Page 72 of ARIDHI: His Never-Ending Desire

Mumbai traffic was worse than I remembered.

Horns wailing like banshees, impatient drivers cutting lanes, and the thick scent of monsoon mud clinging to the air.

But from inside the tinted glass of the black Fortuner, the world outside looked oddly quiet, muted, like a film playing without sound.

Too quiet for someone like me.

I tapped my ring against the tinted window, the sharp clicks filling the silence, a rhythmic counterpoint to the city’s cacophony.

Just something to fill the time.

They were holding a press conference today—lots of lights, cameras, and, of course, dozens of questions.

I could already imagine the headlines, in which I wasn’t interested.

Yes, I was watching the live stream on my second phone, footage available to the public via news channels.

However, it all felt like they ruined my proper plan.

Aridhi Agarwal countered all the questions gracefully.

They were meant to target that Ruvit Rathore but she didn’t let it happen.

Tch.

I leaned back in my seat, tossing the phone aside like it suddenly disgusted me. I was disgusted by their silent acts of service.

My palm curled into a fist on instinct, but I quickly flexed it open.

Control. Always maintain control.

“You look tired.” My driver muttered from the front seat, breaking the silence.

I didn’t respond as he turned the music on, some ghazal playing softly. And for a second, the melody took me back.

To her voice.

That voice.

Singing under the open sky with eyes closed, unaware, untouched.

I was sixteen and hiding behind a wall, while my mother swept classrooms inside. She was a worker in that school.

But I? I saw something divine.

She was singing ‘tum prem ho’ like it was some kind of devotion.

I fell for that version of her—Aridhi. Unblemished by wealth, by the world, by people like him.

And now?

The world just handed her to someone else, that bastard Ruvit. Just like that.

I should have been the man she deserves.

I fixed my cuffs. “Drive to the press conference.” The driver looked confused but obeyed.

From the side pocket, I pulled out another phone. And opened a PDF file.

It contained every news clipping, every post, every headline about the crash, the one they were now calling an attempted murder.

Attempted.

I made it look like that, of course.

A notification buzzed on my burner phone. “The sniper is ready.”

I let out a slow breath, my jaw working quietly as my eyes drifted to the sky.

Mumbai’s clouds were darker than usual, heavy with unspoken promises.

Storms come in many forms. Some start with thunder, others with silence.

But the one I was going to bring started with a bullet and ended with death.

I tucked the phone away, watching my own reflection in the car window.

“Sir?” The driver asked. “We arrived at the venue.”

I looked outside, watching the chaos unfold through the windshield.

Reporters climbed over one another like hyenas on a scent trail, desperate, ravenous, all trying to get the perfect shot of them.

Of her.

Aridhi stepped down from the conference platform, flanked by her so-called family.

Vinayak, her brother, was a rigid shield, and her parents hovered, their faces a mixture of relief and lingering tension.

Then her delicate hand brushed against his. She held it tightly and smiled.

Not politely, not nervously, but with something dangerously close to love.

A raw and unguarded pain twisted in my gut.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, a controlled release of air.

Nevertheless, I smiled, the same charming one people always fall for except her, apparently.

And that’s why, she wasn’t going to live anymore.

She stood beside him like he hadn’t been the reason her grandfather’s heart stopped.

She chose to trust him rather than what everyone, what I, made her see.

And that’s when I realized something—she was never going to leave him.

So, the bullet? It was supposed to end the story.

A few feet away, from the top of the old telecom tower under construction, my guy had already taken position.

I reached down and tapped the radio receiver, the cold plastic a familiar comfort.

“On my word.” My voice was calm, almost flat, devoid of the turmoil swirling within me.

Despite my infatuation, it wasn’t supposed to go this far. I hadn’t planned for it to become bloody.

But if she wouldn’t be mine, she shouldn’t be his either.

That felt fair.

“Target in range.” The voice came in my earpiece, crisp and efficient. “Clear line of sight.”

My jaw ticked, a muscle flexing under my skin, as I adjusted my collar, a purely automatic gesture.

She stepped forward a bit, too exposed, moving into the direct line of sight.

I gripped the edge of the window, knuckles white, tension crawling under my skin like a living thing.

I watched as Ruvit placed a hand gently on her back, guiding her through the surging crowd, his touch possessive, infuriatingly natural.

He was whispering something in her ear, his attention momentarily fixed on her.

She turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting at him for a fraction of a second.

“Now.” I said flatly, the single word a silent command. A tiny click echoed in my earpiece.

