Throne and Thread

Chapter 27 Clutching Her Shadow

Even shadows learn to speak, if you stand with them long enough.

- Vritant Vardhan

It was 12:30 past midnight, and the House of Eros thrummed with smoke, whispers, and the clink of chips against glass.

At Table No. 7, his table, Vritant sat like a shadow carved in flesh, the deck slipping through his fingers with effortless precision.

The men across from him shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between their cards and his face, searching for a crack in his composure they'd never find.

No women lingered near his corner; they kept their distance, as if some unspoken rule-or instinct-warned them away.

Here, Vritant Vardhan was not son, not husband, not heir-only a player who made the House itself seem to hold its breath.

The dealer flicked the next card onto the green felt with a snap that echoed sharper than the music in the background. A king. One of the men at the table exhaled too quickly, betraying relief; another cursed under his breath.

Vritant didn't move. His fingers tapped once against the corner of his cards, not in thought-never in thought-but in rhythm, a beat only he seemed to hear. He let the silence stretch until it grew heavy, until the men across from him began to squirm under its weight.

Finally, he glanced up, his gaze cold and amused all at once. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice low, even, laced with sarcasm, "if you plan to lie, at least try harder. Even the cards look embarrassed for you."

A nervous laugh broke somewhere at the edge of the table, but no one dared to meet his eyes. Chips slid into the center, hesitant, uneven. Vritant pushed his own stack forward without so much as a blink. For him, it wasn't money-it was the silence that followed, the fear, the inevitability.

The final card dropped. An ace.

A collective hush rippled around Table No. 7, the kind of silence that fell when luck turned cruel. One man swallowed hard, his knuckles whitening as he pushed in the last of his chips. Another tried to bluff, lips twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Vritant leaned back, cards still facedown in his hand. He studied the table with the disinterest of a predator already bored of the hunt. Then, with deliberate ease, he turned his cards over-a royal flush.

The table groaned. Chips clattered forward in defeat.

He let the silence linger a beat too long, then drawled, voice flat but edged with dry amusement, "What did I say? Even the cards get embarrassed."

A dealer cleared his throat, stacking chips toward him, but Vritant didn't glance at the winnings.

Just then Rawat appeared at his side, bending low to murmur in his ear. Vritant's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and without a word he rose from Table No. 8. The room shifted as he walked-players straightened, whispers died, as though the House itself recognized its gravity moving elsewhere.

In the dim corridor beyond the tables, another man waited, posture stiff with respect.

"Sir," he began quickly, "we checked everything. Only your family was allowed near Ma'am."

Vritant gave a single, curt nod. The man lingered for only a breath before stepping back into the shadows.

"Sir, it has been a month now," Rawat pressed, careful with his words. "PM-sahiba is hardly in India, and at the time of your reception party she was busy with-"

"Bangladesh Government," Vritant cut in smoothly. "She didn't play this game. And she doesn't need to be in India to pull any move."

Rawat blinked, taken aback. It never ceased to unnerve him-how Vritant knew things buried in sealed files, things whispered only in war rooms. Confidential meant nothing to him.

"We are not suspecting Malhotras and Deshmukhs?" Rawat ventured cautiously.

"I would never suspect Deshmukhs," Vritant said flatly. His eyes narrowed, the edge in his voice slicing through the haze. "Though keep an eye on Ashish. I don't want him anywhere near my wife."

Rawat nodded quickly.

"As for Malhotras-they're part of the Vardhans. They won't pull this move. And Adanis?" His lips curved into that unsettling half-smile. "My sasurji did everything in his reach to bend Adhrita into marrying me. No, not them."

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that carried like a blade. "Do one thing. Send a text to CM-saab that his daughter got hold of my medical report." The smirk deepened, dangerous.

Rawat hesitated. "But sir, the footage clearly showed-when the clutch dropped on the floor, the report was there too. Ma'am collected everything and put it back."

Vritant's gaze sharpened, a flicker of amusement glinting in his eyes.

