Throne and Thread

Chapter 6 Love, Government Approved

A quiet girl and a dangerous boy rarely make a peaceful story.

- Author

In Ashwin Adani's private suite, the grandeur of the wedding faded into muted golds and silence.

Adhrita stood near the window, her fists clenched, the shimmer of her yellow suit catching the light like it was mocking her.

"How could you do this, Dad?" Her voice trembled - not with weakness, but with betrayal. Her eyes were glassy, but not broken.

Ashwin exhaled heavily, walked over to the armchair, and sat down like he had aged ten years since morning.

Adhrita," he began gently, deliberately soft. "There's something I need to tell you. About your mother. Vaidehi."

That one word.

Vaidehi.

It stopped her like a slammed door.

"She wanted you to be a Vardhan's daughter-in-law," he said, carefully. As if offering her grief disguised as legacy.

Adhrita stared at him, stunned. "She knew the Vardhans?"

"Yes," he nodded. "We were all in the same party, remember?

With Vedashree ji's father's mentorship and your mother's wisdom, I became the leader I am today - three-time Chief Minister.

Your mother... she always worried about your safety.

The threats, the enemies... the spotlight.

" He paused, then added softly, "So she made a promise. To Shaurya Vardhan. For your hand."

There it was. The whole betrayal wrapped in sentiment and strategy.

He was playing the only card that could bend Adhrita: her mother's memory.

And he knew it.

Her face was unreadable. Her silence wasn't submission - it was fury trying to remain graceful.

"Why didn't she ever tell me?" she asked finally, voice low.

Ashwin looked away. "She didn't want to scare you. And then... she left us. I was left with the promise."

Adhrita turned her back to him, arms crossed tightly, the image of her mother colliding with the cold reality she'd walked into.

Ashwin's voice softened further, like velvet dipped in strategy.

"In fact... she left you a letter."

Adhrita turned sharply. "What?"

He nodded, expression solemn. "I kept it. Thought I'd give it to you when the time was right."

She stared at him, something inside her wobbling between hope and heartbreak.

Ashwin walked to the cupboard, opened a drawer, and took out a thin ivory envelope. Her name was written in delicate blue ink - Adhrita, in her mother's unmistakable handwriting.

Except... it wasn't.

Because Ashwin had faked it.

The paper was old, yes. But the words inside were his - carefully worded, deliberately vague, stitched with just enough motherly warmth to fool a grieving daughter.

Adhrita took it with trembling hands, her throat thick as she unfolded it.

??????

My dearest Adhrita,

If you're reading this, it means your life is changing. I wish I were there to hold your hand.

You are stronger than you think - and braver than I ever was. I only ask you to trust your father. He knows what is best for you. And the Vardhans... they will protect you, in ways the world never could.

Love always,

Mummy

??????

The words felt like home - even if they were written in someone else's ink.

She folded the letter slowly, reverently, holding it to her chest as if it were her mother's hand.

Ashwin watched her, eyes unreadable.

One tear slid down her cheek.

And for the first time that day, she didn't fight it.

??? V ? A ???

Vedashree turned the moment Shaurya stepped in, her eyes blazing beneath the soft folds of her silk saree.

"How could you make such a promise?" she demanded, voice low but lethal. "Adani's daughter?"

Shaurya shut the door behind him with deliberate calm. "Well sweetheart, before you crucify me - let's not forget you're the reason this happened."

Vedashree scoffed. "Excuse me?"

Shaurya poured himself a glass of water like it was a press briefing. "You wanted loyalty. A cleaner alliance within the party. Who better than the Adanis? Stable, scandal-free, and conveniently vulnerable."

Just then, the door creaked again.

Vritant strolled in - hands in pockets, linen shirt wrinkled from disinterest, not wear. He glanced at both his parents, sensing tension like a lion sniffs blood.

"Am I early for the execution or late for the betrayal?" he asked lazily.

Vedashree turned to him, biting. "Your father thinks your engagement is a brilliant political strategy."

Vritant raised an eyebrow. "Engagement? Wow. Did I at least get a cake, or just the chains?"

Shaurya didn't flinch. "You'll do this. For the family."

