Anurima's POV

The approval came quietly, through an official mail stamped in red and signed by more people than I could count.

“Civilian visitation to patient Rudra Aghnihotri under surveillance has been granted.”

Just like that — after two full weeks of negotiation, background checks, psychological clearance, and endless paperwork — I was finally allowed to see him.

The man who broke me. The man who held me. The man who blurred those lines until I wasn’t sure where pain ended and love began.

But today wasn’t about Rudra.

Today was about the three reasons I survived him.

My babies.

---

The triplets were due for their four-month vaccinations.

Another round of pokes, tears, and drama.

I stood at the nursery door that morning, just watching them — my little hurricanes — each wrapped in their own swaddle, giggling at nothing, cooing to invisible angels.

Abhinav, of course, had already wiggled out of his wrap. His tiny fists waved in the air, and his legs kicked like he was preparing for battle.

Roohi lay calmly, chewing on the end of her mitten, eyes sharp and curious, as if she knew today meant something. She was always the one who noticed.

Amara — my little moon — was already halfway back to dreamland, fingers curled around the hem of her blanket, her lashes fluttering softly against her cheeks.

I bent to kiss each of them. A thousand words in each breath. A thousand fears I buried in each smile.

Then I looked up as Advik walked into the nursery.

Sleeveless hoodie, gym bag slung over his shoulder, forehead damp with sweat. He looked worn — like sleep hadn’t touched him in days. Like memories still chased him through every silence.

“Ready?” I asked quietly.

He nodded.

No words. Just a faint nod.

But that was enough.

---

The ride to the hospital was quiet — except for the soundtrack of coos and babbles from the backseat.

Roohi and Abhinav were already fighting over a dangling rattle above their car seat. At one point, Roohi gave up and just stared at her brother like, ‘You may have won the battle, but I’ll win the war.’

Amara slept through the chaos.

Advik sat in the front seat beside the driver, window cracked, gaze lost outside. He hadn’t spoken since we left. But I could feel something brewing inside him — like his mind was filled with static.

---

At the hospital, we were escorted to Pediatrics.

Warm pastel walls, animal murals, baby mobiles hanging from the ceiling — it almost made you forget the place was built for pain relief.

And then I saw him.

Dr. Ishaan Khurana.

He was reading a file at the nurse station — black scrubs, a clipboard in one hand, pen tapping against it in rhythm.

He looked up just as I stepped in.

His eyes softened. That quiet steadiness — the kind that made you feel seen without saying a word — washed over me again.

> “Anurima,” he said with that calm tone. “Glad you came. They’ve grown... I can tell from here.”

I smiled. “They’ve developed personalities too. And egos.”

He smiled lightly, gesturing toward the procedure bed.

---

The Injections Begin

Abhinav went first.

Of course.

The moment he saw Ishaan’s stethoscope, he reached for it like it was his toy. He babbled, slapped his thigh, then let out a delighted squeal — pure drama king energy.

But once the alcohol swab touched his skin?

He paused.

Stared.

And when the needle entered?

All hell broke loose.

A shriek. Not just crying — a protest. Loud, offended, emotional.

I scooped him up, kissed his cheek.

> “I know, baby. Mama’s the villain who let this happen.”

Ishaan chuckled under his breath. “He’s expressive. A future lawyer.”

---

Amara went next.

Barely reacted.

A slight flinch. A tiny whimper. Then she buried her face in my chest and hiccuped softly — like crying wasn’t worth the energy, but she’d make her point gently.

> “Gentle soul,” Ishaan murmured. “But too silent. Watch her—sensitive types hide pain easily.”

I nodded.

Because I knew.

---

And then came Roohi.

She locked eyes with Ishaan the moment he leaned in. No blinking. No fear.

Big, round eyes fixed on his face like she recognized him.

When he swabbed her skin, she followed his hand. When he injected her, not a single twitch.

And then, she giggled.

Out loud.

A pure, musical giggle that caught even Ishaan by surprise.

The nurse laughed. “Oh my god, Doctor! She's flirting!”

Ishaan rolled his eyes. “She's just observant.”

He looked at me.

> “She’s going to be the one who challenges everyone’s logic.”

Roohi cooed again like she agreed.

