Throne and Thread

Chapter 11 Consent, Cooked Slowly

Power doesn't corrupt. It edits.

- Vritant Vardhan

The phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Vritant opened his eyes to its insistent vibration against the side table. His hand shot out blindly, found the screen - Neil Khanna. He cut the call without thinking and sat up.

The guest room was still, bathed in the soft grey of an early New York morning. He yawned, stretched half-heartedly, and looked around.

Empty.

He pushed open the door to the adjacent bedroom. Also empty.

It wasn't until he walked into the main living area that he noticed the little temple in the corner - a quiet flame flickering before a small idol of a goddess. Another diya stood before a framed photo of Adhrita's mother.

A sticky note clung to the fridge door.

'Duty call.'

He stood still for a second. Then turned, wordless, and walked back to the guest room.

Inside the bathroom, he picked up the brush, leaned into the sink, and looked into the mirror.

And looked away almost immediately.

He brushed his teeth in silence, washed his face with cold water - twice - more to calm himself than cleanse. When he emerged, he connected his phone to the speaker, turned the volume to full, and let some nameless, overproduced track blast into the room.

As if the noise could drown the quiet parts of him. The ones that always got loud when he was alone.

Then again, he returned with his diary. Not the one he carried to meetings - this was older, thinner, leather-bound. His personal one. Frayed at the edges. Held together by habit. The one where no one else existed. Where words didn't need permission.

He sat on the sofa in the main hall and flipped past a few pages - old scribbles, unfinished thoughts, notes from nights when the silence got too loud.

Then he reached the blank one.

And started scribbling.

Aaina dekhta hoon toh tu hota hai,

Uss umra se jaise bas tu rootha hai.

Har din, har pal, kuchh na kuchh toota hai,

Aur Vahem paal rakhe hai jaise main poora hai.

(I look into the mirror - and see you.

As if you've been silently angry since that age.

Every day, every moment, something has broken.

And I've raised the illusion... that I'm still whole.)

[Author's note: These lines are mine. Do NOT steal them.]

His phone started ringing again. This time, before he could reject it, he saw the name flash across the screen:

Ashwin Adani.

He stared at it for a beat. Then answered.

The voice came through the speaker. Crisp. Controlled.

"Hello, CM saab," Vritant said flatly.

Ashwin didn't bother with greetings. "Adhrita is with you, right?"

Vritant leaned back on the sofa.

"Why do you think she called you yesterday?"

Ashwin's voice softened. "Vritant, I'm very tense about my daughter-"

"Oh, you most definitely are," Vritant cut in, tone biting. "Isn't that why you planned an attack on her?"

Silence.

Dead air from the other end.

"I know, CM saab. It was you," he continued, his voice calm now - too calm.

"From the moment I learned about the deal between you and my father, I added an extra layer of security around her.

Around you, too. And guess what-someone broke through.

Reached Adhrita. While I was right beside her. And then you blame my father?"

Ashwin finally spoke - the voice of a man slipping back into strategy.

"Your mother made the first move. I had to respond."

"She made the move because she didn't want her to marry me." Vritant's voice turned sharper. "But you made your move so my father would accelerate everything. Brilliant strategy. Guilt-trip the Vardhans, create a crisis, and rush the marriage of your daughter. What a great father."

He didn't wait for a reply.

"PM sahiba already gave you another option - the Rajasthan CM's proposal. You didn't take it, did you?"

Ashwin's mask slipped for a second.

"I want protection for my daughter. And I will do whatever I have to... to bend her."

"Oh, I made that easier for you," Vritant said, tone suddenly casual - almost amused.

"I told her about the letter."

A pause.

"So... you told her," Ashwin muttered.

"One and only Vardhan," he said coolly.

Ashwin's voice turned urgent. "Where have you taken her, Vritant?"

"To tell her the letter is fake. And that her own father planned an attack on her."

There was a pause on the other end - disbelief, maybe. Then came Ashwin's brittle reply.

"You didn't tell her that. You wouldn't-"

Vritant stared at the flickering diya across the room. Its flame steady, unlike the chaos in his chest.

"Most definitely did." Vritant leaned back slightly, voice too calm to be comforting - like a gambler who already knew the final card. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, sharp and deliberate. "Why do you think she's not answering your calls?"

His tone was casual, almost bored. But it was a bluff - the kind he wanted the other man to doubt... or believe. That was the thing about bluffing - it wasn't about the lie. It was about the confidence to let someone believe you knew more than you were saying. And he always did.

A long silence followed. The kind that wasn't about confusion - it was fear.

Then, finally, a softer plea. A politician lowering his tone.

