Throne and Thread

Chapter 12 Headlines & Handholds

Every bargain with the devil comes with fine print.

- Adhrita Adani

The cold water hit her skin like tiny slaps - sharp, relentless, cleansing. She splashed again. And again. And again. As if sheer repetition could wash away more than just salt and mascara - as if it could drown the ache curling behind her ribs.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they scooped water up once more, and this time, she didn't stop. She kept her hands cupped against her face, letting the chill bite into her palms. Tears or water - it didn't matter anymore. The difference had blurred.

She opened her eyes slowly. Red. Tired. Glassy.

She looked at her reflection like it was someone else - someone who had been holding it together too long. Water cascaded down her cheeks, clinging to her jaw, dripping from her chin like surrender.

"Stop crying. That's enough."

She wasn't sure if she whispered it aloud or if it was just in her head. Either way, it didn't work.

? ? Flashback ? ?

It was early. Too early. The city outside was still grey with sleep, but Adhrita had already left the house, hoping the sterile white walls of the hospital would quiet her thoughts.

She had peeked into the guest room before leaving. Vritant was still asleep - one hand beneath the pillow, the other resting near his chest like he was shielding something even in his dreams. So still. So unlike the man who could shatter silence with just one glance.

Adhrita sat in her cabin, the faint hum of the hospital around her doing little to still the storm inside. She powered on her laptop, intending only to check the day's schedule, but her eyes froze on the screen.

There it was.

An email from her father

Her heartbeat quickened. Against her better judgment, she clicked it open.

??????

I don't know where you have left and how and why I couldn't find your trace.

I don't care now if you pick my calls or not, Adhrita. But one last time, I am telling you this:

You are going to marry into the Vardhan family - and that is the ultimate truth.

If you want to deny it, deny it. But know this - you will not just be denying a marriage.

You will be denying the Adani name.

You will no longer be mine. Or Vaidehi's.

My Vaidehi and my daughter would never distrust me.

My Vaidehi and my daughter always trusted me blindly.

It's your will, Adhrita.

Do you still want to stay an Adani or not?

Henceforth, you decide - if you are part of this family, or if you're just Adhrita.

You can paint me the villain all you want. That's fine.

But let me be clear:

If you choose to be only Adhrita - I will make sure not only you, but your hospital suffers too.

And trust me, you are nothing but the CM's daughter.

I will strip you of your doctor's identity too.

Either my daughter will be Mrs. Vardhan. Or she will be nothing at all.

??????

She read it once.

Twice.

A third time.

Each word felt like it had been dipped in acid - searing her skin, her blood, her name.

The cursor blinked at the end of the mail like a final warning.

Her hands were shaking.

Nothing.

She blinked.

Once. Twice.

But the water in her eyes didn't fall this time - it just blurred the screen, as if her mind couldn't bear to see the sentence anymore.

Nothing at all.

The phrase echoed in her skull, louder than her heartbeat. She sat perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too loudly might cause the world to split open beneath her.

Her throat burned. Not from tears - but from the way truth swelled inside her without space to escape.

She was scared. Terrified, even.

Not of starting a life she didn't choose...

But of what she would become without her roots.

Alone. Unclaimed. Unanchored.

Not just her name. Not just her mother.

Now - her hospital?

Her career?

"You're nothing but the CM's daughter..."

The words hit harder than any slap. Every night shift, every exam, every patient - he reduced all of it to a title she was born into. Not earned.

"If I strip you of your name, I'll strip you of your doctor's identity too."

Her breath came in shallow gasps now. Not even medicine could save her - if he chose to ruin her.

That's when the panic really began. Not the kind that makes you cry - the kind that makes you silent.

She was nothing but a chess piece on a board shaped like a surname.

And the worst part? She didn't know if she had the strength to walk away from that board.

? ? Flashback ends ? ?

The memory faded - but its grip didn't.

She stood in front of the mirror now, her fingers still dripping, the tap still running. Her pulse was uneven, as if her body was echoing every word from that email like a curse she couldn't unhear.

She had tried to be stronger than this.

Tried to be rational. Clinical. Detached.

But how do you detach from something that's stitched into your name?

Her reflection stared back - water running down her cheeks, making it impossible to tell if she was still crying or if her body had just given up trying to stop. Her eyes were rimmed red, swollen and tired.

"Nothing at all."

That line had branded itself into her. She could scrub her face a hundred times - it wouldn't come off.

She had begged herself not to fall apart.

But that email... it had crumbled the last wall.

She reached for the towel with shaking hands, dried her face without looking in the mirror again. She didn't want to see herself - not like this, not in this light.

And then she stepped out.

She padded barefoot across the cold floor, dress clinging damply to her skin, and walked toward the main hall like she was walking into someone else's life.

