30. 3 to 4 months going out?

Shivaay sat back in his chair, his mind refusing to focus on anything but the morning's events. The memory of clasping the mangalsutra around Niharika’s neck played on a loop in his mind.

He hadn’t expected her reaction—the hesitation, the confusion in her eyes, and the way she softly asked, "Why a new one? I could wear the old one." His response had been instinctive, firm, and absolute. "You removed it, and now it stays off. This one is mine to give, and it stays on you from now on."

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath. That moment had stirred something in him, a feeling he couldn’t quite define. The way she had looked with the mangalsutra resting against her skin, the tiny pendant glinting in the morning light—it had made his heart skip a beat.

She had turned away quickly, but not before he caught the faint blush on her cheeks. It wasn’t something he had imagined; he was certain of it. And yet, her reluctance lingered in his thoughts. He couldn’t blame her, not after everything that had happened between them.

Shivaay leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. Why did it matter so much? he wondered. It wasn’t just a piece of jewelry—it was a symbol, a declaration. And seeing it on her had filled him with a strange sense of pride, a possessiveness he hadn’t expected.

He closed his eyes, replaying the moment she had finally accepted it. She didn’t fight me this time, he thought. Maybe... maybe there’s hope.

But then her words from the previous day echoed in his mind: "I hate you very much... you’re more pathetic than my parents."

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t erase the pain he had caused her, but maybe, just maybe, he could start to fix it. And perhaps that mangalsutra, now hanging where it belonged, was the first step.

Shivaay sighed, shaking his head as he stood up from the chair. The thoughts swirling in his mind weren’t helping, and he needed a distraction. He walked over to the closet, pulling it open, and began rummaging through his neatly arranged clothes.

The familiar scent of freshly pressed fabric greeted him, but his mind refused to focus. As he shifted the hangers, his thoughts wandered back to her—Niharika, standing in front of him, hesitant yet dignified. The image of her fingers lightly touching the mangalsutra as she accepted it flashed before his eyes.

He grabbed a crisp white shirt but paused, holding it in his hand as another thought struck him. Why did she finally let me put it on her? After everything I said and did, she didn’t protest... not this time.

His grip on the shirt tightened as he leaned against the closet door, staring at nothing in particular. Did she feel something in that moment too? Or was it just her way of keeping the peace for the family’s sake?

The questions buzzed in his mind like an unrelenting storm. He wasn’t used to this—this vulnerability, this confusion. For years, he had been decisive, cold, and unshakable. Yet, one small act, one piece of jewelry, had turned his world upside down.

Letting out another breath, he slipped the shirt off its hanger and began to unbutton it. No more overthinking, Shivaay. You have a day ahead of you, and she’s still your wife, whether she believes it or not.

As he dressed, his thoughts continued to drift back to her. The determination in her eyes when she spoke her truth, the way her voice trembled but never wavered. Maybe I’ve underestimated her strength, he thought.

Shivaay straightened his cuffs, glanced at himself in the mirror, and ran a hand through his hair. It’s time to make things right. Slowly, but surely.

As Shivaay finished buttoning his shirt, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen—it was a call from his secretary.

“What is it?” Shivaay asked, his voice sharp but composed, as he held the phone to his ear.

“Sir,” the secretary began, sounding a little hesitant. “I wanted to inform you about the California deal. The site construction is in its final stages, and your presence is required for inspection and further approvals. It might take around three to four months to oversee everything properly.”

Shivaay frowned, pacing the room as he processed the information. “Three to four months?” he repeated, his tone laced with irritation.

“Yes, sir,” the secretary confirmed. “The board feels it’s crucial for you to be there, considering the magnitude of the project. I’ve arranged for the necessary paperwork, and the flight details can be finalized as per your schedule.”

Shivaay exhaled deeply, his free hand moving to his temple. Three to four months away... away from here, from Jaipur, from her?

He leaned against the edge of the bed, his mind racing. His usual instinct would have been to agree without hesitation—business always came first. But now, the thought of leaving while things between him and Niharika were still so fragile felt unsettling.

“I’ll think about it,” Shivaay finally said, his tone curt. “Don’t finalize anything until I approve.”

“Understood, sir,” the secretary replied before disconnecting the call.

Shivaay stared at the phone in his hand, his jaw tightening. Three to four months is a long time... long enough to lose any progress I might make with her.

He tossed the phone onto the bed and looked out of the window, the sprawling palace grounds stretching before him. Can I really leave now? Or is this deal another test I can’t afford to fail?

