DHEER POV 

She kissed me.

On live TV.

On the stage.

In front of every-fucking-one.

God.

Ruhi kissed me.

I've been watching that same 57-second clip on loop, where she looked into the camera, called me her husband, and kissed me like the world didn't exist. I've seen it enough to memorize the exact second her eyes softened.

Somewhere between the 6th and 7th rewatch, I realised... this isn't a dream.

This happened.

I used to imagine it. In quiet moments, when she was asleep beside me or brushing her hair across the room. I'd wonder how it would feel if one day she just—said it. Told the world who I was. Her husband.

I never thought she'd do it. And definitely not like that.

She said she kissed me because my face was bruised.

Honestly? I'd keep the bruise for a lifetime if it meant getting that kind of attention.

But obviously, not everyone shares my enthusiasm.

Like Ishaan and Kiaan — who've been sulking harder than toddlers denied candy ever since we returned to the hotel.

They didn't speak to me for half an hour. Just kept pacing, sighing dramatically like background dancers in a breakup song.

Then, finally, they stormed over — identical frowns, matching disgusted faces.

"Sharam toh nahi aayi na duniya ke saamne ye sab karte hue?" Ishaan started, throwing his hands in the air.

(You didn't feel any shame doing all this in front of the whole world, did you?")

I looked up from my phone. "What?"

"You know what!" he snapped, pulling at his tie like it personally offended him. "Public display of affection. PDA! On international TV!"

"Oh... you mean us taking the prize together?" I said, pretending to think.

Kiaan slapped his forehead. "Bhai, don't act like a five-year-old."

"And you two don't act like uncles from the 80s," I replied, tossing my coat on the chair. "She kissed me. Not the other way around."

"I still can't believe it," Ishaan muttered, trailing after me like a disapproving mom.

"Well, believe it. She made the announcement. She kissed me. And no, I didn't bribe or blackmail her backstage. Before you ask."

"Shut up," Ishaan growled. "If you say one more thing, I swear I'll take you for a vasectomy myself."

That made me laugh.

The weather outside was perfect. Cool breeze, soft light. Even the trees looked like they were blushing.

"She's my wife," I said, stretching on the couch. "She kissed me. I kissed her back. Whether it was scripted or not, why are you both panicking? It was a kiss. People do worse in music videos."

"We're family people," Kiaan muttered like he'd just seen a horror movie. "We believe in family-friendly love. Not adult content on national TV."

"But you need the adult stuff to make a family, no?" I smirked.

Kiaan went pale. "Chee bhai, chee! I'm going back to India. I can't even face bhabhi after this."

"I swear on Kiaan's hair — if you even think about having a child with my sister before two years, I will personally chop off your baby-making machine with a butter knife," Ishaan said.

And sadly — or hauntingly — I somehow pictured it.
Explicit. Graphic.
I shivered.

Don't you dare bring my hair's in between your fake threats," kiaan glanced through the door eyes throwing dagger at ishaan.

He left. Slammed the door again on his way out.

I turned to Ishaan.

He was still standing there, arms crossed, expression darker than the weather outside.

Now he's overdoing it.

"She's my wife, Ishaan. Not a crush. Not a secret girlfriend. Wife. We got married. You're acting like you caught us in a hotel room."

He didn't laugh. Just stared harder.

"Dheer, how can you be so calm?" Ishaan said, his voice tight with frustration. "Your relationship is out there now. Public. Everyone knows who Rooh is. She's no longer a face in the crowd — she's the face. And they've been watching us, you know that. Every move we make. Every time she steps outside, it's like we're rolling the dice."

He paused, breathing harder now, his brows furrowed like he was trying to hold back the fear that wanted to spill out.

"There were three attempts in the last month. Three times we almost lost her. We don't know who's working with him or how far his reach extends. And now with this—" he gestured toward the dark TV screen, where the kiss had just played for the hundredth time, "—you just made it easier.

