Throne and Thread

Chapter 22 Of Power, Warmth, and Chocolate

Not every battle is won by striking back-sometimes, it's by refusing to flinch.

- Adhrita Vritant Vardhan

Adhrita stirred in her sleep, the weight of the day pressing heavy on her limbs.Her throat burned with thirst, dragging her out of sleep.

She reached for the jug, poured herself water, and drank in slow sips until the dryness eased.

Setting the glass back, she turned to switch off the lamp-and froze.

Her gaze fell on him. Vritant lay beside her, the harshness he wore by day stripped away in sleep. His features softened, his breath steady, his presence oddly innocent.

A whisper escaped her lips before she could stop it. "Sote huye kitna masoom lagta hai..."

(He looks so innocent when he's asleep...)

But then she noticed it-glistening at the corner of his eye. A wet trail. Not sweat. Not accident. Tears.

Her own eyes stung as she leaned closer. Was he crying... in his sleep?

"Vritant..." she whispered, softly, as if coaxing him back. No response. He didn't stir. He was lost somewhere far, unreachable.

Carefully, she brushed her thumb against the corner of his eye, wiping away the tear. Another glimmered at the edge of his other eye, and she wiped that too-gentle, tentative, as though afraid the act might shatter him.

She almost called his name again, almost shook him awake-but then his hand stirred. Slowly, unconsciously, it rose and found her neck. His fingers brushed against her skin, caressing with absent familiarity-absent, but tender. The kind of touch one reserves for someone cherished.

Her breath caught.

Did he... does he think I'm Karma?

At that very moment, Karma stirred at her feet, shifting in his sleep. The connection made her chest ache with something nameless.

She sighed, resting her cheek near Vritant's shoulder, her gaze locked on his face. He was still crying, still somewhere trapped in dreams he wouldn't share.

"Why are you crying in your sleep, Vritant?" she whispered, her hand lifting to softly trace the curve of his cheek. Her touch lingered, trembling with questions she couldn't ask.

Her fingers lingered on his cheek, tracing away the last of his tears.

For a moment, he was still. And then, as if pulled by instinct, his hand moved again.

He caught her fingers in his sleep and guided them to his neck, pressing them there-just as he often did with Karma, as though needing that steadying touch to breathe.

Her heart clenched. Did he really mistake her for Karma in his dreams?

The lamplight shifted across his skin, and that's when she noticed it-faint but undeniable. A thin scar etched across his left wrist. Old, healed, but carrying a story she did not know.

Before she could think, his lips parted. A whisper slipped into the silence.

"Ganpati Bappa Morya... pudhya varshi..."

(Ganpati Bappa Morya.. Next year...)

Her breath stilled. He was praying? To Ganpati? The man who scoffed at temples, who mocked rituals, who never once bowed his head before an idol-now whispering a half-broken slogan in his sleep?

She leaned closer, straining to catch the rest. But the words dissolved into a murmur, lost in the rhythm of his breath.

Her brows knit in confusion, her thumb unconsciously brushing his scar. Why is he crying in his sleep? Why is he praying? What is he hiding behind this silence he never lets me touch?

The questions pressed heavy, but she stayed still-watching, listening, her hand resting where he had placed it, against the warmth of his neck.

Her gaze drifted lower, following the curve of his hand until it rested on his open palm. And there-etched faintly in ink, as if carelessly drawn yet guarded like a secret-was the letter A. Her breath caught. Beneath it, a tiny heart.

Her lips parted in surprise. My initial...

He shifted slightly in his sleep, turning toward her, and she froze, half-expecting him to wake. But his lashes stayed shut, his breathing even. He remained lost in whatever dream still held him captive.

Adhrita's eyes softened, the corners of her mouth lifting despite the knot in her chest. She bent her head ever so slightly and whispered, barely audible,

"Sote huye hi pati lagta hai."

(He looks like a husband when he's asleep.)

A small smile tugged at her lips. Closing her eyes, she let her head rest near his shoulder, her hand still near his neck, as though silently guarding that hidden mark that carried her name.

And slowly, with the faintest curve of a smile, she slipped back into sleep.

