Page 65 of ARIDHI: His Never-Ending Desire

The first thing I felt was warmth.

Not from the sun or the sheets, but from him—tucked behind me like a shield.

Ruvit’s arm was still draped over my waist, the kind of hold that wasn’t demanding but absolute. Like even in sleep, he had no plans to let me go.

A soft, contented sigh escaped me, a sound I hadn't realized I was holding in until that very moment.

The familiar, intoxicating scent of him—woodsmoke and something uniquely Ruvit, a subtle spice—filled my senses, a comfort deep and familiar.

I stirred, turning slightly, careful not to wake him, only to find him already watching me.

His sleep-heavy eyes, dark and knowing, held a faint, amused curve to his lips.

His dark hair was charmingly rumpled, a stray strand falling across his forehead, and in the soft morning light, his gaze held a tenderness that made my breath catch.

“You’re staring.” I whispered, my voice thick with sleep.

“Just admiring the view,” He murmured, his thumb idly stroking the skin of my waist, “It’s significantly better than the ceiling.”

I snorted softly, a smile playing on my own lips, “Flatterer.”

“Only when it’s true.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me, “Morning, my princess.”

“Barely.” I countered, though the word was devoid of any real bite. I snuggled back against him, soaking in his warmth.

“I like barely,” He mused, his fingers gently tracing patterns on my hip, “Barely awake. Barely dressed.” His gaze held mine, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

“Behave.” I warned, my cheeks feeling warm.

“I did. All night.” His hand slid an inch lower, teasing, his touch light as a feather but sending a delicious shiver through me, “Well… mostly.”

“Ruvit,” I breathed, half-warning, half-pleading.

“Hmm?” He hummed, his lips brushing against my neck.

“Let me do my morning routine in peace.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead against my neck in mock despair before finally, reluctantly, releasing me, “You always ruin the moment, Aridhi. Every single time.”

“Someone has to.” I shot back, already sliding out of bed, the cool air a sudden contrast to his warmth.

I tossed a glance back at him, and instantly regretted it.

His bare chest was tanned under the sunlight, and that goddamn adam’s apple never looked so sexy and tempting.

And those eyes—half-lidded, dark, smirking, promising all sorts of delightful trouble.

A tiny, helpless sigh escaped me. Yeah. I was definitely the one who needed to behave.

He finally swung his legs out of bed, stretching languidly like a big cat, or rather a tiger.

“You know,” He drawled, pushing himself up, “for someone who claims to be so proper, you have an awfully wild bedhead.”

I gasped, reaching up to touch my hair, which, judging by his amused expression, was indeed a glorious tangle.

“Hey! That’s just natural volume! Some of us wake up looking like goddesses, you know.”

He just laughed, a low, rich sound, and walked over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and I could feel his abs pressed against my back.

He rested his chin on my shoulder, looking at our reflection in the dresser mirror.

“A very enthusiastic goddess, then.” He reached up and gently untangled a knot near my ear, his fingers warm on my scalp, “Still cute, though. In a chaotic, irresistible sort of way.”

I leaned back into his embrace, feeling utterly content, “Smooth, Mr. Rathore. Very smooth.”

“Only for you, Princess.” He kissed my temple, a soft, lingering press, “Now, how about we actually get dressed? Unless you prefer ‘barely dressed’ for breakfast too?”

I swatted his arm playfully, “Don’t even think about it. My mum would have a fit. And probably try to marry you off to someone with better morning manners.”

He pulled a face, feigning terror, “As if I would marry anyone else except you.”

He released me with another groan, though the smile never left his face.

We got ready slowly. Lazily.

The morning light filtered through the window, painting stripes across the marble floor.

There was no rush, no pressing appointments, just the quiet rhythm of two people moving through their morning.

For once, we didn’t have anything urgent waiting—which, for once, we didn’t.

The business team had been instructed to handle the racing hub status reports without me today.

I had earned one morning of peace. Of breathing. A moment to simply be.

At least, I thought so.

Downstairs, the breakfast table was already buzzing with the familiar chaos of a family morning.

Papa with his tea and newspaper, a picture of contented domesticity.

Mum pacing between the dining area and the kitchen, a whirlwind of efficiency and maternal concern.

Vinayak bhaiya glued to his phone as usual, his thumbs flying across the screen with practiced ease.

When we walked in, they didn’t even raise their heads. A little bubble of warmth spread through me. This was it. This was normal. This was what I craved.

“Good morning, everyone!” I greeted, my voice a little brighter than usual.

“Morning, beta.” Mum said distractedly from the kitchen, the glorious scent of spices and fresh aloo paratha wafting out.

Bhaiya, ever the perceptive one despite his phone addiction, glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips.

“You’re glowing, Aridhi. And you, Ruvit, look suspiciously well-rested.” He winked.