"Exactly. Let my sasurji also do some work," Vritant said with a dismissive flick of his hand. Then, almost as an afterthought, his smirk curved deeper. "Sasurji reminds me-when did my sasurji's daughter come home?"

Rawat immediately tapped at his tablet, scrolling through logs. "Ma'am reached around six," he confirmed. Then his face shifted, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Sir... Ma'am's car is not at Vardhan Mansion."

Vritant's head tilted, expression unchanged but his silence pressing heavy.

Rawat quickly pulled up the tracker. "The car is at Vardhan LifeCare."

Only then did Vritant take out his phone. The screen glowed, mocking him with five missed calls-all from her, the first at 11. More than an hour and a half had passed.

He quickly opened the unread messages.

Vritant, Emergency at hospital. I have to leave now.

Vritant, I tried to reach out.

Driver uncle is sleeping, I am leaving alone.

The moment his eyes landed on the word alone, his grip on the phone tightened. For an instant, the mask slipped-the calm, the sarcasm, the detachment-all of it fractured into a sharp stillness.

Rawat noticed the freeze, the rare flash of something human in his expression. But before he could speak, Vritant's jaw locked, and his voice dropped like steel.

"Get the car."

??? V ? A ???

On the way, he tried calling her again and again, but the line rang empty. By the time he reached Vardhan LifeCare, his patience was razor-thin.

He strode straight to her cabin, only to step back into the corridor when he found it empty. Administrators hurried over, their voices hushed but eager.

"Sir, you're here. Ma'am is in surgery," one of them said.

Vritant gave a single nod, nothing more, and returned to her cabin. The chair still held her warmth, the faint trace of her perfume clinging to the air. He lowered himself into it, his long fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the desk.

A file lay near the pile. He picked it up, flipped it open, scanned a few lines, then shut it sharply and slid it back.

His restlessness tugged him to the drawers.

One by one he pulled them open-first, a neat stack of reports.

Second, a worn copy of the Bhagavad Gita; his fingers lingered on the cover before pushing it away.

Third, nothing but pens and stray notes.

Then the last.

He almost closed it, then froze. A file caught his eye. Slowly, he pulled it out, opened it- and there it was. A copy of the Vardhan LifeCare ownership deed.

For a long moment, he stared at it in silence, the storm in his chest caged behind his expressionless face. Finally, he exhaled, voice barely above a whisper.

"If you can breathe easy here, maybe I can stop holding mine for once."

He opened the file and let the pages slip through his fingers, one after another. And then he paused.

Her signature.

The A and V entwined in a seamless curve, flowing into Vardhan written in delicate cursive. Not stiff, not forced-hers.

Unknowingly, his lips curved into the faintest smile, a fleeting crack in the armor. He flipped a few more pages, finding the same neat signature repeated-quiet, steady, almost like she was practicing belonging to the name.

And then-

The soft creak of the door.

He didn't move, but his eyes flicked up. She stepped inside, froze when she saw him there. The clock on the wall glowed 1:30 A.M.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Adhrita's gaze darted from his face to the file in his hand, recognition flashing in her eyes. The exhaustion of surgery clung to her, hair pulled back in a loose bun, faint shadows under her eyes-but there was fire too, the kind that came alive only when someone trespassed her space.

Vritant closed the file with unhurried grace and placed it back into the drawer, as though it were his own desk, his own office. Then he leaned back in her chair, tapping his finger once against the armrest.

Adhrita walked straight to her desk, collected her laptop and handbag without a word, and turned toward the door. The silence was louder than anything she could have said.

Vritant understood it. The exhaustion on her face said enough. He rose from her chair and followed.

Neither spoke as they left the hospital. The drive home was the same-quiet, weighted, a gulf between them that neither reached across.

By the time they stepped into Vardhan Mansion, it was well past midnight. In the living room, Vedashree sat waiting. The moment she saw them, she rose to her feet, eyes sharp, posture rigid.

"Remarkable. The Prime Minister's daughter-in-law, wandering into the night without protection. I must thank fate for delivering her home in one piece."

