22. Drunk Dhwani.
What a dumb girl.
Does she even hear herself when she talks, or does she just throw words around and hope they land somewhere dangerous?
How the hell does someone not know whether something happened to their own body or not? It was her body. Her senses. Her skin. Her limits.
But no—she doesn’t use her brain. She uses that razor-sharp tongue of hers, the one that exists solely to get on my nerves and test my patience.
I pressed my fingers against my forehead, eyes squeezing shut as last night replayed in my head.
FLASHBACK
“You’re opening my hands or not?” she snapped, glaring at me while I sat on the couch, completely unimpressed.
I shook my head once. Calm. Unbothered.
Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll jump.”
She said it like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to sacrifice herself for the nation.
It was a table.
A table.
Granted, she’s short. And yes, the height was… inconvenient. But still.
“Then jump,” I replied flatly.
Her mouth fell open. “I will jump. And if I die, my brother will personally drag you to Yamraj with him.”
I stared at her. “First of all, dramatic. Second, that’s not how death works.”
“You don’t know anything!” she snapped.
“You’re sitting on furniture, not Mount Everest,” I shot back.
“I’m serious!” she shouted.
“Clearly,” I said dryly.
“ Okay bye.” She jumped, as her feet touched the tiles, she lost balance and immediately slipped.
Thud.
“ Mummmyyyyyy!” She screamed, landed hard, right on the floor, her butt stuck, legs awkward, dignity completely shattered.
“ Stop screaming and giving wrong ideas to my family.” I said rushing towards her.
“Ah—fuck off!” she cried. The moment I touched her, she kicked my hand, of course her hands were tied so she started using these legs.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, tears spilling freely now. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
She was crying. Properly. Loudly. Like the world had ended.
I exhaled. Hands up. Step back.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Not touching. Relax.”
Her shoulders shook. “I hate you,” she cried. “You’re horrible. You tied me up. You made me feel stupid. And now you’re not helping me.” she shouted, I had to close my ears with my hands.
“You jumped off the table,” I muttered, gritting my teeth. What kind of storm I invited.
“I could have died!” she yelled.
Yeah sure!
“You’re alive.”
“That means you want me to die?”
Oh my lord.
Did she eat something wrong?
“Open my hands!” she snapped again, yanking at the handkerchief like it had personally offended her.
“Okay,” I said, already reaching out, annoyed. “Just stop screaming like I’m committing a crime against humanity.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she shot back instantly, chin lifting in challenge.
I paused mid-movement, eyebrow arching. “Trust me,” I muttered dryly, loosening the knot, “if I ever dared, you wouldn’t be sitting here arguing about it.”
“Daaadddiiiiii!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
I reacted on instinct, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” I hissed. “Are you trying to get the entire mansion here?”
I quickly untied her hands.
The second she was free, she shoved me back hard, nearly sending me off balance. Then she winced, twisting slightly, groaning in pain as she placed her hand over her butt.
“Great,” she muttered, face scrunched. “I’ve officially injured myself in the stupidest way possible.”
I stared at her. “You jumped off a table,” I said flatly. “What exactly were you expecting—wings?”
She shot me a murderous look. “You’re the worst.”
“And you,” I replied calmly, “are a walking health hazard.”
She huffed, still rubbing her sore side, dignity completely shattered.
“Let me take you to the bed,” I said, reaching for her arm to help her stand properly.
She immediately shoved at my chest. “I’m not doing anything with you now.”
I blinked. “Doing what?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m not having sex with you anymore. You’re a bad guy.”
I stared at her for a solid second. “Anymore?” I repeated slowly.
She crossed her arms, clearly offended. “Yes. Anymore.”
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “For the record,” I said flatly, “nothing happened before either.”
She scoffed. Logic had officially left the my room.
“Enough of this nonsense,” I snapped. “Do you need help, or are you planning to spend the entire night on the floor?”
She shot me a glare. “You’re an asshole. So what—now you want to do it on the floor?”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Fuck my life. Why did I even do this fucking decoration shit. I can bring her here, give her colors and brush to paint so that she could focus on that national level painting fellowship, but here I'm stuck between her drama's.
It was your fault, you gave her wrong ideas. My brain mocked.
This girl didn’t lack sense, she actively rejected it.
“Aren’t you getting a little too excited about me taking you there?” I said, leaning closer, close enough to make her fidget.
