Chapter Twenty One
Author's pov;
A few days had passed since that night with Dadaji, and each passing day felt heavier, like a chain Ria couldn't shake off. The mansion walls felt taller, the corridors colder, and the eyes on her harsher. Suffocation had become her shadow.
That night, Ria lay sprawled on the couch, her slender frame half-buried beneath a blanket, her favorite novel resting open against her chest. It was one of the few books she had managed to smuggle back from her home, the only thing that still smelled faintly of comfort and safety.
The words on the page blurred; her mind wasn't on the story.
Her eyes drifted lazily to the giant modern clock on the wall. 1:00 a.m. The sound of its ticking mocked her restless soul.
Avantika's words echoed in her mind-tomorrow, the Rathores were holding their annual prayer festival, a grand event where every detail had to be flawless.
"The family expects perfection, Ria." Avantika had smiled kindly when she said it, but Ria knew the truth: one mistake, one wrong step, and her mother-in-law and Damini chachi would shred her to pieces with their cutting taunts.
Ria let out a long sigh, clutching the book tighter. If I mess up tomorrow... she whispered to herself, voice trembling. They won't let me forget it.
She set the book aside and switched off the lamp, crawling under the covers. The couch was warm, but her heart wasn't. She tossed, she turned, and sleep betrayed her. Her mind was louder than the silence of the night.
Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Ria rose from the couch. The pale moonlight streaming through the balcony doors seemed to beckon her. She walked barefoot across the marble floor, her anklets faintly chiming against the silence.
Pushing open the balcony doors, she stepped into the cool night. The Rathore mansion stretched beneath her, its gardens sleeping under silver shadows. The giant swing swayed gently in the breeze, and she lowered herself onto it, hugging her knees to her chest.
The night wrapped around her like a shroud. She rubbed her arms for warmth, her breath misting in the cold air. Her eyes lifted to the sky-endless, merciless, scattered with stars. Her voice broke as she whispered, almost like a child lost, "Bhagwan, what did I do to deserve this life?"
Tears welled but didn't fall. She refused to let them. The stars above twinkled, but they had no answers.
---
Meanwhile...
The Rathore Corporation tower stood like a titan piercing the night sky, its glass walls reflecting the city lights below. Floor after floor had gone dark hours ago, the empire of men asleep. But on the 150th floor, the CEO's cabin still burned with light.
Inside, the air was thick with silence, broken only by the soft tapping of keys. Aansh Rathore sat behind his massive oak desk, his face illuminated by the pale glow of the laptop screen.
His blazer was draped neatly across the leather chair beside him.
His white shirt clung to his frame, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled back to his elbows, exposing veined, sculpted forearms that screamed both elegance and danger.
His hair was a tousled mess, strands falling over his forehead as if someone had run desperate fingers through it.
His jaw was tight, clenched with the kind of tension that came from carrying entire empires on his shoulders.
In that moment, he looked like sin sculpted into flesh-every woman's forbidden dream and every man's silent fear.
The stillness shattered when his phone vibrated against the desk. He didn't flinch. His eyes stayed on the screen. He ignored it.
But the phone rang again. And again. Aansh's patience, already razor-thin, snapped. With a hiss of irritation, he snatched it up without even glancing at the caller ID.
"Speak." His voice was sharp, cold steel wrapped in velvet.
There was silence on the other end.
His brow furrowed, jaw ticking dangerously. "Hello?" His tone was darker now, sharp enough to slice.
Just as he was about to hang up, a voice slithered through the receiver.
"Miss me?"
The sound was sweet, teasing, laced with venom. Ruksar Mehra.
Aansh's jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder it didn't shatter. His knuckles whitened against the phone.
"What do you want, Mehra?" he ground out, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register that could freeze blood.
"Nothing much," her voice purred, silky and mocking. "I just missed your voice."
His eyes darkened, fury flashing like a storm. "Don't you have any shame calling a man at this hour?" His roar echoed in the empty office.
A soft chuckle drifted back through the line. The sound grated his nerves, as if she enjoyed needling the lion in his cage.
"What's so wrong," she whispered, her tone laced with faux innocence, "about calling the man you love?"
Aansh leaned back in his chair, a dark chuckle escaping him-low, mirthless, dangerous. "Love? That word doesn't exist. You're just a gold-digger in designer heels."
He was ready to hang up, to shut the door on this filth of the past, when her voice slipped in like poison.
"Do you love her?"
The question froze him.
For a fraction of a second, silence hung heavy. His grip on the phone tightened, his pulse hammered against his veins. He could hear his own breath.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lethal calm, a storm barely chained.
"My business with MY WIFE is none of your concern."
The words were precise, deliberate-especially the two that burned like fire. My wife. He wanted her to hear it. To choke on it.
And then, without another word, he ended the call.
The phone clattered onto the desk, the silence swallowing him once again.
Aansh leaned back, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Frustration twisted his features, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He hadn't meant it-not the claim, not the venom, not the ownership in those words. He had only said it to shut Ruksar up.
But still, the echo of those words lingered in the room.
My wife.
And for the first time that night, Aansh Rathore looked less like the ruthless king of an empire... and more like a man caught in chains who refuses to acknowledge.
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Sorry for the late update but I promise to keep updating frequently??