Chapter 59 :

Anvaya's POV

I came out of the washroom, my body and hair damp with water droplets, wet hair scattered over the back and the shoulders while I just wore his white shirt reaching till my upper thighs—just touching the edge.

But there was an add-on.

Black thongs.

If I bent, a full view of everything supposed to be hidden would be an open view.

As I stood in front of the mirror, my fingers languidly traced over the shirt, passing over the perked up nipples down the ribs and stopped at the end of the shirt. My skin was hot and soul was shaking in nervousness.

Maybe I'd missed his touches too much. I didn't want to look so desperate but from inside, I knew I was. Ten days without him weren't very easy.

I was mentally broken, and newly bloomed love in my heart for him was no less of another pain added.

I could not more even name it infatuation like the initial days.

The exhaustion, the constant reminder of my joblessness, the same voices ringing in my head like an infinity echo had drained me to the core. My own silence had started slowly peel me away.

Ten days might be a long time of calculated. Two-forty hours wasn't something less. But when you're zoned out, overthinking and drowned in your one agony, you don't even realise how time passes.

And the same was for me.

I tried to do something but my nights would end up with my tears anyway.

I sighed.

Maybe his presence could help somehow today. It was tiring to wake up everyday only to end up doing the same thing on autopilot.

My mind shifted to the shirt.

His fresh fragrance still lingered between the fabrics, making my skin tingle as if his fingers were touching my burning skin.

My cheeks flushed at the thought of Kaaryaksh seeing me like this. I was still nervous about his reaction, even though I knew he'd like it. He had something in him that always made me feel slightly nervous whenever we were intimate.

Should I do this?

Is this wrong?

Do I have the right?

The questions came back again. I tried to tell myself before that it wasn't wrong anymore. Not when his marriage held no meaning. Not when they didn't even love each other. Not when something between us was real and consensual.

Still, it felt weird. Even if I'd started to want him, it didn't lessen the discomfort of the whole situation.

I was still a person he had an extra marital affair with.

I shook my head. He's here to see me. I shouldn't ruin my mood like that.

Pressing my lips into a thin smile at my reflection, I continued with my skincare routine, taking my time despite the restless anticipation bubbling beneath my skin.

After finishing, I reached for my perfume and sprayed a light mist over my neck and wrists. The scent immediately wrapped around me—a seductive blend of rich coffee, warm vanilla, and delicate jasmine. Sweet yet intoxicating. Comforting, yet dangerously alluring.

The fragrance lingered in the air around me, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, breathing it in.

Then I applied a layer of sweet, glossy lip gloss, watching the subtle shine catch the light.

Satisfied, I decided to finally leave the room.

As I stepped into the living area, I found him exactly where I expected him to be.

Kaaryaksh was sitting on the sofa, casually scrolling through his phone, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside me.

Taking advantage of his distraction, I quickly slipped away before he could look up and disappeared into my art room.

The familiar scent of paint and canvas greeted me.

My gaze swept across the room, but my thoughts were focused on only one thing.

I'll tempt him until he breaks.

The thought sent an unfamiliar thrill through me.

A few months ago, I would've never imagined myself thinking like this.

But things had changed.

I had changed.

Somewhere along the way, I had grown confident.

Far more confident than I had ever been before.

There was no point in pushing him away anymore when we were both so hopelessly entangled in each other's lives. Every wall I had built between us seemed to crumble whenever he was near.

And the pain that had once consumed me so completely...

It quieted.

Not entirely.

But enough.

Enough for me to breathe.

Enough for me to feel alive again.

Enough for his presence to become the only place where the ache seemed to soften.

Taking a slow breath, I tried to calm the nervous energy racing through my veins.

Then I called out loud enough for him to hear.

"Kaaryaksh, can you please come to the art room?"

The words sounded far steadier than I felt.

Silence followed.

A few seconds later, I heard movement outside.

My heartbeat instantly skipped.

Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

Closer.

Closer.

And then—

The soft click of the door opening.

My stomach flipped.

Quickly, I turned around so my back faced the door.

My heart was pounding violently against my ribs, each beat seeming louder than the last.

This was new. Entirely new.

I had never been the one to take the initiative before.

Never been the one to invite him into my space with a hidden purpose behind it.

The realization made heat crawl up my neck.

My fingers trembled slightly at my sides.

Nervousness.

Excitement.

Anticipation.

Everything tangled together into one overwhelming sensation.

I could feel his presence behind me now.

Could almost sense his eyes on me.

