Chapter 42 Vardhan Ways
Every alliance has its price - and its leverage.
- Vritant Vardhan
"Vardhan saab, are you not staying at our palace?" Vikram Rathore asked politely.
Vritant's lips curved, the hint of a smirk playing at the edge. "CM saab, agar har jagah aap hi mehmaan-nawazi karenge, toh hotel industry bandh ho jaayegi."
A moment of silence followed, heavy and sharp, before he turned toward the waiting convoy. "We'll see you at the dinner, CM saab. Till then, let the palace rest - it's seen enough politics for one lifetime."
Then he opened the door for Adhrita and she sat in the car and he too settled in the car and reached the hotel.
As soon as he entered the suite, Vritant slumped onto the bed. Adhrita slipped off her heels and sat beside him, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
"Sleepy?" she asked softly.
He moved his head onto her lap and closed his eyes. "Yeah. Had some personal business to take care of last night," he murmured, guiding her arm around his neck.
Opening one eye, he glanced up at her flushed face and smirked.
"I need to go," she said, attempting to pull away.
"Rest for a while," he replied without opening his eyes. "I'll drop you later."
He moved from her lap, letting her stretch out. Within minutes, Adhrita was fast asleep - her breathing slow, peaceful. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before getting up.
His phone buzzed. A message from Neil.
"Done, sir."
He opened the security feed and saw the Hall of Fame ceremony flashing on the screen - reporters yelling, cameras flashing, names echoing through the hall.
The phone rang again. Ashwin Adani.
He walked to the balcony, sat down, and answered.
"Sasur ji. Good morning."
"You came to Gujarat?" Ashwin asked, skipping greetings.
Vritant chuckled. "You're sounding like a typical sasur ji. Yes, I came. Thought I'd let my wife have a glimpse of her mayka from afar."
"The headlines are again about you joining politics," Ashwin said sharply. "What's all this? I thought those were just rumors."
"Don't worry, sasur ji," Vritant said calmly. "Your daughter's sleeping peacefully, perfectly safe."
Ashwin exhaled. "Itna bharosa toh hai mujhpe ki meri beti wahan safe hai. Aise hi Vardhans ko apni beti nahi di maine."
"I can understand your damad is testing your patience," he said with a short laugh. "But what to do-your choice was too perfect."
"I know you hate politics, then what is all this?"
"My relationship with politics is just like that of a sasur and damad - complicated," he said dryly. "And why should I worry? You're the Chief Minister, I'm your only son-in-law. Everything's mine - even your chair. But this damad is a little twisted... I don't work for what's already mine."
There was a pause. "Vritant, everything okay?"
He straightened, his voice turning serious. "I told you, your daughter is fine. And I've already promised - nothing will happen to her."
"I'm sending you something," Ashwin said, his tone changing - deeper, tense.
"Is it about the person..." Vritant didn't finish.
"Yes. But my instinct says it's not who we think," Ashwin replied.
"What name did you find?"
"Anamika Vardhan... and Shweta Vardhan Malhotra."
Vritant's jaw clenched. He forced a smirk. "Wah, sasur ji - you've practically opened an investigation on my family. Should I expect Raj Vardhan next?"
"Don't joke about this," Ashwin warned. "Check the file. Some things don't look like coincidences."
Vritant gave a short, humorless laugh. "You're right. Coincidences are rare, sasur ji - consequences, though? Those never leave."
There was silence for a long moment before Ashwin spoke again, softer this time. "Take care of her."
He smiled faintly. "That's the only thing I still know how to do."
The call ended. He looked back toward the bedroom - Adhrita lay still, her face serene under the dim light.
He whispered to himself, voice low and bitter,
"Anamika Vardhan and Shweta Malhotra... funny how every secret always finds its way home."
??? V ? A ???
After dropping Adhrita at the hospital, Vritant headed straight to Vikram Rathore's office.
As soon as he entered, the Chief Minister rose from his chair with a wide smile, holding out a bouquet and a marigold garland.
"Welcome to Rajasthan, Vardhan saab," Vikram said, placing the garland around his neck.
