Not all love stories begin with stolen glances... some are born in the wreckage- chaotic, consuming, and utterly uninvited.
Amyra Saxena is 22, fiery and full of words, yet drowning in silent pain.
Ahaan Singh Chandravanshi is 27, cold and commandin...
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It had been a week. Seven fucking days.
And she still wasn't talking to me.
Not a single word. Not even a passing look. As if I didn't exist in the space we shared.
I thought I knew silence. Hell, I'd made peace with it growing up- silence had raised me. It had taught me how to be invisible, how to survive in homes that echoed with everything but love. I had spent years turning silence into armor.
But this? This silence?
Her silence?
It didn't feel like armor. It felt like punishment. Sharp. Strategic. Icy.
And maybe that's what made it worse- knowing she was using it deliberately. Not out of indifference, but as a weapon.
Because she was hurt. Because I had hurt her.
I sat in the study like a man exiled from his own life, the dim amber glow of the fireplace dancing across the walls, flickering shadows like ghosts of our last argument. Shadows that refused to leave.
My fingers tightened around the glass of whiskey in my hand. Still full. Still untouched. It had been sitting there for over an hour. Like me- present, but utterly useless.
The silence had never felt so fucking loud.
Every creak of the mansion. Every tick of the antique clock. Every memory playing on a loop in my head.
Her voice used to fill this place. Her laughter used to warm it. Now all I had were cold marble floors and an untouched bed.
She hadn't slept beside me in a week.
The couch had become her fortress- right there, in the same room, close enough for me to watch her from the corner of my eye... but far enough to feel like she'd left.
And I? I let her.
Because each time I thought about stopping her, about pulling her back... I saw that look on her face. That hollow ache in her eyes. That shattering moment where she realized she didn't trust me.
That killed me more than anything.
It wasn't just her anger I feared. It was her disappointment. Because when someone like Rose looks at you like you're the villain in their story, even if you thought you were the hero... something inside you breaks.
I leaned back in the chair, tipping my head up to stare at the ornate ceiling, as if the answers were etched into the molding.
What the hell are you doing, Ahaan?
I'd handled boardrooms with blood on the floor. Negotiated deals with men who could kill me with a blink. But here I was- brought to my knees by a woman's silence. Her absence. Her pain.