And suddenly, every breath felt heavier.

Every second stretched longer.

Yet despite the nervous fluttering in my chest, I couldn't suppress the smile threatening to appear on my lips.

Because beneath all the anxiety, I was excited.

And for the first time, I wasn't trying to hide it.

•

Kaaryaksh's POV

I was waiting for Anvaya in the living room while she showered.

The house was silent except for the distant sound of running water. Normally, silence never bothered me. I had spent most of my life in it. Built my existence around it. Controlled it.

But lately, silence had developed a habit of carrying her absence.

Leaning back against the sofa, I let my gaze wander across the room, though my thoughts were nowhere near it. They drifted toward her as they always did, pulling me into that familiar place where every road eventually led back to Anvaya.

Ten days.

Objectively, it wasn't a long time.

Yet the past ten days had stretched themselves into something far more inconvenient. The mansion had never been a warm place. It wasn't supposed to be. It was a fortress, a place of order, routine, and control.

But after she entered my life, the atmosphere had shifted without my permission.

The rooms had become accustomed to her presence.

So had I.

Without her, the mansion felt strangely vacant. Not lonely—loneliness implied weakness. It simply felt incomplete, as though something that belonged there had been removed.

And I disliked it.

I knew agreeing to her request wouldn't be easy. The moment she asked for space, I already knew I wouldn't enjoy it. Still, I had agreed.

Because despite everything, I rarely denied her things she genuinely needed.

Anvaya valued her independence. She needed moments that belonged entirely to herself. Time to breathe without someone constantly hovering over her shoulder.

I understood that.

It didn't mean I had to like it.

I wasn't accustomed to distance.

For five years, my attention had been fixed on her with a level of consistency most people would find concerning. I knew the books she reread when she couldn't sleep. I knew which songs she skipped halfway through and which ones she played on repeat for weeks.

I knew how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.

I knew the exact tea she preferred when she was upset.

I knew which line from her favorite novel she had highlighted three separate times because it resonated with her so deeply.

People paid attention when they cared.

I remembered everything.

The tenth day hadn't been complete yet, but I came anyway.

Not because I lacked restraint.

Because I had already exercised enough of it.

There was a limit to patience, and mine had been tested sufficiently.

Of course, respecting her request didn't mean disappearing entirely.

I had visited.

Just not while she was awake.

A small compromise.

One she would undoubtedly disapprove of if she knew.

The thought almost amused me.

Viola certainly knew.

She always did.

Nothing escaped her notice. She possessed an irritating ability to observe things people preferred remained hidden. Sharp-eyed. Intelligent. Calculating.

She had probably known about my visits before I even decided to make them.

But her knowing made little difference.

Because if I chose to stand beside Anvaya, then nobody—not even Viola—could touch her.

The irony of that thought wasn't lost on me.

My wife.

My woman.

Two titles existing within the same reality.

A reality I had long stopped trying to justify.

Before leaving the mansion earlier, I had paused in front of my wardrobe longer than necessary.

My hand had settled on a white shirt.

Simple.

Yet instead of putting it on, I folded it carefully and brought it with me.

I hadn't questioned the decision.

There was no point.

I already knew why.

I wanted to see her wearing it.

The image had lodged itself in my mind the moment I picked it up.

Anvaya wrapped in something that belonged to me.

My shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders.

The sleeves too long for her hands.

The fabric carrying my scent.

A quiet mark of possession.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

My gaze drifted toward the hallway leading to her room.

The sound of running water had stopped several minutes ago.

A slow smile touched the corner of my mouth.

I was ensnared by her.

The more I thought about her belonging to me, the more possessive I became. It was a dangerous thought—one I should have restrained long ago—but I never could.

Even the image of her wearing my shirt was enough to occupy my mind.

She was tall, yet still shorter than me. Every insecurity she carried, every flaw she believed people noticed, only drew my attention further. The softness of her cheeks. The curves she criticized. The details she wished she could change.

None of them diminished her.

If anything, they only made her more undeniably herself.

And I was fixated on everything that belonged to her existence.

I had never been a man who expressed much. Words were unnecessary most of the time. Emotions were even less useful.

Yet Anvaya had somehow become the exception.

Without realizing it, I spoke more around her. Revealed more around her. Felt more around her.

It was an irritation I had long since accepted.

For a brief second, my thoughts came to a complete halt. The memory of her from the moment when she opened the door for me returned.

