Chapter 13 In the Grip of the Story
In politics, truth is negotiable - but a good scandal is non-refundable.
- Author
Some wars don't wait for a battlefield - they greet you at the front door.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the Vardhan estate - a fa?ade of carved sandstone and glass that managed to look both timeless and intimidating. Adhrita had only seen it in photographs before; in person, the sheer scale of it seemed to lean forward, as if assessing her.
The front door swung open before they even reached the first step. Aasha Vishwasrao stood there - though no one, from ministers to maids, ever called her that. To all, she was simply Tai. Elder sister. Not servant.
She wore a crisp cotton sari in the Maharashtrian style, a dark red bindi centered with quiet precision. A thin gold chain glinted at her throat, and her chappals made no sound as she stepped forward, the brass thali in her hands carried with a grace that could put royals to shame.
Her eyes found Vritant first, and the glare wasn't loud - but it landed.
"Aasha Tai," Vritant greeted, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
She didn't return the smile. "Your aai-saheb is waiting.," she said, tone clipped, her Marathi accent softened by decades in Delhi but still present in certain words.
Adhrita glanced at Vritant, but he only gestured for her to step inside first.
Aasha Tai's gaze shifted to her - not unkind, but appraising, the way a gatekeeper measures someone before letting them pass.
The marble-floored foyer spilled into the main hall, its high ceilings carrying the faint echo of their footsteps.
Shaurya Vardhan was the first to see them. His smile was immediate - broad and unguarded - the kind of expression that said he'd been waiting for this moment. To him, this wasn't scandal. This was triumph. His son had brought home the daughter of Adani.
Vedashree, however, sat at the far end of the room, back straight, chin lifted, every inch of her arranged in precision. Too calm. The kind of calm that made silence heavier than shouting.
To her right, Vritant's uncle occupied the edge of an armchair as though the cushions might swallow him. His gaze darted once toward Shaurya, then back to the floor. He knew better than to speak when the air in the house was this still.
Anamika Vardhan, the aunt by marriage, was a contrast - smiling faintly, like she was watching a play she'd already read the ending to.
And in the corner, Shweta Vardhan, the paternal aunt, didn't bother to hide her glare. It cut from Vritant to Adhrita and back again, weighted with all the judgment the morning's headlines had stirred.
The door shut behind them, and the quiet that followed was the kind that didn't welcome small talk.
Vedashree didn't rise. She didn't need to. Her gaze found Vritant first, then slid to Adhrita, pausing just long enough to make it clear that nothing - not the headlines, not the crowd outside - had escaped her notice.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," she said, tone smooth as glass. "Though, you'll forgive me if I prefer to give them in private... away from the press you've both been feeding."
Her eyes returned to Vritant, sharper now. "Do you know what the morning looked like for me? Every minister, every party worker, every lobbyist calling to 'clarify' the state of your personal life. Not policy. Not governance. You."
Vritant slid his hands into his pockets, as if she'd just commented on the weather.
"Ah," he drawled, "finally a topic Parliament can agree on."
Her jaw tightened a fraction. "This isn't amusing."
"It's public service," he countered, deadpan. "Keeping the country entertained while you run it."
Her eyes narrowed, the calm in them more dangerous than anger. "Do you understand what it means when your name makes headlines before mine?"
"Yes," he said, tilting his head, "it means your PR team needs to work harder."
Vedashree exhaled slowly, like she was containing something sharper. "You think this is a game."
He gave a half-smile. "No, I think it's politics. You just prefer it when you're the only one playing."
She paused, the silence amplifying the weight of her words.
"You forget, Vritant, that every move you make reflects on me - on the office I hold, on the country I serve. Your name is not just yours anymore. It carries the weight of millions who depend on stability."
Her gaze didn't waver. "You treat this like a game, but this is a nation we're talking about. And I will not have your impulsiveness destabilize what I've built."
Vritant, unflinching, met her stare.
"Funny how your 'nation' seems to crack the moment I make a noise."
Vedashree's jaw tightened. "Don't mistake my silence for weakness."
