Chapter 40 The Dimpled Devil and His Mark
The upper floors of Ambani Tower gleamed in silence, all glass, marble, and precision.
From her corner office, Iva's world of couture thrived in organized chaos - moodboards lined the walls, assistants walked briskly past mannequins wearing half-born gowns, and her sharp heels clicked like punctuation on polished stone.
She adjusted the drape on a model, her mind half on the silhouette and half on the woman arriving behind her.
Olivia Laurent entered quietly, guided by Maya.
"Your aunt insisted," Maya whispered with a barely concealed smirk. "Said she wanted to see where 'the storm works.'"
Iva turned, hiding a smile. "Welcome to the chaos."
Olivia looked around-taking in the fabric swatches, the curated mess, the architectural lines of the space. "So this is your battlefield," she murmured.
Before Iva could reply, the glass doors of the studio hissed open again.
Then, tilting her head, Olivia added, "You're wearing a red dot today?"
Iva blinked, hand instinctively brushing her forehead. "It's nothing."
Maya's eyes flicked between them, the curve of her lips betraying a knowing smile.
After Maya and Olivia left, Iva returned to her sketches, the room once again humming with the quiet pulse of creation. She was leaning over fabric swatches when a knock interrupted her focus.
"Come in," she called, slightly annoyed, not looking up.
And there he was. Adwait.
Her expression shifted instantly, disbelief flickering into a smirk as she rose to her feet.
"Koi bol raha tha, main tumhari duniya mein nahi aa sakta," she said, voice edged with sarcasm but eyes shining.
["Someone once said they couldn't be a part of my world," she said, her voice edged with sarcasm - but her eyes were shining.]
He stepped forward casually. "Yeh dena bhul gaya tha."
[He stepped forward casually. "I forgot to give you this."]
He held up a single flower-the same kind he'd offered to the gods that morning-and gently tucked it into her hair.
She paused, touched her forehead lightly, then glanced at his collar. A satisfied glint crossed her face.
"My mark is still there," she said, tugging his collar with a grin. "Koi toh yeh bhi bol raha tha... ki mere saath rahogi toh sirf dard milega," she added softly. "Aur agar yeh dard hai, toh mujhe tumhara har dard manzoor hai."
["My mark is still there," she said, tugging at his collar with a grin."Someone once said... that being with me would only bring pain," she added softly."And if this is pain, then I'll take every bit of it - as long as it's yours."]
Adwait gave her a look, teasing yet laced with emotion. "Ivan Pearl wala dard..." He didn't finish the sentence but the taunt hung heavy between them.
She froze a bit, his words pulling memories she had locked away. Days without him. Silence where his voice should've been.
"Let's not talk about it," she said abruptly and turned away.
But he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"Main chalta hoon," he whispered into her hair.
["I should get going," he whispered into her hair.]
As always, her head found his shoulder-an instinct, a homecoming.
"Pata nahi Adwait... par jab bhi tum paas hote ho toh..." she started.
["I don't know, Adwait... but whenever you're near, I just..." she began.]
"Jhukne ka mann karta hai, aise?" he asked, dipping his head toward her.
["Feel like surrendering, like this?" he asked, tilting his head down toward her.]
She nodded, a faint smile on her lips.
"Probably because that's how we met for the first time," she whispered, eyes distant.
He pulled back slightly. "What happened?"
Her gaze sharpened. "You met me in the club. You never told me."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Mujhe laga itna zaruri nahi hoga," he shrugged, downplaying it.
[He blinked, caught off guard."I didn't think it would matter that much," he shrugged, trying to downplay it.]
"Now tell me how we met," she said, poking his chest with her finger, half playful, half demanding.
"Okay, okay," he relented, hands raised in mock surrender. "You were in the club, totally drunk. Dancing with your friends like the world was yours. I was about to leave when you stumbled into me. Vomited all over my shirt, leaned on me like I was gravity itself."
She cringed, laughing, "Classy."
"I took you to the washroom, helped you clean up. You kept asking my name, again and again. I didn't answer, so you wrote your name on a tissue in lipstick. Then gave it to me like a signed autograph."
She was now laughing into his chest.
"I just added an 'N' at the end with the same lipstick. Iva became Ivaan. You were too drunk to notice. I figured by morning, you'd forget it all."
She looked up at him, eyes wide with something like awe.
"And then... Agnivanshi Palace. We met again. Same script. I vomited on you. You took me to the washroom."
He chuckled, nodding. "I figured fate has a twisted sense of humor."
"I knew you felt familiar," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder again. It had become her safe space.