In the quiet solitude of a lavish hotel room, the sharp sound of shattering glass echoed as Ragini hurled the delicate vase onto the floor. It shattered into countless pieces, scattering across the marble tiles, mirroring the storm raging within her.

Standing a few feet away, Ankit Mehra, her loyal assistant, flinched but remained composed. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he dared not look directly at her fiery gaze.

"He realized his mistake, ma’am," Ankit said carefully, his tone soft yet steady. "He acknowledged everything. It seems—"

"Realized?" Ragini cut him off, her voice a dangerous mix of disbelief and fury. She turned to face him, her eyes blazing. "After years of humiliation, betrayal, and pain—now he realizes? What am I supposed to do with his pathetic realization, Ankit? Applaud him?"

Her words dripped with venom, her breathing uneven as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She crossed her arms, glaring down at the shattered vase as though it embodied the person she despised.

Ankit took a cautious step forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "Ma'am, with this... we could use his guilt. If he's vulnerable, we might be able to—"

"Stop," she hissed, holding up a hand. "Do not tell me to exploit his guilt. I don’t want his regret. I don’t want his excuses. What I want is for him to feel what I’ve felt. Every single moment of helplessness, of rage, of despair—I want him to drown in it."

Her voice cracked, but she straightened, her composure returning as her resolve hardened. She looked out of the large glass window, the city below sprawling in its glittering oblivion.

"I spent years being trampled under their feet," she continued, her tone icier now. "And they thought I’d stay there forever. But I rose, Ankit. And I’ll make sure they all fall harder than they ever imagined."

Ankit bowed his head slightly, knowing there was no point in reasoning further. "Understood, ma’am. I’ll make the necessary arrangements."

"Good." Ragini’s voice was steady as she finally turned back to him. Her expression, though calm now, held an unrelenting ferocity.

As Ankit retreated from the room, Ragini knelt down, picking up a shard of the broken vase. She held it between her fingers, letting the sharp edge bite into her skin. A drop of blood pooled at the tip, crimson and glistening under the warm glow of the room.

She whispered to herself, her voice low and chilling, "They broke me once. Now, it’s my turn to shatter them."

Ragini sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers trembling as she held the sharp shard of the broken vase. Her eyes clouded with unshed tears, but one by one, they began to fall. She didn’t try to stop them this time. Instead, she let the pain she had buried for years resurface, engulfing her like a storm.

Moments of betrayal flashed through her mind like a cruel slideshow: the empty promises, the dismissive words, the loneliness of being abandoned when she needed support the most. Every memory cut deeper than the last, leaving her heart raw and bleeding.

Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed quietly, clutching the shard in her hand until it pressed into her skin, leaving a red mark. She felt so small, so helpless—as if the world had conspired against her.

"Mumma?"

The soft voice broke through her agony. Ragini looked up, startled, to see her daughter, Natasha, standing by the door. The little girl’s wide eyes were filled with worry as she hurried toward her mother.

Ragini tried to wipe her tears quickly, forcing a weak smile. "Natasha, baby, why are you awake? It's late."

Natasha climbed onto the bed beside her, her tiny hands gently cupping Ragini’s tear-streaked face. "Mumma, you're crying. Are you hurt?"

Her innocent concern made Ragini’s heart ache even more. She pulled Natasha into a tight embrace, stroking her hair as the little girl buried her face in her mother's shoulder.

"No, sweetheart," Ragini whispered, her voice cracking. "Mumma's not hurt. Just... thinking about some old things."

Natasha pulled back, her small fingers wiping away Ragini’s tears with surprising tenderness. "Don’t cry, Mumma. You always tell me to be strong, right? You’re the strongest person I know."

Ragini's heart swelled with love for her daughter. Natasha’s presence felt like a balm to her wounds, a reminder that amidst all the darkness in her life, there was still a light worth protecting.

She cupped Natasha’s cheek, her voice steadying. "You’re my little angel, you know that? Mumma’s strong because of you."

Natasha smiled, though she didn’t fully understand the depth of her mother’s pain. She reached out to grab Ragini's hand. "Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make you hot chocolate."

Ragini chuckled softly, her tears slowing. "Hot chocolate? You’ll burn the whole kitchen down, my little chef."

"I’ll be careful!" Natasha said with a pout, tugging on her mother’s hand.

For the first time that evening, Ragini genuinely smiled. She let Natasha pull her toward the kitchen, realizing that no matter how broken she felt, she had to keep going—for her daughter, for the one pure, beautiful thing in her life.

And as they walked hand in hand, Ragini made a silent vow: For you, Natasha, I’ll rise again. No matter how many times life tries to break me.