Kanishk

The email in front of me remained unopened.

It wasn't hesitation which held me back. No hesitation. Rather, something along the subject line — "Urgent: Internal breach suspected". That wasn't a warning I was ready to hear, nor a rollercoaster I wanted to ride on.

I skim through the contents of the mail, the storm outside hitting strongly asked the long glass panels of my home office. Minor leak, untraceable. A copy of our new pitch, which was shared only between my father and me, had somehow landed in the hands of another company.

I lean back in my chair, the quiet thundering outside resembling the insides of my own. I rub my forehead softly, letting out a sigh as I reread the email over again. Something was wrong. Not enough for chaos, but enough to keep me up at night, take away my peaceful sleep.

Exceptions from me have gone far beyond, and the moment my father hears about this, I'll surely get a call, that is, if he isn't busy with his clients. I can already hear him thundering from two states away.

But gladly so, lest my heart can rest knowing none of his immediate anger has to be suffered by the rest of the house. Everyone can sleep peacefully for another few days until Aryan Rajvanshi comes back and stirs up chaos yet again.

Before my gaze falls on the email again, I shut my laptop down, pushing it slightly away from me as if the mere action might distance the problem from me. How is this even possible?

Something that confidential—something not even the board had seen—getting leaked and handed over to another company? Unless Dad fucked up, which I seriously doubt, there's only one explanation.

Someone in this house has been sticking their hands where they don't belong.

Even then, I can't be any of the servants; they don't even have access to either of the offices. I don't think my mother would do something so heinous, considering how much she adores her husband. Dadi? Why would she? I'm sceptical she even leaves her room these days.

Which leaves the three ladies of this house.

Kaynaaz couldn't possibly. She leaves before I do, and returns either with me or after me, depending on her intern shifts.

Kyra? No. But with the way she's been acting lately, she's practically painting a target on her back. I bet she'd be the first one to be accused by Dad.

And that leaves only one name on my suspect list.
Dear wifey.

It makes a cruel kind of sense, doesn't it? Her father's always been the greedy sort, never satisfied, always reaching for more than what's his. And as much as I love her... God, I hate the man who raised her. If he wanted to play a game like this, she'd be the perfect pawn. Smart, silent, perfectly placed. Right under my roof.

But my heart—damn thing—refuses to believe she could do something this cruel. And for once, I let that blood-pumping traitor win over the logic in my head. Because if she is capable of this... then God help me, I might just hand her the entire company with a smile on my face. Love has made me blind. Stupidly, dangerously blind.

No man could resist falling at her feet, no man. They'd stumble over their pride just for a flicker of her attention, a glance, a smile. And I'm no better. Hell, I might be worse. I crave her like a flower craves sunlight. Not just for warmth, but for survival. She doesn't even realise it, how she pulls people in without trying, how her presence shifts the gravity in every room she enters.

She's the bright sun, radiant and untouchable, and I'm just a planet caught in her orbit. Spinning endlessly, helplessly, knowing I'll burn if I get too close, but still unable to stay away. And the worst part? Even if she is playing me, even if this whole thing is a game... I'd still choose her. Over and over again.

But something in my conscious tells me she wouldn't. She wouldn't go through the trouble to marry me just to ruin me. The woman who refuses to hold marriage as nothing more than a contract wouldn't go through with it in the first place, just to ruin someone else. And though I hate her father with all my guts, he's Dad's friend and a good one. He wouldn't risk something so big, especially with his eldest daughter.

This marriage might've been a business transaction for everyone else, but for me, it means a chance at love I'd never seen bumping into me. And I absolutely refuse to let it go. I refuse to let her run away anymore.

The kiss we shared on my birthday is seared into my memory, haunting me in the quietest hours. And I'd be a damn fool to pretend I don't want more. More of her. Not just her lips or the weight of her body pressed against mine, I want to know her. To touch not just her skin, but her soul. I want to feel her fingers trail over my chest after we've made love, hear her whisper that she adores me, not out of duty, but because she means it. Because she feels it, deep in her bones, the way I do. I want to give her everything a man in love has to offer, and I want her to want it. To want me.

I lean back further into my chair, eyes slipping shut as a memory rises.

Our wedding night.

She hadn't said much that evening—too quiet, too careful, as if even her voice might betray something she wasn't ready to reveal. I remember how gently she asked where she could change, her words barely above a whisper. And I, already half in love with her silence, had simply pointed her to the dressing room.

