Throne and Thread

Chapter 24 One Laugh

Laughs are dangerous weapons in unguarded hands.

- Author

The hall was draped in chandeliers and gold-toned light, the murmur of dignitaries and celebrities rising like a tide. Cameras turned before the announcer even spoke their names.

Adhrita stepped in first, and the room hushed.

Not in a sweeping gown, but in a saree that looked as though it had been stitched from centuries of heritage-deep wine silk, edged in zari that caught the light like fire.

Her jewellery was deliberate, not excessive: temple gold at her neck, a diamond-studded kamarband resting on her waist, heirloom bangles layered over her wrists.

The sindoor at her hairline glinted under the chandeliers, quiet but undeniable.

She didn't look like a bride anymore. She looked like the daughter-in-law of the nation's Prime Minister-grace wrapped in authority.

Beside her, Vritant was the perfect foil. Black tuxedo, crisp lines, his posture so commanding that it seemed the suit had been made to bow to him instead of the other way around. Where she carried the weight of tradition, he carried the sharpness of power.

Together, they looked untouchable.Not just a couple stepping into a reception, but a dynasty being announced.

They walked the carpet, hand in hand, past the barricades and into the grand glass doors of the hall. The moment they entered, the orchestra shifted, a subtle cue - the reception had truly begun.

Inside, the hall rose to its feet. The Vardhan family stood at the forefront, flanked by the Deshmukhs, the Adanis, and the Malhotras - four dynasties gathered in one place. The most powerful faces in the world turned to look. Some smiled, some measured, but none could look away.

Saanvi and Aryan broke forward first, embracing them warmly, a whisper of normalcy amidst the grandeur. Soon after, Shaurya joined, his hand guiding them toward the center stage prepared for the night.

And just like that, the spotlight shifted. The reception wasn't merely a celebration anymore. It was a statement.

The clinking of glasses dimmed as Vritant took the mic. His presence alone quieted the hall. He rose, the glass in his hand steady, the silence not because he demanded it - but because silence always walked in with him.

"Parties like this... receptions, they call them.

To most people, they are endings wrapped as beginnings.

A chapter concluded, another about to start.

In my case-" a pause, a trace of irony at his lips, "-it feels more like history creating itself, just written with different ink.

My condolences to the historians who will have to make sense of it. "

A ripple of laughter softened the tension.

His eyes moved briefly across the crowd - the ministers, the business tycoons, the cameras - but they lingered only once, on Adhrita.

"Some of you think this is an alliance of families.

Some think it's strategy. Some think it's convenience.

I'll let you all keep your opinions; they seem to keep you entertained.

What I will say is this-" his voice sharpened, "-in a world where everything is bargained, borrowed, or stolen, there is something...

profoundly inconvenient about finding a person who refuses to be either. "

The glass lifted slightly in her direction.

"Adhrita doesn't need this room to know who she is - she walked in with a name built by her father, a career carved by her own hands, and the kind of composure that makes power look effortless. All I did was add my surname, which, frankly, says more about me than it does about her."

A pause, deliberate.

"So, no, she is not the loudest voice. She is not the easiest to read. But in a world that survives on spectacle, she is proof that silence can be the most powerful presence of all."

He raised his glass higher.

"To Adhrita Vardhan. My wife. The fine print in life's contract I apparently overlooked."

The applause swelled, glasses lifted, flashes popped - but Adhrita didn't move at first. She stood still, the weight of her saree pooling like liquid royalty at her feet, the faint gleam of gold at her wrists catching the light.

The orchestra swelled back into motion, and the spell broke into applause. Ministers, industrialists, actors, and diplomats surged forward, each one eager to claim a moment of proximity.

"Congratulations," echoed again and again, like a rehearsed chorus. Shaurya's handshake was firm, Vedashree's smile poised for cameras, and soon the stage blurred into a tide of embraces, bouquets, and gilded words.

Photo after photo was taken: the Vardhans, the Adanis, the Malhotras, the Deshmukhs - dynasties stitched together under crystal chandeliers.