Vritant offered a polite, practiced smile - the kind that never reached his eyes. He stood beside him, allowing the photographer to click a few shots.
Flash. Flash.
"Cut," Vritant said dryly after the third one, removing the garland and tossing it lightly onto the table. He gestured to the photographer. "Come here."
The nervous man stepped forward, clutching his camera.
Vritant took it from him, glanced at the screen, and handed it back. "We're not shooting a wedding album. These are enough."
The photographer nodded quickly and retreated.
"So, when are you planning to give me your chair, CM saab?" Vritant asked casually, lowering himself into Vikram Rathore's seat before the man could respond.
The photographer lifted his camera. Click.
"Wait," Vritant gestured with a hand. "Take this profile instead - the right side. Looks better. I saw it once on the Forbes cover."
He turned slightly, a faint, arrogant smile curving his lips, and leaned back in the Chief Minister's chair - every inch of him looking like he belonged there.
Another click.
He rose smoothly, adjusting his sleeves as Vikram cleared his throat.
"Vardhan saab, yeh..." the CM began hesitantly.
"I just wanted one picture with the garland," Vritant interrupted lightly, picking it up from the table. "Nostalgia, you know. You remember, Suraj?" His tone turned edged with mock sweetness. "When I got married, my then girlfriend - now wife - put one around me too."
Suraj's jaw tightened, his smile practiced and hollow.
Vritant smirked, satisfied. "See you at dinner, CM saab."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door, his voice low but clear.
"Suraj - sharp eight. My wife and I will be eagerly waiting for you."
He left before either of them could respond, the faint scent of power - and provocation - still lingering in the room.
??? V ? A ???
She came out of the washroom, towel-drying her hair, and sat beside him on the bed.
"Finally done with work," she sighed, leaning lightly against his shoulder.
He reached out, took a lock of her damp hair, and began twirling it between his fingers.
"What a lovely wife I have," he murmured, amusement flickering in his tone. "Doesn't even ask for a Karwachauth gift."
Before she could reply, he leaned in and pressed a slow, teasing kiss against her temple.
She smiled and wrapped her arms around him, her lips brushing his neck. He stilled.
"Let's cancel the dinner," he muttered, his hand tightening in her hair.
"Gift," she whispered, kissing him again.
"Ace, don't," he pleaded softly, though his voice was already losing resolve.
"Gift," she repeated, more demanding this time - playful, insistent.
He exhaled in defeat and got off the bed. Opening his travel bag, he took out a small, wooden box and handed it to her.
Her eyes brightened with curiosity as she unwrapped it. Inside lay a handcrafted wooden chess set, its dark squares polished smooth.
"Chess?" she asked, raising a brow. "For Karwachauth?"
He nodded wordlessly, a faint smile curving his lips. Picking up one of the pieces, he found the queen - a sleek, carved piece with a single letter engraved on it.
He placed it gently in her palm.
"For the queen who never needed a board to checkmate me.," he said quietly.
The wooden queen gleamed under the bedside lamp - with a single letter A etched on its crown.
"Sometimes I really don't understand you," she said, half-laughing, half-bewildered. She loved the gift - but a wooden chessboard for Karwachauth?
"If you want something else, tell me," he said, reaching for the board in her hands.
"Hey, don't touch my gift!" she protested, clutching it to her chest like a child protecting her toy.
He smirked. "And what about my gift?" he asked, fingers brushing against the belt of her robe.
"Ant, we need to go for dinner," she said quickly, catching his hand.
"First my gift," he murmured, teasing. With one swift tug, the knot came undone.
"Antttttt!" she gasped, swatting at him, cheeks flushed.
He laughed - low and genuine - and gently took the chessboard from her hands, setting it aside. Then, without another word, he pulled her close, his laughter fading into a quiet, lingering silence between them - one that said more than touch ever could.
And then kissed her, and that silence-heavy with desire and all the unspoken history of their love-collapsed into a mutual, necessary urgency. It wasn't a demanding kiss, but one of slow, deep confirmation, a passionate exhale after holding their breath through the playful teasing.
His hands slid from her back to cradle her face, thumb stroking the damp curve of her temple where his teasing kiss had landed moments before.
