Kanishk

Papers are on my bed. Stacks of balance sheets lean against each other like fragile towers, receipts spill out in crumpled heaps, and red-marked files scatter across the sheets as though the mattress itself is a battlefield. My laptop hums at the edge, its screen glowing with half-finished notes and numbers that blur together after hours of staring.

I sift through them with tired hands, each page another piece of the puzzle I've been piecing together, another nail in the coffin of the man who destroyed everything. Every figure I circle, every forged receipt I uncover, it all builds a case strong enough to crush him. Ipshita's father thought he could bury his crimes under money and power, but I've been digging, ripping apart ledgers, following paper trails through shell companies and offshore accounts.

This is more than business. It's survival. It's vengeance. Every calculation is proof that I was right, that I wasn't paranoid when I felt him tightening the noose around my family. I promised myself I'd bring him down with his own hands still stained by greed, and I will.

I line up the sheets in order, dragging a red pen across margins, stitching together threads that no one else would dare touch. It's all here, the forged signatures, the stolen designs, the quiet siphoning of funds disguised as investments. Years of rot, hidden in plain sight.

And soon, it won't be hidden anymore.

The board of his company, his empire, will see the truth. They'll see the man they bowed to stripped bare by the weight of his own sins. Every rupee he's stolen, every blueprint he's copied, every deal he's cut in the shadows, it'll all come crashing down around him.

And the person who'll pull the curtain back? His daughter.

A bitter smile tugs at my mouth. Ipshita is the key. The files I have aren't just evidence, they're testimony. Her testimony. The board won't doubt her when she speaks. They'll believe her because blood speaks louder than paper.

And maybe that's what hurts the most. To bring him down, I have to hold her up as his downfall.

I press the last file shut, the pen digging a faint line into the paper beneath it. For a breath, I sit there, staring at the wreckage spread across my bed, my war mapped out in ink and numbers. It should feel satisfying, the end finally in sight. But instead, there's a weight in my chest that won't lift.

I drag another folder closer, meaning to double-check the dates, and that's when I see it.

Half-buried under a stack of invoices, the edge of a cream sheet peeks out. I pull it free, frowning, and the neat black print punches the air from my lungs.

Our marriage contract.

The letters blur as I stare at them, my thumb tracing the crease in the fold. I shouldn't feel anything—this was always meant to be a deal, a transaction, nothing more. But the memory hits me anyway: her voice the day we signed, careful and distant, like she was already promising herself this wouldn't matter. But her promise to herself had flattered. She'd broken it because she confessed to love me before I'd dismissed her with my cruel words.

And now all I can see is her face yesterday, the way her eyes shone before she turned and ran.

Yesterday's words echo back, sharper than any blade. I'd told her she was nothing. That I should've never trusted her. That maybe this marriage was doomed from the start.

I can still taste the bitterness of it on my tongue.

What she doesn't know is how much it cost me to say those things. It wasn't just anger, it was pain, clawing through my ribs until the only way to breathe was to push her away. Each word felt like ripping a piece of myself out, and yet I kept going, because I was terrified. Terrified of how badly I wanted her. Terrified of how much she could break me if I let her again.

And my words had cut her, and before I had the chance to heal her wounds, she ran. Ran away from me in hurt and despair.

After what happened in the office, the only person I could seek out was my sister. She's always been the one I run to when the ground caves in, the only soul who lets me bleed without asking me to hide it.

That night, she'd let me in the way she always does, no questions, no judgment. Just a quiet nod, a blanket folded over the arm of her chair, her silence softer than any words. I remember stepping into her room and finding her by the window, staring off into the oblivion like the stars might finally give her answers.

Her condition was better now, her body stronger, her hands steadier, but I knew. I knew she was only hiding all that pain beneath her calm, pressing it down under the gentleness she wore like a shield. My sister has always been like that. Tender, even when life carved her raw. Soft, even when she was breaking.

And in that moment, with my chest burning and Ipshita's face haunting me, I asked her the question I hadn't dared put into words before.

"Kyra, do you think it's right to love the ones that have betrayed us?" I whisper, standing beside her as we both stare outside her window.

She takes a slow breath, her head turning toward me for the briefest moment before her eyes find their way back to the night sky.

"I think..." she whispers, voice barely carrying, "it's never wrong to love a person. Whether they hurt you or mend you back together. Love is never a crime. Because love is something that comes from the heart. It can't be forced. It can't be fake. Be it childhood love, or marriage, be it your enemy or your friend, or someone who's hurt you before or even someone you think you hate... It's never wrong to love someone, Bhai. It's the purest form of feeling. How can it be a sin to feel something so pure? Even gods have loved in ways we worship now. How could they be wrong above anyone else?"

