The Royal Silence

38. Stained.

“Yugant…”

My name left her lips so softly, shocked, breathless that for a second, everything else blurred.

It wasn’t just her who was stunned, I was just as shocked but how was she here?

“Oh my God! You ruined my brother’s custom-tailored white shirt!” Dhrithika’s voice cut in loud and dramatic.

Both of us turned toward her and suddenly, everything made sense.

Her excitement to come to Florence, the urgency.

This was her doing because she was the only one who was in contact with Dhwani all these months.

“I… I’m sorry. It just happened,” Dhwani apologized again, still holding tissues in her hand.

“It’s alright,” I said quickly, trying to end it there.

“No! It’s not alright,” Dhrithika insisted loudly, attracting unnecessary attention. “She messed it up. She should clean it.”

“Dhriti… leave it,” I forced out, not wanting to make this more uncomfortable than it already was.

“No, Bhaiya. She should at least help you.”

“Dhriti…”

“It’s okay,” Dhwani interrupted quietly. “It was my mistake. Let me clean it.”

She looked at me, steady, determined.

“Where is the washroom?” she asked a nearby waiter.

He pointed toward the hallway.

“Let’s go,” she said and I followed.

Inside the washroom, Dhwani walked straight to the sink and turned toward me.

“Shirt.”

She extended her hand.

Without a word, I started unbuttoning it.

The moment my bare chest was exposed, she looked away instantly. I knew what flashed through her mind.

The Gala night.

The locked washroom.

That same kind of marble counter.

And Us.

I handed her the shirt. She turned on the tap and began rinsing the stain carefully, avoiding my gaze while I stood there, shirtless.

The silence between us was heavy and very… awkward.

Like we were strangers who had crossed a line and now didn’t know how to stand in front of each other.

It felt suffocating.

So I cleared my throat, trying to start a conversation. “Where is Samarth?”

She looked up at me through the mirror.

“In Rajasthan.”

So she came alone. Or maybe not.

“And why did you come here alone?”

“I have some important work,” she replied calmly, not bothering to elaborate.

Again, silence.

For a moment, I wished none of it had happened between us. Maybe then this Royal silence wouldn’t feel like punishment.

She finally turned, holding out my shirt. “Here. It’s clean.”

I took it from her and was about to put it on when I felt the stickiness still clinging to my skin.

She noticed.

Without saying anything, she grabbed fresh tissues and stepped closer.

Slowly, she began wiping my chest… then lower… across my abs.

Her fingers trembled. I saw her swallow.

I never thought something as simple as her touch, soft, hesitant could undo me like this.

It wasn’t even about desire anymore. It was the familiarity. The unfinished history.

And standing there, inches apart in a foreign city, I realized Distance hadn’t changed anything.

Not for me.

In the last four months, I told myself I had moved on.

I convinced myself that distance had healed whatever was left between us. That time had done its job. That I had accepted what she chose.

But standing here in front of her now…

I realized I had lied to myself.

I wasn’t over her.

Not even close.

If anything, I was worse.

The madness I felt for her before? It hadn’t faded. It had deepened. Settled into my bones. Turned quieter, maybe… but stronger.

I still wanted her.

The same way I did before.

Maybe more now because now I knew what it felt like to have her close… and lose her again and that was a far more dangerous craving.

“You can put it on now.” She pointed toward my shirt before throwing the used tissue into the dustbin.

I slipped the shirt back on. The damp fabric clung to my skin, cold and uncomfortable but not nearly as uncomfortable as standing this close to her.

“Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?”

Because I’m not officially engaged yet.

Because I don’t want to wear it.

Because it feels like a chain.

“It shouldn’t concern you… right?” I replied evenly, forcing my voice to stay calm as I turned toward the door.

I needed to leave.

It had been four months. Four long months where I kept telling myself I was fine. That I had accepted everything that she made her choice.

But standing here now, with her this close, the scent of her, the memory of her hands on my skin, I could feel my control slipping.

If I stayed another minute, I would kiss her.

And this time, it wouldn’t be justified by confusion, hope. Or unfinished promises.