"You don't have to worry about my wife," Vritant said evenly. No sarcasm, no smirk-just a calm finality that made Adhrita glance at him, surprised.

Vedashree's lips curved, sharp as glass. "Of course, I'm sure the casino floor was the perfect place for it."

The words landed like a blade drawn slow, and for a beat, the silence after was louder than her voice.

"I'm a doctor. Emergencies don't wait," Adhrita said, her voice steady though fatigue weighed on it. She knew she had to break the clash before it worsened. "And he knew I had security with me."

She stepped closer, placing herself between them, but Vedashree's eyes never softened.

"Rishta khubsurat dikhane ka try kar rahi ho?" Vedashree's tone was silk over steel. "Chiz jitni khubsurat dikhti hai... uska saaya utna hi kaala hota hai."

Her gaze shifted, sharp and deliberate, locking on Vritant with a glare that lingered a beat too long. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the hall until the silence returned, heavier than before.

Adhrita exhaled slowly, the weight of her mother-in-law's words still pressing on her chest. Vritant, however, only watched Vedashree's retreating back, his expression unreadable, as though the sting had met something impenetrable.

Vedashree's words still lingered in the air when Adhrita turned toward the staircase. She didn't look back.

Vritant watched her ascend, then followed without a word.

In their room, she disappeared into the washroom to change. When she emerged, hair damp, dressed in soft cotton, she didn't pause-just crossed to the balcony. Vritant slipped past her wordlessly, vanishing into the washroom himself.

By the time he returned, the room was hushed.

Karma lay curled up on the rug, breathing slow and even.

Adhrita sat in the balcony's corner where a low teakwood daybed, draped in soft cream linen and scattered with oversized cushions, faced the city skyline.

A slim brass lamp glowed beside it, casting a quiet warmth on the space she had clearly claimed as her own.

She sat with her knees drawn up, chin resting lightly as she stared into the dark cityscape, the distance in her eyes louder than any words she might have said.

"She was right," he said quietly, sinking down beside her.

"Vritant. You don't have to remind yourself of the promise all the time," she replied, still avoiding his eyes.

The word promise hit him like a slap. Just a promise? That's what she still thinks? Of course-what else could she think? I was shuffling cards while she was out there saving someone's life.

His gaze fell to her hair, strands lifted by the night wind. Almost without thought, he touched the ends, his fingers lingering as his mind spiraled deeper.

She shifted, lying down, pulling a soft comforter over herself. He followed, sliding beside her, turning toward her. His arm circled her stomach, pulling her closer until his breath touched her ear.

"Ace," he whispered.

She turned, startled, her eyes searching his face. "Vritant, I..." Her voice faltered. "I know we're... unavoidable. And I didn't want to bother you-"

"Hritu, please," he cut her gently, the rare use of the nickname breaking through her defenses more than the words themselves.

"What could I do, Vritant? Tumhari biwi banke bhi toh nahi reh sakti naa?"

He stared at her for a long time, searching her face. He knew exactly what she meant.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Because of a promise, I must protect you. But aren't you my wife too? Isn't it my duty to protect my wife?"

"I am not a delicate doll or a weak person," she replied, her voice steady.

"You're not," he agreed. "Neither weak nor dependent.

Your very name, Adhrita, means independent.

But the world you've stepped into is not the world you left behind.

Sasurji sent you away before the dirt of politics could stain you.

You were raised in a first-world country.

A lotus blooms in mud-but this..." His voice hardened. "This is a swamp."

Silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

She touched her shoulder, exhaustion weighing her down.

"Let's go," he said softly, rising to his feet. She followed him to the bed, her body heavy, her mind clouded.

When she lay down, he moved closer. "Turn," he murmured.

She looked at him in confusion, but his hand's gentle gesture left no room for doubt. Slowly, she turned, and then felt his palms settle on her back. Firm, steady, reassuring. His hands pressed, kneading away the knots of fatigue.

