Chapter 26 The Lotus File
The white coat may wrinkle, but it never forgets its duty.
- Adhrita Vritant Vardhan
Steam curled in the bathroom as Adhrita stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel snugly around her. She paused before the fogged mirror, her reflection blurred, almost like someone else's face staring back. With a sweep of her hand, she cleared a patch.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she was smiling - a quiet, unguarded smile. Today wasn't about receptions or politics; today, she was going back to where she belonged. The hospital. The thought alone lifted her, light as breath, clouding her eyes with a spark she had missed.
Her fingertip pressed against the damp glass, tracing the first letter: A.
She lingered before writing another A, then stopped, hesitating.
Instead, she curved her hand into a V.
The line wavered, and so did she - Vritant's face flashed in her mind, his gaze, sharp and unreadable, and the faint, unwelcome warmth it always stirred.
A laugh slipped past her lips, soft, self-mocking. On impulse, she scrawled two words beside the letters: Eyes lie.
The fog began to reclaim the mirror, swallowing her playful confession, but her smile stayed, bright and certain, as she reached for her clothes. Today, she was not the Prime Minister's daughter-in-law. She was Dr. Adhrita again.
She slipped into her linen shirt and trousers in haste, the rustle of fabric nearly drowned by the sound of running water. He was still in the shower. She sat before the vanity, brushing her damp hair, the faint kohl in her hand trembling with an excitement she wouldn't admit.
Then she noticed it-her mangalsutra missing. She frowned, remembering she had left it in the washroom.
Before she could rise, the door opened. Vritant stepped out, towel low at his waist, another ruffling through his hair.
His movements were careless but deliberate-like someone too accustomed to command silence in a room without asking.
He tossed the damp cloth onto a chair and crossed toward the wardrobe.
She averted her eyes, shaking her head at his ease, and slipped past him into the washroom.
Her mangalsutra rested on the shelf where she'd left it. She picked it up, and as she turned toward the mirror, her breath stilled.
On the fogged glass, two letters gleamed in fading strokes:
And just beneath, as though etched in defiance of vanishing steam, were two words-
The letters wavered, threatening to dissolve with the next breath of air. She stood frozen, fingers closing around the mangalsutra, not knowing if she should smile, scoff, or simply carry the weight of what those unfinished words meant.
Adhrita stepped out, fastening the pin in her bun with a practiced twist. The sharp glint of it caught the morning light, as though her hair itself had grown a weapon. She settled at the vanity again, dusting a hint of powder across her cheeks.
Behind her, Vritant clasped a heavy wristwatch, checked the mirror, and frowned. Without a word, he unbuckled it and dropped it onto the table beside her brushes.
"This is my place," she murmured, eyes still on her reflection, voice quiet but firm.
He only hummed, pulling another watch from the closet, fastening it with deliberate care. He returned to the vanity, leaned in, and picked up her comb as though it belonged to him. His reflection met hers in the glass while his hand raked through his damp hair, efficient, unbothered.
Then, with a dry curve of his mouth, he said-
"Keep spreading, Miss-this-mirror-is-mine. Soon I'll be borrowing space from Karma."
"Well, Mr-I'm-ten-steps-ahead, it's Mrs.," she shot back, rising from the vanity.
"There are three mirrors in this room, but no-you want this one."
"Keep rehearsing sarcasm and I'll cancel your gift," he replied, adjusting his tie with maddening calm.
"Gift?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as he disappeared into the wardrobe and returned with a small box.
"Gun, blade, taser-done. What now? A lighter?" she quipped, her brow arched.
"This is the remote to a suicide bomb," he said flatly. For a heartbeat, she froze. Then she snatched the box, flipped it open-only to find a sleek car key.
She exhaled, rolling her eyes. "You're impossible."
He laughed under his breath, turning away to the drawer where his wallet, cards, and lighter lay waiting. Calm. Controlled. As if unnerving her was the only luxury he actually enjoyed.
When they descended the stairs, she turned toward the temple, bowing her head in prayer, while he stopped in front of his twin's photograph to light the diya.
By the time she came out, almost everyone was already seated at the breakfast table. She went to Daadi and said softly, "Daadi, I'm going to the hospital."
"Have breakfast first," Daadi insisted, signaling the butler before she could refuse. A plate was set in front of her.
"Beta, I'll join you after lunch. I've already asked Dr. Gupta to guide you," Shaurya said, sipping his tea.
