✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The night was not long, but it was agonizingly restless. Ada lay on the cavernous bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Her mind, however, was a frantic, agitated circuit. She should have been exhausted. She should have been filled with relief. She was free. She was safe. Yet, the proximity of Vidyut, the man whose ruthless pragmatism was now the sole pillar of her existence, made true relaxation impossible.
And then there was the noise.
It started as a subtle sound—a shift, a sigh. Then came a deeper, more pronounced groan. A moment of silence, followed by a frustrated, sharp huff.
Ada rolled onto her side, punching her pillow. The couch was clearly not cooperating with the billionaire. She tried to ignore it, counting the seconds, willing sleep to claim her.
Groan.Thump.Sigh.
She squeezed her eyes shut. This is ridiculous. This is the man who manages billion-dollar deals and he can't manage a piece of furniture.
Another dramatic, rattling groan. It wasn't just physical discomfort; it was the audible sound of a control-freak experiencing a profound lack of comfort. It was a violation of his personal order.
Finally, at a moment that felt precisely like 3:00 AM, Ada snapped. She threw the duvet back and sat up. The room was dark, lit only by the sliver of moonlight filtering through the gap in the heavy curtains.
"Are you quite finished?" she whispered harshly across the room.
Vidyut, an indistinct, long shadow on the couch, stopped moving. "Finished with what, Miss Sharma? Am I keeping you up? I apologize. Some of us are not accustomed to sleeping in contorted positions, sacrificing their spines for the sake of an unnecessarily aggressive woman." His voice was low, edged with the raw, throaty texture of interrupted sleep.
"You're groaning like a wounded animal, Mr. Agarwal. It's disruptive. It's unprofessional. And it's keeping me from the vital rest I need to maintain your precious façade tomorrow."
Vidyut pushed himself up, the rustle of the velvet fabric a sharp sound in the darkness. He stood, towering over the back of the couch, a silhouette of towering irritation. "And you are complaining like a disgruntled child! I am attempting to solve a problem—the problem of a disastrously planned escape—and your gratitude extends only to keeping me from comfortable sleep!"
