Mihir's POV

Her hands were still pressed to her face, cheeks burning red, when I asked the question.

"How many kids do you want?"

The silence that followed was calm. Not the heavy, suffocating silence of Tej Kapoor's dining table, but the kind that made me want to smirk. Aayat froze, shoulders stiff, like I'd dropped a bomb she hadn't prepared for.

Exactly what I wanted.

Because one more second of her blaming herself, apologizing for things that weren't her fault and she'd have drowned in it. I couldn't let her. So I did what I could do.

Her fingers parted just enough for me to see her eyes widen.

"W-what?" she stammered, her voice cracking, half hidden behind her palms.

I let the corner of my mouth twitch upward, keeping my tone deceptively casual. "Kids, Aayat. One? Two? Or should we make a cricket team?"

She made a choking sound, somewhere between outrage and shock, and buried her face deeper into her hands. I bit back a chuckle. Perfect. Exactly the distraction she needed.

"You're insane," she muttered, muffled against her palms.

"Insane?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow, pretending to think about it. "Not really. I'm just a planner. Elections, budgets, family expansion strategies...sab ek saath chalna chahiye."

Her head shot up then, eyes wide, cheeks a furious red. "Family expansion strategies? Are you serious right now?"

I kept my gaze on the road, steady, calm, but the smirk tugged at my lips again. "Very serious. You should know by now, I don't waste words. When I say something, I mean it."

Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. She looked like she wanted to argue, to throw something at me, maybe both. The sight made something in my chest loosen.

Finally, her focus wasn't on Tej Kapoor. Not on guilt. Not on fear. Just on me.

I tapped my fingers lightly on the steering wheel, deliberately lightening my tone again. "So? Answer the question. One kid? Two? Or the cricket team?"

Her head whipped toward me, scandalized. "Mihir!"

I let out a quiet laugh, low, the kind I rarely allowed myself. "Don't shout, Mrs. Raghuvanshi. The driver might think we're fighting. And then he'll spread gossip about the CM's wife not wanting children."

Her scandalized gasp was the sweetest sound I'd heard all night.

Mission accomplished.

Her gasp still echoed in the car when she turned on me, eyes wide, cheeks red.

"You... you shouldn't talk like this!" she said, flustered, voice tumbling over itself. "It's not... not proper. Bacche... bacche karne ke liye bhi 9 mahine lagte hain."

("No...no. Even to have kids, it takes nine months.")

Aayat what i thought for a moment. But my lips curved into the slowest, most deliberate smirk.

She blinked, realized what she had just said, and froze.

And then, in a whisper, she added without thinking, "Aur hum toh sirf saat mahine ke liye sath hai..."

("And we're only together for seven months...")

Her own words seemed to crash into her as she cut herself off mid-sentence. Her eyes went huge, her lips clamped shut, and then she literally slapped her forehead with her palm.

I let out a low laugh, sharp, amused. "Saat mahine?" I drawled, savoring the way her ears turned crimson. "Aayat, tum ginti bhi kar rahi ho?"

("Seven months"..... "Aayat, are you even counting?")

She groaned, pressing both hands to her face again. "I didn't mean that..oh God...I wasn't saying that!" she mumbled, mortified. "Why do I even talk around you? Mujhe chhup rehna chahiye bas!"

("I should just stay quiet!")

I couldn't resist. "Nahi, bilkul bhi nhi. Tum bolte hue acchi lagti ho."

("No, not at all. You look good when you talk.")

She let out a strangled sound, like she wanted to disappear into the car seat. I leaned back slightly, keeping my tone deliberately casual, as if we were discussing the weather.

"Waise, saat mahine bhi kaafi hai," I murmured, half to myself, knowing she'd hear.

("Anyway, seven months is more than enough.")

Her head snapped toward me so fast I thought she might hurt herself. "Mihir!" she squeaked, outrage mixing with sheer embarrassment.

I gave her my calmest, most politician-perfect face... except for the smirk tugging at my lips. "Kya? I was just agreeing with you. Practicality is important, Mrs. Raghuvanshi."

Exactly what I wanted. No Tej Kapoor. No guilt. No self-blame.

I let the silence linger a second, then added, tone lighter than air, "Toh decide ho gaya? Agar tum chaho toh hum contract 2 mahine aur extend kar sakte hai."

