Chapter 19 A Smiling Storm
A storm does not knock - it walks in, smiling.
- Adhrita Adani
Sitting on the plush seat of the cruise, Adhrita felt the gentle rhythm of the ship beneath her as her hands rested on the cushion, waiting for the mehendi to be applied.
She wore a flowing green and white lehenga, the green as vibrant as fresh spring leaves, softened by delicate white embroidery that traced intricate patterns across the fabric.
A contrasting dupatta, draped elegantly over her shoulder, shimmered with golden threadwork along the border, catching the soft glow of the lanterns scattered around the deck.
Her long hair fell in smooth waves over her back, tamed just enough to reveal a statement ear cuff that curved gracefully along her earlobe, studded with tiny pearls that glinted with every tilt of her head.
She kept her makeup minimal - just enough to highlight the sharp line of her jaw and the warmth in her eyes - letting the lehenga and the moment take center stage.
As the mehendi artist began tracing patterns on her palms, Adhrita felt a curious mix of excitement and nervousness.
Each stroke of the cone left dark green swirls on her skin, and she couldn't help but glance down occasionally, fascinated by the delicate designs slowly blooming across her hands.
The world around her - the laughter of cousins, the soft waves, the golden lantern light - felt dreamlike, yet she was acutely aware of the quiet steadiness beside her, the subtle presence of Vritant watching over the chaos without a word.
So much weight in these lines, she thought. Tradition says the darker the mehendi, the deeper the love. But what will they see when they look at my hands? A bride... or a bargaining chip wrapped in silk?
Mumma always loved mehendi on my hands.
Always. I used to bury my face in her palms, smell the rich stain, and dance because she'd given me my favorite smell in the world.
Since she left, I never had the courage for it.
Mehendi felt... incomplete without her laughter, her touch.
The last time I applied it was at Saanvi's wedding - and even that day ended in ruins.
I never imagined the next time would be for my own.
Her chest tightened, but before the ache could settle too deep, a ripple of laughter broke her thoughts.
"Vritant Vardhan," she heard his name float in teasing voices, followed by giggles.
He appeared a heartbeat later, slipping into the seat beside her.
Not in the usual flamboyance others might've chosen for a cruise mehendi, but in an all-black kurta, the fabric drinking in the afternoon sun, stark and commanding against the riot of colors around him - like a shadow carved into daylight.
Black? she thought, stealing a glance at him, her lips curving in the smallest smile. On a day of colors, only he would walk in like this - like the storm no one invited, but everyone notices.
"You're wearing black," Adhrita said softly, half statement, half question.
"So what?" he leaned back, jaw catching the sunlight, every angle sharpened by the day. "It looks classy."
Before she could reply, Shweta swept in like a storm. "You're in black again? Vritant, go and change."
He didn't even blink. "No Bua ji. My wedding, my rule."
"Go and change, Vritant," Shweta pressed, exasperation dripping from her voice. Adhrita found herself, absurdly, hoping he would listen for once. But of course, he wouldn't.
"I will change..." His pause stretched, deliberate. "...only if PM sahiba asks me to."
"Vritant!" Adhrita tried, her voice low, almost pleading rather than scolding.
This time he looked up, straight at her, his gaze steady. "Please, go and change."
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then his smirk returned. "Doctor, you're also believing such nonsense?"
Her face fell. The mehendi artist's cone hesitated mid-pattern as silence curled between them. Adhrita turned her face away, letting her gaze drop to the dark swirls unfurling on her palms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words stung.
Adhrita held still as the mehendi artist began tracing the first design on one hand, her other palm still blank. Taking the chance, she murmured softly, "Excuse me," and carefully reached up to pull out the stray hairpin.
With her free hand, she reached into her hair and tugged the ornate royal pin loose - the same one he had given her. Silver glinted under the lantern light, but she pressed it into his palm without ceremony.
"Haldi ruined my hair anyway," she murmured, eyes on her mehendi. "I won't need it."
For a second, his thumb brushed over the pin, catching the sharp edge of the hidden blade within. His jaw ticked, but before he could respond, the artist frowned.
