Chapter 36 The Price of His Lies
Iva had returned to her Parisian form: cold-blooded precision, clockwork poise, and immaculate control. Not a hair out of place. Not a decision delayed. She moved through corridors like thunder in stilettos-sharp, inevitable, impossible to ignore. Her presence didn't enter rooms, it conquered them.
Back at Ambani Tower, her glass cabin became a shrine of silence.
The air was always cool, the blinds always drawn, the lights white and clinical.
Even the glass walls were wiped three times a day.
Dust wasn't tolerated. Nor was emotion. She said little, listened even less.
Her voice, when it came, was curt, dry, measured like a blade's edge.
Her employees began recognizing her by the echo of her heels-and bracing for what followed.
Only Maya was allowed inside.
Vayu and Virya saw her strictly in brief business huddles. No hugs, no banter, no lingering eyes of shared grief. She signed documents like they were wartime treaties. She was the CEO now. And if grief had to be felt, it could wait.
The only thing she couldn't escape was the time.
It didn't matter if it was 5 AM or 5 PM, if she woke to a bad dream or a momentary whisper of his name in her thoughts-she'd open her laptop and dive back into work.
The moment he tried to crawl into her head, she silenced him with schedules, spreadsheets, and endless fabric samples.
Adwait. Ivaan. Whoever the hell he was. Her hands kept moving just so her heart wouldn't.
One afternoon, she was going over expansion plans for Iva House of Fashion when her lunch tray arrived.
The scent stopped her mid-keystroke.
Cumin. Coriander. A faint hint of ghee. Indian.
Her nostrils flared.
She pressed the bell. "Maya."
A moment later, Maya entered, eyebrows raised in cautious curiosity.
"I asked for a salad," Iva said icily, not even turning her head.
"They said you didn't eat breakfast-so I thought something warm-"
"I don't want anything Indian," she snapped, her voice slicing the room in half. "Throw it out."
There it was again-that sour taste in her throat. Rage, grief, memory... tangled like wires in a live current.
The rain began to pour outside. A soft, silvery downpour.
Iva stood abruptly and yanked the blinds shut in one smooth, furious motion.
Of course. Rain. That was their thing, wasn't it?
"Yeh Gussa Adwait ke Ivaan hone ka hai yaa fir..." Maya said gently from behind her, "Adwait se naa milne ka hai?"
["Is this anger because Adwait is Ivaan..." Maya said gently from behind her, "Or because... you didn't get to meet Adwait?"]
The words barely left her lips before a glass paperweight flew past, crashing into the photo frame on the far wall. Glass shattered. Silence echoed.
"Don't you dare speak in Hindi," Iva said, voice trembling now, not with weakness but venom. "I hate it."
And she stormed into the washroom.
Water splashed against her face in sharp slaps, but it couldn't cool the wildfire inside her. Her reflection stared back, unblinking. Mascara smudged slightly beneath one eye. She wiped it off. Weakness wasn't fashionable.
She skipped dinner again that night. Claimed back-to-back meetings, claimed exhaustion, claimed she was too busy to eat.
Truth was-hunger reminded her she was human. She didn't want that. Not anymore.
Let Adwait choke on his secrets.
She'd feast on power instead.
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The sun was slipping low behind the Mumbai skyline, casting a warm glow over the manicured tracks of Royal Crest Racecourse. Horses galloped in the distance, their hooves pounding like war drums, but Rudra barely glanced at them. His eyes were on Iva.
She stood by the glass railing of the VIP deck-effortlessly regal, dressed in a cream pantsuit, sunglasses perched in her sleek bun, one hand resting on the railing, the other wrapped around a flute of champagne. She looked like the kind of woman who didn't watch races-she owned them.
"I always thought horse racing was just men flaunting testosterone and bad investments," she said, without looking at him.
Rudra chuckled. "That's a bit harsh."
She turned to him, her smile disarming. "Maybe. But sometimes, even men with bad investments make the right alliances."
He leaned closer. "And what would you know about that, Iva?"
"More than you think." Her voice was soft, almost intimate. "You have prestige, Rudra. Heritage. But this place?" She gestured to the grandstands. "It's bleeding money. Sponsorships are dropping. One minor scandal and this place folds like wet silk."
He stiffened. "It's not that bad."
"Oh, of course not. Just... hypothetically speaking," she added, sipping her champagne. "But I'm good at fixing things. Quietly. Without headlines or lawsuits. Think of me as... an invisible co-pilot."
"You want to invest?"
She gave him a smile that made powerful men forget common sense. "Let's not call it that. Let's call it... saving you."