And there he was.

Vritant.

Curled up on the antique sofa, legs half-folded, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. One arm rested on his forehead, the other dangling loosely over the edge - a silver lighter clasped loosely in his palm, still warm from his grip.

Even in sleep, he looked like restraint. Like someone who didn't give himself permission to collapse - and maybe that's why he had, now.

For a moment, she just stood there, watching.

She sat beside him. Carefully. Quietly.

Her eyes didn't leave his sleeping face - that frown still faintly carved across his forehead even in unconsciousness.

And in her mind, she whispered the truth she could never speak aloud.

"And you ask me, Vritant... why I said those words to you. Why I asked you to marry me."

It's not romance. It's not surrender. It's not love.

It's because I don't have the strength to fight anymore.

I heard your father's words. The threat was velvet-lined but it was there. And I know you - you're trying so hard to honour that promise, trying to protect me without forcing me.

You brought me here, Vritant. Away from all of them. So I could breathe. But how do I explain it to you... that no matter where I go, no matter how many windows you open - I would still choke.

Because even air needs identity. And mine's being taken from me."

Her eyes dropped to the lighter in his palm.

"By marrying you, maybe I won't get freedom. But at least I get to keep the one thing I earned myself - being a doctor."

She looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Vritant," she whispered in her mind, "I asked you to marry me not because I could... but because I couldn't not."

She leaned back, not touching him - just letting the silence rest between them like an old wound they were both too tired to dress.

Just then, something fluttered quietly to the floor - a card, slipping out from the corner of his pocket.

Adhrita paused. Her fingers hovered for a moment before she picked it up.

Ace of Hearts.

Of course.

The memory flickered - him bluffing about cards just days ago, the casual smirk on his lips, the way he handed her one without letting her choose. And the one he kept for himself.

It suddenly felt less like a bluff and more like something he had chosen - for her, maybe for himself too. Quietly. Without any declarations.

Her gaze softened as she turned to him, still asleep, his chest rising in that heavy, guarded rhythm he carried even in rest.

Beside his curled hand was a lighter. A beautiful, silver one. She reached for it gently.

It was cool to the touch, heavy with meaning - carved with two interlocked Vs. Not ornate. Not flashy. Just... intentional.

Two Vs.

Vritant Vardhan.

She ran her thumb over the engraving - it felt personal. Like something he hadn't meant to show.

She looked back at the card.

A part of her crumbled. And a part of her felt strangely... seen.

He was the only one who didn't sell me a dream.

He didn't hand her illusions. He handed her control. Choices. Space. A card that said nothing - and yet everything.

She slid down to the floor, knees pulled close.The card still in her hand.She kept thinking. And then, slowly, she slept there - right beside him.

??? V ? A ???

A sharp tug jolted her awake. Her eyes shot open. Every muscle in her body ached from sleeping upright on the cold marble floor.

She blinked - and then looked up. Her long hair was curled around his fingers, loosely tangled.

Vritant was watching her, half-awake, eyes narrowed. He raised an eyebrow.

"You know... sleeping beside me like this, without a word - very wife-like tactics."

She sat up, eyes narrowing - not at his words, but what they implied.

"Wife-like?" she scoffed. "You came to my room two nights ago. Udaipur. Saanvi's wedding. Remember?"

A pause, loaded.

"I didn't say you acted husband-like."

"That was part of the escape plan, doctor.

Which, clearly, is failing." His voice was quiet but clipped, laced with that cold sarcasm only he could manage before breakfast. "We came here so you could think clearly.

So you wouldn't feel trapped. But it seems... you prefer the cage more than the sky."

Adhrita tilted her head, arching a brow.

"Or maybe I just like my wings?" she replied, calm and defiant.

Vritant let out a quiet scoff, not looking at her.

"How poetic. But don't act surprised when your flight path ends at a press conference."

She stared at him for a beat. "Is this your breakfast-less behaviour talking, or are you just naturally this charming in the mornings?"

"Yes, Doctor. Diagnosis: sarcasm deficiency. Treatment: pancakes or peace offerings."

She shook her head, lips twitching at the corner, and got up wordlessly. As she started walking toward her room, his voice stopped her halfway.

"Doctor, udne ki ijaazat na ho... toh pankhon se pyaar karna bhi jurm ban jaata hai," His voice was quieter this time. Not playful-just pointed. Like something unsaid had slipped out wrapped in irony.

(Doctor, if flying isn't allowed... then even loving your wings becomes a crime.)

Adhrita paused at the door, her back still to him.

??? V ? A ???

The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled, half-forgotten. Clothes went in without thought-silks and cottons folded with the mechanical precision of someone folding away a part of herself.

It wasn't just a relocation-it was an exchange.

