✧･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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The silence in the car wasn't empty, not with Vidyut driving. It was heavy, weighted with the raw, chaotic energy that always surged between us, especially after a night spent playing nice. I sat in the passenger seat, my eyes fixed on the blur of the city lights whipping past the window, but every few seconds, my gaze was drawn back to him. I couldn't help it. He was a magnet, dark and utterly compelling.
Vidyut's profile was all sharp lines and controlled power. The streetlights flashed across the planes of his face—the severe cut of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the ruthless curve of his mouth. He looked like the king he was, even in a simple black sweater and jeans. His hands, large and strong, gripped the steering wheel with an easy, proprietary control that made my core clench. He didn't have to look at me to know I was watching. He knew. He always knew.
My own nerves were wound tight as a clock spring. I had a secret, a surprise I'd been holding onto all evening, a carefully guarded piece of emotional ammunition that I knew would either break him open or push him away. The risk was enormous, but after everything we'd faced—the danger, the lies, the brutal truths—we needed this. We needed to cement this strange, volatile, perfect connection with something real, something that touched the very root of who he was.
I glanced at the dash clock. Almost midnight. The neighborhood where his mother lived was quiet, nestled in old money and tall trees. It felt safe, almost domestic, a bizarre contrast to the life we usually led, where danger lurked in every shadow. But tonight, that safety felt like a velvet trap, specifically laid for us.
He finally turned his head, his eyes, dark and impossibly intense, cutting through the dim interior.
"What is it, Ada?" His voice was a low, smooth rumble. He didn't ask if something was wrong; he asked what it was. That's Vidyut. He never dealt in assumptions, only facts.
My lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile, the kind of smile I usually reserved for plotting a perfect kill. "Just admiring the view,"
I glanced over. The streetlights flashed across the sharp planes of his face, illuminating the exhaustion around his eyes. He looked tired, vulnerable even, stripped bare by the emotional gauntlet he'd run.
