Mihir's POV

The house was too quiet after she left the room.

Even the air felt different, colder, heavier.

Her footsteps had faded down the hall, but somehow, her presence lingered.

That's what she always did.

She left... but didn't really leave.

I stood there, staring at the door she'd just walked out of.

And then at the diary on the table.

That damned diary.

The one I'd promised myself never to open again.

The one I'd told myself I'd burned years ago.

My mother's voice, her pain, sealed between those pages.

And now Aayat had read it.

She'd seen everything.

Every scar I'd spent years pretending didn't exist.

I walked toward the table, slow, almost cautious.

My fingers brushed the cover, the old leather rough beneath my skin.

For a moment, my chest clenched so tight I thought I wouldn't be able to breathe.

I didn't want to remember.

But the thing about memory is, it never asks for permission.

And suddenly, I was twelve again.

The walls of our old house closing in.

My sister's muffled sobs behind the door.

The sound of glass shattering, my mother's scream, cut short, like a flame snuffed out.

I used to count those sounds.

To measure how bad the night would be.

If he broke a glass, he was only angry.

If he broke silence, someone would bleed.

The sound of his footsteps was enough to make my stomach twist.

Every time he looked at me, I'd hold my breath, praying I wouldn't remind him of her.

Of the woman he loved to destroy.

And my mother...

Saanvi Raghuvanshi.

She was light.

Even in that darkness, she was light.

She'd smile at me after every storm, wipe the blood off my face and say, "You're stronger than him, Mihir. Promise me you'll always be stronger."

And I promised.

Like an idiot, I promised.

But I wasn't strong.

Not when it mattered.

Not the night she stopped screaming.

I remember the silence that followed, it wasn't peace. It was absence.

An absence so deep it hollowed something out of me forever.

They said she slipped, that she fell down the stairs.

But I knew better.

We all did.

He was gone before the police came.

And when they asked what happened, I said nothing.

Because silence was the only language I knew.

After that... everything blurred.

Foster care.

Boarding school.

Politics.

Power.

Control.

I built an empire out of silence.

Because silence couldn't hurt me.

And now,

Aayat.

Aayat, with her stubborn eyes and her voice that cuts through walls I didn't even know were still standing.

Aayat, who walked into my ghosts like she belonged there.

Who read the pages of my mother's pain as if she had the right to.

Who looked at me like she saw me.

And that terrified me more than anything ever had.

Because I know what happens to people who care about me.

They break.

They burn.

They disappear.

But she didn't understand, once you let someone see that darkness, they either run from it or drown in it.

And I couldn't afford either.

So I pushed her away.

The way I've pushed everyone away.

With words sharp enough to keep her at a distance.

But now that she's gone...

Now that the room is empty again...

All I can feel is the ache of it.

I walk to the window, looking out at the city.

The skyline blurs behind the glass.

It's raining, of course it's raining.

It always rains when I think of her.

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I see them all again.

Naina, tiny, fearless, always asking too many questions.

Advit, barely old enough to speak, clutching my finger like it could save him from the world.

Gone.

All of them, gone.

I don't even know if Naina and Advit are alive.

I looked for them for years.

Then I stopped, because every lead ended with another grave, another lie.

And maybe that's why I can't stand Aayat looking at me like that.

Like she might stay.

Like she might love me anyway.

Because people don't stay.

They die, or they leave, or they find out who I really am and realize they should have run sooner.

The rain outside thickens, hitting the windows in steady rhythm.

And in that sound, I hear her voice again.

My mother's.

Soft, trembling, almost gone:

"Don't let him turn you into him, Mihir."

I open my eyes.

My reflection in the glass stares back, calm, composed, controlled.

Everything I swore I'd become to survive.

And all I can think is,

Maybe I already failed her.

Because tonight, when Aayat looked at me...

I saw fear in her eyes.

The same kind of fear I once had for him.

And that thought, it destroys me.

I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, and press my palms to my face.

For the first time in years, I want to scream.

But I can't.

Because the silence... it's all I have left.