---

Post-Injection: The Checkup

Once the babies were calm again — Abhinav sucking on his pacifier in frustration, Amara half-asleep on my shoulder, Roohi still grinning — Ishaan looked at me.

“Your turn.”

I blinked. “Mine?”

“You promised last time. You’ve had a complicated delivery. Three babies. Your body needs surveillance too.”

“But I—”

“No excuses.”

There was something in his tone — not cold, not stern — just... non-negotiable.

I gave in.

A quick exam. Vitals. Blood pressure. Scan.

He reviewed everything silently, his brow twitching once.

> “You’ve missed your meds again.”

I looked away.

> “I forget. There’s always something to do... someone crying... and—”

“I understand. But they need you whole.”

He said it again.

But this time… the way he looked at me… it wasn’t clinical.

It was personal.

> “Don't run yourself to the ground, Anurima. I see too many women do that, thinking they’re holding everything together. And then one day... they crack.”

Something twisted in my chest.

Not pain.

Recognition.

---

The Exit

By the time we left, the babies were asleep in the stroller — cheeks pink, fists curled, chests rising in steady rhythm.

Advik stayed behind to make a call.

I turned once — just once — and saw Ishaan still standing there.

Watching us leave.

Not smiling. Not waving.

Just... watching.

My hands trembled the moment Advik took the babies from my arms.

"Go home with them," I had whispered, brushing Amara’s forehead with my lips.

"Keep the guards close. I’ll call if… when I’m done."

Advik didn’t argue.

He only looked at me, and for a moment — a brief, flickering second — I saw something vulnerable pass through his gaze.

A silent question: Are you strong enough for this?

I didn’t answer. I just nodded.

He left with the stroller, the bodyguards flanking him, Rohini Maa’s voice echoing in my ears:

> “Anurima, don’t let your emotions guide you. You’re going there for answers, not closure. Not pity.”

Closure?

No. That word had died inside me a long time ago.

I wasn’t here to heal anything.

I was here to face a man who turned love into chains.

---

The elevator felt too slow.

Each floor we passed was a beat of my heart — pounding, fast, uneven.

By the time I reached the psychiatric block, my palms were damp. My knees were barely steady.

Even my breath felt foreign — like I had borrowed it from someone else.

Two guards waited outside Room 9.

One of them was Vikram, the officer who had fought to get me this permission.

He nodded once, grim but understanding.

> “He’s lucid today... well, relatively.”

I stared at the door.

> “Is he dangerous?”

Vikram hesitated.

> “Not today.”

---

I turned the knob slowly.

And stepped into a world frozen in delusion.

The room smelled of old cotton, sanitizer, and something… hollow.

And there — on the floor, in the middle of soft white pillows — lay Rudra Aghnihotri.

Playing.

Laughing.

Murmuring lullabies to a collection of stuffed animals arranged like a circle of sleeping babies. Each one tucked under a blanket. Each one “breathing” under his careful watch.

> “My babies are sleepy today,” he whispered, stroking the head of a worn teddy bear. “They cried a little earlier. But now they’re good. See?”

Then his eyes lifted.

And he saw me.

Something flickered in them.

Recognition? Confusion? Hope?

> “Come,” he said, his voice childlike but soft. “Come sit with us. They missed you.”

---

My breath caught.

He looked… unrecognizable.

His hair had grown longer, unkempt and falling into his eyes. His beard was rough, uneven. But it wasn’t the appearance that struck me. It was the light behind his eyes — or rather, the lack of it.

The man who once commanded empires with his silence…

Now spoke to stuffed animals like they breathed.

I stepped closer. Each step an anchor pulling me deeper into his twisted ocean.

He patted the floor beside him.

> “Sit here. Be gentle — they’re sleeping. We don’t want to wake them, do we?”

I sank down slowly. The cold tile seeping into my saree.

I stared at him.

For a moment, we said nothing.

And then I asked, almost in a whisper:

> “How… are you?”

He smiled — not the smirk I once knew. This one was soft. Childish.

He reached out, held my hand, fragile as a whisper.

> “I’m okay now. You came… so I’m better.”

“Your face is still the most beautiful thing. Can I look at it for a little longer before you disappear again?”

My throat closed.

I looked down at his hand wrapped around mine.

