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Shivansh's POV
The first note came out softer than I expected.
Just a hum, really. Low. Barely audible.
My voice reverberated against the metal walls of the warehouse, bouncing back at me like a warning I didn't need. I leaned against the rusted pillar behind me, one foot crossed over the other, hands in my pockets. Calm. Still.
Aarya stood in front of me.
He was doing what he did best—breaking bones quietly. No screams, no theatrics. Just the blunt, raw sound of justice.
The man on the ground… Ravi, I think that was his name—he was whimpering now. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, his shirt soaked in sweat and blood. The bastard had the audacity to wear the same company logo he betrayed.
The song continued under my breath.
A song, one my Jaana used to hum everything when she was sad or angry with me. Funny, how memory worked.
"P-Please…" Ravi's voice cracked. "I d-didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean?" I echoed. I tilted my head, walking slowly toward him.
Each step echoed through the emptiness of the warehouse.
"I spent six months building that architecture," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "Six months. Day and night. Code. Wires. AI modeling. That system—" I crouched in front of him— "was going to change everything."
He trembled as I reached out and tapped his cheek, gentle like a brother would.
"But instead of making history with us, Ravi… you decided to upload that project to my opposite party and that too to him. Do you know what that makes you?"
He shook his head quickly. "I-I needed money. My sister's treatment—"
I stood up sharply, the sound of my boot heel hitting the floor like a gunshot. "You should've come to me for that. Not sell my f*cking blood to the hyenas circling around my empire."
I didn't wait. I didn't need a reason to delay it anymore.
The first punch landed on his jaw.
The second to his ribs.
And the third—straight to his face, knuckles cracking from the force. I lost count after seven.
Each strike was less about him and more about everything else.
About the silence I lived in.
About the empty space beside my bed.
About a woman who had walked away from me five years ago... and still haunted every inch of my waking world.
Blood splattered onto my cuff. He choked on his own saliva. Aarya didn't move. He knew this part was mine.
By the time I pulled back, Ravi was barely conscious.
"I should end you," I said, breath heavy but even. "But I won't. You're going to live with what you've done. You're going to watch your so called partners or your sir who order you to do this, losing everything even with what you gave them—because that version was incomplete."
He looked up through swollen lids.
I smirked slightly. "That's right. You stole the data. The real code? That's still in my head."
I turned away and wiped the blood off my hand with the inside of my coat. Aarya stepped forward to take over—drag him to the back, clean up.
I didn't speak as I walked out of the warehouse into the cold air.
The city was sleeping. But my mind never did. Not anymore.
And I couldn't help but wonder…
If Isha saw me like this—
Would she even recognize me now?
Outside, the cold air hit like glass—sharp and biting. I walked out of the warehouse slowly, wiping my bloodied knuckles with a cloth from my coat pocket. It wasn't Ravi's blood that bothered me.
It was mine.
Pieces of me I kept leaving behind. Day after day.
Aarya was standing by the car, arms folded, eyes calm but alert as always. He was already making arrangements in his head, I could tell.
"Transfer his sister," I said.
Aarya blinked. "To?"
"Raghuvanshi Hospital. Good Care Hospital. Private ward. Under dhoti mas sa's wing."
I pulled out my phone and flicked through my contacts. "Tell them to take care of her as if she's… family. Everything. Medication. Surgery. If she needs a second f*cking heart, they better be ready with one."
Aarya didn't question me. He never did.
Not when I was calm.
And especially not when I was like this.
"She's twenty-three," he added. "Studied literature. Doesn't deserve this kind of brother."
I nodded once, then aarya murmured, "I'll handle it."
He glanced at the car. "Should I drop you off?"
I shook my head slowly, walking toward the vehicle.
"No," I said. "I'll do it."
He didn't say another word. Just handed me the keys silently and walked off into the dark.
I climbed into the driver's seat.
The city was asleep, but inside me—something never stopped burning.
The engine hummed as I started it, and I glanced at the rear-view mirror.
My thoughts drifted to him. to Ravi was still unconscious, face barely visible under the bruises.
I didn't care about him. But his sister mattered to him.
Just like Isha did. Or maybe still does.
I pulled the car into gear and drove off into the night.
I hadn't come here in weeks. Maybe months. I didn't even know anymore.
The penthouse was the same. The silence was louder now, but the walls still remembered her.
I locked the door behind me and let the weight of everything fall off my shoulders—or at least I tried to. But it clung to me like wet cement. Heavy. Drenched in fatigue. I didn't even bother turning on the lights. I knew this place by heart. Every sharp corner, every silent shadow. This penthouse... it had once been hers too, in tiny little ways. Her touch still lingered in things she didn't take back.
I stepped in.
It was different from the penthouse, from the one old, smaller penthouse I used to hide in like some feral animal licking his wounds. That one was isolated, raw, stripped of everything. This?
This one was a museum.
Of her.
Of us.