The rain hasn't stopped.

It's turned into a steady roar now, drumming against the windows like it's trying to get in.

I sit there, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor that's nothing but reflections of streetlights and old ghosts.

There's no sound except the rain, until there is.

A soft knock.

Once.

Then silence again.

My throat tightens instantly.

Her knock. I'd know it anywhere.

Another knock, firmer this time.

Then her voice, quiet, trembling, but determined.

"Mihir..."

She waits, but I don't answer.

I can't.

"You can shout at me if you want," she says, her voice a little louder now, breaking through the stillness. "You can yell. You can hate me for reading that diary, for crossing the line... but I'm not leaving you like this. Do you understand?"

Her words hit harder than they should.

Because she means them.

Every single one.

She's standing out there, probably barefoot, maybe still in that ridiculous oversized shirt she wears when she's angry but doesn't want to look like she is.

And she's waiting.

For me.

The silence between us stretches.

I stare at the door, my jaw locked, my hands curled into fists on my knees.

I want to tell her to go.

To stop trying to fix something that can't be fixed.

To leave before I turn into the kind of man my father was, someone who destroys everything that dares to care.

But the words won't come.

Why? Cause of my mumma

"Promise me you'll never be like him".

I can never be like him maa. I can never treat aayat like that maa.

Because for the first time in months, I don't want her to go.

I don't look at the door, but I can feel her there.

Leaning against the wall, arms probably folded across her chest, trying to be strong, even though I know her voice shakes when she cries.

I can imagine the way she keeps glancing at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn, refusing to give up on me even when I've given up on myself.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

The rain outside softens to a whisper.

She doesn't knock again.

She doesn't call my name.

She just waits.

And somehow, that's worse.

Because that kind of patience, is the one thing I've never known how to face.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face.

My chest feels tight, my throat heavier than it should.

She's still there.

I can feel her there.

And though I say nothing, some part of me,  the small, broken part that still remembers what warmth feels like, whispers into the silence:

Don't go.

But I don't open the door.

Not yet.

Because I know if I see her right now, if she looks at me with those eyes full of defiance and heartbreak

Every wall I've built will shatter.

So I just sit there, breathing, listening to the faint sound of her shifting outside the door, refusing to leave me to my ghosts.

For the first time in years, I'm not alone.

And somehow, that terrifies me more than the loneliness ever did.

The morning light spilled weakly through the curtains. I pushed myself up from the floor, muscles stiff from the night spent in silence, letting the cold floor press into me as if grounding me.

When I opened the door, she was still there. Waiting. Quiet. Patient. Her eyes, those insistent, unwavering eyes, fixed on me.

I wanted to step back. To close the door and retreat into the safety of my silence. But I couldn't. Not with her there.

"I..." I started, my voice rough, unfamiliar even to me. "...Aayat. I mean... I'm sorry. For the way I behaved yesterday."

Her lips curved faintly, a softness in her expression. "You don't have to be," she said gently. "I was the one who invaded your privacy when I shouldn't have."

Silence stretched between us, thick and almost suffocating. The air felt heavier, the quiet louder than any words. She shifted slightly, hesitant, like she wanted to step closer but didn't want to push. I stood frozen, staring at her, feeling my chest tighten as the memories I had tried so hard to lock away clawed their way up.

Finally... finally, I did something I hadn't done in years. My hands, shaking slightly, reached up to hold hers. Her warmth surprised me, jolting something deep inside that I didn't even realize was still alive.

"I..." My voice faltered. "...I don't know where to start."

She didn't let go. She waited, patient and silent, letting me gather the courage I didn't know I had.

"They... my mother," I began, my fingers tightening around hers as if holding on could keep me from collapsing. "She was... she was a famous fashion designer, Aayat. Everyone loved her work... everyone except him. After she married my father, everything ended. Her career, her dreams... her life. It all... stopped."

I shook slightly, my throat tight. "She tried to survive... for us. Naina, Advit... me. She smiled when she could, laughed when she could... and when she couldn't, she suffered. And I... I was just a kid. Twelve years old. And I couldn't protect her. And she... she paid the price for my weakness."