"Vritant... please try to understand-"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice lowering like a threat cloaked in calm.

"No, Mr. Adani. You try to understand."

His jaw clenched, but his tone stayed unshaken.

"Play your games with PM sahiba. With power, with press. Whatever you want. But leave Adhrita out of it." The words came like deliberate cuts - clean, merciless. "You were promised protection for her. In exchange for information. Information that led us to my brother's killer."

Even now, the name didn't leave his lips.

He exhaled - sharp, quiet - the sound of someone who had learned to carry grief without letting it spill.

"And for me - that's all that matters."

He stood up slowly, walking toward the window. New York's skyline blinked in silence beyond the glass. So far from Delhi. From fire. From blood. But the war never really left him.

His voice dropped to a whisper now - not for secrecy, but impact.

"Because of you, my brother's killer was killed. And as per promise, Adhrita is now Vardhan's responsibility. She comes under my protection." He turned slightly, looking at the diya again - still burning.

"My brother above all. Above everything. And no one - not even Papa, not even you - will disrespect the promise made for him."

He didn't wait for another breath, let alone a reply.

His thumb hovered a second. Then tapped.

Call ended.

His phone rang again.

He didn't want to look at it. Not after Ashwin. Not after what that conversation took from him.

But he did.

Papa.

He swiped to answer.

His father's voice came through immediately, clipped and commanding. "Vritant, Ashwin's daughter is missing."

There was no greeting. Just tension wrapped in control.

Vritant didn't flinch.

"She's with me, Dad. Don't worry." His tone was flat, like he was stating logistics, not lives.

A pause.

Then Shaurya's voice shifted - not quieter, but sharper.

"So my guess was correct. It was you behind her disappearance. I just wanted to remind you of one thing, Vritant- Your brother gave his life to save yours. And a promise was made for him. Don't ever disrespect that promise."

Vritant stood by the window now, back straight, hand tightening around the edge of the curtain.

As if he could hear his twin's laugh in the echo of that sentence.

"I won't disrespect anything related to him, Papa," he said. Then softer, almost to himself: "She will be protected. At any cost. From any harm. From any hurt."

His father didn't reply right away.

Then came words that held both approval and unspoken grief:

"I didn't expect anything less from you, beta."

And the line went dead.

His father's words echoed in his mind long after the call ended.

"Your brother gave his life to save yours."

"Don't ever disrespect that promise."

As if he could ever forget.

As if he wasn't already living like the debt was stitched into his skin.

Something inside him snapped - not loudly, not even visibly - just enough.

He turned to the glass window beside him and slammed his palm against it.

A sharp thud.

The impact sent a dull tremor up his arm.

And then - pain.

That same hand. The one he had injured before. Now, again - a thin line of blood began to trail down his wrist, warm and silent.

He didn't look away this time. Didn't wince. Didn't even breathe.

He stood there, watching the crimson bloom like a truth he couldn't keep buried anymore.

Echo. Bhai. Twin.

You saved me. And now I don't know what I'm saving anymore - her, or what's left of me.

Then he heard it - the soft click of the door.

Adhrita stepped inside, her heels light against the floor, the city's noise slipping in behind her.

She opened her mouth to say something - but froze.

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

There it was.

Blood.

Dripping.

Pooling.

Trailing from his hand like it had somewhere to go.

"Vritant, what have you done?"

Her voice cracked in panic as she threw her bag on the sofa and rushed to him.

He didn't move. Just looked at her - still standing near the window, blood painting his skin, glass unbroken, but something inside him very much not.

"It's nothing," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle.

"Oh god, the stitches are torn," she muttered, inspecting the angry red wound. Threads hung loose, blood seeping out steadily - like it had been waiting for permission.

Her fingers moved quickly, almost too practiced.

"Where were you?" he asked, like he hadn't heard her.

His tone was quiet. But it wasn't a question. It was an accusation dressed as indifference.

She looked up sharply.

"Is this what you want to ask?" she said, blinking at him. "I went to the hospital." Then, softer, more clipped, "I left a note. On the fridge."

Without waiting for a reply, she pulled him gently by the wrist.

She looked at him - just looked - and somehow, her eyes said it all.

Sit.

No drama. No pity. No softness. Just controlled urgency wrapped in quiet authority.

And like some instinct he couldn't explain, he did.

He sat.

She turned without a word and walked toward the cabinet.

Every movement was clipped, deliberate. The doctor in her had taken over - but the woman was still simmering beneath the surface.

She returned with the medical kit, placed it on the table, and snapped it open with a sharp click that sounded louder than it should have.

Without looking at him, she said, "Give me your hand."

He did.