The shot was soundless from my vantage point. It was professional, a silent predator striking.

A fraction of a second later, I saw it, a blur, a jerk, a sudden weight shift.

Ruvit’s body moved.

But not away.

Rather toward her.

He pulled her in, twisted just enough, a desperate, instinctual shield, so his arm caught the bullet meant for her.

And then, screams finally pierced the insulated silence of the car.

Security rushed in. Camera people dropped their expensive gear, their focus shattered by the stark reality unfolding.

I leaned forward, eyes narrowed, absorbing every detail.

He fell to one knee, a groan tearing from his throat that I felt rather than heard.

A gasp escaped her lips but she was instantly there, crouched next to him, her voice tearing through the din, screaming his name.

Blood spread quickly over the pristine white fabric of his shirt, a vivid, brutal stain, flowing from his upper bicep.

Damn it.

The bullet missed her.

My fingers clenched tighter, watching people panic, phones flying out of hands, security shielding them like a human wall.

Vinayak rushed towards them, his face a mask of terror. Her parents shouted her name, desperate, pleading.

But she didn’t hear any of it. Because her entire world was bleeding in her arms.

She clung to him, held his face in her hands like she was trying to fix him just by looking at him, by sheer force of will.

And him?

He was smiling through the damn pain, that infuriatingly gentle smile, muttering something to her.

Maybe a joke. Maybe a confession.

Whatever it was, it made her eyes fill up, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.

She wasn’t scared for herself.

She was scared for him.

He looked at her like he owned her breath, like he had every right to name her heartbeat.

I blinked, a cold, hard truth settling in my chest.

How do you compete with that? How do you fight something built on blood and trust and still lose?

At that moment, I didn’t feel like the villain.

I felt like the audience, watching a movie where I was never the lead, just a forgotten extra in the background.

I leaned back into my seat, the soft leather cool against my skin, as sirens began to echo faintly in the background.

Time to disappear again.

My driver turned to me, his face a question mark. “Sir?” I didn’t answer.

I just stared out the window, watching the girl I built my life around, fall to her knees for someone else.

Again.

I just watched.

Watched from the shadows like I always had, safe inside my car. While outside, everything exploded into noise and panic.

And there she was—my Aridhi—not even realizing it yet. He wasn’t supposed to die, it was meant for her.

But fate, or whatever cruel twist of instinct, made him leap in front of her like some tragic hero straight out of a bad novel.

He bled for her.

And just then, one of the guards handed her a piece of paper. My note which was supposed for Ruvit, if Aridhi got shot.

Taking the note with trembling hands, I watched her freeze, as she unfolded it, her movements abruptly still.

She stared at it like it would detonate.

“It’s all your mistake.”

She stood there, ghost-pale, as if her heart had stopped mid-beat, the blood draining from her face.

Her hand shook as the note fluttered to the ground, an abandoned promise.

She looked around then. Not randomly. Not frantically. She searched.

Her eyes scanned the press, the barricades, the vans, everything around her. Almost like she could feel me.

You always could, Aridhi.

Even before you saw me.

I should’ve felt satisfied.

But watching you like that, on your knees, trying to stop the blood that was meant to silence you. Desperate. Destroyed.

It only made me want to pull her out of this mess and say. “See what your choices did? You chose wrong. You still are.”

I pressed my thumb to my lips, whispering to no one but the silent, unfeeling interior of the car.

You’ll understand one day why it had to be like this.

He took a bullet for you today. But next time, I won’t miss it.

Not because I hate you, Aridhi.

Because I love you in a way he never will.

My hand was already in the air to signal the driver to pull away, but then, suddenly, deliberately, she looked right at me.

Through the tinted glass, through the surging crowd, through all the madness that had just erupted, her gaze cut like a knife.

Our eyes locked. Oh, shit.

She wasn’t supposed to see me.

I had chosen the perfect shadowy spot behind the row of OB vans, a black silhouette blending into the chaotic backdrop.

Yet somehow, she found me.

Her gaze sliced through the blur of frantic faces, like it was meant only for me, like we were the only two people still breathing in that exploding moment.

I liked the attention but this wasn’t the time.

Her expression cycled through a rapid fire of emotions.

At first, confusion. Then, a dawning recognition. Followed by a sharp, unsettling doubt.

Not fear. Not yet. Never.

I saw the flicker, slight narrowing of her eyes, a hitch in her chest, that familiar pull of her eyebrows that meant an unbidden thought.

She wasn’t sure.

