'Ishan Oberoi' - The name that echoes success, power, and resilience. A rising billionaire who carved his empire with his own hands, refusing to ride on his father's wealth. Yet, he never turned his back on his responsibilities as a son. Balancing h...
Hope y'all are well. Wear good amt. of clothes, it's so cold these days.
Chapter 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 & 51 are available on scrollstack.
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AUTHOR’S POV:
Aadhriti stepped into her apartment, the door closing behind her with a soft, final thud. She leaned against it, her back pressed to the cool wood, as though it could steady the storm inside her chest. Her heart felt unbearably heavy, crowded with emotions she didn’t know how to name, let alone control.
She knew she shouldn’t have reacted the way she did. But after everything Ishan had said, everything he’d done for her in that office, her emotions had gone spinning beyond her control. Anger had been the only language she could find to hide the chaos, the only escape she knew.
With a deep sigh that trembled halfway through, she pushed herself off the door and walked straight to the dining table. The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that made her feel too aware of her own breathing. She poured herself a glass of water and gulped it down in one go, as if the cold liquid could wash away the knot in her throat. When she slammed the glass back on the table, the sharp clink echoed through the stillness, followed by something softer.
That’s when she saw it.
A small note lay there on the table, half-hidden under a few scattered rose petals.
Her heart skipped.
For a moment, she just stared at it, uncertain, breath shallow, every nerve alive with a strange mixture of dread and longing. What is this? she thought. She wanted to reach for it, yet something inside her hesitated. The bouquet that once stood there was gone; only these petals and this note remained, traces of something beautiful that no longer belonged to her.
Her hand trembled as she finally reached out. She unfolded the paper as carefully as if it were made of glass, fragile, sacred. The familiar handwriting appeared, instantly tugging at her heart. But what stole her breath wasn’t the words, it was the ink. Smudged. Stained. The faint, unmistakable mark of tears.
Aadhriti’s throat tightened. He had cried while writing this. And that single thought shattered her.
A soft, broken sob escaped her lips as she began to read.
I know. Trust me, I do. Flowers don’t fix anything, and I don’t want them to. But I’ve read somewhere that they heal. Just like they bloom in spring after surviving the letting go of autumn, the cold, cruel winter—they heal a person’s heart the same way. Slowly… unknowingly.
