Chapter 10 Shared Stillness
Grief has no accent. But lies? They come with seals and official headers.
- Vritant Vardhan
It was 4:02 AM when his phone lit up. The ping was soft, but enough to stir Vritant from a shallow sleep.
He turned on his side, eyes barely open, and reached for the device on the table beside him.
The screen glowed cold in the dark.
"Jet is ready."
He yawned, rubbed his face, and turned over.
Karma was curled up between them, a warm little wall of innocence. Adhrita's hand lay protectively across the dog's belly. He hesitated for a second.
Then pushed off the comforter and quietly shifted to her side. She was asleep - not just tired, but drained. Eyelashes casting small shadows, lips parted, breath steady. Her hand never left Karma.
He crouched beside her and whispered, "Adhrita."
She startled. Eyes flew open, hand instinctively pressing to her chest. The fear wasn't gone.
"It's me," he said softly.
She exhaled in recognition, blinking rapidly.
"Let's go," he added.
"What?" Her voice was groggy, unsure if she was still dreaming.
"New York."
"New York?" she repeated, like the words made no sense. Like he'd said Mars.
He nodded once, calm. Certain.
"You were almost killed yesterday, Doctor." He looked at her, voice low. "You really think they'll let you walk out of India that easily now?"
She didn't answer. But her breath caught. Her eyes sharpened.
He went on, voice low but urgent.
"You need to breathe. Not survive - breathe. If you really want to, come with me now."
And just like that, the realisation sank in - Before doing anything, first she needed to breathe.
Not obey.
Not argue.
Not overthink.
Just breathe - in a place where no one had already decided her future for her.
She looked at him - the only person who hadn't asked her to choose sides.
She nodded. Slowly. Silently.
He just held out his hand - not dramatic, not coaxing. Just steady.
Adhrita slipped her hand into his.
Karma lifted his head, ears twitching, as if already aware that something unspoken had shifted.
Vritant whispered, "Let's move quietly. We don't want a security parade."
She whispered back, "Won't someone stop us?"
He gave a crooked smile.
"Only if they outrun my jet."
Then, without waiting for a response, he added, "Pack the essentials. You've got five minutes," already disappearing into the washroom.
No time to ask questions. Adhrita grabbed her handbag and yanked open the drawer, stuffing in her passport, wallet, keys. Then she darted to the cupboard, pulled out a few clothes, and shoved them in - not bothering to fold, just breathing fast, hands trembling slightly.
She had no idea what she was packing for. But her body moved like it knew.
When he stepped out of the washroom, towel around his neck, he saw her adjusting the bag onto her shoulder, her hair still messy, face pale but determined.
"I need to change," she murmured, glancing down at her oversized T-shirt and pyjamas. She looked... lost in someone else's moment.
Before he could respond, a sharp knock made her flinch.
Her eyes flew to him.
"It's Rawat," Vritant said calmly, walking to the door.
He opened it, revealing Rawat - perfectly composed, dressed like just another guard blending into royal corridors.
"Sir, North Gate is clear. We'll go through the garden," Rawat said quietly. "We've taken over the palace security since last night's attack. It worked in our favour."
Silence.
Vritant's expression didn't move. But the glare he shot Rawat could've sliced through Kevlar.
Adhrita's eyes widened. Her incident?
He was talking about her attempted attack - like it was a chess move.
Vritant stepped forward. "Not now," he muttered under his breath.
He turned to her, yanked the towel from around his neck, and tossed it aside. His tone softened.
"We're getting out. That's all that matters."
She nodded, but her eyes lingered on Rawat - like she was seeing him for the first time. Not as a bodyguard. But as a piece in a much larger game.
He took her hand. Her grip was tight. Not from trust - from instinct.
"Sir," Rawat said, "backup gate's clear. One unmarked SUV. No convoy. No tail."
He looked at her. "Let's move."
And just like that, they stepped into the corridor.
No goodbyes. No explanations. Just silence and footsteps - moving fast through the shadows of Udaipur's sleeping palace.
They reached the back garden, the cool pre-dawn air brushing past them like a warning. Dew still clung to the grass as the world remained unaware of their silent exit. But Vritant stopped mid-step.
His jaw tightened.
He pulled Adhrita back-swiftly, protectively-pressing her against the marble pillar, his body shielding hers in one practiced, instinctive move.
She looked up at him-startled. Her breath caught, but not from fear. The proximity. The way his arms bracketed her. His chest rose and fell just inches from her face.
He didn't look at her at first. His gaze scanned the garden beyond.
Then-he exhaled. And finally met her eyes.
