✧･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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Ada's breath hitched, a tiny, wounded animal sound escaping her throat. Her body, already hyper-alert from the stress of the party and the encounter with Sidharth, seized up completely. The trauma response was immediate and visceral: she didn't scream, she didn't flee—she froze, transforming into a statue of terror.
Vidyut, whose instincts were honed on a lifetime of self-defense and corporate ambush, moved with the speed of a striking viper. He didn't check the window. He didn't look for the source. His sole focus was Ada.
He spun, pulling her behind his formidable frame, his hands gripping her shoulders with bone-deep urgency. "Stay down!" he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl that contrasted starkly with the elegant silence of their home.
Ada's blood ran cold. The sight, the sound, the immediate, overwhelming rush of danger—it all coalesced into the horrifying memory she could never escape. This is how it begins. The violation. The destruction of sanctuary.
She reached out blindly, finding Vidyut's forearm, then his palm, squeezing his hand hard enough to leave crescent moons on his skin. "Nothing will happen to you," she whispered, the mantra automatic, a desperate plea to the universe. "They can't hurt you."
Vidyut glanced at her, his eyes, usually blazing with contempt or ambition, now brimming with a raw, protective determination. The contrast was startling: the man whom everyone feared, the man who was the very source of this danger, was being physically consoled by someone who had been abused and victimized for years. It was a paradox that spoke volumes about Ada's pure, inherent goodness.
"I am not going to let them scare or harm you, Ada," Vidyut said, his voice softer now, his own fear—not for himself, but for her—a burning, corrosive taste in his mouth.
He knew she didn't want to reveal her fear, but her hands were anchors, desperate to hold him in place. With a low groan of understanding, he released her hand, wrapping his arms around her neck and concealing her face against his chest. Her tears, hot and frantic, streamed down her cheeks, soaking the fine silk of his shirt. Vidyut held her in his grip, his strong, unyielding arms forming a cage, and began caressing her hair with a slow, rhythmic motion—the only comfort he knew how to give.