"Madam, your hair is long. Open like this... it will ruin the mehendi. Please tie it up."
Adhrita shook her head softly. "It's fine. I'll be careful."
The breeze off the sea teased loose strands across her face, and true to the artist's warning, the fine lines on her wrist already threatened to smudge.
That's when his voice cut in - low, sharp, unmistakably him.
"Really, doctor?"
The wind carried a sudden rush of paws against the deck.
"Karma..." she whispered, trying to steady him with her elbow, angling her palms away desperately. The artist gasped, and Adhrita's eyes darted down. A corner of the intricate design on her wrist had blurred into a messy smear.
Her breath caught. No, no, no... The tears came uninvited, stinging.
"My mehendi..." she whispered again, her voice breaking - barely audible over the noise of people in the distance. She blinked rapidly, trying to push the wetness back, hating how fragile she must look.
Vritant's gaze flicked once at her hand, then at her face. Not a word of consolation. Just action.
"Rawat." His voice cut sharp through the night. He caught Karma by the collar, handed him off. "Take him."
Karma whined, resisting, nails scratching against the deck as Rawat tugged. His bark was sharp, insistent - refusing the separation.
Adhrita swallowed hard, lifting her chin, forcing steadiness. "Let him stay," she said, barely more than a breath. But there was steel beneath it.
Vritant studied her for a moment, then released his hold. He crouched slightly, palm pressing against Karma's strong neck. The dog stilled instantly, responding to his master's weight.
"Sit."
Karma looked up once, then obeyed, settling neatly between them, chest heaving but quiet. His head rested partly on Adhrita's lehenga, partly against Vritant's knee - a living bridge.
Adhrita's gaze lingered on the blurred stain across her palm. She pressed her lips together, fighting the sting in her throat. Vritant followed her eyes, then glanced at the dark smear on his own kurta where her mehendi had touched.
A slow curve tugged at his mouth. He let out a short laugh as he rose to his feet.
"Again?" he drawled, dusting the fabric as if it mattered. "Marked territory?"
Karma barked once, as if in agreement, tail thumping against the deck.
Adhrita exhaled sharply, half a laugh breaking through her tears. She shook her head, biting back the smile she didn't want him to see.
He left with that smirk still lingering on his lips, and as soon as his footsteps faded, the women filled the space.
Vedashree entered with Aaradhya, her aura as deliberate as the emeralds around her neck. Shweta clapped her hands lightly.
"Bhabhi, come, mehendi!"
Vedashree's gaze flicked once to Adhrita before she shook her head. "It's messy." She lowered herself gracefully onto the opposite sofa, her voice carrying finality.
Anamika, never one to miss a stage, stepped forward with a mischievous grin.
"Then I'll do it for my Vritant's bride - at least one of us should follow the ritual." She held out her palms and signaled the artists to begin.
"Aaradhya?" Shweta turned.
"Of course, bua," Aaradhya said easily, sliding in beside her mother, extending her hand with youthful excitement.
Shweta leaned again toward Vedashree. "Bhabhi, please. It's Vritant's wedding."
Vedashree's eyes moved, slow and deliberate, from Shweta to Adhrita. The silence pressed.
Adhrita, still hunched slightly to protect her drying mehendi, whispered to the artist, "I need a break," pulling her hands closer to her chest.
The atmosphere shifted. Vedashree straightened, her chin tilting, and said coolly, "Minimal is fine." Then, without waiting, she sat on the same sofa as Adhrita.
The artists looked at one another, visibly unsettled. Few had ever been this close to the Prime Minister, let alone touching her hands with mehendi.
"Mam... how would you like it?" one asked, cautious, cones trembling slightly.
Vedashree didn't answer immediately. Her eyes flicked toward Adhrita - a glance that lingered, deliberate - before she extended her hand, wrist poised like a queen offering it for a kiss.
"Bare minimum," she said smoothly. Then, with a faint tilt of her lips, added, "Only the initials. VV."
The silence stretched. Everyone knew whose initials those were.
The artist's hand shook as she nodded quickly, starting the design.
