Throne and Thread

Chapter 28 Echoes of Survival

Survival is never gentle-it claws, it bruises, it defies.

- Adhrita Vritant Vardhan

She felt his grip tighten around her, steady, unyielding-as if the world could fall apart and he would still be the one thing holding her together. For that moment, she didn't want anything else. Just him.

"Vritant, take her," Shaurya Papa's voice broke through, echoing in the room.

She pulled back from his embrace, hesitating. His face was unreadable, no expression betraying what he felt. But his eyes... they roamed across her features, inch by inch, scanning as if he needed proof that she was still real, still breathing, still his.

"Vritant, take her to the room," Shaurya Papa repeated, firmer this time.

She turned just as his hand pressed onto her shoulder-firm, grounding. Without a word, they walked together. He opened the door to their room; the wood creaked softly, a sound that felt louder than it should. When he closed it behind them, the silence thickened.

He guided her to the bed, and only then she noticed-the dupatta was still wrapped around his palm. He hadn't let it go. Even now, he tightened the loose end as if afraid it might slip away, as if she might slip away.

Her tears broke again, hot and silent, spilling faster than she could stop them. With great effort, she whispered, "Vrit..."

Before she could finish, he pulled her against him. Her arms instinctively circled his waist, her face pressed into his stomach, muffling her sobs, clinging to the one anchor she had left.

"Hrita..." his voice was low, rough with something she couldn't name.

He lifted her chin gently, tilting her face upward until her eyes met his. The intensity there made her breath hitch. With the pad of his thumb, he brushed away her tears, then shook his head slowly-silently telling her no more tears.

And for the first time since the chaos began, she felt safe enough to believe him.

His phone was constantly ringing, he unwarape her dupatta from his hand and put it on the bed.

"Aaiye", he uttered words softly.

(come)

His hand slipped around her wrist-not forceful, but firm enough that she followed without a thought.

He led her to the washroom and lifted her onto the cool marble slab.

For a second, she almost protested, but the way he handled her-careful, reverent, as though she were fragile glass-left no room for words.

His fingers tilted her chin upward, steady, practiced.

She felt his gaze scan her face inch by inch, the silence between them thick.

When the damp towel touched her forehead, she winced.

He didn't speak, didn't flinch-just pressed softly, wiping the thin line of blood.

Each movement was precise, controlled, but beneath that calm she could sense the storm. She always could.

Then his hands found hers. She hadn't even realized they were trembling until he slipped them under the running tap.

The chill of the water startled her; crimson spiraled down the basin, vanishing as though the night was being washed away.

He said nothing, only watched until the water ran clear.

She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.

When he touched her chin again, guiding her face aside, her breath caught. His eyes dropped to her neck. She knew what he saw. The marks burned, raw and stinging, and she wished she could hide them.

But she couldn't hide the truth.

His fingers stilled on her skin, and in that silence, she felt it-the way his chest tightened, the way his breath paused. She didn't need him to speak.

The marks weren't just scratches. They were confessions etched into her skin. And his silence was louder than any word she could have imagined.

He was about to turn, but she held his hand. In the next breath, he pulled her against him, and her sob tore through the silence, echoing in the washroom tiles.

"Vrit..." she gasped between sobs.

"Haan, Hrita..." his whisper brushed against her ear, soft, steady. She cried for what felt like hours, until the well inside her finally ran dry. When she pulled back, his hand was already there, wiping her tears as if to erase them before they could fall.

"I was not weak," she whispered, her voice trembling, eyes locked on his. "I stabbed him." She waited for a reaction, anything, but his face gave nothing away-not even a flicker.

Instead, he simply said, "Freshen up." His gaze flicked toward the Jacuzzi.

She nodded, wordless, as he turned to fill it with water.

"Come." He held his hand out. She took it, let him guide her into the Jacuzzi, and sank down. He gathered her long strands of hair, noticed the faint stains of blood, and without asking began rinsing them, patient and precise. She let him. She let him do whatever he wanted.

"I'll wait outside," he murmured, setting her free. She nodded, but just before leaving, he paused.

"Don't put pressure on your neck. Just wash gently."

Her hand instinctively went to her throat. She nodded again.

She took her time in the warm water-washing away dirt, and with it, fragments of memory she didn't want to keep.

