Chapter 35 Prime-Time Family Crisis
Headlines are cheaper than truth, but they sell faster.
- Vritant Vardhan
Adhrita was in a hurry, shoving things into her bag as if the world depended on it. Vritant didn't look up from the file in front of him. "Rawat will come with you," he said casually, already absorbed in the papers. He had barely stopped working since they left Mumbai.
She just nodded, trying to move faster.
"Hey-give me the file," he added, still scanning, pointing at another folder on the table.
She handed it over, and before she could pull her hand back, he caught it, tugged her slightly closer, and nipped her cheek. She gasped, gripping his wrist instinctively.
"Ant, please..." she whispered, using a nickname.
Vritant froze for a fraction of a second, expression unreadable. "What did you just call me?"
"You always call me different names-Adhri, Adhru, Hritu, Hriti, Vritti, Hri, Hru... I thought I'd try one on you," she said, teasing. He didn't respond immediately, lost in thought.
Finally, he picked up a pen, held her palm gently, and wrote 'Ant' on her hand. A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled her hand back quickly. "I... I need to go. Bye." A quick peck on his cheek, and she was gone, leaving him staring after her, amused and slightly exasperated.
Vritant glanced at the clock. 9:58 AM. He rose from the sofa and stepped onto the balcony, spotting Adhrita leaving the house.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Aaradhya.
"Aaradhya, not even a word here or there. Make sure your social media team goes hyperactive for the next two hours," he said, voice flat, eyes scanning the street below.
"Bhai... badi maa will kill me. Last time I leaked your pictures with bhabhi, she really punished me. Bhai, ask me anything-but this..."
"You didn't cover the Delhi riots. Your TRP is already sinking. Don't worry, I've dug a hole-it'll fit your excuses nicely. I'm even practicing two minutes of silence for Vardhan Media's TRP death," he interrupted, dry as ever.
"Bhai, if I'm the first to go live with this breaking news... Badi maa won't spare me."
"Then don't. Can't force my little sister," he replied calmly, cutting the call without another word.
Vritant let himself smile, a slow, devilish curve. The world was about to notice him-and he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Vritant walked into his room and switched on the TV. As expected-breaking news.
Vritant Vardhan steps into politics
The anchor continued, voice crisp and dramatic:
"According to insiders, Vritant Vardhan attended CM Abhijeet Bapat's birthday party last night and met several ministers. Having already begun working quietly as a party member, he is expected to take on a more prominent role soon, signaling a significant shift in the political landscape."
Pictures of him with CM Abhijeet Bapat flashed across the screen. Vritant watched silently, arms crossed, letting the headlines sink in. After five minutes, he switched to another channel-same news, same frenzy.
He picked up his phone and checked social media. Everywhere he looked, the story was trending, shared, dissected, and discussed. Exactly as he had planned.
A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.
His phone started ringing. The first caller-none other than the Prime Minister. Before he could decide whether to answer, a knock came at the door.
Adhrita stepped inside, clutching her bag. "I forgot the file..." she began, but the words trailed off as her eyes landed on the TV screen.
She froze.
The headline blazed across the screen: Vritant Vardhan Steps Into Politics.
Images from the party flashed one after another, anchors raising questions, speculation filling the air. Adhrita's breath caught, but before Vritant could ask why she had come back, another voice cut through the moment.
"Vritant!"
It was his father, shouting.
Without hesitation, Vritant rose and walked out of the room. Adhrita followed, the file still clutched tightly in her hand, her steps hesitant.
As soon as he entered his father's study, Adhrita stopped behind him. Shaurya Vardhan looked at his son, fury blazing in his eyes, and hurled the tablet at his feet.
"What is all this? Vritant Vardhan in politics? Have you lost your mind?"
Vritant bent, picked up the tablet, and calmly placed it back on the table. "Papa, listen to me first-"
"Did you plan to enter politics or not?" Shaurya's voice was stern, unrelenting.
Adhrita flinched at the intensity. She had never seen her father-in-law like this.
"Yes, Papa, but-"
"GET OUT!" Shaurya roared.
Vritant instinctively took a step back at the sheer force of his father's anger.
"Papa, please calm down..." Adhrita rushed forward, placing a trembling hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. But Shaurya was burning.
