Kanishk

The house had grown quieter these days, though not in the way peace settles over a place. It was the kind of silence that came with watchfulness, with words left unsaid and emotions pressed down so deep they hummed beneath the surface. I carried it with me, room to room, like a second skin. Ever since I'd discovered the truth about Ipshita, I'd chosen silence over exposure, patience over fury. Not because my anger had dulled, God knew it burned still, but because I wanted her father to feel what it meant to play games with me.

The fruit of toying with me and my empire was bitter, and I intended for her father to taste every last drop of it. He had played with my wife's feelings, reduced her to a pawn, and used her in something so derogatory it sickened me to think of it. And yet, when my anger rose, it refused to take shape against her.

How could I blame Ipshita for the mess she had been thrown into? She had been caught in a web she could not free herself from without carrying the crushing guilt of failing her household. I knew that guilt, knew too well the suffocating weight of being the eldest child, the unspoken demand to be perfect, to bear it all without faltering. I could almost feel the day her father asked her to do this, asked her to spy on her own husband, to walk into a marriage only to dismantle it from within. I could see her saying yes, not out of malice, but out of duty, out of love twisted into obedience. She had risked everything, her love, her marriage, and her newfound family, just to remain the ideal daughter in his eyes. And still, even after all she had sacrificed, he dared to call her wretched, to belittle her worth.

How was I to be angered at the woman I had fallen so utterly in love with, the woman who had owned my heart long before we even truly met? It felt like a physical wound to see tears staining her eyes, born not of cruelty or distance but of guilt, of shame at being exposed to such humiliation. Every part of me ached to pull her into my arms, to tell her I understood, that my anger was never hers to bear. I wasn't furious with her, only wounded that she hadn't thought me worthy of the truth, that she hadn't trusted me enough to believe I would have stood beside her, fought for her, carried the weight she had been forced to bear alone.

So I began to build something like a ledger of vengeance, not the loud, law-suited kind, because I would never drag her through court and risk exposing the part of her that had been coerced; not the kind that would point a finger back at Ipshita and break whatever fragile line of dignity she still had. I collected everything against her father in slow, deliberate gestures: a file here, a whispered testimony there, the faint trail of numbers and names that men like him left like crumbs. I turned the hurt into a method. Each paper I tucked away, each late-night call I made, felt less like cruelty and more like a shield for her, proof that I could ruin him without ever letting the world know she had been used.

There was a cruelty in that, too. I planned a project that would unmake his company from the inside out: expose, isolate, and suffocate the rot until it choked on its own corruption. It would be surgical and absolute; no dramatic reveals at a press conference, no vindictive displays. He would not see it coming because he had not bothered to look for shadows in the places he had trusted. And all the while, Ipshita would remain untouched by the legal fingerprints of what I did. That was the architecture of my revenge, tidy, controlled, and private. Because the one thing I could not bring myself to do was to weaponise her shame.

I told no one. Not my board, not my father, no one who might mistake my restraint for weakness. Silence became my ally. People assumed I was brooding over business decisions, over rivals and market manoeuvres. They did not know I was building a case with a lover's tenderness. Gathering fragments not to punish her, but to punish the man who had made her choose between filial duty and the home she had sworn to protect. It was strange how love and strategy braided together in my chest; the same hands that drafted merger plans at noon traced the lines of a dossier at two in the morning.

And beneath all of it sat the more dangerous confession I dared not voice even to myself: I still loved her. That love made the work quieter, more precise. It kept me from theatrics and from cruelty that would have damaged her beyond repair. In the end, perhaps the cruellest thing I could do to him was to take away his certainty: to show him that the man he had underestimated could destroy what he had built, and to do it in a way that left his daughter whole and free.

Although I've been protecting her, I've been hurting her too. I know it. Every time I look past her, every time I let silence answer where words should have been, I'm cutting her in small ways. And maybe it means, but I can't bring myself to stop. Because somewhere inside me, I still want her to feel a sting, not enough to break her, just enough to remind her how it felt to be betrayed. Although I care for her more than I care for myself, although I know she would never do this again, I don't want to be easy. I don't want her to think she can simply stumble into my trust and walk out with it unscathed. Not this time.

The door to my office creaks softly, and I don't need to look up to know it's her. She always comes in like a secret these days, hesitant, careful, as though even the walls might reject her presence. My eyes stay fixed on the file in front of me, pen dragging across a line of notes I've already rewritten twice.

"I thought you might need this," her voice is low, tentative. She sets the cup down beside my elbow, the faint aroma of coffee threading through the stale air of the room. "You've been working late again."

