Delicate - A Rikara Tale (Completed!)

Three - Fire meets Fate

A/N: The title of this chapter is from a lovely song by Ruelle. I was listening to her while writing this chapter. I love listening to what my readers think so please feel free to tell me what you felt while reading this. Even if you hate me or my way of writing OmRi! All feedback is amazing as are you guys!

Dedicated to Anu for her amazing story that made me go ohh this is delish i want to write too today!

Gauri and her mother had sparse belongings, packed away in four battered suitcases that made for a very pitiful sight. Omkara had stepped in then, unable to believe that the stuff that fitted in the sorry cases were the only things that the two women wanted to bring along to a new, unknown place. Gauri had been too shocked to answer, her wide-open eyes looking at him for a minute before she looked down at her feet, seemingly unable to face him. Omkara had been unable to disguise his curiosity and his anger at her, prompting Gauri's Maa, Om's mother in law, to step in.

"Beta this house belongs to Gauri's Chachi chacha. We don't own much but what little we do is because of Gauri's determination and hard work" the older woman smiled, holding her head up with pride.

'What hard work? Seducing Kaali Thakur and funnelling money from his dirty hands into her own?' The thoughts entered Om's mind almost instantly. 'But he tried to send his men after her to kill her. Surely there is more to it than it looks like. There always is' the softer, more considerate part of him offered. Om wanted to shake his head to get the thoughts out.

What would Shivaay do? Get information on Gauri. Do a background check. Talk to her mother and get information when Gauri is busy elsewhere.

That thought came from Om, the middle Oberoi brother who idolized his elder cousin. Shivaay was more planning than he was emotion.

Except for when he married Anika Bhabhi the first time. Shivaay is not infallible. No one is.

The part of Omkara that was betrayed and sceptical about everything and anything made its presence known and he hated how fragmented his own mind was.

"Acha. Toh Chaale?" Om took two of the battered bags from his mother in law. His own mother had raised him to be respectful to elders after all. Mr Oberoi was the exception. The bad apple, the source of all rot, all the pain. He deserved nothing.

Gauri's Maa had thanked him and commented that now her heart felt quite at ease, knowing that her little chirraiya has a husband who would take care of her. The older woman's relief was not fake and Om could see the pain of the inevitable separation that was sure to come on her face. He sneaked a look at Gauri to see her pale faced and wide eyed.

'Why is she afraid of me when she has what she wanted. A filthy rich husband who will make sure she is taken care of?' Om deposited the bags in the boat of the hired car and turned to take the last two bags from Gauri's shaking hands. Something was not quite right. He was determined to find out what.

As Shivaay had promised, the helicopter presented itself exactly when it was supposed to. The pilot had greeted him with a salute and a "Welcome aboard Omkara sahib." Omkara had explained that his family was wealthy when the two women had shown their shock at their mode of transport on their faces. Gauri's Maa had thanked him again, with tears in her eyes and folded hands that made Om feel humbled and guilty at the same time. He begged the older woman not to fold her hands with a soft smile and urged her to step in the helicopter, assuring that it was perfectly safe.

But Gauri refused to look at him, preferring to press her mother's legs and inquire if she felt alright. The flight back to Mumbai was spent in silence. Om used to find silence comforting but now it felt like an accusation, a finger pointed at him. He pulled the business magazine and tried to drown himself in words and numbers that meant nothing to him. An few minutes later, frustrated and irritated, he stole another look at his bride.

Gauri and her mother had fallen asleep. Gauri's head on her mother's shoulder and the innocent expression on her face made something in Om's mind burn. Before he knew it, his hands were moving of their own accord. The lifeless printed sheet of paper he was holding in front of him was now adorned with a ball point pen sketch of his bride. The sketch was imperfect- not because he had got the proportions wrong or messed up her features - he had been observing her far too intently for that to be possible. No, the picture was far from perfect because it lacked colour. Om analysed the burst of colour that was Gauri after she had changed out of the heavy wedding clothes. Her long kurti was a burst of colours - yellow and red and green and she was wearing bangles that were funny-looking. They had multicoloured yarn pompoms dangling from them. Apart from those bangles Gauri wore no jewellery, something that would change soon, Omkara knew. As an Oberoi bahu she'd be expected to dress as befitting her title. There was a simplicity to Gauri's look that would be lost when that would happen and the half dead artist O buried under the unfeeling façade that was Omkara Singh Oberoi was starting to break free. Slowly and painfully.

Om flipped the pages over and closed his eyes. This was a madness he could not afford. She made a pretty picture, she made him want to freeze her in time. He could feel the sparks and the itch to create return, the thirst to smell paint and drag the brush over canvas.

No.

This was not going to happen. He could not let it. There was no room for colour in his life. He ripped out the page and crushed it as tightly as he could. Control. That was what he needed. He would need power id he was to keep control and was knowledge not power?

Omkara pulled out his phone and typed out a text to Khanna, ordering the man to discreetly get a background check done for a Gauri Kumari Sharma from Bareilly.

Omkara realised he was holding the crushed drawing in his palm tightly.But he could not bring himself to rip the page into tiny pieces. Just like he knew he would not be able to stop himself from tracing her face with his eyes. Her features were small but perfectly formed. She reminded him of a porcelain doll Prinku had once owned. Small and fragile, the doll had shattered to pieces one day because no one had bothered to tell Prinku about the vulnerability. Omkara wondered if his bride was the same. He 'd know only once he had her history in his hands.