And through it all, Adhrita remained what she had been since the moment she entered - quiet, regal, and unshaken.

If Vritant's words had been the statement, then her silence became the seal.

The cameras clicked in rapid succession as the Vardhan family gathered for their official portrait. Adhrita adjusted her saree, her expression poised, until her gaze slipped to the side of the hall - and stilled.

Karma.

Karma sat obediently near Rawat, tail wagging, eyes fixed only on her. A flicker of warmth broke through her composure before she leaned ever so slightly toward Vritant.

"Karma," she whispered, the word barely leaving her lips.

Vritant turned his head, followed her gaze, and his mouth curved into something dangerous.

"Your mother-in-law and Karma in one frame? Brave," he murmured, voice laced with sarcasm before an evil smile tugged at him. He gestured toward Rawat.

In moments, Karma bounded onto the stage. Gasps rose from the guests, cameras flared brighter, and Vedashree's glare cut across the hall like a blade. It landed first on her son, then on her new daughter-in-law.

Adhrita's heart sank. She realized instantly what she had done. Quickly, she crouched, slipping her hand around Karma's leash and pulling him close, her lips curving into a practiced smile for the photograph.

"Vritant, we can't have Karma here," she whispered through clenched teeth, her smile never faltering.

"Too late, Doctor Ace," he chuckled low, savoring the discomfort, perfectly aware of his mother's glare boring holes into Adhrita.

She tried again, softly but firmly.

"Vritant, let him go. Please."

"Your in-laws, your problem." But instead of relenting, he laughed, scooped Karma up effortlessly, and placed the dog squarely in her arms. "There. Problem solved."

Adhrita froze, the cameras still flashing, Karma squirming slightly in her hold. And in that instant she understood - she had dug a hole for herself, and Vritant was going to enjoy watching her climb out of it.

The cameras clicked furiously - the official portrait of the Vardhan family, now forever immortalized with Karma seated obediently in Adhrita's arms.

To the world, it might have looked endearing. To Vedashree, it was chaos stitched into ceremony.

As soon as the flash faded and the photographers lowered their lenses, Vedashree stepped forward. Her saree whispered against the marble floor, her expression calm enough to fool anyone but her son.

"Beautiful picture," she said, her tone smooth, her smile thinner than glass. Her eyes flicked from Adhrita to Karma. "Though history tends to remember... distractions."

The words were soft, but the weight in them pressed hard. Adhrita felt her grip tighten on Karma's leash, her smile still plastered for onlookers.

Vritant only smirked, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Relax, PM sahiba. Consider it the most honest family portrait this dynasty has had in years."

Vedashree's gaze lingered on him, unblinking, before sliding back to Adhrita. The silence stretched, sharp and deliberate, until it was broken by host's voice.

Adhrita exhaled slowly, lowering her eyes, knowing she had been marked - not as an enemy, not yet, but as someone who had misstepped in her mother-in-law's court.

And beside her, Vritant's faint, wicked smile told her he had enjoyed every second of it.

The host's voice rose above the hum of conversation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may we invite the couple to the floor for their first dance."

A thousand eyes turned.

For a heartbeat, they simply held each other's gaze - her hesitation a silent protest, his invitation a silent command.

Her hand lifted before she realized it had moved. His palm closed over it, steady, inexorable, guiding her into the center of the hall.

Music swelled.

His arm slid to her waist, proper yet searing through silk. Her breath caught before she could stop it. She leaned in, not from longing, she told herself, but from balance. Still... the closeness felt like yielding.

"Do you know...?" His voice brushed her ear, low enough for only her.

"I only know garba," she whispered, a nervous laugh slipping out. "This is-"

"Just follow," he cut in, calm, assured, leaving no space for refusal.

Slowly, she looped her arms around his shoulders. The distance shrank to something dangerous. Her fingers hovered on the fine fabric of his suit, unsure whether to grip or let go.