Back then, whatever happened between us happened because I believed there was still a chance. Olivia had been a possibility, not a commitment. Something that could be undone.

Now it’s public.

Now there’s a date.

Two months.

In two months, I will be someone else’s husband.

And if I can’t have the woman I love… then the least I can do is stay loyal to the one I’m supposed to marry.

Even if it’s not what I want.

We walked back toward the dinner area.

I spotted Ishaan and Dhrithika sitting beside each other. Ishaan looked like he was about to stand, but Dhrithika was holding his wrist and pointing a finger at him as if threatening him.

What goes on inside this girl’s head, I will never understand.

I stepped closer. Dhwani followed behind me. I didn’t turn, but I could feel her presence, the slight distance in her steps, the stiffness. Was she annoyed?

“Bhaiya, you’re here! Let’s eat, I’m starving,” Dhrithika said

“Dhwani was sitting here. Let’s find another table,” I said, not wanting to make things awkward.

Dhrithika turned back. “Dhwani, can we join you at this table?”

Dhwani looked at her then at Ishaan then at me. And then back at Dhrithika before nodding once.

“See? She doesn’t have a problem. Now both of you sit.”

I pulled out the chair for her.

She immediately pushed it back in and pulled it out herself before sitting down.

What was that?

I exhaled quietly and took the seat beside her. Ishaan was already beside Dhrithika, so there wasn’t much choice anyway.

We picked up our plates and served ourselves, pretending this was just another normal dinner.

“Dhwani, what time will you reach the venue tomorrow?” Dhrithika asked chewing her food.

Venue?

“By 10 a.m.,” Dhwani replied calmly, without looking at me. So that's why she is here?

“Did you come here for an art exhibition?” Ishaan asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Dhwani replied. “It’s a national-level fellowship exhibition. My paintings were shortlisted months ago, and after the final screening, they got selected for international display.”

She said it calmly. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

Wait.

Was this the same exhibition I once pushed her to participate in?but couldn't because of all the drama in our life?

Did her paintings actually get selected?

“Oh,” Ishaan said, impressed. “Then you owe us a party. That’s huge.”

She gave a small smile. “Sure. But I’ll be busy for the next five days. And I assume by then you all will be back in India. So… maybe next time.”

“No, no,” Dhrithika cut in immediately. “We’re not leaving for the next ten days.”

I paused mid-bite.

“Give your best in the exhibition,” she continued brightly. “We’ll take the party after it’s over. Right, Bhaiya?”

I looked up.

Dhwani sighed softly. She probably assumed we’d leave soon. Maybe she hoped we would.

And I still couldn’t understand what exactly Dhrithika was trying to do. Why was she stretching this? Why was she pushing us into the same space?

I didn't respond this time. Silence followed again as we focused on our plates. Can't believe she is the same Dhwani who can't stop talking.

“Dhwani,” Dhrithika said again, “I’ll come with you tomorrow. Bhaiya has some business meetings, so he’ll probably be busy.”

“No,” I said instantly. “I’m not busy. Ishaan and I will join.”

Of course I wasn’t going to miss it. An important day of her life? I’m going to be there. Even if she doesn't want it.

“But sir… we have a meeting,” Ishaan interrupted.

Once a traitor, always a traitor.

“The client cancelled,” I said smoothly. “I just got the email.”

“But when did...”

He coughed suddenly as my foot connected with his under the table. Kicked.

Such a fool.

“Okay,” he muttered finally. “As you say.”

The look he gave me promised revenge later.

But I didn’t care.

“Okay, I’m done. I should leave.”

Dhwani pushed her plate away and was about to stand.

“Wait,” Dhrithika said quickly. “I ordered dessert. Have it with us then we’ll walk back together.”

“I’m avoiding sugar,” Dhwani replied calmly.

“Bhaiya and I too. That’s why I ordered a sugar-free one,” Dhrithika insisted.

I closed my eyes for a second. She was pushing too much today.

And I didn’t know whether to stop her or let this unfold.

Dhwani hesitated for a second. I could see the internal debate. Stay? Leave?

“It’s fine,” I said finally, keeping my tone neutral. “You don’t have to.”

I didn’t want her to feel cornered.