What lingers most, though, is the moment I helped her remove the countless pins from her hair one by one, watching those dark strands tumble like velvet into my hands.

And in that stillness, I knew something I hadn't dared admit aloud: I was already hers. Mind, heart, and soul. And I'd never wanted to be anyone else's.

A soft knock disturbs the sweet moment, and I clear my throat as I sit up.

"Come in," I say cooly.

The wooden door creaks open slowly. My jaw tenses, instincts sharpening for a moment too long. But the thought evaporates the second Isphita steps inside.

She walks in carefully, like she's afraid to disturb the air between us. A steaming mug of coffee rests between her hands, fingers curled tightly around the warmth like it's some kind of shield.

She doesn't meet my eyes right away. Instead, her gaze flits to the floor, to the books on the table, to anything that isn't me. Her cheeks are faintly pink, her lips parted like she's rehearsed a line she's not sure she should say.

"I... brought you this," she says quietly, setting the mug down at the corner of my desk, not too close, not too far.

I watch her. Not just her movements, but the hesitance tucked into them. The way she stands with one foot slightly turned, as if ready to leave before I even say a word. She looks like someone who wants to stay but expects to be asked to go.

"How'd you know?" I question her, slowly reaching for the coffee.

She looks startled at my question, her weight shifting from one leg to the other, "How... did I know what?"

I pick up the cup of coffee and point to it, "My coffee."

"Oh," she lets out a sigh, "I hear you in the kitchen at around this time, I figured I'll bring it to you instead." She glances at me for a moment, "Aapko hume bol dena chahiye tha, khud itni takleef kyu.."

(You should've asked me to bring it for you, why would u go through such trouble?)

I melt at the softness in her voice, the gentleness threading through words she didn't even mean to sound tender. My gaze softens, warmth blooming somewhere behind my ribs as I look at her. Slowly, I set the coffee aside, untouched, and reached for her hand across the desk.

"Come sit with me," I murmur, nodding toward the chairs across me.

She hesitates for a heartbeat, her eyes drifting around the room with quiet curiosity. Then, almost absentmindedly, she rubs her palm against the fabric of her pale blue maxi dress.

The mehendi on her hands has begun to fade, a whisper of colour clinging to her skin. And I feel this sudden, inexplicable ache, an urge to ask her to have it redone. I can search for my initials in the swirls of her palms each night... just as an excuse to hold her hand.

She walks over slowly, her bare feet silent on the floor, and settles onto the chair opposite mine. Her posture is straight, but not stiff. Guarded, but not distant.

"Ipshita," I call out softly, catching her attention, "You're my wife, not my house-help, it's just a cup of coffee, and I think I'm capable enough to make it myself. And anyways, it's always at the time, when the clock strikes past midnight, and I don't want you to do more than you can or want to."

She looks at me, surprised, before she speaks, "I... never thought of it that way. It's just a cup of coffee, like you said. And anyway, I've nothing to do at night while you're here, so I wouldn't mind,"

"But," I start, only to get cut off by her,

"No, buts. I want to help, even if it's just by making you coffee to save a few minutes."

I sigh the kind that carries more weight than I intend to reveal.

"Very well then, Mrs. Rajvanshi," I murmur, the words slipping off my tongue like silk, laced with a softness I rarely let anyone hear.

Her eyes widen just a little. And then it happens, so quick, so quiet, yet impossible to miss. A flush blooms across her cheeks, delicate like the slow spill of dawn. She lowers her gaze, fingers brushing over the rim of her dress like she needs something to hold onto. She nods her head before letting out a hum of appreciation.

For a moment, she looks younger. Softer. Like a version of herself that no one else gets to see. She opens her mouth like she might say something, but the words never come. Instead, she looks at me again, and her expression shifts.

Her brows draw together slightly, concern creeping into the edges of her features. Her eyes trail over me, slow and thoughtful, starting at my shoulders, stiff beneath the fabric of my shirt, down to the fingers drumming absently against the armrest of my chair.

"You're tense," she says gently, her voice almost hesitant.

I don't answer immediately. Mostly because she's right. But also because her noticing catches me off guard.

Not many people do. Not even Kyra or Kaynaaz, not unless I'm two seconds from snapping. For a woman who's built walls so carefully around herself, she has an uncanny ability to see through mine. I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on me.

"It's just been... a long day."