The crowd dissolved, muffled into irrelevance. The music took them instead. For her, each beat betrayed a pulse she could no longer control. For him, every step was mastery - except for the way his hold at her waist never faltered, never wavered.

The waltz was smooth, unhurried, nothing like the festive rhythms she knew. At first, she stiffened, her hand tentative, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down.

Then his hand shifted - not away, but from her waist to her wrist, light yet certain. His thumb brushed the delicate thrum of her pulse.

"During the wedding, steady," he murmured, almost amused. "During the dance... unsteady?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it. She wanted to pull her hand back, to laugh it off - but the music held her in place, and so did he.

Before she could slip away, his hand returned - firm at her waist once more. This time he drew her a fraction closer, not enough for scandal, but enough that she felt the command in the gesture.

"Better," he said simply, as though closeness alone could steady her steps.

And to her surprise, it did.

One step. Then another. Their rhythm aligned. She faltered once, but his foot brushed hers, redirecting her seamlessly.

"I thought doctors had steadier rhythms," he whispered, the faintest curl at his mouth. His breath lingered close enough to stir her hair as his hand steadied her at the small of her back.

She swallowed, willing her pulse to even out. She did have steady rhythms - usually. But here, hesitation gave way to the certainty in his lead.

Then came the sudden turn. His arm guided, his grip firm, pulling her through the spin and back again as though she had always belonged in his arms.

The hall blurred; only his eyes remained - steady, intent, unflinching.

"You're not bad," she whispered, half amused, half breathless.

"So you can follow my lead. Should I be flattered or concerned?" he countered, a low tease - though the slight curl of his mouth betrayed the ghost of a smile.

The music dipped. Her cheek brushed his shoulder before she could stop it. Heat shot through her spine at the accidental contact. His hand flexed at her waist, a fleeting crack in his composure.

"If this is what reluctant looks like on you, I wonder what willing would feel like."

By the time the melody softened, they were moving as though one - her nerves dissolved into a quiet, unexpected confidence. She wasn't in love, not even close, yet her pulse thudded fast, traitorous, echoing his steps.

The song ended. But they didn't move.

For a breath too long, his hand lingered at her waist, her fingers rested on his shoulder. Applause swelled around them, shattering the fragile stillness. Only then did he step back, restoring the distance with the same precision with which he had erased it.

Adhrita and Vritant stepped down from the stage, their steps measured, the hall's eyes trailing after them. They moved toward his Mama ji, who greeted them with a warm embrace.

Ashish, standing beside, leaned forward with an easy grin.

"We share the same initials, Adhrita," he said, showing his palm as though it were proof. His voice had a lilt that made her pause. A second longer, and she realized - he wasn't just Vritant's cousin, he was a little too tipsy.

A waiter drifted past. Ashish snagged a whiskey glass, then another, and held one out to her.

"Please, Adhrita. One glass won't hurt."

"Thank you, Ashish. But I don't drink," she answered, her voice steady.

"Adhrita, please... it's your wedding reception," he pressed, slurring slightly.

The edge of insistence in his tone prickled her nerves.

One wrong reaction - his or hers - and the evening could turn into a spectacle.

She darted a look toward Vritant, but he was still engaged with his mama ji, oblivious.

So she acted.

Her fingers loosened deliberately, and her clutch slipped from her hand, spilling open at her feet. Lipstick, compact, a few slips of paper - and the gun.

Ashish froze. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long before instinct carried him a step back, half-shielding himself behind his father.

Adhrita bent smoothly, scooping up her belongings, her face an easy mask of grace, as though nothing unusual had happened. She closed the clutch and rose again, spine straight, expression composed.

But her mind replayed his words - "If someone doesn't obey, feel free to use this."

When she shifted slightly, her eyes met Vritant's. He wasn't watching the crowd anymore - he was watching her.

"Something is wrong," he said, his gaze cutting to Rawat. He dialed quickly.

"Any danger?"

"No, sir," Rawat replied. Vritant ended the call without another word.

He turned back to her. "Adhrita, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Grip was not nothing."