??? V ? A ???

The next morning, Adhrita woke to find herself still in the same position-his hand loosely curled around hers, his breathing deep and steady. Careful not to wake him, she slipped free from his grip and rose quietly.

After getting ready, she made her way downstairs. The kitchen was already alive with clatter and the warm smell of ghee, breakfast preparations in full swing.

Devika Daadi emerged from the temple, beads in hand. The moment her eyes fell on Adhrita, they softened.

"Aagayi, beta," she said with a smile.

(You've come, dear)

Adhrita bent respectfully to touch her feet, accepting her blessing.

"Aaj pehli rasoi hai na tumhari?" Daadi asked. Adhrita nodded gently.

(Today is your first cooking, isn't it?)

"Aasha, help her," Daadi instructed, and Aasha tai responded with a simple, "Okay."

Adhrita adjusted her dupatta and took the ladle Maharaj handed. "Sirf haath laga do, baaki hum dekh lenge," Aasha tai reminded, pushing the bowl of milk closer.

(Just touch it, we'll take care of the rest.)

Aasha tai set the vessel on the counter, her tone brisk.

Adhrita glanced at her, a little uncertain. "Kheer?"

Aasha tai's eyes flicked toward Devika Daadi, waiting for her word.

Daadi smiled gently, beads still twined in her fingers. "If you want to make something else, you can, beta."

Adhrita shook her head. "No, Daadi. I'll make kheer."

With a nod, Aasha placed the essentials before her-milk, rice, sugar-measured and ready. Nothing elaborate, nothing left to chance. Adhrita took the ladle, stirring with steady hands.

It wasn't difficult. Not compared to what she had crossed off her list just yesterday - the license. That was her real first victory in this house.

Still, she stirred. Not for the test, not for tradition. Just because it mattered her and she couldn't help but smile faintly. It wasn't much-just her hand in the pot of kheer-but it felt like leaving her first fingerprint in this house.

Aroma of cardamom bloomed into the kitchen, sweet and warm, wrapping around her like a quiet reassurance.

Aasha tai came over with a small bowl of dry fruits. "Here," she said, her tone brisk but not unkind.

Adhrita took them, her lips curving in a faint smile. She sprinkled the almonds and pistachios and cashews, watching them scatter across the creamy surface. The kheer caught the morning light for a fleeting second, shining like ivory in silver.

It was simple. Just kheer. But to her, it felt like the first stone laid in a house she was still learning to call her own.

Soon the clatter of chairs and muted conversations filled the dining hall. Everyone took their places, laughter and chatter weaving through the long table. Adhrita stepped out from the kitchen, smoothing her dupatta instinctively, her eyes lifting toward the staircase. Empty. No sign of him.

Vedashree, seated at the far end, raised her gaze at once. Her eyes swept over Adhrita - from the fresh sindoor at her hairline to the crisp fall of her kurta and the dupatta she had adjusted with care. The scrutiny was calm, practiced, like someone weighing and measuring without a word.

Just then, the butler stepped forward, rolling in the silver trolley. Bowls of kheer gleamed as he moved along the table, serving each one carefully. The sweet fragrance of cardamom and saffron floated in the air, briefly softening the tension that lingered in the room.

Just then, Vritant appeared on the staircase. He halted for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed everyone already served with bowls of kheer. Without a word, he descended, the air shifting ever so slightly with his presence.

Dragging out a chair, he sat down at the table. His gaze lifted to Adhrita - steady, unreadable - and with the faintest tilt of his head, he gestured for her to join him. She walked to his side and lowered herself into the chair.

The butler stepped forward, placing a gleaming silver bowl of kheer in front of Vritant.

"Adhrita," Vedashree's voice called across the table. Calm, measured.

Adhrita looked up at once. Vedashree dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, stood, and waited until Adhrita came closer. Aasha tai approached as well, carrying a small velvet box which she handed to Vedashree.

Vedashree extended it toward Adhrita. "Kheer was good," she said softly, her expression inscrutable. The words were simple, but in this house, even such a statement carried weight. Adhrita bent slightly, taking the box with both hands.