For a moment, silence stretched between them - her precision, his provocation - until Shaurya cleared his throat, the air in the room snapping taut again.
Shaurya's voice was calm, but edged with steel. "If you're both done testing who can draw more blood without lifting a hand, perhaps we can discuss why the entire country thinks my son just eloped with the daughter of the Chief Minister."
"Papa, you know the stakes," Vritant said evenly. "We wanted to honor your promise. So, yes - we went somewhere to think about it. Because it's not just a promise...it's our whole life too."
He let the pause stretch, the weight of his words hanging in the charged air.
"And we've decided..."
He turned his head, eyes locking on Adhrita. She was still frozen, caught between shock at Vedashree's presence and the suffocating attention of the room.
His fingers brushed hers - light, deliberate - pulling her back into the moment.
"We've decided that if the country can survive your elections... they can survive this."
Shaurya's laugh broke the tension like a stone through glass. He crossed the room without hesitation, pulling his son into a firm hug - the kind that said more than any words could.
Then he turned to Adhrita, his expression softening.
"Beta," he said, voice warm in a way that contrasted the chill in the room, "thank you."
He placed his palm gently over her head, a blessing and a promise in one quiet gesture.
"Go and rest," he said.
Without a word, Vritant turned, and Adhrita followed. The murmur of voices behind them faded with each step until the heavy door closed, shutting the family - and the headlines - out.
"Bhabhi, what's this suddenly?" Shweta asked, her voice a careful mix of curiosity and concern.
Vedashree's gaze didn't shift. "It seems the Adanis' other daughter will be the Vardhan bahu."
"But we don't know anything about her, Bhabhi. We knew Saanvi for years... but this girl-" Shweta stopped herself, then added more cautiously, "And Vritant?"
Vedashree turned her head just enough for the light to catch in her eyes, then looked back toward the window, where the Indian flag rippled against a windless sky.
"He's my son," she said.
Then, quieter - almost to herself - "Which means I can't afford to assume I know him."
"Aasha," Vedashree said, her voice cutting clean through the quiet.
"Ho(yes), Tai," Aasha Vishwasrao appeared almost instantly, crisp cotton pleats and dark red bindi in place.
"Call Aaradhya to my office. I want to know why Vritant and Adhrita's pictures appeared on a Vardhan platform without my clearance."
Aasha Tai inclined her head once and slipped away, as soundless as strategy.
Shweta frowned. "Our Aaradhya posted those pictures?"
Vedashree's eyes stayed on the window, the flag outside stirring in a breathless sky.
"She had exclusive rights to Aryan's wedding. She exercised them." A pause, deliberate.
"And my son... decided to make it national news by stamping his signature on it for the world to see."
??? V ? A ???
The Vardhan Mansion did not believe in doors creaking. Every hinge was polished, every shadow curated, every inch trained to behave. So when the door to his room let out a low, stubborn groan, Adhrita froze mid-step. It wasn't loud, but in this house, it was rebellion.
Vritant pushed it open without breaking stride, as if the sound belonged here-left untouched on purpose.
She lingered in the doorway, one foot inside, one foot out, the polished marble cool beneath her heel.
It wasn't the size of the room that held her back, but the sense of it - the way the air here felt heavier, tuned to his pace, his silence. Stepping in felt less like entering a space and more like crossing into him.
From here, she caught only fragments: the sweep of dark wood paneling, a glint of metal at the window latch, the faint hum of the city pressing against the glass.
When she finally moved, it was measured, deliberate - as though she knew there was no walking back from it.
Her gaze drifted back to the door. "Doesn't really match the rest of the mansion," she murmured.
He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Neither do I."
He walked past her, tugging his cuff loose. "Sit before you make the door nervous," he said lightly, already heading for the washroom.
The running water started before she could think of a reply.
She stayed rooted to the spot, the room feeling larger with him gone. Then her legs reminded her she'd been standing all morning. She crossed to the bed, easing down like she wasn't sure if she was allowed.