"It's nothing," she insisted, avoiding his eyes.

He studied her for a long beat, silent. Without comment, he excused himself and stepped toward a quieter corner.

Adhrita remained where she was, alone amid the murmur of the crowd. For a moment she considered letting him be, her fingers tightening around the clutch at her side. But the weight of his retreat tugged at her, pulling her forward despite herself.

Then she followed, stopping beside him as he spoke in clipped tones. Her heels were biting into her skin, forcing her to shift her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, with a quiet sigh, she leaned against his shoulder.

His eyes flicked down at her, unreadable. Then, almost instinctively, he slid an arm around her waist to steady her.

She closed her eyes, her breath soft with exhaustion. He finished the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and for once-didn't move her away.

"I was just intimidated by Ashish," she whispered. "He offered me a drink, I refused, but he insisted. He was... a bit drunk."

His phone buzzed. Without a word, he pulled it out, scanned the message, and tapped the video attached. His jaw flexed as he watched.

"The grip was not nothing," he said quietly, replaying the clip before locking the phone and sliding it back into his pocket.

Adhrita exhaled, but before she could speak, he reached into the inside of his coat and produced a sleek, black tube. Lipstick. He held it out as if it belonged there all along.

She blinked, stunned. Him? Carrying lipstick?

Cautiously, she took it, turning the tube in her hand. Bold letters were etched in Hindi across the side.

"??????" she read aloud. "Chhalava?"

(Illusion)

"Illusion suits you better than crimson," he said, a glint of wicked amusement in his eyes.

She twisted it open - but instead of creamy red, she glimpsed metal. A faint spark crackled before vanishing when he flicked a switch at the base.

Her brows shot up. "This isn't-"

"A lipstick?" he finished, lips curving. "Not everything pretty is harmless, Doctor Ace."

"It's a taser," he added matter-of-factly. "Point, press, and anyone with bad manners will be on the floor, dancing for you."

She stared at him, equal parts horrified and impressed. "You hide a weapon... in lipstick?"

"You already have a blade in your hair," he countered smoothly. "Your clutch deserved an upgrade."

Her fingers curled around the slim tube, still caught between laughter and disbelief.

"Politics gives you enemies faster than lipstick gives you admirers," he said, voice edged with sarcasm. "This handles both."

"You won't say anything to Ashish, right?" she asked, a trace of worry slipping past her composure.

Vritant's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Tell him? Why would I ruin the suspense? Fear is more fun when it festers."

They walked back toward the dining area, the music still pulsing through the hall.

The party had bloomed into chaos - glasses clinking, laughter spilling, the air heavy with smoke and perfume.

At the long dinner table, Vritant deliberately pulled out the chair beside Ashish and sat down as though he had claimed his place long before the man arrived.

Ashish looked up, caught off guard, his smile a shade too quick.

Vritant leaned back in his chair, picking up the nearest glass, and said in a tone so casual it burned,

"Tell me, Ashish... do you know how to write an obituary?"

Ashish blinked, caught off guard. "Obituary? Why the hell would I know that?"

Vritant leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, his gaze fixed lazily on Ashish.

"An obituary," he said, voice cool, almost conversational. "Short, sharp, honest. Something like-"

He tapped his finger lightly on the table, as if weighing words.

"Here lies Ashish-proof that not every mistake deserves a second chance."

A pause. His eyes narrowed, faint amusement tugging at his mouth.

"Concise, isn't it? Just enough for a column inch. Any more would be a waste of ink."

Ashish's voice cracked a little as he tried to laugh it off. "Bhai, I'm sorry if I ever commit any mistake..." His eyes darted between Vritant and Adhrita, almost pleading.

Vritant leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, gaze cool and unblinking.

"Exactly," he said, tapping his own chest with lazy precision. "Bhai." Then his finger shifted, pointing to Adhrita beside him, his tone dipping into something sharper. "Bhabhi."

He let the word hang in the air-more threat than title-before taking a slow sip, never breaking eye contact with Ashish.