But Dhrithika leaned forward dramatically. “Please? It’s not even that sweet. Just a few bites.”

Dhwani looked at her, then at the table, then briefly at me and I hated how even that one second of eye contact still did something to me.

“Fine,” she said quietly, sitting back down. “Just a little.”

"But I’m not avoiding sugar,” Ishaan said, looking straight at Dhrithika.

“Oh,” she replied with a tight-lipped smile. “I didn’t order for you either.”

Ishaan didn’t say anything immediately, but I could see the irritation flash across his face.

“What would you like to have, Ishaan?” Dhwani asked gently, picking up the menu. “Let me order.”

Dhrithika kept her focus on her food, pretending not to notice.

That wasn’t like her.

She has always been considerate almost overly so. Whether someone mattered to her or not, she never made them feel excluded. Not in a gathering at least.

But tonight…She didn’t seem to care. Whether she was hurting him knowingly or unknowingly.

Ishaan cleared his throat. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything.”

“Don’t be dramatic Mr Awasthi,” Dhwani said calmly. “Let's keep it as a thank you treat from my side. You helped me a lot earlier.”

He looked at her, surprised.

Okay fucking look away, not at her.

“Just coffee,” he muttered, finally looking away. “Black.”

“Always boring, I’m ordering tiramisu.” Dhwani signaled the waiter.

When the desserts arrived, the table fell into a strange rhythm. Dhwani spoke to Ishaan and Dhrithika naturally but she didn’t look at me once.

And I did the same. Avoided her.

Because it was better this way.

After dinner, we walked downstairs together. The corridor was quiet when we reached her floor. Dhwani stopped outside her room just two doors away from ours.

“Good night,” she said softly.

“Good night,” Dhrithika replied cheerfully.

I simply nodded.

She slid her key card in and disappeared behind the door.

Ishaan excused himself soon after, vanishing toward his own room.

I walked Dhrithika to hers and stepped inside before she could block me. She tried anyway, already knowing what was coming.

“Bhaiya… I’m so tired. Please go back to your room.”

Dramatic. Always.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you brought me here.”

“I didn’t bring you,” she shot back. “You came yourself.”

That wasn’t entirely wrong.

“But you tricked me, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t let you come alone.”

“So it’s good, right?” she said quickly. “You got to meet Dhwani. You got a chance.”

“A chance for what?” I stepped closer, my voice rising without meaning to.

“A chance to fix things. Tell her you love her.”

My jaw tightened. How do I tell her I already did? And she refused.

“I’m engaged, Dhrithika.”

“That wasn’t an engagement,” she argued immediately. “That was a public announcement under pressure from Adhvait bhaiya and Mr. Kingsley. You still have two months. You can make things right.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” I snapped. “There’s nothing left to fix. I’m marrying Olivia. She’s the one who’s going to be my wife. Stop playing these tricks.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted the tone. Her eyes filled instantly.

She has always been emotionally fragile. After our parents death, even more.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I won’t do anything again. You can go.”

She turned away and lay down, pulling the comforter over herself.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why did I shout at her?

She wasn’t wrong for wanting me to be happy.

I walked to the bed and sat beside her. “Dhriti.”

No response.

But I could hear her small hiccups.

“Dhriti…” I tried again.

She pushed my hand away. “Go away, Bhaiya,” she said, voice breaking. “I just want you happy, and you shouted at me.”

That hurt.

I made her cry.

“Dhriti, I’m sorry. At least listen to me once.”

“No! I’ll call Dadi. I’ll tell her what you did. I’m going back tomorrow.”

Before she could bury herself deeper into the blanket, I pulled the comforter down and gently but firmly held her arms, making her sit upright.

“Listen to me.”

“No! I don’t want to listen.”

Tears streamed down her face, falling off her chin.

“Okay. I’m sorry,” I said immediately, my voice softer. “I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m really sorry. Come here.”

I pulled her into my arms. She resisted for a second before collapsing against my chest.

“You’re so bad,” she mumbled between sobs. “You shout. Adhvait bhaiya never shouts. He never even says NO to me.”

That’s the problem. He never said no.