"Calm down? You want me to calm down?" His voice cracked under the weight of years.
"Beta, ask him why he hates politics. Ask him why he doesn't speak to his own mother.
Why his father doesn't live with her. Why his brother died.
Why Shaurya Vardhan's life was scattered into so many pieces that even God can't put them back together.
Ask him why I lost my family-my wife, my children! "
Tears streamed down Shaurya's face as he collapsed onto the sofa, his chest heaving.
"Ask him why you were forced into this marriage.
Do you think I was mad enough to ruin the lives of two grown people, especially someone's daughter?
He hasn't accepted you, Adhrita. How can he?
To make someone his wife, he has to stay alive first. Ask him- is he alive?
Or is he still that twelve-year-old boy trapped in grief? "
Adhrita's throat tightened, her hand trembling as she tried to offer him water, but Shaurya pushed it away.
"Ask him why he races. Why he puts his life at risk every chance he gets.
Why he needs pills to sleep. Why he hasn't slept peacefully for four nights in a row.
Why he lost his life before he even lived it!
" Shaurya's voice broke completely. "And ask me-why I haven't slept a single night in eighteen years, terrified that I might lose my other child too. "
Vritant stood frozen, words locked in his throat, the usual sarcasm gone.
Shaurya's hand trembled as he pointed at him. "And if you do ask him, I know he'll bluff, like he always does. But there's only one answer to every single question-politics."
He staggered to his desk, yanked open the drawers, and after ransacking them, pulled out a file. He threw it to the floor, the papers scattering.
"This!" His voice thundered. "This is the agreement you made Ashwin Adani sign before your marriage. That you would only marry Adhrita if he swore never to force her into politics. Not now, not ever. You hate politics, Vritant. Then why?"
The room fell silent.
Adhrita bent down, her fingers trembling as she picked up the file. Her eyes scanned the papers, disbelief crashing over her.
The agreement was clear. Vritant Vardhan had demanded that Ashwin Adani never drag Adhrita into politics.
Her gaze lifted slowly to her husband, shock etched across her face.
And for the first time, Vritant looked away.
"I don't know where I went wrong in my life..." Shaurya Vardhan's knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table. His body trembled.
Adhrita rushed to him, gently trying to guide him toward the sofa, but instead he caught her hand, clutching it like an anchor as tears rolled down his face.
"Janti ho, Ashwin Adani ne ek baar mujhse kaha tha ki woh bahut weak father hai..." Shaurya's voice cracked. "Aur maine usse kaha tha, weak hone ka option ek baap ke paas nahi hota. Lekin aaj dekho... main haar gaya, beta. Ek baap haar gaya..." His voice broke completely.
("You know, Ashwin Adani once told me that he is a very weak father..." Shaurya's voice cracked. "And I told him, a father doesn't have the option to be weak. But look at today... I have lost, son. A father has lost..." His voice broke completely.)
He wiped at his tears but they wouldn't stop. His eyes burned.
"Par isko kabhi samajh nahi aayega..." He jerked his chin in Vritant's direction, his voice now hollow and heavy.
"Apni biwi ko khone ka darr kya hota hai...
apne bachche ke tukdon ka antim sanskaar kya hota hai...
apne doosre bachche ko do saal tak zindagi aur maut ke beech latakte dekhna kya hota hai...
Roz apne zinda bete mein mara hua beta dekhna kya hota hai... "
("But he will never understand..." He jerked his chin toward Vritant, his voice now hollow and heavy.
"What it feels like to fear losing your wife...
what it means to perform the last rites of your child's remains...
what it's like to watch your other child dangle between life and death for two years...
what it feels like to see your dead son inside your living son every single day... ")
His voice rose as if each word was a blade cutting him from inside.
"Aur kudrat ki nainsaafi dekho... dono ko ek sa chehra diya, taaki Shaurya Vardhan galti se bhi bhool na paaye ki apne bache ko woh bacha nahi paaya. Pata hai beta..." He pointed at his own forehead, his finger trembling violently. "Uske katil ko maine yahin goli mari thi. Yahin..."
("And look at the cruelty of fate... it gave both of them the same face, so that Shaurya Vardhan would never, even by mistake, forget that he couldn't save his own child. You know, son..." He pointed at his own forehead, his finger trembling violently. "I shot his killer right here. Right here...")
