VIRANSH'S POV -
The world outside my glass office looked exactly like I felt inside — polished, lifeless, and too quiet.
Mumbai lights blinked far below, scattered like broken stars.
A city that never stopped breathing. But tonight, it choked.
I leaned back in the black leather chair, cigarette burning between my fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like it wanted to escape too.
“Another deal done, another man gone,” I muttered to no one.
The reports on my desk were stamped with blood-red seals.
Three successful shipments.
One double-cross.
Zero loose ends.
Exactly how it should be.
But I still didn’t feel like leaving.
I never did.
Power is a quiet, suffocating thing. It never screams, but it strangles you slowly — like silk turned into noose.
People called me The Devil behind my back. Some even to my face — though not twice.
But devils don’t get tired.
I did.
My name meant reverence. My empire ran in whispers.
Viransh Rajwansh — heir to a throne that ruled shadows, and sometimes kingdoms.
I was the only son of Maharaja Veerendra Rajwansh. A man who ruled with tradition, legacy, and no forgiveness.
He had dreams for me.
I had debts I never asked for.
It was past midnight when I finally stood.
The office emptied hours ago. Only my shadow remained — stretched long and sharp under the cold ceiling lights.
I shrugged into my dark coat, slipped my watch on, grabbed the keys, and walked out like a ghost.
The streets were quieter than usual.
I took the back route — the one that cut through the old village forest, past the hills.
I didn’t like traffic. Or people.
My car growled to life under me. A beast I could control — unlike the chaos I carried inside.
The roads were empty. Just the way I liked them.
I turned the music low. A soft cello hummed in the background.
Something about this night clawed at me. Like déjà vu in reverse.
Half an hour in, I slowed near a curve.
The trees here were ancient — knotted like secrets, their leaves whispering in a language older than time.
Then — movement.
I caught it in a flash.
A girl. Barefoot. Running. From the shadows.
Eyes wide. Wild. Glowing with something between fear and fate.
And then she was right in front of me.
I hit the brakes hard.
Time fractured.
Her white salwar shimmered for a heartbeat. Her arms reached out. Her face— pale and divine and unreal — turned toward me.
I saw everything in that second: blood smeared on her elbow, scratches on her cheek, a tear hanging from her chin like prayer water.
Then — impact.
Not a scream. Not a thud. Just a dull sound of reality breaking.
I threw the door open.
She was lying a few feet ahead. Curled. Fragile. Not moving.
“Shit,” I muttered, already running.
I crouched beside her. Touched her pulse. Still there. Barely.
She looked… ethereal. Like something torn from myth.
“What the hell are you?” I whispered, brushing blood away from her forehead.
She blinked once. Just once. And her lips moved.
Not a word. Just breath.
But in that moment, I felt something split open in me.
I lifted her carefully, holding her like she’d fall apart if I didn’t.
She was cold.
So damn cold.
My jacket wrapped around her like a shield, her head against my chest.
I looked down at her — and for the first time in years, my breath caught.
She wasn’t just some girl from a village.
She looked like someone I’d met before I even existed.
I placed her in the back seat. My hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from something worse.
Recognition.
Where have I seen those eyes before…?
I didn’t wait to answer.
I drove.
Fast.
The hospital was thirty minutes away. I reached in fifteen.
I didn’t explain much. Just barked orders, signed whatever I had to, and stood outside the emergency room like a silent threat.
My guards arrived soon after. I waved them off.
Let them wonder. Let them whisper.
I didn’t care.
I just wanted to know if she’d live.
One of the nurses came out an hour later. Quiet, respectful.
“She’s stable… we cleaned the wounds. No major fractures. But she needs rest.”
“Name?” I asked.
“We don’t know. She hasn’t spoken. Doesn’t have any ID. Nothing.”
I nodded.
“Put her in a private room. No visitors. No police. If anyone asks— she’s mine.”
The nurse didn’t question it. No one ever did.
The clock hit 3:00 AM.
The air outside was heavy, humid, dead.
But something inside me had shifted.
I stood outside the glass room where she lay, watching her chest rise and fall slowly.
She looked out of place.
Too pure for this world.
Too soft for my hands.
And still — something in her felt like mine.
I leaned against the wall, eyes never leaving her.
“Who are you, little wildflower?”
“What brought you running to my road, to my car, to my hands?”
I didn’t believe in destiny.
But tonight — it felt like destiny had believed in me.
And brought me her.
AUTHOR'S POV -
The first thing she noticed was the smell.
It wasn’t the soft fragrance of dhoop or the sweetness of tulsi leaves being crushed for morning aarti.
Not the dry scent of sandalwood sticks, nor the ghee-soaked lamps that lit up her small stone chamber.
This was something colder. Sharper.
A strange bitterness hung in the air — like metal, salt, and medicine mixed in one breath.
She blinked slowly.
Her lashes fluttered, heavy as if dipped in sleep and silence both.
White.
Everything around her was white.
Ceiling. Walls. Curtains. Bedsheets.
But not the old, chalky white of the ashram. No cracks, no peeling edges. This white was different— sterile, clean, humming with something unknown.
A light above her flickered once, buzzing like bees trapped behind glass.
Aarvi tried to move.
Pain screamed up her left arm and shoulder.
A sharp gasp rose from her lips.
She felt like she was floating in someone else’s skin.
