The mansion lay cloaked in silence, with only the occasional creak of old wood echoing through its grand halls. The air carried the sweet trace of dinner long finished, and in the soft embrace of velvet sheets, Anaya slept—peaceful yet visibly restless.
But Rudra Singhaniya wasn't asleep.
His footsteps were silent, practiced, almost ghostly as he stepped away from the dim-lit bedroom. He glanced once over his shoulder. Anaya had curled herself into the blanket, a soft frown etching her sleeping face. She mumbled something, but it was incoherent. Still, he made a mental note of it.
The top floor corridor stretched before him like a forgotten memory—rich brown panels, golden lights that flickered as if aware of the storm about to begin again. The Singhaniya private office was at the end. Only he had access past this hour.
CREAK
The door opened with a low groan. The office was dark, save for the moonlight spilling through the tall glass windows. The scent of leather and pine polish mixed with the faint musk of old paper.
Rudra stepped in, and the door whispered shut behind him.
The heavy mahogany chair turned with a slow screech as he settled into it. The room adjusted to him—like a crown recognizing its king.
A subtle beep filled the air as he powered on the screen.
The monitor glowed, illuminating his face in pale blue. Fingers danced across the keyboard. Password. Facial scan. Verified.
He pulled up the project file: Project AI-Bracelet.
The title blinked across the screen, and below it, a line: "Designed by Anaya Malhotra | Recoded by Janvi Sharma."
He didn't smile, not fully. But something in his eyes softened.
His left hand—unconsciously—reached for the bracelet on his wrist. A sleek, matte-black metal band with an intricate center. Embedded sensors. Invisible engravings. The prototype created by his grandfather. Never launched. Never explained.
"Dadu…" he murmured, fingers brushing over the edge. Click. The bracelet made a low vibration noise as if sensing its legacy was being remembered.
"I hope we complete your dream soon."
The bracelet pulsed once. Rudra tapped the sensor on the side. The screen flickered and opened another tab. It was encrypted, meant only for legacy codes.
Click. Swipe. Input code.
He brought up the decoded blueprint—one Anaya had unknowingly built as part of her university project.
"She didn't even know she was reviving your vision, Dadu," he muttered, pride laced in his voice.
But now, he was distracted.
A drawer. Click. It opened with a soft rattle.
A diary.
Purple-red in color, girlish stickers of red flowers and stars. Definitely not his. Definitely hers.
He opened it. First page:
"Jo bhi is diary ko read kare, mujhe usse kiss chahiye."
(Whoever reads this diary owes me a kiss.)
He smirked.
"Cute sa threat hai, Velvet," he whispered. Velvet. Her nickname, born from softness and mystery.
He flipped a few pages. The paper was worn from being held so many nights. The ink slightly smudged in places.
2 July 2015
"On my birthday, I want a family. I have to find my bade bhai. I miss you bhai, and I'm sure when I become older and smarter, I'll find you. Bhai, I don't know what our parents look like, but I remember how you look like."
His fingers stilled on the page.
"I'm sorry, Velvet," Rudra murmured. "I didn't find him yet. But soon. I promise."
He turned the page.
"Dear Bhagwaan ji, mujhe aisa pati dena jo atleast meri sune. Aise nahi ki mujhe sunaye. Bhagwaan ji dekh lena ab."
(Dear God, give me a husband who listens to me, not just talks over me.)
He chuckled softly, "Tumhe toh laga main devil hoon…"
Another page:
"Dear diary, kabhi kabhi lagta hai maine romance fiction aur padhai kar karke khud ko inke jholi mein daal diya hai. Ye insaan itna two-faced kaise ho sakta hai?"
(Sometimes I feel like I've read too many romance books and accidentally handed myself to this man. How can someone be so two-faced?)
He blinked. Then grinned.
"Two-faced? Really? Mujhe toh laga tum mujhe ek hi naam dogi."
OwO.______.OwO.______.OwO.______.OwO.______.OwO
Next page:
"Pati… devil. Nahi Anhi, maaf karna Bhagwaan ji. Devil nahi hai. Vo toh wallet hai. Wallet jisme emotions bhar ke rakhe hai. Jo kabhi khul kar kuch nahi bolta. Bas cold stone ki tarah sab chup chaap rakhta hai."
(Husband… devil. No Anhi, sorry God. He's not a devil. He's a wallet. A wallet filled with emotions, never clearly showing anything. Just cold like stone.)
He paused.
"Wallet, huh? Velvet… tumko wallet aur devil ka farak batana padega."
Gently, he placed the diary back in the drawer.
Back to the screen. He opened a flight booking site. Eyes scanning. Cursor hovering over a location. A small smile curled his lips.
His fingers tapped quickly—booking confirmed.
Then he returned to the project file.