When she stepped out, the dressing room greeted her with a casual t-shirt and track pants neatly hung. He must have left them. She changed quickly and came out to the vanity to dry her hair.

The mirror showed her scratches again-angry, red lines around her neck. Her fingers lifted toward them, but before she could touch, his hand covered hers.

He didn't say anything, only took her palm in his own and began clipping her nails.

"Vritant, don't..." she tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. One by one, he trimmed them short, precise, before setting the cutter down. Then he picked up the dryer.

"Bhukh lagi hai?" he asked while carefully blowing her hair dry.

(hungry?)

She looked at him through the mirror. Still no questions. Still no blame.

"Your hair texture is really bad. Which shampoo do you use?" he added, almost casually.

"What? No. I've changed my shampoo..." she muttered, taking a strand in her hand, confused.

Then she realized. He was trying to divert her mind.

Her eyes shifted to the mirror again. He was focused, drying her hair like it was the most important task in the world.

With ease, he twisted her hair into a bun and bent to open a drawer.

Her breath hitched when he pulled out the royal pin. The flashback struck-the mob, the noose, the desperate stab.

"Dusri laga deta hoon," he whispered, setting it aside and reaching for a simple pin.

(I'll put on another one.)

"No," she said quickly, handing him back the royal pin. "Just take this."

He met her reflection in the mirror, unreadable as always, but without a word secured her bun with the same pin.

She rose and studied him. Changed, but unshowered. The dupatta was gone from the bed. He still hadn't looked directly at her.

"Hungry?" he asked again.

She only nodded. The clock struck twelve.

Together, they walked downstairs. Vritant's voice was the first to break the silence:

"Aasha tai, khana laga do."

(Serve the food)

Aasha tai appeared with her usual calm, no stiffness, no hesitation. Just as the family filtered in, Shaurya Papa came straight to her.

"Aap thik ho, beta?" he asked gently.

(Are you fine?)

She couldn't stop herself-she hugged him. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered.

He smiled, patting her shoulder with fatherly warmth. "Let's eat."

She sat beside Vritant, eyes drifting toward Vedashree's empty chair.

"Tai..." she began, calling Aasha tai as dishes started to line the table.

"Vedashree tai?" Adhrita nodded.

"Busy." That was all Aasha tai said, but Adhrita didn't need more. She knew where the Prime Minister of the nation would be on a night like this.

"Adhrita, beta, have food. You already look tired," Anamika Chachi urged. She nodded obediently.

"Papa, did you talk to Aaradhya?" Vritant's voice broke through, steady and normal for the first time tonight.

"Don't worry about media. Everything is taken care of," Shaurya Vardhan replied, starting his meal.

"Yeh, Gujarati hai," Aasha tai served her plate.

(This is Gujarati food.)

Adhrita blinked in surprise. She hadn't asked for it, hadn't even thought of it. But the moment she tasted it, she smiled faintly. Her favorite food, here, at this table.

Across from her, Vritant was eating too-quietly, normally. No sarcasm, no sharp remarks. Just eating.

She sipped her buttermilk, savoring the familiar taste. For the first time in years, she realized-this was what a family dinner felt like.

A table full of voices, warmth in the air, and someone beside her who hadn't left her side.

For the first time since the chaos, she felt... home.

??? V ? A ???

After dinner, she walked with him back to their room. She lay down on the bed, waiting for him to join her, but instead he stepped out. A few moments later, he returned-with Karma.

The moment Karma saw her, he bounded toward the bed, barking furiously.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she laughed through her apology, taking his anger as if she deserved it. His barking softened, and he leapt into her arms, licking her hands, her face, until she giggled like a child.

But then his sharp eyes caught the marks on her neck. His growls deepened, and he jumped down from the bed, rushing toward Vritant, barking wildly, pawing at his leg in frustration.

"I know..." Vritant's voice was low as he crouched, calming him with a steady hand. He lifted Karma back to her lap.

Climbing onto the other side of the bed, Vritant sat beside her, close enough to quiet the restless dog. "She's fine," he murmured, patting Karma's head.

Karma wasn't convinced. He pressed his head against her neck in a protective nuzzle.

"Not on the neck," Vritant intervened quickly, pulling him away and placing him back gently in her lap.

"I'm fine, Karma," she whispered into his fur, stroking his head. At last, he sighed and curled against her.

