Mihir's POV

Day 5

Morning came early.

Too early, maybe.

The alarm went off at 5:30, same as always. I got up, showered, changed, and walked to the dining room. Everything was in its place, perfectly arranged, perfectly quiet.

Too quiet.

The tea was too hot, the toast too crisp, and the silence... unbearable.

Five days. It had only been five days since Aayat left for London. And somehow, the house had turned into a museum, neat, lifeless, echoing with things unsaid.

I tried to focus on the newspaper.

Didn't work.

The business headlines blurred into nothing. The political section annoyed me. Even the crossword seemed too loud.

I tossed the paper aside and leaned back in my chair.

The cup of tea sat untouched in front of me, hers.

She always drank hers slower than me, said mornings shouldn't be rushed.

Now the cup just sat there, cooling, mocking.

I checked my phone.

No new messages.

Good.

That was good.

She was busy. Doing what she did best, conquering boardrooms, charming investors, running on caffeine and determination.

Still...

I'd gotten too used to her updates.

The quick "Landed."

The occasional "Stop working so much."

The way she texted like she was rolling her eyes even through the phone.

I shook my head, trying to focus on work. Meetings, files, cabinet updates, things that usually held my attention. But today, nothing seemed to stick.

Every time I looked at a report, my mind wandered back to her.

To London.

To her voice, to the way she'd said before leaving, "You'll survive without me for two weeks, right?"

I'd said "barely."

And apparently, I hadn't been joking.

By noon, I'd already snapped at my PA twice, ignored three calls, and stared at one particular email thread long enough to forget why I opened it in the first place.

That's when Zyran walked in, uninvited, unbothered, and holding two coffees like he owned the place.

"Morning, Chief Minister," he said with that irritating grin that always meant trouble. "You look like you haven't slept since 2005."

I gave him a flat look. "If you're here to annoy me, you're five minutes early."

"Annoy you? Never." He plopped down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "I came to make sure my best friend hasn't turned into a complete hermit while his wife's away."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

"Right," he said, clearly not buying it. "Because nothing screams fine like drinking black coffee alone in a silent house at six in the morning."

"I have work," I said simply, reaching for a file.

He leaned forward, smirking. "Mmhmm. And how's that working out for you, Mr. Staring-At-The-Same-Document-For-Ten-Minutes?"

I froze for half a second. The bastard noticed.

Zyran's grin widened. "Ohh, I see what this is. Someone's missing someone."

"No."

"Definitely yes."

"No."

He tilted his head. "You sure? Because the last time I saw you this distracted, it was when you couldn't find your cufflinks before your wedding. And guess who had stolen them just to make you talk to her?"

I gave him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "I'm not missing anyone."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Ah, denial. Classic symptom. Soon you'll start saying it's just a contract."

"It is just a contract."

"Sure," he said with mock sympathy. "A contract that makes you check your phone every ten minutes."

I looked away. "I don't."

He raised a brow. "You just did."

I exhaled, trying to ignore the smirk on his face. "Zyran, shut up."

"Falling in love, my friend," he said sing-song, completely ignoring me. "The mighty Mihir Raghuvanshi, finally—"

"Shut up."

He laughed outright this time. "You can grumble all you want, but you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The look of a man who's trying too hard not to think about the woman he's already thinking about."

I gave him a long, warning stare. He just grinned wider.

"Fine," I muttered. "Believe whatever you want."

"Oh, I will," he said, standing up and straightening his jacket. "But for what it's worth, you're less of a pain when she's around."

"Out," I said flatly.

He laughed all the way to the door. "See you tomorrow, lover boy."

When the door finally shut behind him, I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.

The idiot wasn't entirely wrong.

Five days. That's all it had been. And already, the house, the silence, even my routine, all of it felt heavier without her.

I picked up my phone again, pretending it was out of habit, not hope.

Still no message.

I exhaled, shaking my head with a faint, involuntary smile.

And maybe, though I'd never say it out loud,

a little bit of missing her too.

I was just about to get up from the chair when my phone buzzed on the desk.

The screen lit up.

MY WITCH 🧚‍♀️

For a second, I just stared at her name flashing across the screen, the same contact picture she'd set herself: a blurry selfie where she looked annoyingly perfect and I looked like I was questioning all my life choices.

I felt that stupid tug in my chest. Then, quickly, I picked up, keeping my tone casual.

"Hello."

Her voice came through, light, teasing, and a little too smug for someone who'd just caught me mid self-denial.

"Well, well. Look who finally remembered how to answer his phone."

I rolled my eyes automatically, even though she couldn't see it. "I've been working."

"Working?" she echoed. "Is that what we're calling staring at your phone every ten minutes now?"

My grip on the phone tightened. "Who told you that?"

She laughed softly? that soft, unbothered laugh that somehow always managed to crawl under my skin. "No one had to tell me. I just know. You're probably sitting there with that serious face, pretending to read something important, when in reality, you're just being a grump."

"I'm not a grump."

"Of course not," she said sweetly. "You just sound like one, act like one, and apparently look like one too."

I sighed, trying not to smile. "You sound very proud of yourself right now."

"Oh, I am," she said. "I hear my absence has turned our great Chief Minister into a silent, brooding mess. Must be tragic for your staff."

"You're getting your information from unreliable sources," I said dryly.

She chuckled again. "Zyran texted me."

I groaned inwardly. "Of course he did."

"He said, and I quote, Mihir's walking around the house like a man who lost his car keys and his personality at the same time."

"I'm going to block his number," I muttered.

Her laughter spilled through the line, bright, effortless, hers. And damn it, it did something to me.

"I miss annoying you," she said softly, almost as an afterthought.

I froze for half a beat. "You just did a fine job of it from a different continent."

"Good," she teased. "Means I'm still effective."

There was a pause then, the kind that settled comfortably between two people who didn't need to fill every silence.

"How's London?" I asked finally, quieter this time.

"Cold," she said. "But the project's going well. Investors are happy, the team's solid. You'd be proud."

"I am," I said before I could stop myself.

Her voice softened. "Careful, Mr. Chief Minister. Sounds dangerously close to emotional involvement."

I couldn't help it, I smiled. "You've been spending too much time quoting me."

