Chapter 45 Tailored Scars
Even the calmest seas hide the sharpest sharks.
- Author
Vritant stopped the car in front of the hospital and parked. Both stepped out, the faint hum of the city fading as they approached the entrance.
"I don't know what to say to her," Adhrita murmured, stopping short.
He glanced at her. "You always talk to me."
"But you're my husband," she said, almost defensively.
He reached for her hand, his thumb tracing the back of her palm. "Adhri... just try once, okay? If you feel uncomfortable, we'll leave."
She nodded, but her grip only tightened around his fingers.
"I'm right here," he assured softly.
Together, they walked inside - her hesitation meeting his quiet strength - until they reached Dr. Radhika Mehta's cabin.
Dr. Radhika Mehta's nameplate gleamed against the soft light. Consultant Psychiatrist.
Adhrita hesitated at the door, her fingers still locked with his.
"Do I really need this?" she whispered.
He looked at her - tired eyes, quiet concern. "You need peace, Adhri. That's all this is."
She exhaled, a shaky breath. "And you'll stay?"
"I'll wait outside," he said gently. "But I'm not leaving."
And for the first time in days, she walked into a room meant to heal her - not hide her pain.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence that followed was the kind only hospitals knew how to hold.
Vritant stood there for a while, hands in his pockets, staring at the half-open blinds of Dr. Mehta's cabin. He could see nothing inside, just blurred silhouettes - Adhrita's still frame, Radhika's moving hands.
He exhaled slowly. He had seen Adhrita cry, shatter, heal, laugh - but never talk about what broke her. Words had always been her final act of surrender.
He sat down on the bench outside, elbows on his knees. His phone buzzed twice. He didn't check. Instead, he just watched the sterile hallway stretch ahead - white, endless, too calm for what she carried inside her head.
He wasn't sure what hurt more - that she had to relive it, or that he couldn't fight it for her.
Minutes passed. The door stayed closed.
He glanced up at the ceiling, jaw tightening, voice barely a whisper -
"Fix her, please. Or at least make her believe she can be."
Inside the cabin, the air was calm - neutral, like it had been trained to hold people's stories without judgement.
Dr. Radhika Mehta smiled gently. "Hi, Adhrita. You can call me Radhika if that feels easier. Would you like to sit?"
Adhrita nodded, clutching her bag tightly before setting it on her lap. She didn't look up.
Radhika watched her posture - tense shoulders, shallow breathing. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about anything difficult today. Let's just get to know each other, alright?"
Adhrita gave a faint nod.
Radhika watched her for a moment - not as a doctor, but as someone who understood silence better than words.
"Would you like some water?" she asked.
Adhrita shook her head. "No, I'm fine." But her voice betrayed her.
A few seconds passed before Radhika spoke again.
"You don't have to tell me everything today. Just what you can."
That line - what you can - settled something inside her. Adhrita exhaled, her shoulders lowering by an inch. "It happened... fast," she began quietly. "Like I wasn't even there."
Radhika nodded slowly. "Sometimes the body remembers before the mind does."
Adhrita's lips trembled, and she looked away toward the window.
"I still hear his voice," she said softly. "Every time it's quiet... it comes back."
Radhika didn't fill the silence that followed. She waited - the way only seasoned listeners do - letting Adhrita find her own pace.
"Is this from the riots," Radhika asked gently, "or the recent episode?"
Adhrita's gaze flicked to her, startled. Riots. Her husband had told her? Few even knew she'd been one of the victims.
She stayed silent, unsure if she was more shocked or exposed.
Before Radhika could say anything further, the door creaked open. Vritant stepped in - calm on the surface, but his eyes betrayed the tension he'd been holding outside.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low, controlled, but urgent.
Radhika opened her mouth to intervene, but Adhrita spoke first.
"Can he stay here?" she asked quietly.
Radhika hesitated for a beat. Then nodded - reluctantly.
She knew Vritant Vardhan for years. He wasn't a man who waited, or asked. He commanded. Yet here he was - patient, quiet, worried. Almost human in a way power rarely allowed.
Vritant pulled the chair beside her, his movements careful, almost rehearsed. He didn't look at Dr. Mehta - only at Adhrita, as if the rest of the room didn't exist.
