Page 70 of Cherish my Heart

“She’s five,” Aditi mutters, blushing again as she walks to the wardrobe and pulls out a towel, placing it on the edge of the bed. “Everything is either magic or disaster.”

I give a soft chuckle—an actual, genuine laugh. That doesn’t happen often.

“Sounds like someone else I know,” I say quietly, but she catches it anyway.

“Excuse me?” she asks, mock-offended.

“You heard me.”

She huffs, but there’s a smile curling at her lips as she turns away to give me space.

I head into the bathroom to wash up, and while the mirror reflects someone gaunter and wearier than I’m used to, I see something else too—color. Something warmer returning to my eyes. I haven’t felt this human in years. I kind of like this. This feeling, the lightness, the urge to go see her again, see her smile at me again.

I like it and I want to keep it this way.

CHAPTER 37

ABHIMAAN

The dining table seems small for the number of people crammed around it, and yet, no one seems to mind.

Laughter spills over half-finished conversations, arms reach across plates for extra rotis, and at least three voices talk over each other at any given moment.

It should feel overwhelming.

But instead, it feels warm.

Almost like being wrapped in a thick, slightly scratchy quilt that smells like home.

Even if it’s not my home.

Aditi’s mother shuffles closer, nudging a second helping of rice onto my plate despite my polite attempt to tell her I am full. “Nonsense,” she replies, waving me off. “You’re so thin.” I almost laugh, because me, thin? How? But I don’t say anything.

From the other side, Rudraksh’s mother piles sabzi on the edge of my plate. “You don’t need to be shy, beta. We have plenty.”

I glance up at both women—soft cotton sarees, bangles clinking as they serve, their eyes kind but sharp, trained in thatparticular brand of maternal care that doesn’t take no for an answer.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Thank you,” I murmur, not used to being fussed over at a table like this.

Across from me, Rudraksh cuts a glance in my direction.

Sharp. Calculated. Not hostile exactly—just watchful. Protective.

He’s spooning dal into Rudrani’s bowl, his hand steady despite her constant wriggling.

She’s babbling something about how rotis taste better if they’re shaped like hearts, and Shivani leans in to say, “That’s because Mumma made those rotis. Papa’s rotis always come out like the earth, very round.”

Rudraksh huffs a laugh and shakes his head. The ruthless businessman I know—he is nowhere to be seen.

“Debatable,” Aarav says, from the far end of the table, stuffing his mouth with rice before Aditi elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot.”

“Don’t elbow me while I’m eating!”

“You deserved it.”

“Stop picking fights!”