Her gaze stayed fixed on Adhrita, steady, unblinking. "Your mehendi may mark you as Vritant's bride," she murmured, her voice low enough for the artist and Adhrita to hear, "but mine will always carry weight in this family."
Adhrita's throat tightened, her gaze falling to her ruined mehendi, the smudge that Karma had left - imperfect, fragile. She said nothing, but inside, the words carved themselves deep.
The mehendi cone dragged across Vedashree's palm, leaving behind the bold curves of VV. Her words still hung heavy in the air, pressing down on Adhrita's chest like a weight she couldn't shake.
And then- The mood shifted.
A stir ran through the cousins as sunlight caught on a fresh pastel green kurta moving across the deck.
Vritant walked in, the breeze tugging faintly at the fabric, the calm sea reflecting the same pale shade he wore.
The color wasn't his choice - everyone knew that - but the woman now sitting with damp eyes and smudged mehendi.
And for the first time that morning, Adhrita's ruined mehendi didn't feel like a loss.
Just then Aryan strolled in with Saanvi at his side, his grin loud enough to announce him before his voice did.
Aryan grinned, holding Saanvi's hand as he clumsily traced a crooked swirl on her palm. "Bhai, are you not applying? It's your wedding! At least practice once, so you don't ruin bhabhi's."
The girls around them burst into giggles.
Vritant leaned back on the sofa, arms folded, eyes fixed lazily on his younger brother. His lips curved in that dangerous half-smile.
"Wow, Aryan," he drawled, "an MBA degree, an actor and this is your handwriting? I should've just hired you as the banner boy for 'before and after' ads."
Laughter erupted. Aryan scowled, Saanvi tried to hide her smile behind her palm, and Adhrita... Adhrita pressed her lips together to stop hers from escaping.
"Sauda toh bazaar mein hota hai, pyaar mein sirf rasmein hoti hain. Mehendi bhi unmein se ek hai, shagun ki mehendi toh hath mein hone chahiye," Adhrita heard Vritant's maternal uncle's booming voice as he arrived with his family.
( Deal happens in the market, in love it happens only in rituals. Mehendi is also one of them, auspicious mehendi should be on the hand)
Vritant let out a low laugh and lazily stretched his hand toward the mehendi artist, the gesture carrying that effortless defiance of his. Adhrita noticed his maami ji settling down for her turn as well, the chatter buzzing lightly around them.
Then she felt it - a gaze that lingered too long.
"Bhabhi, your mehendi is so good... just like you," Ashish said, his words coated in sweetness that made her smile tighten awkwardly.
Before she could reply, she felt Vritant's arm stretch across the back of the sofa - not touching her, not claiming her, but still an undeniable shield.
"Want to try, Ashish? Though, I doubt circles and hearts are your expertise," Vritant drawled, his voice rich with lazy sarcasm that had a razor edge to it.
A ripple of chuckles stirred through the family, but Ashish's throat cleared as he forced a smile, ignoring the bite.
Adhrita glanced at Vritant from the corner of her eye. His arm, resting so casually, was anything but. To everyone else, it was nothing - to her, it was a silent declaration. She shifted slightly, every inch aware of the proximity he'd created.
"Ashish, come," Vedashree's voice cut through the moment, cool and commanding. She rose from her seat without a backward glance. Ashish followed, his expression unreadable.
"Yeh Shree Tai ko yahan bhi kaam," Vritant's maami muttered, leaning toward Adhrita's chachi as they slipped into conversation.
(Shree Tai has work here too.)
Adhrita's eyes widened when she caught sight of Vritant's palm. Dark against his skin, her initial curved boldly: "A", with a small heart drawn beneath it. Simple. Direct. Inescapable.
"It's enough," he said flatly, withdrawing his hand before the artist could add more, as if the single letter was both a brand and a full stop.
The mehendi artist glanced toward Adhrita. "Madam, now?," they said, gently reaching for her hand.
Her breath caught. For a fleeting second, Adhrita wasn't sure if it was the scent of mehendi in the air, the hush that had fallen, or the way his eyes flicked to hers - daring her silently to react.
She extended her hand, her fingers steady even though her chest wasn't.
??? V ? A ???
Adhrita sat in her suite, the soft hum of the ship almost lulling her into sleep.