"So... any more complaints?" he asked, fingers now playing gently with her hair.
"Yes," she said, tracing lazy circles on his shirt button.
"Kya?" he asked, intrigued.
"You didn't call me meri jaan," she murmured, slowly undoing the button.
[My life]
His breath caught. Hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.
He remembered the first time he said those words-meri jaan-when she'd been kidnapped by Rudra and he thought he might lose her.
He leaned in, lips brushing her temple.
"Meri jaan," he whispered, and this time, it was not born from fear-but from knowing she was his.
[My life.]
After the quiet storm of their reunion settled into a warmth between them, Adwait stepped back, watching Iva with a kind of cautious hope.
"Woh..." he began, his voice unusually tentative.
[That..]
She looked up from adjusting the flower he'd tucked into her hair. That hesitation-so unlike him-didn't go unnoticed.
"What is it?" she asked softly, curious.
"I was wondering if I could... take you somewhere," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "If you're free."
That flicker of nerves in his voice made her pause. He wasn't one to second-guess himself. Something about this mattered to him more than he was letting on.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in faux seriousness. "Are you kidnapping me again?"
"Depends," he said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Will you scream?"
She chuckled. "Only if you don't let me change first. I'll be ready after dinner."
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Dinner was a blur.
Iva sat at the long glass table, untouched pasta on her plate, a single elbow propped up while she absently stirred her food. Across from her, Olivia arched a brow.
"You okay?" Olivia asked casually, sipping her wine.
"Hmm?" Iva blinked, then waved a hand dismissively. "Just thinking about some fitting schedules tomorrow."
Olivia gave her a look but chose not to press. "Right. Fittings."
Inside, Iva was already choosing a dress. Something flowy. Maybe that pale sage slip dress that always reminded her of dusk. The nerves weren't hers. They were his-and that intrigued her.
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By the time Adwait arrived, she was waiting in the lobby, wrapped in that very dress, paired with minimalist gold earrings and her hair left in soft waves. The sight of her momentarily stole his breath.
"You ready?" he asked, hands in his pockets but posture unusually rigid.
She nodded, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw-the only betrayal of the anticipation he was hiding.
They drove in silence for a while, city lights melting into softer glows as they left the heart of Mumbai behind. The quiet between them wasn't awkward-it was electric, expectant.
After about 40 minutes, the car rolled to a stop at a quiet, open-air pottery studio nestled in a patch of green just beyond the city limits.
Fairy lights glowed along the perimeter, bathing the space in amber warmth.
The studio was modest-wooden shelves lined with clay pieces in various stages of drying, a central worktable surrounded by wheels and scattered tools.
Iva stepped out and turned to him, amused. "You brought me here... to play with mud?"
Adwait smirked. "It's not mud. It's art."
"It's mess," she said, stepping forward anyway. "But fine. Impress me."
Inside, a wheel was already set for them, and soft lo-fi music played through a tiny speaker. A breeze carried the scent of wet earth and something green-maybe basil growing nearby.
Iva hesitated in front of the wheel. "Okay, so how does this-"
Adwait stepped in, already rolling up his sleeves. "Let me show you."
They both knelt on the low stools, facing the wheel. His hands cupped hers from behind as she pressed down into the cool, wet clay.
"Center it," he murmured, breath brushing the shell of her ear. "Gently. Don't fight it. Let your hands move with it."
His hands stayed over hers, strong and steady, guiding her as the wheel spun. The clay rose and dipped under their touch.
"Feels... intimate," she said under her breath, only half-mocking.
"It is," he replied, voice low.
He touched the clay like it was her-soft, unsure, and learning where to press without breaking anything.
Her heartbeat skipped.
The shape was uneven, still spinning, but beginning to hold.
Adwait lifted his fingers just slightly, letting hers stay.
"You're leading now," he said, his voice quieter than before-like the moment might shatter if he was too loud.
She hesitated, hands trembling slightly in the clay. "What... what are we even making?"
"A heart," he said.
Not a perfect one. Lopsided, too soft at one edge, dented where her grip had faltered. But unmistakably a heart.
She stared at it, then at their hands-his still hovering just above hers, ready to catch if she lost control.
"It's crooked," she whispered.
He leaned in, voice brushing her skin. "So are most hearts that survive."
Something tightened in her chest. She blinked faster.
The clay spun gently under her palms, holding its shape.
"I don't know if I'm doing it right," she admitted.
"You are," he said. "It's messy. But it's becoming something."
She looked down again, and suddenly it wasn't about the clay anymore.
The world around them blurred into background-the music, the night, the breeze. All that remained was the slow spiral of clay under their palms and the tension simmering between their bodies.