She paused, her hand resting on the zipper. Power, she thought, had a bitter taste. But perhaps she needed to let it sit on her tongue before she could spit it out.

Somewhere in Gujarat, decisions had been signed and sealed in her absence. And now, like a parcel marked urgent, she was being shipped home.

Adhrita didn't look up from the half-zipped suitcase. Her hands moved with mechanical precision, folding, tucking, erasing any trace of herself from the room.

"So, packing, huh?"

Her head turned. Vritant leaned against the doorframe, shirt untucked, eyes holding that mix of amusement and scrutiny that made her skin tighten.

"No lover from the past in the bag, right?"

Her brow arched. "Tempting idea, but I prefer not to travel with excess baggage."

He pushed off the frame, crossing the room with that unhurried stride of his. Without asking, he sat on the edge of the bed, right where the half-packed suitcase lay open like an invitation.

"Good. Customs officers hate complications."

She glanced back at the half-zipped suitcase. "And you?"

"What about me?" His voice was lazy, but his eyes sharpened.

"No ghosts hiding in yours?"

His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Mine don't fit in a suitcase, Adhrita. They stay exactly where I left them."

His hand reached out, casually picking up the folded dupatta she'd set aside. He held it for a moment, letting the soft fabric slip between his fingers, then passed it to her.

She took the dupatta, folded it neatly, and slid it into her bag.

She tilted her head. "So... what are we going to tell them?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied, a hint of mischief curling at his lips. "Just that daal bhaat prefers rajma chawal over daal baati."

He smirked - and left.

??? V ? A ???

Vritant was already in the driver's seat of the black SUV, engine off, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

When Adhrita slid into the passenger seat, he adjusted the rear-view mirror, his eyes flicking to his own reflection for barely a second before looking away.

She caught the tiny shift - almost too quick - and without a word, leaned forward to readjust the mirror herself.

He turned his head, brows knitting, not in annoyance but in quiet confusion.

He let the mirror moment go, instead starting the SUV.

"I've sent you a few pictures. Check them and pick a few," he said casually, sliding on his sunglasses.

She blinked at him, a little thrown, before unlocking her phone.

The pictures loaded. They were of the two of them - from Saanvi and Aryan's wedding.

Candid shots, some close enough to catch the glint in her eyes, others intimate enough that in the wrong hands, they could be twisted into something else.

"These are... our pictures," she murmured, still swiping.

"Yes. Select the best ones and send them to the number in the text."

Her head turned sharply toward him. "What? Why?"

His gaze stayed on the road, voice even.

"So Mrs. Vardhan can call off the swayamwar. You've already made your selection-whether she approves or not."

"What are you planning, Vritant?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. The smirk curving his lips was never just for decoration - and she was far from na?ve enough to think this was only about a few pictures.

"Are you on Instagram?" he asked casually, like he was discussing the weather.

"Yeah... but not active. I mean, I have an account."

"Expected." He nodded, almost as if she'd confirmed a theory. "Check my ID."

She quickly searched his profile. Only one post.

A picture of him - relaxed in a white tee, wine glass poised mid-sip, eyes glinting over the rim with that unreadable smirk - captioned:

Bachelor tag: archived.

Her brows shot up before she could hide it, gaze flicking from the screen to him.

He leaned back, lips curving lazily. "Relax, doctor... it's not a medical emergency."

Her grip on the phone tightened. "You just... announced this?"

"Did I?" His tone was maddeningly calm. "Could be a joke. Could be a statement. Depends on who's reading."

She studied his profile picture again, the comments already piling up under the post - laughing emojis, teasing remarks, one or two speculative tags. "You know this will spread like wildfire."

"That's the point." He changed lanes smoothly, the sunlight catching the edge of his jaw. "By the time Mrs. Vardhan gets her morning tea, she'll be sipping it with headlines."

"Headlines?" Her voice was flat - except her pulse had started a strange, restless rhythm. "You're playing with fire, Vritant."

He glanced at her briefly, that unreadable smirk making a reappearance. "Fire's only dangerous if you don't know where the wind's blowing."

She set the phone down in her lap, watching him. "And you do?"

"I make it my business to."

She looked back at him. "This is going to blow up in both our faces."

"Maybe," he said, sliding his sunglasses down just enough to meet her eyes. "Or maybe it's the only way to make sure you don't get sold off like a prize mare."

Her breath caught. He looked forward again, voice returning to that maddeningly even tone.

"Now pick those pictures, Adhrita. We're running out of time."

As soon as they reached the airport, she stepped out of the SUV, the heavy air of the terminal wrapping around her.

She turned, eyes tracing the receding skyline - the place she was leaving behind.

Not just a country, not just walls and streets, but an entire life folded into memories she couldn't carry with her.