He lowered his hand slowly. His shoulders sagged as if a lifetime's weight had crashed on him.
"Par mujhe pal bhar ka sukoon bhi nahi mila. Na mera beta wapas aaya... na main khud ko bata paaya ki kash... kash main apne bache ko bacha paata. Kash main kuch aisa karta ki meri biwi aur mere dono bacche mere paas hote... Kash maine aur mehnat ki hoti toh..."
("But I didn't get even a moment of peace. Neither did my son come back... nor could I tell myself that if only... if only I had saved my child. If only I had done something so that my wife and both my children were still with me... if only I had worked harder...")
His voice crumbled and finally gave way to a broken sob.
Shaurya collapsed onto the sofa, his body shaking, his head hanging low.
For a long moment, Vritant stood frozen, watching his father unravel in front of him.
All the sarcasm, all the masks fell away.
He stepped forward, kneeled beside his father, took his trembling hands in his own, and then wrapped his arms around him - a silent, heavy hug between a shattered father and a son who had never seen him like this.
Shaurya pulled away from the hug, his face streaked with tears. Without another word, he stood and walked out, leaving Vritant kneeling there.
The silence pressed in until the sharp buzz of his phone broke it. Samarjeet Mama's name flashed on the screen. Vritant stared at it for a moment, then let it ring out. He got up slowly.
"Vritant," he heard Adhrita's voice behind him.
He didn't look back. He walked straight to his study. Adhrita kept calling his name, her voice trembling, but he shut the door and locked it.
His father's words echoed in his mind, relentless. Main haar gaya.
(I'm defeated)
His decision had never been to enter politics. He had other plans, other reasons-things he wanted buried deep, away from the world. Yet here he was.
The image of Shaurya on his knees, broken and sobbing, clawed at his chest. Vritant closed his eyes, but the words wouldn't leave him. Main haar gaya.
(I'm defeated)
His rage exploded. He slammed his palm against the glass window with such force that it shattered, shards falling like rain. Blood smeared across his hand, but he didn't flinch. Adhrita's scream echoed behind the door. He didn't care. Not about the blood. Not about anything.
The man who had fought harder than him to keep him alive had broken down. The man who never bent had crumbled. And worst of all, Shaurya hadn't even asked for his son's reason. He hadn't listened.
The door burst open. Adhrita rushed in with a first aid box. Her face paled when she saw the blood dripping from his hand.
"Vritant, why did you do this?" Her voice shook as she caught his palm.
"Let it be," he said quietly.
But she ignored him, tears brimming as she began cleaning the wound. He watched her in silence until she reached for the needle and thread.
In a sudden motion, he snatched it from her hand and flung it across the room.
"Har cheez dhage se nahi judi jaati," his voice was low, almost hollow. "Kuch chizo ko toote rehne dena chahiye. Aur kaha tha na... tooti hui cheezon se door raho."
("Not everything is tied together by a thread," his voice was low, almost hollow. "Some things should be left broken. And like I said... stay away from broken things.")
"Vritant, I'm not listening to you anymore." Her voice cracked, but her grip was firm. "First, I'll fix your palm, and then we'll talk about what just happened." She reached for his hand again.
He stepped back.
"What do you want to know? Huh?" His voice sharpened, edged with fury. "You want to ask me the questions Papa told you to?"
"Yes." She steadied her breath. "I want to know. Because I am your wife, and I have every right to know about you."
His eyes darkened. "You want to know?"
"Yes."
"Fine." He seized her wrist and led her to the sofa.
With trembling hands, he opened his safe and pulled out a thick file. Neatly arranged newspapers. Photographs. Headlines in chronological order. He threw it open in front of her.
"You want to know? Then see."
The first image-him and his family during Ganpati Visarjan in Mumbai. Two young boys smeared in red powder, grinning near a Ganpati idol on the beach.
"We were kidnapped that day," he said flatly.
He flipped to the next set. "We were tortured for five days."
His voice was detached, but his hand trembled as he turned the pages. Newspaper clippings. Headlines screaming Terrorist Bargain Fails. Photographs-two boys tied to a wall, suicide bombs strapped to their bodies, guns pressed to their heads.
"When the government refused to barter... they ordered to kill us."
He flipped again. His throat constricted, but his words stayed even. "Echo got killed."