 You could have stopped it anyhow. You gave him a clear target. No more hiding. No more guesses. He knows exactly who she is... and exactly how much she means to you."

His voice shook at the end. Not from anger — from the weight of helplessness.

I'd been carrying this weight long before he put it into words.

Three times in one month.

Three times we got lucky. Huh lucky?

I didn't answer right away. Not because I didn't care.

But because I already live with that truth. Every single day.

"You think he didn't already know?" I said, finally, my voice even. "You think a wedding band and a public kiss changed anything for him?"

Silence stretched between us.

"He never tried to hurt her. Not once. He just got close. Close enough to show us he could. That's what it's always been about — control, not harm."

Ishaan looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

"Why are you so sure he won't cross that line?"

Because I've already played every version of the worst-case scenario in my head. A hundred times. A thousand.

And none of them end with her broken.

"He's obsessed with her," I said. "Not in love. Not sane. Obsessed. His entire life has bent itself around her shadow."

He doesn't want to destroy her.

He wants to possess her. Preserve her like something sacred.

And I hate it.

But I understand it.

I could see the disbelief in his eyes. The horror of it. But I didn't move.

"He has a room in each of his 7 houses. Just for her. He sends men, not to kill... but to take photos. To collect her footsteps like they're souvenirs."

I didn't tell Ishaan how I'd found out. How many sleepless nights it took to confirm it.

How many times I stared at the screen, his collection of her—grainy shots of her tying her hair, reading by the window, yawning mid-conversation, and felt something twist so hard inside me, it left a bruise I still haven't touched.

"Dheer... Dheer, you're out of your mind," Ishaan snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he wasn't saying. "You knew all of this? You knew how close he's been, how obsessed, and you just kept it to yourself?"

He took a step forward like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Like he was watching someone he trusted become unrecognizable.

"You didn't think this was worth sharing? Not even with me?" he continued, voice rising now. "I've been watching over her, checking every corner, every face in every crowd — and you? You already knew we weren't being paranoid. That he was there."

His jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides.

"And the worst part?" he said, quieter now, bitter. "You're not even angry. Someone's been collecting pieces of her like she's some... thing, and you...

He paused, and then the real question came. The one that had been burning behind everything else.

"Did you even want this marriage, Dheer? Or was this all just convenience for you? Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like you care. Not about her. Not enough."

Outside the hotel window, the snowfall was getting heavier. Thick white flurries layered over grey rooftops. Everything was silent, cold, slow — like the whole city was holding its breath.

Inside, I didn't move.

"Why would I be mad?"

I didn't ask it like a question.

"My wife is worth obsessing over."

The whole world's obsessed with With Lakshmi. You can't stop people from staring at things that shine."

The words came with facts. A weight I carry every day. The kind you don't say out loud unless someone forces it out of you.

"You think this started with a stage kiss? With her saying my name on TV?" I shook my head, barely. "He's been watching her long before any of this. He already knew. The whole world can find out now — it changes nothing."

I could hear the radiator clicking softly in the corner. The hum of the city outside, muffled by snow.

"He's built his life around collecting pieces of her. Her photos. Her time. Her silence. He thinks watching her from a distance gives him something."

And the worst part?

He thinks he loves her.

He doesn't.

He wants to erase everything she is and replace it with his version of her. That's not love. That's destruction with a pretty mask.

"You think I haven't been living with this in my head? Every day?" I said quietly. "I know what kind of danger she's in. I just don't waste time pretending it isn't real."

My jaw clenched, but I kept my tone even.

I'm not okay.

It eats me alive that someone else watches my wife that way. That someone else feels like they know her. That in someone else's head, she belongs to them.

But that rage stays with me.

"He can keep watching. From his shadows. He can rot in his fantasies. But the moment he steps into her reality — the moment he reaches for what isn't his... that's when you'll see just how serious I am about this marriage."

I walked over to the window, not to look at the view, just to stand there, feel the cold press against the glass.

