Chapter 44 Anger Issues? Try Biting
The air in the Leela Rêve was heavier than usual that morning. Not stormy. Not loud. Just thick - like the kind of silence that had teeth.
Ivikaa hadn't said a word since she came down for breakfast.
Not a glance.
Not a flicker of her usual elegance.
Only the sound of her heels cutting across marble, and the faintest scent of her perfume trailing behind like a warning.
Virya tried first. "Iva, good morning-"
She walked past him like his voice didn't exist in her world anymore.
Vayu cleared his throat. "We... thought we could go over the Zurich proposal together."
Nothing. Not even an eye-roll.
She simply adjusted the strap of her handbag, typed something furiously into her phone, and walked out.
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The elevator pinged.
And when Ivikaa Ambani stepped out - monochrome power suit, no eye contact, no smile - the entire office held its breath.
They all knew her.
Feared her.
Worked nights for her name on the quarterly board.
But today - there was something different.
Not about her.
About the silence behind her.
The storm that hadn't arrived yet.
"She's back."
"She's back?"
"That's the mam he-"
"Carried in his arms like some K-drama finale?"
No one dared to ask her. But everyone looked. Like she was both the headline and the aftermath.
She didn't acknowledge a single stare.
She moved like an executive storm - flawless, sharp, and untouchable. Black heels on ivory marble. Sunglasses indoors. Her brothers followed sheepishly, like schoolboys after detention.
"Lunch?" Virya offered, almost timid.
"For what?" she asked, eyes still on her screen.
"Just thought... It's been a rough day."
She looked up - finally - and her gaze was calm, but it cut clean.
"Caring?," she said slowly, "I'd rather not take care from someone who isn't qualified to give it. It just feels like rejection wrapped nicely."
Vayu winced. Virya looked away.
And just when the tension threatened to splinter- "Family lunch?" Olivia appeared in her silk and supremacy, placing a box on the table like a peace treaty no one asked for. "I brought your favorites. Come on, we'll eat together. Like we used to."
Ivikaa smiled - the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "I'd love to," she said, standing.
Olivia exhaled, relieved.
"But unfortunately," Ivikaa continued, turning toward Maya, "we have deals to crack. For the Ambanis. That's my family, right?"
And with that, she turned on her heel, Maya following behind like a shadow laced in loyalty. She didn't look back. Because some wars are better fought with contracts and couture - and Ivikaa Ambani had both.
The post-meeting silence was not awkward - it was deliberate. Engineered. Like a quiet withdrawal of oxygen from a room.
Ivikaa didn't wait for anyone to follow her.
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It was past 1 a.m. when Ivikaa stepped into Café Viraha. The bell above the door let out a tired chime, as if startled to still be in use at that hour. The street outside was silent, the city asleep - but her mind was anything but.
She wore black - soft, precise, and midnight enough to disappear in. A slim bandaid on her forehead caught the café light - just barely, but enough.
From behind the counter, Jatin looked up in surprise.
"Ms. Ambani?" His voice was a mix of concern and confusion. "Is everything alright? Your forehead-"
Ivikaa touched it absently. "It's nothing. Just an unexpected reminder."
He nodded slowly, though his eyes didn't hide the curiosity. She moved past him, already drifting toward the window table.
The table.
The one near the arched window.
Still marked with the small wooden placard:
She glanced at it, half-amused, half-tired. "Still saving it for ghosts?"
Jatin smiled faintly. "It's always been reserved... for him."
Ivikaa sat down. Opened her MacBook. But didn't type. Not yet. After a moment, Jatin walked over with a warm cup of her usual.
"Didn't expect you at this hour," he said softly, placing it in front of her.
"I didn't expect to come either," she replied, gaze still out the window.
He hesitated, then asked gently, "Was it a bad night?"
She glanced at him, then shrugged. "Just needed quiet."
He nodded, then added with surprising honesty, "You know... Adwait sir used to come in around this time. Often. Late. Like this."
That made her look up. "Really?"
"Mm," Jatin said, pulling a chair halfway to sit without fully settling in. "Always sat this table. Same cup, same seat, same silence. He'd just... sit. Sometimes with a book. Mostly not. Just stared out that window."
Ivikaa turned back to the glass, to the same view Adwait had stared at.
"Waiting?" she asked, her voice softer now.
Jatin tilted his head. "That's what it looked like. Every time.That's what Viraha is all about."