She didn't speak. Just leaned slightly toward him, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt - a silent confirmation that she was still there, still breathing.
Radhika observed them quietly, pen resting on her notepad. It was rare - seeing him this still. The man who built his world on control, now holding it together for someone else's sake.
"Adhrita," she said softly.
Adhrita nodded faintly. Her hand slipped into his, and for a moment, her breathing steadied.
Radhika's voice broke the silence again. "When you hear his voice - the one you mentioned earlier - what helps you come back to the present?"
Adhrita hesitated, eyes flicking toward Vritant. "Him."
Radhika's gaze moved between them. "And when he's not there?"
Adhrita's lips curved in a fragile smile. "He always is... even when he isn't."
Vritant said nothing. His jaw flexed once, the muscle tightening - a restrained reaction to pain he couldn't undo.
Radhika watched him quietly. She could tell he wanted to fight the ghosts for her. But this wasn't a war he could win by force.
Finally, she closed her notebook. "That's enough for today."
Adhrita exhaled in relief, her head turning toward him. He simply nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear - a gesture more grounding than any therapy technique could be.
"I'll wait outside," she said softly, standing up.
She gave him a small nod - the kind that said your turn, and I'm still here.
Then she walked out, leaving the faint trace of her perfume and silence behind.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly the room felt smaller.
Radhika leaned back in her chair, studying the man across from her, closing the file.
"She's fragile right now," Radhika continued, her voice even. "But you already know that."
He gave a short nod. "Fragile, not weak."
That was so him - protective, precise, unwilling to let vulnerability be seen as defeat.
Radhika set her pen down. "And you, Vritant? How are you holding up?"
For a moment, his expression didn't change. Then his eyes flicked toward the door where Adhrita had left.
"I don't get that luxury," he said quietly.
There was no defiance in his tone - just a weary honesty that only people who had watched someone break could understand.
Radhika smiled faintly. "You know, Vritant... you never stop being a patient. You just learn new ways to hide it."
He gave a low chuckle - the kind that carried no humour. "And you never stop diagnosing people, do you?"
She tilted her head. "Comes with the job."
He buttoned his blazer, tone crisp. "Good. Then diagnose this - a man who pays your bills but refuses to talk."
Her lips curved. "Still allergic to help, I see."
"No, Doctor. Just immune to hope."
"Then why are you here?" she asked.
He gave a faint smile - too tired to be charming. "Maybe because my wife deserves a better husband."
Radhika's pen paused midair. "Then why not try to forget?"
"As if I can," he said, the sarcasm dry enough to sting.
She studied him quietly. "Are you still taking the pills?"
He let out a short, humourless laugh. "Obviously. But they're not working anymore."
Her expression hardened. "Not working? Vritant, those pills are dangerous if-"
He cut her off with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"Oh, I know. I don't sleep, I cry in my sleep, and I still remember how you ditched me."
The silence that followed wasn't professional - it was personal. Too personal.
Just then, her phone pinged.
Radhika's eyes flickered toward the screen. She opened the message silently.
I'm changing his pills - in case he talks about it.
For a brief second, she wanted to smile. It wasn't often she saw love strong enough to fight someone's demons for them. But she restrained herself and looked back at the man sitting opposite her - eyes sharp, posture guarded, as if even vulnerability needed permission.
"New development?" she asked lightly.
He didn't even blink. "My wife."
Radhika tilted her head. "She's affecting you."
His throat moved once - a flicker of resistance - before he spoke, voice low, almost cracking under the weight of memory.
"Mostly 'ghar aajao'..." he paused, a humorless chuckle escaping him. "And sometimes... 'why did you marry -'"
He couldn't finish it. The sentence broke mid-air, but his silence said the rest.
She noted something down quietly. He watched her pen move.
"You don't need to get affected if you know how much she loves you," Radhika said softly. "If she didn't, she wouldn't have stayed after everything."
He gave a faint smile - the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"Having a good memory," he murmured, leaning back in the chair, "is both a blessing and a curse."
A pause. His gaze drifted toward the door where she'd left moments ago.