"You asked if I care?" I said. "I've been sleeping with my fists clenched for months. I count every second she's out of my sight. I know which streets have the clearest exits. Which buildings reflect the most angles? I've already imagined every worst-case scenario. Twice."

I looked out at the snow.

"He's not the only one who's obsessed."

Behind me, Ishaan didn't speak.

"I don't panic, Ishaan. I prepare. And if the time comes—if he ever touches even the air around her—I won't warn you. I'll just make sure he never breathes again."

The snow outside looked peaceful. But it wasn't.

It was heavy, endless. Like it was trying to cover everything.

But I felt it. In my chest. A slow, hard thud that wasn't letting up.

His mouth opened, then closed. Nothing to say.

I walked past him, picked up the remote, and turned off the screen. The breeze had died down. The room suddenly felt heavier. The air, which was fresh a while ago, now chokes me while breathing. 

"You've officially ruined my good mood," I muttered. "Get out before I throw you out."

He hesitated.

"Dheer—"

"Out."

He left.

The room went still.

The kind of stillness that doesn't feel peaceful.

The kind that reminds you how alone you are.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Thick, heavy flakes drifting down like ash. The world looked soft from this high up, covered in white, like it was trying to hide its bruises.

Inside, everything stayed the same.
Except me.

I sank onto the edge of the bed.

Not out of exhaustion.

Just because I didn't know where else to go with the weight in my chest.

My palms were cold. My throat burned. And somewhere behind my eyes, a sting had been building for days — one I kept pushing back.

But it came anyway.

I just sat there — tears slipping down without sound, without warning — like something inside had decided to bleed where no one could see.

I wasn't crying because I was afraid of losing her.

I was crying because I'd never had the chance to live like we weren't already being hunted.

I just wanted us to go out for dinner without looking over our shoulders.
Hold hands in a market.

Talk about nonsense.
Wake up without fear.
Sleep without knives in the drawer.

I just wanted... normal.

Just wanted to be a husband who could be soft with her, not one who lived in war mode every day.

But the world doesn't care what I want.

And the one man who's been trying to take her away doesn't understand what he's trying to destroy.

She's not just my wife.

She's my reason.

And I'm so damn tired of waiting for the day I'll have to prove that with blood.

I leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, chest rising with a breath that didn't quite make it in.

She had seen the cruel face of this world far too early.

She met it in dark rooms and cold silences, in broken promises and people who only knew how to take.
And I?

I just... lived with it.
Accepted it.
Adjusted to it.

She fought it.
She bled in places no one saw.
And still, she smiled.

That's what kills me.

Because she's so pure. So good.
My Ruhi doesn't belong in a world like this.
She deserves softness. Light. Joy.
But this world—it was never built for people like her.

And I want to give her all of it.

Every single piece of peace she never had.
The childhood we lost while fulfilling our duties. 

I want to build that for her.

For us.

But some nights... like this one...
I don't know if I can.

I try to protect her from everything — the dreams, the threats, even her memories.
But the hardest thing to protect her from is the truth.

She still hasn't healed from the Aadhira incident. She thinks that was the end of the nightmare. She thinks fulfilling a dream erased the damage. But that was only the surface.

She doesn't know what's waiting beneath.

And I pray she never does.

Because if she ever learns what happened — if she ever finds out the truth...

If she found out about her real parents..

She'll break.

Not like glass.
Like silence.
Like something inside her will disappear and never come back.

And that look.
That hollow stare of someone alive but not really there.

I'd rather die than see that in her eyes again.

Every time she gets one of those panic attacks, I feel like I'm watching her drown, reaching out for air, for safety, for something to hold on to.

And all I can do is be there.
Hold her hand.
Anchor her to this world.

She doesn't even know that most nights, I sit awake just to listen to her breathing.
Just to make sure it's still steady.

I tell myself I'm strong enough to carry it all — the danger, the secrets, the fear.

