✧･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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My eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim, filtered light. The room was beautiful, a perfect cube of muted greys and charcoal, dominated by the massive bed I was sprawled in. The sheets were silk, cool against my skin. The air smelled crisp, filtered, and faintly of cedar—Vidyut's scent, but cleaner, less frantic than the smell in the panic room. I was no longer wearing the ruined lehenga; I was in an oversized, soft cotton nightshirt that smelled faintly of him. He had changed my clothes. The thought sent a fresh, complicated rush of feeling through me.
I lay still for a moment, letting the events of the previous evening—the hunt, the key, the hidden wall, the furious beating—wash over me. It wasn't a dream. I was here. He was alive.
I raised my left hand, blinking against the reflection of the rose-gold diamond. It was still there, cold and heavy, the anchor to a reality that defied all logic.
I scanned the room, the beautiful, anonymous room of a house I technically owned, yet had never set foot in. My head pounded. I tried to sit up, but my muscles ached with the memory of the sheer physical exertion of my rage.
It was then I saw him.
He was sitting in an armchair several feet away, positioned near a small, diffused lamp, watching me. He hadn't shaved, and the dark stubble made him look older, harder, but utterly real. His hair was messy, and he was nursing a mug of something dark. He wasn't working; the laptop was closed on a side table. He was simply waiting.
The sight of him, relaxed in his silent, secure lair, sent a fresh wave of fury through the exhaustion. This was the man who had let me bleed tears for seven days. This was the man who had traded my peace for his secrecy.
I pushed myself up onto the pillows, pulling the duvet up to my chest. He looked at me, a flicker of apprehension mixed with overwhelming relief in his deep-set eyes. He started to rise, his expression tentative.
"Ada... you're awake," he murmured, his voice soft, almost devotional.
I didn't speak. I simply swung my legs over the side of the bed, the silk sheets sliding off my knees, and stood up. I was wobbly, my legs still vibrating with residual adrenaline, but I walked the few steps towards him, my eyes locked on his face.