"If you want the pills to work, you'll need to add some exercise and yoga," Radhika suggested, half-teasing, half-serious.
Vritant let out a short breath - almost a laugh.
"Doctor, I already breathe politics for a living," he said dryly. "How much more yoga do you want me to do?"
She smiled faintly, but before she could respond, he was already on his feet, sliding his watch back onto his wrist like slipping into armor.
Radhika watched him leave, that same old mix of admiration and pity curling in her chest.
Some patients heal.
Some just learn to wear their wounds like well-tailored suits.
And Vritant Vardhan had always known how to dress perfectly.
He came out and saw Adhrita pacing nervously. As soon as she spotted him, she hurried closer.
"Are you fine?" she asked, worry lacing her tone.
"Relax, Dr. Adhrita," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Dr. Radhika says I won the war."
Adhrita's fingers itched to smack him, but she restrained herself.
"I forgot my bag," she murmured, stepping toward Dr. Radhika's cabin.
A few moments later, she returned, holding the notepad Radhika had handed her.
"Did he...?" Adhrita asked, glancing up.
Radhika nodded. "Yes. He said the pills aren't working for him. I didn't tell him you'd changed them. I advised him to do physical activity - tire himself out."
Adhrita read the note carefully:
His past is still affecting him because of his photographic memory. Avoid harsh words - they can dig deeper than you think.
She folded the notepad slowly, a quiet weight settling in her chest. Even with Vritant's sarcasm and control, the depth of his struggle was undeniable.
??? V ? A ???
In the car, Adhrita exhaled, leaning back against the seat.
"It was easier than I thought," she said. "How was yours?"
"Nothing. Same as before," he replied, voice flat. "Doesn't help me."
"Oh," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "But it's helping me. Would you come with me next time?"
He inclined his head slightly. "Sure."
"Why is it not helping you?" she asked, curiosity threading her tone.
"Maybe because she keeps asking the same questions about the incident," he said casually, eyes on the road. "And I don't remember much."
Adhrita's mind narrowed. Liar.
He had a photographic memory - he couldn't possibly forget what happened to him and his brother. She remembered the story vividly: the way he'd recounted it, every detail carved as if it had happened yesterday. There was no way he could have forgotten.
She adjusted the rearview mirror again, her fingers lingering on its edge.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Why?"
She gave a small, almost teasing smile. "Try seeing from my view."
He raised an eyebrow, tone dry but edged with amusement. "Hmm... dangerous perspective, I imagine."
She laughed and let it slide for now, watching him in the rearview mirror. There was always more behind that calm, sarcastic exterior - memories, grief, control. And somehow, she had to navigate both.
She was dropped off at the hospital.
He didn't say much, just gave a small nod before stepping out of the car.
Once she disappeared inside, he started the engine and drove toward his office, the city moving past him in a blur.
Quiet. Controlled. Ordered - the only way he knew how to carry both the day and the weight of everything he couldn't leave behind.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant was buried in his files when Shaurya Vardhan entered.
"You're all over the news," he said, passing him a tablet.
Vritant took it and scanned the headlines. Finally, at the right time:
Several photos accompanied the article - his recent visit to CM Vikram Rathore's office prominently featured. And then there was the leaked audio, cleverly edited to play:
"CM Vikram Rathore wants Vritant Vardhan for next election."
"My son is taking the Rajasthan seat? Didn't know," Shaurya laughed, shaking his head.
"You know this game better, Papa," Vritant replied, eyes on the tablet, and returned to his work.
Shaurya leaned back, a sly grin forming. "Anyway, such games will keep going. Send me the latest report by EOD." He sank into the sofa, giving Vritant that unmistakable 'I'm the dad' look.
Vritant froze. The report? Not his priority - his chachu always worked.
"Can I send it tomorrow? I'm taking your laadli out today," he said smoothly, making up an excuse.
Shaurya's smirk widened. "Sure, but make sure it's from you, not Dev Vardhan. And yes, please take my laadli somewhere nice."
With that, he stood, gave him the full 'I am the dad' glare once more, and left the cabin, leaving Vritant staring after him - equal parts exasperated and awestruck.
Just then, Neil entered.
"Sir, Ashish called."