The gesture was tender, reverent, before his grip became sure, angling her head for a deeper exploration.
The kiss was no longer about a gift or a promise of dinner; it was the sole, immediate reality.
He broke the kiss, a ragged breath catching in his throat, and lowered his head to her collarbone.
She gasped softly as his lips met the warm skin, and his hands, finally free to roam, began their careful, agonizingly slow descent.
They moved with the focused concentration of a sculptor, memorizing the contours of her body under the fabric of her robe-the vulnerable arch of her neck, the sharp definition of her shoulder blade, the subtle tremor that ran through her as his fingertips brushed the hollow beneath her ribs.
It was a slow burn ignited by the knowledge that there was no hurry, only mutual surrender.
Her fingers gripped his shoulders, pulling him back up until their foreheads rested against one another.
She opened her eyes, finding his, and the raw, undisguised longing she saw there was the only gift she needed.
With exquisite deliberation, Ant moved his hands to her waist, gathering her closer until there was no thought left in her mind except the pressure of his body against hers, the scent of his skin, and the delicious certainty that the game was over, and they had both won.
His mouth found hers again, the heat intensifying, dissolving the last vestiges of doubt and clothing in a blur of desire, drawing them into the deep, sweet heart of the moment.
His mouth found hers again, the heat intensifying, dissolving the last vestiges of doubt and clothing in a blur of desire, drawing them into the deep, sweet heart of the moment.
Their clothes became a forgotten thought, falling away until only skin met skin. With a final, deliberate tenderness, he joined their hands-a single, steady anchor-and rested them beside her head. A soft sound escaped her as he dipped his head to her neck.
Then, in one powerful sweep, he was a part of her, and she cried out-a pure, beautiful sound of surrender.
The game was done. They were simply one now, moving to a single, essential rhythm. The tension that had coiled between them all evening broke, washing over them in waves of feeling. Every touch and every low whisper confirmed that they belonged only here.
He began slow, his gaze locked onto hers, watching her face to read his own joy.
The quiet pace was a beautiful torment, a way of honoring the moment.
But soon the shared need grew too strong.
The pace turned urgent, becoming a language without words, spoken by bodies that knew each other perfectly.
The feeling built until it broke, a stunning wave that washed them both ashore. They stayed wrapped together long after the tremors faded, their breathing slowing, bonded not just by the act, but by the quiet, overwhelming peace of having finally arrived home.
??? V ? A ???
He got ready, sulking the whole time, because his wife had forced him to attend the dinner he'd promised the CM.
As soon as they stepped out of the suite, Adhrita looked at him.
"Ant, please," she sighed, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "It's your dinner with the CM, and I'm the one coming along - I should be the one sulking."
"Let's sulk together," he said, winking.
"Chup. Bilkul chup," she warned, looping her arm through his.
(Shut up)
Just then, they saw Suraj waiting near the elevator, wearing a smug half-smile. He glanced at his watch - 9 p.m. - and thought, Ah, only an hour late.
Adhrita's phone rang, and she excused herself for a moment.
Vritant watched her walk away, brows slightly furrowed. Suraj started towards him, his steps slightly unsteady.
"Watch your step, Suraj - that's a Hritmine zone," Vritant said lazily.
Suraj blinked. "Hritmine?"
"Forget it," Vritant muttered under his breath. Wrong audience for layered sarcasm.
Just then, Adhrita returned, and they all left together.
At the palace, Vikram Rathore and his family welcomed them warmly. Vritant moved ahead to greet the ministers, slipping a Bluetooth earpiece into his ear as he discreetly texted Rawat.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Suraj approach Adhrita, his tone casual - too casual.
Vritant's fingers brushed the earpiece, switching to the nearby feed, and Suraj's voice came through - smug and sharp:
"Mrs. Adhrita Vardhan, you could've been Rathore. But when the PM's son is available, why would you settle for a CM's?"
Adhrita's reply was steady, her voice like glass - calm, reflective, dangerous when provoked.
"Mujhe meri aukaat pata thi. Aur agar main poori desh ki bahu banne ki haisiyat rakhti hoon, toh ek chhote se Rajasthan ki bahu banne ka khwab kyun dekhti?"
