the back of her head like she was something fragile he refused to let shatter.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
In that silent moment, emotions ran louder than words-fear, care, unresolved pain, quiet longing, the unspoken things that always lingered between them like unfinished verses.
Then slowly, Adwait slipped something into her palm - small, soft, familiar.
She looked down. A single mogra flower.
White. Fragrant. The same flower he'd given her once on a day she'd broken down in silence.
He didn't explain. He never did.
She looked up at him, and his gaze held hers - calm, sure, but laced with something deeper.
A softness that only she got to see.
"Take care of yourself," he said, finally.
"You too," she whispered, and gently closed her fingers around the flower.
Then she walked out the door, leaving behind the scent of mogra, the warmth of an embrace, and a silence that lingered far longer than her footsteps.
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Rain painted the city in glistening silver as Iva stepped out of the black Bentley waiting at Heathrow. The air was thick with the scent of cold and cobblestone, and yet, it carried a strange comfort-like a city that had seen her cry, rise, and rebuild.
She spotted him immediately.
Ashton Beaufort, standing at the edge of the airport's private exit, in his usual long trench coat, with a scarf looped carelessly around his neck. Hair slightly windswept, eyes sharp as ever.
"Princess Ambani herself, gracing the miserable London skyline. What happened, did your palace run out of drama?" Ashton grinned.
Iva rolled her eyes and walked straight into his open arms.
"I missed you too," she mumbled against his shoulder.
"Of course you did. I'm fabulous." He stepped back, looked her over, then glanced at Maya. "And you brought backup. Oh good, I needed someone to argue over interior colors."
Maya smiled, only barely. She looked exhausted.
"We have a situation," Iva said, already switching into business mode. "One of our models got arrested. Cocaine possession. It's all over local tabloids."
"Ah, London. Ever consistent in being a disaster wrapped in tweed," Ashton said, pulling out his phone. "I'll have my legal team speak to the press and handle bail."
"Also, we're crashing at your place," Iva added.
Ashton looked mock-horrified. "What? You didn't bring a hotel entourage, a therapist, and a Himalayan salt lamp this time?"
"Just trauma and two suitcases," she deadpanned.
"I'm honored."
As they walked toward the car, Maya answered a call and dropped behind, her voice sharp in damage-control mode.
Ashton opened the door for Iva, his tone softening as she slid in.
"You look... different."
"How?"
"Like someone who's been trying not to fall apart every ten minutes."
She didn't respond, only stared out the window as London blurred by.
Ashton didn't push.
But he did say, gently, "Whatever it is, we'll fix it. And if not-at least we'll look fabulous failing."
Iva almost smiled.
Almost.
But her fingers brushed the mogra flower still tucked inside her coat pocket, and her thoughts drifted back across continents-to a boy with a flute, and a silence that had always felt like home.
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The balcony doors were open, letting in the cool London breeze. Iva stood leaning on the railing, city lights twinkling below like restless fireflies. In her hand was a small, slightly crumpled passport-size photo of Adwait. She smiled faintly, her thumb brushing over his gray eyes in the picture.
Just then, Ashton walked in, casually balancing a half-full bottle and two glasses.
"I figured we could toast to criminal models, jet lag, and memories we pretend to forget," he said with that familiar lopsided grin.
Iva smirked, not turning. "You always had the worst timing."
"And the best taste in alcohol," he replied smoothly, pouring out two drinks. "Come. Let's sit in my crime scene in the memory lane."
They settled on the old Persian carpet in his living room-faded, cozy, worn from years of careless laughter and confessions. Around them were stacks of travel books, scattered souvenirs, and dust-kissed vinyl records. A soft jazz hum floated in the background.
Ashton finally caught her staring again.
"What are you looking at?" he asked, motioning toward the photo in her hand.
Without hesitation, Iva handed it to him. "Someone I gave my heart to," she said softly, almost to herself.
Ashton's fingers froze mid-motion. He blinked and looked at the photo again. His brows furrowed, confusion overtaking his face.
"Ivaan?" he whispered aloud.
"Ivaan? Who?" Iva looked at him, puzzled. "He's Adwait. Adwait Agnivanshi."
Ashton slowly looked up, shaking his head.
"No. No, that's not Adwait... That was Ivaan Pearl.
Don't you remember? Last year of uni-when you were studying in Paris, you came to London just for that party, the club in Soho.
You were ridiculously drunk, crashed into some guy and threw up all over him.
He cleaned you up, took you to the washroom. "
Iva's eyes widened. "Wait, what? How do you know he took me to the washroom?"
"Because I was there," Ashton said, standing. "You blacked out halfway through. We were all panicking until that guy-tall, sharp features, black jacket-handled everything. He was working at the bar, I think, or maybe he just knew the owner. But he took care of you like he knew you."
Iva went still. The memory... was vague. A fogged-over piece of glass she had never dared to clean.
"I met Adwait for the first time at Agnivanshi Palace. I threw up there too, and he took me to the washroom. But you're saying that also happened years ago... here?"
"Iva," Ashton said quietly, disappearing into his room. He returned with a dusty shoebox and set it between them. "Let me show you."
He pulled out a stack of old photos-college parties, holidays, birthday chaos-and then paused, flipping through a specific set.
"There." He handed one to her.
Iva saw herself in a little black dress, laughing too hard, glass in hand, dangerously close to collapsing. The next photo showed her being held steady by a tall boy-face half-turned but unmistakably... familiar.