That brief glance between them held something unspoken. Tension, worry... and a moment suspended in everything unsaid.
She almost forgot to blink.
"Rawat," Vritant muttered, voice low. "They're not just Vardhan guards. That's government security."
Rawat, already one step ahead, nodded without alarm. "Yes sir. PM ma'am and Shaurya sir are staying for breakfast only. Extra security was added to the perimeter for their departure. Not our team. But-we've prepped a second route. Cleaner exit. Through the orchids. No eyes."
Vritant gave a terse nod, but his arm remained firm around Adhrita, like the world outside that marble pillar was something she didn't need to see yet.
She was still processing it all. The escape. The silent coordination. The fact that yesterday's trauma had turned into this morning's strategy.
He caught her hand again, this time lacing their fingers together like it was reflex.
"You okay?" he asked, voice soft.
She blinked. "I just found out I was part of a security strategy."
He stared at her, unreadable, and then said with a bitter half-smile- "Welcome to my life."
They moved quickly.
Rawat led them through the orchid-lined path at the rear of the palace, where soft petals drooped under moonlight, and silence clung to the trees like it knew a secret.
By the time they reached the edge of the estate, a black SUV - unmarked, idling - stood waiting. Not summoned, not tracked. Just placed there, like everything else in Vritant Vardhan's world: quietly prepared.
Vritant didn't speak the entire ride to the airstrip. His fingers remained loosely wrapped around Adhrita's-never too tight, never letting go.
She kept glancing at him.
He looked ahead, jaw locked, chest rising slow like each breath was deliberate. Calculated.
But his thumb traced small, absentminded circles over her knuckles.
Maybe that was his version of comfort.
Maybe it was his way of telling her: I'm here.
They reached the private hangar. The jet was already powered, lights glowing faintly, ready for takeoff.
Rawat and another guard moved to handle the clearance.
Vritant stepped out first, then held a hand out to her. She took it.
And walked the rest of the steps beside him.
Inside, the cabin lights were dim. Neutral. Private.
As the doors sealed and the jet began its taxi to the runway, she settled into the seat across from him.
For the first time since the garden- She exhaled.
Moments passed in silence. The kind that didn't press, didn't prod - just let her exist.
Then, the cabin door clicked softly.
A man entered quietly, placed a discreet leather case by Vritant's side, bowed with a practiced grace, and retreated without a word.
"When did you plan this?" she asked quietly.
"When you told me what you want," he replied, eyes still fixed on the jet's window. Outside, the sky was barely awake - a pale blue bruising into pink. 4:40 a.m. and the world was silent.
Adhrita followed his gaze. "I still don't know why we're running away."
"Probably to figure out that why," he said, rising from his seat.
But just as he began to walk, he paused, staring down. His shoelaces were undone.
"Oh, hell no," he muttered, frustrated.
He stared at the untied laces like they were a cruel joke from the universe. Of course.
The last time his shoes were untied, he'd buried a part of himself.
His twin.
He stiffened his jaw and straightened, brushing his sleeve like the weight of that memory hadn't just sucker-punched him.
Him - bloodied, stumbling over his own laces.
He bent down, trying to knot them quickly - clumsily. The jet shifted slightly, and he nearly tripped.
Adhrita blinked. Then, before she could help herself, she laughed. Quiet, surprised - like she hadn't expected to.
He looked up slowly. Deadpan. "Funny. All the security in the world, and my biggest threat's still a damn shoelace."
"You can't tie laces?" she asked between laughs.
"I outsource skills that don't contribute to foreign policy."
"You outsource your shoes?"
"I have people for ground-level operations. Like lacing shoes. Or grief," he said, standing straight again, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve like he hadn't just almost face-planted.
She shook her head, still smiling. Without a word, she rose from the seat.
Then, with the grace of someone unbothered by hierarchies or hesitation, she knelt before him.
Like she wasn't tying shoelaces, but undoing the knots of something heavier.
Her fingers moved with the precision of a surgeon, yet there was something almost tender in the way she looped the laces.
She didn't look up. Didn't speak.
She just anchored him, silently, in a moment no one else had ever dared to enter.
A quiet rebellion against everything that had left him to stumble alone.
Her fingers were still at work when a memory crashed through him - uninvited, as always.
(If I wasn't around, who would tie your laces? You better learn it now.)
It wasn't just about laces. It was always him - shielding him from scraped knees, from public embarrassment, from silence too heavy for their age.
Vritant blinked once, then again - like that would stop the memory from pressing too hard against his chest.
He hadn't realized he was sweating again until a drop slipped past his temple.