I felt my cheeks flush, but Ruvit just chuckled, unfazed, “A good night’s sleep does wonders, bhaiya. Perhaps you should try it instead of working with the mile of papers.”

“Oh, believe me, I do just that.” Vinayak shot back playfully, earning a sharp look from Mum.

I quickly interjected, “Smells like aloo paratha!” I announced, inhaling deeply, trying to redirect the conversation.

“With extra butter,” Papa added proudly from behind his newspaper, lowering it just enough to give me a triumphant look, “Your favorite, beta.”

We took our seats, Ruvit sliding into the chair beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table.

He then reached for the pickle, his fingers brushing against mine as he took the small bowl.

He took one bite of his paratha with the pickle, “I’m going to bribe your mother for the recipe, you know. This is dangerous levels of deliciousness.”

I chuckled, amused by his audacity, “Bribe her with what, pray tell? She’s impervious to charm when it comes to her culinary secrets.”

He smirked, his eyes sparkling, “Let’s just say, I’m a persuasive man. And I have a few tricks up my sleeve that even Mrs. Agarwal might appreciate.”

His gaze dropped to my lips for a fleeting moment, and I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach.

“Be careful, Ruvit.” I teased, nudging him under the table with my foot, “My mum might just decide to lock you up if you get too good at making her food.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes.

I was about to retort when the TV in the corner, usually a background hum of morning news, switched segments with a jarring suddenness.

A sharp, attention-grabbing tone cut across the room, silencing the comfortable chatter.

We all froze. The laughter died in my throat, the half-eaten paratha suddenly leaden in my hand. The easy atmosphere shattered like glass.

I turned slowly, a dreadful premonition coiling in my gut, to face the screen.

The reporter’s tone was serious, tight with disbelief, her eyes wide as she read from her teleprompter.

“In an unexpected turn of events this morning, the board members of Jayant Infrastructure—a rival firm that recently opposed Aridhi Agarwal’s racing hub project—have released a formal apology via press conference, acknowledging their indirect involvement in delays and pressure on construction vendors.”

A clip played, showcasing the press conference.

Three suited men stood behind a table, their faces pale and drawn, visibly shaken.

One read from a trembling sheet, his voice barely audible.

Another kept dabbing sweat from his forehead with a pristine white handkerchief, his hand shaking so violently it looked like a tremor.

“We deeply regret any decisions made by our subcontractors. There was never intent to cause harm or risk to anyone’s life. We apologize to Ms. Agarwal and her family, for the stress and damage that resulted—”

The footage cut abruptly. Back to the anchor, her expression still etched with surprise.

“Sources say the apology was not prompted by legal action. The internal motivations behind this sudden confession remain unclear.”

Vinayak sat forward, his phone forgotten, “That’s bizarre. They were denying everything yesterday. Even with our lawyers breathing down their necks.”

Papa frowned, his newspaper now crumpled in his lap, “Who pressures a billion-dollar firm into confessing on live TV without legal threat? It’s unheard of.”

Ruvit didn’t speak. His hand, which had been resting casually on my knee, tightened almost imperceptibly.

His jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the screen, a dark intensity replacing the earlier playful warmth.

Neither did I.

Because suddenly, the apology didn’t feel like a gesture of guilt. It felt off. Too orchestrated, too sudden, too absolute.

It felt like a performance.

Or worse—a result of something darker behind the curtain. Something that wasn’t about justice, but about power.

I remembered their faces from the clip.

Shaking. Drenched in sweat, even in the air-conditioned room.

Reading from papers like they were afraid to look up, afraid of something unseen.

They weren’t worried about lawsuits. They were terrified of something—or someone—else entirely.

A chill, cold and sharp, prickled across my arms, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of the room.

No one else in the room knew.

Not Mum, who was now staring at the TV with a bewildered expression.

Not Papa, still frowning in confusion.

Not even Vinayak bhaiya, who was usually so quick to connect the dots.

But I knew something they didn’t.

Jayant Group never bends. At least not in front of me. They are too big, too ruthless, too entrenched.

They collapse when someone breaks them. And those men on the screen, they looked utterly broken.

And someone else did it.

Not out of justice. Not for the sake of fairness. But out of obsession. Out of a possessive need to set things right, to protect.

And as I looked at Ruvit’s profile, his face grim, his eyes still fixed on the screen, I wasn’t sure if I should feel grateful or profoundly, utterly afraid.

?

Later that evening, the house finally calmed down.

Papa had locked himself in the study with back-to-back calls. Bhaiya was out for his meeting. Mum and Ruvit went to god knows where.

And I?

I found myself on the balcony of my room, curled up on the swing, watching the sun and the clouds shift across the sky.

My mind hadn’t been quiet since breakfast.

Behind me, I heard the soft creak of the door opening. They are back?