Just then he got up from the chair and left before anything could happen. Vritant's eyes flicked toward Adhrita.

"What?" he asked flatly, tearing into a pastry like the world had wronged him and the cake was his revenge.

She shook her head and bent again, fingers struggling with the strap of her heel. A quiet hiss escaped her lips.

"It's paining," she whispered, leaning slightly toward him. She shifted, crossing one leg over the other, trying to ease the sting.

Vritant's gaze lingered on her ankle, then back to her face. "Of course it is," he muttered, tone edged with dry sarcasm. "High heels were never invented for walking. Just for women to pretend they enjoy suffering."

She glared faintly. "I'm not pretending-"

"Good. Because you're terrible at it," he cut in, leaning back, his eyes cool but unreadable.

She bent again to ease the sting in her feet, then forced her posture upright, composed.

Vritant glanced once, then without a word bent forward. His fingers closed around her ankle, sharp and efficient, and he unclasped the strap.

Her breath caught. "No, I can't walk barefoot," she whispered, eyes darting nervously around.

He ignored her, opening the other strap too, then leaned back as if nothing had happened. One flick of his hand and Rawat was already moving.

"Bring Karma," Vritant ordered.

Rawat returned swiftly, placing the eager dog in Adhrita's arms. She pulled him close, grateful for the excuse to hide behind his fur.

Dinner passed, and soon Shaurya appeared, his voice carrying quiet authority. "Vritant, a word."

Without hesitation, Vritant rose and followed his father.

When he returned later, his face carried the same calm steel. "It's done. Let's go home," he said simply, already taking Karma's leash.

"Wait, I need to-" She pointed helplessly at her heels. She bent down but he sank into the chair before she could, his long fingers closing over the straps. The brush of his hand against hers was accidental, yet it burned-too close, too deliberate in its slowness.

"Vritant-" his name slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

"What?" he fastened the last clasp, his voice steady, betraying nothing. "I'm just repaying."

He rose, leaving the ghost of that touch behind, and she stood too, suddenly aware of how shallow her breath had become.

The silence that followed was not empty; it pressed against her like a weight. His touch had already gone, but the aftertaste of it lingered, sharper than presence.

She wanted to speak, to break it, to demand clarity. Instead, she found herself watching him walk ahead, measured, unhurried, as if nothing had passed between them.

And perhaps, she thought with a sudden chill, nothing had-except for the brush of fingers neither of them would ever name.

As soon as they settled into the car, Vritant leaned back, exhaustion etched into his posture. Karma instantly leapt onto his lap, licking his hand with loyal insistence.

"Mr. Vardhan," Adhrita spoke suddenly. The formality in her tone made him turn, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Mr. Vardhan?

"I hope you had enough whiskey," she continued, her lips curving in a half-smile. His brows knitted, perplexed, waiting for her to finish.

"We're going to Gujarat tomorrow," she announced, her smile widening.

It took him a second to register-then it hit him. Dry state. His eyes widened.

"Listen, I can't come tomorrow. Biwiyan akele hi maayke jaati hain. I have some work here. You just go," he muttered, words tumbling faster than his usual control allowed.

Adhrita tilted her head, amusement sparkling in her eyes. "Adhrita kaise Adhrita ke pati ke bina jayegi?" she teased, laughter spilling over as she caught his expression.

For a long, measured beat, he didn't answer. He only looked at her, the sound of her laugh threading through the car, brushing against something in him he wasn't meant to acknowledge.

And then, for the first time in a long while, he let it be.

Somewhere in the chaos, Adhrita laughed, and yes... he noticed everything.

??? V ? A ???

Finally, the last wedding ritual was over. She freshened up in the washroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror for a moment before stepping out. In the dressing room, she slipped out of her outfit and began folding clothes into the suitcase, the quiet rustle of fabric filling the space.

Then she opened her clutch to put her things into the suitcase. As she reached inside, her fingers brushed against folded paper. She frowned. What's this?

Unfolding it, she saw a medical report. The name at the top hit her like a shockwave.