"Someone has to remind you of your own rules," she said, feigning seriousness. "No emotions. No expectations. Remember?"

"Right," I said, my voice lower now. "Just a contract."

Another small silence. But this one wasn't heavy, it was warm, alive, humming with everything we weren't saying.

She broke it first. "Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you hadn't turned into a statue."

"Not yet."

"Good," she said, amusement still dancing in her tone. "Don't worry, I'll be home soon. Try not to miss me too much."

"I don't—"

"—lie," she cut in smoothly. "You're terrible at it."

I could almost see her smirk.

I exhaled, shaking my head. "You're impossible."

"That's why you like me," she said brightly.

I didn't answer that. Couldn't.

She chuckled, clearly satisfied with my silence. "Alright, Chief Minister. Go back to pretending you're not miserable without me."

Before I could respond, the line clicked, and she was gone.

I stared at the phone, the faint smile still tugging at my lips.

The room felt a little less quiet now.

But damn, it felt good to hear her voice.

The call ended, but her laughter still echoed faintly in my head.

I sat there for a moment, phone still in hand, trying not to look like an idiot smiling at my screen.

It didn't work.

I was smiling anyway.

I leaned back in my chair, running a hand over my face, muttering to myself,

"Unbelievable woman."

She had this way of making chaos sound like charm.

Five minutes with her, and all the dullness in the room disappeared. Just like that.

I was still sitting there , somewhere between a sigh and a smile, when a familiar, irritatingly loud voice came from outside my office door.

"Are you done talking to your London-based happiness source, or should I come back later?"

Zyran.

Of course.

I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose. "Go away."

He ignored that completely, obviously.

The door creaked open, and he poked his head in, grinning like he'd just walked in on something scandalous.

"So... phone call from a certain Mrs. Raghuvanshi?"

"None of your business," I said flatly.

He walked in anyway, hands in pockets, full of mock innocence. "Relax, I just came to tell you there's a meeting at the Secretariat in half an hour. The staff said you might finally decide to show up today."

"I'll go when I want," I muttered.

He laughed. "You've been saying that for the last four days. Come on, Mihir. The government won't run itself, even if you stare dramatically out the window pretending to miss your wife."

I glared at him. "Zyran."

"Hmm?"

"Shut up before I revoke your office access permanently."

He grinned wider. "That's a cute threat. Very domestic. Must be all the married energy rubbing off on you."

I rubbed my temples, patience wearing thin. "I swear, one more word—"

"and you'll what? Call Aayat and complain that your best friend is bullying you?"

"Zyran."

"Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Just... don't make that grumpy face when you walk in. Everyone's terrified enough as it is."

I stood up finally, straightening my jacket, giving him a look sharp enough to kill a conversation. "You're driving me insane."

"That's my job," he said cheerfully, following me out. "Someone has to balance out your tragic hero phase."

"Shut. Up."

He laughed all the way down the hall. "Oh, don't worry. I'm saving all my teasing for when she gets back. She deserves to know how miserable you were."

I stopped walking and turned, voice low and threatening. "Zyran, I will personally transfer you to traffic control."

He blinked. Then grinned. "Still won't stop me."

I rolled my eyes, walking past him toward the car. "Idiot."

Behind me, his voice carried, sing-song and annoying as ever,

"Falling in love suits you, Chief!"

I didn't bother answering.

But the small, unwilling smile tugging at my lips probably said enough.

By the time the car pulled up at the Secretariat, I'd forced my expression back into its usual composure.

The guard opened the door, saluting crisply, and I gave a small nod before stepping out.

Whatever personal nonsense was still buzzing in my head, it had to stay there.

Once I crossed this threshold, I was Chief Minister Mihir Raghuvanshi again.

Not the man who smiled at his phone. Not the husband who secretly waited for her calls.

Just the leader. The strategist. The perfectionist.

The corridors buzzed with the familiar hum of staff and shuffled files. Every "Good morning, sir," grounded me further into that role.

By the time I reached my office, the weight of routine had settled comfortably back onto my shoulders.

"Schedule?" I asked the moment I stepped in.

My secretary looked up quickly. "Sir, you have a finance review in ten minutes, a policy update meeting at noon, and the infrastructure board presentation after lunch."

"Good," I said, flipping through the file she handed me. "Push the agriculture report to tomorrow, and tell the media team I want a revised draft of the press statement before 6."

"Yes, sir."

The rhythm took over. Numbers, projections, decisions , all of it flowed as if muscle memory had kicked in.

I wasn't thinking about London. Or her.

Just work.

Precise, measured, efficient work.

By the time the finance meeting started, my tone had sharpened back into command.

"No, the allocation needs to be adjusted, we can't show surplus there while healthcare's still under review."

"Get me the updated figures before evening."

"Tell them we'll negotiate that clause ourselves."

The room moved with my words. The energy shifted. Everyone scribbled, nodded, executed.

This, this was where I was most myself.

Controlled. Focused. Unshakeable.

For the next few hours, it stayed that way.

Meeting after meeting.

Paper after paper.

Decision after decision.

Every trace of emotion was replaced with precision. Every memory with numbers and signatures.

It wasn't until late afternoon, when the sun began to dip behind the Secretariat windows, that I leaned back for a moment, exhaling.

The files were done. The day was handled.

Work had always been my anchor, the one thing that never shifted, never left.

It didn't tease, it didn't laugh, it didn't make my heart race for no reason.

It just... stayed.

The phone buzzed on my desk. A message from the Cabinet office.

I replied, concise as ever, and returned to my paperwork.

The next signature was firm. The next note crisp.

For now, at least, Mihir Raghuvanshi was back to being what he was best at,

focused, steady, and untouchably calm.

Even if somewhere, faintly beneath that surface,

a soft laugh from across continents still lingered like a whisper he refused to acknowledge.

The last meeting had barely ended when my phone buzzed again, an urgent message from the District Officer of Beed.

Severe water shortage reported. Local reservoir drying faster than projected. Villagers requesting immediate inspection.

I frowned, scanning the report quickly. The figures were worse than expected, the water levels had dropped 40% in just two weeks.