He handed the mobile to Vritant and gestured Neil to leave.
"Bhaiya... Ashish," Ashish's voice trembled over the line.
(brother, Ashish)
"Badi jaldi mummy ki yaad aagayi?" Vritant asked, tone sharp, almost teasing.
(You remembered your mom so soon?)
"Please... don't do anything to Aai. I'm ready to surrender," Ashish said hurriedly.
"Ab aaya Ashish Delhi ke niche," Vritant muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth.
(Now Ashish is under control)
"So, what's your plan?" he asked, calm but dangerous.
"Plan?" Ashish stammered.
"Clearly, you must have some plan to come here," Vritant continued, voice icy. "So what are you gonna tell your Baba and my Mamaji?"
(Father)
"I... I don't know. All I know is I just want my mother back..."
Vritant's lips curved faintly. "But I do have a plan for you. Tell your father you're leaving the country - scared to face the Vardhan family. Show him the tickets, board the plane... and come straight to the Lord of Delhi."
"But..." Ashish protested.
"And here I thought you loved your mother the most," Vritant said, his laugh low, controlled. "She'll definitely be missed... by everyone."
"Please... don't do anything to her. I'll be in Delhi by evening, just as you planned," Ashish surrendered.
"That's like PM Sahiba's good nephew," Vritant said, cutting the call with a swift, precise motion.
He tapped the phone to his side and dialed Rawat.
"Prep the cell. Guest of honor is coming."
He dialed Samarjeet's number.
"Mama ji, mami has come to Delhi. I'm sending her to Mumbai by tonight," he said calmly.
"I knew it, beta. That's why I love you the most," Samarjeet replied warmly.
"Anytime, Mamaji. You've saved my life twice - the least I can do for you is this," Vritant said smoothly.
"Teri jaan bachana mera farz tha... and Ashish ne jo kiya, uske liye main sharminda hoon. Kaisi hai Adhrita?" Samarjeet asked.
(Saving your life was my duty... and I'm ashamed of what Ashish did. How is Adhrita?")
Vritant's voice softened just enough to sound concerned, though the tone was measured. "Meri biwi ki haalat badi kharab hai, Mama ji."
(My wife's condition is very bad, uncle)
"Please take care of her," Samarjeet said, worry creeping into his words.
"Sure," Vritant replied, curtly and efficiently, before cutting the call.
??? V ? A ???
Adhrita came out of surgery and made her way to her cabin. She sank into the chair, letting the exhaustion wash over her. After a while, she opened the last drawer and froze at the sight of the mobile tucked inside.
Quietly, she took the mobile from the drawer and hid it in her bag. The messages from Dr. Aneira Bose were waiting.
She opened them, scanning every line carefully. Old reports, new reports... everything cross-verified.
As she read, her breath caught. The floor beneath her seemed to tremble.
"Someone played with his life," she whispered, barely audible.
"He got injured on his head and was in a coma for two days... that's what the middle reports say. But he was in a coma for two years. Someone deliberately caused it."
Her hands shook slightly, the magnitude of the revelation sinking in. Two years. Two lost years of his life... stolen, manipulated, and hidden from everyone.
She came out of the washroom and settled on her usual spot on the sofa. Hidden from her office camera, she opened the Lotus file she had been keeping.
Inside were a few carefully placed photographs - images from his kidnapping. Her eyes scanned each one, lingering especially on the photo where he had been struck on the back of his head with an iron rod, leaving a deep scar near his neck.
She stared at that image for a long time, as if it might answer the countless questions she had been asking herself.
And then something caught her eye - a small, metallic glint in the corner of the photograph. She froze, her breath catching.
It was the same lighter Vritant always carried with him, the one with "VV" carved into it.
"I thought it meant Vritant Vardhan..." she whispered to herself, confused. But how could a twelve-year-old boy have a lighter engraved with his name? Unless... it wasn't his.
Then it hit her. 'VV' could also mean Vedashree Vardhan.
Her pulse quickened as the pieces fell into place.
"This lighter... it's from Vedashree Vardhan," she realized, the truth hitting her like a cold wave.
Vritant's words echoed in her mind:
"Because of her, we lost Echo."