The heels came off first-two quiet thuds against the carpet. She leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes just long enough to feel the ache in her feet spread into the rest of her.
The thump came first-light, fast, unmistakable-followed by the weight of something landing beside her. Her eyes flew open to find Karma, tail whipping like it might detach from sheer enthusiasm.
Adhrita blinked, startled, then a small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself. "Well... someone's happy to see me."
Whatever haze of the day she'd been wrapped in fell away in an instant. She scooped him up without thinking, his paws pressing against her shoulder as if he'd been waiting all night for her.
A laugh-small, surprised-escaped her as she set him down on the bed again.
Karma bounced back, head butting her arm, tail a blur.
In minutes, the quiet authority of Vritant's room had been replaced by the rustle of the sheets and the soft thud of paws as the two of them tumbled into an easy, wordless game.
The bathroom door clicked open. Vritant stepped out, towel in hand, his hair damp and pushed back. He stopped mid-stride, taking in the scene-Karma sprawled on the bed, Adhrita half-laughing, the sheets a little less perfect than he'd left them.
One brow lifted.
"I leave the room for two minutes..." he said, voice low, "...and you've already recruited my dog."
Before she could answer, Karma's ears perked at the sound of his voice. In a heartbeat, he launched himself off the bed and straight at Vritant, nails clicking against the floor.
The bark that tore out of him was sharp and insistent, almost scolding, as if accusing Vritant of a terrible betrayal. Karma stood on his hind legs, paws pressing against Vritant's chest, tail wagging furiously between bursts of complaint.
Vritant caught him with one arm, the other bracing the towel at his neck. "Yes, yes," he murmured dryly, leaning down so Karma could bury his face against him in a messy, overzealous hug. "Tragic. I was gone forever."
Her phone started ringing, a sharp intrusion in the room's quiet. Vritant glanced over Karma's head toward the sound.
Adhrita reached for it automatically, the screen lighting up with Papa flashing again and again. Her thumb hovered, but the weight in her chest kept her still.
After a moment, she turned it face down on the bed.
A knock broke the pause. Vritant set Karma back on the mattress and crossed to the door.
Aasha tai stood there, her posture crisp, her expression sharper.
"Baju wala room ready hai," she said, eyes flicking past him before settling into a glare that was entirely for him.
(Room is ready.)
Vritant's mouth curved slowly. "Great. Take her with you-she might finally learn how to glare properly."
Her jaw tightened. "I am your mother's maid, not anyone else's," she snapped.
Vritant laughed under his breath, low and pleased, like a hunter knowing he'd struck the exact mark.
Then, he stepped to the corner, unzipped his bag, and pulled something out. When he turned back, the weight in his hand caught the light-metal, unmistakable.
He offered it to Adhrita, voice smooth as glass. "If someone doesn't obey, feel free to use it."
Her breath caught, a mini heart attack thudding in her chest. What kind of man was he?
Tai's eyes flicked to the gun, then to him, her glare sharpening before she turned and left without another word.
Vritant's low laugh followed her down the hall, satisfaction curling in the sound.
"Keep this," he said, holding it out like he was passing her a set of keys.
Adhrita stared at it, at him, her mind stumbling over the absurdity. Of all the things she had expected from this night, this was nowhere on the list.
He tossed the towel onto a chair, eyes sliding to her. "Come on," he said, voice light but edged with something that felt almost like a dare.
"Vritant, this is a gun... and I'm scared of guns," she said, finally letting the words out.
The memory of the attack still clung to her skin like smoke. And now-this house, its endless security, the silent, watchful army men-it was already pressing against her ribs, stealing her breath.
He didn't even glance at her.
"What did you think?" His tone was almost amused. "Sasural mein phoolo se swagat hoga?"
(Will there be a welcome with flowers at your in-laws' place?)
"Can I take it later?" she asked hesitantly. She knew why he was offering her a gun. The irony didn't escape her-most people in new relationships got flowers. She? Lucky her-she got a gun.
Through the mirror, he caught her expression and simply nodded. Then he turned to the cupboard, pulling on a coat and fastening his cufflinks with the same precision he gave his hair.