My breath catches at the way she says it, like every word is pulled from a place deeper than mine, like she's answering a question she's been asking herself long before I walked into this room.

"Even with betrayal?" I whisper again, my voice breaking against the night.

"Mhm." She nods, a faint smile touching her lips, though it never reaches her eyes. "Because betrayal or not, heartbreak or not... the heart wants what it wants. And in those moments, it's us who have to choose. Whether to listen to our heart, or to the mind. And both will fight each other. Both will make you bleed. But if you're still confused..." She pauses, her tone softening, "...then ask yourself if they've apologised for the betrayal. If they truly love you, they'll apologise for their mistakes. Love doesn't make a person flawless, Bhai, it makes them human. And being human means choosing to stay, even when it's hard."

Her words had lingered long after I'd left her room, weaving themselves into the silence of the night. They'd follow me back into mine, settled in the hollows of my chest, refusing to be shaken off no matter how hard I tried.

And now, sitting here with the contract in my hands, they return in full force.

The paper feels heavier than it should, like it's carrying not just signatures but the weight of everything that's passed between us, every cold glance, every unspoken word, every moment when I wanted to reach for her and couldn't. My thumb grazes over Ipshita's name, written in clean, elegant strokes, and my chest tightens until it's hard to breathe.

Kyra's voice whispers back, soft and unwavering: "Love doesn't make a person flawless, Bhai, it makes them human."

And I wonder if that's what I am now. Human. A man holding onto a piece of paper that should've meant nothing, and yet it's the one thing I can't let go of.

The creak of a hinge pulls me out of my thoughts. The door shifts open, and I look up sharply.

Ipshita stands at the threshold.

For a heartbeat, the room feels too small, too fragile to contain the weight of her presence. She looks uncertain, her hand still lingering on the doorknob, as if she might vanish the next second. The light from the hallway spills around her, painting the edge of her hair in gold, but her face carries the same shadow from yesterday.

Her eyes flicker to the bed, to the mess of papers I've drowned myself in, and for a moment, I think she might speak. Instead, she clears her throat, the sound soft but strained.

"I didn't know you were here," she says, her voice low, careful, like she's afraid the walls might crack if she speaks any louder. Her gaze dips, and she takes a small step back. "I'll leave you alone."

She turns, already retreating, and something inside me clenches. My chest constricts the way it did yesterday, when I let her walk away without stopping her.

"Ipshita," I say, her name leaving me before I can stop it.

She freezes.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turns back, her eyes searching mine with a fragility that twists through me. "Yes?" she whispers, the word trembling but full of something I hadn't dared hope for. Hope itself.

The contract crinkles in my fist as I extend it toward her.

I push myself off the edge of the bed, the papers whispering against each other as I gather them. My legs feel heavier than they should. Still, I cross the space, and when she finally steps forward, her eyes searching mine with that same fragile question she won't voice, I hold out the contract.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, soft, hesitant, and I let go before the moment tempts me to hold on. I can't watch her face when she reads it, I already know what it will carve out of me. So I turn, shoulders stiff, back to her, eyes fixed on the window where the city lights blur into nothing but smears of gold.

Behind me, the silence shifts. I hear the faint rustle of paper as she lowers her gaze, the tiniest catch of her breath when reality sets in. I don't have to see her to know the hope she clung to is extinguishing, dimming like the last flame in a dying candle.

My chest tightens, an ache so sharp I press my palm against it as if I could hold myself together. I stand there, facing away, because if I see it, I don't think I'll survive it.

"The contract dates thread closer," I say, my voice quieter than I intend, but sharp enough to cut through the silence between us. My throat burns as the words leave me. "And I'm almost done with the drive you need to expose your father."

"Kanishk," she whispers, but I don't let myself hear the tremor in her voice. If I pause now, if I let her in, I'll never get through this.

"You'll be free," I press on, though each word feels like it's being torn out of me, one by one. My eyes sting, and I blink hard, willing the blur away before it betrays me. "I won't bind you with this contract anymore, or with what you had to do for your father. We can close this chapter off."

The words taste bitter, hollow, like they're undoing me from the inside out. My chest clenches so tightly I think my ribs might splinter under the weight of them. God, it hurts to say them aloud, to let go of the one thread I've been holding onto, hoping she'd be the one to pull it back toward us.

But instead, here I am, unravelling it with my own hands.

"Listen to me, Kanishk," her voice cracks, soft but urgent, and I can hear her stepping closer even though my back is still to her.

"There's nothing to speak of," I cut her off, my tone lower now, steadier than I feel inside. "It's already done for."

I pause, the weight of the next words pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe. "This marriage was bound since the beginning... and it's better to end it like it started."