The blood was fresh. Angry. Seeping from torn stitches that she had so carefully placed.

Her hands hesitated - just for a second - before she reached for gloves. But her breath caught as she saw the redness streaking his skin, coating her fingers too.

And then - a single tear slipped down her cheek.

She didn't wipe it away. It fell - soundlessly, helplessly - and landed in the blood pooled near his wrist.

He felt it. Saw it.

Her fingers were swift - gloves on, alcohol swab out, blood cleaned - but never careless. She picked up a small vial and syringe.

She drew the anaesthetic into the syringe, tapped it once, and leaned in.

The cold burn crept under his skin, dulling the pain.

Then she picked up the needle and thread.

Brows furrowed, lashes lowered in concentration, lips pressed in annoyance.

"Why do you talk with your eyes?" he murmured suddenly.

Her hands paused.

Then she looked up at him, slowly.

And rolled her eyes.

That look - So you're bleeding from your soul and you want to flirt? Really?

He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. A part of him wanted to say don't do this - don't make his blood feel like a thing worth mourning.

But instead, he looked away. And said nothing. As always.

And stitch by stitch, she put him back together.

She finished the final knot of the bandage, her fingers still careful, still gentle - like touching him wrong might make him break in places neither of them could fix.

Then she looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

"Kuch khaya?"

(ate something?)

He leaned back, resting his head against the sofa, the pain now dulled, but his sarcasm perfectly intact.

"Yeah," he said flatly. "Five naans, three kilos of paneer masala, ten plates of jeera rice, and a litre of dal tadka."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh-and a full jar of pickle too. Breakfast of champions." He looked at her, deadpan. "Thanks for the hospitality."

A beat.

She didn't laugh, but the corner of her lip twitched - traitorous, amused.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked finally, her voice quieter now.

He didn't even look at her. "The above mentioned."

"Vritant..." she began, sighing.

"Adhrita," he shot back, tone clipped.

She held his gaze for a second, lips parting - to argue maybe, or explain - but stopped. There was no winning this version of him. So she just exhaled.

"Fine," she said, standing. "I'll cook."

She turned toward the kitchen.

Behind her, he murmured, "Don't bother."

She paused. Not fully turning, but enough for him to see the slight slump in her shoulders.

"I bothered enough to stitch your hand again," she said softly. "Cooking won't kill me."

Then she walked away - leaving behind a room heavy with unspoken things.

She walked into the kitchen without a word, her silence sharper than most people's anger.

Vritant watched as she opened the fridge, her movements precise, almost detached.

Coriander, tomatoes, green chillies, a half-used packet of beans, and-of course-a lone carrot tucked in the back. Nothing wasted.

She didn't fumble, didn't pause. Just rinsed everything under cold water, then reached for the steel canisters like she knew the place better than her own breath. Rice. Daal. Measured, washed, set aside.

He took a step closer, his presence quiet but not hidden, and leaned against the slab, letting the marble cool his palm. A beat passed, then he hopped up onto it-half muscle memory, half instinct he didn't care to name.

She began chopping the vegetables in clean, sharp motions-unbothered, practised. And just as she moved on to the tomatoes, he casually reached out and took a slice from the board.

"Let's marry," she said.

Just like that. No drama. No buildup. Like she was offering him salt.

"Come here," he said, his voice low-not commanding, just quiet enough to make her listen.

She stepped closer, knife still in one hand.

He reached out and gently touched her forehead with the back of his fingers, the gesture unexpectedly soft.

A beat passed. Then, dryly- "No fever."

Her eyes narrowed. "And that was your diagnostic method, Doctor Vardhan?"

He smirked. "Didn't seem like you were in your senses. Thought I'd check."

"Vritant, I'm serious. We should marry," she said again, her voice steady.

He didn't meet her eyes.

"Did you know Mrs. Vardhan asked the CM of Rajasthan to ask for your hand?"

He dropped it like a casual truth, but it wasn't.

She froze. The knife slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a sharp clink.

He bent down, picked it up, turned it over in his fingers like it was harmless, then handed it back to her.

"So, how does it feel?" he asked quietly. "To be a pawn in someone's political game? First Mr. Adani. Then Mrs. Vardhan."

Adhrita didn't answer. She took the knife, turned back to the vegetables, and started chopping again. A little harder now.

"Aapne toh shaadi ke liye mana nahi kiya," she said, eyes on the cutting board. "You never once said you didn't want to marry me."

(You didn't say no to the marriage.)

Vritant fell silent.

She lit the stove, put rice to boil, and began stirring the vegetables in the pan.

He watched her. Eyes unreadable. Arms folded now.