Without a second thought, I stood up. "Get the car ready," I told my secretary.

She blinked. "Sir, it's almost 6:30.."

"I'm aware," I cut in, grabbing my jacket. "We'll head to Beed now. Inform the Collector."

She nodded quickly, dialing as I walked out.

By the time we reached the outskirts. The air was dry, thick with the scent of parched earth.

Children stood barefoot near cracked wells, women carried half-filled pots from what little water trickled through the handpumps. A few elders gathered near the panchayat house, murmuring quietly until they saw my car pull in.

The moment I stepped out, the murmurs turned to hope, faint, but present.

"Namaste, sir."

"Sir, the reservoir's gone dry."

"We've been getting water only once in two days..."

I listened, properly listened, as they spoke. Their voices carried exhaustion, frustration, but also trust.

They didn't see a politician standing before them.

They saw someone who could fix it.

"Show me," I said.

They led me through narrow lanes to the main reservoir. The ground around it was cracked and sun-bleached, a thin film of muddy water sitting at the bottom. The local engineer was already waiting there with charts and reports.

"Sir, the underground channels collapsed after the last flood cycle. The new pump project got delayed in budget clearance."

"Then we'll clear it tonight," I said firmly. "No more delays. I want the tender reopened by tomorrow morning."

The officer hesitated. "Sir, approvals..."

"...will be handled by me," I said sharply. "You just get the work started."

He nodded, relief flickering across his face.

Turning to the villagers, I said, "You'll start getting regular supply through tankers by tomorrow morning. The pipeline restoration begins immediately. And within two weeks, Bhairavpur will have a new bore system, stronger than before."

There was silence for a moment, disbelief, maybe. Then a ripple of murmured gratitude spread through the crowd.

One old man stepped forward, hands folded. "We've heard promises before, sir. But no one ever came here themselves."

I met his gaze, voice steady but softer. "Then I'll make sure you remember this one."

He nodded slowly, eyes misting a little. "We'll hold you to it."

As I turned to leave, one of the local kids, no older than ten, tugged at my sleeve and pointed toward the dry patch. "Will it really have water again, bhaiya?"

I crouched down slightly, looking him in the eye. "Yes. It will. I promise."

His smile was small, uncertain, but it was there.

By the time we headed back, the first stars had appeared in the dusky sky. I leaned back in the seat, dust still clinging to my sleeves, mind running through logistics, contractors, clearances, next steps.

But beneath all that, something else stirred, a quiet satisfaction.

This was what mattered.

Not meetings, not headlines, this.

People.

Problems.

Promises kept.

The phone buzzed beside me. A message from her.

Aayat: Still saving the world, Mr. Chief Minister?

For the first time that day, I allowed myself a small, tired smile.

Me: Just a small part of it.

Water crisis handled.

Heading back now.

Three dots appeared. Then

Aayat: You'll never stop working, will you?

Still... proud of you.

I stared at the screen for a moment, the exhaustion easing a little.

By the time I finally reached home, it was past 10.

The house was dark, still, the kind of silence that used to feel comforting, and now just felt... empty.

I loosened my tie as I stepped inside, leaving my jacket on the couch. Dust from the village still clung to my sleeves, but I didn't care. The day had been long, draining, but satisfying.

I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter, letting out a quiet breath.

For once, it wasn't exhaustion from politics or paperwork. It was the weight of seeing those villagers, their faith, their struggle, and knowing I'd made them a promise I had to keep.

I glanced at the clock.

London would be five and a half hours behind. Late evening for her.

My phone sat on the counter beside me, the screen lighting up briefly with the wallpaper she'd secretly changed a week before she left, candid photo of her smirking, holding my tie hostage.

I smiled despite myself.

The thought came uninvited, ridiculous even — but it stayed.

Maybe just a quick call.

Just to... tell her.

I hesitated for all of five seconds before swiping to video call.

The screen rang twice, three times, and then her face appeared.

Hair up in a messy bun, oversized hoodie, mug of coffee in hand. She looked... perfectly like herself.

"Well, look who remembered I exist," she said, grinning. "Should I alert the media?"

I rolled my eyes automatically. "Good evening to you too, Mrs. Raghuvanshi."

"'Mrs. Raghuvanshi' ?" She raised an eyebrow. "Formal much?"

"I'm just being polite."

"Polite? You look like you just came back from a war zone."

"Close enough," I said, sipping water. "Beed's water reservoir dried out. Went there myself today."

Her teasing expression softened immediately. "You went yourself? That's eight hours away."

" seven," I corrected. "They're facing a shortage. I've already ordered new bore systems and tanker supplies. Work starts tomorrow."

For a second, she didn't speak. Then her voice came, quiet and genuine. "You really don't stop, do you?"

"It's my job," I said simply.

She smiled faintly. "No. It's more than that. You actually care."

I looked away at that, because hearing it out loud did something to me I wasn't ready to admit.

She must've noticed, because her tone shifted back to teasing almost instantly. "So... any reason for this sudden video call? Or were you just hoping to see my face to de-grumpify?"

I raised an eyebrow. "De-what?"

"De-grumpify," she repeated with a grin. "You know, cure your permanent case of frowning."

I couldn't help the faint laugh that escaped. "You're unbelievable."

"I've been told," she said proudly, sipping her coffee. "Also, for the record, you look exhausted. Go to sleep."

"Bossing me around again?"

"Someone has to. You clearly won't take care of yourself otherwise."

I gave her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled at that, softer now, the kind that reached her eyes. "You're doing very great thing," she said suddenly.

I froze. "I'm doing nothing aayat, it's just my duty towards my citizen?"

"Yes, proud of you Mr. Raghuvanshi."

I looked down, but the faint tug on my lips betrayed me anyway. "There's nothing like that."

"Sure," she said, smirking. "And yet, there it is, the smile."

I shook my head, pretending to check the clock. "It's late. You should rest."

"You called me," she pointed out.

"Regretting it now."

She laughed again, bright and unbothered. "Too late. You've made my night."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Just the soft hum of connection between two people who had somehow learned to find calm in each other's chaos.

Then she said quietly, "Mihir?"

"Hmm?"

"I meant it earlier. I'm proud of you."