He let you grow stubborn. Spoiled you. Blurred your sense of right and wrong.

I swallowed the sharp response that rose to my tongue.

“Okay,” I sighed, stroking her hair. “Tell me what you want.”

She pulled back slightly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“I just want you happy,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t matter if it’s with Dhwani or Olivia.”

And that… was the hardest part because I don’t even know what happiness looks like anymore.

“And we both know it’s not with Olivia bhaiya, so why not try once with Dhwani?”

I cupped her face gently. “It’s impossible. You know Samarth hates me.”

“You will not get married to Samarth bhaiya,” she answered back instantly. “You have to marry his sister and if you convince Dhwani, Samarth bhaiya will agree too.”

She still thinks it’s that simple.

“Please, Bhaiya… just once. I’m sure she’ll understand.” Her eyes were pleading now, hopeful in a way that made it hard to refuse.

I exhaled slowly.

“You do realize what happens if the Kingsleys find out, right?” I asked. “Do you want to put Dhwani’s life in danger?”

“If they’re powerful, we’re not weak either,” she argued. “And if you and Dhwani get married before the deadline, what can they actually do? Nothing. But if they find out now… then yes, it could become dangerous.”

She wasn’t entirely wrong. There was still a window.

A small one.

Two months. Enough to either fix everything… or destroy it completely.

I stared at the floor for a moment.

This wasn’t just about love anymore.

It was about pride. About walking back to someone who once said no.

“Okay,” I finally said, forcing the words out. “I’ll try.”

Even though this time, it wasn’t just my heart on the line. It was my self-respect.

Her face lit up instantly. She threw her arms around me.

“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging me tightly.

Trying might be the bravest thing I do. Or the most foolish.

I made her sleep, and came back to my room after some time.

Inside my room, I closed the door and loosened my collar. The silence felt heavier than before. I removed my shirt and stood in front of the mirror.

My gaze dropped unconsciously to my abdomen to the place where Dhwani’s fingers had brushed earlier while she cleaned the stain.

I could still feel it. That brief touch.

It shouldn’t matter.

Four months.

Four months and I had convinced myself I had moved on. But standing there, staring at my reflection, I realized I hadn’t.

Not even close.

“Let’s give another shot to whatever spark is still left between us.”

The words echoed in my head longer than I expected.

?

Next Morning

By 9:10 a.m., we were at breakfast.

Dhrithika had already called Dhwani and dragged her down to the restaurant before I could even ask.

She walked in wearing a simple white shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, hair loosely tied, minimal makeup, calm, composed, focused.

Not looking at me.

We ate like civilized strangers. At exactly 9:35, she stood.

“I should leave. Reporting time is 10.”

“We’re coming,” Dhrithika announced before I could speak.

Dhwani paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Fine.”

The venue was just 8-10 minutes away from there. We reached before time.

The venue was a restored heritage art gallery near Piazza del Duomo, its exterior a blend of old Florentine stone architecture and modern glass installations.

This wasn’t a small showcase.

It was serious.

Artists were already arriving, some carrying framed canvases, some wheeling protective cases, some accompanied by curators. A large banner outside displayed:

International Fellowship Art Showcase Florence Edition

Inside, the space was divided into sections:

Registration Verification Desk

Artist Preparation Area

Gallery Display Halls

Press Media Zone

Dhwani walked straight to the registration desk.

“I’m Dhwani Rathore. Fellowship artist,” she said confidently.

The coordinator checked her name against the digital list.

“Yes, Ms. Rathore. Hall B, Section 4. Your display panels are ready. You can begin installation.”

To be honest, I was more like that new admitted student in school who didn't know where his class was. But seeing her confidence made me feel so proud.

Each selected artist is given a designated wall space or display panel. They personally supervise the hanging and placement of their work to ensure lighting, spacing, and presentation are correct. Curators walk around during setup, observing.

Two staff members brought in her carefully packed paintings from the storage counter where artists deposit them.

She unwrapped them one by one and I finally saw them properly.

Emotion without noise.

The central piece a portrait with abstract detailing, held something familiar in its gaze.

Confidence.

Pain.