Everything still stood the way it had the day she left.
The air hit me differently here. A little colder. A little more familiar.
A little more like her.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, just breathing.
There, on the side table, her luggage and gifts still hung off the chair. She'd brought it that day—stormed in with fury in her eyes, mascara trailing like war paint. And now, it was like she had just… vanished into air.
She never came back to take it.
And I never had the heart to move it.
I walked further in.
The living room was dimly lit—just how she loced it.
She always turned on every single damn light like she was fighting shadows with switches.
I didn't touch them now.
I sat on the edge of the sofa.
The same sofa where she once stood, barefoot, yelling at me, loving me.
The same place where she cried.
The same corner where I sat—motionless—watching her break.
And I did nothing.
Said nothing.
Let her walk out like she meant nothing.
I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling.
It still held echoes of her voice.
"You said that you love me, but that's not how you treat the people you love, you don't cheat on them. "
I had said nothing.
Nothing.
And then she left.
Tears.
Silence.
And the sound of the elevator door closing like a gunshot.
My fingers gripped the sofa edge. Hard.
There was her scarf, thrown carelessly on the armrest. It still smelled faintly of her shampoo—lavender and that something else. Something that had no brand, no name. Something that was just… her.
I stood and walked into the hallway.
Passed the mirror where she'd once stood trying on her earrings, making me wait because "I'm almost ready" really meant twenty minutes more.
Passed the door to the guest room where she'd once locked herself in because she was "done dealing with Shivansh f*cking Raghuvanshi for the night."
I opened the bedroom door.
That hit the hardest.
The bed was still made. My bed. But on the corner of the mattress lay her dupatta — the yellow one she wore that day. Wrinkled. Unfolded. As if she had left in such a hurry, or maybe… she never thought she wouldn't return.
I sat on the floor this time.
Not the bed.
I didn't deserve to sit where she once lay.
I pressed my palm to the carpet and whispered, "Where the hell did you go?"
The city didn't answer.
She never did either.
There was a time I could hear her footsteps from across the house.
A time I could smell her perfume before she even entered.
A time I could close my eyes and feel her lying next to me—even if she was angry, even if she turned her back to me, even if she wanted to leave.
But now?
She'd already left. Long ago.
All that remained were the things she forgot to take.
I leaned back against the wall, head tilted up again, exhaling hard through my nose.
And I remembered—
That moment.
That damn moment I kept trying to erase.
When she walked in and saw juhii on my lap.
I had pushed her away before anything happened. It didn't matter.
Isha had seen what she needed to.
I remembered the sound of her bag dropping.
I remembered the way her face broke in front of me like a dam cracking under pressure.
I remembered the silence.
Not the kind you choose.
The kind that chooses you when you're too destroyed to even speak.
She had turned and walked away.
Didn't ask for an explanation.
Didn't demand one.
Because I'd already failed her before that.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Isha…" I whispered. "You left your bags. Gifts. Me. Love. Us. Everything."
Silence answered.
Of course.
Of course it did.
I made my way to the bathroom like a ghost.
The tiles were cold beneath my feet, but I didn't care. I twisted the shower knob to the farthest end—cold. No warmth, no comfort. Just biting cold water hammering down on me, seeping through my skin like penance. I needed it. I needed to feel something that wasn't shame or anger or regret.
The water smacked against my chest like it had something to say. Maybe it did. Maybe the silence was screaming louder than words ever could.
Six months.
Six months I had given to that project. Skipped sleep, skipped people, skipped life itself. Just to see it breathe. To see it born. I built it with more patience than I ever gave myself. And he—he stole it. Like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
I slammed a fist against the wall.
The sting in my knuckles felt honest. The blood trailing with the water felt more real than anything else tonight.
I stepped out once my skin had gone numb, wrapping a towel around my waist. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me—eyes red, not from tears, but from exhaustion. There were no tears left. That was the luxury of the past. Now, only emptiness.
I dried myself half-heartedly, pulled on a pair of black joggers, and padded back to the bedroom. The air conditioner hummed in the background like a lullaby I couldn't fall asleep to. I sat at the edge of the bed, the same spot I always sat on when I couldn't figure out whether I was still human or just something going through the motions.
Then I reached for it.
The black leather journal. The one no one else knew existed. No logos. No marks. Just mine.
I flipped open to the next blank page.
And wrote.
After she left I got in the habit of writing.
Alphabet Book – Entry: L for Loyalty
Written by IshShiv.
L for Loyalty
But not the kind you read in stories.
Not the kind that survives battles or crowns or wedding promises.
I'm talking about the kind that hurts.
The kind that's heavy.
The kind where you still pay the hospital bills for the sister of a man who sold you out.
Because you know what it's like to lose someone you love.
Because you still wake up thinking she might call.
Because even when the world turns its back on you,
You won't turn into them.
You'll still carry the weight of a promise…
Even if no one asked you to keep it.
—S.