Something in my chest tightened, quietly, unexpectedly.

I nodded once. "Get some sleep, Aayat."

She smiled, that same knowing little curve of her lips. "Goodnight, Mr. Chief Minister."

The call ended.

The screen went dark.

And for a long moment, I just stood there, phone still in my hand, the faint echo of her laughter filling the empty house.

Maybe it was ridiculous, but somehow, after that call, the silence didn't feel so empty anymore.

The next four days blurred into a strange rhythm, a mixture of work, calls, and a gnawing sense of absence I could neither name nor ignore.

Every morning, the Secretariat demanded my full attention: meetings, reports, files, inspections. By all accounts, my days should have been entirely occupied. And yet, despite my best efforts to focus, her voice was always just behind my thoughts, teasing, challenging, anchoring.

Each call from her was like a small storm breaking through the carefully constructed calm of my world.

Aayat: Don't you ever sleep, Mr. Chief Minister?

Me: Sometimes. Rarely. You?

Aayat: I see... surviving London, I guess. Not calling me "too much," I hope?

Me: Never enough.

I told myself, firmly, that this was foolish. That it was temporary. That it was a contract. A piece of paper, signed and agreed upon.

And yet, every time her laughter cut through the phone speaker, every time she teased me about my perpetually serious face, I felt something stir. Something I didn't understand.

By day seven, even my attempts to stay distant failed. I found myself checking my phone between meetings, anticipating her messages, replaying her last joke or teasing remark in my head.

Aayat: Are you grumpy today, or just pretending to be calm?

Me: Calm. Only calm.

Aayat: Sure... I'll take your word.

By day eight, it was harder to resist. I caught myself looking at her photos on my phone, a fleeting smirk, a stray hair over her face, the way her eyes sparkled even in the smallest moments. It wasn't obsession. Not yet. It was... noticing. Caring, perhaps. And I didn't like admitting that aloud.

Even while reviewing infrastructure projects, signing approvals, or dealing with endless political demands, her voice threaded through my mind, quietly persistent.

Aayat: You know, you can't hide how much you're thinking about me.

Me: I am not.

Aayat: Mhmm. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.

And by day nine, I realized it was no longer just about the calls. It was about the silence when we ended, about the spaces in my day that seemed emptier than before. About wanting her advice on trivial things, missing her teasing tone, missing the way she challenged me and grounded me without ever realizing it.

There was a pull, subtle, unspoken, almost dangerous, and I had no control over it.

I didn't know what it was.

I didn't know if it had a name.

All I knew was that no matter how much I tried to convince myself it didn't matter, it did.

And as I sat in my office late into the night, reviewing a stack of proposals, phone silent on the table, I whispered to no one in particular:

"Something's here... and I don't know what it is. But I can't let it go."

The quiet tick of the clock was the only answer.

And yet, somewhere deep in my chest, I already knew, I wasn't trying hard enough to stay away.

Because something had changed.

Something between us.

And I couldn't, wouldn't, ignore it any longer.

....

Day 12 (morning)

The house felt heavier today. Not with silence, exactly, but with the weight of anticipation. Two days. That was all that remained before Aayat returned. Two days, and yet... my mind refused to stay calm.

I sat at the dining table, untouched cup of tea in front of me. My thoughts weren't about schedules or approvals. They were... scattered. Fractured.

"Two days," I murmured to myself. "Two days and she'll be here."

I tried to convince myself to focus. To remind myself that work always came first. And yet, every plan, every policy review I ran through in my mind, ended the same way, with her smile, her teasing, the way she'd lean against my shoulder while rolling her eyes at my grumpiness.

I picked up a file, flipped a page. Numbers. Charts. Proposals. Nothing stuck. My mind kept wandering to London, to her laughter, her soft sighs after teasing me, the way she somehow made the world feel... lighter.

Then, the other thought crept in, the one I tried to shove down with the force of a politician managing a crisis: What if more work comes? What if she has to stay longer?

My chest tightened at the thought. Not panic exactly, but a strange, unfamiliar tug, like the house itself was reminding me she wasn't here yet.

I rubbed my face, exhaling sharply. "Focus, Mihir. Just two days. Two days, then she's here."

I tried to sit straighter, to channel all my energy into preparation. The office wouldn't run itself, the files wouldn't sign themselves, and the country... well, it still needed its Chief Minister.

But even as I told myself this, my mind betrayed me. I imagined her stepping into the house, hair tied back messily, a mug of coffee in hand, that little smirk tugging at her lips. My hand tightened around the pen I was supposed to be using to annotate the infrastructure report.

"I'm not missing her," I muttered, more firmly than before. "I can handle two days. I've handled longer. I"

I paused. The words felt hollow. I knew I wasn't being honest.

The thought of her laughter lingered in my mind, and I caught myself smiling faintly, despite every effort not to. A sigh escaped me. Maybe it wasn't about handling her absence. Maybe it was about wanting her here.

I shook my head, forcing focus. "Two days. That's all. Don't think about what-ifs."

And yet, even as I told myself this, the what-ifs wouldn't leave. What if a last-minute crisis came up? What if I had to stay away from her too? What if she had to stay longer?

I clenched my jaw, standing abruptly. Enough. I walked to the window, staring at the city below. The world could wait. I had schedules, meetings, everything lined up in meticulous order.

And yet... I found myself wondering if she would walk through that door day after tomorrow, whether she'd call from the airport, or if her first words would be the teasing ones I knew so well.

Two days. I told myself.

Two days, and everything would change.

She was coming home.

And no matter what work, what crises, or what challenges awaited, I wouldn't be able to hide the relief, or the anticipation, or... the way I'd missed her.

I exhaled again, quieter this time. "Two days," I whispered. "Then she's here."

And somewhere deep down, I couldn't help but hope... she'd stay a little longer than that.

By the time I reached the Office, the weight of anticipation hadn't eased. Two days. That was all. And yet, work waited for no personal whims.

The corridors hummed with their usual energy. Staff moved briskly, papers shuffled, phones rang. I entered my office, straightening my jacket and pushing aside the mental tug-of-war between work and thoughts of Aayat.