The dinner table gleamed beneath the golden light, laid out like a quiet banquet - saffron-scented biryani in porcelain, creamy dal tempered with truffle oil, rotis wrapped in fine linen, alongside platters of Mediterranean mezze, sushi rolls balanced on black marble, wood-fired Neapolitan pizzas with molten cheese, soft handmade pastas glistening in olive oil, and vibrant Mexican tacos with jewel-bright salsas.
Silver bowls of kheer dusted with edible gold completed the spread.
The aromas swirled together, indulgent and inviting, yet her mehendi-darkened hands rested uselessly in her lap, her gaze fixed not on the feast but on the silence within her.
How was she supposed to eat? Every instinct told her to find a way - improvise, manage - but tonight, even the thought of trying made her chest tighten with weariness.
"Doctor, your hairpin," a familiar voice drawled from the doorway.
Her head turned sharply. Vritant stood there, holding the ornate pin she had given him earlier, its jewel tip catching the faint golden glow of the lamps.
"Keep it there," she said softly, almost embarrassed, nodding toward the dresser.
He didn't move. Instead, his eyes flicked from the untouched plates back to her decorated hands, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"So the surgeon who can stitch a beating heart," he drawled, stepping closer, "is defeated by dal and roti?"
Adhrita's eyes darted to the food and then back to him. "It's not funny," she muttered, lowering her gaze, wishing she could disappear into the folds of her lehenga.
Vritant sighed - long, theatrical - then pulled out a chair across from her and sat down like he owned the place.
Without asking, he reached for the plate, ladled steaming dal tadka over it, and tore a piece of roti with practiced ease.
The golden tempering shimmered under the light, cumin and garlic filling the room.
Her eyes widened. "What are you-"
"Saving the nation, obviously," he cut her off, sarcasm curling around every word. Then, more softly, "Open your mouth, doctor. Or should I ask the waiter to feed you?"
She blinked, heat rising to her cheeks. For a moment, she almost refused. But her hunger betrayed her; she parted her lips just enough.
He leaned in slightly, offering the bite with deliberate slowness. "There. Not so complicated, was it?"
She chewed, eyes fixed anywhere but his, and when she finally looked back, she caught the flicker of amusement - and something sharper - in his gaze.
"Always husband-like," she whispered under her breath.
He glanced at her mehendi-stained hands resting helplessly on her lap, then back at the food.
"So, Doctor," he drawled, dipping the roti into the dal with unhurried precision, "planning to just watch me feed, or is this some new fasting ritual they forgot to tell me about?"
Without waiting for an answer, he set the roti down and reached for another plate - this time piling on creamy pasta swirled with herbs, then sliding a serving of Mexican rice and beans beside it.
A contrast of spice and sauce, East and West. He looked entirely too casual, like orchestrating a full-course dinner was second nature.
"Mexican, please," she voiced out softly, her eyes flicking toward the plate.
For a second, he just stared at her, surprised she'd actually asked - a rare break from her silence. Then his mouth curved into that infuriating half-smile.
"Well, look at that," he drawled, scooping a spoonful of rice onto a plate. "The Doctor does speak when sufficiently motivated. Should I take notes? Language unlocked: Mexican."
"Aapne khaya?" she asked while chewing, her voice low, cautious.
(Did you eat?)
He paused, spoon mid-air, and for the briefest second, his eyes softened. Then that lazy smirk returned.
"Wife-like question," he murmured, tilting the spoon toward her. "Aapne khaya."
(Did you eat?)
And before she could protest, he forwarded the spoon to her lips, as if it wasn't up for debate.
"Have it," she said softly, nodding toward her plate.
He didn't move the spoon away from her. Instead, he leaned back slightly, eyes glinting.
"Efficient, Doctor. One plate, two people. Very... marital."
And before she could react, he scooped another bite from her plate, ate it himself, and then casually held the next one out to her - as if the arrangement was already decided.
She gave him a sharp look, but before she could reply, he held the next spoonful to her lips. She hesitated, then leaned forward and took the bite.
"Good girl," he murmured, mockery dancing in his tone.
