✧･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 stood in the vast, sterile living room of this architectural fortress—a place my father, Vikram Agarwal, had chosen for its isolation, its impregnability, and its ability to act as a cage. We were miles from the city, tucked away in the desolate, mountainous terrain like a secret wound. The house was all concrete, glass, and silence, a gilded prison enforced by a perimeter of unseen guards who were loyal not to me, but to the man who signed their paychecks.
I hated it. I hated the isolation. I hated the metallic taste of my father's charity. Most of all, I hated the suffocating guilt that had become the air I breathed.
It had been three brutal weeks since the bullet shattered the veneer of our false engagement. Three weeks of the most calculated, agonizing emotional cruelty I had ever inflicted, not on a rival, but on the one person who deserved my protection and honesty. Ada.
I saw the price of my jealousy every morning: the heavy, customized SUV pulling away before sunrise, the line of three security vehicles following it like grim vultures. I saw her exhaustion every night. The long commute to the hospital, the relentless pressure of her job, all exacerbated by the constant, suffocating surveillance I had imposed. It was a hell I'd put her through because I couldn't keep my possessive idiocy in check at one party.
Vidyut Agarwal, the man who controls entire markets, couldn't control his own primitive, Neanderthal heart.
I had to break her heart to keep her alive. That was the simple, brutal equation I hammered into my soul daily. If she thought I was a cold, arrogant bastard who was simply tired of her—a temporary whim—she might walk away. She might distance herself. She might stop being the one glaring, irresistible weakness my enemies could exploit.
So, I built walls of ice. I stopped the late-night talks. I replaced her soft, comforting presence with harsh, dismissive glances. I swapped intimacy for icy business logic. I didn't smile. I didn't touch. I barely looked at her.
The hardest part? Seeing the hope die in her eyes every single night. She'd walk in, exhausted but hopeful, looking for the man who held her during her panic attacks, the man who called her baccha. And every night, I would offer her only the vacant, heartless shell of a CEO too busy for trivial affections. Her hope would flicker, shatter, and be replaced by a confused, wounded anger. And every night, a piece of my soul corroded.