(I knew my place. And if I had what it takes to become the daughter-in-law of the entire nation, why would I dream of becoming the daughter-in-law of just a small Rajasthan?)
Vritant's lips twitched - half amusement, half pride. He kept his expression neutral, pretending to stay immersed in political small talk, but his feet had already begun moving towards her.
He reached them just as Suraj forced a polite smile, masking his embarrassment.
"Everything all right here?" Vritant asked, his tone polite - dangerously polite - as he adjusted his cufflinks.
Suraj straightened. "Of course. We were just... talking about old times."
"Old times?" Vritant echoed, glancing at Adhrita for a fraction of a second - her calm was enough to confirm she'd handled it. "Strange. I wasn't aware there were old times."
Suraj cleared his throat. "I meant-before your marriage-"
"Oh, you mean back when people thought wishes and alliances were the same thing?" Vritant interrupted softly, his smile thin. "It happens. Every state dreams of a connection with Delhi once in a while."
Suraj's jaw flexed, but he kept quiet.
Vritant tilted his head slightly, lowering his voice so only Suraj could hear.
"A word of advice, Suraj-next time you try to impress my wife, make sure you don't insult your father's political standing in the same breath. It doesn't look good in reports."
Vikram Rathore, who had been watching from a short distance, walked towards them with a diplomatic smile.
"Beta, you're teasing him now," he said, laughing awkwardly, trying to lighten the air that had gone sharp between his son and the Prime Minister's heir.
"Am I?" Vritant asked, his gaze still on Suraj. "Forgive me, CM saab. I just like keeping track of people who were almost family. It's a... professional habit."
He adjusted his watch, then added in a quiet, almost cordial tone, "Good to see you, Suraj. Just make sure next time the headlines say not 'CM's son shares stage with PM's daughter-in-law,' not 'Minister's son meets CM's guest.' Wouldn't want the media to get nostalgic."
He gave a faint smile - the kind that burned more than it showed - and turned toward the door.
"Shall we, CM saab? Before politics starts looking too personal."
The color drained from Suraj's face.
Vritant smiled again, gracious this time, and turned to Adhrita.
"Shall we, Mrs. Vardhan? I think the dinner just got interesting."
She nodded, slipping her hand through his arm as they walked ahead.
Behind them, Suraj stood frozen, his smile faltering under the weight of a truth he didn't want to admit - the Prime Minister's son hadn't raised his voice, but he'd just ended a conversation that could've ended a career.
The dining hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers, every light bouncing off silverware like the sparkle of restraint.
A long table stretched between power and pretence - ministers on one side, bureaucrats on another, and in the middle sat Vikram Rathore, Vritant, and Adhrita - perfectly poised, perfectly watchful.
The waiters began serving.
Vikram Rathore raised his glass slightly.
"It's not every day we get the Prime Minister's son in Rajasthan. I hope Gujarat treated you well, Vardhan saab."
She was sitting right beside him and took her left hand, resting it gently in his, then began eating with her left hand intertwined with his.
Adhrita instinctively tried to free her hand, but he didn't budge, his grip firm yet unassuming.
After a while, she stopped struggling, realizing the quiet comfort in it.
Whenever she felt slightly out of place, she would press her hand a little closer into his, letting the silent connection ground her.
"Gujarat's hospitality never disappoints - especially when you're married to one."
A few guests chuckled politely. Vikram leaned in, tone light but edged with curiosity.
"And how long before we start calling you the next Vardhan in politics? These headlines... they seem more serious every day."
Adhrita's fork paused mid-air. She didn't look at him - but she felt him stiffen beside her.
Vritant turned to Vikram with that quiet, patient expression that could belong to a saint or a strategist.
"Headlines are interesting things, CM saab. They tell people what they want to hear - not what's true. And between us, the day I enter politics is the day Parliament decides to run on silence."
The room chuckled again - polite, but uneasy. Vikram smiled, but his eyes narrowed.
"A man who avoids power is usually the one who understands it best."
Vritant tilted his head, his gaze calm, deliberate.
"And a man who seeks it often forgets what it costs."