Adhrita's breath hitched as her eyes fell on the cremation photographs. Then the hospital reports-Vritant in a hospital bed, pale and broken.
He yanked more files out. "Kidnapped again. Eight days of torture." Another stack of articles, each more horrifying than the last. "Rescued again. Barely alive. Spent two years in a coma."
Her tears streamed as her trembling hands tried to keep up with the pages.
"When I came out, by some miracle, I was sent to London. Away from my family. Away from... everything." He slapped his bloody palm onto the table, the sound sharp in the silence. "Until I came back. At twenty-five."
His chest heaved as he shoved the last picture toward her. His voice rose, breaking for the first time.
"So? Happy now? The wife knows her husband's story. Happy?" His eyes burned. "Or do you want to ask more questions?"
He shoved the file into her hands. "Keep this file-in case you want more answers."
"Vritant, I never meant to-"
"You never meant to what? Force me?" His laugh was bitter, hollow. "But you did. You didn't listen when I said, Adhrita, don't."
She flinched, tears streaming down her cheeks. "But Vritant-"
"You got your answers, Adhrita." His voice dropped low, lifeless. His gaze fell to the floor. "Now, can you leave me alone?"
She didn't argue. She didn't cry anymore.
Adhrita rose silently, her face pale but resolute. Without asking, she picked up the syringe, filled it with local anaesthesia, and slid the needle into his skin. Vritant winced as his hand went numb.
Not a single word passed between them.
Methodically, she threaded his wound, each stitch precise, steady-her tears falling but her hands refusing to shake. She cleaned, dressed, and bandaged his palm with the same quiet determination.
When it was done, she packed everything back into the box, clicked it shut, and stood. She picked up the file he had given her, held it tightly to her chest, and then turned.
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment-too long, too heavy. And then she turned. The file pressed against her chest like it belonged to her now. Without a word, she walked out of the study. The soft click of the door closing felt louder than any scream.
Silence pressed in again.
He stared at his bandaged hand, at the blood seeping faintly through the edges, and for the first time in years, he couldn't decide if he was relieved to be alone... or terrified by it.
??? V ? A ???
He sat there for hours, unmoving, lost in the weight of his thoughts.
When his eyes finally slipped shut, the darkness was filled with light, laughter, and color. The Ganpati Visarjan came rushing back to him-the last memory before everything shattered.
His parents smiling, his brother's laughter ringing in his ears, the warmth of his maternal family surrounding them. The twins, faces smeared with red gulal, throwing handfuls of powder at each other until they were covered head to toe.
"Ganpati Bappa Morya! Pudhchya Varshi Lavkarya!" they shouted in unison, their voices shrill with childlike joy.
The chant echoed in his mind like a heartbeat.
(Translation: Hail Lord Ganpati! Come back soon next year!)
For a moment, he almost felt the sea breeze on his face, almost smelled the incense and flowers, almost believed he was still there-before the nightmare began.
He opened his eyes at the sound of heels striking the floor. When he looked up, Vedashree stood there, her face taut with fury, her presence filling the study like a storm.
"Why the hell does this headline say Vardhan heir, Vritant Vardhan, is stepping into politics?" she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls.
Vritant leaned back in his chair, blood-stained bandage still on his hand, expression unreadable.
"On the contrary," he said, his tone calm, edged with sarcasm, "I thought I was expanding the empire. Apparently, Social Media thinks I'm already the next CM. Twice over, in fact-Maharashtra and Gujarat. Quite efficient, don't you think?"
Vritant's smirk lingered, but Vedashree didn't flinch. No yelling. No wild gestures. Just that calm, lethal stillness that made the air around her feel like it could snap at any second.
"Efficient?" she said, each word deliberate, slicing through the room. "Do you have the faintest idea what you've unleashed, Vritant? One headline, one, and the entire machinery starts turning. Twitter, newspapers, politicians... even your so-called allies. Do you think this is a game?"
Her eyes bored into him, unblinking. "You're stepping into a battlefield, and you don't even know which wolves are yours and which are waiting to tear you apart. Timing. Strategy. Survival. Concepts you should understand by now."
Vritant tilted his head, grin still in place. "Sounds like a warm welcome, PM Sahiba. I didn't realize politics came with fan mail."