The code. The diagrams. Anaya's dreams unknowingly aligned with his legacy. His grandfather's final sketches. His wife's brilliance.
And him—right at the center.
The hum of the monitor faded as Rudra Singhaniya powered down the system. The once-glowing screen dimmed into silence, reflecting his solemn expression for just a second longer before vanishing. The room returned to its natural hush—an intimate, graveyard-like quiet, laced with memory and responsibility.
Rudra stood slowly, his tall frame casting a shadow that rippled across the mahogany walls. His fingers lingered over the smooth edges of the desk one last time, before he inhaled deeply—an anchor against the sea of emotions rolling just beneath his calm exterior.
He turned away.
His footsteps padded softly across the carpeted floor, barely a whisper in the vastness of the private office. Reaching for the door handle, his hand paused briefly—as if gathering strength. Then he twisted the knob and stepped into the hallway, where the golden sconces flickered quietly, guiding him back to the one place he always returned to.
To her.
.______..______..______.📑.______..______..______.
The bedroom door creaked open slowly. A familiar warmth spilled over him, like a soft embrace waiting in the dark. The scent of lavender and faint citrus—Anaya's—lingered in the air, clinging to the silence.
Anaya lay on her side, her back to his side of the bed, completely unaware of his return. Her delicate frame curled inward, a pillow clutched loosely in her arms. Her breath was soft, rhythmic—but not peaceful. There was a tension even in her sleep, a restless weight that never seemed to leave her.
Rudra closed the door with care, letting the soft click echo into stillness. He placed his phone on the couch's armrest, intent on resting there for a while. But just as he lowered himself, a sound—barely more than a breath—stopped him.
A murmur.
He turned, brows tightening. Her voice.
Another murmur—louder this time.
Then it hit, like a thunderclap in the silence.
"Dad... Dad... no... they're coming... bhai... bhai!"
The words were sharp, sliced through the air like shattered glass. Her voice cracked under the pressure of whatever nightmare held her hostage.
He was at her side in seconds.
"Anaya," he whispered, reaching for her hand. Her skin was cold, damp with sweat. She twisted under the blankets, trembling violently.
"No... papa! Please don't leave me... bhai! Where are you?"
Rudra felt something inside him break. The cracks were old, but tonight they shattered all over again.
He slipped onto the bed, pulling her gently but firmly into his arms. She thrashed for a moment—confused, lost, trapped in a memory.
"Shhh," he whispered, voice low, barely above a breath. "Main hoon, Velvet. Tum safe ho... tum mere paas ho."
She didn't respond. Only sobbed in her sleep.
He wrapped one arm around her trembling frame, the other stroking her back in slow, steady motions, grounding her. His fingers found their way to her tangled hair, brushing it gently from her face.
"You're not alone, Anaya. Main yahan hoon. Tumhara Rudra."
The pain in her expressions began to soften, slowly but visibly. Her breathing slowed. The sobs turned into small hiccups, and her hands clutched his shirt like a child clings to safety.
"I promise," he whispered into her hair. "I promise I'll give you that family again. The one you lost. A new one. One that never walks away. Bas wapas aajao, Velvet."
He held her until the storm passed.
Until her trembling faded.
Until the tears soaked into his shirt, and her breathing evened out.
Only then did he dare move. Gently, reverently, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. His thumb brushed beneath her eyes, his fingers trailing down to her jaw, cradling it. She looked younger like this—like the wounded girl who'd grown up hiding behind smiles.
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, a kiss that wasn't romantic, but sacred. A seal of his unspoken vow.
She let out a soft sigh in her sleep and turned slightly, unconsciously pressing closer to his warmth.
Rudra exhaled slowly, reaching for the blanket. He tucked it around her, making sure her feet were warm, her back protected.
He moved to the side, dimmed the lights further, and lowered the AC temperature a few notches. Then he returned to bed—not to the edge where he usually rested, not with the barrier of space he often left.
Tonight, he claimed the space.
He climbed in beside her and lay close, so close that her breath hit his collarbone. Carefully, he slid his arm beneath her neck and pulled her halfway on top of him, until her head rested just over his chest, where his heartbeat could calm her again if her dreams returned.
His other hand wrapped around her waist, fingers caressing her back.
She sighed, instinctively responding to his closeness.
And then she whispered, barely audible in her sleep, "Rudra…"
His heart clenched.
"I'm here," he whispered back.
A long pause. Then he kissed her forehead again.
"Good night, Velvet."
And under the weight of her soft breath, the quiet thrum of the AC, and the ghost of her tears, Rudra Singhaniya—heir, husband, warrior of shadows—finally allowed himself to fall asleep.
Wrapped around the one woman who never stopped fighting her demons, and who, unknowingly, had become the balm for his own.