Chapter 37 Secrets in Silk
Iva sat curled on the Leela Rêve living room sofa, a piece of handwoven fabric draped across her lap, needle in hand, thread slipping through like a forgotten thought. She wasn't really stitching-just moving. It was easier that way. Easier than feeling.
The rain outside tapped against the glass like it had something to say, but inside, everything was still... until the silence broke.
"Miss Ambani," came the voice.
Flat. Formal. Emotionless.
Her hand paused mid-thread.
She turned.
There stood Martin, crisp as always in his usual tailored uniform.
But this wasn't her Martin-the one who sometimes teased her with smirks, who offered coffee when she worked late.
This Martin was the version she first met at the Agnivanshi Palace.
The man who stood guard at the edge of the West Wing, with no warmth and no history in his eyes.
Martin stepped forward and extended a small wooden box toward her. No explanation. No expression.
Just protocol.
She took it from his hands without a word. Her brow furrowed as she slowly opened the lid.
Inside-
A scattered collection of hair clutches. A collection of her hair clutches. All of them.
Dozens of them.
Plain black ones. Pearled ones. One with a chipped edge she once claimed she'd throw away but never did.
Her throat tightened.
Adwait.
He used to steal them from her. Every time he found her hair tied, he'd remove the clutch and loosen her hair. Never explained why.
She remembered finding them once-all tucked neatly in a drawer in his room. She hadn't said anything then either.
And now they were back.
All of them.
Like he was returning parts of her she'd left behind in his life-without asking, without warning, and most cruelly, without being there.
And the worst part?
By Martin.
Not a note. Not a message. Just... silence.
As if he was trying to erase himself thread by thread, strand by strand.
A quiet unraveling.
She looked up again, but Martin was already standing straight, ready to leave. Just another task on a long list.
"Did he say anything?" she asked, voice colder than she meant.
Martin paused. "No, Miss."
Of course not.
And for the first time in weeks, the needle slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
Iva didn't pick it up.
She just sat there-box open in her lap, the metal clasps glinting under the soft yellow light of the chandelier. For a long moment, she didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Then, slowly, her fingers brushed one of the clutches. A deep red one. The same he'd once used when she was running late for a board meeting, and she was tying her hair up in a rush. He'd come up behind her, pulled it off, and said, "You lead better with your hair open."
She snapped back, "And you manipulate better with that smile, don't you?"
He'd only grinned. And she'd gone anyway-with her hair down.
Iva's lips trembled now. The box was suddenly too heavy. Like it held not just hair accessories, but fragments of a version of herself she no longer recognized.
The woman who let him touch her without flinching.
The woman who believed his silences were love.
The woman who didn't know his other name.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
She wiped it away roughly-angrily-furiously.
How dare he?
How dare he leave memories behind like a goodbye note? Like she was the one who needed closure?
She stood abruptly, the box crashing onto the carpet, hair clutches scattering like broken thoughts. She kicked one away. It hit the leg of the coffee table with a dull clack and spun in a slow circle, then stopped. Just like that.
Like her.
Still.
Martin entered quietly, as he always did-his posture crisp, face unreadable. He walked straight to the center table and placed a covered plate with the delicacy of a ritual. Then, without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and disappeared into the hallway like a ghost on cue.
Iva didn't even glance up. "I said I'm not hungry."
And then she heard it.
"Hate me," Adwait's voice drifted in behind Martin's exit, "but hate me on a full stomach, please."
She turned her head slightly, her jaw tightening. He was leaning against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, expression neutral-but his eyes betrayed the silent ache he carried like an invisible scar.
She looked away, refusing the bait. Silence stretched.
Adwait stepped inside, the air thick with everything unspoken. He shrugged casually, then called out-
"Hey Maya?" he said louder.
Maya appeared, clearly sensing tension but pretending otherwise. "Yeah?"
Adwait gestured at the table. "Could you eat this, please? I hate wasting food."
Then he turned around and walked out, like it meant nothing.
Maya blinked, looking at the plate. She lifted the lid-and paused. Her lips parted slightly.