My handwriting was shaky at first. The thoughts were jumbled. My chest still felt tight from the confrontation, from the warehouse, from him. But I wrote anyway. I needed to.
When I finished, I stared at the page. The ink still wet. The silence thick.
I shut the diary and placed it on the nightstand. For a moment, I just sat there, elbows on my knees, hands dangling. My gaze fell on the bottle.
Small. White. Clinical.
I twisted the cap and tapped two sleeping pills into my palm. They felt too light for how heavy they hit. No water. I just dry-swallowed them and laid back.
The ceiling fan spun above me slowly, as if even it was too tired to move faster. My head hit the pillow and I closed my eyes, hoping, begging for sleep.
But it didn't come.
My body refused to rest. My mind—ruthless.
It replayed everything.
The way she had walked out of this room that night—eyes glossy, lips trembling, voice breaking in whispers.
"I don't know who you are anymore…"
She had said that. And I had nothing to say back. Not because I didn't know—but because I didn't want her to know how broken I'd become.
I rolled over, grabbing the pillow beside me. It didn't smell like her anymore. That scent was long gone, but my memory was cursed enough to fill in the blanks.
I threw the pillow across the room in frustration. It hit the wall with a dull thud and slumped to the floor, lifeless—like me.
The pills were supposed to knock me out. Supposed to shut the world off. But they failed too.
Sleep wasn't coming.
Because peace never stayed where guilt lived.
And tonight, it was a full house.
It's like a routine now.
Pathetic, really.
No matter how many nights pass, no matter how tired I am—sleep never stays. It visits, maybe for an hour or two, just enough to tease me with its mercy, then leaves like everything else in my life.
Tonight wasn't any different.
I must have passed out for an hour. Maybe two. But the moment I slipped into unconsciousness, the nightmares came clawing.
Her face.
Her voice.
That look in her eyes right before she walked out of my life, that haunted expression that said, "I don't recognize you anymore."
And just like that, I jolted awake again.
My shirt was soaked in sweat. My chest was heaving. My heart beating like it was trying to run from something. The sheets were tangled around my legs like chains, and for a second, I thought I was suffocating.
I sat up, clutching my head.
The pills didn't help. They never really do anymore. My body's used to the dosage. My mind isn't willing to let go.
And her... she lives in every corner of my silence.
I pressed the heel of my palms into my eyes, trying to push the visions away, but they played like a cursed reel.
Isha.
In my arms.
Laughing.
Crying.
Screaming.
Begging me to understand.
And then leaving.
Just walking away.
She didn't take anything with her that night.
Just... left.
But somehow, everything she touched stayed. Her perfume still lingers on one of the cushions. That brown baguette bag still sits on the armchair in the corner, the one she brought with her that day. There's even a strand of her hair I once found clinging to my hoodie last week. It destroyed me. Something so small had the power to bring me to my knees.
And tonight... tonight broke something inside me.
I pulled my knees up and rested my elbows on them, burying my face in my hands. I didn't even realize I was shaking. My entire body—quivering like I was cold, except it wasn't cold. It was grief. Deep, hollow, rotting grief that chewed at my insides like a disease.
"She's gone," I whispered into my palms. "She's just... gone."
And the worst part?
She didn't just leave.
She left her memories behind.
To rot this place.
To rot me.
"I can't…" My voice cracked, my throat tightening. "I can't do this."
The tears came without permission.
Hot. Silent. Merciless.
They slipped down my face and dripped onto my arms as I curled into myself like a child. My chest felt like it was imploding, the pressure mounting with every beat of my heart.
"Come back…" I choked out, barely audible. "Isha... please... come back."
I could feel it now—the wall breaking, the fortress I built brick by brick all these years crumbling like dry sand under water.
"I can't do this without you."
I stood up suddenly, stumbling a bit. The sheets clung to my feet, but I kicked them away. My feet hit the floor hard. I walked—no, stormed—to the small bar area on the far end of the room.
It wasn't fancy. Just a marble countertop, a few expensive bottles lined up against the mirrored wall, and a glass that had become far too familiar to my fingers.
This had become my habit.
My coping.
Whenever sleep betrayed me... whenever her memories tortured me...
I ended up here.
Alone.
Trying to drown her ghost with whiskey.
I grabbed the first bottle my hand found. The cap was already loose from the last time. I poured it directly into the glass, no ice, no water. Just poison. Neat.
But my hands were shaking so bad I spilled half of it.
Didn't matter.
I brought the glass to my lips and downed it in one go. The burn was sharp. It cut through my throat like fire, but I welcomed it. At least it burned somewhere outside for once.
I poured another.
Still trembling. Still hearing her voice echo in my head like a cruel lullaby.
"You were supposed to be my safe place…"
Another glass down.
And then, without thinking, I grabbed the bottle itself and drank directly from it.
This wasn't a celebration. This wasn't an escape. This was punishment.
Because I let her go.