Almost immediately, Zyran appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Morning," he said, that infuriating grin of his already in place. "Look alive. You're about to get some news you're going to love... or hate. Probably both."

I raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out, Zyran. I have files to go through."

He walked in anyway, unbothered. "Kabir Kashyap."

I paused mid-step. The name alone made my pulse tighten. My rival in the upcoming elections, ambitious, ruthless, and absolutely shameless when it came to winning at any cost. "What about him?" I asked carefully, keeping my voice calm.

"Word is," Zyran continued, leaning on my desk, "he's not playing the usual game this time. Elections are close, and Kabir? He'll do anything to win. I mean anything."

I frowned. "Anything... how?"

Zyran's smirk widened, but it was far from playful now. "Rumor has it, vote-buying, influence peddling... maybe even stirring unrest in some constituencies. He's desperate, Mihir. He lost last time, and he's not going to let that happen again."

I ran a hand through my hair, scanning the room as my mind went into overdrive. "And this is coming from your... sources?"

"Let's just say, I've been keeping tabs. Politically, socially, digitally, he's making moves everywhere. And you know Kabir. Subtlety is not his forte."

I sank into my chair, gripping the armrests. My thoughts immediately turned to the people, the votes, the constituencies. "We can't let him get away with anything. Not this time. We tighten security, monitor the finances, and I want full transparency in the districts he's targeting."

Zyran nodded. "Already in motion. But... you might have to get your hands dirty. Direct intervention, site visits, he's unpredictable, and he'll test every weakness."

I leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment. Two days before Aayat returned... and now this. The elections were approaching faster than ever, and my focus would be pulled in every direction.

Zyran's voice cut through my thoughts. "Don't look so grim. You've handled worse."

I opened my eyes slowly, staring out the window at the city. "I've handled crises," I said quietly, "but he's relentless. And if we're not careful..." I trailed off, letting the thought hang.

Zyran's smirk softened into something almost serious. "You'll handle it, Mihir. You always do. But be ready, Kabir's going to pull out all stops this time."

I nodded. "Good. Keep me updated every hour if you have to. And Zyran?"

"Yes?"

"If he tries anything underhanded, I want proof. No guesses, no rumors. Solid. And then... we act."

"Understood," Zyran said, already pulling out his tablet, scanning reports. "Consider it done. Just... maybe breathe a little. Election season is stress enough without you turning into a grumpy statue waiting for Aayat."

I exhaled, almost smiling despite myself. "Grumpy statue... yes. That's accurate."

Zyran laughed softly. "Good. Now let's get to work. You've got two days to get your head in the game before Aayat comes home, and trust me, she's going to notice if you're buried in political chaos instead of smiling for her."

I looked at him, half annoyed, half thankful. "Two days, Zyran. Two days before she's back. And I can't... let her see me stressed over politics."

He smirked knowingly. "Ah, love and politics. You've got your hands full, Chief."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. My mind was already racing, Kabir, the elections, the people, the promises. And beneath it all, a quiet, stubborn tug reminding me that in two days... she'd be home.

By mid-morning, the office had transformed from a calm administrative space into a war room. Maps of constituencies, demographic breakdowns, polling patterns, and intelligence reports littered the large table in front of me.

Zyran was already coordinating with field officers on multiple screens, while I scanned through Kabir Kashyap's recent movements, rallies, social media campaigns, financial trails. Every detail mattered.

"Mihir," Zyran said, pointing to a cluster of districts on the map, "these are his hot zones, high voter density, swing areas. He's sending funds and resources to influence local councils here."

I leaned forward, tracing my finger along the districts. "We counter quietly. Monitor, record, document. No confrontation unless necessary, let him make the first mistake. Any trace of illegality gets flagged immediately for investigation."

Zyran nodded, quickly making notes. "Already setting up surveillance teams and social media monitoring. We'll know the moment he moves."

"Good," I said, voice calm but firm. "Now, we need grassroots support strengthened. Local officers and volunteers need to be present, visible, and active. Engage communities, address concerns, show our presence without giving him an opening to accuse us of overreach."

Zyran glanced at me, impressed despite himself. "Direct, precise... like always."

I didn't answer. There was no time for praise. Every hour counted.

"Also," I continued, scanning my notes, "ensure all campaign finance records are transparent. Kabir thrives on chaos and misdirection. One small irregularity in our accounts and he'll exploit it. Audit everything now."

Zyran tapped rapidly on his tablet. "I'll have the teams pull the reports. Legal has been briefed, everything documented, verified, airtight."

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temples. "We also need contingency for sudden voter suppression attempts, misinformation campaigns, fake complaints, rallies designed to intimidate. Field officers need full instructions. Nothing slips through."

"And the media?" Zyran asked.

"Controlled. Proactive. Any misinformation from his side is countered immediately with verified statements. Calm, factual, unassailable."

Zyran looked at me, admiration in his eyes. "You're... terrifying when you focus like this."

I didn't answer. Focus was my weapon , sharper than any campaign speech, more precise than any PR strategy.

Hours passed in a blur of calls, messages, and briefings. By evening, every major swing district had teams in place, surveillance active, audits completed, and communication lines with local officials secured.

I finally leaned back, scanning the board one last time. Kabir Kashyap was clever, but desperate. And desperation always left cracks.

"One step ahead," I muttered. "That's all it takes. One step ahead."

Zyran, exhausted but grinning, muttered, "You make politics look like chess."

I allowed myself a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Only when you treat it like one."

As the sun set behind the Office windows, casting long shadows across the office, I knew the night would be spent monitoring every move, analyzing every report.

Kabir Kashyap was out there, planning, testing limits. But I had a plan, methodical, calculated, unflinching.

And I never lost.

I leaned back in my chair, reviewing the dossiers one last time. Kabir Kashyap's moves were calculated, predictable if you knew how to read desperation. But now... I wanted him face-to-face.

"Zyran," I said, keeping my tone calm, "schedule a meeting with Kabir. Today. 9 PM."

Zyran blinked, surprised. "Directly? You sure? That man thrives on getting under your skin."

"I'm not here to play games from behind a desk," I said, voice flat. "I'll meet him. One meeting. One chance to make him realize he's running on borrowed momentum."