A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it. My hands trembled more, and I finally let myself sink to the floor, pulling her hands with me. She didn't pull away. She just knelt there, letting me lean on her, letting me be small in front of her.

"I... I promised myself I'd never be weak again," I whispered, voice barely audible over the rain drumming outside. "I promised myself I'd survive. That I'd carry everything... alone. Because if anyone cared about me, they'd get hurt. They'd leave... or worse. And I... I became someone I barely recognize."

My fingers shook as I wiped at my eyes, but it didn't help. And I didn't care. I couldn't care.

"I lost her, Aayat," I admitted finally, voice cracking. "I lost my mother... and I never forgave myself. And now... now you've seen her. You've seen her through me... and I..."

I couldn't finish. My chest heaved with the weight of everything I'd buried for years. But she didn't push. She didn't speak. She just let me tremble in her presence, holding my hands, steady, unwavering, giving me permission to break.

For the first time in years, I let it happen. I let myself crumble, shaking, shivering, finally unafraid of the silence that had been my shield for so long.

And through the quiet, I felt her there. Waiting. Holding. Seeing me.

I stayed on the floor, my hands still trembling in hers, my body rigid with a tension I hadn't let go of in years.

"She... she tried to fight him, Aayat," I whispered, voice broken, ragged. "Every time he... every time he lost control, she tried. She wanted to protect us. But he... he never stopped. And I... I watched. I watched my mother... scream... and I... I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. Because I was small. Helpless. Terrified."

Her fingers squeezed mine, gentle, warm. "Mihir..." she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "It wasn't your fault. You were a child."

I shook my head violently, tears streaming freely now. "No. It was my fault. I should have done something. Anything. I should have... I should have protected her. I promised her I'd be strong, and I... I failed. Every day since, I've built this life... this... armor... to survive. To make sure no one else ever sees me like that... weak. But... Aayat... even now, I feel that night inside me. Every day. Every decision I make... it's haunted by him. My father."

I could hear the trembling in my own voice, the raw edge of years of silence and fear finally cracking. "He... he was cruel. Not just to her... to all of us. And when she... when she died..." My chest tightened, and I struggled to get the words out. "They said it was an accident. That she slipped... down the stairs. But I knew. I knew the truth. We all did. And he... he was gone. Just gone. Left us to pick up the pieces of a life he destroyed."

I couldn't stop shaking. My body trembled with grief, rage, and years of suppressed terror. And through it all... Aayat stayed. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just held my hands. Just let me crumble.

Her voice was soft, unwavering. "Mihir... look at me."

I hesitated, then slowly raised my head. Her eyes were dark, deep, steady. And she said it, the thing I hadn't been ready to hear:

"Your eyes... Mihir. They're exactly like hers. Kohlblack. And I see her in you. Her strength. Her fire."

I swallowed hard, a strangled sound in my throat. My hands gripped hers tighter, and for the first time in years, I allowed myself to truly lean on someone. "I... I never wanted anyone to see this part of me," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I never wanted anyone to know that the boy inside me... the scared, helpless boy... still exists. But... you... you saw. And somehow... you're still here."

She didn't say anything. She just nodded, letting me hold onto her, letting me spill everything I'd buried.

"I hate him," I whispered, rage and grief mixing in the strangest, most painful way. "I hate my father. For what he did to her... for what he did to me... to all of us. And sometimes... sometimes I hate myself for surviving. For not being able to save her."

Her hand moved to my cheek, gentle. "You survived, Mihir. You survived because she raised you strong. You carry her in you, her courage, her fire. And I... I'm not leaving you. Not like this. Not ever."

The rain outside softened to a quiet drizzle, and in that stillness, I let myself shiver, let myself cry, let myself finally face the boy I'd been hiding behind Mihir Raghuvanshi, the man everyone else knew.

And she stayed.

And for the first time in years, I felt... not alone.