Maybe sometimes words are not enough, he thought. Sorry is never sufficient.

Her eyes fluttered shut. "Who were you in your last birth?" she whispered, her voice fading into the rhythm of his touch.

He smiled faintly to himself. He knew-his hands carried a kind of magic words could never hold.

He let out a dry, half-amused sigh. "If past lives gave out job titles, I'd be 'professional complication,'" he said, the sarcasm light and familiar.

"A bit down," she said, her voice muffled against the pillow.

Vritant smirked faintly. "Of course. Mriga Trishna gives GPS instructions now," he replied with quiet sarcasm, but his hands followed her words faithfully.

He pressed lower, his thumb finding the tender spot on her waist. Her t-shirt rolled up slightly, revealing the warmth of her skin beneath his touch. His eyes grew heavy, the day's fatigue threatening to claim him, yet his hands moved with practiced muscle memory-firm, steady, instinctive.

The pressing softened, shifting unconsciously into a gentle caress. His rhythm slowed, his breath deepened, and before long, he slipped into a heavy slumber beside her-his hands still resting on her waist, as though even in sleep, he refused to let go.

??? V ? A ???

She sat at the vanity, fastening her earrings, when he stirred awake. His eyes blinked against the pale morning light. A yawn escaped him as he pushed himself upright and walked straight into the washroom.

The cold tiles met his bare feet, and then he froze. His gaze lifted.

On the fogged mirror, one word stood out in her delicate handwriting: "Accepted."

Vritant paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. So his sorry hadn't been in vain.

He raised a finger and, just beneath it, carved his own reply into the mist:

And yet, even in that bureaucratic exchange of words on glass, something unspoken stirred between them.

When he stepped out, towel ruffling through his damp hair, he caught her muttering under her breath.

"We have so much space in this room, but no... he has to put his things here."

Vritant smiled, deliberately tossing the towel onto the bed.

She shot up immediately, grabbed the towel, and flung it right back at him.

"Not on my bed," she snapped. Then, pointing at her vanity, she added, "This is my place." With that, she marched into the washroom.

He chuckled. He knew exactly why she had retreated-so he couldn't scatter more of his things there. Still grinning, he pulled a comb from the vanity.

Moments later, she returned, gathered his scattered watches, and dumped them in his wardrobe.

"Vritant..." her frustration broke through again. "How can you be this-"

But the words stopped. He caught her reflection in the mirror: she stood holding a file, her expression unreadable.

He turned. It was her file. Her name embossed clearly across the cover: Dr. Adhrita Adani.

"You spied on me," she said flatly, not looking up.

"Of course," he replied without hesitation. "You think I'd just marry anyone? Come on, Vritant Vardhan doesn't marry a girl without knowing her."

"Well then I'm stupid," she shot back, closing the file. "I don't know much about you, and here I am-your wife." She slid the file back into place.

"Anyways, when do you leave for Nepal?" she asked suddenly, turning to her vanity, resuming her skin care routine as though nothing had happened.

"Around five. Why?"

"Nothing. Just asking." She picked up her bag and headed for the door.

"Ace," he called after her. She turned, one brow raised.

He held up a hairpin. "You forgot this."

She paused, came back, sat at the vanity, and ran the comb through her hair before taking it from his hand. She didn't use it yet.

"Sharpest one in the collection," he smirked.

"As if I'm ever going to use it," she muttered.

"Finally, you're wearing Indian today?" he said, catching the end of her dupatta between his fingers.

"What will you wipe now?" she taunted, yanking it free before he could ruin it, and walked out with the same defiance she'd walked in with.

He let the smile linger on his lips.

??? V ? A ???

The plane's wheels kissed the tarmac in Kathmandu. As soon as Vritant stepped down, Rawat was already there, waiting. His posture was stiff, his eyes sharper than usual.

"SOS," Rawat whispered under his breath, slipping a tablet into Vritant's hand.

Vritant unlocked it, his gaze narrowing. Flames lit up the screen-Delhi burning. Crowds surging, police lines collapsing, smoke curling into the skyline. The air wasn't riots, it was war.