The room swallows the sound of my voice, and then there's nothing, no movement, no words. Only silence, heavy and suffocating, sits between us like a third presence. I keep my back turned, eyes fixed on the floor, because I know if I look at her, I won't be able to finish what I started.

The silence is unbearable, stretching long enough that I almost turn around, almost let myself hope. And then, sharp and sudden, the sound tears through the air. Rip.

My head snaps back, and my chest caves at the sight of her, standing there with pieces of paper trembling in her hands, the contract no longer whole but shredded, ruined. Her breaths come fast, shoulders heaving, eyes blazing with something between fury and desperation.

"What are you doing?" The words tear out of me as I step forward. My hand shoots out before I can stop myself, wrapping around her wrist, pulling her closer so she can't turn away. "Ipshita, do you even know what that was?"

"Yes, I know exactly what it was," she fires back, her voice breaking as tears brim and spill. She lifts the torn sheets with her free hand, then lets them fall from her fingers like ash, scattered across the floor.

Her eyes lock onto mine, raw and unflinching.

"It was the only thing keeping you from me. And I'm done hiding behind it. I don't care about the contract, Kanishk, I don't care about freedom from this marriage, I don't care about what it was meant to bind us into."

Her voice shakes, but her grip tightens on my hand as if she's anchoring herself to me. "It's not the contract I want. It's you. Don't you see? I've fallen for you."

Her voice shakes as she tugs against my grip, but I don't let go. "How much do I need to tell you?" she whispers at first, and then louder, trembling. "Why won't you just hear me? Hear my heart, Kanishk."

Her free hand presses against her chest, as if trying to still the frantic beat beneath. "It's screaming for you. For you to listen. For you to see me. Every time you push me away, every time you talk about this marriage like it's a chain, it's like you're ripping me apart. Because it stopped being a chain for me a long time ago."

Her eyes shine with tears, but her voice doesn't falter. "I don't want revenge. I don't want freedom. I don't want a contract. I want you. I want the man who still cares even when he's hurting. The man who saw me as more than my father's pawn. The man who made me feel like I wasn't a mistake. Do you understand?"

She steps closer until there's barely any space left between us, her breath unsteady, her fingers trembling inside my hold. "I've fallen in love with you, Kanishk. And if you can't hear it in my words, then at least feel it in my heart. It's yours, even when you don't want it to be."

Her voice cracks, but she doesn't back away. Her fingers tighten around mine, desperate, as if she lets go, no,w she'll lose me forever.

"I know I made a mistake," she whispers, and the words tremble through the space between us. "I know it's not something we can mend easily. And I know that you can't forgive me, and it's not even forgiveness I'm asking for right now."

Her eyes brim with tears, but her chin lifts, her voice steadying as she goes on. "I haven't earned it yet. But I will. I'll work dawn to dusk, every day, for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes. I'll prove to you that I'm not just my father's daughter, that I'm not here to hurt you."

She draws in a sharp breath, her chest rising against my arm as I still hold her wrist. "But I need you to forget this contract. To forget that this marriage was ever a chain. Because it's not a chain for me, Kanishk. Not anymore."

Her words hang there, trembling in the air, and it feels like the room itself is holding its breath with me.

For a long moment, I can't breathe. Her words hang in the air like they've cut straight through the walls I've spent years building. My grip on her wrist trembles, not because I want to let go but because, for the first time, I don't know how to hold on.

God, I've been waiting for this. For something that could silence the storm inside me. Every night, every doubt, every ache in my chest when I looked at her and wondered if she would ever truly stay... all of it had been clawing at me, leaving me raw, leaving me begging for an answer I was too afraid to demand.

And here it is.

Her voice, her tears, her stubborn courage, it's the reassurance my heart had been begging for. The promise I thought I'd never hear. Not freedom. Not contracts. Not apologies lined with duty. But love. A vow that she's not going anywhere. That she's mine, not because she's bound, not because she's cornered, but because she wants to be.

I feel my throat close, my eyes sting hot, and I don't fight it anymore. For once, I don't push it down. I let it come, the weight of relief so heavy it nearly buckles me.

"Ipshita..." My voice cracks around her name, and I swallow hard, forcing the words past the knot in my chest.

I step closer, closing the last of the distance between us, my hand sliding from her wrist to her fingers, lacing them tight with mine.

"This marriage was never a chain for me," I murmur, my voice low but trembling, the weight of it sitting heavy in my chest. I pause, searching her eyes, my own burning under the force of everything I've been holding back. "I've craved you from the moment I saw you. And that was the moment my decision of never falling in love again shattered into nothing."

My throat tightens, but I keep going, the words spilling like a confession I've been holding in too long. "Throughout this marriage, I've only ever looked at you with love. Only ever longed for your attention, your care. Even after everything that's taken place between us... despite all these difficulties... I still hold my heart out for you to accept. Still."

