Silence folds around me again, heavy and suffocating.
For a long moment, I stand there, my chest heaving, my mind racing. The blood on my hands is already drying, sticking to my skin like evidence I cannot wash away.
I should go to Bhai-sa. I should explain, justify, lay bare everything that happened before the story twists into something else. And I will. Later.
But right now—
Right now, I need to see Poorvi.
I need to see if she’s okay. If she’s breathing steady again. If the tears have left her eyes. If she knows—if she truly knows—that I believed her without a single doubt.
My fists clench again, but this time not from anger. From fear. From the memory of her voice cracking as she begged me to believe her.
That sight will never leave me.
And I will make sure no one—no one—ever brings her to her knees again.
CHAPTER 36
Shattered, Yet Held
VIHAAN
The corridor outside our chambers feels colder than it should.
It’s the same marble I’ve walked on all my life, the same carved doors, the same walls that echo footsteps and whispers alike—but today they feel different. Hollow. Icy.
My boots scrape against the floor louder than usual, like the sound itself wants to accuse me of being late, of failing her. Every step closer to our door makes my chest heavier.
I’ve handled scandals in boardrooms, smoothed over royal disputes, faced the flashing glare of cameras when the press wanted my head. I know how to fight when the battlefield demands it. But this—this silence behind the door, this suffocating absence of her presence—this is worse than any war I’ve fought.
A staff hovers outside, her pallu twisted in her hands, her face pale. She bows slightly when I near. “Kunwarani-sa went inside some time ago, Hukum,” she whispers. “She hasn’t returned. We knocked… but she won’t answer. We thought—maybe she was resting.”
Resting.
I clench my jaw so tight it aches. Rest doesn’t lock itself away. Rest doesn’t drown itself in silence.
Without another word, I step past her. My pulse is hammering harder than it did when I was dragging Ranbir through the courtyard like a dog. Because this is different. That was fury. This is fear. Fear that claws sharp, merciless.
I stop at the bathroom door and knock, my knuckles firm, measured. “Poorvi.”
No sound except for the water running.
My chest tightens. I try again, softer this time. “It’s me. Open the door.”
Still nothing.
The panic begins its slow climb up my throat. I press my palm against the door as though the wood could somehow carry my urgency through. “Poorvi. If you don’t open the door, I will break it down.”
Silence. Not even the scrape of movement.
My hand curls into a fist, slamming against the wood. “Poorvi, please!” The word rips out of me raw, louder than I intended. I never beg. But right now I don’t care. “Open the door!”
Still, nothing.
The coil inside me snaps. I draw back and drive my heel into the wood. Once. Twice. The third time it cracks open with a violent shudder, the splintered frame swinging wide to reveal the sight that steals the air from my lungs.
She’s there.