The air had thinned around him - not from heat, not from tension, but from memory. His breath faltered, shallow and uneven. That knot in his chest - old, familiar, dangerous - returned with precision.
Adhrita was still kneeling, unaware of the ghost she'd just summoned.
But when she looked up - she froze.
Same expression. That same haunted, faraway look she had seen on the day of Saanvi's wedding.
"Vritant..."
Her voice was soft, but not fragile. She stood quickly, instinct taking over.
One hand reached for his shoulder, grounding him. The other gently took his wrist. Two fingers pressed to his pulse.
A doctor's calm. A woman's concern.
The beat was erratic - fast and uneven, like a storm knocking on ribs instead of windows.
He didn't flinch at her touch. Because for a moment, his body wasn't his own. It belonged to another time, another boy, another pair of hands that had once tied those very laces while laughing.
She guided him down gently, making him sit before he collapsed under the weight of the past. Her palm hovered, then rested against his cheek in a soft pat - not to wake him, but to bring him back.
His eyes blinked, slow and heavy - like he was swimming to the surface of a memory he'd rather drown in.
Then, with a trembling hand, he pointed - barely - toward his bag on the floor.
She didn't ask.
Adhrita reached for the black leather bag lying by her feet, unzipped it with urgency, and rummaged through its layered clutter - his deck of cards, an antique lighter, an unnecessary paperweight, the same fountain pen he'd used to sign policies and apologies alike, a spare wallet - until her fingers closed around the compact metal box.
The small bottle inside rattled faintly, the sound far too loud in the silence between them.
She pulled it out. Read the label. Propranolol. Her heart clenched - not with surprise, but understanding.
She grabbed a bottle of water from the table, uncapped it, and returned to him.
"Here," she said, slipping the pill into his palm and guiding the water to his lips like it was second nature.
No instructions. No questions.
His breathing began to steady - shallow turning full. His shoulders stopped trembling before his fingers did.
The haze lifted, but it left a bitter aftertaste - like iron and memory.
He looked at her. Eyes clear now, but not thankful. Just... tired. Like a man who had seen too much of himself in too little time.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice low, careful - as if one wrong note might shatter him all over again.
He nodded, too quickly.
But then he looked at her - really looked - and something in his chest caved.
Without a word, he reached out, fingers closing around her wrist. His grip was firm but not forceful. He pulled her toward him in one clean motion - instinctive, unplanned.
And then he held her.
Not like a man seeking comfort.
But like someone anchoring himself before he disappeared again.
He just stayed there, still - as if her presence was the only thing tethering him to the now.
And for once, he let himself be held too.
Just slowly raised her hand and began to trace soft, grounding circles across his back - the kind that weren't meant to fix anything, only remind someone they were still here.
As a doctor, she had seen this kind of silence before. The kind that came after a wound too old for stitches. And she knew exactly what it meant - a panic not loud, but private. Delayed grief surfacing through muscle memory.
So she didn't press. Didn't comfort him like he was broken. She just stayed - her palm settling on his arm like memory, like she was saying I'm still here, even if the words never came.
His grip on her wrist loosened, the last of his strength ebbing away with the tremble of breath he didn't mean to release.
Adhrita steadied him, both hands now supporting his weight as she helped him lean back against the plush seat. The cabin lights were dimmed, a faint hum of the engines filling the silence between them - soft, persistent, almost like a lullaby.
He sank into the seat slowly, shoulders heavy, lashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes began to shut. Not from sleep. From the kind of fatigue that came when your body wasn't used to being caught mid-fall - when surviving took more effort than collapse.
His head tipped to the side, away from her, but his bandaged hand was still curled - a clenched whisper of memory, of pain, of instinct.
She didn't hesitate. She slipped her palm beneath his forearm and guided it gently onto the armrest, easing each motion as if afraid even a whisper of pressure might crack something open. Then she smoothed the edge of the blanket over him, brushing a stray hair away from his brow.
??? V ? A ???
The wheels touched the tarmac with a soft thud - a new country, a new morning, the same weight carried across continents.
Vritant was at the wheel.
Adhrita hadn't expected him to be. She had assumed the driver waiting at the terminal would take over. But when they'd stepped out of the private terminal - him freshly changed, hair pushed back, sunglasses hiding too much - he'd simply taken the keys from the aide without a word.
Now, the black SUV moved through Manhattan's morning traffic with deliberate ease. He handled the car like he handled crises - with firm control, sharp awareness, and complete silence.
His phone buzzed sharply against the dashboard.
Mrs. Vedashree Vardhan.
He stared at the name for a second longer than necessary. Then touched the screen, his thumb brushing the answer button like it burned.