I held her hands tighter, my voice raw, trembling with the weight of every memory I'd buried. The silence between us was thick, heavy, but safe, strangely safe, because she hadn't recoiled. She hadn't left.

"My sister... Naina," I began, swallowing hard, trying to force the words out. "She... she was fearless. Even as a child. She never let him see her cry. Never let him know he scared her. She tried... she always tried to shield me. To shield Advit."

I closed my eyes, remembering the tiny, determined hands of a girl not much older than ten trying to stop a man who could destroy everything with a single word. "Advit... my little brother... he barely understood what was happening. But he felt it. Every time she cried, every time my mother... every time..." My voice broke, the words stopping short.

I opened my eyes slowly. The room felt too small, too full of ghosts. "They're gone now. Naina... Advit... I don't even know where they are. I searched. Everywhere. Every orphanage, every boarding school, every lead... nothing. They disappeared. And I... I've carried that too. Their faces, their fears... their laughter. It's all here, in me."

I pressed my forehead to her hand, trembling. "Aayat... I've spent years building walls around me, pretending I was untouchable, unbreakable. But... when I see you standing there, waiting... I can't hide anymore. I can't pretend that I'm just Mihir Raghuvanshi, Chief Minister, master of control. Because the truth... the real truth... is I'm just a scared little boy still trying to protect the pieces of my family that I've lost."

Her thumb brushed against my cheek, warm, steady. "Mihir... you're not that boy anymore. You survived him, you survived everything he did. And you carry them, Naina, Advit, your mother, inside you. But you don't have to carry it alone anymore. Not with me."

I let out a ragged laugh that was more pain than humor. "I don't know if I can... if I even know how to be anything but this wall, this... armor. But you... you see me, Aayat. Even with all this mess inside me, all these ghosts... you see me."

She leaned closer, resting her forehead against mine. "Always," she whispered.

The tears I'd been holding for years spilled freely then. And for the first time, I didn't stop them. For the first time in decades, I let myself fall apart in front of someone.

"I... I want to find them," I admitted, voice barely audible. "I want to find Naina and Advit. I want... I want to tell them their brother survived. That... that we made it through. Somehow. And... and I... I want you to be with me when I do it. If you'll let me."

Her fingers tightened around mine. "Of course, Mihir. I won't leave you. Not for anything."

And in that quiet morning, with the rain softening outside and the ghosts of my past hovering in every corner, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: hope.

Hope that maybe, with her, I could face it all.

Hope that maybe, one day, we could find the pieces of my family... and heal them together.

For the first time in decades, I let the weight of my silence lift slightly, letting someone else in.

And for the first time, I felt like maybe... I wasn't alone anymore.

I closed my eyes, letting the words tumble out, raw and trembling. Every memory clawed its way up, every scream, every bruise, every silent night when I'd wished for something, anything, to save us.

And through it all, she didn't move. She didn't flinch. She stayed. Waiting. Holding my hands like an anchor in the storm.

"I... I don't know how to be anything else, Aayat," I whispered, voice breaking. "I've spent years being walls and silence and control. And now... now I can't even hold myself together."

Her fingers brushed my cheek again, warm, grounding. And before I could think, before I could stop it, she stepped closer. Her arms wrapped around me, soft and insistent.

I froze. My instincts screamed to push her away, this was dangerous. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't see me like this, shouldn't... care. But the moment her chest pressed to mine, something inside me cracked.

I let it.

I let myself lean into her, into the warmth, into the gentleness I had spent a lifetime denying myself. My arms went around her almost without thought, holding her as tightly as if I could never let go.

"You... don't have to fix me," I whispered against her hair, voice hoarse. "You just... just being here... it's enough."

She rested her head against mine, fingers threading through my hair. "You're more than fixed Mihir."

I closed my eyes, finally letting myself feel the ache, the grief, the loneliness that had lodged in my chest for decades. Her presence was a balm I didn't know I needed, a quiet promise that someone could hold the pieces of me without fear or judgment.

"I... I saw her," I admitted, my voice trembling. "My mother... Saanvi Mehrotra... one of India's top three fashion designers... not Saanvi Raghuvanshi, just the wife of Anirudh Raghuvanshi... I was only four... and she... she was there for a show..."