But the truth is...
I'm not.

I'm scared.

For her.

Because I don't know how long I can keep the storm from reaching her.
And I don't know what will be left of me if it ever does.

I don't know when I fell asleep.

The knock pulled me out of it.

Sharp. Repeating.

I opened my eyes and blinked hard, trying to adjust. The clock read 1:07 a.m.

I sat up straight.

Ruhi wasn't back.

I moved fast. My heart was already pacing ahead of my thoughts as I got to the door.

And then—there she was.

Leaning on Shilpi, barely upright. Her steps weren't steps — just the weight of her body following wherever Shilpi led.

Her eyes were half-closed. Her face looked pale under the yellow light of the hallway. Shilpi, on the other hand, looked relieved. Maybe nervous too.

"What happened?" I asked, already reaching to take her from Shilpi.

"She's drunk," Shilpi said, too casually.

That stopped me for a second.

"Drunk?" I repeated.

Ruhi?

I didn't say anything else. Just carried her inside and laid her down on the bed.

She didn't say a word. Just curled slightly when her head hit the pillow.

I took off her sandals, covered her with the blanket. Her fingers twitched a little near the edge of it.

I turned to Shilpi again.

"She doesn't drink," I said. Not a question. Just a fact.

"She was upset about something," Shilpi said, a little quieter now. "I tried to talk her out of it. She didn't tell me what it was. Just said she needed to shut her brain off for a while. Then she started crying. And I... I didn't know what to do."

She didn't wait for me to respond. She left.

I sat down next to the bed.

Ruhi was sleeping, or close to it. Her makeup had smudged a little under her eyes, and her face was flushed in patches — from the alcohol, or maybe the crying. Maybe both.

I sat down next to the bed.

And the silence started pressing in again.

Why?

What pushed her this far?

She never drinks.  She always wanted to be in control of herself. Grounded. She never liked the idea of losing awareness. 

So what was strong enough to break that boundary?

Was it because I left her at the airport earlier this week?

Was it the bruise? The anger and questions I saw in her eyes when she touched my face backstage?

But... no. That can't be all of it.

So what did I do?

Where did I go wrong?

Why didn't she call me?

Did I say something?

Did she cry because of me?

That's what hurt the most — the not knowing.

Not being able to fix it.

Not even sure if I was the one who caused it or just... wasn't there when she needed someone.

I looked at her again.

She looked small. Fragile in a way she never showed me when she was awake.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes slowly and... and smiled towards me. It was enough for me to forget everything, every question. 

Her eyes opened for a moment. Dazed. Heavy. And then she pouted — a tiny frown on her lips.

Even in this state, it looked... adorable.

I couldn't help it. I leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to that pout.

"Don't kiss me," she mumbled. "I won't kiss you..."

Her voice was barely there. Slurred and tired.

I smiled, a little. "And why not?"

"Because..." she whispered, eyes closing again, words fading mid-thought.

"Because what?" I asked, gently.

She didn't answer. Just hummed and nuzzled into my chest again like nothing had happened.

I exhaled slowly.

"Why wouldn't you kiss me? And why did you drink?" I tried again.

Then she suddenly sat up, her balance tipping sideways slightly.

"Ruhi—" I started, but she just blinked at me with this strange, quiet frustration in her eyes.

She didn't speak, didn't yell. Just looked like something inside her was stuck, and it had nowhere to go.

Her hair had fallen across her face again. Tangled, knotted, sticking to the corners of her mouth.

I sat up with her and slowly began to braid it.

Her hair was soft, short, and still smelled like the shampoo she always used — floral, familiar.

 I never said it out loud, but braiding her hair was my favorite.

Not because I was good at it.

But because of how it fell over her face while I did it. How the soft ends brushed against her cheeks, her lashes, her lips. How still she was when she let me do something so small, so ordinary.

She didn't protest. But her hands kept twitching near mine, like she wanted to swat me away and just didn't have the energy.