Fire.

Dhrithika leaned toward me. “She’s going to win something. I can feel it.”

I didn’t answer.

I was watching Dhwani. Why do I feel like I saw that kind of painting before as well?

Around 10:30, the exhibition officially opened. Small nameplates were placed beneath each artwork.

Dhwani Rathore — India

Underneath, the theme description:

“Reconstruction of Identity Through Light and Ruin.”

People began stopping in front of her section.

Some whispering.

Some taking notes.

One older Italian curator stood longer than the others, studying her central piece carefully.

Dhwani answered questions with composure explaining inspiration, technique, symbolism.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her paintings.

There was something raw and unapologetic in them. The way she played with light and shadow, how the darker strokes didn’t overpower the warmth but somehow strengthened it… it felt intentional.

Controlled chaos.

“Bhaiya…” Dhrithika nudged my arm.

“Hmm?”

“Can we also purchase a painting from this exhibition?” She tilted her head toward me, eyes sparkling with mischief.

That… wasn’t a bad idea. Actually, it was a very good one.

“You want to buy one?” I asked calmly.

“Why not?” she shrugged. “If collectors can, why can’t we? And it’s Dhwani’s first international showcase. It would mean something.”

It would mean a lot more than something.

I looked toward the small red dots beside some paintings in other sections indicators of reserved or sold pieces.

Collectors were already circling.

“This isn’t like a normal gallery,” I said thoughtfully. “Usually, for fellowship exhibitions, a few selected works are marked ‘available for acquisition.’ The organizers handle transactions through their sales desk. It’s formal.”

“So?” she challenged softly.

“So… we can buy one. If it’s listed for sale.”

Her lips curved.

“I want that one,” she said, pointing subtly toward the central piece the one that held fire in its eyes.

Of course she chose that because she actually wants to help Dhwani.

There was a small catalog number beneath it which meant it was part of the sale listing.

“You’re serious?” I asked.

She nodded.

I glanced at Dhwani and imagined that painting hanging in my study.

A reminder.

Or maybe… a confession without words.

“Fine,” I said finally. “Let’s speak to the sales coordinator.”

Dhrithika grinned.

We walked toward the acquisition desk near the curator lounge. A woman in a black blazer greeted us politely.

“Good morning. Are you interested in purchasing a piece?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied calmly. “Catalog B-14. Artist Dhwani Rathore.”

She checked the digital tablet in her hand.

“Ah, yes. That piece is available. It’s part of the fellowship sale collection. The price is listed in the catalog, but it's too expensive.”

She showed us the amount.

It wasn’t small but that wasn’t the point.

“We’ll take it,” I said without bargaining.

She nodded professionally. “The painting will remain displayed until the exhibition concludes. After that, it will be professionally packed and shipped to the registered address. We require a deposit now and the remaining upon documentation confirmation.”

Ishaan handled the formalities. The purchase was registered under a private collector’s name as I don't want her to think, I do this deliberately because she always took me wrong.

“Would you like the artist to be informed?” the coordinator asked.

“No,” I said firmly, Dhrithika glanced at me but didn’t argue. “Please keep the buyer confidential.”

“Of course,” the woman replied. “Confidential purchases are common at fellowship exhibitions.”

We signed the digital form.

Transaction completed.

As we walked back toward the gallery hall, Dhrithika leaned closer.

“She’ll never know?”

“Not unless we tell her.”

“And we won’t?”

“Not yet.”

Some gestures are meant to speak later.

The gallery remained crowded till around 1:30 p.m.

Collectors moved slowly from section to section. A few journalists interviewed selected artists. Dhwani handled every interaction with calm clarity explaining her theme, technique, inspiration.

By noon, two of her smaller pieces already had “Reserved” tags.

She didn’t react outwardly.

But I saw it, that tiny pause before she composed herself again.

Pride.

Earned.

Around 2 p.m., the crowd slightly thinned. Only serious buyers and jury members remained. The fellowship coordinator announced that Day 1 viewing would close by 3 p.m., followed by a private networking session for selected artists.

“Bhaiya…” Dhrithika tugged at my sleeve.

“Yes?”