She was quiet again.
The bandaid on her forehead felt warmer suddenly - like it pulsed with something unspoken.
Jatin glanced toward the espresso machine, then back at her.
He didn't speak right away. Just let out a low breath and said, almost like an afterthought, "Of course he'd name it Viraha..."
Ivikaa looked up. "What do you mean?"
Jatin gave a small smile, one lined with something older than amusement. "He waited here. For years. Same table, same time, same silence. So yeah... of course he'd name his café that."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "His café?"
Jatin nodded, as if she were finally catching up to something that had always been quietly present.
"He's owned it for years. Put it in my hands to manage.
Said this place was meant for... a certain kind of absence.
The kind that aches inwards. The kind people return to, even when they pretend they've forgotten. "
Ivikaa stared at him.
Adwait. A whole café. His.
While she'd thought he was just drifting through life with poetry and incense... he'd built something. Rooted something.
She didn't speak. Just reached out and touched the edge of the table, slowly - like maybe it still held the echo of him.
"Viraha," she murmured, half to herself.
His café.
His longing.
Jatin simply nodded. "Every brick. Every shadow. It remembers him."
Ivikaa didn't reply. Because what do you say when the person you thought you knew left behind pieces of themselves in places you never thought to look?
Outside, the peepal tree swayed faintly in the stillness.
Inside, Ivikaa sat across from an empty seat. And maybe... maybe not all placeholders are meant to be filled.
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The café door clicked shut behind her, but the weight didn't lift.
Ivikaa stood in the quiet lane outside, the evening breeze tugging at the bandage on her forehead. It didn't hurt. Not the wound, at least.
What hurt was how much she still didn't know.
About him. About herself when she was with him.
About why, after all this time, her heart still tilted toward him - uncertain, but not afraid.
He had always been a puzzle. She used to call him that, half-teasing.
"Tumhare baare mein har cheez incomplete kyun hoti hai?"
["Why is everything about you always incomplete?"]
And he would smile - not as if amused, but as if caught.
Back then, it was charming. Mysterious.
Now?
It scared her.
Because love wasn't supposed to feel like this. Like guessing in the dark. Like filling in silences with your own faith.
And yet... here she was.
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Next day -
The Agnivanshi backyard was bathed in soft gold - that peculiar kind of late-afternoon light that made everything seem just a little too cinematic, like the calm before some elaborate emotional explosion.
Ivikaa hadn't expected to find him here.
Not Adwait.
Martin.
Wearing sunglasses indoors, holding two glasses of juice with the flair of a man posing for GQ's "Summer Nepotism" issue. Next to him - inside the palace veranda, hooves on actual marble - stood Kaal, Adwait's infamous black stallion.
A horse. In the palace.
Ivikaa blinked. "He brought a horse. Inside."
"Kaal is Adwait sir's horse," Martin countered. "Which, frankly, makes him the most stable male in this entire estate."
Kaal, clearly not insulted, chomped on the tassels of an antique chaise like he paid rent here.
Ivikaa took a step back, dazed. "You know..." she muttered, almost to herself, "I used to think I was the third wheel between you and Adwait..."
She turned, deadpan.
"...but apparently I'm the fourth. Because I had no fucking idea about Kaal."
Martin didn't miss a beat. "Welcome to the hierarchy. It's Kaal, then Chai, then Adwait sir. Then maybe me. You? We're still voting."
Adwait appeared from the corridor just then, casually dressed, as if nothing about this situation was strange.
Ivikaa stared at him, incredulous. "Adwait. That is a wild animal. In a heritage property."
Adwait shrugged. "He prefers the marble."
She turned to Martin. "He's a psycho, right? Just say it."
Martin offered her the juice. "I'm legally not allowed to comment on my boss's mental health anymore. HR said no."
Kaal neighed loudly, as if offended on Adwait's behalf. Or maybe just hungry again.
Ivikaa folded her arms. "What's he eating now?"
"Hopefully not the vintage Versace rug," Martin muttered, glancing back.
Adwait moved to calm Kaal, who nuzzled his chest with dramatic flair - clearly a horse that knew he was loved, spoiled, and above the law.
Martin returned with two glasses of juice - placed one before Adwait.
Martin, meanwhile, handed the second glass of juice to Ivikaa.
She took it, eyeing him. "This isn't spiked, is it?"
