☆Clash of Souls: Reunited Book one of Twisted Souls series ☆( part-1)
This book is divided into two parts
And this one is part -1
𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈 𝐁𝐇𝐀𝐓 × 𝐕𝐘𝐀𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐇𝐑𝐀
What if childhood friends, now bitter rivals, are forced into an arranged...
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── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅
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Driti:
Fifteen days.
Fifteen days have passed, and I haven't seen Vyaan. Not once, not even a fleeting shadow of him. He's become a ghost in our home, invisible, silent, deliberately distant.
I could ask, should ask, but I won't. Because asking is weakness. It's giving in to whatever this is. And I refuse.
I'm not built for this kind of vulnerability. I've endured too much to let weakness take over my life again.
Everyone is asking me. They look at me with eyes full of expectation, demanding answers I don't have.
"Where is he?" they ask. "Is everything alright?" they press. As if the title of wife means I hold all the secrets, all the answers.
But wife- The word still tastes bitter on my tongue, like something I was never meant to say, something forced upon me.
I'm his wife-yes, but the title is hollow, empty, a costume I was never meant to wear.
They expect me to know, to be the keeper of his whereabouts and his well-being. But I'm not. I'm just a shell, pretending to be what they think I should be.
And asking where he is? That's a step I'll never take. Asking makes it real, makes his absence something I care about. And I don't care. I won't care.
Or maybe I do.
I am sitting in the room Vyaan gave me. He'd called it empty, but that was a lie. There's nothing empty about it. It's an art studio, perfectly tailored, down to the last detail. I'm still wondering how the hell he made this room as art studio at short time?.
The white walls, the wide windows letting in just enough light, the blank canvases waiting for me.
It's like he knew what I needed before I even realized it myself.
I paint, but my focus isn't on the canvas. It's somewhere, on someone, may be him. On the gnawing thought that maybe... maybe today will be different.
Maybe today, I'll put my ego aside, pick up the phone, and call him. Not as the enemy, not as the person who's supposed to hate him, but as his wife.
The thought feels foreign, almost impossible. But something pulls at me, this gnawing urge that won't leave me alone. I can't ignore it any longer.
In this room, this space that's now mine because of him, I can't help but feel the weight of it.
The weight of reaching out. The weight of risking it all to see what happens if I let go of the bitterness for one damn moment.