"Ji, Papa," she replied, her eyes instinctively searching for Vritant. He walked in just then, picked up a black coffee without sitting, spoke into his phone, and walked back out.
Hurriedly, she took a few bites. As she rose, Anamika came to her side with a small bowl of dahi.
"Your first day should be the best. Think of me as your mother-in-law-bhabhi is never available," Anamika said warmly, feeding her a spoonful of sweet dahi.
She nodded gratefully and left. Outside, she found him still on his call, already in the driver's seat. On a sudden thought, she turned back, asking the butler to quickly pack a sandwich.
She came with the sandwich and her handbag, opened the car door, and slid inside. He was still on a call, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
The car rolled forward. When she held the container in front of her, his eyes flicked toward it mid-conversation, confusion breaking his otherwise impassive face.
She raised a brow. He shook his head once, pointing at the Bluetooth in his ear.
Her lips curved in disbelief. Really? Now he's too busy for breakfast?
Without a word, she opened the container, pulled out a slice, and extended it toward him. He glanced again-and this time, without hesitation, leaned in and took a bite, eyes back on the road.
Only after another bite did he cut the call, settling back against the seat. A dry curve tugged at his mouth.
"So this is what I've been reduced to," he drawled, tone laced with mock-gravity. "A decorated strategist, feared by half the ministries, now bribed into silence with bread and butter."
Adhrita shot him a look, half exasperated, half amused. "Consider it preventive medicine. Keeps your sarcasm levels from reaching toxic."
He gave a low chuckle, eyes still on the road. "Careful, Doctor. You'll find I'm incurable."
Adhrita folded the sandwich back into its container, her gaze fixed on the passing trees outside. Her heartbeat, however, kept in rhythm with the faint hum of the engine and the memory of his mouth brushing so casually against her fingers.
She leaned back, forcing her breath into calm, fingers tightening on her bag. Today was about her. The hospital. Her patients. Not him. Not his mirrors, his messages, his maddening calm.
When they reached the hospital gates, her heart surged-familiar corridors, the scent of antiseptic, the rush of nurses, the rhythm of purpose. Her world.
She reached for the door handle but then stopped, the question burning through her composure. Slowly, she turned back to him.
"If I had married Suraj Rathore," she asked quietly, the weight of it trembling in her voice, "would you still have protected me?" The doubt had been gnawing at her ever since she'd seen his medical records, and now it spilled out, raw and unguarded.
Vritant's gaze didn't flicker. Instead, he lifted his hand in a subtle gesture, calling her closer. Against her better judgment, she stepped in, the air between them tightening. He tapped the line of her maang where vermillion glowed, a mark more binding than words.
"A promise is a promise," he said, his tone low but firm. Then, with a half-curve of his lips, he added, "Echo above everything."
The word tangled in her mind. Echo. Was he speaking of the vow he'd made to his brother... or the vow sealed the day she became his wife?
He seemed to sense her confusion, because his voice followed, steadier than the storm in her chest. "I promised to protect you. And this red color-" his finger lingered for a second over her maang, "-means another promise. So yes... a promise is a promise."
Her breath faltered, but before she could reply, the curve of his mouth sharpened into something unreadable.
"Don't look so surprised, Mriga Trishna," he murmured, the Sanskrit rolling off his tongue with an edge only he could give. "Always thirsty for answers you'll never catch... and yet you keep running toward them."
(Mirage)
The nickname stung and soothed all at once-beautiful and mocking, elusive and binding. She turned her gaze away, fastening her grip on the door handle again, unwilling to let him see the tremor that passed through her.
But his words lingered, like the fading lines on a fogged mirror.
Mriga Trishna. (Mirage)
A mirage.
Something he claimed he could see... but never hold.
Then she smiled, a small curve tugging at her lips, and slipped out of the car. The morning sun caught in her hair, glinting against the vermillion he had just touched.
Through the windshield, he lifted his hand as if to say goodbye-but halfway, he seemed to catch himself. His palm dropped to the steering wheel, his face hardening back into its usual mask, and the car pulled away without pause.
She couldn't help it-laughter bubbled up, soft and incredulous. A man who mocked temples, who hated gods... how on earth did he know the word Mriga Trishna?
Still smiling, she turned-and then her eyes lifted to the board above the glass doors.
The letters gleamed, firm and familiar, steadying her pulse. She stood taller, adjusting the strap of her bag against her shoulder, letting the comfort of her name stitched into the very walls of this place remind her who she was.