One by one, others followed - tokens, blessings, small gifts passed into her palms. Adhrita accepted each with a quiet smile, though her gaze kept flickering back toward the man who hadn't spoken yet.

Adhrita returned to her seat, the velvet box resting lightly in her lap. The butlers moved in with quiet efficiency, laying out silver-domed platters at the table - parathas glistening with ghee, fresh fruit, soft idlis steaming beside chutneys, even a cheese platter that looked freshly flown in.

Her kheer sat among it all, modest but central. A symbolic offering in a sea of abundance.

When she looked at Vritant, she noticed his bowl was barely touched. He had his usual - black coffee, a slice of multigrain toast he'd broken absentmindedly. Yet before leaving it aside, he dipped the spoon into her kheer again, deliberately slow.

Their eyes met briefly. His lips curved - not quite a smile, not quite mockery.

Adhrita took a sip of her tea, letting the porcelain cup shield her face for a moment. The table had emptied - only the echo of departing footsteps lingered, the butlers retreating into the background.

Beside her, Vritant was still eating, unhurried, as if time bent differently for him. His spoon dipped into her kheer again, this time without hesitation, like he'd already decided it was his now.

"So," he drawled, not looking up, "how was the first day in sasural?" The words were half-sarcasm, half-challenge.

Adhrita arched a brow, leaning back just slightly, her lips curving. "You mean... apart from the inquisition looks, surprise gifts, and watching you survive on black coffee and attitude?"

It seemed Vritant's sarcasm had passed to Adhrita, though hers landed without malice. Sharp, but almost playful.

He gave a short laugh, pushing his chair back. "Not bad, Doctor Ace. You're learning."

She sipped her tea again, meeting his gaze calmly. "From the best, apparently."

He wiped his mouth, not with the napkin but-predictably-with her dupatta, quick and shameless. She narrowed her eyes, but he only smirked wider.

"When you're done," he said casually, rising with the same ease as if nothing had happened, "we're going to the office. I have a few things to show you." His voice was clipped again, back to business.

And just like that, he turned, climbing the staircase two steps at a time, leaving her staring at the trail of his words.

??? V ? A ???

The convoy of cars slid into the private driveway of Vardhan Tower. The building loomed above the city, glass catching the sunlight, reflecting power from every angle. Employees waiting in the lobby snapped their gazes up as the couple entered. Phones lowered, whispers followed.

Adhrita felt the weight of those stares. Her dupatta brushed against her arm as she straightened instinctively. Beside her, Vritant slid his hand to the small of her back - not tender, but guiding, owning the space.

Of course they'd stare. Newly married. And now here, walking in like a storm had just rearranged their world.

His private elevator opened. A swipe of his card, a coded touch on the panel, and the steel doors closed them into silence.

By the time they reached the top floor, she had steadied her nerves.

But his cabin wasn't just a cabin. It was a statement - walnut panels, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, an entire cityscape bowing beneath their feet.

A bar lined with rare liquor gleamed in the corner, and on the opposite side, a minimalist desk - uncluttered but for a single file and an old broken photo frame pushed aside.

He didn't sit immediately. He walked to the glass, surveying the city as if it were his chessboard. Then, without turning, he said,

"Welcome to the empire, Doctor Sahiba."

He pulled out a thick file, set it on the table, and slid it toward her.

"This is for you."

Confusion knitted her brows as she flipped it open. Agreements, NOCs, ownership documents-words tangled with weight she could barely grasp. The top page read: Vardhan LifeCare.

Her eyes darted up. "Vritant, this is-"

He cut her off smoothly. "Don't worry. You'll have help until you're ready to take over everything." And then, with that half-smile that never gave away whether he was mocking or indulging, he added, "Consider this a gift for your kheer."

Before he could quip, her tone shifted lightly, almost casual. "Can I ask you something?"

His brow furrowed-half expecting another retort-but he nodded.

Still scanning the file, she asked, "How many companies come under the Vardhan empire wings?"

