Chapter 21 A Goddess in Vermilion, A Mortal on Pills
Coming home is easy; belonging here is the difficult part.
- Vritant Vardhan
The waves whispered against the body of the cruise as it sailed smoothly under the moonlit sky. Vritant stood on the balcony, the salty breeze brushing against his face. His eyes wandered from the endless expanse of water to the soft glow inside their room.
Adhrita lay curled in the sheets, her silk night suit shimmering faintly in the warm light.
The sindoor glowed like a stroke of fire in her parted hair, the mangalsutra resting against her neck, and the chooda on her wrists catching the light with every slow rise and fall of her breathing.
She looked peaceful-his wife, his partner, his forever.
For a moment, Vritant simply leaned on the railing, overwhelmed by the sight. The journey that had begun with uncertainty had now brought them here-together, bound not just by rituals, but by love.
The night wrapped itself around the cruise like a secret. Vritant stood on the balcony, eyes tracing the woman sleeping inside. Adhrita-his wife now-her breaths slow, her chooda gleaming faintly in the lamplight. His mind, unbidden, began to wander.
I have been possessive since childhood.
Never just a brother - my brother.
Not just a mother - my mother.
Not just a father - my father.
Everything was mine. Always mine.
But when my echo died... the word slipped out of my hands. I stopped possessing, stopped claiming, stopped believing anything could ever belong to me.
His gaze hardened for a moment, as if daring the universe to deny him this one truth.
And yet-look at her. Sleeping in my room, on my bed, as my wife.
The sindoor - my name.
The mangalsutra - my name.
The mehendi - my name.
The dupatta - my name.
The ornaments - my name.
His heartbeat faltered, words pounding louder in his head.
Maybe... just once... just maybe... she is the only person I dare to call my own. My wife.
She has already given enough. Becoming my wife was the last sacrifice - the final tether she severed from the life she once owned.
I do not know when she began to matter.
Perhaps it was that moment... when she bent down and tied my laces.
An ordinary gesture - yet it struck like lightning.
Because in that instant, the world folded back to the day of the blast. The last time I saw my echo...
my laces had come undone, I stumbled - and then the fire swallowed him whole.
That image has chained me ever since.
And then she... she repeated that moment, unknowingly. Kneeling to tie what I could not. The air stilled, memory and present collided, and I knew - promise or not, vow or not - I would protect her. At any cost.
Now, all that remains of her is her work. Her steady hands, her surgeon's calm, her gift to save lives. That is her last identity, the final thread she clings to.
One foot in the wrong direction - hers or mine - and everything shatters. If she falls for me, or if I let myself fall for her, it will tremble through her fingers, reach those hands that must never shake. And when a healer's hands lose their steadiness... she loses herself.
I cannot let that happen.
Echo's life ended in fire for me.
I will not let her burn hers in the quiet flames of love or anything.
My wife will not burn. Not even in my own flame.
A pause. A whisper in the silence of his soul.
Yet even as the words echoed within, a quiet ache tugged at the edges of his heart - because he knew the universe always found a way to test every claim.
The ache refused to release him. With a slow, measured breath, Vritant stepped back inside. The room was draped in silence, broken only by the faint clink of Adhrita's bangles as she stirred in her sleep - a sound like a fragile lullaby.
He walked to the cupboard, his movements steady, almost detached. The door creaked open. From within, he drew a strip of sleeping pills. The tablets rattled against the foil - a small, sharp sound, far too real for the stillness of the night.
Without hesitation, he pressed a few free, placed them on his tongue, and swallowed dry. His throat burned, but he did not flinch.
He returned to the bed, his eyes drawn once more to her - peaceful, untouched, unaware of the storm he carried within. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself beside her, leaving a deliberate space between them, as if even in sleep he dared not disturb her.
??? V ? A ???
The bed was empty.
Vritant's eyes flicked to the clock - 7:30 AM. The cruise would be docking in Mumbai within the hour.