Her mouth was dry. Her lips cracked. Her body cold.
A soft hum filled the room, a machine blinking beside her. Tubes ran into her skin— and that made her heart race.
She wasn’t in the ashram anymore.
And just like that, it all came rushing back.
The forest.
The night.
The loud voices of drunk men.
Her bare feet on wet leaves.
The sound of her heartbeat screaming louder than her breath.
The sudden lights— blinding, too fast—
And then...
Darkness.
She touched her forehead. A thick bandage. Her hand trembled as it dropped to her lap.
“Where… am I?”
The question echoed silently inside her chest.
The door clicked open.
Her breath caught.
She turned her head slowly, muscles stiff.
A woman entered — wearing white. Her hair tied neatly. A mask tucked under her chin. She held a tray with small boxes and silver tools.
Aarvi sat frozen, her back pressed against the stiff pillows.
The woman smiled.
“You’re finally awake, dear.”
Her voice was soft, calm — but the words sounded strange.
Aarvi blinked, trying to follow her lips.
But she didn’t understand a word.
The woman — the nurse, though Aarvi didn’t know what that meant — came closer.
She spoke again.
“You had a nasty fall. But you’re going to be alright.”
Still in English. Still soft. But to Aarvi, it might as well have been chants from a forgotten temple.
Her brows pulled together. She tilted her head, trying to understand the meaning behind the sound.
The woman noticed.
A flicker of realization in her eyes.
“Hindi?” she asked suddenly.
Aarvi’s lips parted.
“Main… sirf Hindi samajhti hoon,” she said quietly.
The nurse’s eyes softened.
“Ohh… thik hai, beta. Chinta mat karo. Tum ab surakshit ho.”
A wave of comfort— small but warm— settled in her chest.
She wasn’t cursed. She wasn’t dead.
She was safe… whatever safe meant now.
The nurse offered her water in a tall, clear glass.
Aarvi stared at it.
There were no copper lotas here. No tulsi floating on top. Just water — so clear, so cold — like a piece of the river trapped in glass.
Her fingers wrapped around it carefully, and she brought it to her lips.
The chill shocked her tongue.
She swallowed.
It was the first taste of the outside world.
And it tasted like monsoon on dry earth.
After the nurse left, the silence returned.
But it wasn’t the sacred silence of the ashram.
This was a stranger’s silence. Distant. Humming with unfamiliar machines and blinking red dots.
Aarvi curled into herself slightly.
The fabric of the sheets scratched her skin. The pillow had no scent of haldi or hand-washed cloth. The machines blinked like quiet watchers.
She missed the walls that heard her prayers.
She missed the cracked floor under her feet, the rhythm of a bell during evening aarti, the gentle hum of Guruji’s chants.
And yet, something inside her whispered:
You’re not going back.
Not the same.
Maybe not ever.
She watched the window, even though the curtains were half drawn.
There was movement outside.
Blurred shapes.
Voices.
A world that never went silent.
Not like hers did.
Time moved differently here.
When the door opened again, she didn’t expect anything to change.
But then she saw him.
He didn’t knock. He just stood there.
A shadow outlined in city light.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed in black. A sharp watch clinging to his wrist like armor.
He looked… like power dressed in silence.
Aarvi’s breath stopped.
It was him.
The one from the accident.
The one whose face she hadn’t seen fully, but whose presence had somehow carved itself into her bones.
Now she saw him clearly.
And something inside her chest pulled tight.
He stepped inside.
His eyes — dark, unreadable — scanned the room, then locked onto her.
He looked tired. But not weak.
There was something about him that made even the silence feel disciplined.
He said something.
Aarvi blinked.
But the words — she didn’t understand.
English. Again.
Her hands clenched the blanket.
He paused, sensing her stillness. Her confusion.
Then, after a moment, he asked softly— in Hindi this time:
“Tum theek ho?”
Her eyes snapped up.
She nodded, slowly.
He stepped a little closer, but not too much.
“Main... woh aadmi hoon. Jo tumhein hospital laya tha.”
Aarvi's voice was a whisper.
“Kyun?”
He was quiet for a second. Then answered:
“Pata nahi. Shayad kyunki mujhe lagaa... mujhe aisa karna chahiye tha.”
His Hindi was different. Crisp. Controlled. Like it wasn’t his first language— but he was trying, for her.
Aarvi looked down at her bandaged arm.
“Yeh jagah… yeh kaun si jagah hai?”
“Hospital. Sheher mein.”
She repeated the word softly, trying it on her tongue.
“Sheher…”
She had heard of cities in whispered stories, in Guruji’s lectures she wasn’t meant to understand.
But to be in one?
It was like waking up on the other side of the sky.
He turned to leave.
But her voice stopped him.
“Aapka naam?”
He paused.
“Viransh,” he said simply.
The name clung to the walls of her mind like incense smoke.
Viransh…
She held the syllables in her breath like a secret prayer.
When he left, the room didn’t feel empty.
It felt... altered.
Like someone had opened a window in her soul and left it ajar.
Aarvi looked down at the glass of water still in her hand.
The outside world was vast.
It was terrifying.
But somewhere in that terrifying vastness— was him.
And for reasons she couldn’t name, her heart began to beat with new rhythm.
Not the rhythm of temple bells.
But of fate— walking toward her in polished shoes and tired eyes.
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