She'd stood there wearing a black camisole that clung to her frame and a pair of grey shorts. Flour dusted her fingertips. A faint streak rested across her forehead, with another near her neck, as though she had been too distracted to notice it.

I'd simply looked at her.

And for a moment, everything else had become a background noise.

Only I knew how much restraint it took to remain seated.

Only I knew how difficult it was to follow the plans I had made for today instead of surrendering to every selfish impulse that surfaced whenever she was near.

But this day wasn't about me.

It was about her.

I wanted her to smile.

Or at the very least, feel something other than the exhaustion and disappointment that had followed her for weeks.

She had lost something precious.

Something she had built with her own hands.

Something she had nurtured, protected, and sacrificed for because she believed it would eventually become her future.

Then jealousy and control had torn through it and left destruction behind.

I hated that.

More than I cared to admit.

There were moments when I thought the best thing I could do for Anvaya was disappear from her life entirely.

Because every time she suffered because of me, the thought became harder to ignore.

The worst part was knowing her accusations weren't entirely wrong.

I had never been innocent in this mess.

Perhaps it would have reached this point regardless.

Perhaps the collision had always been inevitable.

But I couldn't deny that my presence had accelerated the damage.

Anvaya was connected to me.

And because she was connected to me, Viola had noticed her.

That alone had been enough.

Whether I stood beside Anvaya or not, Viola would have viewed her as a threat eventually.

And once Viola decided to destroy something, she rarely stopped until there was nothing left to ruin.

The realization sat heavily in my chest.

Because for all the power I possessed, I couldn't change the one truth I hated most.

Anvaya had become a target the moment she became important to me.

So I allowed it to unfold in a way that ensured I would be there when Anvaya fell.

I wasn't capable of stopping Viola.

But I was capable of protecting Anvaya.

At least, that was what I told myself whenever guilt settled heavily in my chest.

The problem was that the more I tried to distance myself from her, the worse it became. Every attempt at disappearing only left behind an ache that followed me everywhere. It lingered in empty rooms, sleepless nights, and quiet moments when my thoughts inevitably drifted back to her.

Eventually, I became selfish.

I stopped trying to pull away.

Instead, I let myself move closer and closer until my life seemed woven into hers.

The sight of her accepting the bouquet had done something to me.

The surprise in her eyes.

The way her lips curved into a smile she hadn't intended to show.

The way she had stepped forward and pulled me into a kiss without hesitation.

Those small moments lodged themselves somewhere deep inside me.

Because despite everything, I had a heart too.

My parents' cruelty and Viola's coldness might have buried it beneath layers of ice, but Anvaya had always managed to reach the part that still remained alive.

I felt it when she was near.

I felt it even more when she wasn't.

My thoughts shattered the moment her voice echoed through the living room.

A faint half smile tugged at my mouth.

Her voice was naturally bold. Strong. Confident.

But there were subtle differences only I noticed.

Whenever she became nervous, a softness slipped into her tone.

A sweetness.

Something delicate hidden beneath her confidence.

It appeared when she stood too close to me.

When her fingers trembled slightly.

When she tried to hide emotions she didn't want anyone else to see.

And when she cried... her voice became impossibly soft.

That particular sound had haunted me throughout the last ten days.

It lingered in my mind during restless nights, replaying itself like a memory I couldn't escape.

Then the door opened. The sound cut through my thoughts. I didn't turn around. Just sat silently, waiting for her to speak.

Her words echoed in the living area, asking me to go to the other room.

Pushing myself off the sofa, I followed the familiar path toward her art room.

The route was engraved into my memory.

Five years of watching someone tends to do that.

I had never entered her home before she allowed me to.

But I knew it.

Knew the layout.

Knew the routines.

Knew the details.

Five years had given me more than enough nights to memorize the woman who occupied my thoughts.

Ten years.

Five years spent obsessed with the mere knowledge of her existence.

Five years spent consumed by her actual presence.

At some point, she had become inseparable from me.

Just as I had become inseparable from her.

The thought settled quietly inside my chest as I pushed open the door.

And then my breath caught.

She stood facing the wall, her back toward me.

For a second, I simply stared.

She was wearing my shirt. Just the shirt.

The white fabric hung loosely from her frame, reaching just past her thighs. Golden afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow around her and outlining the gentle curves of her silhouette.

I should have thought more carefully before giving it to her.

The realization arrived far too late.

Because now that she was standing there wearing something that belonged to me, I couldn't look away.

A strange sense of satisfaction settled beneath my ribs.

As though I had stumbled upon a sight meant exclusively for my eyes.