I reached the end of the braid and paused.

No rubber band.

I glanced around quickly. Nothing in sight.

She was fidgeting now, reaching for my hands like she wanted to undo it.

"Ruhi, sit still," I said quietly.

I glanced here and there and grabbed my tie from the table, and wrapped it gently around the end of the braid. Tied it into a loose but firm knot.

But it held.

And for a brief moment, I felt proud.

Of this one small thing I could do right for her.

She looked more like herself now. A little softer. A little more mine.

I sat back for a moment, just watching her.

Moments like this — quiet, chaotic, completely hers — made me feel something I couldn't name. 

She sniffled.

I blinked. Looked closer.

She was crying.

"Hey," I whispered, sitting up straighter. "What's wrong, Ruhi? Look at me."

She wouldn't. She kept turning her face away, burying it into the blanket like a child who didn't want to be caught crying.

"Ruhi, please," I said, firmer now. "Look at me."

But she just shook her head, and the shaking turned into sobs.

"Tell me," I whispered. "At least tell me what's wrong. Why are you crying?"

Then, between hiccups and trembling hands, I heard her voice.

"You... you always scold me."

My heart dropped.

"You never talk to me nicely... You don't even want me. You don't love me..."

She said it like it was a fact. Like she'd been holding it inside for days, maybe weeks.

She was rubbing her fingers together the way she always did when she was anxious. Like she was trying to rub the thoughts away.

And for a second — one small, painful second — I just sat there.

Not because I didn't want to say anything.

Because I couldn't believe she'd believed that.

"Ruhi..." I moved in closer, wiping the tears off her cheeks gently with my thumbs.

"I've never scolded you. Never once raised my voice. It's just... this is how I sound. But I swear, I've never been angry at you. 

She sniffled again.

"And who told you I don't want you?" I asked quietly. "I want you with everything I have. With everything I am."

She squinted up at me, slurring just slightly. "No You don't want me," she huffed, poking my chest like it had betrayed her. "So I don't want you either."

My brows pulled together. "What are you even—"

" You know there were lap dancers at the club," she interrupted proudly, lifting her chin like it was breaking news. "Shilpi said I should book one. Tall. Muscles. Hip action." She wiggled her fingers vaguely, like that explained it all.

My jaw locked.

"I said no, obviously," she went on, very matter-of-fact. "Because cheating is bad. I'm a good wife. Loyal." She squinted again, poking my shirt. "But maybe I shouldn't have been."

I just stood there, blinked.

Then she gave me a devastatingly innocent smile. "Since my husband doesn't want me maybe I will get a lap dance next time."

Silence.

You want a lap dance?" I asked, my voice lower than I intended.

Ruhi just blinked up at me from the bed, all wide eyes and soft lips, like she hadn't just lit a fuse in my chest. I watched her tilt her head slightly, lips pouting in this maddening, innocent way.

I removed my watch. Folded my shirt cuffs. Loosened the shirt from my pants and let it fall loose around my waist.

She watched every move.

And I knew exactly what she was doing.
And exactly how much it was working.

"I'll deal with Shilpi when we get back to the company," I muttered. "She's becoming a little too... involved."

Ruhi giggled.

It didn't help.

I stepped forward and narrowed my eyes, the jealousy burning under my skin. "Now, Mrs. Ruhanika Rathore," I said slowly. "Do you want a lap dance?"

She blinked again. Soft. Sweet. Infuriating.

I leaned forward and kissed her pout.

She wiped it off with the back of her hand.

I squinted. Kissed her again.

She wiped again.

I kissed her hard this time.

"Don't you dare wipe that again," I warned.

She stood up, looked me dead in the eyes, and slowly — slowly — lifted her hand and wiped her lips again with the same defiant little smirk.

I was fuming.

But before I could grab her again, she raised her palm to stop me. "I'll let you kiss me," she said, lips glistening slightly, "if you give me a lap dance."