"It's Indian," she said quietly.
Spiced dal. Steamed rice. Masala okra. The kind of food that spoke of home.
Maya looked up. "He got this made for-"
"It's mine."
Iva's voice snapped like thunder.
She stormed to the table and yanked the plate out of Maya's hands with a force that surprised even her.
"It's mine," she repeated, holding the plate tight, eyes flaring with something raw-anger, betrayal, hunger, grief. All folded into one violent breath.
Maya didn't argue. She only stepped back and murmured, "Of course it is."
Iva sat down, hard. Her hands were shaking. She took one bite. Then another. She tasted salt on her tongue that had nothing to do with the food.
Outside, Adwait stood just beyond the hallway wall, back pressed against it.
He closed his eyes.
And exhaled like he'd just won a war he never wanted to fight.
After some time, he heard the soft clink of cutlery cease. A chair shifted. Footsteps-measured, composed-retreated into the silence of Leela Rêve. She had eaten. And left, like nothing had happened. But something had.
Adwait returned to the living room.
He moved without sound, the way he always did when emotion threatened to unbalance him. Slowly, he sat down on the same couch where Iva had curled with her knees drawn up and defiance wrapped around her like silk.
Her presence still lingered-in the cushion's faint indent, in the half-drunk glass of water, and in the very air that had once been theirs.
Without a word, he leaned forward and began collecting the hair clutches. One by one, he placed them back into the box. Like someone restoring something sacred.
Maya entered quietly, observing the strange reverence in his hands.
He stood up, closed the lid, and handed her the box.
She looked at it and smirked. "You know if you ask her to keep her hair open, she'll do the exact opposite."
Adwait didn't miss a beat. That half-smile-mischievous, knowing, unmistakably his-curved on his lips.
"Yahi toh chahta hoon," he said, voice low and familiar.
["That's exactly what I want."]
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The room was dim - all sharp leather, low Russian jazz, and colder intentions. No names were exchanged at the door; only bloodlines and grudges earned a seat at this table.
Rudra Agnivanshi sat across from Dmitri Volkov, a man whose silence said more than any dossier. The air between them didn't just hum - it seethed with old scars.
"I hear you want peace," Dmitri said, swirling his drink without looking up.
Rudra didn't smile. "I want clarity."
Dmitri finally met his gaze, slow and amused. "And what would an Agnivanshi possibly offer us after all this time?"
Rudra leaned forward, voice low. "Not what. Who."
Dmitri's brow barely twitched, but the tension in the room shifted.
"She left you marked," Rudra continued. "Years ago. Escaped when her father barged in with a private militia and made you bleed in front of your own men. Ring a bell? Her name is Ivikaa Viren Ambani."
Dmitri's hand paused mid-sip. The silence spoke for him.
"You remember her," Rudra said smoothly, almost cruelly. "Of course, you do. She was supposed to be your masterpiece. And she made you look weak. Publicly. Painfully. You lost face."
"I don't forget," Dmitri said darkly.
"Well, here's your second chance. She's in my world now. Close. Unaware of what I'm building."
Dmitri's eyes narrowed. "And you're offering what-her?"
"I'm offering access," Rudra replied. "Information. Openings. You've always wanted a mark. I'm giving you the fire. But in return, I want clean lines-no interference with Agnivanshi shipments, no disruption in alliances. Stay off my map."
Dmitri leaned back in his seat, studying him. Then he gave a slow, bitter chuckle. "You'd trade your woman for territory?"
Rudra's eyes flashed. "She's not my woman. She's your unfinished business-and my newest weapon."
Dmitri smirked. "Deal. But we can't kill her. Orders from above. No one touches her fatally."
"I never asked you to," Rudra said coolly. "Just make sure she remembers."
Glasses clinked. The treaty was sealed-not in ink, but in betrayal.
After Dmitri left, Rudra leaned back in his chair, the satisfaction of the deal still warm in his chest. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Papa," he said as the line connected. "I took care of the damage."
