Chapter Eleven The Geography of Healing #3
He missed glancing down the length of the dining table and seeing her quiet, dignified posture. He missed the way she would politely nod at the staff, treating them with a warmth the rest of the family severely lacked.
Earlier that day, at the KDG tower, he had found himself staring through the frosted glass walls of his office, his eyes automatically seeking out her desk on the forty-second floor, only to be hit with a hollow, bruising ache when he remembered she wasn't there.
It struck him as profoundly strange, even unsettling, that he should miss someone he had treated with nothing but unyielding coldness for an entire year.
They had never shared a meaningful conversation until the day he confessed the truth.
They had never shared a bed, or a laugh, or a shared dream.
Their entire marriage had been a masterclass in silent hostility.
Yet, as he sat in his study late that night, nursing a glass of scotch, Rovanth felt as though an invisible tether connecting his chest to the world had been violently severed.
He couldn't quite untangle the knot in his stomach.
Was it merely the overwhelming, suffocating guilt gnawing at him?
Was his conscience simply demanding her presence so he could continue his pathetic attempts at penance?
Or was it something else? Was it the terrifying realization that the only person in the world who didn't want his money, who didn't fear his power, and who had looked at him with genuine, uncalculated care, was currently sitting in a different city, slipping through his fingers like water?
Whatever the feeling was, it left the undisputed heir of the Kalresh-Dhen empire quietly, completely unraveling.
He set his scotch glass down on his desk. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket, the screen illuminating his exhausted features in the dark study.
He opened his messaging app. He tapped on her name.
The cursor blinked steadily against the blank screen.
Tentatively, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, Rovanth typed out a message. He deleted it. He typed another. He deleted it again, his heart hammering with the terrified anxiety of a teenager, rather than the confidence of a billionaire CEO.
Finally, he settled for a casual, desperately simple check-in.
Hope the flight was smooth. Is everything fine? Is Pune treating you well? - R
He hit send before he could overthink it, tossing the phone onto the desk as if it might burn him.
He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. The silence of the study pressed against his eardrums.
Finally, the phone buzzed. Rovanth snatched it up so fast he nearly knocked his glass over.
The flight was fine, thank you. Everything is well here. - Anshira
It was polite. It was grammatically perfect. It was exactly the way she had always spoken to him, even from the very beginning of their marriage. It offered no opening, no warmth, no invitation for further dialogue.
Rovanth stared at the glowing text, a, sinking feeling settling into his gut.
Driven by a sudden, masochistic curiosity, he began to scroll up. He scrolled past his message, scrolling back through the history of their digital communication over the past twelve months.
He swiped up. And up. And up.
He stopped, his breath catching in his throat.
Looking back at the screen, Rovanth realized with a violent, sickening jolt that his message tonight was the very first time he had ever initiated a text to her about anything.
The screen was a digital graveyard of his own neglect. In the early months of their marriage, the blue bubbles were one-sided. It had been Anshira who had occasionally reached out.
November 12: Dadi requested we attend the gala at the embassy tonight. What time should I be ready?
No reply.
December 4: The chef is asking if you will be home for dinner. Shall I have them hold a plate for you?
No reply.
January 18: I noticed you were coughing this morning. I left some ginger tea in a thermos on your desk in the study.
No reply.
Rovanth stared at the texts, the physical evidence of her gentle, quiet attempts at connection. She had tried. Despite his cruelty, despite the hostility, she had tried to be a wife. She had tried to reach across the chasm he had built.
And he had given her absolutely nothing but silence.
He kept scrolling. Somewhere around six or eight months ago, the blue bubbles abruptly stopped.
She had simply given up. Her optimism had finally been crushed under the heel of his silence.
Neither of them had texted the other since, a digital reflection of the sterile, dead wasteland their marriage had become.
The realization sat strangely with him, heavier and far more devastating than he expected.
He had spent the last week agonizing over how to earn back her trust, how to prove he had changed.
But looking at the phone in his hand, Rovanth finally understood the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the damage he had done.
He hadn't just misunderstood her. He had systematically, deliberately starved a heart that had been trying to beat for him.
Rovanth let the phone slip from his hand, burying his face in his palms as the silence of the empty estate finally rushed in to consume him.