“You hiding from the media or from my charm?” Ruvit asked, stepping outside.

“Both.”

“Harsh.”

He sat beside me without asking, the swing shifting gently beneath our combined weight. His shoulder brushed mine, warm and steady.

We sat in silence for a few seconds, the wind catching strands of my hair and carrying them across my face.

“Say it.” He said eventually.

“Say what?”

“The thing that’s been living in your eyes all morning. The thing that’s worth more attention than me.”

I looked at him, exhaled slowly, “You’re getting too good at reading me.”

“Comes with being obsessively in love with you.”

I rolled my eyes, but my lips curved anyway, “Idiot.”

“Yours.”

I tucked my feet beneath me and faced him fully, pulling my knees up.

“You know I’m okay, right?” I said, softly.

He nodded, “But...not entirely okay.”

“The apology. The way it came out of nowhere. The way those men looked afraid, not guilty. I don’t know, something is fishy.”

He was quiet now. Just listening.

“I’ve always been the girl with plans. With control. With lists and backups. And lately, it feels like someone else is reacting for me. Around me.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just watched me carefully, like he was waiting for the core of it.

“I’ve been trying to tell myself everything’s okay since the accident. I told myself it was a one-time thing. That it was just business rivalry. But I don’t believe it. Not anymore.”

He didn’t speak. Just gently ran his knuckles along my arm, back and forth, like a silent assurance that he was still here.

I sighed, “I’m not scared of them, Ruvit. I’m scared because I don’t know who or what I’m dealing with. I don’t like that. I don’t like not having answers.”

As he looked at me in silence, I continued.

“I’m used to solving problems. I don’t sit in confusion well. But this? Someone forced three grown men to publicly confess without legal pressure. That’s not business. That’s something else.”

He reached for my hand slowly, wrapping his fingers around mine with quiet reassurance.

I tightened my grip, “I am not here to be dramatic, by the way. I also wanted to say thank you.”

“For?”

“For existing the way you do. For knowing when to be serious and when to shut up and tease me until I stop spiraling.”

He smirked, “So you admit I’m good for your mental health?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Say it. Out loud. I, Aridhi Agarwal, hereby declare that Ruvit Rathore is my daily dose of sanity—”

I threw a cushion at him. He caught it mid-air like he’d been waiting for it.

“But seriously,” I said, smile softening, “You’ve been my center in all this.”

He grew still. Like that one sentence landed deeper than I expected.

He leaned in, his nose brushing mine.

“And,” He whispered, “You are the girl I’d still want in every moment. Every time.”

He kissed my forehead gently, like punctuation at the end of a confession I didn’t know I was waiting for.

And just like that, the unease from earlier didn’t vanish. But it quieted.

Because whatever came next—accidents, apologies, shadows—I knew one thing for sure.

He would face it with me.

Even if I didn’t know what it was yet.

“Do you think someone’s watching you?” My eyes widened when he asked me suddenly.

I hesitated before I held his gaze, “I think, yes. And not just in that paranoid way. You remember during that hotel in Jaipur, I felt it then. And now I'm feeling it again.”

Ruvit’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or finally seeing what I refused to earlier,” I added, “But I’m done pretending I’m fine.”

Despite the spiral thoughts running in my brain, my voice was steady.

“You’re not being paranoid,” He reassured, “You’re being smart.”

“I don’t want comfort right now. I want answers.”

“And I want both,” He said, not smiling, “But I hear you.” I nodded, slowly easing into the safety of his presence.

His hand, still wrapped around mine, loosened and a strange hollowness crept in at the loss of that touch.

Then, softly, he said, “I’m here for you. Always. Forever.”

The words didn’t need volume. They lingered, heavier than anything loud could’ve been.

He brought his hands to my face, cupping my cheeks gently. My smile came before I even realised it, leaning into his palms like instinct.

And then—A kiss on my forehead. Soft. Certain. Comforting.

I almost closed my eyes and stayed there.

But he paused.

“Wait,” He murmured.

His touch slipped away as he reached into his pocket, fingers searching until they closed around something small.

His movements were careful, almost reverent.

When he held it up, I stilled.

A single red thread—simple, sacred, threaded with faith.

He didn’t say anything as he took my hand, gently placing it on his thigh. I watched, heart quiet, as he began to tie the kalava around my wrist.

The gesture was slow, precise—like it mattered. Because it did.

When he finally patted my hand, his voice was soft.

“I just went to the mandir with your mother—who is soon going to be my mother too, by the way. And thought you might need this.”

Our eyes met.

And in that moment, I didn’t need declarations. Not grand gestures. Not loud promises.

Just this.

A thread. A touch. A man who remembered me even in a temple, and in his prayers.

Because having the right person beside you is enough to fight against any difficulties.

And the comfort of knowing someone is always tying you back to yourself.