The glass doors slid open with a hiss, and waiting on the other side was Dr. Gupta with a small entourage of residents and nurses. Their white coats were crisp, their smiles respectful, tinged with curiosity.
"Welcome, Dr. Adhrita," Dr. Gupta said warmly, stepping forward. His team echoed the greeting in unison, as though ushering her into both responsibility and belonging.
The scent of antiseptic filled her lungs, and with it came a surge of calm she hadn't felt in months. She was no longer the daughter-in-law, the woman tangled in politics and promises. Here, she was simply what she had always been-a doctor.
The staff led her past the familiar wards, but this time, every gaze carried something more than respect-expectation. She wasn't just a doctor returning; she was now the face of the hospital.
Dr. Gupta paused at a polished wooden door and pushed it open.
"Your cabin, Dr. Adhrita."
She stepped inside. The room was spacious yet simple-the desk lined with neatly stacked files, a fresh vase of lilies on the side table, her nameplate gleaming on the door. Dr. Adhrita Vardhan.
For a moment, she stood still, fingertips brushing the desk's edge. This was no longer her father's space, or anyone else's. It was hers.
The room was neat, spacious, waiting for her touch.
She walked to the side table first, setting down a small idol of Goddess Amba and a framed photo of her parents. Her handbag landed on the desk, and for a moment she bowed her head, letting the silence settle around her.
When she looked up, resolve steadied her eyes. She turned back to Dr. Gupta with a faint nod.
"Shall we begin rounds?"
And just like that, the doctor in her took over.
The rounds carried her through the wards-different corridors, different accents, different pace. For a fleeting moment she missed New York: the urgency, the chaos, the anonymity of being just another trauma surgeon in scrubs.
But here, every patient's eyes lingered, every staff member measured her steps, as if the Vardhan name itself had entered with her.
Back in her cabin, she placed the files down, opened her laptop, and leaned into the chair. The glow of the screen steadied her, pulling her thoughts toward the legacy now on her shoulders.
This wasn't New York. This was Delhi. This was Vardhan LifeCare.
And against all odds, it felt like... coming home.
She picked up her phone, scrolling quickly. No text. No call. How could he let me come here-without security, without a word?
Her thoughts were interrupted as Dr. Gupta stepped in, brisk and professional.
"Dr. Adhrita, there's an emergency case-18 years old, met with an accident. Whom would you like to assign?"
She straightened, the weight of responsibility settling comfortably on her shoulders.
"I will be taking this one myself," she said, voice calm, precise. "Prepare the trauma bay; let's move."
She moved to the changing area, swapping her linen shirt and trousers for crisp green scrubs, the fabric cool against her skin. Her hair was tied back tightly, and she checked her reflection quickly-no distractions, no adornments-just the doctor ready to step into the chaos.
The trauma bay was prepped within minutes. Monitors beeped insistently, IV lines and oxygen tubes ready. Adhrita moved with precision, assessing the young patient's vitals as nurses and residents followed her instructions.
"BP dropping-administer fluids, stat. Airway secured. Prepare for imaging," she directed, voice steady, hands sure.
Every movement was deliberate, every word measured. The chaos around her-the hurried footsteps, the anxious parents, the constant hum of machines-blurred into focus. She was in her element, every decision instinctive, every pulse, every breath counted.
By the time the patient was stabilized and transferred for imaging, Adhrita allowed herself a single, deep breath. The adrenaline lingered, but beneath it, a quiet satisfaction: she had returned, and she was exactly where she needed to be.
Back in her cabin, Adhrita had already changed out of her hospital scrubs into her usual doctor's attire-a crisp linen shirt and trousers, neat and professional. The familiar feel of the clothes grounded her, a quiet reminder that she was home again in more ways than one.
She sank into her chair, the adrenaline from the trauma case ebbing into a steady calm.
Her laptop sat open before her, patient records waiting, but her thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.
The hum of the hospital outside her window, the faint smell of antiseptic, even the small frame of Goddess Amba on her side table-all of it reminded her why she had returned.
With a slow breath, she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, the steady rhythm of the hospital blending with the restless curiosity that still lingered in her mind.
Her phone lay on the desk-still no call, no text from Vritant. How could he let me navigate this place alone, without a word, without even security? The question nagged at her, a mix of irritation and curiosity.
She touched the vermillion at her maang unconsciously, the promise he had reminded her of earlier flickering in her mind. Mriga Trishna... what was he doing back in his world while I was here?