Vritant reached across, catching her hand in his and tugging her toward him. She shifted, resting her head on his other arm, her cheek nearly over his lap. His arm came around her waist, drawing her closer.

"Sleep," he whispered.

She tilted her head, meeting his face. "I'm good now," she murmured. She knew why he was doing all of this-for her, not himself.

His fingers brushed her neck, featherlight, pausing over the raw skin. "Dard ho raha hoga, na?" he asked, his voice rough, almost broken.

(Must be paining?)

Before she could answer, he turned, fetched the cream, and began applying it gently across the angry red marks. It was the first time she had ever seen him like this-unguarded, emotional.

"Karma, it's time to sleep," he said, his voice a little firmer now.

Karma barked softly, as though disappointed.

"We'll play tomorrow, I promise," she whispered to him. "I know I couldn't spend time with you... but I was busy at the hospital, na?" She spoke to him as if he were her oldest friend.

Karma sniffed her once more, licked her hand, then finally closed his eyes, nestled in her arms.

"Baat karni hai?" His voice was careful, as though each word had been weighed before leaving his lips.

(Want to talk?)

"Mujhe laga... shayad tum nahi puchhoge," she replied, her voice low, almost unsure.

(I thought, you wouldn't ask)

"Aap kar paaoge?" he asked again, his eyes steady on her.

(Would you be able to talk?)

She tried to smile through the heaviness. "Vritant Vardhan ko kabhi itna soft nahi dekha."

(I have never seen Vritant Vardhan this soft before.)

His answer came with the kind of guilt she had never seen in him before. "What you're seeing isn't softness-it's the weight of what I failed to do."

Her chest tightened at the weight of his words. "Don't blame yourself... riots were not your fault."

He shook his head. "If reliving everything can make you go through it again, then I don't want to hear a word. I'll wait. Until you're ready to let it out."

"I don't know," she whispered, her throat tightening.

"Let it go... empty your feelings," he murmured, and before the lone tear rolling down her cheek could fall, his thumb caught it.

That simple touch broke the last thread holding her together. And she began.

? ? Flashback ? ?

Adhrita glanced down at her schedule one last time.

"Dr. Aman, we'll be visiting the new hospital around five," she said crisply.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll join you to see the final construction. I've already informed Dr. Gupta," her junior replied. She nodded, tucking the folder under her arm.

By the time they finished at the main hospital, dusk was approaching. They set out toward the new wing being built on the highway's edge.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, she noticed it. People weren't walking-they were running. Faces twisted in fear, voices raised, bodies pushing past each other.

"Ma'am, something's wrong," her driver shouted, rushing toward her.

Her instincts screamed, and she turned back to the car. Within seconds, they were speeding down the road, the city's pulse thundering louder than her own heartbeat. Her mother-in-law's words from the night before came back to her: 'PM's daughter without security?'

For the first time, she was grateful to see the black SUV tailing them. Security. She wasn't alone.

But then-smoke. Thick, dark plumes rising ahead. The sharp crackle of fire. Her breath hitched as the driver slowed. Cars stood abandoned, horns blaring uselessly. A traffic snarl, suffocating.

"Ma'am, traffic jam," the driver said quickly. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. "I'll change the route."

"Kaka... are you sure?" Her voice betrayed her panic. Her phone was already in her hand, but before she could dial, her eyes caught the sight-

A sea of bodies surging toward them. A mob.

Dozens, maybe more, spilling across the road with sticks, rods, and torches. Faces masked with scarves, some smeared in ash and soot. Their voices rose in a deafening roar-angry slogans, indistinct but heavy with rage.

The first blow landed on the hood of her car with a metallic thud. She flinched. Another came-glass cracking, fists pounding.

Someone smashed the window of the SUV behind them. Flames licked the air from a burning motorbike tossed aside. The scent of petrol stung her nose. Smoke filled her lungs, acrid and suffocating.

Her driver shouted, trying to reverse, but they were surrounded. Wooden rods slammed against the windshield, spiderweb cracks spreading under each hit. Metal screeched, glass shattered, and voices grew into a monstrous wave that drowned every thought.

Adhrita's hand trembled around her phone. The screen blurred in her vision, her breath quickening. She tried to call, but her fingers refused to work.

The mob was no longer faceless. They were pressed against the car-eyes wild, teeth bared, spitting curses. One man yanked the door handle again and again until the lock gave way.