A flick of her hand sent a bit of clay splattering onto his shirt.
"Oh no," she said, blinking innocently. "How clumsy of me."
He raised an eyebrow. "You really want to play that game?"
Before she could answer, he dipped two fingers into the slip and smeared a streak across her cheek. Her mouth dropped open.
"Oh, that's war."
What began as pottery quickly devolved into chaos.
She splattered clay on his jaw; he caught her wrist and dragged her fingers along his collar. Her laugh rang out in the studio, unrestrained and beautiful.
And then suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. He stilled, watching her smile fade into something more vulnerable as her eyes met his.
Adwait reached up slowly, brushing a bit of clay from her chin. His fingers lingered on her skin, tracing down to the curve of her jaw.
He brushed his hands along her arms. "You've got clay everywhere."
"So do you," she said, flicking his nose.
"Let's clean up," he offered.
"Or..." she said, tilting her head, eyes playful but darkened by desire. "We could get a little dirtier before we do."
He grinned. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you're here."
The pottery wheel was still spinning lazily in the background, half-formed clay forgotten as laughter echoed through the open-air studio. The air between them had shifted - lighter, playful, as if time itself had loosened its grip on them for a while.
Iva darted behind one of the wooden shelves, hiding with a grin, a streak of clay still across her cheek like war paint.
"You do realize I saw you go there, right?" Adwait called out, mock-serious, rolling up his sleeves even higher as he tiptoed dramatically toward the shelf.
"No, you didn't," came her voice, muffled and defiant.
"Hey no..." he warned playfully.
The moment he turned the corner, she squealed and took off running across the studio.
"Oh, you're dead!" he laughed, chasing after her.
She dodged between stools and buckets of water, skirts fluttering, hair flying, barefoot now and wild in the best way.
He caught up to her just past the central table. In one smooth motion, his arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her off the ground and twirling her through the air. She shrieked with delight, legs flailing as her laugh rang out like windchimes in summer.
"Put me down!" she laughed, breathless.
"Nope. Not until you surrender."
"Never!" she yelled, grinning down at him upside-down.
He twirled her once more, then gently set her back on her feet - but didn't let go.
Her palms pressed to his chest. His hand remained on her waist.
"Next time," she murmured, trying to catch her breath, "I'll win."
"I'll let you." he said, eyes locked on hers.
They separated only long enough for Adwait to start washing the clay from his hands at the small basin nearby. He leaned over, sleeves pushed up, rubbing the dried earth from his palms under the cool stream of water. Steam rose faintly in the air.
Behind him, he heard quick footsteps and then-"Adwait! Catch!"
He barely turned before Iva leapt.
He spun around just in time to catch her mid-air. His arms locked around her thighs as she wrapped herself around him, laughing freely, her hair fanning around them like a halo of silk. Her hands slid behind his neck, and she rested her forehead against his.
Their laughter died down, replaced by something softer.
Slower.
He twirled her again, this time gently, slowly-just enough that her dress swirled like smoke, and her lips hovered inches from his.
"I could get used to catching you like this," he murmured.
"You already do," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes studied her face-trailing from her eyes to her lips, then back again. The clay smudges on her skin made her look like some divine sculpture in motion-raw, radiant, real.
Then he kissed her again.
This time deeper, slower, more certain.
Her fingers curled in the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. One of his hands found the small of her back, the other sliding up her spine. Her body molded into his like the clay they'd just left behind-formless now, defined only by the heat between them.
They sat on a low bench afterward, catching their breath, their fingers intertwined.
Iva leaned her head against his shoulder, watching the stars slowly appear above the canopy of fairy lights.
"You always do this," she murmured.
"Do what?"
"Turn something messy into something beautiful."
He looked down at her, brow furrowing with softness. "I don't think I've done anything. You're already the art."
She chuckled, nudging him with her shoulder. "You're getting better at this romantic stuff."
"Well," he smirked, "I have a pretty unforgiving muse."
They sat in silence for a few beats, wrapped in the stillness of the night. The crickets sang in the background, and the wheel finally came to a slow stop behind them.
Iva finally asked, "Why pottery?"
Adwait looked forward, thoughtful.
"Because clay forgives," he said. "You break it, it can be reshaped. You mess it up, it can start again. It doesn't remember the damage-only how you mold it after."
Her heart clenched a little at that.
He turned to her. "We've both had cracks. But maybe... maybe this is the part where we start shaping something new."
She didn't answer with words-just leaned in again, kissed his cheek, then rested her hand over his chest where his heartbeat thrummed steady beneath.