Before she could dwell further on the thought, a knock sounded on the door. Dr. Aman stepped in.
"Next surgery is ready, Dr. Adhrita," he informed her.
She took a steadying breath. "Yes," she said, closing the Lotus file with care and slipping it back into her bag. Every movement was deliberate, hiding the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind.
As she left for the surgery, the lighter and its implications lingered, heavy and unspoken, like a shadow that refused to be ignored.
??? V ? A ???
The steel door groaned open, and Vritant stepped into the dimly lit Hall of Fame - the place where echoes of power met silence.
Ashish hung from the wall, wrists chained, eyes bloodshot and swollen with fear.
"Welcome to Singapore, Ashish," Vritant said evenly, dropping his bag on the table. The metallic click of the zipper was the only sound before he pulled out a small, surgical blade - clean, sharp, and merciless.
He walked closer, calm as a surgeon, and pressed the blade into Ashish's trembling hand.
"Your time starts now," he murmured, glancing at his watch.
"Please, bhaiya... I was drugged! I didn't do anything to bhabhi-"
"Because of you," Vritant cut in, voice like cold iron, "my wife wakes up to nightmares. It's time you earn yours. Thirty seconds left."
Ashish hesitated - then, under the weight of Vritant's gaze, slashed his own palm. Blood spilled across the floor. He screamed - the sound sharp and helpless - while Vritant just watched, unmoved.
When the cries dulled into whimpers, Vritant stepped forward. He dipped his thumb into the blood, then pressed it against Ashish's forehead - a red tilak, drawn without devotion.
Just then he heard the knock and Neil came inside.
"Sir... Prime Minister Vedashree Vardhan," the guard announced.
Vritant's jaw tightened, but he only nodded. He rose, scanned his hand over the biometric lock, and the steel door hissed open.
Vedashree stood there - poised, immaculate, power stitched into every line of her presence.
"What a surprise," he said, tone calm but eyes sharp.
"You think you can keep anything hidden from me?" she asked, stepping into the Hall of Fame like she owned every secret within it.
Her gaze landed on Ashish - chained, bleeding, trembling.
"Aatya... please," Ashish begged, voice cracking. "Tell him I didn't mean to... I was drugged-"
(Aatya means Aunty)
"Vritant," Vedashree interrupted, her voice slicing the air. "What is this? You promised not to touch him."
Ashish seized the chance, desperate. "Yes... yes, he promised-"
Vedashree turned her head slowly, and in one graceful motion, took the blade from Vritant's hand. She inspected its edge - delicate, deliberate - as if she were checking a pen before signing a verdict.
"But," she murmured, her eyes flicking back to Ashish, "he didn't promise that I wouldn't."
And before he could react, she drove the blade through his other palm.
Ashish's scream echoed through the chamber - sharp, raw, and swallowed quickly by silence.
Vedashree wiped the blood from her hand with her handkerchief, handed the blade back to her son, and said softly, "Now it's fair."
"Why did you touch her?" Vritant asked, voice low and dangerous.
"I didn't touch her intentionally! She's lying!" Ashish screamed, the lie obvious even to him.
Vedashree PM settled into the chair with unshakable composure. Vritant calmly pulled out a dagger from his bag and handed it to her.
"Haven't tested the sharpness yet," he said.
"Let me check..." she murmured, taking the dagger and swirling it in her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she knelt beside Ashish.
"I trusted you more than my own people, and you touched my family!" she shouted, driving the blade into his upper arm.
Ashish's scream was cut short by the sharpness of her authority.
"I wanted to pass my legacy to you, and you dared to even look at my family!" she said, stabbing his other arm.
Her eyes, cold and unwavering, locked on him.
"Your name means blessing... but you became a curse to me. And Vedashree Vardhan is not used to keeping curses for long..." She threw the dagger aside with finality.
"My brother is thirsty. Water, please," Vritant said casually.
Rawat stepped forward, carrying a bucket of salt water. With one swift motion, it was thrown at Ashish, searing his wounds. He screamed again, raw and helpless.
"Why did you touch my wife?" Vritant repeated, calm, deliberate, and deadly. The room froze under the weight of that tone.