Her pulse quickened as her eyes darted down the page. The report was backdated. Each line she read pulled the ground further out from under her.

And then she saw it.

"Patient: Vritant Vardhan. Diagnosis: Post-traumatic brain injury. Condition: Coma, duration approximately 24 months. Status: Full recovery documented."

She froze, the paper trembling in her hand.

Slowly, she stepped out of the dressing room. Through the glass doors, she saw Vritant standing on the balcony, still on a call, his voice steady, unaware. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, but when his eyes met her pale, drained face, his expression shifted.

He gestured, asking what was wrong. She didn't answer.

He cut the call and came inside. Her hands were still clutching the report, her knuckles white, her silence louder than any words.

He took the paper from her trembling hand, and the color drained from his face.

"Adhrita," he said softly.

"Were you...?" she barely managed to whisper.

"In a coma?" His voice was flat, almost casual. "For two years." He said it as though he were mentioning the weather, not his own past.

"Vritant... how?" Her throat tightened, words failing her as tears welled up in her eyes.

"I know... you ended up with a defective husband," he murmured, but before he could say more, she threw herself against him, clutching him tightly as sobs broke free.

He held her, his chin brushing her hair. Then, with a crooked smile, he whispered, "Any other wife would've slapped me first for hiding this. Guess I'm lucky you just cry."

Adhrita's tears dampened his shirt, and he let her cry for a moment before speaking.

"Adhrita... I didn't want this to be the first thing you knew about me," he said quietly. "I wanted you to see me... not my past."

She pulled back just enough to look at him. "Two years, Vritant. Two years of your life... gone. How could you just hide that from me?"

He gave a small, crooked smile. "Practice. Turns out I'm very good at pretending to be normal."

Her lip trembled. "This isn't something you just pretend away. You almost-" she stopped, the words choking in her throat. "You almost didn't come back."

His eyes softened. "But I did. And maybe that's why I didn't want to talk about it. Because every day since I woke up... I've been busy living. Not remembering."

She searched his face, her hands still clutching his shirt. "And what about me? Don't I deserve to know everything about my husband?"

"Of course you do," he said, brushing a tear from her cheek. "But I was terrified. What if the first thing you thought was, Oh great, I married a man with a warranty issue?"

Despite herself, a shaky laugh slipped through her tears.

"You can't be serious for long, can you?" she muttered, half exasperated, half tearful.

He smirked. "Come on, Doctor Ace... I was seriously dead for two whole years. Doesn't that earn me a lifetime pass to bad jokes?"

She shot him a glare through her tears, her fists tightening against his chest. For a second, she genuinely felt like killing him-then hated herself for laughing instead.

"I know you have a thousand questions," he said softly, "but you don't want to ruin your mayka trip, right?"

She understood. For now, he wasn't ready to share. It was always his way-deflect, postpone, protect. But a coma for two years.

Saanvi was right. I really don't know anything about him, she thought, her chest tightening.

Her eyes lifted to him, searching his face. He had been kidnapped. Then a coma. How much had he endured, how much was still locked away inside him?

"Just trust me," he whispered. And she knew, in her bones, those words weren't empty.

She nodded silently. Then she noticed the faint tremor in his hand. Without a word, she slipped her fingers into his, holding his palm firmly in hers. For now, she decided, she would not ask anything more.

The silence wasn't empty; it was heavy with all the things left unsaid.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, as if sealing the moment shut. "Go get some sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow will be long."

She nodded, though her mind was restless. Sleep would not come easily, not with the weight of the report still burned into her memory.

As she lay down later, her last thought lingered like a shadow: Two years stolen from him. And yet, it feels like I'm the one just beginning to wake up.

Outside, on the balcony, Vritant stood again in the dark, staring into the distance. His hand shook slightly as he reached for his phone.

The night swallowed his expression, but one thing was clear-his story was far from over.

"Lucky you, my Vritti," he muttered to himself with a wry smile, "you didn't just marry a man... you married a whole suspense series."

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