Her lips brushed my temple, soft, comforting. "She loves you Mihir," she murmured.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to let go completely. The weight of the past, the walls I'd built, the ghosts I'd carried, they didn't vanish, but they felt lighter. Because she was here. And for once, it was enough to simply breathe, simply be, simply... exist without pretending.

I pressed my forehead to hers, closing my eyes, letting the warmth of her hug seep into me. And in the quiet of the morning, with the rain outside soft against the windows, I whispered the words I had never thought I could:

"Thank you... Aayat. For staying."

She tightened her arms around me, and I realized something I'd never believed before: maybe survival didn't mean being alone. Maybe surviving also meant letting someone in.

And I let her.

For the first time, fully, without fear.

She stepped forward before I could say anything, her arms wrapping around me again. I let myself be held, the stiffness in my body slowly softening. Her presence, it was grounding.

"I'm here," she whispered, pressing her cheek to mine. "You don't have to handle it alone, Mihir."

I just... breathed. Words felt heavy, unnecessary. Somehow, her warmth said more than any apology could. I gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, and she smiled back, bright.

...

After we freshened up...

"Come on," she said, pulling back slightly, taking my hand. "Let's go. I made breakfast."

My brow lifted. "You... cooked?"

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes like it was obvious. "And before you judge, I know it's probably horrible. I might have set off the smoke detector once or twice... or five times." She laughed softly, tugging me toward the bedroom so I could change first. "But I did it for you. Don't roll your eyes, Raghuvanshi."

I allowed myself to be led, letting her hand stay in mine. The hallway felt warmer somehow, less like the weight of ghosts and more like... us.

When I walked into the kitchen, she was bustling about, clearly proud despite the slight chaos around the plates. "And yes," she said, noticing my gaze, "I did attempt pancakes. They might look like abstract art, but taste wise... well, you might survive."

I let a small chuckle escape. "You're ridiculous."

"Exactly," she said, grinning. "Ridiculous and horrible at cooking, but I promise you, worth it." She tilted her head, What do you call a boss who's bad?"

a corner of my lips lifted in that rare, small smile. "A... bosstard," I said, soft, almost a whisper.

Her eyes lit up, sparkling with mischief and delight. "Exactly!" she said, clapping her hands like she'd won some invisible game. "I've been waiting to hear you say that again."

I let myself laugh, a low, almost reluctant sound, but it was laughter nonetheless. It felt strange, foreign, yet grounding, hearing my own voice echo lightly through the kitchen while she laughed at me.

"You haven't changed a bit," I murmured, shaking my head, still smiling.

"And neither have you," she shot back, sliding a slightly wonky pancake onto my plate. "But don't worry , I made them for you anyway. They might be horrible, but they're my horrible."

I looked at her, really looked, and for the first time since opening that door, the ache in my chest softened. She was ridiculous. She was chaotic. She was stubborn. And somehow... exactly what I didn't know I needed.

I picked up my fork and nodded. "Alright... let's see if your horrible is edible."

She laughed, the sound filling the room like sunlight, and in that moment, the ghosts didn't seem quite so loud.

I pushed back my chair, finishing the last sip of coffee. "I should get going," I said, voice steady. "The office... it won't wait."

She tilted her head, giving me that look that always made me pause. "Mihir..."

"I have work," I said, brushing past her slight hesitation, trying to keep it professional.

She sighed, but there was softness in her eyes, concern threading through her tone. "You don't have to carry everything alone. Don't overthink. Just... go, do what you need, but don't let your mind drown in everything."

I froze mid-step. Her words hit differently than anyone else's ever could. She wasn't commanding me. She wasn't questioning me. She was reminding me I didn't have to be perfect. That maybe... I could just be human.

I looked at her, the sunlight catching the edges of her hair, a faint smile playing on her lips, and for a second, I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just let it sink in.

Finally, I exhaled, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at my lips. "I'll... keep that in mind," I said, voice low, quiet, but there was something sincere in it.

