Wounds of the Heart (दिल के घाव)💔

60

The afternoon sun dipped below the ornate latticework windows of Mr. Rathor's opulent office, casting long shadows across the plush carpets. Seated behind his mahogany desk, Mr. Rathor meticulously scanned a file, his brow furrowed in concentration. Yet, beneath the facade of work, a restless energy thrummed beneath his skin.

A timid knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open, revealing a young servant with a hesitant expression.

"Ji, Mr. Rathor?" the servant stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mr. Rathor lifted his head, a hint of impatience flickering in his eyes. "Yes, what is it?"

"The flowers, sahib," the servant stammered. "They, uh, they've reached Mr. Manik. Delivered to him during his concert."

A flicker of disappointment crossed Mr. Rathor's face, quickly masked by a practiced smile. "Ah, excellent," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "And did he… did he say anything?"

The servant shook his head nervously. "Hukum sa," he replied, using the respectful term of address, "woh phool unhone phonch chuke hai (They've received the flowers), magar, un khato ka ab tak koi jawab nhi aya aur unhone yaha ane se bhi inkaar kiya hai (but there's no word from Mr. Manik yet, and he has refused to meet you)."

Mr. Rathor's smile faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. He quickly schooled his expression, nodding curtly. "Thank you," he dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand.

The young man scurried out, leaving Mr. Rathor alone in the opulent silence. He picked up a magazine lying on the table, its cover adorned with a picture of Manik, his eyes sparkling with infectious energy. A genuine smile tugged at Mr. Rathor's lips, a hint of possessiveness glinting in his gaze.

"Akhir kab tak aap hume yoon intezaar karvayenge, Manik (How much longer will you keep me waiting, Manik)?" he murmured, his voice laced with a seductive undercurrent. "Par chalo koi nhi, is intezaar ka apna he alag ek maza hai (But never mind, this wait has its own charm)."

He traced Manik's face with his finger, a determined glint flickering in his eyes. Mr. Rathor may have been rejected, but his resolve remained unshaken. He was a man who didn't give up easily, and in his mind, Manik was simply playing hard to get. The lavish gifts, the insistence on a meeting – they were all part of an elaborate game, a game Mr. Rathor was determined to win. The question wasn't whether Manik would eventually succumb to his advances, but when. And Mr. Rathor was willing to wait, to play the game, all for the chance to possess the one who captivated his heart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

The last echoes of the London crowd faded into a distant hum as Manik and Rohit finally stumbled back into their hotel room. Exhaustion hung heavy in the air, clinging to them like a second skin. Manik, his body screaming for rest, collapsed onto the plush couch, his limbs sprawled out like a starfish.

"Shower, Manik," Rohit declared, his voice firm despite his own weariness. "You stink of stage lights and adrenaline."

Manik groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. "Later, Ro. Five more minutes…" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Rohit, ever the responsible one, wouldn't be swayed. "Nope," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "Up you get, Rockstar. We have matching pajamas, remember? How can you resist a photoshoot opportunity?"

Manik's eyes snapped open at the mention of matching pajamas. They had stumbled upon a pair – two halves of a cartoon cat design – during a particularly exhausting shopping spree. Despite their initial reservations, they had both secretly found them adorable, a small indulgence in the midst of their hectic schedule.

With a resigned sigh, Manik surrendered. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, hauling himself off the couch. "But make it quick. I'm about to fall asleep standing up."

Rohit chuckled, already rummaging through their bags. As Manik shuffled towards the bathroom, a mischievous glint flickered in Rohit's eyes. He patted his pockets, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Shoot," he muttered. "There was something I wanted to give you…"

He rummaged through his things again, finally pulling out a small, elegantly sealed envelope. It was the letter that had arrived with the extravagant flower bouquet, the one he'd completely forgotten about in the post-concert chaos.

Just as Manik emerged from the bathroom, a fluffy towel wrapped around his hair, Rohit jogged towards him, the letter held out like a trophy.

"Here," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Almost forgot about this little admirer's note."

Manik raised an eyebrow, taking the envelope cautiously. "Who is it from?"

"Mr. Moneybags himself," Rohit replied with a smirk. "Mr. Rathor."

Manik's stomach lurched. He hadn't forgotten the over-the-top flower display, nor the subtle pressure to meet the man behind the extravagant gifts. But dealing with it had been the furthest thing from his mind after the whirlwind of the concert.

He picked at the seal, a sense of apprehension swirling within him. As he unfolded the letter, Rohit disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the running shower filling the room. Manik was left alone with the weight of Mr. Rathor's words, a silent observer about to be drawn into a game he didn't ask to play.

My Dearest Manik,

The echoes of your voice still linger in my ears, a symphony that reverberates long after the final note fades. Your music, a captivating melody, has woven its way into the very fabric of my being. Each lyric, a brushstroke painting vivid emotions onto the canvas of my soul.

Your talent is a force of nature, Manik. You possess a voice that could charm the stars from the sky, a voice that ignites a fire within me, a fire that burns with admiration and… perhaps something more.

The way you command the stage, the raw passion that bleeds into your every performance – it's intoxicating. I find myself mesmerized, captivated by the artistry you bring to life. 

They say music speaks a language that transcends words, and yours, dear Manik, speaks volumes. It speaks of a heart that feels deeply, of a soul that yearns to connect. In your music, I find a reflection of my own desires, a yearning for something I can't quite grasp.

Perhaps, in time, our paths will cross, and I can express this admiration in person. Until then, know that you have a dedicated follower in me, a man utterly enthralled by your brilliance.

As the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib once wrote, "Bas teri tasveer kaafi hai dil bahlaane ke liye (Just a glimpse of you is enough to soothe my heart)." Your music, your talent, that is all I have for now, and it is more than enough to keep me captivated.

With unwavering admiration,

Mr. Rathor

______________________________________

🤭 We can Mr.rathore is lovesick puppy 🐶