This wasn’t the Rudra I remembered — not the one who used power like a weapon.

This was something else.

Something... broken.

---

We talked.

Or rather, he talked.

Random things. Gentle things.

> “I gave Roohi her favorite pink blanket today.”

“Amara likes when I hum. She sleeps better.”

“Abhinav has a loud cry, like me. He’ll be strong.”

Each sentence tore into me.

These weren’t memories.

These were delusions.

He spoke of the babies as if they were here. As if they hadn’t been taken from him four months ago.

And then — without warning — his tone changed.

He smiled, eyes going distant.

> “You know… my mother was very beautiful.”

“She had long hair like yours. She used to sing while cooking.”

“I remember thinking… I want a wife like that.”

I blinked. Carefully. Watching him.

He looked down suddenly. His voice dropped.

> “But then... she left me.”

“She left me alone.”

He made a child’s sad face, lip trembling, eyes glossy.

> “Why did she leave me, Anurima?”

“She was having my baby sister... but they… they didn’t let her... they hurt her...”

He clutched his head suddenly, fists pressing into his temples.

> “They hurt her!”

“Leave her alone! She’s having my sister! She’ll die — don’t touch her!”

The scream shattered the room like glass.

Rudra's body convulsed. His eyes rolled. He started throwing the pillows.

> “Don’t touch her! DON’T TOUCH MY MOTHER!”

I flinched back.

The ward boy burst in, holding a syringe.

Vikram rushed in after.

> “Hold him!”

The needle sank into Rudra’s arm.

Within seconds, his body slowed. The shouts dulled into slurred murmurs.

> “Mama... I didn’t mean to... I didn’t mean...”

And then he collapsed into the mattress.

Still. Silent.

---

I stood there.

Frozen.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I just... watched.

Watched the man I once feared… now curled up on the floor like a forgotten boy.

Vikram turned to me gently. “Time’s up. You should leave.”

I nodded.

But before I turned, I reached into my bag.

Took out a bundle of crisp notes — money wrapped in folded paper.

I handed it to him.

> “Take this. I want scheduled meetings. Alternate days. Whatever it costs. Sort the red tape. I don’t care how.”

Vikram nodded, surprised but didn’t question.

> “I’ll handle it. You’ll get updates.”

---

As I walked back down the corridor, escorted by the guards...

I didn’t feel lighter.

I didn’t feel vindicated.

But I felt resolved.

I had seen what I needed to.

The man who once chained me to a bed with silk and cruelty...

Was now a prisoner of his own past.

And for the first time in years…

I was the one walking away.

Unafraid.

Author's POV

The water poured over him like liquid fire.

Ishaan stood motionless, steam wrapping around his frame like silk laced with smoke. The hiss of the shower echoed off the black marble, chasing shadows that flickered in the corners of the room. The scent of clean skin and heat lingered in the air — laced with something more primal.

His chest rose, fell.

Slow. Controlled.

But beneath that stillness… something stirred.

A pulse.

A pressure.

A hunger.

He dragged a hand through his soaked hair, jaw flexing under the droplets, muscles coiled and gleaming under the dim lights like bronze carved by fury and restraint.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Breath deeper now.

There was no sound but the rush of water and the low beat of his pulse behind his ears. His body was reacting — fiercely. Predictably. The ache building low, coiled, insistent. Not out of desire for someone specific — but out of dominance unmet.

It wasn’t lust.

It was energy. Power. Need — unspent.

And he let it simmer, let it ripple through his veins without release. That was his strength — denial sharpened into control.

A slow, dark chuckle rolled off his tongue.

> “Always so eager to rise…” he murmured under his breath, low and amused.

“But I decide when you’re used. Not you.”

He stepped back, fingers reaching for the dial.

The water stopped with a heavy silence.

And he stood there — drenched, half-lit, steam swirling around him like a ritual fire.

His towel was carelessly slung around his hips as he stepped out of the stall, bare feet silent against the cold floor. He paused before the mirror, fogged and blurred, his reflection only half-visible.

But the glint in his eyes — sharp, knowing, unapologetically dark — was unmistakable.

He smirked.

> “Not tonight,” he whispered, voice like a promise laced with threat.

“But soon.”

And he walked into the night like a storm waiting to be summoned.