For a moment, the shift to business caught him off guard. His voice changed-measured, precise. "Almost everything. If you want, you can check the list in the last annual brochure. Vardhan LifeCare is a separate entity."

She hummed, as though processing. A beat later, without looking up, she added,

"We don't have Vardhan Laundry and Dry Cleaning?"

His eyes narrowed, catching the glimmer of amusement in hers. The realization struck instantly-and his lip curved into that wicked smirk.

"Ah. So that's why. Not because you're curious about mergers, but because your dupatta didn't survive my existence."

She finally looked up at him, feigning innocence. "I was only suggesting a gap in your empire. Imagine-Vardhan Laundry: where even stains fear the brand name."

He chuckled under his breath, low and edged. "Clever. But no. My empire doesn't run on detergents." His eyes glinted as he added, "Besides... if I ruin your dupatta, at least it proves I touched it first. No laundry in the world can wash that off."

Adhrita's lips parted, a retort hovering - but she stopped herself. He thrived in sarcasm the way sharks thrived in water. One more line, and she'd be feeding him exactly what he wanted.

So instead, she tilted her head, let a small smile curve her lips, and changed course.

"Well then, Mr. Vardhan... I believe you forgot something. My engagement gift."

His eyes glinted. Without hesitation, he rose, closed the gap between them, and perched on the desk beside her. His palm turned toward her, revealing the fading mehendi, still stained with her initial with a little heart beneath.

"No," he said quietly, with deliberate weight. "This mehendi was the gift. I thought you'd be the sentimental one... but alas-"

Just then his phone rang, cutting through the thick air. He glanced at the screen, muttered something under his breath, and slipped out of the cabin, leaving the heavy door ajar.

The silence he left behind was almost louder. Adhrita let out a slow breath, closed the file with care, and rose from the chair. Her eyes wandered across the room. The fridge in the corner-stocked with the predictable: beer bottles, tonic cans, nothing remotely soft or warm. She almost smiled.

Her gaze landed next on a glass paperweight, cool under her fingertips.

Beside it, a cracked photo frame hung slightly off-balance on the wall.

She walked closer, frowning. The glass had splintered diagonally, marring the photograph inside.

She shook her head. Of course. He and his love for breaking things made of glass. Fragile, yet dangerous.

She drifted back toward his chair, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lowered herself into it. The leather was firm, commanding. Leaning back, she let the weight of it settle into her spine.

So this is where you sit. This is where power bends around you. This is where no one plays you.

Her eyes wandered, landing on a shelf near the desk. A row of Hot Wheels stood lined up-sleek cars, brightly painted, utterly out of place in this glass-and-steel empire. A small smile tugged at her lips. Heartstoppers.

Curiosity nudged her further. She reached for one-a heavy model car. Admiring its shine, she tilted it in her palm... then noticed something inside. A corner of folded paper, carefully wedged into the hollow.

Frowning slightly, she eased it out, unfolding it with care.

Her smile faded. The childish car lay forgotten on the desk as her eyes scanned the page-clinical lines, typed diagnoses.

"Patient occasionally exhibits involuntary emotional release (crying episodes in sleep)."

Her throat tightened. Last night, his damp lashes, the tears she had wiped silently... it wasn't just a dream.

She turned another page, her gaze snagging on the underlined caution:

"Advised avoidance of excessive alcohol-contraindicated with medication."

Her eyes flickered to the fridge in the corner of the cabin, the faint clink of glass bottles echoing in her mind. Beer. Of course. He wasn't just reckless-he was playing with fire.

Adhrita pressed her lips together, shutting the file quickly before the weight of it pulled her deeper. For the first time, she wasn't looking at Vritant Vardhan, the untouchable heir. She was looking at a man who still fought battles even in sleep.

Just then, he entered and caught her reading the paper. Adhrita looked up, startled, as he strode toward her and sat casually on the desk.

Her eyes fell back on the report-"Patient occasionally exhibits involuntary emotional release (crying episodes in sleep)."

Without lifting her gaze, she murmured, "I saw you crying in your sleep, Vritant."

For a second, his face froze-shock, discomfort, and the faintest flicker of anger all crossing at once. He hadn't wanted her to know. She read it clearly in the way his jaw tightened.

His hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.

"Leave the table," she whispered gently.

He shook his head, stubborn.

"Leave the table," she repeated, firmer this time. She reached forward, pried his fingers loose with both hands-feeling the tremor running through them. He instinctively reached for her dupatta, but she shook her head.

Instead, she picked up the glass of water and offered it to him. "Take your time," she whispered, letting his hand go. Then she quietly rose from the chair and moved to the sofa, seating herself in silence.

He drank, slow but steady, before setting the glass back on the desk. Then, instead of returning to his chair, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the sofa-right beside her.

After a pause, his voice broke the silence. "Do you trust me?"

"You already know, Vritant," she replied softly. "So far... you're the only one I do trust."

Her gaze fell to his hand again-the tremors hadn't stopped. Slowly, she extended the end of her dupatta toward him. Without hesitation, he gripped it tight, like a lifeline.

Leaning back, head against the chair's headrest, he finally spoke. His voice was low, almost detached.

His grip on her dupatta trembled, loosening for a second before tightening again, as though he couldn't decide whether to push her away or hold on.

"I don't... cry," he muttered finally, jaw locked, voice rough. "Not when I'm awake." He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off.

Adhrita's eyes softened. She leaned forward just slightly. "You don't have to explain. I read it."

That caught him. His eyes darted toward her, sharp, searching.

She held his gaze without flinching. "The report said it. Involuntary emotional release. That's not weakness, Vritant. It's... it's just your body remembering what your heart won't say."

For a long moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Then he let out a bitter laugh, low and rough. "You talk like you know me."

"I don't," she admitted softly, "but I want to."

Something flickered in his eyes at that-unguarded, unarmored-but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He released her dupatta, fingers falling back against his knee.

He didn't answer at once. The silence stretched, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted-not in mockery, but in that unnerving way he had of turning gravity into something crooked.

"So the paper betrayed me," he drawled, eyes flicking toward her. "Good thing I never trusted paper. It burns too easily."

Vritant rose from the sofa, each step unhurried but deliberate. He crossed to his desk, picked up a different folder - thick, embossed with the silver insignia of Vardhan LifeCare.

When he came back, he held it out in front of her, almost like a challenge.

"This," he said, voice cool and measured, "is what Doctor Ace is going to focus on."

Adhrita took the file, her brow lifting. "Not your medical reports?"

His smirk curved deeper. "Exactly. Because if you're so determined to diagnose something, diagnose this empire. At least it won't argue back."

Just then, a knock broke the air.

"Come in," Vritant said curtly, not bothering to move.

The door swung open. Shaurya stepped inside, crisp as ever in his suit, his presence carrying the effortless weight of command.

"Papa," Vritant acknowledged. The word was flat, almost perfunctory.

Shaurya's eyes flicked briefly to the open file in Adhrita's lap before settling on her. His tone softened, deliberate.

"Adhrita, could you please come to my office?"

She blinked, caught off guard. Her gaze darted to Vritant as if to ask should I? But he only shrugged, a casual tilt of his shoulders that said, your in-laws, not mine.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Nodding once, she rose and followed Shaurya out of the room.

"Vritant gave you the file?" he asked.

She nodded silently.

"I know, beta... you don't want to talk to me." He pulled open a drawer, slid a chocolate across the desk. "And, I won't force you to accept me as your father-in-law. Take your time. Even if, one day, you choose not to... I'll understand. I just want to thank you."

Her eyes softened, though her voice stayed low. "You didn't manipulate me. So please don't blame yourself."

"I was also part of your and Vritant's wedding saga," he admitted, his tone carrying the weight of guilt.

Adhrita caught the honesty in his eyes.

"I married him because I wanted to," she said firmly. "No one forced me."

"And I agreed because I wanted to protect you-and my son," Shaurya replied, his voice gentle now. "I'm not justifying myself. But understand this-I didn't marry you into a 'project.' You won't be raising a child that I or Vedashree failed to raise. You will focus on yourself."