He rose, the silence pressing against him like a weight, and forced himself into the shower. The water did little to wash away the heaviness of the night, but he emerged, dressed and composed, his mask intact.
Outside, Rawat was already waiting.
"How much time, Rawat?" His tone was clipped, efficient.
"Almost there, sir. Jet for Delhi is ready." Rawat gave a short nod, then added, "I'll bring Karma."
Vritant barely acknowledged him, his gaze catching on attendants moving past with trunks of luggage - Adhrita's luggage. A current stirred inside him, pulling him toward her suite.
And there she was.
She was there, not by the window, but at the dressing table.
Seated, half-turned in the soft morning light, draped in a deep maroon lehenga.
Her hands were steady as she fastened a delicate waist chain, the golden strands settling against her skin with a faint chime.
Around her neck, the heavy necklace already gleamed; her earrings swayed as she adjusted herself in the mirror.
For an instant, she wasn't the surgeon he knew, nor the reluctant heiress caught in the Vardhan storm. She was simply a woman dressing herself with quiet precision, as though each ornament was not just adornment, but armor.
She looked into the mirror and caught his reflection behind her.
"Good morning," she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Morning," he replied, his eyes steady on her.
Her fingers brushed over the hand chains on the table. As she clasped one neatly around her wrist, she asked, her tone light but laced with meaning, "Are you here to ask me again... if I still want to marry you?"
He let out a quiet smirk, stepping closer, the distance between them almost nonexistent. "No, your sindoor and mangalsutra say otherwise," he said simply. "Daadi only said kaala tika lagva lena... nazar lag jayegi. But tell me-ab Vritant Vardhan ko kiski nazar lagegi?"
(Grandma only said to put on a black dot... otherwise you'll catch the evil eye. But tell me-whose evil eye could possibly fall on Vritant Vardhan?)
Her laugh was soft, almost a breath. She reached for the silver kohl container, uncapped it, and turned slightly toward him. He stood still as her fingers hovered, then gently pressed the kajal behind his ear.
She looked up at him after dotting the kohl behind his ear, her fingers lingering for a breath too long near his skin.
"Vritant Vardhan ko toh nazar nahi lag sakti..." she murmured, eyes steady on his. Then, with the faintest curve of her lips, she added, "Par Adhrita ke pati ko toh lag sakti hai."
("No evil eye can ever touch Vritant Vardhan..." she murmured, her eyes steady on his. Then, with the faintest curve of her lips, she added, "But it can fall on Adhrita's husband.")
For a moment, time stilled.
He froze, her words echoing in his chest, sharper than the kohl she had just traced on him. Adhrita ke pati. Not his name. Not his family. Not Vardhan. Hers.
(Adhrita's husband)
Did she really say this?
The weight of it pressed against him, more binding than sindoor or mangalsutra. For the first time, it wasn't the world naming him-it was her.
His lips curled, but the smile never reached his eyes.
Vritant's gaze drifted to the dressing table. Without warning, he reached down, plucked one of her pins, and twirled it between his fingers.
"Secure your hair," he murmured, the smirk tugging at his lips. "Who knows when I might start playing with them."
She froze, her hands mid-motion, eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror.
His low laugh cut through the air as he set the pin back down and walked out, leaving the silence heavy behind him.
Moments later, Rawat appeared with Karma at his heel. Vritant exchanged a brief nod, already moving forward.
Not long after, Adhrita stepped out too, two bags in hand. The attendants rushed forward, taking them from her, while she kept her eyes lowered-composed, unreadable.
"Here," Vritant said, handing Karma's leash to her. Adhrita moved ahead with the dog while he turned to Rawat, already sinking into low conversation.
It wasn't long before she returned, hurried steps echoing against the polished floor, Karma tugging at her side.
"Rawat, the car isn't ready?" Vritant's tone sharpened.
"Sir-" Rawat began, but Adhrita cut in first, her voice steady. "The media is outside."
Vritant's lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. "Of course they are."
He reached out, took the leash from her hands, and without another word passed it to Rawat. "Take him." Rawat gave a crisp nod and left with Karma in tow.