But her instincts—those beautifully sharp instincts I’d always admired—twitched into a warning.

And I couldn’t help it.

I smiled. Literally.

Not wide, not wicked, just a subtle, painful shift of my lips, a slight curl at the corners.

I tilted my head in a deliberate movement, a silent greeting, as if we’d simply bumped into each other in a meeting and not at the bleeding scene of an assassination attempt.

Her lips parted.

She might have said my name, a whisper lost to the pandemonium.

I’ll never know because the guards shouted something again, their urgency cutting through the air, and the crowd surged, blocking her from view.

But I saw what I needed.

Deep down, some part of her knew, she knew I wasn’t supposed to be there.

She knew that smile wasn’t friendly, and wasn’t comforting. That my presence wasn’t coincidental, but calculated.

And now?

I didn’t care if she became sure about my presence. About my real intentions. About our so-called friendship.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and panic, a sterile dread that clung to the air.

Too white. Too quiet. Too cruel.

It reminded me how complicated someone’s life could be, the true meaning of life.

These walls held more stories than any book, any novel or any drama.

I sat there, in the harsh glare of the hallway just outside the trauma unit, my clothes disheveled, my hands still sticky with blood.

Ruvit’s blood.

It had dried, a grim, reddish-brown crust staining my hands, caked under my nails, smeared on my skin.

No matter how many times I scrubbed them raw in the hospital sink, using harsh soap that stung, it stayed.

Maybe it wanted to remind me.

Remind me of the sickening thud, the gasp, the way he crumpled. Remind me of my helplessness. Remind me that he took a bullet for me.

Remind me that he saved me, forgetting about himself.

“Jaan.” His shaky yet soft voice still echoed in my head like a haunting whisper.

That man was bleeding but I was his first thought. I was his first priority even in a situation like that.

I pressed my palms against my face, trying to physically push back the scream that kept climbing up my throat, clawing its way out.

My eyes burned, hot and gritty. I knew they were red-rimmed, probably swollen. My lips trembled uncontrollably.

But all I could do was sit there—paralyzed in the most comfortable chair in the most terrifying place.

Meanwhile, Ruvit was inside that room, somewhere behind that heavy steel door marked, ‘No Entry.’

Doctors and nurses had rushed him in, a whirlwind of white coats and urgent whispers, his stretcher rattling as they wheeled him past me.

His white shirt was soaked in red, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second, grotesque skin.

His face was pale, almost translucent. His hand, so strong moments before, had gone limp in mine until they pulled me back firmly.

“Miss, please wait outside—” I didn’t remember who said it, or even what they looked like.

I only remembered the cold click and the sickening finality of it when they closed the door on me, shutting me out, leaving me utterly helpless.

My family was there, too.

My mother was restless, pacing the length of the deserted hallway, her hands clasped tightly, murmuring prayers under her breath.

Typical mother behaviour.

Papa stood silent beside her, a pillar of controlled agony, his jaw tight, eyes hollow and haunted.

Vinayak bhaiya was a hurricane contained, pacing a smaller circle, yelling at someone over the phone.

Security? Investigators? Or simply hospital staff and formalities?

I wasn’t sure, the words were a harsh, unintelligible buzz.

He was in full protective mode, the kind that could burn empires if needed, his fury a palpable force.

But me? I just sat.

Because what do you do when the man who promised to protect you actually does, and bleeds for it?

What do you do when his body becomes your shield, a living sacrifice?

Every single sound felt amplified in the oppressive silence.

The relentless ticking of the wall clock was a constant reminder of time stretching endlessly.

The faint squeak of rubber soles on the polished tile floor as nurses hurried past.

The rhythmic and maddening beeping from ICU monitors down the hall.

Each beep was a question of life or death for someone else, but for me, a cruel reminder of my man being in danger.

A nurse walked by, her stride efficient, and her face calm. I jumped to my feet, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Excuse me, how is Ruvit? The one brought in with a bullet wound. He’s my—” My voice was desperate, stumbling over the words.

She offered a polite smile, a kind mask that showed no real emotion.

“The doctors are still working. We’ll let you know when you can see him.” And just like that, she vanished, leaving me suspended in uncertainty.

I plopped back down, the weight in my chest heavier than ever which felt like a crushing boulder, stealing my breath.

My fingers gripped the edge of the chair, hard enough to hurt, my nails digging into the upholstery.

Not because of fear for him—though that was a constant hum beneath everything else.

But because of rage.

A cold, simmering fury that began to solidify in my veins because of that note. Those words.