("So, is it decided? If you want, we can extend the contract for another two months.")

Her horrified squeal filled the car, and for the first time that day, I laughed...freely, openly, without restraint.

And the way her eyes widened at the sound, like she'd never expected to hear me laugh like that, was worth every second of this.

Her squeal was still ringing in my ears when she whirled on me, eyes blazing, cheeks redder than the brake lights outside.

"Bas karo, Mihir!" she burst out, hands flying up. "Stop with this nonsense! I would love to die before even having the thoughts to have kids with you!"

The car went dead silent

Her eyes squeezed shut, muttering under her breath, "Main pagal ho jaungi. Main literally pagal ho jaungi tumhare saath."

("I'll go crazy. I'll literally go crazy with you.")

I let my voice dip low, teasing but edged with something warmer, something I didn't usually let her hear.

"Pagal toh tum pehle se hi ho. Mujhe dekho sirf ek sawal poocha tha.

Tum toh seedha planning pe utar aayi."

("You've been crazy from the start. Look at me ...I just asked one question.

And you? You went straight into planning mode.")

She peeked at me from between her fingers, embarrassed, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes now ..like even she knew this back-and-forth was pulling her out of that dark spiral she'd been in all evening.

I leaned back

"Vaise, tumhare marne se pehle... ek chhota sa update de do. Kitne bachche nahi chahiye?"

("By the way, before you die... give me a quick update: how many children do you not want?")

Her groan was pure anguish. She dropped her forehead into her palms, muttering, "Mihir, I swear, one day I'm going to throw you out of your own car."

I chuckled softly,

and this time, it wasn't just a smirk. It was a real laugh

quiet, warm, the kind that surprised even me.

She peeked up at me, startled by the sound, and for a split second, our eyes met. All the teasing, all the banter, faded into something else - something softer.

I looked back outside quickly, clearing my throat, but the corner of my mouth stayed curved. "Good," I said quietly, almost more to myself than to her. "Finally, you're not thinking about Tej Kapoor. Mission accomplished."

She blinked at me, still flustered, but some of the tension in her shoulders

melted.

"Idiot," she muttered, but there was no heat in it now.

I let the smirk soften again. "Always."

And just like that, the car felt lighter.

We reached home.

The Aayat Kapoor the world knew would never look like this.

That woman was fire. Cold, sharp, commanding. The CEO everyone bowed their heads to, the woman men twice her age hesitated to cross. She carried herself like a blade. polished, unflinching, impossible to bend.

That Aayat Kapoor didn't tremble. Didn't break. Didn't need anyone.

But here she was.

And I realized... this version of her? No one else would ever see it. She'd never allow it. She'd burn the world before she let them glimpse this fragile edge of her.

And i was the one to witness this me.

I leaned back into the couch, watching her from the corner of my eye. My lips curved, slow and private.

Because this tiny, hidden softness belonged only to me maybe.

My witch. Bold enough to fight anyone. Sharp enough to cut through every room she walks into. And yet... just a little bit  very little bit good.

Good in a way she doesn't even realize. Good in a way that terrifies her, because she thinks weakness and goodness are the same thing.

But they're not. Not for her.

For her, this goodness makes her dangerous. Because it means she'll fight harder, carry more than she should, and never ask for help.

I sighed, closing my eyes briefly.

Bold, ruthless, untouchable... that's the Aayat everyone sees.

But mine?

Mine is the woman sitting across this room, fighting her own shadows, blaming herself for sins that aren't hers.

And God help me I'd burn the entire world before I let her drown in them.

She sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, trying to appear composed. But I could see it — the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her shoulders were tense despite her calm posture.

She cleared her throat. "Mihir..."

I raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

Her eyes flicked toward me, hesitant but determined. "It's been... one and a half months since we got married. And... I haven't asked you about the citizens."

Citizens. Of course. Practical, sharp, always thinking beyond herself.

"They're watching. Adjusting. Some curious, some supportive, some still wary. It's normal. People don't change overnight," I said, keeping my tone calm.

She tilted her head slightly. "And they're... accepting me?"

I held her gaze. The way she asked quietly, carefully, almost unsure was the opposite of the fearless CEO everyone knew. And yet... there was fire there too. The kind that demanded answers, not excuses.