I stood there, bare-chested, joggers hanging low on my hips, the cold air biting my skin, and tears streaking my face like I was some broken boy trapped in a man's body.
And maybe I was.
Maybe I always had been.
"Come back, Isha," I whispered again. The bottle in my hand trembled. "Please... I'm still here. I'm still waiting. I haven't moved on. I haven't even taken one step."
I leaned against the counter and slid down to the floor, my back against the wall, bottle resting beside me, head against the cool tile.
I closed my eyes again.
Not to sleep.
Just to rest from the war inside me.
Because the battlefield wasn't out there anymore.
It was me.
And her memory was winning.
Maybe the day she is gone, she also takes the man who was with her.
And lift the man who I am.
Maybe he died with her.
Maybe just maybe.
Groaning, I blinked against the sharp streak of sunlight slicing through the curtains, cutting across my face like a blade. My head throbbed — a dull, familiar ache that had become the first breath of every morning.
It didn't surprise me.
This heaviness, this weight between my brows, the dry mouth, the swollen eyelids… they were all constants now.
You would think, after five years, I would stop waking up with the same question:
Why did she leave? She can fight with me? Stop talking to me? Hit me? But she choose to leave!? To only me but everyone!? Maybe?
But it had stopped being a question. Now it was just a fact.
Just like the hangover.
Just like the silence.
I pushed myself upright slowly, feeling the echo of last night's bottle crawl through my skull. There was no mess in the room, not anymore. I'd trained myself to keep the chaos inside me only. Not around me.
The floor was cold under my feet as I walked to the bathroom. I didn't even switch on the lights — I knew the space by heart. The mirror, the faint water stain near the tap, the shampoo bottle I never changed, the toothbrush that had a second one next to it. Still. Hers.
I turned on the shower and stepped under it without waiting for the water to warm up. I needed the cold.
To wake me.
To numb me.
To remind me I still had skin.
I let the water run until my fingers shriveled. Until my breath was steady. Then I stepped out, wiped my face with the towel, and changed into a fresh white kurta.
White.
I had stopped wearing black the day she left.
And yet, I hadn't looked alive since.
The guards nodded at me silently as I walked down the marble steps. They knew better than to speak. It was early — the sun barely warming the palace walls — but I didn't need the clock to tell me that.
My feet knew.
My body moved like it was remembering something.
Not walking — repeating.
Every day, I went to the same place.
The same route.
Like a ghost retracing his last steps.
I stepped into the car and gave the driver a glance. He didn't ask anything. He never did. We didn't speak.
We stopped outside the old, stone-carved temple at the edge of the city — the one that had no name board, no flowers sold at the entrance, no priests waiting for donations.
It was abandoned. Forgotten by the world.
But never by me.
This was the temple I had found and start visiting the day I lost the battle of my life.
And then, one morning, something brought me back here. I don't remember what.
But I never left again.
Every day for the past five years, I came here.
To seek what I couldn't find in people.
I took the keys from under the stone near the gate — still there, untouched. I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, dust blooming in the air like it recognized me.
The first thing I did was clean.
Like every day.
I picked up the broom and began sweeping every inch of the mandir — from the marble corners to the cracks between the stones. My hands moved fast. Purposeful. Not rushed, but not delicate either.
I cleaned the walls. The floor.
And finally… the sanctum.
The old idol stood silently, watching me like it had every morning. I washed the feet of the deity gently, then poured water — cold and clean — over the stone figure. A full bath. A ritual.
I wasn't just cleaning stone.
I was trying to clean my sins.
My past.
My helplessness.
The man I used to be.
I lit the diya. It flickered.
Just then, I heard soft footsteps behind me.
"You're early today," came the familiar voice.
Pajari ji.
The old priest who had once told me, "Even if you don't believe in God, still come. Sometimes, He believes in you."
I nodded silently. He joined me at the sanctum, and together, we began the puja. The chants flowed like music I didn't understand, but had memorized. My lips moved on their own.
It wasn't devotion. It was desperation.
And after the last bell rang, we sat for a minute. Just silence between us.
Then I stood, took his blessing like every day, and walked back to the car.
The driver didn't ask where to next.
He knew.
The same route. The same pattern.
First the Gurudwara — I washed my hands, covered my head with a white cloth, and sat quietly for exactly eleven minutes. I didn't pray. I listened.
To the shabad.
To the echoes of forgiveness.
To the sound of something bigger than me.
Then came the Masjid.
I stood outside respectfully, removed my shoes, and watched the people bow with a surrender I could never master.
I placed my hand on my chest and whispered,
"Ya Allah, agar usse bhi dard hota hai, toh us tak mera afsos pahuncha dena."
(If she ever feels pain, let my sorrow reach her.)
Lastly, I went to the Church.
I lit a candle.
Always the same corner.
Same spot.
And said the same line I had whispered five years ago the day she walked away:
"Forgive me, Father, for I do not know how to love without losing myself."