“I’m tired. My legs are dying. I can’t stand anymore.”

Of course. She had been roaming since morning, pretending to observe art seriously.

I looked at her then at Dhwani before looking back at Dhrithika.

“Go sit somewhere,” I said calmly.

“No, I don’t want to sit alone.”

I exhaled.

“Ishaan,” I called without looking at him. He already knew.

“Sir?”

“Take Dhrithika to the café area downstairs. Make her sit and get her something.”

His jaw tightened slightly but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Dhrithika looked between us, clearly disappointed.

“You’re not coming?”

“I’ll join later.” That was a lie.

She pouted but finally walked away with Ishaan, who looked like he had been sentenced unfairly.

As Dhrithika and Ishaan disappeared toward the café, I took a few steps closer to Dhwani.

She was standing in front of her central piece, arms folded, eyes slightly narrowed studying her own painting like she was still searching for flaws.

She looked tired.

I knew her, the moment she’d reach the hotel, she’d collapse into sleep.

“Can I purchase one of the paintings, Ms. Rathore?” I murmured, leaning slightly closer so only she could hear.

She stiffened then turned. Her lips parted the way they always did when she was caught off guard.

“Um… sorry,” she replied, regaining composure quickly. “Most of them are already sold.”

“Most?” I raised a brow. “So there’s hope.”

She tilted her chin slightly. “Collectors were quicker than you.”

“Unfortunate for them,” I said lightly. “I tend to value things properly.”

Her eyes flickered, irritation or amusement, I couldn’t tell.

“And why exactly do you want to buy one?” she asked calmly. “To decorate your study?”

“Maybe.” I said softly, “ or maybe I just like the artist.”

Her breath hitched almost invisibly.

Professional mask.

Back on.

“Personal liking doesn’t influence acquisition decisions, Mr. Raizaada,” she replied smoothly. “Art requires appreciation beyond sentiment.”

“Oh?” I stepped into her personal space.. “And what if the appreciation is deeper than sentiment?”

Her eyes held mine.

Steady.

“You’re too late for appreciation,” she said quietly. “Deadlines matter, remember?”

That hit.

Clean and precise, just like her brush strokes.

I smiled faintly. “Deadlines can be extended.”

“Not all of them.”

The next two months flashed in front of my eyes.Unspoken but present.

I shifted the topic before the air grew heavier.

“You handled the critics well,” I said honestly. “The Italian curator was impressed.”

“You were listening?”

“I was watching.”

She looked away for a second.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said softly. “You don’t owe me encouragement.”

“I’m not pretending.” she glanced back at her painting again.

“You don’t look like someone who came here for business meetings.”

“Maybe I changed my schedule.”

“For art?”

“For something worth watching.”

“ Like what?”

“Like the artist who created these masterpieces,” I said smoothly, my gaze shifting from the painting back to her. “The one who doesn’t even realize that the real work of art isn’t hanging on that wall… it’s standing right in front of me.”

“That’s a very polished line, Mr. Raizaada,” she replied, trying to sound unimpressed. “Do you practice these in front of a mirror before using them?”

“No, I did not,” I said smoothly. “I’m naturally talented at this… just like you’re talented on canvas.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lips betrayed her.

“But,” I continued, my tone lowering, gaze fixed on her, “that’s not the only place you leave an impression.”

Her fingers tightened around the exhibition catalog.

“Oh?” she challenged, though her voice had softened. “And where else would that be?”

I didn’t rush the answer. My eyes lingered on her face — slow, deliberate, remembering.

“On me,” I replied, my voice came out rough. “In ways that don’t fade. In marks I felt long after the night was over. You leave your signature everywhere you touch.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly, knowing exactly what I am talking about.

“Th-that’s inappropriate,” she muttered, pressing her palm lightly against my chest as if to steady herself.

“Inappropriate?” I murmured, unfazed. “I’m simply acknowledging unforgettable work.”

She stepped back half an inch, trying to create distance that didn’t quite exist.

“You should appreciate it from a distance then, Mr. Raizaada.”

I gave a faint, knowing smile.

“I tried distance, but it didn't erase anything.”

???