"Let me show you your room," he said, voice softer now-maybe because he'd realised she was taking in too much at once. She needed space, somewhere to breathe.
She nodded and rose from the bed, slipping her heels back on. Karma jumped down to follow, but-
"You stay here, Karma," Vritant ordered.
The dog let out a small, sad bark, but Adhrita ruffled his neck, murmuring something to calm him.
They stepped into the hall, and he opened the door next to his.
"Here-your room. The balcony is adjoined."
She nodded again.
"Aren't you a little too calm?" he asked, noting how quiet she'd been since the moment she'd said they should marry.
"It's just... overwhelming, all at once."
"Oh yes," he said lightly, "I haven't introduced you to anyone yet. Why don't you get fresh-might as well look your best before they start judging."
The corner of his mouth curved, as if the thought carried one more mischief up his sleeve.
Her brows pinched, but she didn't bother replying. Instead, she picked up her bag and walked into the washroom.
By the time the door clicked shut behind her, Vritant had already stepped out of the room, his footsteps fading down the hall.
??? V ? A ???
A soft knock came just as Adhrita stepped out of the washroom.
The door opened to reveal Anamika Vardhan, a tray in her hands, the aroma of fresh parathas and cardamom tea curling into the air. Her sari was draped with unhurried perfection, the kind of elegance that seemed to come as naturally as breathing.
"I thought you might not have eaten," she said, voice calm, almost soothing.
Adhrita blinked, caught off guard. "Thank you... ma'am."
A gentle smile touched Anamika's face. "We don't do 'ma'am' here, dear. You're family now." She set the tray on the table, adjusting the plate just so before stepping back.
The warmth in her tone eased something in Adhrita's chest. After the constant press of guards, heavy doors, and watchful eyes, this-this felt human.
"Eat while it's hot," Anamika said, giving her one last reassuring look before leaving the room as quietly as she had entered.
For the first time since she'd stepped into the mansion, Adhrita almost felt... welcome.
Adhrita carried her tray to the balcony, craving the open air. The morning sun was gentle here, the city's hum distant enough to feel unreal.
And then-his voice. The only familiar sound in this mansion.
Vritant stood a few steps away, phone pressed to his ear, words clipped and precise. On the small table beside him sat his own untouched breakfast, steam curling faintly before disappearing into the air.
He glanced sideways and caught her watching. Without pausing his conversation, he arched a brow as if to say what?
She lifted her tray slightly in answer. He gave the smallest nod, already turning back to his call.
Adhrita took a seat and tore off a piece of paratha, her gaze wandering despite herself. A moment later, he moved toward her, pulling out the chair beside hers with quiet finality.
"No, Neil, the report is not perfect," he said evenly, eyes on the view. "I need updated numbers."
And then-without looking-his hand found the loose ends of her hair. His fingers toyed with the strands absently, twisting them in slow, unconscious loops.
The bite in her mouth suddenly felt impossible to chew. She watched him, caught between surprise and... something she didn't have a name for.
Adhrita's brow rose. She glanced at him, but his attention was still on the call, his voice all business.
"It's hard? Water issue?" he asked suddenly.
Her breath caught-until he cut her a brief look. "No, Neil. Not to you."
The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth before he turned away again. Moments later, the call ended.
She didn't know if the flicker in his gaze was an apology or a tease, but the warmth it left in its wake was far from accidental.
Adhrita slid her plate toward him. "I understand your breakfast-less behaviour, so... here."
"No. I don't eat breakfast," he said flatly, already picking up his phone as it buzzed again. "Yes?" His voice shifted into that clipped, no-nonsense tone she'd heard before.
She stared at him, a faint frown tugging at her mouth. Really? Wasn't this the same man who'd made her cook lunch, dinner, and breakfasts for him in New York-without ever once refusing a plate?
Moody? Or was this the real Vritant-predictable only in how unpredictably he moved through the world?