Vritant lingered for a moment, his eyes sliding back to Adhrita.
"Ah," he drawled, voice dripping with irony. "So Adhrita needs... Adhrita ka pati."
(Adhrita's husband)
She didn't reply. Instead, her fingers reached out, firm and unhesitant, wrapping around his wrist.
For a heartbeat, he stilled-her touch grounding, silencing the sarcasm he had wrapped himself in. Without a word, she tugged him forward.
Side by side, they stepped off the cruise. The flash of cameras burst like fireworks in the distance, the hum of the world rushing to claim them.
The moment they stepped out, the world burst into light-flashes exploding, voices crashing over one another.
"Just one pose!" someone shouted above the chaos.
Vritant's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Sliding an arm around her waist, he drew her close, his hold instinctive, protective. His palm brushed the cool edge of the chain at her waist, a whisper of metal against her skin.
Adhrita, unflinching, rested her hand on his chest the way she always did-calm, steady, as if it was the most natural place for it to be.
The cameras crackled, but he didn't waste another glance their way. Keeping his arm firm around her, he steered her forward through the frenzy. She matched his stride with quiet grace, her hand still against him until she slipped into the car.
He closed the distance around to the other side and got in. The door shut behind him, cutting off the world in a single muffled thud. Inside, there was only the low hum of the engine... and silence.
??? V ?? A ???
The car slowed to a halt before the Vardhan mansion, its sandstone walls rising like a fortress touched by morning light. Attendants waited in silence, orchids and white roses softening the stern gates into something almost ceremonial.
Vritant stepped out first, his movements unhurried, steady-as though the ground belonged to him, yet he carried no need to announce it.
He turned, extending his hand-not as command, but as anchor.
Adhrita placed her fingers in his, her maroon lehenga shimmering with threads of silver that caught the sun like scattered stars.
The air shifted. From the brass thaalis, the scent of camphor and ghee curled through the doorway, soft smoke mingling with the chime of glass bangles. Oil lamps flickered against the marble walls, their glow pushing back the silence.
Adhrita paused. For a heartbeat, her steps refused her-the mansion loomed ahead, its carved pillars and grand archways less an entrance, more a fortress waiting to claim her.
Vritant moved beside her. He didn't look at her, didn't speak, but when her dupatta brushed against his arm, he shifted closer, steady. His hand hovered at her back-unseen by the watching eyes, but clear enough to her: walk.
Aasha tai emerged, draped in a muted sari, her presence quiet yet immovable. Behind her, an attendant held a brass plate where a small flame burned steady, its smoke rising thin and blue. In Aasha's palm rested a few red chillies, their sheen sharp in the morning light.
She circled them around the couple-once, twice, thrice-slow, deliberate, her eyes never wavering. To Adhrita, the ritual pressed heavy, more scrutiny than blessing.
On the final turn, Aasha dropped the chillies into the fire. They crackled, hissed, and the smoke bit bitter into the air. She studied them both, gaze lingering-first on him, then her-before offering the smallest nod. No words, no explanations. Just the way of the house.
"Vedashree had to leave for an emergency," Devika Daadi's voice drifted from inside, matter-of-fact yet carrying the quiet weight of authority. Then, softer, she called again-"Anamika."
Anamika stepped forward, her presence softer than the rituals around her. The thali in her hands glowed faintly, the aarti flame steady.
Aaradhya lifted her hands and petals rained down. The others joined-light bursts of color settling on dupatta and kurta, catching for a second and sliding to the marble.
Then Aasha tai slid forward a silver kalash brimming with rice, placing it before Adhrita.
"Ab isse pair se dhakka do, beta," Daadi instructed softly.
(Now push this with your foot, daughter.)
Adhrita bent her gaze down, hesitating for a moment. Her anklets jingled as she lifted her foot and gave the kalash a gentle nudge. Rice spilled forward, scattering like pearls across the marble floor, a symbol of prosperity walking into the house.