The car lurched, and she screamed.

And then the mob pulled the doors open.

Hands tore at her from every side. Rough fingers gripped her arm, yanked her dupatta, pulled her out of the car. Before she could scream, someone looped both ends of her dupatta around her neck and twisted-tight, like a noose.

"She's the PM's daughter-in-law!" a voice rose from the mob.

The grip only tightened. Her throat burned, breath caught. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the fabric biting into her skin. The world blurred.

Vritant.

His face flashed before her eyes. His voice. The weight of his hand on hers. She knew then-if she did nothing, this was the end.

Her trembling hand shot up to her hair. The ornate pin slipped free, her hair spilling down in a wild cascade. With a desperate cry, she drove the pin into the man's neck. Once. Twice. Thrice.

His grip faltered. Blood spurted hot against her fingers. The dupatta fell. She gasped raggedly, pulling air into her burning lungs.

He shoved her hard in retaliation. Her body slammed onto the car's bonnet, the metal edge splitting skin at her forehead. Stars burst in her vision.

Then-sirens. Boots pounding. The army swept in, scattering the mob with rifles and batons.

"Adhrita!"

Her name. Through the haze, she turned and saw Shaurya Vardhan striding toward her. His hand gripped her arm firmly, pulling her upright, away from the wreckage.

He didn't lead her to his own car. Instead, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

"Shaurya, here!"

Vedashree Vardhan stood beside an open car door, her face pale but steady. Security swarmed around her, trying to usher her back.

"Ma'am, you shouldn't be here!" one officer protested.

Her glare silenced him instantly.

"Come, Adhrita," Vedashree said, her voice sharp yet soothing. Without hesitation, Adhrita stumbled into the car.

"I'll follow," Shaurya told her, shutting the door with a firm nod to the driver. The convoy pulled away, the mob's roar fading behind.

In the back seat, Adhrita gripped her trembling hands together. Tears blurred everything. She felt a cool hand cover hers.

"You're only scared. Nothing happened," Vedashree whispered.

The tenderness broke her. The dam burst. She folded into her mother-in-law's arms, sobbing into her shoulder.

"Mummy..." The word slipped out raw, unguarded.

"Kuch nahi hoga," Vedashree murmured, stroking her back. "I'm here."

(Nothing will happen.)

From the front seat, a voice intruded. "Ma'am, the entire state's network is jammed."

"Vritant..." Vedashree whispered, her grip tightening around Adhrita.

"Mummy..." Adhrita pleaded again, terrified.

Vedashree gently raised her chin. "You trust your Shaurya papa, don't you?"

Adhrita nodded weakly.

"Then tell me-will your papa ever let anything happen to his daughter?"

Her lips trembled. She shook her head.

"Nothing will happen to you. Hmmm?"

Her eyes slid shut at those words. For the first time since the attack, her body unclenched.

The convoy rolled through the mansion gates, where an ocean of security personnel stood guard. The media swarmed outside the barricades, flashes and shouts muffled by the glass.

"Ma'am, ministers are calling," Sudarshan Rao rushed to Vedashree as she stepped out.

"Tell them to control this by midnight," she snapped, "Otherwise Delhi won't burn-but they will."

She led Adhrita inside, into the living room. Adhrita was still trembling, her clothes disheveled, her eyes hollow.

Shaurya arrived a moment later. "Beta, freshen up," he said softly.

"Let her be, Shaurya," Vedashree countered. She pressed a steady hand on Adhrita's shoulder. "Calm down"

Adhrita collapsed into her lap without thinking, and Vedashree's hand began stroking her hair as if by instinct.

"Bhabhi, Adhrita should clean herself," Anamika suggested gently.

"She should not listen to anyone for the time being, Anamika," Vedashree said sharply. Then, turning to her elders: "Mummy ji, Papa ji-please rest. She is not in any condition to talk."

They said nothing, only sat in silence, their faces lined with sorrow as they watched their granddaughter-in-law suffer.

? ? Flashback ends ? ?

"I was so scared. I thought I would die," she whispered.

His arms tightened instantly, pulling her against him. He kissed her forehead gently-right where the wound still stung-then took her palm and pressed a lingering kiss into it.

"Are you... kissing away my pain?" she asked, her voice small.