Her tone was velvet, but the steel beneath was unmistakable.
Rudra, ever hungry for validation, gave a casual nod. "Fine. Draft something. We'll work out terms."
The sun glinted off golden saddles and polished bridles as Rudra guided Iva through the sprawling stables of the Royal Crest Racecourse. The scent of hay mixed with leather and a faint trace of expensive cigar smoke still clinging to his blazer.
"These are my champions," he said with pride, brushing a hand over the glossy neck of a dark bay stallion. "That one won the Jaipur Classic. And that beauty there? Three years undefeated. They're my warriors."
Iva moved slowly between them, her eyes soaking in the mix of raw power and elegance. The horses were stunning-muscle and grace perfectly entwined.
Then Rudra's voice lowered. "Just don't go near that one."
He gestured to the last stall at the far end. The horse inside stood tall, almost regal, but there was a wildness in his eyes-like the storm hadn't left him yet.
"He's temperamental. Violent. Doesn't like strangers. Don't bother."
But Iva, ever drawn to what's forbidden, stepped closer. The stallion was breathtaking-pitch black, eyes like molten silver, nostrils flared like he could smell every lie she'd ever told.
She raised her hand slowly to touch him.
In a blink, the horse bared its teeth and slammed against the gate, letting out a sharp, enraged neigh.
She stumbled back, heart hammering.
Rudra smirked. "Told you. He doesn't like to be touched."
"What's his name?" she asked, regaining her breath.
Rudra chuckled darkly. "Doesn't matter. He's like his owner. Psycho."
Her eyes flicked toward him, reading between the lines.
Adwait.
She didn't say a word, but something shifted in her spine. A tilt of the chin. A flicker of memory.
Rudra changed the mood. "Wanna ride my favorite?"
He gestured to a sleek chestnut mare. "She's well-trained. Not wild. You'd look good up there."
Iva raised an eyebrow. "In this outfit?"
Rudra laughed. "Fair enough."
Just then, Maya arrived-practical as always-with a soft riding suit and boots. "I thought you might change your mind," she said with a smile, handing her the bag.
Iva excused herself, changed, and returned minutes later-elegance redefined, even in Mumbai.
Rudra gave a low whistle. "Now you look like you own the track."
"Working on it," she murmured, barely hiding the edge in her voice.
She insisted on riding that horse-the one Rudra had clearly warned her about."I want to ride him," Iva said, cool and stubborn. "If he can be tamed, so can everything else."
Rudra hesitated. "He's not a showpiece, Iva. That horse is Adwait's. No one touches him."
"I'm not no one," she replied sharply.
Reluctantly, Rudra had the stablehand bring the stallion out. Even under the open sky, the horse's energy was suffocating-wild, restless, eyes fierce like they held grudges.
Rudra handed over the reins, exhaling. "If you're doing this, your call. Just remember-he only listens to one man."
Iva approached, tension hidden beneath elegance. The stallion pawed at the earth but let her mount. For a moment, it felt like victory.
But the triumph was short-lived.
She tried a gentle command, nudging forward. The stallion twitched. Refused. Jerked his neck violently, nearly throwing her off.
"He's just like her rider," Rudra muttered under his breath, watching grimly. "Unstable. Dangerous."
Iva's hands stiffened on the reins. That wasn't a comment about the horse.
She looked back at Rudra-but the stallion reared violently.
The next second was a blur. The sky flipped. Her breath caught. The earth rose to meet her.
She hit the ground with a brutal thud, the wind knocked from her lungs, and her wrist bent in a scream of pain.
Rudra rushed toward her. Maya followed, panic written across her face.
But someone else had already stepped out from the shadows-calm, commanding.
Adwait.
He moved toward the stallion, whispered something, touched nothing-and the beast stilled like a punished child.
Iva winced, clutching her arm, eyes narrowed.
"Well," she hissed bitterly, watching Adwait with fire in her gaze, "not just the man... even his horse knows how to make others bleed."
"Iva!" Maya rushed to her.
Rudra ran beside her, checking her hand. Blood seeped from a shallow cut, and the skin was already swelling.
Before she could protest or get up, a sharp whistle cut through the air.
The wild black stallion calmed.
And from the distance, in a tailored dark jacket, calm and brooding as ever-Adwait walked toward them, silent command in every step. Without a word, he approached the horse, clicked his tongue once, and mounted in one fluid motion.
He and the horse became one-thunder and wind wrapped in human flesh.
Iva's eyes locked onto him, awe momentarily flickering behind her pain.
But her jaw tightened.