Her brows furrowed. "Don't say it like that."
"What? You prefer, 'Mrs. Vardhan, your mehendi makes me your official food supplier now?'" he quipped, already scooping another bite.
She rolled her eyes but still parted her lips when the spoon hovered again. He slipped it between her lips slowly this time, as though savoring not the food, but her surrender. Then, without missing a beat, he casually took the next bite himself from the same plate.
After the last bite, he reached for the glass and held it to her lips. She drank carefully, tilting just enough, and when she finished, he casually tipped the same glass back for himself.
Before she could protest, he plucked a corner of her dupatta, wiped his mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and leaned back in his chair.
Vritant's lips curved into that infuriating smirk. "Balance restored. You ruin my clothes, I ruin yours."
Vritant shifted, lowering himself into the seat beside her. She caught the faintest whiff of his cologne before his smirk deepened.
Before she could huff in frustration, he plucked the ornate hairpin from the table, gathered her long hair into his hand, and slid the pin through as though it had been waiting for this very moment.
She stilled.
With two deft twists, he swept the strands into a loose bun, sliding the pin through to hold it in place. His fingers brushed against the back of her neck-deliberate or not, she couldn't tell-sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
"We are marrying tomorrow."
Her breath caught. He said it not as a question, not as a reminder, but as a fact - simple, inevitable, immovable.
She blinked, unsure if he was mocking her nervousness or just... stating the truth in the only way he knew how.
"Vritant, what are we?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the cruise outside.
He stilled, the smirk fading for a moment as his thumb brushed idly against the table's edge. Then, without missing a beat, his gaze flicked back to her, sharp and steady.
"What are we?" he repeated, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Last I checked - engaged, doomed, and apparently sharing dinner plates like some perfect domestic couple."
Adhrita's lips parted, ready to argue, but then he leaned forward, his voice dropping, almost serious this time.
"Doctor... you and I, we're unavoidable."
The words lingered between them, heavier than she expected. Her lashes lowered for a moment, her mehendi-darkened hands curling slightly in her lap.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice softer than before, "I was just a bit-"
"Irritated?" he cut in, his brow lifting, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.
She nodded, yeah.
"Are you sure about tomorrow?" he asked, his voice low, almost as if he was afraid the silence might break with her answer.
She didn't speak. Instead, she lifted her palms slowly, hesitant, her lashes still lowered. His initials, VV, bloomed dark on her skin, deeper than the henna itself.
His gaze lingered there-on his name etched into her hands-as if the universe had signed a contract he could no longer undo. He exhaled. Then, almost unconsciously, he turned his own hand over. The brown stain of fading mehendi revealed her initial, A.
Her eyes finally rose to meet his, a softness glinting there. "Are you sure?" she asked, the words trembling between challenge and prayer.
He didn't answer. Instead, he slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a slim deck of cards, and let them fall onto the table with a quiet thud - an answer of its own.
Then, with deliberate ease, he slid the deck across the table, eyes fixed on her instead of the cards.
"Pick one," he said. "Let's see what destiny thinks it owes me."
Adhrita's fingers hovered over the neat spread of cards, face-down on the low table.
A flicker of hesitation crossed her eyes as if she already sensed the weight of whatever she was about to uncover.
She finally touched one, slid it free, and turned it over with a quiet snap against the glass surface.
Nine of Hearts.
For a moment, the red symbols seemed to pulse, brighter than the rest of the deck. Someone - maybe Devika or one of the elders lingering near - whispered, "The card of wishes granted. Of desires coming true."
Adhrita's throat tightened. She set the card down, suddenly very aware of the silence around her. Her gaze flicked instinctively to Vritant. He wasn't smiling. He was studying her, eyes sharp, unreadable, as though he had already known she would pick that one.
Her pulse quickened. She looked away, but the truth clung to her - the card felt less like chance and more like a dare, as if the universe had quietly whispered: Be careful what you wish for.
Then came a knock.
"Come in," Adhrita called, her voice soft but steady.
Rawat stepped inside with Karma tugging at his leash.
"Sir, Karma," he announced.