His stomach tightened. Adhrita... He didn't even need to see her face to know she was somewhere in that storm. Every calculation, every plan now had a new variable: her safety.

He leaned closer to Rawat, voice low but sharp.

"Location. Now. I want her coordinates first."

Rawat nodded, already typing. Vritant's eyes never left the screen. Every image, every headline felt like a knife-because she was somewhere in that storm, somewhere in the middle of it.

He tapped the tablet, opening surveillance feeds, live streams, traffic cams. The city was on fire-figuratively and literally-but for him, only one question mattered: Is she safe?

A news anchor's frantic voice echoed from the tablet's feed:

"...citizens advised to stay indoors, curfew in effect, authorities warn-"

Vritant cut it off with a tap. Words weren't needed. He didn't need to hear it; he needed action.

Vritant didn't waste another second. He punched in her number.

Riiing... riiing... riiing...

No answer.

He tried again. And again. Each ring felt like an eternity. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the phone. Come on, Adhrita... pick up.

Silence. Not even a voicemail.

His mind raced through every possibility-traffic, curfew, chaos, danger. But he couldn't let panic take over. He needed to locate her. Now.

Every second counted, and every unanswered ring only sharpened the edge of his focus.

Vritant's fingers moved swiftly over his phone. He didn't wait for pleasantries-he dialed the only number that mattered.

"Papa... Adhrita," he said the moment his father answered, voice tight with controlled panic.

"Vritant," his father's tone was sharp, clipped. "Come back. Situation is not under control."

The line went dead before Vritant could even respond.

He stared at the phone, jaw tight, mind racing. Delhi was burning, and she was in it. Every second that passed felt like a lifetime, every delay a potential risk.

Vritant returned to the jet and immediately started calling his contacts.

"Mam is not in the hospital," came the reply from one end.

He didn't pause. Dialing another number, he spoke before he could fully form the sentence:

"Riots... my wife."

Memories slammed into him-how his brother had died, the flames, and now Adhrita caught somewhere in this chaos. Two things he couldn't force out of his mind.

"Vardhan, I will jam everything," came Agnivanshi's calm voice.

"Do whatever you can, Agnivanshi," Vritant replied, keeping his tone flat but controlled.

"Done. I've sent you Adhrita's location."

"Thanks," he said, about to cut the call, but then her voice returned:

"Vardhan... reach home. She needs you."

He froze. Something in the tone made his chest tighten.

"You have her footage and... something is wrong," he said, deciphering the urgency beneath the calm.

"Shaurya uncle and Veda aunty took her home," Agnivanshi confirmed.

"Send me," Vritant said, flat, clipped.

"Go home, Vardhan. You shou-"

"Please, Agnivanshi. What if Ika had been caught in the riots?" His voice broke slightly.

The clip opened to Delhi streets swallowed in chaos.

Smoke curled from overturned vehicles, black and acrid, stinging the eyes even through the screen.

Flames licked the sides of shops and cars, throwing dancing shadows across the terrified faces of people fleeing in every direction.

Crowds surged like a wild river, shoving and screaming, while police lines struggled to hold their ground, batons swinging, shields raised.

Broken glass littered the asphalt, reflecting the flickering firelight like shards of a shattered city.

Shouts, cries, and the distant roar of sirens collided into a deafening cacophony. Every corner seemed to hide danger-stones hurled, barricades burning, chaos without pattern. Smoke and dust made the air thick, every movement a gamble, every step uncertain.

Through it all, Vritant's eyes scanned the clip, sharp, calculating, and single-minded. He wasn't just seeing destruction-he was imagining her in it, every second a risk he couldn't ignore.

Vritant's eyes narrowed as the clip continued. Smoke and fire blurred the streets, but then his heart jolted.

A group of men had cornered her. His wife-Adhrita-her dupatta twisted around her neck like a noose, hands clawing at the fabric as someone tried to choke her. Panic surged through him even across the screen. Her struggles were desperate, raw, every movement a fight for survival.