"Just truth," he replied. "With lime. And a sprinkle of emotional exhaustion."
She sipped. He waited.
Adwait narrowed his eyes. "Martin..."
"Oh relax, it's juice," Martin said. Then, with the flair of a courtroom drama, he pulled out a thin folder and handed it to Adwait with a dramatic sigh.
Ivikaa eyed it. "What's that? Divorce papers? Are you divorcing from Adwait?"
Martin didn't miss a beat.
"I'd like to officially update our working policy," he said, turning to Adwait with mock severity. "I am not a transferable asset in this relationship. I like to light fires on gas stoves, not when people put me on fire. No thanks."
He gave Ivikaa a very deliberate once-over.
She raised both eyebrows, amused. "You think I'm the problem?"
Martin took a long, suffering sip of his own juice. "I think love is beautiful, painful, and incredibly inconvenient for those of us who didn't sign up to be emotionally waterboarded."
Kaal neighed again - louder this time - and Martin sighed, dramatically walking off. "And now I'm a horse nanny. Love really is war."
The yard grew quieter. Golden light stretched longer.
Adwait turned to Ivikaa, his voice low, calm - a tone she hadn't heard in a long time.
"Jatin called me.," he said, fingers brushing hers as he gently took her hand.
"Aur main... har ek sawaal ka jawaab dene ke liye taiyaar hoon."
["I'm ready to answer every question you have,"]
She didn't look at him right away. Just let her eyes drift upward, watching a bird slice across the amber sky.
"Pichhli baar... bina poochhe chali gayi thi," she whispered. "Is baar woh galti nahi karna chahti. Bahut kuch hai, Adwait. Kabhi kabhi lagta hai main tumhe jaanti hi nahi."
["Last time... I left without asking," she whispered. "I don't want to make that mistake again. There's so much, Adwait. Sometimes I feel like... I don't even know you."]
He nodded slowly, as if he'd practiced this moment in silence, a thousand times.
"Woh café... mera hai," he said. "Apne paiso se kharida. London mein jab main bartender tha - usi paise se. Aapko yeh sab pata hai."
["That café... it's mine," he said. "Bought it with my own money. When I was a bartender in London - with that money. You already know this."]
She turned to him then, slowly. The bandaid on her forehead caught the soft light like a reminder of everything recent - raw, real.
"Par aapke papa ko iss liye nahi bataya... kyunki main nahi chahta tha ki ek café ke tarazu mein tol kar main unki beti maang loon."
["But I didn't tell your father because... I didn't want to ask for his daughter while placing a café on the scale."]
His grip on her hand tightened - not to hold, but to anchor.
"Agar kisi jagah ke kaagaz dikhane se main aapko apne paas rakh sakta... toh uski ijaazat main kisi ko nahi deta. Khud ko bhi nahi."
["If showing someone a deed to a property could be enough to keep you with me... then I wouldn't give that permission to anyone. Not even myself."]
He smiled - tender, a little broken.
Her eyes welled up. Not with tears. With something fiercer. Something that felt like pride.
"Ivikaa ne Adwait ko bina kagaz ke apnaya hai... sirf bina kagaz ke nahi, bina pehchaan ke bhi..." he said softly. "...Toh Adwait Ivikaa ko kaise kagaz ke saath apnata?"
["Ivikaa accepted Adwait without any papers... not just without papers, but without an identity," he said softly. "So how could Adwait accept Ivikaa with conditions attached?"]
"Adwait... main kahaan hoon iss kahani mein? Mera kya matlab hai? Mere jazbaat, mere ehsaas... sab kahin kho gaye hain.", she finally asked.
["Adwait... where am I in this story? What do I mean to you? My emotions, my feelings... did they just disappear somewhere?" she finally asked.]
He held her gaze, his voice low but sure, layered with meaning.
"Bina Ivikaa ke Adwait ki koi kahani ho bhi sakti hai?" His words held a promise, a quiet truth that wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
["Is there even a story of Adwait without Ivikaa in it?"]
She closed the distance between them, her lips finding his in a kiss that was slow and sure - a release of all the unspoken words, fears, and hopes.
In that moment, her heart didn't race with uncertainty.
It stilled.
As if it had finally, finally found its home.
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She met his eyes now - not as a daughter pleading, but as a woman choosing.
"Well," she continued, her voice low but steady, "he did have something. That café? He built it from scratch. With his own money. Not inherited - earned."