Vritant rose immediately, taking the leash from Rawat's hand. The dog barked at him, tail wagging furiously, and Vritant patted his head with the kind of ease that made the animal settle at once.
"Rawat, you can go," he dismissed, and without a word, Rawat bowed out.
Turning back to Adhrita, Vritant's gaze swept over her. "Tired?"
She nodded faintly. "A bit," she admitted, shifting in her seat - after all, she had been sitting still for hours while mehendi dried and darkened on her palms.
"Doctor," he said suddenly, eyes glinting, "kabhi live news sunni hai?"
(Have you ever listened to live news?)
Her brows knitted. "Matlab?"
(Meaning?)
He smirked, one hand already on the door handle. "Aao, aapke hone wale pati parmeshwar ka talent dikhata hoon."
(Come, let me show you the talent of your would-be husband.)
The door creaked open, and when he glanced back, she was still rooted to her spot, wide-eyed in surprise. Karma barked once, sharp, as if snapping her out of it.
She startled, then rose carefully to her feet, mehendi-dark palms held slightly away from her body, and began walking toward him - following his lead, as though the ship itself had shifted course around the two of them.
A cluster of guards stood stationed outside one of the suites. Vritant strode toward them without hesitation, his hand light on Karma's leash, Adhrita keeping pace beside him. Without a word, he rapped twice on the door.
It opened a moment later.
Vedashree stood framed in the doorway, her expression flickering in stages - first surprise, then disbelief, then something sharp she swallowed before it could show too much.
Of all the possibilities that might have confronted her tonight, Vritant, Adhrita, and Karma together at her door was...
perhaps more jarring than swallowing a volcano.
For a breath, no one spoke. Karma gave a low whuff, breaking the silence.
Adhrita shifted her weight, her mehendi-darkened hands held carefully away from her dress, eyes darting between them.
A knot of curiosity pulled at her chest, braided tightly with unease.
What was he planning now? She knew enough already - Vritant and Vedashree's relationship was brittle, sharp-edged.
And since he had chosen her... her own standing with Vedashree was anything but warm.
Her lips parted to speak, but the words stuck. She could only glance at him, half anxious, half compelled, waiting to see what storm he had decided to walk them into.
They stepped inside, the door clicking shut with an air of finality.
Vedashree's lips curved into a dangerous smirk.
"So, here with Adhrita Adani? Or should I just say Adhrita now - not an Adani anymore, right?"
"Nope." Vritant's voice cut through, smooth and edged. "I brought a doctor with me. Just in case your BP shoots up after the news I'm about to deliver."
Something in his tone made her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly.
He didn't wait. His words rolled out like a live broadcast, each one laced with mockery.
"Aaj ki baasi khabar - Chief Minister Ashwin Adani ki beti ne drop kiya apna Adani surname. Sawal yeh hai... kya Vardhan aur Adani ke parivar ke beech ka promise ab null and void ho jaayega, Kya kuchh kar payegi iss desh ki Pradhan mantri?"
(Today's stale news - Chief Minister Ashwin Adani's daughter has dropped her Adani surname. The question is... does this mean the promise between the Vardhan and Adani families is now null and void? Will the Prime Minister of this nation be able to do anything about it?)
He let the sarcasm sharpen before continuing, his tone dipping lower, heavier.
"Aaj ki pehli aur aakhri taaza khabar - Vritant Vardhan ne CM of Gujarat - Ashwin Adani ki beti se shaadi karne ke liye maanga Dahej. Aur dahej mein maange... Adani Ports. Majbooran ek baap ne apni beti ke saath diye saare ports. Ab sawal yeh hai ki kya Prime Minister ne maanga tha Dahej?"
(Today's first and last breaking news - Vritant Vardhan demanded dowry to marry the CM of Gujarat Ashwin Adani's daughter.
And what did he demand in dowry? Adani Ports.
A helpless father handed over all his ports along with his daughter.
Now the real question is... did the Prime Minister herself ask for dowry?)
For the length of his words, Vedashree stood unnervingly still. Not a blink, not a twitch, as though her training had stitched composure into her very skin. Only her fingers betrayed her - the faintest tightening against the silk of her saree pleats.