They boarded the private jet, the steps ringing under their shoes. Inside, the cabin lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, amber haze.

Vritant dropped into his seat, drink in hand almost before the door closed. Adhrita sat opposite him, slipping off her coat and tucking it neatly beside her.

The engines rumbled to life, and she glanced toward the window - city lights spreading out like a net below them. Somewhere in that glittering maze was the life she'd left.

Without looking, Vritant reached across to the empty seat beside her and plucked the blanket folded there. He held it out. "It gets cold up here."

She blinked. "That's... unexpectedly considerate."

"Oh.. I ruin the illusion quickly," he said simply, eyes on his glass.

She hesitated, then took it. The blanket smelled faintly of cedar and something else she couldn't place - maybe him. She draped it over her lap, feeling the softness warm against her chilled fingers.

The jet climbed higher, city lights shrinking, stars spreading in their place. She was still looking out when she caught his reflection in the glass - head tilted slightly toward her, watching not the view, but her.

When their eyes met in the reflection, he didn't look away.

For a heartbeat, the hum of the engines and the rush of air outside faded, and it was just that - the steady look of a man who saw more than he let on.

He lifted his glass in a small, wordless toast.

She closed her eyes. Sleep came quicker than she expected.

When she woke, the engines had gone quiet. Outside the window, the runway lights glowed against the dark.

They had landed.

Stretching slightly, she glanced out - and frowned. "Are we not going...?"

"Gujarat?" he finished for her, already unbuckling his belt.

"Yes."

He gave her a slow, almost bored look. "It's a dry state."

"And?"

He rose, smoothing his jacket. "And I have a medical condition."

She blinked. "Which is?"

He slanted her a grin over his shoulder. "Severe intolerance to sobriety."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "You're unbelievable."

"That," he murmured, his hand at the small of her back as they stepped out, "is why you married me in the headlines."

As soon as they stepped outside, the flashbulbs hit like a wave - blinding bursts of white, the chaotic hum of shouted questions, and the press of bodies straining against barricades.

The paparazzi were everywhere, their voices overlapping in a storm of names, headlines already writing themselves in real time.

Without hesitation, Vritant caught her hand and pulled her in against him, his arm firm and protective at her back. The move was effortless, instinctive - and very public.

A sudden spike of noise from the crowd made her chest tighten, and before she could stop herself, she stepped in closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne over the chaos.

It wasn't planned, it wasn't bold - just a small, almost desperate shift toward the only steady thing in that storm.

Without thinking, she clutched the front of his shirt - not hard, but enough for the fabric to bunch under her fingers.

She felt him pause for the briefest second before his grip around her waist tightened, drawing her in that last inch until the noise dulled, until her pulse was no longer sprinting alone.

His hold wasn't showy, wasn't for the cameras - it was the kind of quiet strength that told her she could stand there all day and not be moved.

She felt the subtle shift in his body as his gaze cut past her.

To Rawat.

The look he gave him wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It carried the weight of a warning, a silent message beneath the noise: I decide who gets close.

Rawat moved in fast, cutting through the swarm of cameras and microphones, shielding them as he cleared a path to the waiting car.

The moment the door shut behind them, the noise outside was muffled - but not forgotten.

Even as Vritant started the engine, the shouts still bled through the glass.

"Mr. Vardhan! Is this the alliance between the PM's and CM's families?"

"Dr. Adhrita, is this a political match or a love story?"

"Are the families negotiating something bigger?"

"Is this the start of a new political dynasty?"

"How long have you been seeing each other?"

"Any truth to the rumour that this was arranged at the highest level?"

"Is this the start of a new power couple in Indian politics?"

"Are you confirming a relationship today?"

"Was the post meant as a soft launch?"

"Are you meeting her father tonight?"

"Vritant, what happened to your hand? Is it connected to her?"

And over it all, the frenzy birthed instant headlines flashing across phones and camera screens:

PM's Son, CM's Daughter - Delhi's Hottest Rumour

From USA to Delhi: Love in the Corridors of Power?

PM's Son Hints at Romance - Mystery Woman Identified as CM's Daughter

'Bachelor Tag Archived' - Political Love Story Unfolds?

Bandaged Hand, Hidden Story - Vardhan Spotted With CM's Daughter

The barrage rolled on, questions ricocheting off the car windows.

This time, she reached up and adjusted the mirror herself, not breaking eye contact. His gaze flicked from his own reflection back to hers - something unreadable passing between them - before he pressed down on the accelerator, the SUV surging forward as the city swallowed them whole.

In the glass, she caught one last flash of cameras in the distance and thought:

The ink on my passport stamp wasn't even dry, and I was already a national pastime.

────────── ?? ? ?? ──────────