Aasha tai returned, this time carrying a shallow plate brimming with vermilion water. The red shimmered under the lights, deep and unyielding. She placed it at the threshold, and stepped back.
"Adhrita," Devika Daadi's voice carried firm and calm, "pair rakho."
(Place your feet)
Adhrita lowered her gaze, adjusting her dupatta as she stepped closer. She raised her foot, poised over the liquid surface-hesitant for just a breath. Then, as her toes touched the red, the cool wetness spread instantly against her skin.
The plate wobbled faintly, and she swayed.
Before she could stumble, a steady hand caught her at the shoulder. Vritant. His grip was firm, grounding-neither tender nor careless, just enough to steady her. For a moment, her breath stilled, her balance resting in his hold.
She exhaled, and stepped down.
Her foot pressed into the white cloth laid across the marble. A sharp, perfect red imprint bloomed behind her. She moved again, slowly, each step leaving another mark-deliberate, inescapable-trailing into the heart of the Vardhan mansion.
Vritant walked beside her in silence, the faint trace of vermilion on the floor mapping her reluctant welcome.
"Welcome home, Doctor Ace," he whispered near her ear, the words meant only for her, though the air between them thickened.
Her breath hitched-just a fraction-caught between the arrogance of the title and the strange gentleness in his voice.
"Vritant... Darshan toh," Anamika reminded gently, her smile urging the ritual.
(Pray to God)
He turned, his expression unreadable, and with that familiar edge in his voice said,
"Darshan? I thought gods had better things to do than watch family drama."
(Pray?)
With that, he turned and began walking toward the staircase. Halfway up, something made him pause. He glanced back.
She wasn't behind him. Instead, Adhrita had wandered in the opposite direction, pulled by the lingering rituals, the warmth of family voices.
He didn't call out. He just stood there, one hand on the railing, watching.
Moments later, she reappeared, catching sight of him still waiting. Without a word, she fell into step behind him. Only then did Vritant resume climbing, his stride steady, as if he had known she would follow.
??? V ? A ???
The door creaked open, dragging out its usual protest. He stepped in, let the weight of the day fall from his shoulders, and flopped diagonally onto the bed.
She lingered at the doorway, watching him. He rested his head on his arm, raised a brow.
"I forgot to tell you something," she said, her voice heavy with unnecessary seriousness.
"What?"
"In a sasural, the new bride is welcomed with flowers."
(In in-law's house)
Without waiting for his reaction, she crossed the room and collapsed beside him, equally tired.
He frowned, still confused.
She turned her head toward him, repeating slowly, "Agar shaadi karke biwi ko ghar pe laao... toh sasural wale phool barsate hain."
(When you bring your bride home after marriage... his family showers you with flowers.)
It took him a second-then memory flickered. What did you think? Sasural mein phoolon se swagat hoga? His own words when they came from New York.
(Will your in-laws welcome you with flowers?)
He burst out laughing. A rare, unguarded sound that filled the quiet room.
"Sikh rahi ho, Mrs. Vardhan," he said, finally lying down properly.
(You're learning.)
Then his phone buzzed. He read the text, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and stepped out. Rawat was walking toward him with Karma tugging at the leash.
The moment Karma spotted Vritant, he barked once, then leaped straight into him.
"Got it?" Vritant asked, without ceremony. Rawat handed him an envelope. Vritant took the leash, tied the envelope securely to Karma's collar, and opened the door again.
As soon as Karma saw Adhrita, he let out another sharp bark. She straightened, startled, and then froze as the dog bounded toward her, climbing into her lap as if it were his rightful place.
"What's this?" she murmured, pulling the envelope free. Karma stayed in her lap, his head nudging against her hand.
"Oh, that's Karma's delivery," Vritant said, leaning lightly against the doorframe. His mouth curved-not into warmth, but into that dry, teasing smile of his. "He delivers what people deserve."
She unfolded the papers. The first line hit her like a jolt. License to Practice Medicine in India. And then, her name. Dr. Adhrita Adani.