You see…
She didn't just take me with her.
She took the version of me that laughed, that hoped, that could breathe without effort.
But she also left behind something.
She left behind the man who didn't kneel before God.
Who searches for peace where there is none.
Who still believes… maybe somewhere, her soul will hear the echoes of his routine and know — he never forgot.
Not one moment.
Not one mistake.
Not one prayer whispered in her name.
And so, every morning, I rise again.
Not because I am strong.
But because some part of me hopes that answers live in these sacred walls, where silence is worshipped, and Gods do not judge broken men.
The car's hum was the only sound filling the quiet morning air as I drove back home from the last church visit. My hands were steady on the wheel, but my mind… my mind was a thousand miles away, in another time, another life.
Five years. Five years of the same road, the same turns, the same halts at the temple, gurdwara, masjid, church. Five years of asking the same silent questions to four different gods. I wasn't even sure who would answer me first, but… maybe that wasn't the point anymore.
The gates of my house swung open, the guards bowing slightly as the driver drove in. I gave a short nod, not because I was arrogant, but because I didn't have the strength for anything more.
Inside, the silence of my home wrapped around me like a heavy cloak. No laughter. No chatter. Just… the echo of my own footsteps. I walked straight to my room, shedding the white kurta I'd worn to the temple and pulling on my crisp grey trousers and a perfectly pressed shirt. The same cufflinks gleamed in the soft light filtering through the curtains which she fave me as a gift for the first time. The tie hung loose around my neck for a moment — I had no patience for rushing.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was freshly shaven, my hair slicked back neatly, but my eyes… my eyes looked like they belonged to a man who hadn't slept for years. A man who had forgotten what it felt like to live.
The knock on the door pulled me back. "Sir?"
It was Raghav, my personal secretary. Always punctual, always in control, unlike me.
"Come in," I said, buttoning my cuffs.
He stepped in with the same calm expression, holding a sleek black folder in one hand and his tablet in the other. "Your schedule for today," he began, flipping the folder open as I adjusted my tie.
"Tell me," I replied, my tone low, almost mechanical.
"At 9:30 a.m., you have the quarterly board meeting with the directors. After that, there's a call with the Singapore investors at 11. Then—"
"Cancel the Singapore call," I interrupted.
Raghav blinked. "Sir?"
"I said cancel it," I repeated, sharper this time. "Shift it to Friday. I'm not in the mood to repeat numbers today."
"Yes, sir," he said, typing something quickly into his tablet.
He cleared his throat. "At 12:30, you're scheduled for a private lunch with Mr. Mehta from the shipping department."
I gave him a flat look. "Do I look like I have lunch with people for fun, Raghav?"
He hesitated. "Sir, you agreed to it last week."
"I must've been drunk," I muttered under my breath, reaching for my blazer.
Raghav pretended not to hear that and continued, "At 2:00 p.m., you have an internal meeting with the legal team regarding the Rome expansion project."
"Rome," I repeated, finally looking at him directly.
"Yes, sir," he confirmed. "The project is in its early stages, but the investors want your physical presence for the upcoming signing."
I leaned back against the desk, crossing my arms. "When's the earliest flight?"
He swiped through his tablet. "There's one at midnight tonight, landing tomorrow morning. First class, of course. Shall I book it?"
"i will confirm this in the office. " I said without hesitation.
"Yes, sir," Raghav replied, already sending the request.
I straightened my blazer and grabbed my watch from the table, strapping it on. "Raghav," I said suddenly.
"Yes, sir?"
"When we're in Rome…" I paused, my voice lowering just a fraction, "make sure the meetings are back-to-back. I don't want any… spare time."
He nodded without asking why. That was the thing about Raghav — he never asked. He just understood that silence sometimes meant more than explanations.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"That's all for now, sir," he said.
"Good," I muttered, walking past him toward the door.
As I stepped into the corridor leading to my private elevator, I caught my own reflection in the glass panel. Black suit. Silver cufflinks. Polished shoes. On the outside, I looked like a man who had everything under control.
But inside? Inside, I was just a man still walking the same four holy places every morning… trying to bargain with gods for a miracle that was never coming.
The drive from my house to my Jaipur office was barely fifteen minutes, but I didn't put on any music. I didn't need distractions. The city was already alive — vendors shouting prices of fresh vegetables, school buses rumbling past, two-wheelers weaving recklessly through traffic.
I didn't care. My eyes weren't even on the road half the time; they were on the thoughts I was trying and failing to lock away.
When my car finally pulled up in front of the tall glass building with the gold-lettered "Raghuvanshi & Co. ," sign gleaming in the sunlight, I sat for a moment inside, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. It was that strange stillness you get before stepping into a place that demands all your masks in place.
The moment I stepped out, the valet and security guards gave their greetings.
"Good morning, sir."