She reached out, lightly touching my arm, not too much, just enough. "Good. Now go. And don't forget, your terrible cook is waiting for you to survive the day without turning into a 'bosstard.'"

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "You never stop, do you?"

"Never," she said, smirking, her eyes sparkling. "Now go before I start sending the paparazzi after you."

I laughed, soft, short, but genuine, and turned toward the door.

And even as I walked out into the rain-soaked streets, the memory of her waiting, of her words, lingered. A gentle reminder that I didn't have to face the world alone.

And somehow... that made all the difference.

The office was a different kind of battlefield. Papers, meetings, endless decisions, the hum of voices that expected him to be unflinching, untouchable, untouchably perfect.

I stepped in, tie straightened, mask firmly in place. Everyone saw the Mihir Raghuvanshi they'd always known, the Chief Minister, the man who commanded attention without raising a voice.

But today, something was different. My shoulders felt lighter, my chest not quite as tight.

I moved through the office with the usual precision—greeting, nodding, issuing commands, but for the first time in years, I noticed the small things. The way sunlight spilled across the conference room table. The faint hum of the AC. The laughter of my assistants at some trivial joke someone made.

I paused, just for a moment, and allowed myself a small, private smile.

Don't overthink, she'd said.

I almost laughed at the thought. Me? Overthink? Always. But somehow... the thought of her waiting at home, in that ridiculous oversized shirt, doing terrible cooking and bad jokes just for me, made the weight feel... manageable.

A secretary knocked softly at the open door. "Sir, the delegation from the eastern district is here."

I nodded. "Send them in."

I caught myself thinking not about reports or proposals, but about Aayat, her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she looked at me with patience and fire all at once.

And for the first time in years, I realized something terrifying. Not about the office, not about politics, not about power. But about myself.

I didn't want to hide. I didn't want to be untouchable.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to see her again.

And maybe... that was the start of something I'd never allowed myself to feel.

Because for the first time, someone had seen me, not the Mihir Raghuvanshi the world demanded, but the Mihir shaped by silence, by loss, by ghosts.

And she... hadn't run.

She'd stayed.

The delegation entered, all smiles and formalities, shaking hands, handing over documents as if I were some immovable pillar of the state. And then... the inevitable small talk.

"Congratulations on your marriage, sir," one of the senior officials said, voice warm. " Mrs. Aayat is lucky to have married the Chief Minister."

I looked at them slowly, deliberately, letting the words hang in the air. My eyes scanned their faces, eager, polite, expecting me to nod or smile graciously.

But I didn't.

Instead, I said, flat, measured:

"No. The lucky person is me."

There was a pause. A sharp, quiet pause.

I let it linger, just long enough to make them blink, swallow, adjust to the unexpected shift.

The pause hung a moment longer before the senior official cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the room. "Of course, sir... forgive us.

.

"Now," I said, voice calm but firm, "elections are three months away. That's enough time to ensure that the citizens are actually fine. That they feel heard. That their concerns aren't just added to a report and filed away."

A senior official cleared his throat. "Sir... some districts have raised concerns regarding infrastructure, water supply, and local governance. They've sent letters, petitions..."

I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table. "Letters don't tell me everything. Reports don't tell me if a family is struggling to get clean water, or if a child is walking miles to school because roads are neglected. I need to know the reality on the ground. And it needs to be fixed, now, not later."

Another official interjected nervously. "Sir, we can arrange meetings with district heads, local leaders, and representatives over the next few days. They can give firsthand accounts of the situation, their plans, and their concerns."

I nodded. "Good. And make sure it's honest. No sugarcoating. No hiding inconvenient truths to look better for the elections. My duty isn't to win applause, it's to serve them. If we fail them now, there's no victory."

The room fell silent as my words sank in. I didn't wait for their responses. Instead, I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining the faces behind the reports, the mothers, the children, the elderly. Their quiet struggles. Their quiet hopes.