Vritant narrowed his eyes. "Are you bluffing?"

Shaurya met his gaze evenly. "Have I ever forced you into anything?"

A pause.

"Then what's the real reason?" Vritant asked, quietly. He knew his father. Knew when it was about the country - and when it was personal.

Shaurya's jaw tightened. "You think I'm like your mother? For whom the country is everything?"

Vedashree turned sharply, her glare slicing between them like a drawn blade.

"Why do you think I'm asking the reason, Dad?" Vritant's voice was lower now - not confrontational. Just perceptive. Too perceptive.

Shaurya exhaled once. And then dropped the truth like a match in a dry room.

"I made him a promise. That my son will marry his daughter. For her protection."

Vedashree stepped forward instantly. "That was not the deal, Shaurya. The deal was the CM chair."

"No, Vedashree," Shaurya said, his voice cold and final. "The deal was the CM chair and his daughter's safety. She had no idea why her father was marrying her off. But I did."

"She's not marrying into the Vardhans," Vedashree snapped.

"She will," Shaurya said. "Because I promised."

Vritant didn't flinch. But something in his eyes darkened.

"And why did you promise, Dad?" he asked - steady, but sure there was more buried underneath.

Shaurya looked at his son. Then at Vedashree. And when he spoke, the steel in his voice returned.

"Because he helped me find the people who kidnapped you and Vedant," he said. "And the man who killed your brother."

Vedashree's breath hitched - just slightly - but enough. She had known.

"Yes," Shaurya continued, voice clipped. "Ashwin Adani gave me the name. The location. The network. Everything. And I found him."

A beat.

"I shot him straight in the face."

The room fell into a brutal silence.

"I don't give a damn about his CM chair, or your politics, or your country," Shaurya said. His voice cracked, then steadied. "I only care about my children. One's ashes. One's breath."

He turned to Vritant.

"I gave my word. Not as a politician. As a father. And I promised you, Vritant. For her."

He didn't react. Not immediately. Years had taught him that silence guarded better than rage. But inside - something fractured. Quietly. Deeply.

So this was it.

Not strategy. Not diplomacy.

A blood-bond wrapped in political silk.

A life - his life - traded in return for a father's vengeance.

A promise made the moment they found the man who killed Vedant.

Not by intelligence agencies.

Not by his mother's system.

But by Ashwin Adani.

The man who gave his father a name.

And his father - in return - gave him a daughter.

Adhrita.

She had no idea.

Neither did he.

Apparently, they were always meant to orbit each other.

Not because of fate.

Because of bullets.

Because of the blood that soaked the backseat of that car.

Because his twin brother died holding his hand.

Vedant.

The boy who laughed louder.

Fell harder.

Dreamed brighter.

And Vritant - the one who survived.

He never forgave himself for that.

Vedant didn't deserve to die.

And he didn't deserve to be mourned through a marriage contract.

He did this for Vritant?

No.

He did it for a boy who never made it past fourteen.

For the son who didn't survive.

Even now, Vedant was choosing for him.

Even now, Adhrita was walking into a family where love had prerequisites - and survival was currency.

She didn't deserve this.

Neither did he.

But Vritant knew the truth now - the kind that carved men hollow:

This wasn't a romance.

It was repayment.

A deal inked in death.

And no matter how much he resented the promise...

He'd been written into it - the day his brother bled out in his arms.

Vedashree stepped closer, her voice clipped. "She's not one of us. She doesn't understand this world."

He looked between them - his mother's fire, his father's frost.

"Well, neither did I," he said. "But you both raised me on manipulation and martyrdom. I turned out just fine."

He walked past them, then paused by the door. Smirk intact.

"Congratulations, Mom. You finally found a daughter-in-law who's just as trapped as your son."

And with that, he left - his silence louder than any slogan.

Shaurya didn't say a word as Vritant's footsteps faded.

Because he knew his son - sharp-eyed, steel-willed, and quietly rebellious. Vritant would never choose the path his mother carved. And Shaurya didn't have to convince him. Vedashree had already made it easier. Her opposition had lit the fuse - like always.

Vedashree turned, livid. "You always knew, didn't you? That he would do the opposite of what I asked."

