✧･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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I thought she felt safe around me, but I was wrong. Her silent gaze after I asked about her trust was a hammer blow against my chest—a place I thought was armored against disappointment. I don't know what made me think like that. She had been clinging to me on the jet, she had laughed next to me during the match, and yet, the fundamental connection of trust was absent.
"Why should she feel safe around you? You were a man-whore." My subconscious mind, the unfiltered voice of my conscience, mocked me without mercy.
Yes, I was. I used women to release the frustrations and the internal poison that had been building since my sister's tragedy. But now? For months, I hadn't looked at anyone. Nobody would believe it. Vidyut Agarwal is a man of his word. If I am connected to someone, no matter what, I am loyal to that person.
"You are loyal to Ada?" the voice pressed.
Yes, I am. I'm bound to her by a complex arrangement and an even more complex promise of protection. But that doesn't mean I am in love with her. Love is a weakness, a vulnerability that destroyed my family. I am beyond such things.
I never knew about her birthday until I found her lost diary. I had asked Knight to discreetly check on the abandoned house, and he found it, beautifully decorated with the cheesy, colorful accessories only Ada would own. No offense, but it was utterly girly—glitter, stickers, the works.
In a moment of purely unprofessional curiosity—I justified it as 'gathering intelligence'—I read a couple of pages. I found out about her birthday and her long-abandoned dream to buy a customized Rolls-Royce. Her father, Vijay Sharma, never permitted her to buy her own car, even though she had more than enough money. The control was sickening.
I wasn't planning to give her the diary back after I first read it. But then I found the passage where she described it as her mother's last gift. That changed everything. I couldn't keep that from her. I had to return it, even at the risk of exposing my prying.
I had already bought the car. I couldn't decide on the colour; typically, I would choose matte black or a severe silver. But her diary was a riot of pinks and soft pastels. So, I ordered it customized in a unique, elegant shade of rose gold-pink.