But then... she did something.

Her fingers, trembling but determined, reached into her hair bun. The hairpin-long, sharp, her smallest defense-glimmered in the chaos. In one fluid motion, she dropped the cover, freed her hand, and thrust it into the nearest attacker's stomach.

The man staggered, eyes wide, disbelief frozen on his face. She yanked back, twisting free, gasping for air, yet her stance remained unyielding. Fear was there, but it was tempered with defiance, with fire.

Vritant's chest tightened. He could feel her heartbeat in every frame, her strength and fear colliding in each sharp movement. She's terrified. She's fighting. She's alive

Vritant's breath caught as the next frames appeared. The chaos of the streets hadn't relented, but then the unmistakable uniforms of the army surged into the frame. Trained, unflinching, moving like a living wall, they descended on the rioters.

Hands pried his attackers off her, shields and rifles forming an unbreakable barrier. Adhrita stumbled forward, chest heaving, hair damp with smoke and sweat, eyes wide with adrenaline and fear.

And then his father arrived-a tide of security personnel following him, moving with precision and authority that made the mob recoil. Even through the grainy footage, Vritant could see the calm decisiveness in his father's stance.

He exhaled, a tight knot loosening in his chest, watching her finally lifted from the chaos, shielded and guided to safety.

Yet the riot raged on, fire licking the buildings, screams still tearing through the air. The city hadn't paused for their relief.

Vritant's fingers curled around the tablet, knuckles white. She's safe... for now. But the storm isn't over.

Even through the security and order his father brought, the chaos continued around them-a reminder that safety was fragile, fleeting, and that every second still mattered.

When the plane touched down in Delhi, Vritant didn't wait for the usual formalities.

Every second dragging past felt like an eternity, each heartbeat a hammer pounding in his chest. His mind replayed the footage over and over-her hands, the hairpin, the chaos, the fire-and every blink, every traffic light, every inch of the road was agony.

He raced toward his car, barely noticing the shouts and the crowd. The city seemed to stretch endlessly, every meter mocking him, every delay a potential threat to her life.

As he passed the highway, his eyes caught something. He barked, "Stop."

Rawat's voice was steady, but tense: "Sir, not safe here."

Vritant didn't answer. He couldn't. The place was aflame, the roads sealed off, every instinct screaming danger-but he had only one thought: her.

Ignoring warnings, he jumped out, boots hitting the asphalt. Smoke stung his lungs, sirens wailed in the distance, and the air trembled with chaos. Then, amid the debris, something caught his eye: a splash of fabric.

Her dupatta.

Time froze for a moment. He lunged, fingers closing around the soft fabric, the smell of her, the memory of her, flooding him. Clutching it tightly, he didn't look back at the fire, the screaming, the chaos.

He turned, retracing his steps to the car. Each second he held her dupatta was agony and relief intertwined-a reminder that she was close, yet still in danger.

He kept folding the dupatta around his palm, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles ached, holding onto it like a lifeline through the chaos of the streets. Every second of the drive felt like an eternity, every stoplight and honking car a blade of tension slicing through him.

The moment the car screeched into his driveway, he didn't wait. He practically ran inside, heart hammering, lungs burning.

And there she was.

Adhrita, small and fragile in this moment, curled in his mother's lap, tears streaking her cheeks. His family was gathered around, voices muted, the room quiet except for the soft rhythm of his mother's comforting hands patting her head.

"Vritant," Shaurya's voice broke through, and that was enough.

Adhrita stirred, recognition lighting her eyes. She scrambled to her feet and ran to him. Without thinking, without words, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close, as if letting go for even a second could undo the relief, the fear, the chaos they had survived.

He felt her trembling against him, felt the heat of her tears against his chest. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. The silence between them was enough.

Safe. She's safe.

And for the first time since seeing the footage, he let himself breathe.

He didn't say a word.

Chaos everywhere. She almost didn't make it. And somehow he was supposed to be calm.

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