I nodded once and walked through the automatic glass doors, the familiar rush of cold air-conditioning brushing against my face.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with movement — employees crossing from one lift to another, receptionists answering phones, the click-clack of heels and the shuffle of leather shoes echoing off the marble floor.
I moved past them, silent, my stride steady. No one here saw me as a man. To them, I was the king in a suit — the man who built empires in boardrooms. And I preferred it that way.
But then I saw him.
Aviyansh.
Standing near the coffee station, talking to two junior executives. He wasn't in formal attire — just a fitted dark-blue shirt with sleeves rolled up and black trousers, but he had that same easy confidence, that quiet charm that drew people toward him without him even trying.
The second his gaze flickered up and caught mine, his words to the others trailed off. I saw his jaw tighten — not obvious to anyone else, but I caught it.
And then… he turned his head away.
Ignored me.
Walked back toward the corridor without a word.
It was quick, subtle, almost polite in the way he did it — but I felt the hit in my chest like someone had pressed a cold blade there.
I knew why.
I knew exactly why.
And that knowledge didn't make it easier; it made it worse. Because the space between us wasn't made of misunderstandings — it was made of truths. Heavy truths.
I kept walking toward my private elevator, my pace unaffected, but inside, a dull ache spread through me. The kind that doesn't bend you over in pain but sits there like an old scar you can't stop touching.
A few steps later, I passed the open door of the secondary conference room.
That's when I saw him.
Ranveer Raghuvanshi — my older cousin, tall, well-groomed, dressed sharply in a charcoal suit, phone pressed to his ear. He gave me a slight nod in acknowledgment, still mid-conversation, but I didn't stop.
Family greetings could wait. We'd both learned that distance was sometimes the safer choice.
Inside the elevator, I pressed the button for the top floor and leaned against the mirrored wall. The reflections multiplied — my own face staring back at me from different angles, looking composed but not… unbothered.
Aviyansh ignoring me replayed in my head in slow motion. The stiffness in his jaw, the way he shifted his stance, how he couldn't even give me the smallest civil smile.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose.
But my mind… it was still in the lobby.
Still at the coffee station.
Still at the look Aviyansh gave me — or rather, the one he didn't.
That unspoken message between us was loud enough to drown out everything else.
The doors opened to my floor, and I stepped out into the hushed corridor leading to my office.
The office door clicked shut behind me, and the familiar silence of my private cabin wrapped around me like an old, expensive suit — perfectly tailored, but cold.
The wide glass windows opened to the Jaipur skyline, the pink sandstone palaces in the distance catching the morning light. My desk was neat, every file stacked with precision, my pen aligned exactly with the edge of the notepad.
I loosened my tie, letting myself sink into the leather chair. I should have been diving into the day's agenda, but the moment I closed my eyes for just a second, her face came.
Isha.
Not the neatly dressed version people might see at public events, but the way she looked that night — hair slightly messy from the wind, eyes full of fire and something else… something that burned right through me. She wasn't delicate. She wasn't trying to please. She spoke like she was born without fear of my titles, my wealth, my reputation.
And damn it, she got under my skin in a way no one else had.
I remembered the way she had looked at me the first time we properly spoke — not the polite glance of strangers, but with that piercing directness, as if she could see through the layers I'd built for years. I'd felt… caught. And I hated being caught.
My fingers curled loosely around the armrest. The thought of her always carried weight, like I was standing at the edge of something I'd sworn I'd never touch.
But then my mind, without permission, shifted…
To him.
Aviyansh.
My younger cousin's brother.
I saw the first day I'd met him — he was so small, after that I was his protector or safe place, we we're so closed but now that the distance between us is to big maybe not only with him it was with all the family members who don't want to see me.
At first, I didn't know the depth of it. I didn't know the weight of the history between our families that would bleed into the space between us. But I learned. And when I did, every interaction after that carried an undercurrent — sometimes sharp, sometimes muted, but always there.
I remembered a moment — years ago — when we had stood side by side at a meeting, exchanging words that sounded cordial but meant more than what they carried on the surface. He had smiled. I had smiled back. Both of us knew it was an act.
And now, earlier this morning, seeing him at my office…
The way he'd looked at me and then away… it wasn't new. But it wasn't painless either.
I didn't realise I'd been staring at the blank surface of my desk for so long until—
Knock. Knock.
The sound jolted me.
I straightened immediately, pulling the mask back into place. "Come in," I said, voice steady.
Raghav stepped in, tablet in hand, his usual crisp grey suit immaculate.
"Sir, your schedule for today," he said, closing the door behind him. "Also, I need your confirmation on the Rome booking."
Just like that, the thoughts of Isha, of Aviyansh, dissolved into the background, tucked back into the shadows where I kept them.
Business had no room for ghosts from the past.
Raghav's voice was steady, professional as always.
"Sir, your meeting with the board is handled by ranveer sir. Before that, the finance department requests your sign-off on the quarterly reports. And about the Rome booking—"
I nodded absently, my eyes on the sleek tablet in his hand, but my mind was nowhere near this room.