By 9 PM, the conference room was set, neutral, professional. Kabir arrived on time, exuding that irritating smugness, a wide, fake smile plastered across his face.

"Ah, Mihir Raghuvanshi," Kabir said, mockingly formal, as if introducing a child to the world stage. "Our fearless leader decides to grace me with his presence. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I didn't react. I simply gestured to the chair opposite mine. "Let's talk."

Kabir leaned back, spreading his arms. "Talk? Sure. Let's talk. Let's talk about your little empire, shall we? How's politics treating you? Still pretending to be the man of the people while everyone whispers about your... style?"

I ignored the jab, my fingers steepled. "You're desperate. And desperation always makes noise."

Kabir laughed, low and sharp. "Noise? My dear Mihir... you have no idea. Your life, your politics, your precious image, it's all just a chessboard. Everyone's watching, and you think they respect you? They pity you. Because you think too small. Too controlled. Too... Mihir."

I finally met his gaze, unflinching. "I don't need approval. I need results."

He smirked. "Ah, results. Yes. Water projects, rallies, press releases... all carefully curated. Meanwhile, the people see only what you allow them to see. Your life, your marriage. Do you ever wonder if your perfect image is... hollow?"

I exhaled slowly. "You thrive on mockery because you're afraid of being irrelevant. That's why you attack everything, my work, my reputation, even me personally."

Kabir leaned forward, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. "And yet here you are. Facing me. Alone. Your so-called control? Fragile. Permeable. Predictable."

I didn't flinch. "Predictable only if you ignore planning, foresight, and execution. You want to mock me, Kabir, go ahead. But know this, I respond with facts, strategy, and action. Not words."

He laughed again, throwing his hands up. "Fascinating. The mighty Mihir Raghuvanshi, trembling behind spreadsheets and policies, finally speaking. I must say... I almost expected a whimper."

I leaned forward slightly, my tone quiet but cutting. "I don't whimper. And you'll find out, very soon, that arrogance is expensive."

Kabir smirked one last time, unconcerned. "We'll see, Chief Minister. We'll see."

I stood, nodding once. "We will."

Kabir's smirk widened, venom behind the charm. He leaned closer, voice dripping with malice.

"I'll take away everything you love," he said slowly, deliberately. "Your position as Chief Minister. Your control over your party, your people... even the citizens who think they admire you. And maybe... just maybe... your contract wife..Aayat Mihir Raghuvanshi."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Aayat. The name in that context, twisted, weaponised, it made my blood freeze.

Time slowed. Every thought sharpened. My fingers curled around the edge of the table. Every instinct screamed.

"Kabir," I said, voice low, dangerous. "You—"

He laughed, smug and self-assured, enjoying the effect his words had. But he had miscalculated. He had touched the one line I wouldn't allow crossed.

Reflex took over. My hand moved before my brain fully processed the motion. There was a sharp, precise sound a shot from my service weapon a gun. Kabir's right hand jerked violently, the smirk on his face twisting into shock and pain.

Chaos erupted instantly. Papers scattered. Staff screamed. Zyran lunged forward, shouting orders. Security surged into the room, restraining Kabir and ensuring no further movement.

Kabir's eyes, wide with disbelief, met mine. The arrogance was gone. In its place: fear, the raw, unplanned recognition that he had pushed one man too far.

I stepped closer, voice controlled but icy. "You use people as pawns... you think I won't act? Think again."

Zyran's hand was on my shoulder, firm, grounding me as the room settled into a tense, organized emergency protocol. Phones were secured, cameras cataloged. The legal team was on standby.

Kabir was restrained, wounded but alive. My aim had been precise, warning, a statement. A line drawn in bloodless, professional resolve.

As medics arrived, I exhaled slowly, letting the tension seep out. My hands trembled faintly, not from fear, but from the weight of acting when personal stakes collided with public duty.

Zyran leaned close, voice low. "We need to control this narrative. Immediately. Legal, security, media, all in lockdown."

I nodded, eyes cold, calculating. "Containment first. Investigation second. But Kabir... he'll remember this. And so will anyone else who thinks they can threaten what I value."

In that instant, the room was no longer a meeting space. It had become the front line of my resolve: my office, my command, my life, and the people I loved, were untouchable.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of emergency protocols, reports, and containment measures. But one thought remained unshakable, silently echoing: cross me, or anyone I care about, and you will face consequences, precise, immediate, unrelenting.

And somewhere in my chest, a quiet fire burned, not for politics, not for power, but for the woman whose name had been dragged into the venomous game.

Aayat.

That single name had made a man risk everything..and now, it had defined the line that no one would ever cross again.

The night drive was silent. The city lights blurred into streaks as I navigated toward the outskirts, past the familiar urban grid, into roads that felt abandoned, forgotten, like the secrets they led to.

The old Raghuvanshi mansion loomed ahead, decaying, neglected, and haunted by more than just dust and time. I parked at the edge of the overgrown courtyard, the gates creaking as I pushed them open. Every step toward the main hall felt heavier than the last.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with mildew and something fouler, the memory of blood, fear, and cruelty that had once ruled these halls.

Anirudh Raghuvanshi sat in the far corner, bound in a chair, chains rattling faintly with every twitch. His body was skeletal, skin pale and drawn, eyes sunken but still burning with that poisonous spark I knew so well. The years of confinement hadn't killed his arrogance.

"Ah, Mihir," he rasped, voice weak but mocking, venom thinly veiled. "You finally decided to visit your old papa. To see how the mighty... have fallen?"

I stopped a few feet from him, gaze steady, unyielding. Every muscle in my body screamed restraint, control, and rage.

"You've lived on fear, manipulation, cruelty," I said, my voice low, deliberate. "Every life you touched... ruined. Every trust you broke... remembered. Including hers."

He laughed, a hollow, cracked sound that echoed off the walls. "Your mother? She was weak. I taught her her place. You think that makes me guilty? No. You think it makes you righteous? Ha!"

I felt the old familiar storm inside me, the one I had spent a lifetime mastering, fury, grief, and a need for justice all colliding. Yet, I didn't step closer, didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. The calm before the storm was far more terrifying.