Finally, I opened my eyes. "Arrange it. Start immediately. I want a clear picture of the state before we even talk strategy. And make sure I meet those who are most affected first. Not the ones who look good on paper."

The officials nodded, scribbling notes, already mobilizing plans in their heads.

As the tension in the room shifted from my words to action, I felt a faint tug in my chest, not just from responsibility, but from something far more personal. The thought of her, Aayat, waiting at home, cooking her horrid breakfast, making silly jokes to get a smile from me...

I allowed myself the briefest, private smile.

The drive to Harnai was quiet, My mind wasn't on the streets, the skyline, or the reports, it was on the people I was about to face. Ordinary citizens, frustrated, tired, worn down by promises broken and officials who only cared about power.

The hall was modest, smaller than the usual government offices, but that suited me. Power wasn't about grand space; it was about hearing the truth.

As I entered, a murmur rippled through the crowd. Some eyes were wary, some tired, some cautiously hopeful. I didn't wait for introductions. I took a deep breath and started.

"I know why you're here," I said, voice steady. "I know the frustration, the anger, and the disappointment. Corruption has cost you time, money, and dignity. That ends today."

A woman in the front row, her hands rough from years of work, spoke up. "Sir... local leaders take bribes, ignore complaints. When it rains, streets flood, drains overflow, sanitation fails. Our rivers are dirty, our water unsafe. Nothing changes. How can we believe anything you say?"

I didn't flinch. "I'm not here to speak empty words. I'm here to listen. And I'm here to act."

I motioned to my team. "Every complaint. Every report. Every district issue. Document it all. Those responsible will be held accountable. No exceptions. We will repair infrastructure, unclog drains, ensure proper sanitation, and protect our water. Floods won't trap your families, rivers won't carry waste into your homes, and every child will have clean water to drink."

An older man, voice trembling with both anger and hope, added, "But sir... the politicians, they control everything. They will fight back."

I met his gaze, firm. "Then we fight back with transparency. With justice. Not lies. If they oppose accountability, they oppose the people, and I will stand with the people every time."

The room fell silent, the weight of my words settling in. Some were skeptical. Some surprised. Slowly, a murmur of cautious optimism spread.

After the session, I stepped outside, letting the air hit my face. Sunlight struggled through the clouds, but it was enough. Enough to remind me why this mattered.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt her, Aayat, with her silly jokes, her stubborn patience, the warmth she carried even into my darkest moods. She'd be proud, or at least trying not to roll her eyes at my intensity.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt it, not just the weight of power, but the weight of responsibility, of connection, of something real.

The drive back was quieter. My hands rested on the steering wheel, mind replaying the complaints, the faces, the frustration in Harnai. My shoulders were tight, the weight of the day pressing down harder than usual.

But when I opened the door, the smell of something sweet, and slightly burnt, welcomed me.

Aayat appeared from the kitchen, flour smudged across her cheek, hair a mess, holding a spoon like a weapon.

She grinned when she saw me. "Don't ask what this is. I was trying to cook something edible."

I raised an eyebrow, setting my jacket aside. "Aayat... you don't have to cook. There are chefs for that."

She turned, glaring playfully. "SHUT UP! I wanted to cook, Mihir!"

I froze, then raised both hands in mock surrender. "Okay, madam ji," I said with a small smile.

That earned me a grin from her, a real one, bright and unguarded. She stepped closer and smacked the back of my head lightly. "You're definitely possessed."

I looked at her, feigning offense. "How can I not be, when I'm living with a witch who loves cooking... I mean hates cooking, right? My witch."

Her eyes widened, caught between shock and laughter. "Excuse me?" she said, but her smile betrayed her.

I chuckled softly, that rare, warm sound even I wasn't used to hearing. "You heard me."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling. "You're impossible."

"Maybe," I murmured, leaning slightly closer. "But you like me this way."

She pretended to huff, turning back toward the stove, though I could see the way her shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You're lucky you're cute when you're annoying."

"And you," I said, reaching for the spoon in her hand, "are lucky I'm brave enough to eat your cooking."