She glanced around like she’d been caught red-handed. “It’s not like that,” she blurted. “I—I’m a good girl.”
“Oh,” I murmured, amused. “A good girl.”
“No—wait—that’s not what I meant,” she rushed, flustered. “I mean… I don’t think about these things. Not like that.”
I raised a brow, lips twitching.
“Relax,” I said lightly. “Your innocence is loud enough already.”
“Fucking stop,” she finally snapped. “Just put me on the bed. I’m hurt.” and then—she wrapped her arm around my neck.
I slid one arm under her knees without thinking, and the next second— She was in the air.
Lifted. Easily.
I blinked. I haven't noticed this before but …That was it?
I stared at her for a second, genuinely offended on behalf of my muscles.
What was the use of this body of mine, seriously?
I’d always imagined my future wife to be at least seventy—maybe eighty kilos. You know, someone solid. Someone who would test me.
This girl?
I’d bet my entire fortune she didn’t even touch fifty.
My expectations. Absolutely shattered.
She glanced at me suspiciously. “Why are you staring like that?”
I sighed.
“Nothing,” I muttered. “Just mourning a dream.”
“What dream?” she asked, frowning.
I scoffed and adjusted my grip on her.
“Nothing you need to worry your tiny, overthinking head about,” I said dryly. “Focus on staying alive till the bed, not decoding my disappointment.”
She shot me a death glare, sharp enough to wound, then turned her face away—offended, sulking, and very clearly plotting my downfall in her head.
I settled her onto the bed carefully, like she was made of cotton—fragile, light, and entirely too breakable for my sanity.
“Okay,” she announced immediately. “I’m hungry. I want food.”
The audacity.
“Go get it from the kitchen,” I replied flatly.
She gasped, offended. “I got hurt because of you. It’s the least you can do.”
She showed her big eyes. Soft pout. Pure, calculated innocence.
A professional trickster.
I knew exactly what she was doing. I also knew I was already losing. My sanity.
I sighed, turned on my heel, and walked out of the room.
She was too damn thin, and knowing my luck, she’d probably faint just to prove a point.
I mean—no. That wouldn’t happen.
…Probably.
Still.
As I reached downstairs, I froze.
Daadi.
Daadu.
Dhrithika.
And unfortunately—Ishaan.
All sitting there. Eating peacefully.
Of course.
My luck was always spectacular.
The food was already on the table, which meant I had no escape. I had to take it from here.
“Bhaiya, come eat with us,” Dhrithika said cheerfully.
[ Vote please ]
I glanced at her and couldn’t help it—a faint smile slipped through. For the first time in years, she looked like herself again. Not lost. Not broken. Just… her.
“he’ll probably eat with his revenge wife,” Daadi remarked dryly, clearly enjoying herself.
“Well, that wouldn’t be wrong,” Daadu added with a smile. “I wait for you too, Sharda.”
Daadi shot him a death glare.
I sat down, served myself a small portion. They mattered. This moment mattered.
After a few bites, I took another plate and started serving food into it.
“Sir?” Ishaan’s voice cut in. “What’s that for?”
Ishaan Awasthi. He has a very real death wish. I shot him a look that promised consequences.
“Obviously for his revenge wife,” Daadi said before I could answer, lips curling in mockery. “Right, Yugant?”
I didn’t look at her. I just picked up the plate and stood. “Yes,” I said calmly. “For my revenge wife.”
I came upstairs without looking back.
The moment I reached her door, I tried the handle.
Locked.
“Dhwani,” I muttered. “I will actually kill you.”
I knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
Nothing.
Fine.
I reached for the spare key—the one I kept on the table outside my room for emergencies. This qualified as a national emergency.
The door opened.
Dark. Suspiciously dark.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and placed the plate on the coffee table. I moved toward the bed to switch on the lamp—and suddenly Someone jumped on me from behind.
Ofcourse dhwani.
The next second, I was swallowed by a comforter like a burrito in a panic attack. I lost balance and fell straight onto the bed.
“What the—”
She landed on top of the blanket and started punching—wild, dramatic, aimless punches.
“You ghost!” she yelled. “I’ll kill you! I am Dhwani—Dhwani kills everyone!”
…Is she fucking drunk?
Wait.
Is she fucking really drunk?
Did she drink the bear I placed in a small refrigerator in my room?