“It’s all your mistake.”

My mistake? Why? Because I didn’t choose to stay quiet?

That bullet wasn’t random. It wasn’t senseless. Probably, it was for me. And Ruvit took it anyway.

“Wae?” I whispered under my breath, more to myself than anyone else, the word a ragged sound.

I wasn’t talking about the shooter, about the monster who sent that note. I was talking about Ruvit.

Wae would he do that?

Wae wouldn’t he flinch?

Wae did he smile at me in an almost teasing grin, as if bleeding out was just another way to say I love you?

A sound escaped my throat, half laugh, half sob, a raw and broken noise.

Just as I leaned forward, aching, trying desperately to not cry, to keep it together, the trauma door finally opened.

We all stood at once, a collective gasp of anticipation.

The doctor stepped out, removing his gloves with practiced ease, his face unreadable.

“Is he okay?” My voice broke before the question even finished, a thin, reedy sound I barely recognized as my own.

The doctor looked at all of us, his gaze lingering briefly on my blood-stained hands, before replying, his tone measured.

“The bullet went through his upper arm. There was no major nerve damage, but there was considerable blood loss. We’ve stabilized him. He’ll be under observation for the next 24 hours. And yes, he’s conscious.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until Mum was there, her arms wrapping around me, pulling me into a tight, comforting hug.

“Thank God.” She whispered, her voice thick with relief. “Thank you, Kanhaji..” I murmured.

“He wants to see you.” The doctor added gently, his eyes flicking to me with a small, knowing smile on his tired face.

I nodded, pulling away from Mum’s embrace, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand, and walked toward the door.

Every step felt like a hundred, my legs heavy, almost numb.

My pulse hammered in my ears, a frantic drumbeat.

My soul, my very being, was already in that room, rushing ahead of me.

The moment I pushed open the door, I saw him. And I controlled myself to not fall on my knees.

He was lying on the hospital bed, propped up slightly, an IV drip taped to his good hand, the clear tube snaking up to a bag hanging above him.

A thick white bandage was wrapped around his bicep, stark against the pale blue hospital gown.

His lips were almost colorless, but his eyes—his beautiful, dark eyes—lit up like they always did, the second he saw me.

And for a second, everything stilled.

The sterile smell, the quiet beeping, the world’s chaos, it all faded away. It never mattered in the first place.

I slowly walked toward him, as if approaching a fragile and a precious thing.

He raised his arm slightly, a weak, inviting gesture, motioning me closer.

I stood beside the edge of the bed, gently, trying not to jostle him.

“You are an idiot.” I mumbled, my throat already heavy.

“If protecting you is an idiotic act, then yes, Jaan. I am an idiot for you.” He whispered, his voice raspy, but that familiar unwavering love was still there.

“Who told you to do that?” I whispered back, a choked sob escaping, my voice thick with unshed tears.

“Shh.” He gave a faint grin, a ghost of his usual charming smile. “Spare the tears for our wedding.”

I smacked his shoulder lightly, a weak, tearful attempt at humor.

He winced, a genuine flicker of pain crossing his face. “Ow. Bullet wound, hello?” I caressed his shoulder immediately. “Sowwy.”

We both broke into soft laughter then, fragile and strained, through tears, through pain, a shared moment of relief that bordered on hysteria.

And somewhere between those soft chuckles and the rhythmic drip of the IV, I leaned in, my heart aching with a fierce, protective love.

I kissed his forehead, a lingering press of my lips against his warm skin.

And in that kiss, I promised the person who hurt him—I will find you.

Even if, this time, I had to set that person on fire.

Because if you are really the one behind all this, I swear, you will regret our friendship, Ishir Khurana.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He hadn’t been invited. He didn’t even know about the press conference, right?

Right.

He was not there by accident. He didn’t come to support me. Or check in. Or say hi.

He came to see something or maybe someone fall.

His eyes were not the one I was expecting when I was searching in the crowd.

But when he smiled at me, I felt it.

It was not the kind he used when we’d run late to board meetings or when he’d tease me about ordering too much coffee.

This smile was different.

All those creepy texts rushed back to my mind when I saw the malice in his smile, as if he was finally showing me his true intentions from all these years.

You never deserved me, Ishir.

~·~

So, was the stalker up to your expectations or you thought of someone else? ??

Villains are so hot,

by the way. ??????

But not when you have someone like Ruvit!! ??

Want a minor spoiler? ????

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Aridhi is literally going

to burn him. ??