She let her fork rest against the plate, pretending to focus on her own breakfast while her ears tracked his voice. It wasn't loud, but it had that controlled weight-each word measured, each pause deliberate, like he was used to people leaning in just to catch the rest.
Her eyes wandered back to the tray on his side of the balcony. Steam still curled faintly from the parathas, a thin ribbon against the morning air. He didn't so much as glance at it.
It was almost irritating, the way he could ignore something so effortlessly-whether it was a meal, a person, or an entire conversation-until he decided it was worth his attention.
A faint creak bled through the ceiling-soft, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet. It came from directly above her room.
Both of them stilled.
His eyes flicked upward once, then to her, the change in his expression so slight she almost missed it. In the next breath, his fingers closed around her wrist-firm, unhesitating.
Before she could ask, he pulled her toward him, the chair scraping back just enough for her to stumble into the sudden closeness. Her free hand landed on his shoulder, instinct making her arm loop loosely around his neck.
And then-swift, clean-he moved, guiding her with him until her back met the cool solidity of the wall. The motion was quiet, controlled... but his grip didn't ease.
Somewhere above, another muted shift of weight. Down here, her heartbeat was louder.
Then, above them, a shadow shifted-and dropped.
Rawat landed with a muffled thud, straightening immediately.
"Sir?" His tone was clipped, but questioning.
Vritant's grip loosened just a fraction, his shoulders dropping with a quiet exhale.
"Rawat, what are-" he began, but then his eyes narrowed in instant recognition.
"Sir, you asked us to install an additional layer of security for Ma'am's room," Rawat explained, jerking his chin toward the ceiling where faint shuffling continued. "Team's working above."
Vritant gave a short nod, but before he could say more, her voice broke in-small, brittle at the edges.
"I thought... I was being attacked again."
Her eyes shut tightly, her arms still locked around his neck as if loosening them might bring the threat back. The fear from that last time-raw and sharp-hadn't left her.
Without a word, he let her lean into him, his palm resting briefly against her back in something that wasn't quite comfort, but close enough to steady her breathing.
His hand stayed steady at her back as he met her eyes with a calm, almost amused look.
"Try not to look so surprised. You're in my world now."
She gave a shaky exhale-half relief, half annoyance.
Only then did he release her and glance toward the table on the balcony.
"Now, eat. Before Rawat starts charging extra for protecting your food."
The way he said it made the corner of her mouth twitch, despite herself. She sat, and he pulled out the chair opposite.
And just like that, the pulse of fear in her chest began to even out-not because it was gone, but because he'd made it feel almost... absurd.
Just then, a sharp cough burst from Adhrita's lips, breaking the fragile calm like a sudden storm.
"Spit it out. Now." Vritant's voice cut through the moment-urgent, raw, unyielding. His eyes darkened, flickering with something fierce, something protectively primal.
She struggled to steady her breath, chest heaving as if the air itself was betraying her. The sudden panic in his gaze was almost unbearable to witness-like he was reliving every fear he'd buried deep beneath the surface.
"Who gave you breakfast?" His voice was rougher now, as if he could barely contain the sharp edge of suspicion rising inside him.
"Anamika... aunty," she managed, voice ragged and uneven, each word a struggle through the lingering cough.
She's still fragile. That thought hit him like a punch to the gut. The attack-the fear-it wasn't just a shadow from the past; it was a weight she carried with her every second. And now, here, in his home, she should be safe. She has to be safe.
His eyes didn't leave hers as he reached for the glass of water on the table, fingers steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling beneath his calm exterior.
Without a word, he brought it to her lips, the movement deliberate-quiet, but heavy with unspoken concern.
She hesitated, caught between pride and the raw ache in her chest, but the steadiness in his gaze broke through.
Slowly, she sipped, the cool water soothing the harshness still burning in her throat.
He could see the hesitation in her eyes, the silent question of trust. He hated that she felt this way here, in his world. How many more walls does she need to tear down before she can breathe freely?
In this mansion of polished shadows and unyielding silence, his dry humor was an unexpected kind of refuge - sharp, imperfect, but undeniably real.
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