Vedashree's lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. "Fan mail? Perhaps. Or a death notice. And Vritant... you better be very sure whose rules you're willing to bend-and whose you'll break. Because in my game, mistakes are not forgiven. They're punished."
Vritant didn't flinch. He leaned forward, the smirk sharpening into something harder. "You were always furious that I walked in Papa's shoes and not yours," he said, low, for her ears only. He met Vedashree's cold smile with one colder still.
"Guess who chose to be your son finally?" he said, the words sliding out like a dare.
"The one who survived." His eyes went steel. "I chose Papa's blood. And I'll be a better politician than you - I don't leave things half?cooked. If I'm going to kill birds, If I must finish something, I make sure both twins fall; no survivor left to bear the never?ending agony."
"Well, I didn't know you were ready to take the fall - for God knows what reasons," Vedashree said, voice honeyed and sharp.
"But fine. It's you versus the world. Welcome to the Rashtradhara Party.
And I'm sure Mrs. Adhrita Vardhan must be regretting not taking my suggestion of marrying into Rajasthan's family. "
She smiled without warmth and turned on her heel.
The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment the room seemed to stop. Vritant sat very still. His wife. The word landed differently now. He hadn't regretted the plan - he knew the why and the cost - but the way he'd behaved, the way he'd dragged her into this... that pricked at him.
He ran a hand through his hair. "I messed up. Big time."
He paused, mind racing. How did she even get into my study? Where is she now?
Pushing the thought aside, he stepped out-and saw his father entering the room. Vritant stopped for a moment, then followed, closing the door quietly behind them.
For now, he had no choice. He had to settle this-with his father.
??? V ? A ???
He entered the room. "You trust me?" he asked.
His father's red-rimmed eyes met his with hope. Vritant just nodded.
"Only you and I know how you kept me alive. Trust me, Papa, I'm doing all this because I don't want to see fear on your face when I don't answer my phone in one ring. I don't want to see fear in my wife's eyes as she watches me break a little every day."
"Why are you doing all this?" Shaurya asked, voice tight.
"Someone slipped my coma reports into Adhrita's purse at our reception. Riots were planned to harm her." The words left color drained from Shaurya's face.
"I kept watching the footage a thousand times. The voices were shouting, 'Kill PM's daughter-in-law!' But there was one voice... who said, 'Vritant chi baiko.'"
"Vritant's wife," Shaurya clarified.
"Yes. Not just the PM's daughter-in-law - someone wanted to harm my wife," Vritant said, his tone hard.
"Did you try to find them?" Shaurya asked, more alert than anything.
"All the online trails led to Abhijeet Bapat," Vritant said. Shaurya's eyes flared with anger.
"I will kill him," he shouted.
"But he's not the culprit. I have him under control. All fingers pointed at him, and I've seen politics close enough to know: when politicians play, they follow rules - the first one being to cut off the fingers so they can't be pointed. They thought I'd believe them..."
"But they forgot who's the biggest bluffer," Shaurya said, stepping close.
"Sorry, Papa," Vritant whispered, lowering his eyes. Shaurya pulled him into a tight hug.
"But I want details," Shaurya said as he stepped back from the hug.
"Not here," Vritant said. Shaurya nodded, understanding, and smiled.
"Papa, sorry," he said again. Shaurya lightly slapped his son.
"Itna bada banne ki zarurat nahi hai," he said. Vritant gave a small, amused smile.
(You don't need to be so grown-up.)
"Fir... chocolate?" he asked. Shaurya froze. Vritant's grin widened; in 18 years, this was the first time he'd asked for chocolate.
(Then... chocolate?)
Shaurya's face softened. He opened a drawer, took out a chocolate, and handed it to Vritant, who accepted it with a smile, gripping it tightly.
He extended his hand. "Pocket money?"
Tears welled in Shaurya's eyes. He pulled out some money and placed it in Vritant's palm.
"Echo ka pocket money?" Vritant asked again. Shaurya's hand trembled as he opened the drawer, took out more money, and gave it to him.
(Echo's pocket money?)
"Meri biwi ka pocket money?" Vritant asked a third time. Shaurya broke down completely, and Vritant hugged him.
(My wife's pocket money?)
"Why are you crying? Didn't you tell me? Now it's not just me and Echo... now it's me, Echo, and my wife."