"Where the hell are you, Vritant?" Her voice was sharp. No pretense, no politics - just cold fury.
He leaned back slightly, eyes still on the road.
"Good morning to you too, Prime Minister sahiba."
"Did you really think no one would notice Adhrita is missing?" Her tone dipped lower. "Her father called me. Mahir Adani called Delhi. The press hasn't caught wind-yet."
His fingers tightened around the wheel.
He smirked faintly, tapping the steering wheel. "I didn't realize she was a government property."
"Enough."
"Then stop asking questions you already know I won't answer."
There was a pause. Static hummed between them.
"You think you're in control?" she asked, low and lethal.
He exhaled through his nose, almost amused.
"I'm driving."
"Where?"
"Forward."
She sighed - not in exasperation, but calculation. "You'll wait for my instructions."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he said, and hung up.
As soon as he ended the call, Adhrita looked at him, eyes wide.
"How did she know?"
He didn't look at her. Just kept driving, calm as stone.
"Chief Minister's daughter goes missing for hours. Under the Prime Minister's nose."
He glanced at her then, the corner of his mouth tilting up.
"You really think anyone could pull that off?" A pause. "There's only one Vardhan who can." His voice held no arrogance. Just certainty.
And pride - the dangerous kind that didn't need approval.
??? V ? A ???
The city below buzzed like a heartbeat - constant, restless, indifferent.
From the 45th floor, it looked almost peaceful.
Vritant stood on the balcony, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the railing, watching headlights smear across avenues like veins of light.
The chill of Manhattan nights brushed past him, but he didn't move.
Adhrita walked out quietly, carrying two cups - steam rising from both like questions she hadn't asked yet. She handed him one, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Then she leaned beside him, elbows resting against the cold railing.
She sipped. So did he.
"Vritant..." she said, eyes on the skyline, "are you sure what we did was right?"
He didn't look at her, just took another sip. "What's wrong in that?"
"We secretly ran away from Udaipur," she said, the weight of it landing softly. "Papa must be-"
"-searching for you," he finished, turning slightly toward her. "Well, you were twisting and turning all night. It was disturbing my peace. So I thought... before morning comes, we should leave."
She narrowed her eyes. "Leave for?"
"Your bed." He took a long sip. "I mean... your home."
She shook her head, lips curving slightly. "Thanks for making it happen. It was just... hard to-"
"Breathe?" he offered.
"No," she exhaled. "It was overwhelming. I came for Saanvi's wedding and suddenly I find out... I'm promised to you. Mumma's wish."
He didn't react immediately.
Then, quiet and deliberate, he said, "What if I tell you... your mumma never wished that?"
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The letter is fake," he said carefully, eyes fixed on her, waiting for the impact to land.
Confusion shadowed her face. "How do you even know I got a letter?"
"It's not important," he said. "What matters is your father forged it. Lied to you. Said it was your mother's wish."
The colour drained from her face like a tide pulled back before a storm.
And Vritant, without missing a beat, took another slow sip from his cup and muttered under his breath,
"Nothing says parental love like emotional blackmail forged in cursive."
"Papa can't do this..." she said, more to herself than him, like clinging to the one truth that was still hers.
Vritant turned his head slightly, studying her face.
"Are you asking me," he said evenly, "or trying to convince yourself?"
She didn't answer. Just stared at the skyline like it might offer her a version of the truth she could accept.
He took the cup from her hand, fingers brushing hers for a second longer than needed, and turned away. Inside the room, he placed both cups gently on the table - a futile attempt at calm in a conversation that had already detonated.
When he stepped back out, the night hadn't moved - and neither had she.
Still leaning. Still staring. Still breaking, quietly.
"Adhrita," he said her name softly, like he wasn't sure it would land.
She didn't turn.
"Papa can't use Mumma, Vritant," her voice cracked, raw - less denial now, more disbelief threaded with something older. Grief, maybe.
He stopped beside her, watching the side of her face - the curve of her jaw stiff with tension, her lashes wet and unmoving.
He opened his mouth. The words were there - about the attack, about the deal, about the betrayal wrapped in security detail.
But her silence wasn't ready.
So he swallowed it all.
He just stood there instead. Beside her. Not touching. Not explaining. Not yet.
Because some truths don't need timing. They need mercy.
He had brought her here - halfway across the world - not to run, but to pause. To let her breathe outside the palace walls, beyond the reach of staged poojas and forged promises. To feel something real again.
Her home in New York. The only place untouched.
He'd ordered the jet to be fuelled - that very night.
No security briefing. No diplomatic clearance. No explanation to anyone, not even her father's office.