Abhay Agnivanshi's voice came cold and clipped. "What have you done now, Rudra? Your feud with the Russians already cost me billions. Cleaning the mess, paying off the fallout, installing that damned new security network-you think any of that was easy?"
"Calm down," Rudra said, barely hiding a smirk. "This time, it wasn't a mess. It was a peace treaty. I gave Dmitri something... valuable. And in return, he backs off. No more interference. No more losses. Trust me. I'm your son."
Abhay's tone turned razor-sharp. "Come home. Tonight. And I want every detail. Nothing left out, Rudra. Not a single word."
The call ended without a goodbye.
And Rudra sat there, smiling.
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The next day, Rudra arrived in Mumbai and headed straight to his father's private study-a place where emotions were unwelcome, and business was always king.
Abhay Agnivanshi sat behind his sleek black desk, eyes glued to his laptop screen. Across from him, as usual, Divya was lounging with practiced elegance, lazily polishing her nails, her diamond bracelet catching the morning light.
"Rudra," Abhay greeted without looking up.
Rudra took a seat beside him. "So what happened?" Abhay asked, straight to business.
"I met Dmitri," Rudra said, his voice low, smug. "Offered him something he couldn't refuse."
Abhay looked up, interest piqued. "What have you done now?"
Rudra leaned back, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "Iva."
Divya's hand froze mid-polish. "Iva?" she asked, head snapping up in alarm.
Rudra nodded. "Years ago, Dmitri kidnapped her.
But her father pulled her out-guns blazing, full militia.
That humiliation never left him. It cracked his image in the underworld.
I did some digging through the Italians.
.. found out he still wants revenge. Can't kill her-something's stopping him. But he'd settle for pain."
Divya straightened. "Rudra, are you insane? That girl is more valuable than you know. She's not just sentiment-she's political leverage. She matters to your father's allies."
"I know, Mom," Rudra said, tone dismissive. "And I'm not handing her over. I'm giving information-just enough to let the Russians get close. Close enough to hurt, not destroy. She gets burned, I get my message across, and Dmitri backs off. Clean and elegant. No blood on our hands."
"And the Ambanis?" Abhay asked, now fully engaged.
Rudra's grin widened. "They'll lean harder on us for protection. Their darling daughter in danger? We swoop in, save the day. We get leverage and gratitude. Everyone wins-except her."
Abhay sat back, nodding slowly, his expression dark with approval. "You're thinking like an Agnivanshi."
"I'm your son, Dad. Did you expect anything less? If that psycho son of yours weren't in the way, we'd have won this war with the Ambanis by now."
Abhay sneered. "Please. Don't call him my son. He may carry the name, but he never looked like me. More like my youngest brother, Veer... Sometimes I wonder if your mother had a little affair she never confessed."
Divya stood up in a flash, fire in her eyes. "Shut up, Abhay! I've told you a thousand times-I never had an affair with your brother! Veer hardly even visited this house!"
"Oh, didn't he?" Abhay taunted, voice like a whip. "Funny how that boy looks more like Veer than me. And let's not forget-you wanted to abort him. It was me who stopped you. Me, who said we needed two sons to claim double the inheritance from my father."
Divya's voice cracked. "And I've regretted it every day since."
"Well," Abhay said coldly, "so have I. Should've let you kill him when we had the chance."
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
Only Rudra smirked in the corner, watching the unraveling-like a prince waiting for his coronation.
Divya stepped out of the study room, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She walked quickly, hoping no one would notice - but stopped short when she saw Iva standing in the hallway.
Iva's expression shifted the moment she saw her.
"Aunty... what happened?" she asked softly, brows furrowed in concern.
Divya quickly dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her dupatta, forcing a brittle smile. "Nothing, beta. Just... allergies. I'm glad you're here."
"Actually, I came to speak to Rudra," Iva replied, lifting a slim file. "It's about the racecourse project."
"Rudra's busy with his father right now," Divya said smoothly. "Why don't you sit with me for a while? He won't take long."
Her tone was strangely gentle.