"They will. Eventually, everyone does," I replied steadily. "People notice strength, Aayat. And you have it. In abundance."

I watched her blink, almost as if she'd forgotten she had eyes in her head. She looked down, twisting the end of her dupatta between her fingers.

"Strength. That's what they call it..." Her voice was soft, thoughtful.

"That's what it is," I said, letting a faint smirk tug at my lips. She glanced up, startled, catching it, but didn't comment.

Then she straightened slightly, regaining some of her usual sharpness. "Good. But don't think I'll let you off easy. I'll be asking about every detail from now on."

I arched an eyebrow, smirk widening. "Every detail?"

"Every. Single. One," she said, voice firm, almost defiant.

I leaned back against the desk, arms crossing, letting her words settle. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Mrs. Raghuvanshi."

She tried to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. I noticed. Of course I noticed. Every twitch, every flicker it was mine alone to see.

And as she sat there, quiet for a moment, I let the thought slip into my mind: the world sees a CEO. I see something else. Someone bold enough to terrify everyone, yes... and still just a little good.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes lifting to meet mine, and I could tell she'd heard the unspoken compliment in my tone. She didn't argue, didn't deflect. She just let it sit there, heavy and unspoken between us.

"You make me sound like some... impossible person," she murmured.

I smirked faintly, voice low, measured. "You are. And that's exactly why they'll follow you."

And I watched her reaction closely, because this side of her this careful, quiet, unguarded side belonged only to me. My witch. Bold, sharp, untouchable... and just a little very little good.

She was quiet for a long time after our conversation about the citizens. Sitting cross‑legged on the bed, staring at the floor as if it had answers hidden in the wood.

Then, without looking at me, she asked softly, but every word landed like a stone:

"When I'll leave after seven months... I mean, after our divorce... will you miss me?"

I froze.

I had been standing by the window, half‑turned, scrolling through something on my phone. But her question made me still completely.

Will you miss me?

I didn't move. I didn't even breathe for a heartbeat.

I looked at her then. She wasn't playing. Her eyes were clear, fixed on some invisible point ahead.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn't know what to say.

Would I?

Would I miss her?

I wasn't sure. I didn't know what "missing" even meant anymore. But I knew this: in a month and a half, I had become used to her. Used to her voice drifting down the hall. Used to her footsteps in the kitchen in the night. Used to her questions about the state, about the people, about everything that mattered to me but that no one else dared to ask.

Somehow, without trying, she'd become a part of the rhythm of my life.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She tilted her head slightly, waiting.

I swallowed and finally said, very quietly, "I... don't know."

Her brows furrowed, the faintest flicker of hurt flashing in her eyes before she masked it with that same CEO‑perfect neutrality.

"But..." I added, my voice lower, steadier, "I've gotten used to you."

She blinked at that, looking almost startled.

"I don't know if I'll miss you," I said honestly, "but I know this right now, I notice when you're not in the room. I notice when it's quiet. I notice you."

Silence. Heavy, alive.

She gave a small, wry laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That's not the same thing as missing someone."

I didn't correct her. Because she was right. But I also knew something she didn't habits have a way of becoming needs. And I wasn't sure yet which one she was for me.

I turned back to the window, hiding the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. My witch, I thought, you have no idea"

The room was quiet now. The day's tension, the car ride, Tej Kapoor's threats all of it had melted into the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint rustle of the curtains.

I lay on my side, my back facing her, one arm tucked beneath my head. The warmth of the bed, the faint scent of her shampoo lingering in the sheets, was oddly grounding.

I could feel her gaze, light but unrelenting, even though she hadn't said a word.

Then, soft and teasing, she broke the silence.

"You're... getting old, you know," she murmured, eyes still fixed on me.

I didn't move, keeping my back to her. "I'm not," I replied, voice even, calm, but I could sense the teasing challenge in her tone.

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk. "Oh really? Then explain this," she said, reaching forward ever so slightly, brushing her fingers against my hair. "...see? Four white hairs. That's what happens when you get old."

I let out a quiet, almost amused laugh, turning my head just enough to peek at her from the corner of my eye. "Four? That's hardly old."

She huffed softly, mock indignant. "Mihir. You're just... aging on me."