Rome.
Travel.
Business partnerships.
It should have been routine.
But the moment he mentioned "booking," my chest tightened with that dull, stubborn ache I thought I had long buried.
After she left me, they had left me too.
Not from the city, not from the company — but from anything remotely connected to me. Ihad avoided those places, those people, those conversations. It wasn't anger. It was… survival. I couldn't risk stepping into anything that carried the scent of her memory.
And yet, she still found her way in.
It was ridiculous. Years of discipline, of keeping my life in tight, unshakable order, and here I was — zoning out in the middle of my own office because her shadow had brushed against a thought.
I could almost see her in my mind — that quick, unfiltered smile that used to slip out before she caught herself; the way her voice carried just enough bite to make a point.
She had a way of making every place feel smaller, like the air bent toward her without asking.
I forced myself to focus back on Raghav's words, but they became a blur, the way sound gets muffled underwater.
"…confirmation needed by tonight. The delegates will—"
No.
I didn't want to be here, in this place in my mind. I didn't want to be standing anywhere near a memory that still knew how to pull me apart from the inside. This was exactly why I'd kept my distance. I'd built entire walls, relocated my focus, surrounded myself with people and projects that had nothing to do with her world.
And still… all it took was a moment of stillness for her to slip past every barrier.
I realised my fingers were pressed against my lower lip — a habit I had when I was lost in thought.
"Sir?"
Raghav's voice cut clean through the fog, sharper this time.
I blinked, straightened in my chair, adjusting my tie as if it could erase the lapse.
"Yes, Raghav?"
He studied me briefly, as if weighing whether to repeat himself or pretend he hadn't noticed. Then, with the same professionalism, he continued, "The Rome booking, sir. Should I confirm the business suite for the four-day conference?"
I exhaled, quietly. "Yes. Confirm it."
And I meant the booking — but in my head, I was confirming something else entirely.
That I was still not free of her.
The pen in my hand moved almost mechanically, signing where Raghav pointed — page after page, crisp paper sliding under my palm. The faint smell of ink mixed with the subtle scent of my cologne lingering from the morning bath. My mind wasn't in the contracts.
It happened when my eyes shifted — just a casual glance, the way you do when your focus flickers — and landed on the silver frame at the corner of my desk.
I froze.
The world seemed to go quiet around me, the ticking wall clock slowing in my ears. The face in that photo… Isha. The same mischievous smile, the sharp tilt of his head, the way the sunlight had hit his hair the day we'd taken it. My fingers paused over the paper, ink pooling into a small dark dot.
"Why did you leave me?" The question didn't come out loud, but it might as well have. It was heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs. I felt the ache that I'd learned to hide behind my routine. The ache I thought I'd buried.
My throat tightened. The air in the office felt heavier, warmer. For a second, my vision blurred, not from tiredness, but from the sting at the corner of my eyes.
I tried to swallow it down, to remind myself this was not the place, not the time. But grief doesn't care about schedules or board meetings. It seeps in, wraps around you, drags you back to the days when your world cracked open and nothing fit right again.
I reached out without thinking, brushing my fingertips over the glass of the frame, tracing the outline of his face as if I could memorize it all over again. My reflection in the glass looked like a stranger — hollow eyes, a tight jaw.
A knock at the door jolted me back.
"Sir?" Raghav's voice was cautious, hesitant. I straightened in my chair, quickly setting the frame back in its place, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the desk as if that small act could hide what had just happened.
"Yes?" My voice was steady — too steady.
Raghav stepped inside, holding another folder, but his eyes lingered on me a moment longer than usual, as if he could sense the crack in my composure.
"Your booking for Rome is ready. I just need your signature on his paper. "
I nodded, picking up the pen again, but my hand felt heavier than before. Even as I signed, my mind was still back there — in that smile, in that loss, in the part of my life I never truly came back from.
I didn't even realize when my pen stopped moving. The clock on the wall read barely past four — too early to leave — but my head was already pounding with a heaviness that had nothing to do with work. The documents in front of me blurred into meaningless black lines, and I knew… I was done for the day.
I picked up my phone and pressed the intercom.
"Raghav," I said, my voice quieter than usual, "I'm leaving. Whatever's pending… finish it from your end. Send me the important ones for signatures. Anything urgent, you call me."
"Yes, sir." There was a slight pause, as if he wanted to ask why, but he didn't.
I grabbed my keys, the familiar weight of them cold in my palm, and walked out of the office without another word. The corridor lights seemed too bright, the air outside too sharp.
By the time I reached home, the Jaipur sun was dipping low, painting the sky in shades of gold and bruised purple. I didn't head for my bedroom. My feet knew exactly where they were going — the one room in the entire house where silence wasn't just silence… it was a sanctuary.
The moment I opened that door, it was like stepping into another world. No furniture. No decorations. Just walls full of memories and the faint scent of old wood. The air was still, untouched.