For a moment, the quiet hum of the laptop and the distant clatter of hospital life felt almost peaceful. She was home, yes, but part of her still ached for the chaos only he seemed to bring-sharp, unpredictable, unavoidable.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, drafting emails and reviewing schedules, but in the back of her mind, one thought persisted: he might not be here physically, but somehow, he was still in every corner of her day.
Adhrita reached for her handbag and opened it, expecting only files and daily essentials. Instead, her fingers brushed against something unexpected.
A file-but tucked alongside it were a few surprising items: a small, delicate lotus, a chocolate, and a lipstick labeled "Chhalava". Beneath them, partially hidden, was a taser.
Her brow arched, curiosity and amusement flickering across her face. Of course it would be him.
The lotus seemed almost symbolic-peaceful, grounding-while the chocolate whispered mischief. And the lipstick... "Chhalava"-illusion, trickery, teasing.
She picked up the lotus first, turning it in her palm, and then glanced around the cabin, half-expecting him to appear in the doorway with that unreadable smirk.
But the room remained quiet.
She scanned the room again-every corner, every detail. Two cameras tucked neatly into the ceiling, a big sofa angled toward the garden. Carefully, she placed the file on her lap, picked up a pen, and curled into the corner of the sofa.
Opening the file, she froze for a heartbeat. The first page was a copy of the Vardhan LifeCare ownership deed. Her eyes flicked across the legalese of the first page-clearly a copy of the Vardhan LifeCare ownership deed-then moved to the next page. Unlike the first, it was entirely black.
A clever trick to make anyone glancing think this was a mundane legal file.
On impulse, she wrote a single name: Vritant Vardhan.
Beneath it, she began noting what she already knew, filling the page with fragments of his life, his world:
Mother - Prime Minister.
Father - Business magnate, owner of Vardhan empire.
Sibling - Vedant (deceased).
Wife - me. (as a promise)
Pet - Karma.
She paused, then added observations, almost like she was profiling him for herself:
Gambler - always keeps a deck of cards.
Businessman - excellent, as per reports.
Racer - underground whispers: "When he races, people's hearts stop."
VV - hates god and politics, sarcastic, Doesn't know how to tie shoelaces.
Knows Sanskrit (words) ?????? (Try to know this.)
Medical - tremors, anxiety attacks, emotional release in sleep, in coma for 2 years.
Habits - races, alcohol, black coffee (hardly eats), Hides small important items in Hot Wheels cars
Relations - trusts his father, hates mother, neutral with other family members.
Loves his twin above all else. Love/hate relationship with Ganpati
Obsession - writing his initials - VV everywhere, Karma
People near him - Neil Khanna Eklavya Rawat
She unlocked her phone and typed his name into the search bar, scanning quickly through the records that came up.
His education surfaced in pieces, scattered across articles and old press mentions.
Then, shen began noting his education: born in India, studied there until age twelve, took over his father's business in London at twenty.
Every detail seemed to fit, yet the picture it painted was only half the man she had glimpsed.
She leaned back against the sofa, the pen poised in her hand, and let the quiet of the cabin settle around her.
Every item in her bag, every detail in the file, every shadowed corner of the room whispered the same thing: Vritant was as unpredictable as he was brilliant, and she was still learning how to navigate the world he had built around himself.
And somehow, despite everything, the thought made her pulse quicken.
Just then, her phone buzzed.
"Searching about me?" - his text.
She couldn't help but smile and typed back, "At least somthing was telling me about you. You did something to my phone?"
The reply came almost instantly: "Your phone is updated with special security. But a little birdie told me I was being searched."
Adhrita paused, letting the words sink in. One wrong word here or there, and all her efforts-the meticulous notes, the quiet observations-could be undone.
She shook her head, chuckling softly. "What can I do? My husband is too secretive."
Almost immediately, another message appeared: "Well, why don't you come down and ask me in person?"
She laughed aloud, imagining him waiting somewhere, calm and unreadable, knowing exactly how this day would end.
With a final glance at the black page, she closed the file, slid it into the last drawer, and collected the lotus, chocolate, and lipstick, tucking them carefully into her bag. Straightening, she left the cabin, each step purposeful, ready to face whatever-or whoever-awaited her next.
She reached the car and saw him standing casually beside it, the morning sun glinting off the black paint.
"Why didn't you come inside?" she asked as soon as she neared him.
"Been here enough, for what-two years?" he smirked, and she stilled. This man would never take anything seriously.
She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat; he moved to the driver's side, adjusting the mirror with his usual precise, deliberate calm.