I shifted slightly, letting my arm drape across the space behind her back, just enough to feel the proximity without touching. "Then consider it a warning," I said low, teasing in the way I knew would annoy her. "Careful, or you'll be the one counting your own white hairs soon enough."

She groaned, flopping her head back onto the pillow. "Impossible. I'm not getting old. Not before you."

I let the faintest smirk tug at my lips again, eyes closing just slightly. "We'll see about that, my witch."

The room fell into a comfortable silence again. Her steady breathing mingled with mine, the soft rise and fall of the sheets beneath us. And for a moment, just like this, I let myself forget everything else.

Because right now... she was here. And I was beside her. And that was enough.

"Mihir... where are your parents?"

The words hit harder than I expected. Harder than anything Tej Kapoor had thrown at me tonight.

I wanted to snap. To lash out. To shove the memories, the hatred, the bitterness so far down that no one...not her, not anyone .....could ever reach them.

Because the truth... the truth wasn't simple. There was no clean story. No neat explanation. Only fragments of anger, pain, and betrayal I'd carried for years.

I could feel it rising, coiling tight in my chest. My hands clenched at my side, the nails pressing into my palms, because every instinct told me to say something...but anything I said would sound weak, inadequate. Vulnerable.

And the worst part? The part that scared me the most? That part was her looking at me, soft, expecting an answer. Expecting clarity.

I almost shouted. Almost told her to stop. Almost told her she had no idea what she was asking. But I didn't. I couldn't.

Not yet.

Instead, I lay there, body tense, jaw tight, my back still to her. The silence stretched between us, thick, suffocating. The anger throbbed beneath my ribs, raw and uncontained. The vulnerability I never allowed anyone to see was burning just under the surface.

Her voice, soft and hesitant, whispered again: "Mihir?"

Something in me snapped, not fully, but enough to shake me inside. My hand gripped the edge of the bed until my knuckles went white. I wanted to roar, to throw something, to let the fury out... but I swallowed it.

I exhaled slowly, shoving the storm down where no one could see it. My voice finally came, low, harsh, tight with everything I wasn't saying:

"It's... complicated."

I didn't meet her eyes. Couldn't.

Because the truth was a hurricane, and if I let it out, it would destroy everything in its path even her.

Yet, even as the anger simmered, even as the hurt lingered like fire under ice, there was one thing I couldn't deny: having her here, in this room, beside me, made it bearable. Made it possible not to lose control completely.

But just barely.

The bed felt too small. The quiet felt too loud. Her question echoed in my skull, twisting, clawing at the edges of things I hadn't touched in years.

Where are your parents?

God, I hated that question. Hated it because it pulled open old wounds, because it reminded me of everything I'd tried to lock away. Because it forced me to confront the parts of myself I barely admitted even to myself.

I could feel the anger crawling up my throat. A hot, sharp pulse that made my chest tighten, my fists clench. I wanted to lash out. To scream. To make her understand that some things didn't have answers. That some truths weren't hers to bear.

But I couldn't. Not fully.

Not with her there.

I could sense her eyes on me, hesitant, searching, soft. That softness ..it made the fire in my chest flare and choke me all at once. She had no idea. No idea what it felt like to carry the weight of absence, of betrayal, of people who were supposed to love you and didn't.

I wanted to tell her to stop asking. Wanted to push the world away. But I didn't. I swallowed hard, my jaw tight, teeth pressing into my lower lip.

Because the truth the awful, messy, impossible truth was that even I didn't fully know how to answer.

All I knew was this: in the last one and a half months, I had started to notice her. Not in some fleeting, passing way. Not in the way I noticed the sunrise or the hum of the city.

I had started to notice her. Her presence. Her voice. The way she insisted on seeing everything clearly, on asking questions no one else dared.

And that knowledge twisted something inside me. Vulnerability I had never allowed myself to feel, anger I hadn't admitted, and something deeper something that scared me that maybe I would miss her.

I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just lay there, rigid, every muscle coiled, every thought a storm I couldn't release.

Because if I let it out ..even a word, even a whisper — it might unravel me. And I couldn't let her see that.

Not her. Not ever.

So I stayed silent.

Breathing. Tense. Angry. Vulnerable. Conflicted.

Watching, feeling, noticing.

Her presence beside me was a tether I couldn't explain. And God help me, I wasn't sure if I wanted to let go.

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AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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