"I... I AM SORRY!" Ashish blurted, finally admitting his fault.
"Parliament session one... over," Vritant said, settling into the chair as if nothing had happened.
Vedashree PM looked at her son, a faint nod of approval passing between them, then turned and left the chamber.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant reached home and noticed Kiaan lingering near the terrace, hidden in the shadows. He nodded at him and called out.
"Did she know?" he asked.
"Nope. And she won't," Kiaan replied, voice calm.
"Thanks," Vritant said, genuine and uncharacteristically soft.
"V bhaiya, please... anyway, she's in the gym," Kiaan added.
Vritant glanced at his watch. Gym at this hour? What was she doing? He had lied to his father to take her out - but now...
He moved silently toward the gym and pushed the door open. Music blasted through the speakers, and there she was, immersed in garba, every movement precise yet almost desperate.
She played garba when she was sad.
What the hell happened to her? Vritant thought, watching her, a storm of worry and something unspoken stirring inside him.
She was twirling, lost in the rhythm, when he stepped closer and slid his hands around her waist, pulling her gently to him.
She instinctively held onto him mid-twirl, steadying herself, her pulse quickening.
"Dance with me," he murmured, voice low and firm.
Her eyes met his, searching, hesitant, yet she didn't move away.
She reached for the speaker and changed the song. The opening notes filled the room.
"Piya to se naina lage re..."
(Hindi song)
The singer's line hit her like a dagger. She froze, memories clawing at her chest.
"This... this is the song you cried to, right?" he asked softly, eyes locked on hers.
She didn't answer. Silence hung between them, thick and fragile.
Without a word, he took her hand and led her, moving together with an unspoken understanding - two souls tangled in the music, the past, and the present.
He held her by the waist, guiding her gently as she twirled, her dupatta fanning around her.
She spun once, twice, and he caught her effortlessly, pivoting with her in perfect rhythm.
They moved side to side, feet tapping in sync, arms brushing lightly as he led her through subtle spins and turns.
She leaned back slightly mid-twirl, and he steadied her with a hand at her back, letting her regain balance without breaking the flow.
They circled the room together, small hops and quick steps marking the beat of the garba, hands clasped, bodies moving close yet light.
Every turn, every spin, every synchronized step felt seamless - a dance shared, precise and alive, echoing the music in every motion.
He pulled her closer, his hands firm yet gentle at her waist.
"Would you like to go on a date with me?" he asked, voice low, almost teasing.
She blinked, caught off guard. Really? A date... now?
"Date?" she whispered, uncertain.
He only nodded, spinning her lightly, then pressed himself against her from behind.
"Have dinner with me," he murmured into her ear, and before she could react, he nipped her earlobe. She yelped softly, turning slightly toward him.
Her eyes met his, and she froze at the intensity - a storm of love, desire, and unspoken promises shining in them.
His hands slid up her sides, holding her close, every inch of his body pressing gently against hers. She felt the warmth of him, the steady strength in his arms, and the slow, controlled rhythm of his heartbeat matching hers.
He tilted her chin slightly, capturing her gaze, and whispered, "Don't move."
Her breath hitched as he leaned closer, lips brushing hers lightly at first, testing, teasing. She melted into the touch, her hands instinctively finding their place on his chest, feeling the taut strength beneath.
He deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, hands tracing the curve of her waist and lower back, pulling her impossibly closer. She pressed herself into him, lost in the sensation, every thought dissolving except the heat between them.
Even in that moment, there was a controlled intensity to him - Vritant's way of claiming yet protecting, of showing desire without losing the elegance he always carried.
They stayed wrapped in each other, bodies swaying slightly with the lingering rhythm of the music, the world beyond the room ceasing to exist.
They broke the kiss, both breathless.
He took her hand slowly and led her toward their room.
"Get ready," he said, voice low and not so commanding. She just nodded and went to the dressing room.
A beautiful wine-colored dress was laid out, paired with elegant high stilettos. She picked up the dress, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"I've already fallen for you, Mr. Vardhan," she whispered, slipping into the washroom.
Outside, Vritant sat, his mind replaying every moment. He'd spoken to Dr. Gupta - everything was fine. If anything had happened, Kiaan would have informed him. Just then, Karma padded up beside him, and he scooped him up into a hug.