Shaurya met her eyes. Cold. Silent.

Because he hadn't forgotten. Would never forget.

He exhaled, slow. "I'm doing what you never did," he said, voice flat. "I'm protecting our son - before I lose him too."

Vedashree's eyes widened, but Shaurya had already turned away.

Because some wars weren't fought on borders.

They were fought in palaces - between silence and ambition.

And he had already buried one son.

He wouldn't risk burying another.

??? V ? A ???

The palace had too many corridors, too many echoes - but somehow, he always found his way to the places that hurt the most.

Vritant turned the corner instinctively, not thinking.

And then he saw her.

Sitting in the same jharokha.

Now she sat there, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her face buried in the fold.

But the tremor in her shoulders... gave her away.

She was crying.

Not softly. Not theatrically. Just... brokenly.

The way someone cries when they think no one is watching. When the weight becomes too much, and the body gives up before the mind can reason with it.

And suddenly, the war raging in his head - Shaurya's promise, Vedashree's fury, Vedant's memory - it all quieted.

Because this - this wasn't strategy.

This wasn't politics.

This was a girl. Alone. Crying.

He stood there for a moment longer.

Watching her - the girl who didn't belong here, and yet had been stitched into this dynasty like another sacrifice.

And then... he walked.

Silent steps over ancestral marble, until he was close enough to feel the grief radiating off her like heat.

Adhrita didn't notice him. Or maybe she did, but couldn't bring herself to look up. Her fingers were clenched tight into the folds of her kurti, her shoulders trembling with every breath.

He didn't say anything. Words had already ruined too much.

Instead, he reached out.

Took the end of her dupatta and gently offered it to her.

Held it out like a peace treaty written in silence.

She finally looked up.

Eyes rimmed red. Mascara streaked. And for the first time, no fire in her gaze - only ache.

He didn't flinch.

She hesitated... and then took the fabric from his hand, brushing her tears away. Not dramatically. Not delicately. Just... wiping the truth off her face.

He extended his hand.

"Aaiyye," he said - low, steady.

(Come.)

Adhrita looked up, startled. Confused.

But the look in his eyes... it told her everything.

He knew. About the deal. The promise. The so-called relation that neither of them had chosen.

She hesitated. Then, slowly, placed her hand in his.

His grip was firm - not forceful, just... resolute.

He helped her to her feet and, without another word, led her down the silent corridor. Past portraits that had judged every love and every war in this palace. Until they reached his room.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And then- Karma.

The black dog ran toward him, alert and growling low. Adhrita instinctively took a step back, her breath catching.

Before she could retreat any further, Vritant's arm shot out - not to stop Karma, but to pull her closer.

His hand landed on her waist, firm.

She gasped, startled by the sudden nearness. Her hand gripped his forearm out of reflex.

"Sniff," he said, calmly.

Karma obeyed, circling her.

Adhrita stood frozen as the dog sniffed her dupatta, her wrists, the hem of her outfit.

"Karma, go." A single command - and the dog retreated, obediently sitting in the corner.

Vritant looked at her now, really looked.

Not with curiosity. Not even sympathy.

With awareness.

He led her to the sofa and made her sit.

Poured a glass of water - and this time, his hand didn't shake.

Adhrita took it with both hands, her fingers brushing his - and for the first time, he didn't pull away.

He sat beside her, close - but not touching.

Waited.

She took a sip. Then another.

Only when the glass was empty did he reach out, wordlessly, and took it from her trembling hands, setting it gently on the table.

Then he turned to her - the calm in his voice sharp enough to wound.

"If you think you can run away," he said quietly, "you can't."

She blinked, startled.

"The entire palace is sealed," he continued. "Some guards in uniform. Some in civilian clothes. After all, it's the Prime Minister's nephew's wedding."

His eyes didn't leave hers.

"Oh - and if you're thinking of sneaking in a knife... don't bother. You've seen the security. Nothing gets in. Not even grief sharp enough to draw blood."

Adhrita looked away, blinking faster.

"And wrists," he added, softer now. "They don't deserve to be punished for promises made by men who never asked you."

His words were brutal - and yet, beneath the cruelty, there was something terrifyingly tender.