Then he said, low and calm, "Yeh sab jaanne ke baad bhi aap yeh soch rahi hain?"

(Even after knowing all this, that's what you're thinking?)

She didn't pause.

"Aap jaanti hain... meri biwi banna, aur Vardhan khandaan ki bahu banna-yeh dono alag baatein hain. Aur kuch bhi bann lijiye... inn mein se ek bhi aapke liye sahi nahi hai."

(You know... becoming my wife and becoming the daughter-in-law of the Vardhan family-those are two different things. And whatever else you choose to be... neither of those roles are right for you.)

He took a step toward her, voice tightening.

"Main bina shaadi ke bhi aapko security de raha hoon na? Nothing will happen to you. Yeh sab chhodiye... aap jaanti hain main kaisa insaan hoon."

(I'm offering you protection even without marrying you, aren't I? Nothing will happen to you. Let's leave all this... you know the kind of man I am.)

Adhrita finally turned. Her expression was unshaken. But her voice? Cold. Controlled.

"Aisa hota... toh main aaj apne ghar mein nahi hoti. Aapke saath mandap mein baithi hoti."

(If that were true... I wouldn't be in my own home tonight. I'd be sitting beside you in the mandap.)

She held his gaze. Didn't blink.

"Par yeh shaadi aapke consent ke bina ho rahi hai-yeh aap samajh rahe hain?"

(But do you understand this marriage is happening without your consent?)

Silence.

"Consent unhone nahi liya. Aur aap?" she stepped closer, not angry-just exact. "You brought me here, hidden from everyone."

(They didn't ask for my consent. But you?)

His jaw clenched. He still didn't speak.

His voice was measured, eyes steady. "Adhrita, I gamble with cards, not with people's lives."

She blinked, as if steadying herself. Then: "Maybe that's why I want to marry you. At least with you, I know I'm not buried under a pile of lies."

He looked away for a beat before replying.

"Your father will think he's won. He has every right to protect you-but forcing you to marry a man with my past?"

Her voice didn't flinch.

"But you never said no. You accepted everything he threw at you."

Just looked at her like he'd been waiting for that line all along.

"I didn't accept it because I'm a puppet, Adhrita," he said, his voice low.

"I accepted it because I respect my buddy.

And if marrying you meant keeping you safe-then there was no way in hell I was going to question that.

Marrying or not, the promise will be kept.

At any cost. But I'll be honest-I was sure as hell I wanted this alliance.

Until I saw you, trapped and manipulated, shoved into it without a voice.

It felt like I was honouring my brother by dishonouring you.

A forced marriage might not break a promise-but it would break you. And eventually, us.

Kisi aur ke manipulation ka hissa-na mera bhai banega, na main, na aap."

(Neither my brother, nor I, nor you will ever become part of someone else's manipulation.)

She didn't interrupt. Just studied him, as if seeing something old in a new light. Her expression didn't soften with relief. It settled-with clarity, with the cruel comfort of knowing.

"So even for you, I'm just a promise," she said. "But at least you're honest about it."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. There were words-but they didn't match the weight in his throat.

"Adhrita..." he finally said.

A beat. And then she let out a dry, quiet breath-somewhere between a laugh and surrender. Not bitter. Not broken. Just bone-tired of guessing.

"Vritant... jab Meera ji ne Krishna ke liye zeher piya tha- unhe pata tha woh zeher hai. Mera bhi kuch waisa hi hai."

(Vritant... when Meera ji drank poison for Krishna-she knew it was poison. Mine is something like that too.)

Her voice didn't waver.

"At least I know. I've spent too long caught between truth and lies- questioning myself more than anyone else ever did."

Her words hung in the air - not bitter, not cruel - just painfully true. He had nothing to counter that kind of honesty. Not when she wasn't lashing out to hurt him, but simply showing him where she bled.

"I was never meant to be part of this." Her voice was soft again. "Not your world. Not your plan. Not my father's. Not even your mother's."

His jaw clenched. A familiar, useless instinct. Vedashree's name always settled between them like smoke - dense, choking, uninvited.

He looked away, briefly - not in guilt, but restraint. The urge to explain, defend, even apologise - it was there. But that wasn't how this worked. Not between them. She didn't want a diplomat. She wanted truth. Clean, unembellished, sharp.

"No, you weren't," he said, finally. "But neither was I."

She turned, slightly - just enough for him to see her eyes. They weren't angry. They weren't sad. Just tired of being tested.

"Then what are we, Vritant?"

Not rhetorical. Not dramatic. Just... honest.

He could've lied. Given her something soft. Something that made it all seem worth it.

But his truth was harsher. Colder. And she deserved nothing less.