I let the silence stretch. I don't thank her. Don't look at her. My hand moves steadily over the page, the nib scratching in the quiet like the sound of distance being carved deeper. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fingers linger on the cup, tightening, as if she wants me to acknowledge the effort, to acknowledge her.

I don't.

Because if I let myself look up, if I see the apology in her eyes, the shame clouding her features, I'll break. And she needs to know that breaking me isn't something she can mend with coffee at midnight or a gentle word in the dark. She needs to feel the weight of my silence.

Her breath hitches faintly, like she's swallowing back words, and then her footsteps retreat. The door shuts quietly behind her, and I finally drop the pen, pressing my fingers against my temple. The coffee sits untouched, steam curling like something dying.

I want nothing more than to go after her, to catch her hand in the hallway and tell her I love her still, but I stay rooted to my chair. Loving her doesn't mean forgiving her easily. And if she's going to fight for me, then she has to fight harder than this.

My office door creaks open again, and I don't look up right away. It's probably Kaynaaz, here again to talk herself out of one of her frenzies. She's been radiant these days, lighter, almost too happy. Her laughter spills through the halls, her smiles keep the house from caving in on itself. For weeks now, she's been the one holding the walls together.

Kyra, though... Kyra feels like a ghost of herself. Alien. Distant. As if we've already lost her to a war she refuses to name. She won't speak, won't cry, won't even let herself feel, and feeling is what she's always done better than any of us. I can't remember the last time I saw her write. Now, it's only scraps, torn pages, ruined words, fragments of the girl who once bled poetry.

And the contrast gnaws at me. One sister blooming, the other shattering. The house looks alive on the outside, but inside, it feels just as fractured as I am.

The sound of the door shutting pulls me out of my thoughts, and when I finally glance up, it isn't Kaynaaz standing there. It's her. Ipshita. Back again, even after walking out of here minutes ago.

She lingers by the door like she isn't sure if she's welcome, her hand tightening on the tray she carries. Tonight she's dressed in a soft blue kurti suit, her dupatta slipping halfway down her head, barely clinging to her shoulders. There's no makeup on her face except for the tiny bindi pressed between her brows, and somehow that makes her look smaller, quieter. Fragile. Like I could pick her up in my arms and she'd simply fold into me, curl up in my lap, and sleep until morning without a single care.

Her eyes search mine, hesitant, but steady enough to ask, "Kanishk, how long are you going to keep doing this?"

She says it like she's braver than she feels. Like the weight of her voice alone can keep her from breaking. But I see it, the tray in her hand rattling just slightly, the other hand curled tight into a fist at her side. Her knuckles blanch as if she's holding back an outburst, willing herself not to crumble here in front of me.

And yet, she stands there anyway, small and fragile in her blue suit, dupatta sliding down as though gravity itself conspires to reveal her.

Because even now, with her fists shaking and her lips pressed thin, I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms. To bury her against my chest and tell her that I see her, that I know how hard she's fighting to stay strong, even as her hands betray her.

But I stay seated, nails biting into my palm under the desk, because if I give in now, if I make it easy for her, she'll never know the sting I need her to feel.

"I don't have time for this, Ipshita," I say finally, my voice even, clipped, the kind of cold that cuts deeper than anger. My gaze drops back to the papers scattered on my desk, a deliberate dismissal, pen scratching against the page as if she isn't standing right there, trembling, waiting for me to soften.

I don't look up again. If I do, I know I'll lose this hold I have on myself.

Silence hangs heavy for a moment, so thick I can almost hear her heart breaking in it. And then, softer than a breath, her voice comes again,

"Please, Kanishk."

The word shakes, as fragile as the tray she sets down on the edge of my desk. She steps closer, closing the space I'd been clinging to like a shield. I can feel the warmth of her presence now, the faint rustle of her dupatta as it slips further from her head.

I keep my eyes fixed on the document before me, though the letters blur into nothing. Every inch she moves closer tests the steel I've wrapped around myself.

"Kanishk, just look at me once," she tries again, voice steadier this time, as though she's rehearsed the line in her head before daring to speak it.

I don't. I shift a page instead, let the sound of it tear the air between us, cold and final.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn't stop. "I know I've hurt you. I know I don't deserve to stand here and ask for anything, but I am asking... because I can't... I can't keep living like this, with you shutting me out."

My pen scratches against the paper, the most deliberate betrayal of all. I hear her footsteps falter, the way silence almost swallows her whole.

Then, almost brokenly, she whispers, "I'm your wife, Kanishk. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Her words hang there, trembling in the air, and then I feel it, her hand, light but desperate, settling on my shoulder. The warmth of her touch burns straight through the fabric of my shirt, soft yet insistent, a plea she can't voice any louder.