A half-truth. Maybe even less than that, but she nods, accepting it without pushing. Still, her eyes linger. As if she knows there's more I'm not saying, as if she's quietly offering to listen.

I breathe out another sigh before opening up, "There's been a minor breach."

I wait for her reaction, to find something that might let my mind win over the conversation I had with myself earlier, but all I see is even more worry coating her expression. Her eyebrows dig into her forehead while her lips turn down into a slight frown.

"A breach? Something has been leaked?" She questions carefully, probably not wanting to overstep.

I nod at her, answering without words, and close my eyes as I lean back into the chair once more. God, this is killing me. Being near her like this, close enough to touch, yet miles away from her heart.

It's silent for a few moments until a soft noise breaks through. The gentle scrape of a chair shifting against the floor.

I don't open my eyes. But I feel her presence move closer. And then I feel it. Cool fingers brush against my forehead, tentative at first, then firmer as she begins to gently massage my temples. Her touch is careful, as if she's still unsure of her place here. But it's real. It's happening. I exhale, the breath leaving me slower than it should. The tension in my shoulders doesn't vanish, but it eases, just slightly, beneath her fingertips.

Her fingers continue their soft rhythm against my temples—slow, delicate, like she's afraid she might press too hard and shatter something. Maybe me.
Maybe herself. And then, out of nowhere, in the quietest voice I've ever heard her use, she says:

"You don't always have to carry it all, Kanishk."

It's not just the words, it's the way she says my name. Gently. Carefully. Like it's something fragile for once. Like I am. I open my eyes slowly, blinking against the weight behind them, and lift my gaze to her.

She's close. So close. Her hair falls over one shoulder, a strand clinging to her cheek, and for a brief moment, I think about tucking it behind her ear. But I don't. Instead, I watch the way her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up again, nervous, uncertain.

And something inside me breaks.

The ache I've been swallowing for weeks rises all at once. Not sharp, just overwhelming. Soft and suffocating.

I reach up and wrap my fingers around her wrist, slowly stilling her hand.
She tenses for the smallest second. Her breath catches. But she doesn't pull away. With careful ease, I guide her hand down to rest against my chest, where my heart is beating far too fast for the look on my face. Then, without a word, I pull her into my lap.

She gasps softly in surprise, one hand instinctively grabbing my shoulder for balance as her body settles against mine. She fits.

God, she fits like she was always meant to be here.

Her knees brush the outside of my thigh, the fabric of her dress pooling between us like a secret. She's hesitant, unsure, sitting straight as if she might jump off any second, but she doesn't.

She stays.

And I tilt my head, lifting my hand to cup her chin. My thumb traces the edge of her jaw, so lightly it's almost reverent. Her breath hitches. Her eyes meet mine. No words. Just silence and shared glances.

Then I lean in, slowly, giving her time, giving myself time to stop if I have to.

But I don't stop. And nor does she.

I press my lips to hers. Soft. Measured. Meaningful.
Not rushed. Not demanding. Just real.

She's still for a heartbeat. Two.

And then I feel it, her lips part slightly. A soft exhale against my skin. And she kisses me back. Hesitant at first, like she doesn't know how to let go. Like she's afraid of what this will mean if she lets herself feel it. But I feel it anyway. All of it. The warmth of her mouth, the trembling in her fingers, the way her body slowly begins to relax into mine like she's allowing herself to belong, if only for this stolen moment.

And just when I think, maybe, she's going to stay here with me in this space we've unknowingly built around us... She pulls away. Slowly. Gently.

Her lips part from mine with a softness, and she lingers there, inches away, her forehead almost brushing mine, and for a moment I think she might kiss me again, just once more. But instead, she breathes out slowly and gently places her hand on my chest.

A silent apology.

Her eyes flick up, searching mine as if she wants to say something, but the words never come. They hang there, trapped in the space where her heart won't let them leave.

She shifts, carefully moving out of my lap, the fabric of her dress whispering as it slides against my skin. Her warmth leaves a hollow in its place. She smooths down the creases in her dress, fingers trembling just enough for me to notice.

She doesn't look at me when she says it.

"I... I should go," she whispers.

And just like that— The moment ends.

She takes a step back, then another, and turns. The air feels colder with every inch that grows between us. She walks to the door slowly, like she's afraid to look over her shoulder in case she sees something she's not ready to feel. The door closes behind her with a soft, hollow click. And I stay there, still, as if moving would make it worse.