Shaurya wiped his tears, took a little more money from the drawer, and placed it in Vritant's hand.
Vritant turned to leave. His father's voice stopped him.
"Welcome home, beta. It took eighteen years, but you came back."
"Main thakk gaya hoon, Papa. Aur thakk ke insaan ghar hi jaata hai," he said, and left.
(I'm tired, Papa. And a tired person goes straight home.)
He smiled as he looked at the chocolate, remembering how Papa had given one to Adhrita and she had shared it with him. The memory warmed him for a moment - then the smile vanished.
Where is she? he thought, tension creeping back in. He headed to his room.
It was empty. He dialed her number. No answer. He called Rawat.
"Where is my wife?" he asked.
"Sir, ma'am is at the hospital," Rawat replied.
Vritant exhaled, a heavy sigh escaping him. He turned to the files scattered on the table - the ones he'd been working on since morning.
He picked them up, trying to bury himself in work. But it was impossible. Her hurt face kept flashing in his mind, refusing to leave him alone.
"Enough," he muttered, closing the files with a snap. He strode to the garage and drove to the hospital.
He entered her cabin. Empty. His eyes scanned the room until he spotted Dr. Gupta.
"Sir, you're here," Dr. Gupta greeted.
"Dr. Adhrita?" Vritant asked.
"She's in surgery. She scheduled her night shifts," Dr. Gupta said, giving him a small, knowing smile. Vritant simply nodded and walked toward the OR.
He paused as he saw her step out, removing her mask, speaking to Dr. Aman. He watched her for a moment, studying her movements, her focus.
Then his gaze found Adhrita. She froze briefly when she noticed him, then started walking toward the changing room.
Vritant's jaw tightened. She was ignoring him - and he knew it.
He just watched her retreat, the weight of his own actions pressing in. He had hurt her - and now the sight of her avoiding him was a quiet, burning reminder of what he had done. He ran a hand over his face, silent, as frustration and regret churned inside him.
He waited until she changed into her outfit. When she walked toward her cabin, he followed silently. She opened the door and sat, and he pulled the chocolate from his coat pocket, holding it out in front of her.
"Papa gave me," he said.
She took the chocolate, unwrapped it, tore a small piece, and handed the rest back to him. She ate it without looking at him, then went to the washroom. Vritant followed and washed her hands again.
He held out his bandaged palm. "It's paining."
She said nothing. She called the pharmacy, and within minutes, a painkiller arrived. She placed it on the desk in front of him, then left for another surgery.
He sighed, sat in her chair, and wrote on a paper:
"My sorry can't erase your hurt. How can I make it right?"
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Hours passed.
At 4 AM, he heard her entering the cabin. She saw the note, read it, and ignored it. She went to the washroom. Soon, he heard her sobbing. He rushed in and found her crying, her heart breaking in silence.
"Hritaa..." he murmured, holding her. She didn't hug him.
"Hey, I'm sorry... please look at me," he kept whispering, but she kept crying.
For the first time in a long while, Vritant let himself feel the weight of it all-the helplessness, the guilt, the rage at the world for letting her suffer.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers, and breathed through the storm of his emotions, silent tears threatening but unspilled.
He stayed like that, letting her grief exist without words, without interruption.
After a long pause, she wiped her tears and moved away. She washed her face, dried it, and returned to her chair, resting her head on the table.
"Hrita... what happened?" he asked softly. Silence met him.
He stepped out of the cabin and asked a nurse about the surgery. She looked down. "The patient... didn't make it, sir. Ma'am couldn't save him."
Vritant's jaw tightened. He blinked, swallowing hard to push back the surge of frustration and sorrow.
For a moment, the world felt unbearably sharp.
And yet, when he returned to the cabin, he simply stood behind her chair, silent, letting her grief fill the room while he carried the weight of it with her.
He bent down and held her hand. "Chaliye," he said softly, but she didn't move. He could feel the weight of her hurt this time-it was real.
(Let's go)
He let go gently, sat beside her, then knelt in front of her again, taking her hand in his.
"Mujhe mera dard ka hissa nahi degi aap?" he asked, his voice low, almost pleading.
(You won't give me a part of your pain?)
She looked at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears, and shook her head-no.