When the final line dropped - "Dahej lena kanooni jurm hai" - her smirk faltered. Just slightly.
(As we all know, taking dowry is a legal crime.)
Her eyes, sharp as glass, flicked from Vritant to Adhrita, then back to him. The silence stretched until it hummed. Her smile didn't falter, but her voice cut clean through the air.
"What else could I expect from you? Aakhir tum bhi Vardhan khandan ki sabse kamzor kadi laa rahe ho..."
(But then again, what else could I expect from you? After all, you're bringing forward the weakest link of the Vardhan family...)
Vritant only laughed, shaking his head as if her words were too small to touch him. He turned to leave - but something caught his eye.
On the table sat a photo frame, gleaming beneath the lamplight.
A card lay propped beside it: With love, from the Samarjeet Deshmukh family.
Inside the frame, the Deshmukhs stood smiling alongside the Vardhans.
Vedashree. Shaurya. The twins. And in the corner, his grandfather - Nandish Deshmukh.
The sight made his blood thrum hot in his veins. His jaw tightened. Without thinking, his hand shot out.
The crack of shattering glass split the silence as his palm came down hard on the frame. Splinters flew, the photo buckled, and a sharp edge carved into his skin. A thin line of red welled up instantly, sliding down his hand.
"Vritant..." Adhrita's voice trembled, leaving her lips before she could stop it.
He strode out without looking back, Karma at his side, Adhrita hurrying after him. The air outside was cooler, but it did nothing to ease the fire in his veins.
She caught his hand, worry etched into her face. Blood stained her fingers instantly.
"Ab aapki mehendi ka rang laal ho gaya," Vritant quipped, a crooked laugh escaping him. He tightened his grip on her palm, as though mocking the wound itself, and led them to the far end of the deck.
(And now, the color of your mehendi has turned red.)
He sank down onto the wooden step, tugging her gently so she sat just below him. Karma circled anxiously, tail rigid, barking at the sight of the bleeding hand as if scolding him.
"It's nothing," Vritant muttered, lifting his palm and examining the thin red line. The laugh still lingered in his voice, reckless and unbothered. "Bas ek kharoch hai. Zakhm kaun sa pehli baar laga hai mujhe?"
But Adhrita's chest tightened. She held his hand carefully, her mehendi-stained fingers trembling against his skin. To her, it wasn't just a scratch - it was a glimpse of how easily his fury could bleed him dry.
This time, Adhrita drew the edge of her dupatta and carefully wiped the blood from his palm. Her touch was gentle, but her silence carried questions she hadn't yet voiced.
"You know one thing I just realised?" Vritant said, eyes fixed on the dark water ahead, a wry laugh curling out of him. "A man should always marry a doctor."
Adhrita glanced up at him, worry softening her features. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly, leaning against him. His arm slid around her shoulders almost instinctively, steadying her while his other hand reached down to calm Karma, who had leapt onto her lap, still restless.
"Are you asking because of this hand?" Vritant teased, lifting the bloodied palm slightly.
She nodded, pulling Karma gently away as the dog tried to lick at the wound. Her lips pressed together in a thin line.
"Don't worry, doctor," he said, his grin widening though his eyes stayed unreadable. "Kal issi haath se tumhara haath tham ke tumse shaadi karunga." His laugh came low and careless, but Adhrita had already learned to hear what he tried to bury beneath it.
Her chest tightened. "Kyun kar rahe ho, Vritant?" she whispered, the words trembling out - not about the wound, not even about the laughter, but about the storm they'd just left behind in the Prime Minister's suite.
He didn't answer. Instead, his grip on Karma loosened, and he bent his head, resting it lightly against hers. With one arm, he drew her closer, his silence saying more than words could.
The night air rushed around them, carrying the salt of the sea and the faint creak of the deck beneath their feet.
The wind tugged at her dupatta and ruffled his hair, as though nature itself leaned in on their fragile stillness.
She exhaled, leaning back into him, and for a fleeting moment, the storm outside and within was drowned out by the rhythm of the waves.
Well, at least one of them looks like they belong in this fairytale. Spoiler - it's not him.
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