He only nodded.

"I don't know if you'll even believe me anymore when I say I'm with you," he said, his voice low. "When you needed me, I wasn't there. Not once, but twice. I didn't pick up your calls. I didn't make sure you had security."

"You gave me the pin," she whispered back. "I stabbed him with it... I saved myself."

His mouth twisted faintly. "Even like this-hurt, vulnerable-you still want to defend your useless husband?"

A laugh escaped her, shaky but real.

"Jaisa bhi hai, mera hai," she whispered.

"Come on, Dhriti, don't pretend you've got the best husband in the world."

"Not the best," she admitted, "but not the worst either. If you hadn't given me those pins, I wouldn't be alive." She shifted a little out of his embrace. "I'm not some damsel in distress."

"Well, I saw the way you stabbed him," he murmured.

Her brows knit. "How did you see me stabbing him?"

"You just said you stabbed him thrice in the neck. Did he fall unconscious?"

"Yeah... I knew where to hit." She hesitated, then looked at him anxiously. "Did I do something wrong, Vritant?"

He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "My wife is so dangerous. I'll never dare throw towels on the bed again, or leave a mess. You're a doctor-you know every nerve, every vein. And you didn't hesitate."

"I'm not dangerous," she whispered.

"Of course you are," he teased softly. "You even made the Prime Minister put you before her nation. The city was burning, and yet she was with you. Strange, no? What did you stab her with?"

She gave him a light glare. "Don't be so mean. You're just jealous."

Nestling closer, she stroked Karma absently. His steady breathing began to soothe her.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She didn't answer at first. Then she nodded. "I was scared... but I'm okay now. I don't know why, but this time, I don't feel as scared."

"Can I check if there's any harm?" he asked.

She slowly set Karma aside and let him guide her. He examined her hands first, then her face. He brushed her hair away and asked her to turn, gently shifting the collar of her T-shirt to check her neck and shoulders. His fingertips caressed the angry red skin.

Then he moved down, bending to take her feet into his hands. His thumbs pressed carefully along her ankles.

"Can I?" he asked, fingers brushing the hem of her tracks.

She nodded, and he lifted the fabric slightly to check her shin.

"I didn't get hurt," she whispered.

He gave a quiet nod and returned to sit beside her.

"Aaj aise hi so jao," he murmured, pulling her back into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and let her eyes fall shut.

(Sleep like this today.)

His fingers threaded through her hair, caressing gently. She felt him remove her earrings one by one, his touch featherlight against her skin.

Then his leg hooked around hers, locking her in place. She stiffened faintly. Was he being... insecure?

His hand traced slow patterns on her arm, his fingertip sketching initials she couldn't make out. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring off, lost somewhere else.

A moment later, his gaze dropped to her and he kissed her forehead.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He took her hand and interlaced their fingers.

"So jaaiye," he whispered into her hair.

(Sleep)

She finally let go, eyes closing in his warmth.

"Vritant..." she whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm scared," she admitted softly.

"Hrituu-" he began, but she cut him off.

"I'm scared because you're so silent."

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "What kind of wife are you? Other wives get scared when their husbands raise their voice. But mine... she gets scared when I don't talk."

Her lips trembled into a faint smile. "Too much silence from a person like you is very dangerous."

His eyes lingered on her, unreadable. "Nothing is more dangerous than my wife," he said.

She wanted to believe it was a joke-but there was something in his tone, low and edged, that told her he meant more than he let on.

??? V ? A ???

The next morning, she stirred awake to find the bed empty. Vritant was already gone. She yawned, stretched, and glanced at the clock-6:30 a.m.

Rubbing her eyes, she rose and noticed a yellow sticky note pressed neatly to the mirror.

In private office, it read in his handwriting.

She padded into the washroom. The cool water steadied her, but as she stood beneath the shower, fragments of the night before came rushing back-the mob, the noose tightening, the flash of her pin.

Her chest tightened. She pressed her palms to the wall, forcing herself to breathe.

Not now, she told herself. She shook the images off and stepped out.

Dressing should have been simple. But when she opened her wardrobe, her breath caught. A whole row of shelves stood bare. Every dupatta, every saree-gone.

She checked again, frantic, sliding hangers back and forth. Nothing. One section of the wardrobe was locked tight.

"Vritant..." she whispered under her breath.

