Pyaari Si Bahu

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 dedication ♥︎ mehak (Mehak_9) mehak i am so glad you have found my books and liked them enough to comment ........... you have even supported me so much that you followed me to another book i posted with varunxalia even though you are a varunxshraddha supported ............. i really can't express how much u and ur support mean to me so hopefully this chapter will suffice as thanks and an expression of lots and lots and lots of LOVE!!!!! i am so glad to call u a friend of mine aha ♥︎

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 She wakes up on a plush pale pink couch, a pillow tucked under her head and someone's voice across the room. Her head feels cobwebby and when she finally cracks open her eyes, everything is blurry. Ashish is the one speaking across the room and she doesn't even need to strain her ears to hear him: "Yes, Doctor-saab, of course, we will make sure she doesn't move around too much. You said water and some sweet or pastry, correct? Because she needs sugar . . . alright, alright, thank you. Sorry for waking you up at such an early hour, yes, yes. Okay. Okay. Thanks. Alvidaa."

She prods her forehead with her fingertips gingerly, wincing when it sends sharp lances of pain through her head. He turns at her soft moan, pocketing the phone and stepping quietly towards her.

"Hey," he greets, sitting next to her legs and resting his hand open and facing-up on her knee, "How are you? It's around four-thirty."

She tries to say something but begins coughing, and he gets up hurriedly to pour water into a glass from a blue-china jug across the room. She sips at it, and it immediately makes her feel better. The water is cool and softens the roughness of her throat. She sighs into her glass, watching the water ripple gently from her breath, before she begins speaking, "I'm okay."

"What happened?" He questions, "You coughed and looked a little pale, but . . . I should've have made a bigger deal out of it when you brushed it off," he runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

"No," she reaches out without thinking, touching his wrist, "It wasn't you . . . well, it was . . ."

He glances up at her through his lashes, eyes questioning and slightly steely all at once, "Me?"

She shivers to think of that glare, multiplied by a hundred, directed at one of his thousands of underlings. Even this gentler version, softened by concern, is frightening. She bites her lip, "Well."

He arches an eyebrow sharply, "Yes?"

She fiddles with the hem of her glittering pink tunic, ". . . Your cologne."

He lifts his wrist to his nose and sniffs it, "What about it?"

She doesn't look him in the eye. She looks at the pictures on the wall behind him, instead, which are papered with photos of him in his youth, playing soccer at eight, ruddy-cheeked at two, bright-eyed on his birthday at five, grumpily hugging his aunt at twelve . . .

"I think there's something in it that I'm allergic to. It smells bad to me, and irritates my nose and throat. I think it might've been why I was coughing so much and why I eventually fainted."

He drops his head into his hands. "Oh my god. Oh my god. This is all my fault."

She turns toward him so fast she feels something crick in her neck, "No! No." She repeats more calmly, "Not at all. Please don't blame yourself."

He looks up at her, face half-stern-half-despairing, "How can I not?" A single tear glimmers silvery on his eyelash, like a dewdrop, and something deep in her chest creaks mournfully. She can't bring herself to look away from that tear, like a diamond caught in the light, held on that dark lash.