It wasn't mockery.

It was a warning.

It was... protection, disguised as indifference.

He leaned back, resting his arm on the edge of the sofa.

"And if you must cry," he added, almost lazily, "do it here. At least Karma won't judge you."

Karma, from the corner, let out a soft huff - as if in agreement.

She looked at him - eyes glassy, jaw trembling - and the silence finally broke.

"My mumma..." she whispered, choking on the word, "...she wanted me to marry you."

The confession slipped out between sobs, raw and trembling, as if carrying the last breath of her mother's dreams.

Vritant didn't flinch. His reply came smooth - cruel only because it was true.

"Oh," he said, eyes dark with irony. "My mumma didn't want me to marry you."

Silence pulsed between them. Heavy. Bitter.

She turned away, hiding her face with the edge of her dupatta - but her shoulders trembled.

He watched her. Something in his expression shifted - less guarded, more... human.

He reached out, gently brushing her hand aside, then tugged at the end of her dupatta - the same one she'd once worn with defiance.

"Don't hide," he said. "Not here."

She blinked up at him. "Why are you being kind now?"

"I'm not," he replied. "I'm being honest. There's a difference."

She stared at him, silent. And then, quietly, she said, "I don't even know how to be angry anymore."

He moved closer - not abrupt, not overwhelming. Just... closer.

"You don't need to be," he said. "You've earned the right to just feel."

A pause.

She closed her eyes. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear - his fingers lingering just a second too long against her cheek.

And when she opened her eyes again - tear-stained, tired - she didn't pull away.

He whispered, "Do you want me to leave?"

She didn't answer out loud.

But her eyes did.

Wide, vulnerable - glistening from the weight of too many unspoken things. And in them, a desperate, fragile "no" shimmered.

A whisper without sound. A plea without pride.

He saw it - felt it - the way only someone who had spent a lifetime reading silences could.

So he stayed.

Not touching.

Not talking.

Just... there.

Then softly, she leaned forward - her forehead resting against his chest. Like a tired prayer.

He didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

He only raised his hand and gently placed it on the back of her head - not possessively, but like a promise not to let her fall apart.

"Vritant," she whispered-barely audible, like the word had been caged for too long.

He stilled.

"Haan, Adhrita," he said instantly-without hesitation, without a blink, like her voice had been living in his bones all along.

(Yes, Adhrita)

She didn't say anything.

The silence between them stretched-soft, awkward, strangely comforting.

Then she whispered, almost to herself, "We just said each other's names... for the first time."

He let out a low, ironic chuckle. "Perfect timing, no? Some people say names before falling in love. We-" he gestured vaguely between them, "-got together, ruined a wedding, triggered two political storms... and then finally remembered introductions."

Her lips curved, despite herself. "Very efficient."

He leaned back, still watching her. "Well, we were raised in very productive families."

She looked down, the smallest of smiles playing on her face-one that didn't belong to a princess or a pawn, just a girl too tired to pretend.

"What do you want, Adhrita?" he asked again, softer this time. No weight in his words, only space-for her to choose.

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to his hand resting between them, then lifted to his eyes, searching-hesitating.

"My mother..." she began, voice fragile but steady, "she wanted me with you."

He didn't interrupt.

"And I trust her more than I trust myself."

The air between them thickened. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just looked at her with something unreadable-like grief softened by something dangerously close to hope.

"So," she continued, "whatever happens next... I'll trust her choice."

For a moment, neither spoke. Her eyes glistened, not from fear now-but from surrender. Not to him. To fate. To memory. To a mother's last wish.

She looked at him-really looked at him-for the first time since everything crumbled.

"What do you want, Vritant?" she asked, quietly.

The question hit him in places he'd kept barricaded for years.

He gave a half-smile, something crooked and quiet.

"What do I want?" he repeated, mock-thoughtfully. "Ideally? A life without political dramas, emotional inheritance, or dogs trained better than people."

She almost smiled.

He leaned back slightly, resting his arm behind her on the sofa. "But since we're being honest... right now? I want a moment where no one's watching, no one's scheming, and no one's scripting my next move."

Then he glanced at her, eyes narrowing with a playful glint.