Quietly closing the door behind me, I crossed the room.

She had only recently stepped out of the shower.

The faint scent of her shampoo lingered in the air.

Fresh.

Familiar.

Dangerously distracting.

The closer I moved, the harder it became to focus on anything else.

And when I finally stopped behind her, every coherent thought abandoned me.

For a moment, there was only her.

She looked like every sin I'd ever committed given human form.

Too addictive.

Too forbidden.

And yet, despite everything, she was mine.

"This is one of the dreams I had of us."

Her voice sliced through the silence, drawing my attention over her shoulder.

A painting hung against the wall.

The background was a collision of black and crimson, the colors bleeding into one another like smoke. At its center stood two figures. One was tall and shadowed, crowned with horns that vanished into darkness. Cradled in his arms was a pale woman, seemingly asleep or unconscious. Faint red marks decorated her skin, resembling the traces of claws or teeth.

"I thought I was unconscious while you held me," she said quietly, resting her head against my chest. "I thought some part of me knew it was you holding me whenever I slept."

She paused.

"But I was wrong."

I remained silent.

Whenever Anvaya spoke like this, interruption felt unnecessary.

"I wasn't asleep in your arms," she whispered. "I was asleep in my... home."

The final word barely left her lips.

Yet I heard it.

Every syllable.

My muscles stiffened.

Home.

The word settled somewhere deep inside me.

A place I'd spent my entire life searching for and never found.

Yet somehow she had discovered it in me.

How?

I was the architect of labyrinths. The one who built walls, traps, and shadows. I manipulated outcomes until they bent in directions I preferred.

But this?

This had never been part of any design.

It was unexpected.

Unplanned.

Dangerous.

"Why?" I asked, wrapping my arms around her waist, letting my front press against her back.

The warmth of her body seeped through the thin fabric between us. Instinctively, my arms tightened around her waist.

The urge to pull her impossibly closer flickered beneath my skin.

To keep her there.

To never let go.

"Because..." She exhaled softly. "I don't know."

A small laugh escaped her.

"I searched for an answer myself, but there never was one."

Her fingers brushed over my arm.

"I just knew you were my home. Your darkness became my comfort."

She leaned further into me.

"And eventually... you became my home too."

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then she stepped away.

The loss of her warmth was immediate.

Crossing the room, she stopped before another painting.

This one had been divided into two halves.

The first depicted an obsidian hand emerging from darkness, stretching toward something unseen beyond the frame. The night around it was thick with fog, giving the entire scene an unreal quality.

The second half portrayed a woman sleeping alone on a bed near an open window. Moonlight drifted through sheer white curtains, illuminating the delicate contours of her face.

Both images felt connected.

Like fragments of the same dream.

Or the same memory.

At the bottom of each canvas, words had been painted carefully into the shadows.

The entire piece felt suspended between reality and fantasy.

"This is how you came," she said softly.

"For the first time."

My gaze shifted from the painting to her.

A faint crease formed between my brows.

"A faceless version of you used to visit my dreams," she continued. "For five years."

The room seemed to grow quieter.

"When I slept, you'd appear."

Her eyes remained fixed on the painting.

"You'd whisper in my ear."

A slow smile threatened to form at the corner of my mouth.

"Whenever you dream..." she murmured, recalling the words. "Dream of me. Only me."

The smile won.

A faint, twisted grin settled across my face.

"I thought they were only dreams."

She turned toward me.

"But they kept repeating."

Her gaze locked onto mine.

"And eventually I realized..."

There was warmth in her eyes.

Recognition.

Certainty.

"You were always there."

Amusement flickered through me.

She had uncovered it far more easily than she should have.

"You waited for the sun to disappear," she continued. "You waited for darkness so you could find your way into my dreams."

Each word carried the weight of memory.

The countless nights.

The whispered promises.

The obsession neither of us had fully understood at the time.

"Were you jealous?" she asked suddenly.

Stepping closer, she slipped her arms around my neck.

"Worried I'd dream about someone else?"

The distance between us disappeared.

I slid an arm around her waist, drawing her nearer. The other hand resting on her hip.

For a long moment, I simply looked at her.

The silence stretched between us.

Heavy.

Intimate.

Filled with secrets we never spoke aloud.

Then I finally answered.

"I never needed to be jealous."

My thumb brushed lightly against her side.

"Because you always dreamed of me."
I said. Because I always made sure she did.

The corner of her mouth curved upward.

And unable to resist any longer, I lowered my head and kissed her.