Her Only Saviour

89. Unspoken threat

𝕽𝖆𝖆𝖟 𝖆𝖆𝖓𝖐𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎 𝕾𝖆𝖇 𝖇𝖆𝖞𝖆𝖆𝖓 𝖐𝖆𝖗 𝖗𝖆𝖍𝖎
𝕾𝖚𝖓 𝖗𝖆𝖍𝖆 𝖉𝖎𝖑 𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎 𝖐𝖍𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖞𝖆𝖓

𝕶𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖐𝖆𝖍𝖔 𝖓𝖆 𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖔 𝕻𝖆𝖆𝖘 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖗𝖆𝖍𝖔
𝕴𝖘𝖍𝖖 𝖐𝖎 𝖐𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖎 𝖍𝖆𝖎 𝖞𝖊 𝖌𝖊𝖍𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖞𝖆𝖓

~~~~~

It was the morning when it finally felt like air had returned to the house.

The courtyard was decorated in marigolds and fairy lights—not for a celebration, but to mark the day he family was leaving. They wanted Nandini to feel surrounded by color before they left.

Nandini wore a soft peach kurta that day. Her hair was open, her lips bare. But her eyes weren’t empty anymore.

She walked down holding Dadu’s hand, waved playfully at Vishal who pretended to trip over a carpet, and even teased Rudra about his “legendary” tea that she refused to drink.

As the family sat together on the lawn, sipping afternoon chai, laughter returned to the air in soft gusts.

“I think it’s the first time in months we’ve all been together like this,” Gauri noted.

Anirudh smiled faintly. His gaze rested on Nandini, who was leaning into her Dadu’s side, laughing at a story from childhood.

And it was in that moment he realized—he would carry her scars as his own, for however long it took.
She didn’t need fixing.
She just needed time.
And love.
And a space to breathe.

But Later That Night…

As Anirudh stepped into the hallway after a late phone call, he saw something odd.

Kaamini’s room was open. Slightly ajar. But the lights were off.

He walked toward it quietly.

No luggage.
No signs of her return.
Yet a faint scent of her perfume hung in the air.

And near her bed… a pair of shoes that hadn’t been there last evening.

He frowned.

Kaamini was back. But hadn’t told anyone.

And something about the silence she was keeping—it wasn’t grief.

It was secrecy.

But he ignored and went back to his room.

••

‌The evening sun setting gently through the Oberoi Mansion’s sheer curtains, bathing the vast living room in a soft, golden hue.  A low murmur of voices filled the space, grounded in concern but tinged with cautious hope.

Seated on the luxurious couches were the elders of both families.

Dadu leaned forward slightly, his hands folded, listening intently. Beside him sat Dadi, her ever-gentle eyes gleaming with quiet gratitude as she spoke in a hushed tone with Anika, who nodded occasionally, visibly emotional. Shivaay sat on the opposite couch, his usual stern demeanor softened for once, arms crossed but relaxed, his gaze flickering occasionally toward the staircase.

On another couch sat—Nandini’s Dadu, a regal man in his late seventies with sharp, perceptive eyes; her father, stiff and distant but present; and Phupa ji, Sameer, whose subtle expressions always seemed to hold more understanding than words.

They were talking lowly, exchanging thoughts on Nandini’s mental health, how she had begun to show signs of soft smiles and quieter nights, how the weight in her shoulders was beginning to lift—inch by inch, day by day.