Her breath caught. Her eyes stung. She looked down at Karma, then up at Vritant.
And for once, she didn't see steel in him. She saw someone who had quietly made her world possible.
She put karma aside and rose from the bed, stepping into his arms.
"It was just a wedding gift, Doctor Ace," he murmured as he wrapped her in a quiet embrace.
"Someone is behaving husband-like," she whispered against him.
"Let's go." His voice was low but certain. When she looked up at him, he simply inclined his head toward the door. He walked ahead; she followed, her steps softer, until they reached his study-the same room where he had once introduced her to Echo.
"Hey, Echo." A faint smile touched his lips as he pressed his fingers against the frame, lingering, as if by holding on longer he could summon a reply.
"Hi, Echo," Adhrita greeted gently, her voice folding into the silence.
"She is my..." his voice faltered, but he forced the word out, "...wife."
"Adhrita," she added softly. "Your sister-in-law."
The moment hung in the air. He turned toward her, eyes unreadable, before his gaze drifted back to the frame, as though weighing what Echo would have thought of this.
They stood there in silence for a while, the weight of rituals and words still hanging in the air. Without exchanging a glance, they turned back and walked towards their room-two people tied by fire, yet strangers in the quiet corridors.
Inside, Adhrita walked straight to the vanity.
Her fingers, delicate yet hurried, began unclasping the jewellery piece by piece-the bangles, the heavy earrings, the necklace that had felt more like a chain than an ornament.
She did it all without looking at him, her reflection catching flickers of her own unease.
Vritant, meanwhile, lowered himself onto the couch beside Karma. The dog nudged his hand, sensing the heaviness in the room, but he only scratched its ear absently.
The phone on the table buzzed again. Vritant glanced at it, lips curling into the faintest laugh as he scrolled through the news updates splashed everywhere.
"The Power Wedding of the Decade: PM's Son Marries CM's Daughter in a Union That Redefines Politics Power."
"From Delhi to Gujarat-The Vardhan-Adani Alliance Seals India's New Era of Dynasties."
"A Wedding Draped in Secrecy, Revealed in Splendor: Meet the Couple Everyone Will Be Talking About."
"When Politics Wore the Bride's Veil: Adhrita Adani Weds Vritant Vardhan."
"No Fairy Tale, Only Strategy? Analysts Call the Vardhan-Adani Marriage a Masterstroke."
"The Ocean Gave His Daughter, Goddess Lakshmi, to Vishnu."
The poetic exaggeration made him pause before his thumb tapped open the link. The article beneath unfolded in almost reverential prose, written by a lifestyle journalist who had clearly been among the guests.
"Last night, aboard the luxury liner, a scene unfolded that was less of a wedding and more of a celestial vision.
With lotus flowers pinned delicately into her hair, Adhrita Adani stood like an incarnation of Goddess Lakshmi, serene yet radiant.
The ocean cradled the moment, its waves echoing blessings, while beside her stood Vritant Vardhan-stoic, poised, and unshaken-as though Vishnu himself had accepted the offering of destiny.
Guests whispered that the universe had staged this union, not families nor politics. "
He leaned back, lips curving faintly-not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. It wasn't the politics that amused him. It was how swiftly strangers had woven myth into a night that felt, to him, like silence dressed as ceremony.
The article spoke of the surreal wedding on the cruise, of how Adhrita looked ethereal with the lotus tucked into her hair, a vision that reminded many guests of Goddess Laxmi herself.
Almost involuntarily, his gaze drifted to her bridal photograph on the screen - the grace, the serenity, the divinity. Then he looked back at her now, seated at the vanity, quietly removing the last traces of that goddess-like aura. For a moment, he almost wondered... And him? Vishnu?
The only trait he shared with the deity, he thought wryly, was the way he slept. Except Vishnu needed none of the pills he depended on every night.
The irony tugged a short laugh from his throat. He switched off the phone, tossing it aside, as if ending the joke with himself.
Gods get worshipped for their slumber. I just get prescriptions.
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