With a clenched jaw, she pulled on casual pants and a shirt, knotting her hair into a quick bun. Without wasting another second, she hurried down the corridor toward his private study.

Her hand was just on the doorknob when a sharp sound froze her in place.

A slap.

Her hand trembled on the knob. Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

Vedashree Vardhan's palm had just struck Vritant across the face. The sound still echoed in the study's silence.

"Mana kiya tha na-shaadi mat kar," Vedashree snapped, each word a blade.

"Par nahi... Vritant wahi karega jo Vedashree ne mana kiya hai.

Kabhi kabhi lagta hai tune shaadi hi isliye ki thi kyunki maine mana bola tha.

Agar protect nahi kar sakta tha, toh laaya kyun?

Ya phir iska blame bhi government pe daalega?

Aur agar nahi kar sakta toh jaa ke Ashwin Adani ko bol do ki unki beti wapas le jaaye.

Yaha rahegi toh zinda bachegi ki nahi, woh pata nahi.

Main riots ka blame le sakti hoon; teri biwi ko protect karne mein tu fail hua, uska nahi. "

("I told you not to marry, didn't I?" Vedashree snapped, each word a blade.

"But no... Vritant will do exactly what Vedashree forbade.

Sometimes I feel you married only because I said no.

If you couldn't protect her, why bring her here?

Or will you shift the blame onto the government?

And if you can't protect her, go tell Ashwin Adani to take his daughter back.

If she stays here, who knows whether she will survive.

I can take the blame for the riots - but not that you failed to protect your wife. ")

The words landed like blows. Adhrita's name-spoken like an accusation, like the thing at stake-felt foreign and small in her own ears. Her lungs tightened. She wanted to step in, to say she was fine, she was okay-anything to stop the avalanche-but her feet stayed rooted.

Vritant's answer came low, a sound that made the room vibrate. "Every throne demands blood. Ek baar mera bhai apna khoon de chuka hai aapki kursi ke liye; meri biwi nahi degi."

("Every throne demands blood," Vritant answered, voice hard. "My brother already gave his blood for this chair once-my wife will not be the next.")

From the doorway, Adhrita stood frozen, her heart pounding. She had never seen Vritant this way-cornered, accused, yet unyielding. And she had never seen Vedashree so raw, stripped of her political mask, her anger tangled with fear.

Just then Vedashree moved, her eyes flickering to the door.

She froze when she saw Adhrita standing there.

For a few moments, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law simply stared at one another.

No words. No explanations. Then Vedashree turned sharply and left the study, her saree rustling like a verdict left behind.

Adhrita stepped inside. Vritant was just about to sink into his chair, his shoulders heavy, but the moment he saw her, he straightened. His face softened.

"Good morning," he said chirpily, walking up and pulling her into his embrace as if nothing had happened.

She leaned back, searching his face. Really? This man had just been slapped by his mother and here he was pretending the morning was bright.

"Your morning is good?" she asked dryly, slipping out of his arms.

Her hand rose, instinctively brushing his cheek. The redness hadn't faded.

"What are you gonna do-kiss my pain away?" he teased, his voice light but his eyes still carrying the weight of Vedashree's words.

Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed the cheek that had borne the slap.

"Did it go away?" she asked softly.

For once, he was speechless. His lips curved into a faint, almost disbelieving smile.

"I was so right," he murmured. "Nothing is more dangerous than my wife."

Her gaze lingered on him, serious now. "Was it... because of me?"

He shook his head, no hesitation in the gesture. "I deserved that. I failed to protect you." His fingers traced gently along her neck where the marks had barely started to fade.

"You didn't apply the cream," he said quietly.

"Typical husband," she muttered with a small roll of her eyes, but she caught his hand and tugged him toward their room.

Inside, she sat him down, picked up the cream, and began dabbing it carefully along her neck. The marks were faint but still visible, ghosts of the night before. When she was done, she turned, gesturing for him to come closer.

He looked confused but leaned forward anyway. And then, without warning, she applied the cream gently on his cheek, right where Vedashree's hand had landed.

His eyes widened in outrage. "Vritti ki bacchi!"

Her laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the room and shattering the heavy silence that had lingered since morning.

Who needs bodyguards when I've got pins, creams, and a husband who thinks jokes are security?

────────── ?? ? ?? ──────────