When she emerged in the wine-colored dress, stilettos sharp and elegant, he froze.
"I'll change..." he fumbled, rushing to the washroom.
A few minutes later, he stepped out in a crisp tuxedo. She was adjusting her hair, and he moved behind her, brushing his lips close to her ear.
"Main kahu matt karo chanda iss gali ka fera..." he whispered.
She blushed, and he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
He went to the cupboard, returning with a few watches, spreading them across her vanity.
"Vritant... don't!" she protested, laughing as he created the mess.
"I love everything messy... including you," he murmured under his breath.
She picked up the watches, giving one to him and putting the rest away.
"Why do you make a mess?" she asked, shaking her head.
"I prefer old, shy, soft... Ace," he said casually, and she caught it.
"Fine..." she whispered, coming closer.
He took her hand, pulling her toward him, lips meeting hers, smearing her lipstick in a teasingly perfect kiss.
"Ant..." she whimpered.
Breaking the kiss, he said, "Apply wine color, please."
"No... it will tempt you more, and you'll ruin it again. I really want to go on a date..." she blabbed, realizing mid-sentence what she'd said.
Her eyes met his, and he smirked. She hugged him shyly.
"Aah... shy wifey," he teased, embracing her warmly and laughing, the two of them wrapped in a bubble of playful intimacy.
??? V ? A ???
The car hummed quietly as Vritant drove, the city lights flickering across his face. He didn't talk much - never did - but Adhrita didn't mind. There was a rhythm to his silence, a weight that made her pulse align with his.
He stopped at a small, dim restaurant tucked between streets too busy for anyone to notice. "Table's private," he said. No introductions, no waiting for her to admire it - just him taking charge.
She followed, heels clicking on the stone floor, heart fluttering. Inside, the air smelled faintly of spices and smoke, nothing fancy, nothing staged. He pulled her chair out, but with his finger brushing hers, just long enough to make her notice.
Her favorite Mexican dish arrived, the aroma instantly lighting up her face.
"You remembered," she said softly, a small smile playing on her lips.
He pulled her chair slightly closer, just enough that their knees brushed under the table. His hand lingered near hers, but didn't quite touch.
"Of course," he said, tone dry, almost sarcastic, but his eyes softened as he watched her. He took a bite from her plate, chewed deliberately, and then offered her the next forkful.
"Try this," he murmured, holding the bite just inches from her lips.
She hesitated, heat rising in her cheeks, and then leaned forward, taking it. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the restaurant, the city, the world - all of it - vanished.
Just then, a candle flickered and went out, snuffed by a sudden gust of wind.
Adhrita reached into her bag and pulled out the lighter, lighting the candle again. The flame danced, casting a soft glow over the table.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, watching the flame. "Did you smoke?"
"I only drank my sorrow," he said, a faint, humorless laugh escaping him.
"Then... the lighter?" she asked, curiosity flickering in her eyes.
He didn't answer, shifting the conversation effortlessly. "Did you try salsa?"
She shook her head, and without another word, he dipped a nacho in salsa and held it out to her. She took it, their fingers brushing for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
As she chewed, her mind wandered for a fraction of a second - the lighter, its owner, the initials... Vedashree Vardhan. Not Vritant.
She brushed it away, letting the thought dissolve. Tonight wasn't about mysteries or past shadows. Tonight was their first date. And for the first time in a long while, she let herself enjoy it.
The rest of the meal passed in the same quiet rhythm: occasional teasing, stolen glances, hands brushing accidentally but deliberately, and the subtle, unspoken understanding that this - just this - was enough.
She rested against him, letting herself feel it, letting herself fall into the chaos he always seemed to bring, the chaos she never realized she craved.
When they finally walked back to the car, she felt dizzy - not from the alcohol, not from the spinning streets, but from him.
He drove without speaking, hand occasionally brushing hers on the console.
And she understood: this wasn't a date. This was Vritant Vardhan - chaotic, commanding, intimate, and entirely his own kind of perfection.
Nachos, lighter mysteries, and a husband who won't behave - a perfectly normal first date.
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