Curious, she shifted the mirror slightly, testing the angle.
"Why?" he asked, eyes flicking toward her.
"From this angle, we can see differently," she replied, faintly amused.
He leaned back, one brow quirked, and said with sharp sarcasm, "Ah, yes -because subtle perspective adjustments are clearly the pinnacle of tactical genius. Changing mirrors to change reality."
She rolled her eyes, smiling under her breath. Somehow, even sarcasm felt like an unspoken conversation only they could have.
"What did you want to know about me?" he asked as he started the car.
She pulled the chocolate from her bag, unwrapped it, and held it out. "What do you hate the most?"
"This is what you were searching on the internet?" he asked, raising a brow.
"I found what you love," she said, handing it toward him, "but there was no mention of what you hate."
He looked at the chocolate, then back at her.
"It's my first day," she added, indicating the chocolate. He gave a small, amused smile and took a bite.
"So... what do you hate the most?" she asked again, still nibbling on her own piece.
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Oh, I hate alcohol," he smirked, then let out a low, reckless laugh-the kind that didn't quite fit the shadows in his eyes.
Adhrita frowned, glaring. "I'm serious, Vritant."
He glanced at the rearview mirror, his laughter fading. Turning back toward it, his voice dropped, heavy and low. "I hate mirrors."
Her lips parted. "Is it because..." She didn't finish, afraid her words might wound deeper than intended.
His eyes stayed fixed on his reflection. "Because they show me what I lost. And what I don't deserve. I don't deserve this life. He does." His jaw clenched, his voice cracking at the edges.
Then the sentence died in his throat.
Adhrita turned her face toward the window, staring at the blur of the city outside, letting the silence settle between them.
Finally, she exhaled softly. "And yet... here you are. Driving, breathing, alive. Somehow managing to keep all of this together."
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the mirror, jaw still tight, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched. A smirk, teasing and dangerous in the way only he could manage, slowly unfurled.
"Oh, now you're complimenting me?" he said dryly, voice flat but threaded with amusement. "I didn't realize surviving two years of chaos made me worthy of commentary."
Adhrita turned toward him, lips quirked in a small smile. "I'm just stating facts. Not commentary."
He glanced at her through the rearview mirror, mock horror flashing in his eyes. "Facts? Be careful, or I'll start expecting logical statements more often. Can't handle that kind of pressure."
She laughed softly, the tension easing from her shoulders. "I'll try to keep it to chocolate and mirrors, then."
He threw her a sideways glance, dry and playful. "Ah, yes... my life reduced to cocoa and reflections. Truly, a sophisticated existence."
Finally, she murmured, "And yet... here you are. Surviving, driving, breathing... somehow keeping it together."
He flicked a glance at her through the rearview mirror, dry and unamused on the surface, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Surviving is my specialty. Driving... a close second. Breathing is optional, but I manage."
She blinked, surprised by the teasing tone. "Optional? That explains the black coffee and racing. You're just living on adrenaline and sarcasm."
"Ah, so you've figured out my dietary plan," he said, voice calm, but his smirk betrayed him. "I was going to patent it. Now you've ruined my exclusive brand."
Adhrita couldn't help but laugh softly, the tension in her shoulders easing. "I'll have to warn the world: don't touch Vritant's patented chaos formula."
He leaned slightly toward her, deadpan. "You might want to add a disclaimer: contains extreme sarcasm, occasional reckless laughter, and mild emotional damage."
Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned closer and wiped a smudge of chocolate near her lip with his finger.
Adhrita froze, caught off guard. Her breath hitched for a fraction of a second, the teasing calm in the car suddenly charged with a private, mischievous intimacy.
He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking toward her, just enough to smirk. Nothing more. No words.
Her fingers brushed against her lips, almost instinctively, and she caught herself staring at him, trying-and failing-to hide the small, quiet amusement rising inside her.
Just then, his phone buzzed against the seat. The car display lit up: "Khabri Calling..."
She glanced at him, but he simply cut the call without a word.
Even this time, she didn't ask aloud. Instead, she filed it away in her mind, noting the detail quietly-another small piece in the puzzle that was Vritant Vardhan.
The city blurred past, chocolate forgotten, mirrors avoided, and the faint thread of playfulness between them still lingering, unspoken. She slid her phone back into her bag, exhaled softly, and let her thoughts settle.
A husband who hides secrets in shadows, smirks in silence, and still somehow leaves me laughing at my own heart.
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