Peace.
It wrapped around me like a fragile blanket, and for a few seconds, I just stood there, letting it seep into my skin. My eyes flicked to the small washroom attached. There was a bar of soap on the sink — untouched, almost absurd in its presence here.
I didn't bother with the chair in the corner. Instead, I lowered myself to the floor, feeling the cool marble press against my legs. My blazer came off, tossed carelessly to the side. I leaned back against the sofa, head tilting up until my eyes stared at the blank ceiling.
That's when the weight from the morning hit me all over again.
It wasn't a sharp stab — no, it was worse. It was the slow, suffocating ache that builds until you can't breathe without tasting it.
I didn't mean to cry. I had told myself I wouldn't. But somewhere between the stillness of the room and the echo of my own heartbeat, the dam cracked.
Then I take the photo frame from the coffee table, My lips parted, and the words came out in a voice I barely recognized.
"Why… why did you leave me?"
It wasn't a question for the world. It was for him. For the one face that haunted every quiet space in my life.
"I love you… so much. I miss you… so much." The syllables were shaky, collapsing under their own weight. "Why… why would you leave?"
The tears came then — hot, unrelenting — rolling down my cheeks and falling onto my hands. My fingers curled into fists against the cold marble, grounding me and hurting me at the same time.
Time dissolved. I don't know how long I sat there, whispering the same words over and over, as if repetition could summon him back. My voice grew hoarse, but my mind kept going in circles — memories, regrets, the cruel stillness of the day he left.
And then… it clicked.
A date.
It was coming up.
The date.
The day she left me — not figuratively, not in some metaphorical heartbreak — but left. For good. A day the calendar could not disguise, no matter how many years passed.
Yesterday afternoon, all those years ago… that was the moment my world cracked.
The thought settled in me like ice, numbing the tears for a while. I reached for my phone, dialing without thinking.
"Raghav," I said when he picked up, "I won't be coming in tomorrow. Handle the signing of the pending deal — yes, that one. Go to the meeting yourself. If there's any issue, call me. I'll approve from my end. And… if anything urgent comes up, I don't care what time it is, you'll let me know immediately."
"Yes, sir," he replied, his tone cautious, but I didn't give him room to ask questions.
I hung up. The phone slipped from my fingers onto the floor.
For a long moment, I just sat there, breathing. And then, like an old wound that refuses to stay closed, the other side of me — the reckless one, the one that seeks comfort in places it shouldn't — begin to stir. The part of me that didn't want to feel the ache, even if it meant drowning in another kind of emptiness.
The woman inside me, the one I'd spent months burying under suits and meetings, pushed her way to the surface. The one who knew exactly how to silence pain, even if only for a night.
And I let her.
Because sometimes… surviving means making peace with your own worst escape.
I didn't remember when I stopped working and just… sat here.
The papers on my desk were still where my secretary had left them, unsigned. The pen was still in my hand, but the ink hadn't touched a single page.
My eyes kept going back to the ring in my palm.
Small. Unassuming. And yet, heavy enough to drag me under if I stared at it too long. I ran my thumb over its curve again and again, as if by doing so I could smooth out the cracks in my chest.
The air in the room felt thick. My head leaned back against the wall, eyes slipping shut for what I told myself would be a second.
When I opened them, I wasn't here anymore.
I was somewhere else — somewhere I hated.
The smell hit me first. Faint smoke, mixed with a metallic tang. The ground under my shoes was uneven. And then I saw her.
Isha.
She was standing ahead, her face pale, eyes wide, mouth moving in silent panic. No sound reached me, but I could see it in every line of her — she was calling for me. Begging me.
"I'm here!" I tried to shout, but the air swallowed my voice. I pushed forward, legs moving as though I was trapped in water. Each step stretched the space between us instead of closing it.
She reached for me. I could see her trembling fingers, and could almost feel the warmth of her skin if I just… got closer.
One more step. Just one—
The world split open.
A blast of fire and light erupted, the sound deafening, the heat clawing at my skin. I stumbled back, my heart lurching into my throat as the air turned to smoke. I couldn't see her anymore.
I jolted awake.
The breath in my lungs came too fast, too loud. My hand instinctively tightened around the ring, as if letting go would make her disappear for real this time.
The room was quiet. The fan hummed faintly above me. My back ached from the hard floor. My head throbbed. I reached for the water bottle on the tea table, my hand trembling so much the plastic crackled under my grip.
The first sip was cold, grounding — but only for a second.
Because my eyes found the photograph.
Her photograph.
It sat on my hand, angled just enough that I could see her face no matter where I was in the room. She was smiling — that unguarded, real smile that made my chest tighten every damn time.
My throat burned.
"Why did you leave me…" The words came out low, almost foreign, like they belonged to a man I didn't want to admit I'd become.
The metal of the ring dug into my palm. I welcomed the sting. It was the only thing in this room that felt real enough to hold on to.
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