She paused, then added, almost to herself, "Sometimes... people don't trade a café for a person."
Her father didn't respond. Didn't blink. But something in his posture cracked - the kind of shift only a daughter notices.
She held that silence, then turned her gaze to Olivia.
"You were right," she said softly. "I am like my mother. She left everything for my father."
Olivia gave a small, almost tired smile - the kind meant to soothe, not solve.
"Ivikaa dear," she said gently, "your mother left everything because your father was a good man. A man of reputation. Someone with identity and standing-"
Ivikaa's smile cut through her words like glass.
"Wish I could date a trophy," she said bitterly, elegance lacing her words, "so you could show him off... and care less about what I feel."
Before anyone could respond, she added flatly, "I'm leaving for the U.S. tomorrow."
No explanation. No waiting for reaction.
She turned and walked away, her heels clicking firmly on the marble floor - a quiet punctuation mark.
Olivia shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to speak or stay silent.
Virya placed a calming hand on Olivia's shoulder. "It's fine, Maasi... she's just hurt. Let her go. You don't need to follow."
But Vayu stayed frozen, staring at the spot Ivikaa had just vacated - something inside him splintering silently.
He stepped quietly into her room, finding her by her suitcase, folding shawls with a focused calm that barely disguised her breaking.
"So, leaving?" he asked softly, slumping onto her bed.
She didn't look up. "For work."
He scoffed lightly. "You love him so much, you're leaving your brother, Vayu?"
Her hands paused.
"I'm not leaving you, Vayu. It's just a show. In New York."
"Di..." he whispered.
She froze.
Di? He never called her that - always Iva, Ivi - slick, casual, cocky. But this? This was real.
He looked up at her. "You can share with me, you know."
She sat beside him, guarded. "What do you want me to say?"
"I'm not against you. Or him," he said, locking eyes with her - sincerity instead of sarcasm. She blinked, surprised.
"I always knew," he went on, "that you liked someone. That you were... different lately. More quiet."
She exhaled slowly. "And how did you know it was him?"
Vayu smiled faintly, glancing at her wrist. "The red thread. With charms."
She lifted her arm. "So I can't wear threads now?"
"You can wear whatever the hell you want," he said firmly. "But you don't wear symbols without meaning. You're you. Modern. Parisian. Even your perfume is curated. That thread? Religious. Deliberate. Personal. That was not just fashion, Iva."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "So you're not the dumb Ambani."
"Nope," he said proudly. "And I know how much you love Dad. So much that even your nickname - Iva - isn't just short for Ivikaa Ambani. It's Ivikaa Viren Ambani. Always."
Her smile faltered.
"He hurt you," Vayu said quietly. "I get it."
She turned away. "You hurt me too."
"I didn't mean to," he murmured. "But I know how it feels."
She looked back at him. "You've been in love?"
He nodded.
"And like me... she won't step into your world, right?"
He laughed bitterly. "Richie Rich Ambanis. We're cursed."
"Oh, trust me. I just had the 'you deserve better' session about Adwait from the family. My own blood."
Vayu's jaw tightened. "He saved Ritika. He saved you. And all he got was silence. Bashing. Not even one word in his defense."
She didn't answer.
"And he took it. That's the worst part," Vayu added. "He took it quietly. Like he expected it."
Ivikaa looked down at the red thread on her wrist.
Maybe that was what love really was.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
Just quiet, unshakeable belief - in someone, even when the world looked away.
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The water shimmered with moonlight. Adwait sat at the edge of the pool, feet dipped in, lost in the hush of the waves against stone. The world was quiet - but inside her, a storm raged.
Ivikaa walked toward him slowly, her eyes tired but searching.
"I leave for the U.S. tomorrow," she said quietly. "Raha's there. We're curating a week-long show."
Adwait nodded without surprise. "Devaki chachi joins you in three days."
She raised an eyebrow. "Of course you already know."
"And you?" she asked, gently, almost teasing. "When will you join?"
"In a week," he replied, the dimple on his cheek flashing briefly - a punctuation to the ache in the air.
She sat beside him, close - as always. But this time, when she leaned in, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tighter, the way one clings to what they're afraid to lose.
He looked at her for a long moment, then finally asked, "So... is this trip really about the show?"
She looked at him, wary.
"Or are you running away from your family?"
