The Empress of his Heart

CHAKRAVYUH OF LOVE, HATE, AND FATE

RAGINI'S POV

I clung to Riddhaan's chest as he carried me through the grand palace doors. His arms were steady, yet I could sense the tension beneath his calm exterior. A collective gasp echoed through the hall, the weight of a hundred eyes settling on us. My heart pounded, but I couldn't look away from him. His jaw was tight, and his eyes focused straight ahead, giving nothing away.

He stopped abruptly and called out to a house. Without a word, he gestured for me to pass the Kalash to her. I did the same, my hands trembling as I handed it over. The room was silent, except for the sound of my own shallow breathing. I could feel everyone watching us—every curious, judging pair of eyes burning into my skin. Yet, Riddhaan seemed untouched by it all. He wasn't here for them.

He started walking again, each step deliberate, every movement calculated. My heart pounded as he carried me upstairs, ignoring the whispers trailing behind us. He didn't speak, but his silence screamed louder than any words could.

Nitya followed us, her concern evident in every step she took. She entered the room silently, placing pillows on the bed, and adjusting them so I could rest comfortably. Riddhaan gently lowered me onto the bed, his touch soft but distant. He still hadn't said a word. His silence was heavier than any anger he could've shown.

I watched as he moved around the room, opening drawers, his expression unreadable. His hands were steady, but there was a rigidness to his movements. He found what he was looking for—a pain relief spray. Without hesitation, he knelt in front of me, spraying it onto my swollen ankle. His fingers worked the spray into my skin, his touch firm yet gentle. The warmth of his hands, the care in his actions... it broke something inside me.

I could feel my tears welling up, but I held them back. He wasn't speaking, but his actions spoke louder than any words could. He wasn't angry—not in the way people thought. He was emotionless, detached. It wasn't anger, it was something deeper. Pain. Disappointment. Fear. But he wouldn't show it. Not to me, not to anyone.

I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat felt tight. This wasn't just Riddhaan in front of me—it was my little aan, the boy I raised, the boy who carried my heart with him even if the world refused to see him as mine. Blood didn't matter. He was my son, my bacha. I knew he was angry—or maybe not angry. Hurt? No, that wasn't right either. 

When he was done, he stood up, his face blank, his eyes distant. Without meeting my gaze, he called the household again. His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it.

"Make sure she gets proper rest," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth. "If she steps out of this bed, I'll make sure you won't be able to take any steps."

Riddhaan didn't look at me as he spoke. He turned away, but I saw the way his shoulders tensed. He wasn't heartless. He was holding everything in, bottling it up because that's what he did. That's how he survived. And it hurt. It hurt to see him like this, pretending he didn't care when I knew he did.

I stared at him, waiting for him to say something more, anything that would show me what he was feeling. But he just stood there, his hands clenched at his sides. He wasn't angry. He wasn't fine either. He was somewhere in between—lost in whatever storm was raging inside him. And I wished I could pull him out of it, but I didn't know how.

He stood tall in front of me, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched tight. There was no trace of the tenderness he'd shown moments ago. Now, he was all fire and steel. His voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

"I am the king, and from now on, I am ordering you—you will not participate in any ritual or tradition that could hurt you" he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.