Her heart didn't flutter-it hardened.
"Well," she said bitterly, loud enough for both men to hear, "not just the owner. Even his horse makes others bleed."
Adwait turned, his face unreadable. His eyes rested on hers-guilt, regret, and some unspoken storm behind them.
But she looked away.
Even the wound stung less than his silence.
She stood up, straightened her shoulders, and walked off-not limping, not flinching.
The horse may have thrown her, but she wasn't the one broken.
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Mumbai never truly sleeps, but at 3 AM, it does something close to dreaming.
The streetlights along Marine Drive glowed dimly, like memories too tired to burn bright. The Arabian Sea stretched ahead-vast, dark, unknowable. A mirror to Adwait's own chest, both rising and falling with silent turmoil, both full of secrets they couldn't wash away.
He sat on the edge of the long, curved stone embankment that kissed the waves-legs pulled up, arms resting over his knees, shoulders slightly hunched. It wasn't exhaustion. It was the stillness of someone barely holding together, refusing to come undone in front of a city that never stops watching.
The breeze whispered across the black water, but it didn't soothe him.
It reminded him.
Every little thing was a reminder now-salt in the air, silence in his chest, the way the waves kept returning no matter how far they'd gone. Just like the pain.
His eyes didn't move. Neither did his breathing.
Until someone sat beside him.
He didn't flinch. He just knew.
Maya Awasthi.
She didn't say his name, nor did he look at her.
She sat quietly for a moment, matching his silence.
Then, gently, "Kaise ho?"
[How are you?]
His voice was so still, it almost got lost in the breeze. "Thik thak."
[Okaish]
It was a lie.
"Par Iva thik nahi hai," Maya said, looking at the sea too, like she might find the answer somewhere in the black horizon.
[But Iva is not.]
Adwait closed his eyes for a beat. Not to rest, just to survive the ache. "Janta hoon."
[I know.]
"Adwait..." Her voice trembled slightly, not with fear but guilt. "I swear, I didn't know about you being Ivaan. When she went to that club with Ashton, I was buried in chaos. Agar thoda bhi andaza hota, I would've told you."
[If i had little bit of idea about you being Ivaan.]
He didn't look at her. Didn't blink either.
"Tumhe nahi pata tha, kyunki maine bataya hi nahi. Aur Ivikaa ko... pata toh chalna hi tha. Aaj nahi toh kal."
["You didn't know, because I never told you. And Ivikaa... she was bound to find out. If not today, then someday."]
"But still... Why do you sound like someone who's been shot?"
That made him blink. Just once.
His voice cracked, but the hurt in it was precise. "Ivikaa ne ek baar bhi... sawaal nahi kiya."
["Ivikaa didn't even ask... not once."]
Just once. One question. One moment of doubt. That's all he had hoped for.
But she had judged him before he could even plead his innocence.
Maya bit her lip. "She did what the world has always done with you. Assumed. She thought you were just another Agnivanshi playing twisted games. Psycho. Dangerous. Just like the rest of us thought once."
He gave a hollow laugh. "Psycho hi hoon naa. Galat kya hai usme?"
["I am a psycho, right? So what's wrong with that?"]
His smile was brittle. A broken crown still pretending to shine.
Maya's tone sharpened. "She's destroying herself too, Adwait.
Not eating. Barely sleeping. Burying herself in work and revenge.
Rudra is her new obsession. She's back to being cold.
Controlled. Mechanical. The old Iva... but more ruthless.
More distant. She doesn't even realize how much blood she's losing in this war she's declared. Like today..."
He interrupted-his voice suddenly low, fragile.
"Uski chot tak nahi dekh paya."
["I couldn't even bring myself to look at her wound."]
Maya looked at him, really looked. "That's not you. That's not her Adwait. The Adwait who can pause the world for her smallest paper cut. You didn't even flinch today."
He exhaled deeply, eyes back on the sea. His voice broke this time.
"Karna pada. Usne kaha... mujhe chhoona bhi mat. Toh socha... agar mere chhune se usse takleef hoti hai... toh main uska dard bhi chhunay ka haq kho chuka hoon. Aur Adwait... apni Ivikaa ko dard mein nahi dekh sakta."
["I had to. She said... don't even touch me. So I thought, if my touch causes her pain, then I've lost the right to touch her pain too. And Adwait... he can't bear to see his Ivikaa in pain."]
A pause.
"Adwait..." Maya whispered, helpless.
"Usko dard mein dekhne ka dard alag hota hai, Maya. Mere paas do raste the: ek dard... aur ek aur bhi zyada dard. Maine kam dard chuna. Bas."