Ivikaa sighed, her breath catching slightly. "I'm not running, Adwait. I just need space. Some time to... process everything. The hurt. The confusion. The way everyone looked at me like I betrayed them by just existing the way I wanted."
She paused, then added, "Work always helps. It numbs the noise. It's the only place I'm not questioned for being exactly who I am."
He didn't say anything. Just reached into his coat and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package. He placed it gently in her hands.
She frowned and unwrapped it - and stilled.
The Bhagavad Gita. In English. Elegant and light in her hands, but heavy with meaning.
She looked up, confused. "What's this for?"
"Just in case," he said softly, "you miss me."
A teasing lilt in his voice, but something painfully real underneath.
She gave him a half-smile. "I can FaceTime you, Caveman."
"I know. But still..."
She set the Gita aside on the pool deck.
Then leaned in again.
And this time, he didn't hold back. He offered his hand.
She blinked. "What now?"
"Bite it," he said.
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you actually an idiot?"
"I know you're holding it all in," he said, voice low and steady. "Your anger. Your hurt. Before the world gets a taste of it... give some to me."
Something in his tone - grounded, sure, utterly safe - cracked her resolve. So she bit his hand. Hard. Again. And again.
He didn't flinch.
And with every bite, her breath slowed. Her muscles softened. Her soul unclenched.
"Feeling better?" he asked softly.
"A bit," she admitted. "Still frustrated. Still wondering how everything got this messy."
Instead of answering, he slid into the water - smooth, quiet - then extended his hand toward her again. This time, no words.
She placed her hand in his.
He guided her in, holding her gently by the waist. The cool water met her skin like a balm. In the quiet deep, he pulled her closer - his eyes never leaving hers.
The water wrapped around them - cool, quiet - but her body warmed the moment he touched her waist again, grounding her.
Underwater.
Fierce. Desperate. Starved.
And then he kissed her.
Not like a whisper. Not like an apology.
Like a storm breaking. Hungry. Fierce. Unspoken love tangled with every emotion they had been drowning under - fear, anger, longing, grief.
It wasn't polite or poetic. It was urgent - the kind of kiss you give when you're scared you'll never get another chance. His hands slid up her spine, her arms looped around his neck. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulling him closer, drowning in him.
He lifted her slightly, taking her above the surface again, her back meeting the smooth edge of the pool. Water droplets clung to their skin like dew.
His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, her neck, each kiss slower now, reverent. His hand slid beneath her shirt, his fingers finding the rim of her bra - tracing it lightly, teasing the edge.
She shivered. Not from the cold.
From how he touched her.
Like he was trying to remember the shape of devotion.
"Adwait..." she whispered, a plea or a question, maybe both.
He paused. Just held her gaze.
"You can," she whispered again, guiding his hand - but he slowly pulled away, the touch replaced by stillness.
"Ivikaa..." he said gently, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. "I don't want to devour you."
She blinked, unsure.
"I want to worship you."
And in that moment, her smile broke - full, vulnerable, the first real one in days. The kind that doesn't just stretch lips - but softens the soul.
"I always thought you were rejecting me," she said quietly. "Maybe I just never understood what reverence looked like."
They climbed out, dripping and breathless, side by side on the edge. She swept her wet hair aside, revealing faint red marks along her collarbone. He leaned beside her, feet still in the water.
She broke into a smile - a slow, warm one that reached her eyes this time.
"You know," she said, voice light but eyes dancing with mischief, "for someone who claims he wants to worship me..."
She turned her head slightly, pulling the damp strands of hair aside to reveal faint reddish marks near her collarbone and neck - marks he'd left earlier.
"...you sure left a devoured trail."
Adwait blinked, then grinned - a sheepish, caught-in-the-act kind of grin.
She smirked. "Explain that, Caveman."
He raised his hands dramatically. "Okay, okay - I never said cavemen weren't... intense worshippers." He leaned closer. "True. But we do believe in marking what's ours."
That earned a laugh from her - full and unfiltered - the kind he hadn't seen in days.
And in that moment, soaking wet, hair dripping, hearts bare - it wasn't about running away or staying.
It was about knowing that, no matter the city or chaos, this - the teasing, the tenderness, the marks and the meanings behind them - was real.
They didn't burn the world down, not yet. They just warmed the pool
She bit him, he blessed her. She moaned his name, he gave her scripture. Honestly, the Adwait Agnivanshi therapy package is getting weirder by the hour.
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