His words stunned her. For all the years she had seen his stern exterior, in this moment, he spoke like a father-steady, warm, protective.

"Manipulation is worse than hate," she whispered.

"It's always more complicated than it looks," he said softly. Then, with a faint smile, "But remember one thing, Adhrita-you will always be the daughter I craved for."

Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

Shaurya leaned back, opened another drawer, and slid a sealed cover toward her.

"All the best for your project, Vardhan LifeCare. If you need anything-resources, people, connections-you come to me directly."

Adhrita slipped the papers from the cover and scanned them. Her eyes widened.

"This is..." she murmured.

"Deed of Absolute Ownership Irrevocable Transfer of Shares"

Shaurya leaned back in his chair, voice calm, deliberate.

"It's a Deed of Absolute Ownership, registered under your name. Vardhan LifeCare-its assets, its stakes, its decision-making authority-belong to you. Irrespective of marriage. Irrespective of my son. No one can contest it, not even me."

Adhrita looked up, startled. "But... why would you-"

He cut her gently, not with sharpness but with a father's firmness.

"Because power is safest when it's in the hands of someone who values people more than profit. And I know you do. Vritant may run empires, but you, Adhrita... you can heal them."

For a moment, her throat tightened. She traced her thumb across the signature line, noting Shaurya's bold scrawl at the bottom.

"Consider this my only manipulation," he added with a faint smile. "To make sure you never doubt your place here. As my son's wife or not... Vardhan LifeCare will always be yours."

Her lips parted, but no words came out. She could only nod, overwhelmed by the weight of it-the trust, the responsibility, the quiet love he hadn't said aloud.

For once, she didn't see the empire's steel-handed patriarch.

She saw a man who had quietly placed trust in her, not as Vritant's wife, but as herself.

"You're free to go, beta," he said with a warm smile.

Adhrita rose, smoothed her dupatta, and walked toward the door. Her hand rested on the handle, but something tugged at her chest. She paused, turned back.

Her eyes met his. "Papa."

The word slipped out softly, almost tentative, but it hit like a thunderclap.

Shaurya's head snapped up. For a man who wore control like armor, his face betrayed everything-stunned stillness, then a flicker of disbelief, and finally, something raw in his eyes that he hadn't let anyone see in years.

"Thank you," she added, holding up the small chocolate he'd given her.

For a moment, Shaurya couldn't speak. His throat worked as if the word itself had lodged there.

And though he stayed seated behind his immaculate desk, Adhrita could feel it-the weight of his heart swelling, the cracks of old guilt softening under the simplest gift he'd been waiting his better part of life to hear.

She went back to Vritant's cabin and found him bent over his desk, pen scratching across paper.

He looked up the moment she entered-saw the soft smile on her lips, the chocolate in one hand, and the sealed cover in the other.

"What?" he asked, suspicion lacing his curiosity.

She simply held up the chocolate.

"Papa gave you that?" he pressed. She nodded.

"Such a kid you are," he muttered, shaking his head.

In reply, she plucked one of the Hot Wheels cars from his desk, held it up, and whispered with a mischievous tilt to her smile, "Such a kid you are." Then, unwrapping the chocolate, she popped a piece into her mouth.

He stared at her in disbelief, eyes narrowing as his lips curved into a sarcastic drawl-

"Oh, wonderful. My wife gets bribed with a chocolate, and suddenly Shaurya Vardhan is the hero." His brow arched, the smirk curling slow.

Then, unwrapping the chocolate, she broke off a piece and held it out to him.

Vritant raised a brow, eyeing her hand as though it carried some hidden clause.

"Interesting strategy. First you feed me chocolate, then tomorrow you'll claim overtime for emotional labor."

"Fine," she retorted, rolling her eyes as she started to pull her hand back.

But before she could, his fingers closed around her wrist-firm, unhurried. He bent down, teeth catching the square of chocolate straight from her palm, biting it clean in one motion. And then, he laughed, low and unguarded, the sound startling even him.

Vritant smirked, tapping the file.

"First my secrets, then my chocolate-at this rate, Doctor, you'll be running Vardhan LifeCare and my sanity both."

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