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He sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight but shoulders heavy. A fresh bandage wrapped around his head, stark against his dusky skin. One hand rested limply in his lap. The other held a glass of water-untouched.
His eyes weren't focused on anything in particular. His hair, still damp from a recent sponge bath, clung to his forehead.
And then-
A click.
Silent. Subtle.
But sharp, like a switch being flipped inside his mind.
The glass in his hand shattered.
Just a reflexive squeeze until cracks raced across the surface like spiderwebs and the shards sunk into his skin.
He didn't flinch.
Just stared.
At his hand.
At the blood.
It pooled slowly, seeping between his fingers, dripping down his wrist.
Red.
Just as red as the sindoor.
The red lehenga.
The red rose in her hair that morning.
The red lips he once swore to protect the smile of.
The fragments of memory were blurry-muffled like sound underwater. But the color... the color remained.
And then-
The door creaked open.
Soft footsteps. A voice, cautious.
"Abhimaan-"
It stopped when his gaze snapped up at her like a predator stirred too early from sleep.
His eyes, once blank, were burning now.
Red.
Not from pain.
From fury.
His voice was gravel, low and cold.
"Where is she?"
Aarohi froze at his words.
.
.
.
.
This story revolves around Abhimaan Raghuvanshi a respected advocate and his arranged wife Aarohi Birla/Raghuvanshi a child psychologist