"And maybe - just maybe - someone who says my name like it means something."

He shrugged.

"But I'll settle for you not crying and Karma not biting anyone."

She exhaled - a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.

He gave a short whistle.

In an instant, Karma leapt up onto the sofa, his massive frame landing neatly against Vritant before eagerly padding toward Adhrita.

She stiffened.

Before she could move away, Vritant gently caught her hand. No words - just a quiet firmness. He guided her trembling fingers to Karma's head.

The dog nudged into her palm, then curled into her lap like he belonged there.

She blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh - the kind that came uninvited, like a forgotten part of herself resurfacing.

Vritant watched her, eyes lingering a moment longer than they should've. Her long, waist-length hair had come undone - loose, tangled, alive. The chaos looked good on her.

He broke the silence.

"Adhrita..." he said, leaning back just slightly, one arm stretched across the sofa, "you know about me, right?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "About?"

Then her face shifted with realization. "Oh."

He smirked.

"Gambler," he ticked off casually. "Illegal street racer on weekends. Reluctant businessman Monday through Friday. And -" he paused, "- full-time politician hater."

She raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin. "And you're proud of that?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "Only thing I've ever been consistent at."

She shook her head, but her fingers kept petting Karma. And Karma stayed, like he'd always belonged to both of them.

"And you're sarcastic too," she said, half amused, half exasperated.

"Oh, so you met my mother," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Of course. The sarcasm gene comes with the Deshmukh surname. Side effects include emotional manipulation and mild delusion."

She blinked, not sure whether to laugh or look away.

He leaned back, one arm resting behind her on the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling like he was watching old headlines scroll across it.

"Oh god," he muttered, "how could I forget the lunch? Was it about this?"

"This?" she asked.

He turned his head toward her, eyes dark with irony. "The royal conspiracy to shove the Prime Minister's disappointment of a son onto the Chief Minister's obedient daughter?"

She stiffened slightly, but he was already smirking.

"Let me guess," he continued, "a lot of paneer, a lot of pretend smiles, and a silent auction for my life?"

Adhrita just stared at him - speechless, but oddly not hurt.

"Don't worry," he added, voice softer now. "You didn't miss much. I'm usually the dessert they force on guests after everyone's too full for complications."

That made her crack a small, sad smile.

He looked at her again, a little more seriously this time. "They really served you all this on a golden thali, didn't they?"

She nodded slowly.

She looked at him carefully, her voice barely above a whisper.

"And you? Did you come voluntarily... or were you the dish of the day?"

He smirked - slow, dangerous, deliberate.

"No," he said, his voice like quiet thunder. "I'm not on the menu, Adhrita."

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the shift in air.

"I'm the one who flips the table."

She blinked, still processing the gravity in his words.

Before she could respond, he stood, walked to the cabinet near his desk, and returned with a slim, worn leather box.

He sat opposite her on the floor, legs stretched, back against the bedframe. Karma flopped nearby, head resting lazily on his paws.

"Pick one," he said, spreading them fan-like between his fingers.

She raised an eyebrow. "Again?"

He shrugged, a glint in his eye. "You think people change overnight?"

Tentatively, she pulled one from the middle - her fingers brushing against his.

Three of Spades.

She stared at it.

Vritant leaned in slightly. "Interesting."

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"Spades are struggle. Three means it's just begun." He shrugged. "But hey, at least it's not the two. That's loneliness."

She didn't smile. "You make up these meanings, don't you?"

"Of course," he said, voice casual. "Life's more fun when you gamble with your own logic."

He picked a card for himself. Didn't look at it. Just tucked it in his pocket like it didn't matter.

"You're not going to check yours?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Why?"

He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Because the outcome's already decided. I'm in it anyway."

That silenced her for a moment.

Then softly, she asked, "And what if I fold?"

He met her gaze head-on. "Then I bluff for both of us."

Her breath hitched. She didn't reply.

He leaned forward, took the Three of Spades from her hand and tucked it in her dupatta pallu without asking.

She blinked at him.

"So you don't forget," he said. "You're in the game now, Doctor."

Neither of them asked for this. But destiny rarely takes requests.

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