"You taught her fear," I said quietly, letting each word land with precision. "But you never imagined she could live through it. Or that I would survive you."

He coughed violently, chest rattling, but the smirk didn't leave his face. "Survive... Mihir? You're still a child playing at vengeance. Do you think you can undo the past?"

I leaned forward slightly, voice icy, calm. "I'm not here to undo the past. I'm here to ensure the future remembers what monsters leave behind."

For a moment, silence fell, thick as the dust in the room. Then his mocking tone returned, slower, deliberate:

"You think you're in control now? You, standing there... righteous Mihir, Chief Minister, hero of the people... yet all I have to do is whisper, and chaos follows. Your precious Aayat, your citizens, even your reputation, one word from me, and the world shifts."

I didn't flinch. I didn't speak. I just let him look into my eyes and see the difference between the broken boy he had tormented and the man who now stood in front of him, unbreakable, precise, untouchable.

"You're pathetic," I said finally, voice a razor. "Years of terror, years of manipulation... and you're nothing but a corpse pretending to mock me."

His lips curled into a weak grin. "We'll see, Mihir. You'll see that blood... is thicker than promises. You'll see that fear... never dies."

I stepped closer, hands steady, every inch radiating control. "No, Anirudh. Fear dies. Justice doesn't. And today... you're meeting both."

I didn't shout. I didn't tremble. I didn't hesitate. The mansion, the shadows, the memory of every atrocity, all of it condensed into a single point of clarity.

And for the first time, Anirudh Raghuvanshi understood. I was no longer the boy he had broken. I was the storm he could never withstand.

The chains rattled as I approached, but I didn't wait for him to react. Every calculated step, every measured breath, every unflinching look, it was all a warning.

"You've wasted your life on cruelty," I whispered. "Now, witness what a life of purpose can do."

He laughed one last time, brittle and mocking, before the silence of inevitability filled the room.

The room seemed to shrink around Anirudh as I stepped closer. Every movement was deliberate, calm, the opposite of the chaos he had thrived on all his life.

For the first time, I saw fear flicker in his sunken eyes. It was subtle at first, a tightening around his jaw, a slight tremor in his fingers, but unmistakable.

"You... you think you can..." he rasped, voice cracking, trying to mask it with mockery. "You think you can undo... everything?"

I didn't answer immediately. I just stood there, letting the silence stretch. Every second magnified his panic. He had always been the predator. Now, he was prey.

"I've undone nothing," I said finally, my voice low, controlled, and utterly terrifying in its calmness. "I've just come to make sure you remember what it feels like to be powerless."

His smirk wavered. His chest heaved as he realized that no chains, no walls, no intimidation could protect him from this moment. The boy he had once tormented had grown into a man who commanded presence, fear, and justice all at once.

"You... you can't..." Anirudh whispered, weaker now, almost pleading. "I... I created you... I..."

I stepped closer, until my shadow fell over him. "You didn't create me. You broke me. And now, you'll understand what that really means."

He tried to curl back in his chair, but the chains rattled, keeping him in place. His breaths came faster, shallow, panicked. The smirk was gone. His arrogance, his years of cruel confidence, all melted away under the weight of my gaze.

"I've faced storms, Anirudh. I've faced betrayal, loss, chaos, and cruelty, all from you. And yet, here I stand. Unbroken. Calm. Controlled. And you?"

I let the words hang in the air. The old mansion seemed to echo with them.

"You," I continued, voice rising slightly, a controlled storm, "are nothing. Nothing but a shadow of the man I had to survive. A shadow that now trembles because it finally meets the light."

Anirudh's lips quivered. His breathing was ragged. The first full-grown fear I'd ever seen in him cracked through decades of cruelty.

"You... won't..." he gasped, trying to spit words that had no weight, no teeth. "I... I am... Raghuvanshi... bloodline..."

I stepped closer, hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. The gesture wasn't threatening physically, it was dominance of a different kind. Command. Control. Power.

"Blood doesn't protect monsters," I said, almost gently. "Nor does it protect those who live in the shadow of their own cruelty. Today, Anirudh... you are nothing but a man confronted by the consequences of his life."

I could see the panic now fully etched across his face. The mocking spark was gone. The hollow laugh had vanished. The predator he once was had shrunk into a corner of fear, powerless, exposed, trembling under the weight of all he had done.

"You've spent your life taking from others," I whispered, leaning closer. "But you never understood what it means to face the person you tried to destroy. The person who survived. The person who will endure. And now... you do."

He tried to say something more, but the words failed him. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, for something, anything, to reclaim control. But there was none.

For the first time, Anirudh Raghuvanshi felt utterly, completely, irreversibly afraid.

And Mihir Raghuvanshi, the son he had once terrorised, stood above him, silent, calm, and utterly unstoppable.

Anirudh's eyes widened, a mix of fear and desperation flashing across his face. He coughed, trying to find a shred of bravado, and spat out, trembling:

"Main... main tumhara... baap hun!"

("I... I am your... father!")

The words were weak, hollow, a desperate attempt to reclaim authority, to scare, to dominate. But they fell flat.

I stepped closer, my gaze cold, unwavering, cutting through decades of his arrogance. Every syllable I spoke carried the weight of truth, of justice, and of the past he had tried to erase:

"Baap kahlaane ka haq toh aapne usi din kho diya tha jis din aapne meri maa pe haath uthaya tha."

("You lost the right to be called a father the very day you laid a hand on my mother.")

Anirudh flinched violently, as if the words themselves struck him. His knees trembled under the weight of the memory, the guilt he had buried so deeply, and the fear of what was coming now.

He tried to choke out another word, a rebuttal, but no sound came. The smugness, the arrogance, the years of torment, all of it shattered in a single sentence.

"You thought power came from fear," I continued, voice steady, every word deliberate, "...from control, from cruelty. But real power..." I leaned closer, my face inches from his, "...comes from surviving it, facing it, and rising above it. Not from making others suffer."

Anirudh's eyes darted around, looking for any escape, any way to turn the tide. There was none. Every chain, every wall, every shadow in this old mansion now served only as a witness to his downfall.