She laughed, finally, loud, genuine, the kind of sound that filled the house and cleared every heavy shadow left from the day.

And just like that, for the first time in weeks, the silence in my chest felt... alive.

The house was calm that night, too calm. The kind of calm that makes you notice every small thing: the ticking clock, the hum of the AC, the faint smell of her perfume that lingered wherever she went.

Aayat was sitting at the dining table, her laptop open, papers scattered like small battles she was ready to win. I watched her from the doorway for a moment, the focus in her eyes, the determination in the way she tapped her pen against her notes.

She didn't even notice I was there until I spoke.

"You've been at that for hours."

She looked up, blinking out of her thoughts, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I have to be. The meeting's in two days."

I frowned slightly. "Meeting?"

She closed the laptop, leaning back in her chair. "In the UK," she said simply, as if it were just another business trip. "For the hotel project. I'm expanding there. I already have nine across Europe... and I want one in London too. It's time."

For a moment, I just stared at her, proud, stunned, and oddly quiet.

Of course she was doing this. Of course she was unstoppable. That's what drew me to her in the first place, that fire, that ambition that didn't need anyone's permission.

But still... something inside me tightened. "You'll be gone long?"

"Maybe two weeks," she said, watching me carefully. "Just until the contracts are finalized."

Two weeks.

It shouldn't have sounded like much. I'd spent years surrounded by people and still felt utterly alone. But now, the thought of her not being here, no laughter echoing down the hallway, no burnt breakfast, no sharp comebacks to balance my silence, stung in a way I didn't expect.

She must've seen it on my face because she smiled softly. "Don't look at me like that, Mihir. It's not forever."

"I didn't say anything," I replied, but my voice betrayed me, quieter, almost too careful.

She got up, walking toward me, standing close enough that her perfume wrapped around me. "You don't have to. I can read that face of yours now."

I smirked faintly. "That's unfortunate. I was hoping to remain mysterious."

She laughed, eyes lighting up. "You? Mysterious? Please. You're just emotionally constipated."

I raised a brow, pretending offense. "That's one way to talk to your husband."

She tilted her head, still smiling. "It's the only way to talk to you."

And somehow, I'd been lucky enough to be the man she came home to.

"Just... be careful," I said finally, quietly. "And call me when you land."

"I will," she promised. "Try not to brood yourself to death while I'm gone."

I smirked. "No guarantees."

She leaned in, brushing her hand lightly over my arm. "Good. I'd hate to come back to a ghost instead of my grumpy CM."

And just like that, the room didn't feel so calm anymore. It felt alive again, filled with that spark only she could bring.

As she turned back to her notes, I found myself watching her all over again, not out of worry this time, but admiration.

Because Aayat Raghuvanshi wasn't just my wife.

She was her own storm.

And for once in my life... I didn't want to stop the storm.

When she went back to her laptop, I lingered there a little longer, pretending to tidy up the coffee mug, pretending I still had something to do in the kitchen.

But really, I was just watching her.

Memorizing her, maybe.

The way she frowned slightly when she read, the way her foot tapped absently beneath the table, the soft hum she made under her breath when she was thinking, all of it.

Small, ordinary things that shouldn't have meant so much.

But they did.

Because when she left, the silence would swallow them.

And that's when it hit me.

Like a quiet blow to the chest.

Seven months.

That was the deal.

The contract.

The unspoken expiration date written beneath every smile we'd started to share.

Seven months of marriage, a temporary arrangement dressed up as permanence.

And now, somehow, without warning, most of it was already gone.

Five and a half months.

Five and a half months until this house wouldn't smell like her perfume anymore.

Until her laughter wouldn't echo down these walls.

Until she wouldn't be mine, not even on paper.

I sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the floor but seeing none of it.

She was talking to someone on the phone now, something about investors, hotel chains, her voice bright and alive. She was chasing her dreams, and I loved that about her. I did.

But for the first time in my life, ambition didn't taste like victory.

It tasted like distance.

And I realized then, it wasn't "forever."

It never was.

It could never be.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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

To be continued

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