["There's a different kind of pain in watching someone yours in pain, Maya. I had two paths: one was pain... and the other, even more pain. I chose the lesser pain. That's all."]
Her voice was thick with emotion. "She thinks she's escaping you. That she's building walls high enough to keep you out."
"Ziddi hai naa." His lips curled slightly. A weak, affectionate smile.
[She's stubborn.]
"Bilkul tumhari tarah. She's falling apart... and still looking like art. Classic Iva."
[Just like you.]
He finally looked at Maya. His eyes were oceans of longing. "Jaisi bhi hai... meri apni hai."
["However she is... she's mine."]
"Toh usko mana kyun nahi lete?" she asked gently.
["Then why don't you go make it right with her?"]
He looked away, toward the dark water again.
"Manaunga toh maan jaayegi?"
[If I try to convince her... will she even agree?]
Maya studied him, then silently slipped a card key into his palm.
"Leela Rêve. Backdoor."
He turned the card over slowly. The weight of metal and memory.
"You think I need it?" he asked, a whisper of mischief in his voice.
She stood up and looked down at him with a lopsided smile.
"Tum toh raaste bhi tod ke chale jaate ho. Darwaze kis liye hon?"
["You break through paths to move forward - what use do you have for doors?"]
And with that, she walked away.
Leaving him alone-with the sound of the waves, the scent of salt, the heaviness of love, and a key glowing like unfinished business in his hand.
The sea never judged. It only mirrored. And tonight, it mirrored a man still bleeding for a woman who wouldn't let him touch her pain.
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The night was darker than usual at Leela Rêve. Clouds had swallowed the moon whole, and the house stood like an ivory fortress draped in loneliness. The air hung heavy with the perfume of lilies from the garden-her favorite-and the kind of silence that doesn't offer peace, only memory.
Adwait stood outside the perimeter wall of the estate. No cameras, no guards-he had once lived here. He knew every blind spot, every creaking stone, every crack in the marble, and every shadow where secrets once kissed the dark.
He didn't enter like a man. He returned like a memory.
Silent. Uninvited. Unforgotten.
He scaled the wall with familiar hands, found his footing on the rear ledge, and made his way through the garden where lavender and regret grew wild. He stopped beneath the balcony-his old balcony-and looked up.
She was there. In his room. Of course she was.
No one else could ever occupy that room after him.
He climbed with the same care he once used to reach her heart-effortless, precise, patient. The cold breeze kissed his skin like a warning, but he didn't flinch. With his card key, he slipped in through the glass door of the balcony.
The room smelled like her.
Peonies, vanilla, and late nights.
His heart stopped for a moment. There she was. Fast asleep. Her body curled slightly, the laptop still resting on her lap, screen dimmed, her breathing faint but steady-like a lullaby struggling to hold itself together.
His legs refused to move.
His eyes memorized her all over again.
She looked like a storm pretending to be calm. Eyes puffy from crying, fingers clenched even in sleep, and a bandage half-done on her hand. She hadn't treated it. He knew why.
"Because she's punishing herself... for trusting me." He swallowed the thought like poison.
Slowly, like a shadow learning how to be human again, he walked closer. Gently lifted the laptop from her lap, powered it down, and placed it on the table beside the bed. His hand hovered above hers, wanting to brush away the stray strand of hair across her cheek, but he didn't.
He couldn't.
Instead, he crouched beside her and examined the wound. It was swollen. The cut had deepened, the bandage already loose. He opened the small drawer by the nightstand-right where she kept her first-aid box.
He applied the ointment-with a precision that came not from habit, but devotion. Never once letting his fingers touch her skin. Because her words still burned in his ears-"Mujhe chhoona bhi mat, Adwait."
[Don't touch me, Adwait]
He didn't deserve to touch her. But he could still make sure she healed. She burned the bridge, he brought ointment.
Even if she never knew it was him. She stirred.
His heart dropped into silence. In one movement-fluid, practiced-he rose. Backed away. Faded into the dark like he was made of it. He didn't run, didn't stumble. Just moved with the same elegant quiet that had always defined his pain.
He stepped onto the balcony, climbed back down through the old vine-covered trail, landed on the garden floor, and disappeared through the hedge.
By the time Iva stirred again, there was no sign of him.
No sound. No shadow. Not even a breath out of place.
Just a cooling laptop, a freshly wrapped bandage, and the faintest scent of him lingering in the air like a ghost that never left.
For someone who never wanted to be touched, she sure left a thousand fingerprints on a ghost who never existed.
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