"You wanted to claim authority, dominance," I said softly, almost coldly, "...but the moment you struck her, the moment you broke her, you lost the right to anything but this... fear. To face the son you tried to destroy."

He sank lower in his chair, chains rattling faintly. No words came. No smirk returned. The arrogance had evaporated. For the first time in his life, he was small, powerless, and fully aware of the weight of what he had done.

And I, the son he had tried to crush, stood above him, calm, in control, and the very embodiment of justice he could never escape.

I stepped back slightly, letting the silence press down on him. The old mansion seemed to shrink around us, every shadow conspiring to reflect the darkness of his past.

"You've lived your life thinking cruelty makes you untouchable," I said slowly, circling him like a predator, "that power comes from fear. That the world bends to the wicked."

Anirudh swallowed hard, trying to straighten in his chains, but the effort was pathetic. His eyes flicked to the walls, the broken furniture, the memories embedded in this place, the place where he had tried to dominate, destroy, and leave his mark through pain.

"You tortured her," I continued, my voice calm but lethal. "Not just her... you tried to break my mother, break me, break naina and advit, break everyone who stood in your way. And for what?"

He coughed, his voice cracking. "I... I... I did it for... power!"

I stopped. My gaze locked on him. "Power?" I repeated, letting the word echo, heavy and scornful. "Power is influence. Power is respect. Power is earned. What you did was fear. And fear dies the moment you can't control it anymore."

Anirudh's lips trembled. "M-Mihir... you... you can't..."

"No," I said softly, almost whispering, "I don't need to do anything. You already see it. You already feel it."

I leaned closer, close enough for him to smell the cold certainty in my presence. "This mansion, these chains, these walls... they're nothing. Your real prison is here." I tapped my temple lightly. "You've been trapped by your own choices for decades, and now you're seeing it. You're small. Powerless. Afraid. The son you tried to destroy stands above you, calm, unbroken, untouched by your cruelty."

His face contorted with panic. Sweat ran down his temples. "I... I never thought..."

"Thought what?" I asked, tilting my head. "That someone would face you? That someone would survive your hatred? That the world wouldn't notice the monster you hid behind a father's mask?"

He could only shake. Words failed him. There were no excuses left. Every mocking grin, every lie, every act of violence, it all came crashing down.

I crouched slightly, looking him dead in the eye. "You wanted to claim respect, demand obedience... and you got chains instead. Fear instead. Weakness instead. And me — the proof that cruelty never triumphs over integrity."

Tears finally welled up in his eyes. Real fear. Real regret. Real understanding of the abyss he had lived in for so long.

"You've lost everything," I whispered, voice carrying both finality and calm. "Everything you built on pain and hatred... gone. Not by force. Not by bullets. But by the one thing you never understood: conscience. Truth. Justice. And by the son who refused to break."

He sank further into the chair, trembling, muttering nothing. No mocking, no arrogance, no lies, just the hollow, suffocating reality of the man he had become.

I straightened, my shadow long in the flickering light of the mansion. "Remember this," I said quietly. "Every choice you made brought you here. Every cruelty you inflicted brought you to this moment. And the rest of your life... will be spent staring at the consequences you deserve."

And with that, I turned, walking out of the room, leaving him chained, broken, and fully aware of his own irredeemable past.

The mansion was silent once again, but this time, it was no longer haunted by his arrogance. It belonged to truth. To justice. To the unbroken son who finally stood where his father had failed.

I stopped in the center of the room, my eyes narrowing. The chains rattled slightly as Anirudh shifted under my gaze.

"Where are my siblings?" I asked calmly at first, voice steady, but every word carried the weight of a storm.

He didn't answer.

I took a step closer, letting the silence stretch. My patience was thinning, and I could feel it coiling like a spring.

"Where. Are. They?" I barked this time, each word sharp, slicing through the oppressive air of the mansion.

Anirudh flinched visibly, his face pale, eyes darting. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. "I... I... I don't know," he stammered, voice trembling. "I swear... I don't know. Your mother... she... she took them. I...maybe... maybe your siblings are alive..."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

I stepped closer still, my shadow looming over him, the calm fury in my gaze like ice wrapped in fire. "Maybe?" I repeated, my voice low but deadly. "You speak of 'maybe' while hiding behind your cowardice. You have no idea, and yet you dare to breathe these words?"

He shrank back, the bravado that had once made him untouchable gone. "I... I don't know anything! I... I—"

I cut him off with a single, cold glance. "You will tell me everything you know. Every truth you've buried, every lie you've told. Every life you've touched with your cruelty, I want it out. Now."

He swallowed hard, trembling visibly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I... I don't... I... Your mother... she... she ran with them. And when she came back she was alone all alone....Naina and Advit weren't with her. I swear, Mihir... I didn't see them..."

I leaned in closer, my voice a razor-edge. "You have spent your life wielding fear like a weapon. Today, it turns on you. You will speak, or this time... it won't be just chains holding you."

Anirudh's face went pale, his hands shaking. "I... I don't know anything else! Please... don't..."

I straightened, taking a step back. My eyes didn't leave him. "Fear has a voice," I said quietly, almost casually. "And finally, yours is louder than your arrogance. You will live with that voice for the rest of your life."

He slumped in his chains, muttering incoherently, broken and terrified, the reality of my controlled fury crushing every shred of the man who had once mocked me.

I turned, leaving him in the cold mansion, every footstep echoing the weight of truth, of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The mansion faded behind me, its shadows and echoes still clinging to my mind. The night air was cold, sharp, a reminder that the past could never truly be buried.

By the time I reached my house, my thoughts were a storm, Anirudh's fear, the unanswered questions, the siblings' unknown fates. Every step through the familiar corridors felt heavier than usual, the silence thick with anticipation.

I stopped in the doorway, the faint light from the hallway casting long, angular shadows.

"You're here," I said, voice low, deliberate.

The air shifted. A presence. Something, or someone, waiting.

I didn't move further. I didn't need to.

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

Guess who the person Mihir saw is?

And are Naina and Advit really alive, or is Anirudh faking it and lying just to be free?

Will Aayat come back after two days, or will she stay longer in London?

Is Mihir truly in love, or is it just attachment?

And is Kabir really going to take revenge?

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

To be continued

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