I tried to kick my way out, legs flailing like a trapped octopus, when something soft slammed onto my face. A pillow.
Then—weight.
Heavy, immovable weight.
Oh no.
Did she just…
Did she just SIT—
I stopped breathing.
“Dhwani!” I croaked. “Get off!”
“You evil spirit!” she screamed. “You came to steal Yugant! I will protect him! I am Superwoman!”
I thrashed. The comforter tightened.
“Superwoman,” I gasped, “you’re killing the wrong person!”
She punched the pillow again. “DIE!”
“This is not how heroism works!” I wheezed and finally managed to shove the comforter aside, sucking in air like I’d survived a shipwreck.
She leaned over me, hair wild, eyes half-closed, looking absolutely unhinged.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
“…Why are there two of you?” she asked seriously. “ Which one should I kill first?”
“SHUT UP!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
She blinked at me, genuinely impressed. “Ohhh… ghosts can shout?”
Mad. Absolutely mad.
I looked at her from head to toe, she was wearing my shirt.
My shirt.
Looking hot, doesn't she? My brain asked.
That's so unfair.
I exhaled.
“Just go to sleep,” I snapped, pointing angrily at the bed, because she was making me loose my sanity.
“No!” she declared. “I’ll kill you. You came here to steal Yugant.”
Before I could react, she slid off the bed, wrapped both arms around my leg—and yanked hard.
I crashed to the floor with a groan, my head smacking the side table.
“DHWANIII!” I yelled, equal parts rage and pain and grabbed her legs in reflex, and she fell beside me. Her back hit the floor, her head landing right against my chest.
She whispered softly. “You beat me.”
I didn’t even argue and tightened my arm around her immediately, locking her in place before she could pull another stunt. She kicked once, twice—I trapped her legs as well, fully caging her.
“Stay. Still,” I snapped.
“ You’re a good ghost. Don't take Yugant away and bring my brother…please.” She muttered incoherently and started sobbing. “He is my family. Give me designs please.”
I rubbed her back, trying to calm her down.
Her movements slowed. Her breath softened and warmed against my neck.
I waited a few minutes.
Finally—She was out.
I stared at the ceiling, completely drained.
Flashback Ends :
After that, I lifted her onto the bed and sank down onto the couch, staring into nothing—questioning every single decision that had brought her into my life.
Bringing her here was the worst decision I’d ever made.
And yet now she was the one design I’d carved into my fate, the only one that would stay with me forever.
This morning, I’d already instructed Ishaan to keep Dhwani’s uncle under constant watch. Every move. Every stop. Every meeting.
Because something about him didn’t sit right with me.
Samarth had old money. Aristocratic. Born into wealth that ran generations deep. A billionaire by blood. And yet, throughout our school and college years, he never once revealed it.
He lived simply. Almost deliberately so.
Middle-class clothes. Middle-class habits. Middle-class problems.
He struggled with money at times—enough that I helped him many times. And that never made sense. No one with that kind of legacy chooses to struggle unless they’re hiding something… or unless everything has already been taken from them.
Which led to only one conclusion.
Samarth didn’t have access to that wealth.
Meaning someone else did.
And after Samarth disappeared, there was only one person left living in that massive Rathore mansion.
Dhwani and Samarth’s uncle.
Maheshwar Pratap Rathore.
If Samarth lost everything—money, identity, freedom—it didn’t happen overnight. It started somewhere. Quietly. Carefully.
And if I wanted answers, I had to go back to the beginning.
To the first crack.
Because whatever destroyed Samarth’s life didn’t end with his disappearance—It simply changed hands.
And if I found Samarth, half of my problems would be solved.
I’d already sent that so-called confession video of his—the one linked to my family’s accident—for verification again. I’d had it checked twice before, but one more time wouldn’t hurt. Not when the truth had cost me everything.
And if that video turned out to be real. Then it meant he was forced.
Forced to confess to crimes that weren’t his.
And that meant he knew the truth. He knew who actually killed my family. He knew who was responsible for the day I had to lift four dead bodies on my shoulders—alone—before the sun even set.
And if Samarth knew that name… Then finding him wasn’t just about justice anymore.
It was about ending the nightmare I’d been living since two fucking day.
Until then, all I could do was pray for one thing—God, just give me the sanity to survive Dhwani Rathore.