A beat of silence followed - only the soft clinking of cutlery punctuated the air, the weight of unspoken words lingering like a shadow over the table.
Somewhere between muted laughter, the glint of fine wine, and watchful eyes, the line between politics and passion blurred. The Vardhans moved through it with flawless precision, never revealing the truth of who truly held the reins.
??? V ? A ???
They reached Delhi, but Vritant barely had time to settle - an emergency pulled him straight to the office. Midway through the meeting, his phone began vibrating violently, notifications piling up.
He froze.
Adhrita is in danger.
Without a second thought, he stood abruptly, startling everyone in the room, and rushed toward the exit. Rawat, who had been nearby, saw him and hurried to catch up.
"My wife... where is-" Vritant's voice was sharp, edged with panic.
"Home, sir. We dropped her home," Rawat replied calmly but with urgency.
"She's in danger," Vritant said, his tone flat but deadly, and they both sprinted toward the car.
Vritant slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and the car roared to life. Like a racer, he pushed the speed to the limit while trying to reach her. Then, through the phone line, her voice shattered the tense air:
"Vritant..."
He gripped the wheel tighter. "Jaan, kahan ho? Kya hua?" His voice trembled despite his effort to stay controlled.
"Ghar aajao..." she sobbed, hysterical, each word breaking his chest.
(Come home)
"Aa raha hoon. Please... papa ke paas chali jao..." he urged, voice low but desperate.
(Coming, please,... go to papa)
"Vritant, please come home," she cried again, tears and fear flooding every word.
Time slowed, and every second felt like an eternity as he weaved through traffic, heart hammering, mind only on her.
Rawat, pale but steady in the passenger seat, leaned forward. "Sir, I've alerted the security team nearby. They are two minutes out. Is she saying anything about who is there?"
Vritant shook his head violently, his knuckles white against the leather wheel. "No! Just... 'Ghar aao' (Come home). She's alone, Rawat, she's alone." He gripped the phone tighter, pressing it to his ear as if he could absorb her fear and hold it for her.
He saw a gap in the merging traffic, stomped on the accelerator, and the world outside blurred into streaks of red and yellow. The horn blared uselessly, ignored by the screaming siren of his own anxiety.
As soon as he reached home, he noticed all the butlers and servants gathered anxiously in the hall. His eyes scanned the crowd before landing on the closed door of her room.
"Adhrita..." he called, his voice low but urgent.
Aasha Tai stepped forward, worry etched on her face.
"She locked herself in the room."
Without hesitation, Vritant bolted upstairs. He produced his key and unlocked the door, the click echoing in the tense silence.
What he saw made his chest tighten. The room was in disarray - cushions tossed, curtains half-drawn, papers scattered across the floor.
And there, in the middle of the chaos, sat Adhrita, curled on the floor, her head buried in her knees.
Her hair was messy, her clothes torn, and her sobs tore through the quiet like raw thunder.
He rushed to her side and knelt down instinctively. She sensed his presence immediately, and without thinking, she wrapped her trembling arms around him.
"Jaan... you're okay," he whispered, though he knew the words were hollow, almost meaningless against the fear and chaos surrounding them.
She gripped him tighter, her sobs wracking her body.
"He... he forced himself on me, Ant," she stammered, her voice barely audible.
Vritant's eyes narrowed, every inch of him tense.
"Who?" he demanded, his voice low but deadly.
"Ashish..." she breathed, and then, overwhelmed, she collapsed into his arms, unconscious.
Vritant held her immediately, cradling her like she was fragile glass.
His chest tightened with rage, his mind racing a hundred steps ahead even as his heart ached at the sight of her limp form.
For a fraction of a second, time stopped.
He held her, feeling the tremors of her body against his chest, every pulse of hers igniting a fire inside him.
Rage, ice, protectiveness - all tangled, all sharp, all dangerous.
"Stay with me, Jaan... stay with me," he muttered, brushing strands of hair from her face, his hands firm yet gentle, ready to protect her from anything - anyone.
Some people should really learn not to touch what isn't theirs... or wake the wrong husband and it's time to enter Vritant Vardhan's villain arc.
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