MOHABBAT-E-DIWAANGI ( Book 1)

56.

What really happened to the CM’s daughter?
Where was she?
Was it just another political stunt to gain sympathy and votes, or was there something much darker hidden behind the curtains?

These were the kinds of questions that were flashing across every news channel. Accusations were flying in the air—why waste others’ time when parents themselves spoiled their children and later turned to blame the opposition for their disappearance?

Meanwhile, chaos lingered inside the Rajawat Mansion. Nobody was at their usual places, the entire household seemed unsettled, rushing, gathering, and preparing to leave. Their destination was Jaipur. Mumbai was no longer safe—not after the secret marriage of the King of Jaipur himself. They owed it to their people to reveal the truth, to stand tall and say, yes, your king is married.

This wasn’t an abandonment of their kingdom, but a shift of duty. Over the years, Aadhish had not only ruled but had also adopted nearby villages, working tirelessly to fulfill every possible need of his people. His responsibilities stretched beyond the palace walls.

And now, as trunks were checked, luggage tied, and lists revised for the hundredth time, every corner of the mansion echoed with a restlessness. People whispered, “Did we forget something? Is everything packed?” Yet beneath all the noise, one thing was certain—change was coming, and it was coming fast.

After they returned from that dreadful place last night, silence lingered in the mansion like a heavy cloud. The Rajawats had handed the CM his half-dead daughter and, through Revati Rajawat’s words, announced the end of his ministry—this was his last week of power.

And then there was Avantika. Her family looked at her with concern, their eyes soft, their voices careful. They asked gently, “How are you? Are you fine?” It wasn’t just a question, it was their way of holding her without holding her, of consoling her without pressing into wounds she wasn’t ready to open. They didn’t ask further, not because they didn’t care, but because they respected her silence. They knew her decisions were hers to own, and their love was to simply stand beside her, not suffocate her.

Sometimes care is loud, sometimes it is quiet—and theirs was the quiet kind. After all, love isn’t only about words spoken, but about the pauses left behind to give someone space to breathe.

And while the mansion bustled with chaos—servants rushing, elders shouting orders, trunks being packed—the kitchen became a different world. There, the new couple of the Rajawat family found comfort in each other’s presence.

Aadhish slid his hand around Avantika’s waist, his cold fingers brushing against her softness, making her shiver. She closed her eyes, humming as though her soul had found an anchor.

“she just said my name, biwi (wife)…” he whispered, teasing, but his voice carried pride.

Avantika glanced back at him, eyes sharp yet tender, her voice firm,
“Nahi hai kisi ko haq… mere pati ko apna kehne ka bhi.”
(No one has the right… not even to call my husband their own).

Aadhish smirked, raising a brow, “Accha ji? (Oh really?)”

Her lips curved as she nodded, “Yes… yes.”

And in that simple exchange—words, glances, touches—Avantika found the care her family couldn’t express in conversations. Theirs was silent love, but his was alive, breathing against her skin, reminding her that she was not alone.

“To sun lijiye Rani sa… hume kisi ka aankh bhar dekhna tak pasand nahi. Aapko aap naam ki baat to bhool hi jaayein. Aur apna? Ufff… jab tak humara astitva hai, is dhara par koi kabza nahi kar sakta.”
(Listen to me, my queen… I can’t stand anyone even looking at you with desire. Forget about them taking your name, and forget about claiming you. As long as I exist, on this earth no one can dare take what’s mine.)