In one swift motion, I push back from the chair and rise, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. My hand shoots up, catching her wrist before she can pull away. Her gasp fills the silence as I tug her closer, the tray clattering off the desk behind her, forgotten.

She stumbles into me, flush against my chest, her heartbeat wild and frantic where it presses into mine. I can feel her breath hitch against my collarbone, see the shimmer of tears in her eyes when she dares to look up at me.

Her wrist is still in my grip, but it's not forceful; it's the kind of hold that says I can't let go, even if I should. The dupatta slips fully now, sliding down her arm like a surrender she never intended, leaving her smaller, barer before me than ever.

Everything in me screams to hold her, to crush her against me and erase the distance I've been forcing. But my jaw locks, the words I should say lodged somewhere deep in my throat.

Her lips tremble, but this time words find their way out, breaking on a whisper. "I didn't mean to, Kanishk... I had no choice. You think I wanted any of this?"

Her voice cracks at the end, and I feel it reverberate against my chest, twisting something in me I don't want to name. For a moment, I almost loosen my hold, almost pull her in the way I ache to.

But instead, I let the steel in me win.

"You keep forgetting what this is," I say, my tone clipped, deliberate, though it rips at me with every syllable. "Our marriage, it's a contract, Ipshita. Nothing more. You signed your loyalty away the moment you chose him over us."

Her breath shudders out, like I've knocked the air from her lungs. I watch her eyes flicker, the fight in them dimming as the weight of my words lands where I aimed them. And even though I hate myself for it, I don't take it back.

Because if I make it easy for her now, if I let her think love is enough to wipe away betrayal, what's to stop it from happening again?

"The contract doesn't mean anything," she whispers, the words like a shard of glass pressed to her own skin. "Not to me. Not when it comes to us."

I let out a low, humourless laugh, one that tastes of bitterness on my tongue. My grip on her wrist tightens, not painfully, but enough to remind her of the truth she's trying to rewrite.

"Not to you?" I echo, my gaze burning into hers. "It meant enough when you used it as an excuse to stand in my house, to wear my name, to act like you belonged here while feeding your father pieces of my company. Don't tell me it doesn't mean anything."

Her breath hitches, and I can see the flare of something spark in her eyes. She shakes her head, the bindi trembling with the motion, her dupatta sliding further down her arm until it pools at her elbow.

"I never belonged because of a contract," she snaps, the first real fire in her voice tonight. "I belonged because I'm your wife, Kanishk. Because I loved you, even when I was suffocating under his demands, even when I was too much of a coward to say no to him. I chose you every day in here," she presses her free hand to her chest, trembling, "but you can't see past the paper and the signatures."

The words slam into me, raw and desperate, but I don't let them break my façade. I force my voice to stay cold, detached, though it scrapes my throat bloody.

"And yet, you still betrayed me."

That does it. Her eyes glisten, fury mingling with the sheen of tears, and she yanks her wrist free from my hold with a sharp jerk. The sudden emptiness in my hand stings more than it should.

She takes a step back, shoulders rising and falling, her breath harsh now. "You'll never understand, will you?" she bites out, her voice shaking but fierce. "You'd rather cling to your pride than see that I'm standing here begging for you. That I'd burn myself to the ground if it meant proving you wrong."

Her chest heaves as silence crashes between us again, heavier than before. My hand still tingles where her wrist had been, like her absence left a brand on my skin.

Before I can find a reply, before I can even breathe past the jagged edges of her words, she spins away. Her dupatta whirls behind her, her footsteps sharp, hurried, echoing through the office like the beat of a retreating heart. The door slams shut, leaving the scent of her presence, the hollow of her absence.

I stand frozen for a moment, staring at the space she'd filled, at the air still trembling with her voice. And then, like a thread snapping, the façade I've been holding cracks.

My legs buckle before I can steel them, and I collapse back into my chair, the leather groaning under the force of it. My hand drags to my head, fingers threading harshly through my hair, gripping hard like I can keep myself from coming apart at the seams. But the truth is, I'm already unravelling.

My eyes burn until the whole room wavers out of focus, edges smearing into nothing. And God, it feels like I'm shattering, splinter by splinter, in the silence she's left behind. Because I heard her. Every word. Every plea. The trembling confession she offered as if it were the last piece of herself she could give me. And still, I cut her down. Still, I let my anger, my pride, weigh heavier than the love in her voice. Heavier than the truth in her eyes.

She only wanted me to believe her. To believe us. And I couldn't.

The papers on my desk blur and swim, useless now. All I can see is the way she looked at me, small but brave, broken but still standing, fighting for us even when I refused to see it.

And all I can feel is the ache of knowing I'm the one who pushed her away. And I wonder if in trying to punish her, all I've done is destroy myself.