"Then promise me," she whispered.
"Anything."
"Next time I fall... you catch."
He smiled against her forehead. "Meri jaan, I never stopped."
[My life, I never stopped.]
Iva tilted her head, eyes narrowed, curiosity gleaming. "By the way... you hesitated. Why?"
Adwait didn't reply. Just looked down at the ground, the tip of his shoe drawing lazy circles in the dust.
Iva stepped closer, her eyes widening with sudden realization. "Wait... no. Don't tell me-" she gasped theatrically, pointing at him. "You've never asked a girl out before!"
He lifted his gaze slowly, lips twitching-and shook his head once.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
"Oh my god!" Iva shrieked in pure, unfiltered joy. She did a little dance on the spot, arms in the air like she'd just scored the winning goal. "Yeh toh breaking news hai! Mr. Caveman has never asked anyone out!"
[This is breaking news.]
Adwait watched her, completely deadpan. "Aap kuch zyada enjoy kar rahi ho is moment ko."
[Adwait watched her, completely deadpan."You're enjoying this moment a little too much."]
"Of course!" she spun in place, then pointed dramatically at him. "So in your world, you never asked anyone... but in my world, Mr. Caveman," she stepped closer, her voice dropping, sultry now, "hugs, kisses, and sex..."
She slid her hand up his chest, fingers teasing the buttons of his shirt. "...require a formal invite."
He caught her wrist gently, but didn't stop her. His grip was warm. Possessive.
"Trust me, meri jaan..." Adwait's voice dropped, rough and laced with something primal.
His hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer until their breath mingled.
"Aap abhi meri duniya mein ho... aur mujhe caveman bulati ho?
" He tilted his head slightly and rubbed his nose along the slope of her neckline, slowly, deliberately.
["Trust me, my life..." Adwait's voice dropped, rough and laced with something primal.
His hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer until their breath mingled.
"You're in my world now... and you're calling me a caveman?
"He tilted his head slightly and rubbed his nose along the slope of her neckline - slowly, deliberately. ]
The contact sparked a shiver through her, an electric ripple that started at her throat and bloomed low in her stomach. She inhaled sharply, caught between the urge to lean in and the instinct to pull away from the fire.
She turned slightly, trying to step back-to break the moment before it swallowed her whole.
But he gripped her wrist, gently but firmly, and whispered in her ear:
"Adwait ki duniya mein ho, toh Adwait ke rang mein nahi rangegi?"
["If you're in Adwait's world, won't you be coloured in Adwait's shades too?"]
His index finger trailed over her collarbone, featherlight, coaxing heat from her skin. Her body stilled. Her breath hitched.
"Adwait... please..." she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.
"Haan, meri jaan..." he breathed.
[Yeah, my life..]
His thumb lifted, brushing gently across her lower lip, caressing the soft curve, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he dipped his head lower, into the curve of her neck, and-
He bit.
A sharp, possessive graze of his teeth on her skin, not enough to break but enough to mark.
She gasped and gripped his hair instinctively, her body arching toward him instead of away. Her nails scraped against the back of his neck as he kissed the spot he'd claimed, then bit her again-slightly lower this time.
And again-on her collarbone.
She hissed in pain, the sharpness sending waves of sensation coursing through her. She clung to him, dazed.
Adwait leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear.
"Bola tha na... mere saath sirf dard milega," he whispered, and then... he stepped back.
["I told you... with me, there's only pain," he whispered - and then... he stepped back.]
The air shifted.
Iva opened her eyes slowly, breath unsteady. Her skin burned where he'd touched her, marked her, claimed her. She looked up at him - at those unreadable gray eyes that always seemed to hold storms and lullabies at once.
"Adwait..." she whispered, her voice cracking, "Main tumhaari apni hoon?"
["Do I belong to you?"]
He stared at her for a moment, lips twitching at the corners, that familiar expression ghosting across his face. That dimpled smile - the one that only showed when he didn't want to speak, when words felt like confessions too heavy for air.
And under his breath, so quiet she barely caught it: "Humesha se."
["Always have been."]
But she didn't hear.
She just saw the smile.
The one he wore when he didn't want to answer... but never lied.
Her heart thudded like a drum. Her hand rose to touch her neck - the marks still tingling.
"Great," Iva muttered to herself, fingers brushing the fresh marks blooming on her skin, "now I have bruises shaped like answers he'll never say out loud."
Trust Adwait to never say 'I'm yours'-he just etches it into her bones. Like she was marked safe from emotional clarity.
A pottery wheel. A heart in clay. A girl who ran. A boy who caught her anyway.
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