Because when you've inherited power that never needed permission, escape doesn't require a plan. Just a nod.
He didn't ask her if she wanted to leave.
He just took her.
Because some betrayals don't give you time to pack.
The letter. The lie. The calculated chaos dressed as tradition.
But the worst wasn't the letter.
It was the attack. The performance.
A bullet fired into a mirror - not at her, not at him. A shooter who didn't run. Who surrendered quietly, as if waiting for the cameras.
Planned. Measured. Orchestrated.
And he had been there. Next to her. Just as her father would've wanted - so it would look like they were the target. So the blame would fall not on Ashwin Adani, but in the crossfire of political rivalry.
Only Vritant wasn't that naive. He knew how games were played in New Delhi - and how the best ones never left fingerprints.
He had said nothing that night. Had held her when she shook. Had walked her out like it was just another security lapse. But inside, he'd decided.
She needed air. Not evidence.
Now, watching her break at just the first fracture - just the forged letter - he knew why he hadn't told her everything yet.
There are some truths a heart must be ready to receive. Otherwise, they don't free you.
They destroy you.
Adhrita stepped away from the balcony and into the soft silence of her apartment. The city buzzed outside, but inside - only questions echoed.
She dialed her father's number. He picked up instantly.
"Adhrita? Where are you? I've been trying to reach you since yesterday."
Her voice was calm. Too calm."Did Mumma really want me to marry Vritant?"
There was a pause. A beat too long.
"Adhrita, what are you saying? First tell me where-"
Vritant walked into the room, quiet, but unmistakably there. He didn't interrupt. Just stood behind her - like a truth she couldn't unsee.
She didn't lower her eyes.
"Haan yaa naa, Papa. Did you fake the letter?"
(Yes or No)
Silence. Then, a shift. His tone dropped - political now, not paternal.
"Yes. I forged the letter. Made it look like it was from your mother. But you were promised to the Vardhans, and you're going to marry him."
A breath. And then the threat - precise, rehearsed, dangerous:
"Now tell me where you are... before I launch a search operation."
Adhrita didn't respond. She simply cut the call.
The screen went black, and so did something inside her.
She walked to her cupboard - not rushing, just... moving like someone who had known this day would come. Pulling out a soft, battered leather bag from the back shelf, she unzipped it with a trembling hand.
When Vritant had told her to pack only essentials, this is what she'd meant.
She pulled out two letters - neatly folded, yellowing at the edges.
One was from her father.
One, she now knew, had been forged by her father.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and held both in her lap like fragile artifacts. Her fingers hovered, then unfolded the real one. Tears blurred her vision as she read:
When your mother left - no, when death took her faster than I was ready to admit - I made choices that I still call strategy, because calling them failure would collapse me.
I sent you away not because you were weak.
But because I was. Because you looked like her when you cried. And I could not grieve twice.
A silent tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it.
Vritant, who had been standing near the door, slowly walked over. He didn't say anything. Just knelt in front of her and gently took the letters from her hands. He read the first one, the real one - the kind of truth that bleeds on paper.
Then the second - the forged letter. The lie that tried to script her future.
He didn't ask which one hurt more.
He already knew. Her father's love hurt her more.
She didn't resist when he took the letters from her hands. Didn't flinch when his fingers brushed hers.
Just sat there, eyes hollow, cheeks streaked with silent tears, watching him read the truth her heart had carried like a secret weight.
When he finished, he looked at her. Really looked.
And then - without asking, without a word - he slid the letters onto the bed, stepped closer, and gently pulled her into his arms.
She didn't move at first. She wasn't used to being held when she broke.
But his hold was quiet. Firm. Not the kind that asked her to stop crying - the kind that said cry if you must, I'm not going anywhere.
Her forehead rested against his chest. And for a long moment, the room said nothing.
Her breath hitched once... then again. The kind of crying that didn't ask for attention - the kind that came from somewhere deeper.
He didn't try to stop her. He just held her. One hand at the back of her head, the other steady across her shoulder, like anchoring her was the only thing that mattered.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
Her sobs quieted, like waves pulling back from shore. And slowly, her body grew heavier in his arms.
She'd fallen asleep.
Just like that - exhausted from holding it all together, from pretending none of it mattered.
Vritant looked down. Her face was still damp, lashes stuck together, her fingers curled unconsciously into his shirt like she hadn't even realized she was reaching for something.
He exhaled - not in relief, not in regret. In something quieter. Something like guilt. Or understanding. Or both.
"She wept like someone who had lost a home. I didn't have the heart to tell her- it was built on borrowed ground."
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