"We're collateral," he said. "The kind that learns to walk tall anyway."

She stared at him, a full moment passing before she gave the smallest nod.

As if she hadn't expected anything gentler.

As if that was the most honest thing anyone had ever said to her.

She turned back to the pan, the silence between them settling again-like an old cardigan neither wanted to wear, but couldn't throw away.

She stirred the vegetables slowly, almost absently, then took a small spoonful and tasted it.

Her face said it before her lips could.

A tiny crease between her brows.

A flicker of dissatisfaction.

Not disappointment-just something... off.

"Salt?" His voice was casual, but the way he watched her wasn't.

She didn't look at him. Just reached for the salt cellar and murmured, "Maybe."

He tilted his head slightly, lips twitching-just a little.

Like he'd won a point neither of them were keeping score of.

"Even your food hesitates, Doctor," he muttered dryly. "Can't decide if it wants to be bland or brave."

She glanced at him, this time with a reluctant smirk. "At least it doesn't need bodyguards to season it."

That earned a breath of a chuckle from him. Almost a smile.

Almost.

He leaned against the counter now, arms crossed, watching her add the salt-like that tiny pinch could tip the balance of more than just lunch.

"You always like control, don't you?" he said, not accusing. Just... aware.

She didn't flinch, but her hand paused for a second.

"Control is a myth," she replied quietly. "I just like clarity."

He nodded once, slow. "And yet... you walked straight into the fog."

She turned the gas off.

"Sometimes fog is kinder than what's clearly visible."

That stopped him.

Not because he disagreed-but because he understood.

Too well.

She turned to face him then, a dish towel in one hand, the silence stretching again-but this time it felt like an invitation. To speak. To ask. To feel.

He didn't move closer, but his voice lowered.

"You said you know this is poison... this marriage."

She looked at him-not flinching, not blinking.

"I said I chose to drink it knowing what it is."

A beat. Then another.

"What if I told you I'm not poison, Adhrita?" His voice had no arrogance. Only a dangerous kind of gentleness.

"Then I'll believe you," she said. "But only if you're not sugar either."

That made his lips curve-this time fully. A real, rare smile. The kind that didn't ask for anything. Just... was.

"Fair."

Then softer: "lunch's burning."

She blinked and turned abruptly, letting out the smallest laugh. Tension cracked for just a second. But it didn't disappear.

It was just... cooking on low flame now.

He picked up the spoon, dipped it into the pan, and tasted the sabzi-casually, like he did it every day. But it was the hand he used that caught her attention.

His left.

She tilted her head slightly, eyebrows rising just enough to hint at curiosity.

"Hey, leftie," she said, her tone softer than the words. "Still something missing?"

He froze.

Just for a second.

Like someone had hit rewind on a memory he wasn't ready to see again.

A faint laugh echoed in his mind - younger, louder, messier.

"Leftie!"

He blinked it away before she could notice, and stepped down from the counter in one smooth move.

"I hate Indian food," he said flatly, opening the fridge. "So I'm making sandwiches for myself."

Like he hadn't just ghost-walked through a decade-old echo.

She stared at him. Bluntly. Disbelievingly. As if he'd just confessed he microwaves Maggi with the wrapper on.

Not because of the food. Because she had just cooked it. All of it.

She didn't say anything. Just turned back to the stove. Calm. Quiet. Dangerous.

She started making rotis - smooth, practiced, without a word. He paused midway through pulling out the bread, sensing the shift in the room. The silence was louder than anything she could've said.

He placed the bread on the counter, untouched.

She took out a plate.

Served the sabzi. Then rice. Then a spoon of dal. Then one chapati. Then another. And another.

She placed the plate on the counter and slid it toward him without looking.

"Too late. We, Adanis, don't waste food here." Her voice was soft. Sharp. Final. "You should've told me before I cooked all this."

He was too stunned to respond for a beat. Then recovered.

"Adhrita-"

She turned, just enough to acknowledge him.

"Abhi biwi bani nahi ho," he said dryly.

(You're not my wife yet.)

She looked at him.

No words. Just a look. The kind of look that didn't argue, didn't flinch - it commanded.

Go. Eat.

He picked up the plate without protest and walked to the dining table like a soldier accepting defeat.

Sat down. Picked up the roti.

"I don't know who's lying and who's telling the truth, Vritant.

Whether I was promised into this marriage or not.

But if a man is standing here asking for my consent...

" She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, eyes steady on him.

"...then maybe I am willing to cook what he doesn't like. "

He almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he tore a piece of chapati and surrendered properly.

In the grand chessboard of Indian politics, he had just been checkmated by a roti.

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