I step closer, our breaths tangling in the small space between us. "I don't want us to be bound by a contract or a name. I want to be yours, not by marriage, not by a chain, but by heart, by soul, by mind. I wish to be yours in this life and in the ones that follow. For centuries. And I would overcome these difficulties in each lifetime if it meant reaching you again. Getting you. Loving you."

My hand slides from her wrist and softens, rising to cradle her tear-streaked face between my palms. My thumb brushes along her damp cheek, and she leans into the touch instinctively, her eyes closing as another small, broken whimper escapes her lips.

"I'm sorry, my love," I whisper. "I'm sorry I pushed you away yesterday. I'm sorry I said those harsh words. They were never my heart's true feelings... they were my pride speaking. My anger. My fear. Not my heart."

Her breath hitches against mine, her skin warm beneath my hands, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like we're not on opposite ends of the war.

Before I can say anything more, she moves, sudden and desperate. Her arms fling around me, and she clutches me tight, so tight it knocks the air from my lungs. My heart leaps, stumbling in my chest at the unexpectedness of it, at the way she buries herself against me like she's afraid I'll vanish if she lets go.

Her face presses into my chest, warm and damp as her tears seep through the fabric of my shirt. And God, the sound of her broken sobbing splinters something inside me that I didn't even know was still intact.

For half a heartbeat, I just stand there, stunned, and then my body moves on instinct. My arms wrap around her with equal force, pulling her closer, holding her as if I could shield her from everything, her pain, her past, even from me. My hand slides up her back, fingers threading into her hair, pressing her face deeper into the safety of my chest.

"Ipshita..." I breathe her name, my voice catching as I lean down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Soft. Careful. A promise more than a touch. She trembles at the contact, clinging tighter, and I close my eyes, letting myself feel the truth of this moment, the weight of her in my arms, the way she fits there like she's always belonged.

Her tears soak through, her cries muffled against me, but I don't mind. If she needs to cry, then let her. I'll hold her for as long as it takes, for as many nights as it takes.

"Why are you the one apologising?" she chokes out against my chest, her fists bunching into my shirt. "Why are you apologising when I'm the one who's committed the crimes? Why?"

She tilts her face up just enough for me to see her eyes, red and wet, searching mine like she's drowning. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Kanishk. Had I come to you in the beginning... had I told you everything then, neither of us would be this hurt. I wouldn't have made you bleed."

I shake my head softly, pressing my forehead to hers as my hands slide down her back. My arms sway her gently side to side with my own body, like a rhythm meant to quiet her sobs, to steady the storm inside her.

"Maybe that's how fate wanted it to be for us," I murmur, my voice low and rough, but steady. "Maybe it knew that if this had happened earlier, we might not have forgiven each other. We might've gone our separate ways."

I pull her closer still, tilting her chin up with my thumb, brushing away a tear. "Stop blaming yourself," I whisper, my eyes holding hers, unflinching. "I never bled. And even if I did, if I bled for you, then there's no loss in it. No regret. None."

She trembles again, her breath hitching, and I lean down just enough that my lips ghost over her own, my thumb still sweeping across her cheek.

"You don't understand, Ipshita. From the very first moment, I was gone for you. And every day since, no matter what you did, no matter how much it hurt, I couldn't make myself stop. You've been the chaos and the calm in me. I love you. I've always loved you."

Before her tears can fall again, I lean in, closing the space that has always felt like an ocean between us. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like I'm afraid she'll pull away. But when she doesn't, when her hands slide up my chest and clutch at me like I'm the only thing holding her upright, something inside me gives way. I deepen the kiss, pouring into it every unsaid word, every ache, every vow I've carried silently.

The world falls quiet. The noise, the anger, the years of restraint, they dissolve the second her lips move against mine. She tastes of salt and warmth, of tears and promises, and it anchors me in a way nothing else ever has.

For the first time in forever, I'm calm. Grounded. The storm in my chest stills, replaced by the steady rhythm of her heart beating against mine. She is my anchor, my answer, my peace.

When I finally pull back, my forehead rests against hers, our breaths tangled and uneven, but I'm smiling through the ache in my chest. Because she's here. She's mine.

Her words fall into the silence between us, trembling but true.

"I love you too, Kanishk."

And then, through the tears, her smile blooms, small, unsteady, yet more radiant than anything I've ever known. My chest tightens because in that single moment, I don't just see my wife. I see the woman I'll spend lifetimes loving.

I press my forehead to hers, my thumb brushing her cheek as if sealing the vow neither of us ever spoke aloud.

"This marriage was never chains," I smile. "It was always my forever. And it always will be."

And when she closes her eyes, leaning into me as if surrendering everything she is, I know, we've finally found the beginning of our eternity.