My heart stopped.

"Seduce me," she added. "And I'll let you kiss me however you want."

She dropped onto the chair with a dramatic sigh, her arms folded across her chest like she was judging me from a throne.

I raised a brow. "You're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," she replied, very unconvincingly, and then blinked up at me with those soft, glossy eyes that made my heart and self-control have a full-on fistfight.

She was not sober. But aware. And dangerously adorable.

And that damn smugness on her face?

Unacceptable.

Well don't be offended but I guess you are not match of them. The were so hot. I don't think I want a lap dance from you," she said with mischievous look in her eyes I know she is teasing me but it is working.

"You want a lap dance from a stranger," I said, stepping closer, pulling my belt loose and letting it fall to the floor, "but not from your husband?"

She grinned. "You never offered before."

I started unbuttoning my shirt, slow and deliberate. Her eyes followed each movement like they were tethered.

"And now?" I asked.

"As you wish" she whispered.

I stepped between her legs and hovered above her lap, close, but not touching. Her breath hitched. Good.

"You're playing with fire," I warned softly.

She leaned back, fanning herself. "Mm. Getting hot."

I smirked and rolled my hips once, slow, not pressing against her, just teasing.

She choked on her breath.

"You," she whispered.

I braced my hands on the arms of the chair, bringing us chest-to-chest. My shirt hung open. Her fingers twitched, like she wanted to touch, but wasn't sure if she was allowed.

"I'm only doing this to stop you from booking another dancer," I said low in her ear. "And to kill whatever wild ideas Shilpi put in your head."

"Shilpi has good ideas," she mumbled, eyes still fixed on my abs.

"She has a death wish," I muttered.

Then I rolled my hips again — just a little closer. Just enough for her thighs to twitch beneath me.

She blinked up at me, mouth parting.

"Hot yet?" I asked.

"Not at all," she whispered.

I leaned in and kissed her forehead first. Then the tip of her nose.

Finally, her lips — soft, light, teasing.

She wiped it off with the back of her hand. Again.

I narrowed my eyes. "Ruhi..."

She smirked.

I kissed her again. She wiped it again. Laughing now.

I grabbed her face gently, kissed her three, four, five times — quick, playful pecks — until her smile melted and her eyes fluttered half-closed.

"Don't wipe that again, you said you would let me kiss you," I warned against her mouth.

She paused. Stared.

Then raised her hand and wiped it slowly, still holding eye contact.

I was going to combust.

"You little menace," I growled.

She bit her lip. "What're you gonna do about it?"

I dipped again, rolled my hips with just enough pressure to make her squirm in the chair, her breath catching sharply. Her legs shifted beneath me, squeezing slightly together.

"Stop," she whispered.

I smirked and asked, "Too much?"

She nodded, breathless. "hmm Just... don't go."

I didn't.

I kissed her jaw this time — slow, grounding. My hand moved to the back of her head, holding her steady.

"You're drunk, Ruhi," I murmured. 

I would like to be drunk my whole life if it means watching this side of you," she replied.

I tilted my head. "Do I get to kiss you now?"

She didn't answer.

She just grabbed the front of my shirt, yanked me down, and kissed me. 

Her kiss was sloppy but her soft lips with that red cherry lipstick making me loose control and  took her lips in my control.

She stared at me for a second.

Then, blinking slowly, she asked in a voice so soft I nearly missed it:
"And... about love?"

Hmm," I hummed in confusion while licking her lips.

"Love," I echoed softly. "What about it?"

"Do you...?" she asked, eyes shining cheeks flushed red. "Do you love me?"

My throat tightened.

I just got up from her lap, buttoned up my shirt, and sat on the bed. She followed me to the bed, her legs wobbled a little, maybe because of the drink or....

Target : 25 Votes and 50 Comments. 

PRECAP 

And then he whispered the words that shattered everything:

"This... this is why I didn't love you the way you wanted."