"Aap mujhe hurt kar lijiye," he said, voice raw, fingers clenching her hand.
(Go ahead... hurt me.)
"Yahi toh baat hai na, Vritant," she answered finally, turning her face away. "Tumhe lagta hai hurt ka badla hurt se hota hai. Aur main Vritant Vardhan nahin hoon."
("That's exactly the point, Vritant," she finally answered, turning her face away. "You think hurt can be avenged with hurt. But I am not Vritant Vardhan.")
He lowered his head slowly onto her lap. "I'm ready for the punishment," he said, every syllable an admission.
"Fine. Go home," she said, simple, as if dismissing a clerk. He tightened his grip on her hand.
"I can't," he whispered.
She looked at him, exhausted patience in her eyes. "Why? I'm only a wife on paper. You can leave - that's what men who protect do. Your security team is here. I have every weapon you ever gave me. Nothing will happen to me."
Silence pooled between them, brittle and absolute. He felt it - not a release, but the hard wall she'd built. He was the one who had to move.
"Aap mujhe chhod degi?" he forced the words out, his voice barely a whisper. She rested her head gently on his, silent, and he felt the tremor of her sorrow and her tears seep onto his cheek.
(You'll leave me?)
"Aap mujse dur chali jayegi na?" he asked again. She shook her head.
(You'll go far away from me, won't you?)
"I know you will," he said, voice tight with memory and hurt. "You left me when you thought I regretted the kiss. You didn't eat. You didn't let me touch you. You refused when I tried to ease your aching back. You didn't speak, didn't look at me... nothing."
He lifted his gaze slightly, gripping her hands gently. "Agar Adhrita hi dur chali jayegi, toh Adhrita ka pati kaha jayega?"
(If Adhrita goes away, where will her husband go?)
She wiped her tears and sat up straight. Vritant rose to his feet, every movement controlled.
"I won't force you," he whispered, turning to leave.
"Adhrita ka pati, Adhrita ko liye bina jayega?" she called out, her voice trembling but firm.
(Will Adhrita's husband go without Adhrita?)
He froze. Slowly, he turned, and she ran toward him. Without a word, he scooped her up, lifting her slightly off the floor, holding her tightly in his arms. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, and he pressed her closer, grounding them both in that small, unspoken world between them.
"Don't forgive me," he whispered against her hair, his voice rough, "but don't go away from me... this is the second time you've kept distance, and I felt..."
She tilted her face up, her eyes locking into his, steady, demanding.
"And you felt...?"
His throat tightened. He forced the words out, low, almost breaking.
"I felt like I was back in that room... chained, waiting to be chosen. That's all."
She shook her head and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he simply breathed her in. Then, slowly, he set her back on the ground, fingers finding hers and lacing them together.
"Chaliye," he murmured, almost like a promise, and led her out.
(let's go)
He drove in silence, and soon the car rolled to a stop at Mriga Trishna - their lake house, its stillness waiting for them.
Unlocking the door, he let her step in first. The air inside smelled faintly of wood and lake breeze.
He struck a match, one candle, then another, warm pools of light chasing away the shadows.
(Mirage)
She slipped onto the edge of the bed, watching him as if trying to read the silence wrapped around him. He disappeared into the kitchen. A clink of steel, the faint hiss of boiling water, and the aroma of tea leaves soon filled the quiet house.
When he returned, a single mug in hand, she arched an eyebrow. His lips curved in a small, knowing smile - of course he could make tea. He held the mug out to her and sat down on the floor. Without a word, she slid down from the bed and settled beside him, her shoulder brushing his.
She sipped, letting the warmth seep into her. "This is... so good," she whispered, voice soft against the hum of silence.
His smile deepened. She lifted the mug again, holding it near his lips, her eyes steady on his. He looked at her for a long second before leaning in, taking a quiet sip from the same mug.
Her head rested against his shoulder, the half-smile still lingering on her lips. The candlelight flickered across the room, softening the silence between them.
He let it stay for a long moment before muttering, with that trademark edge:
"Great. Tea, candles, emotional vulnerability... next thing you know, people will think I'm a decent human being. Terrible PR."
She only shook her head, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. He smirked to himself.
Brilliant. My father's breaking, my wife's crying, and still somehow I get to feel sorry for myself first. Truly award-worthy.
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