He flipped again-this time the image was crystal clear.
The gray eyes.
The faint birthmark on the right side of his forehead.
The same curve of his jaw, the exact watch on his wrist.
She gasped softly. "That's Adwait. It has to be."
"Nope. That night, his name was Ivaan Pearl. Fake ID, fake name, maybe even a fake backstory-but he was real enough to catch you when no one else did."
She stared at the photo in silence. Then whispered again, "He's Adwait."
"Maybe now. But back then?" Ashton shrugged. "He was just a mystery behind a bar with a soft spot for drunk girls with sharp eyeliner and worse decisions."
Iva's hands trembled as she held the photo.
"Try to remember, Iva."
And suddenly-she did.
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The lights were spinning, or maybe her head was. The music was pulsing through her bloodstream. She remembered the short black dress. The laughing. The drink that didn't taste quite right.
Someone called her name, but she turned and crashed into a stranger's chest. Her glass shattered. Her balance disappeared.
He caught her.
He made her sit. Gently. Carefully.
She leaned into him-his jacket smelled of musk and rain-and vomited right there on his shirt.
There were panicked voices, her friends rushing, but he waved them off. Picked her up. Took her to the washroom.
His touch was warm. Not invasive.
She remembered staring into his gray eyes in the mirror as he helped clean her up.
She remembered asking, "What's your name?"
He didn't answer. Just handed her a tissue. She took out a lipstick from her purse and
She scribbled "IVA" shakily and said "I am Iva."
He took the tissue, added a single letter.
"N."
IVA...N.
She had smiled at that. He had taken off his jacket and wrapped her in it. As she slumped on the sofa again, she stuffed the tissue in the jacket pocket.
Her friends came soon after. Took her home.
She never saw him again.
Not until... Adwait.
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Back in the London apartment, Iva clutched the photo in stunned silence.
"He didn't want me to remember," she whispered. "He never told me."
Ashton poured himself another drink.
"Well, if he's Ivaan or Adwait or Shiva reincarnated, he clearly didn't want credit. But damn, that night... he saved your life."
Iva ran her hand through her hair, still clutching the mogra flower.
Now it all made sense.
Why Adwait always felt like home.
Why silence never felt empty with him.
Iva stared at the photograph in her hands-his face, unmistakable even in grainy lighting, those gray eyes burning through time like ghosts she never knew were haunting her.
Her fingers trembled.
Adwait Agnivanshi.
Or was it Ivaan Pearl?
Her breath caught. Her mind raced.
Who was he really?
Why had he never told her about this? About London, about that night, about the name Ivaan?
And what was he even doing in London back then? He was a school dropout, a 10th fail. No prestigious college, no Ivy League dreams, no silver spoon story. And yet here he was-working in a bar in Soho with a fake ID, helping a drugged stranger, then vanishing like he never existed?
Was anything he said real?
Her fingers clenched around the photo.
Did I fall in love with a lie? With a version of someone who never really existed?
Every warm memory suddenly became tinted with doubt. Every quiet moment with him now echoed with unanswered questions.
Why did he fake his name?
Why hide everything?
Why pretend like they were strangers when he had already seen her at her worst?
And most terrifying of all-
Was Adwait even his real name?
The weight of it all sat heavy in her chest. Her heart, which had once run wild at the sound of his voice, now hesitated with every beat.
She stood at the edge of something dark and unsure-not just about him, but about herself.
Because if he was a lie...
What did that make her love?
Ashton watched her quietly, sensing the storm behind her silence, but he didn't say anything. He just poured another glass and left it on the carpet.
Iva didn't move.
She just kept staring at the photo.
And for the first time in a long time...
She wasn't sure who she was really looking at.
Iva finally tore her eyes away from the photograph, her breath uneven, her thoughts louder than the city sirens outside.
She looked at Ashton, who was now sitting cross-legged on the carpet, quietly sipping his drink, watching her with the kind of concerned curiosity only old friends can afford.
"I need your help," she said, her voice low but urgent.
Ashton raised an eyebrow. "With what? Piecing together your broken heart or unraveling the mystery of London's most elegant stranger?"
"I need to know more about... Ivaan," she said, holding up the photo again. "If that's who he really was. If he was here-working in that bar-then someone must remember him."
Ashton set his glass down and leaned forward, instantly serious. "You're not wrong. The guy in the picture-he used to work at Seraphim. That's the bar we used to sneak into."
He paused, thoughtful. "Kai still owns the place. He was the manager back then. Tough guy, good memory. If anyone knows the real story behind Ivaan Pearl, it's him."
Iva nodded, eyes still glued to the image like it would start answering questions on its own.
"I need to know why he was here," she whispered. "Why did he have a fake name? What he was hiding. I don't even know who I'm in love with anymore."
Ashton placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Iva," he said, "I'll help you. Whatever this is-whoever he is-we'll find the truth. Tomorrow, we'll go to Seraphim. Talk to Kai. Ask around. Dig where it hurts."
She nodded silently.
Because tonight, she wasn't the fierce, untouchable Ivikaa Viren Ambani the world saw.
She was just a girl staring at a photo...
Trying to remember when the truth got rewritten as love.
Iva leaned back against the cold balcony railing, still gripping the photo like it might confess something.
First Veer Agnivanshi.
Then Adwait Agnivanshi/Rajput.
Now Ivaan Pearl?
She didn't know whether to cry, scream, or start a private investigation firm of her own.
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