Iva hesitated - she never trusted Divya's sweetness at face value - but nodded. "Okay."
They sat down in the private lounge. The silence was padded with tension, the clink of Divya's bangles the only sound for a moment.
Then Iva spoke again. "Aunty... are you sure you're okay? You don't seem like yourself."
Divya gave a soft, bitter laugh. "It's because of Adwait."
"Adwait?" Iva's voice tightened in surprise.
"Yes. My cursed son," she hissed under her breath. "No matter how far I try to push him out, he still ruins things. Still brings shame."
Iva's eyes flickered with discomfort. "Aunty..."
"He doesn't even look like Abhay," Divya continued, staring off into the distance. "Rudra is a copy of his father - arrogant and smart. But Adwait... from the beginning, he looked like..."
"...Veer Agnivanshi?" Iva finished quietly.
Divya's gaze snapped to her. "How do you know about Veer?"
"I saw a family portrait once. At Rajput Mansion," Iva said, careful not to say more.
Divya nodded slowly. "Yes. That's Abhay's youngest brother. Veer was...different. A recluse. Barely stayed in this house. He'd come and go like a shadow. I met him twice. That's it. But Abhay... he was convinced I cheated on him. Just because Adwait resembles him."
"Aunty, that doesn't mean-"
"Do you know what it's like," Divya whispered, "to be hated for giving birth to a child you never asked for?" Her voice cracked. "I didn't want him. I wanted to end it. But Abhay made me keep him. For his own greed. And now... now that child is a curse I can't shake off."
Iva's expression tightened. She didn't like this. The way Divya spoke about Adwait - with loathing, with venom - it didn't sit right with her. Not anymore.
Before she could respond, Rudra appeared at the door.
"Iva," he said with a smooth smile. "You wanted to talk about the racecourse?"
"Yes," she said quickly, grateful for the interruption. "I've brought the revised draft."
"Come," Rudra gestured toward the study, and she followed him.
Inside, she laid out the file, explained her changes, and slid a pen toward him. Rudra barely glanced through before signing.
As she picked up the signed copy, a sly smile touched her lips. Another small win.
She had managed to extract one of Rudra's favorites from under his nose.
Well done, Iva, she thought, victorious.
As Iva turned to leave the study, she nearly collided with Martin, who stood as if materialized from thin air - arms behind his back, expression as blank as a fresh passport.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just gave her that familiar air of condescending silence he used to serve with tea.
Iva narrowed her eyes. "Still carrying that attitude around, Martin? Must be heavy."
He raised a brow, unimpressed.
"Water?" she asked, half-demanding, half-tired.
Without a word, Martin turned and walked down the hallway.
As she followed, something stopped her mid-step - a slow pull of memory.
The air was laced with a scent. Aromatic. Sweet. Ghee and saffron, cardamom, roasted almonds... kheer.
Her heart did a confused flutter. That scent wasn't just nostalgia - it was muscle memory. It pulled her feet forward before her mind caught up.
She turned the corner and stepped into the doorway of the Agnivanshi kitchen.
And there he was.
Adwait.
Sleeves rolled, kurta speckled with flour, back turned to her as he stirred a pot on the stove. Beside him, a plate of puffed golden puris waited, warm and perfect.
He turned slightly, and their eyes met.
Iva blinked. And in that instant, the past collided with the present. A flash - Adwait offering her a plate of kheer-puri. No words, just the food. Her favorite.
She stared. He didn't speak.
Martin, meanwhile, stood with a glass of water in his hand, clearly having witnessed the moment.
With a dramatic sigh, he handed it to her and muttered, "You always follow the smell. Doesn't matter if it's danger or dessert."
Iva scowled and snatched the glass. "Mind your own business, Martin."
Before she could retort, a soft clatter came from the stove - Adwait adjusting the lid over the simmering kheer.
Martin leaned in just enough for only her to hear and murmured, "Careful. The puri's still warm... and so are your feelings."
Then he walked out like nothing ever happened.
Love's complicated, but this? This is a war with dessert on the side.
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