The voices carried through the long corridor—loud, sharp, unmistakable.

Kashish paused just outside her room, her hand still on the doorknob.

She didn’t mean to overhear.

But Akhand Chandravanshi’s voice was not one easily ignored. Neither was Tanishk’s.

And when she heard her own name—“You left Kashish”—her chest tightened.

She stepped back, her feet moving before her mind caught up. The air felt heavier the closer she got to the study. The long marble corridor was dimly lit, shadows dancing off the antique frames lining the walls.

As she turned the corner, her saree brushing against the carved paneling, the study door burst open.

Tanishk stormed out.

His expression was fire and ice—eyes dark, jaw locked, hands curled into fists like he was trying to hold something inside that didn’t want to be held anymore.

Kashish froze.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

But when he did…

Everything stilled.

He stopped mid-step, like the wind had hit him.

Their eyes met.

And in that fraction of a moment, something ancient cracked open again—like glass that had never fully healed.

No words were spoken.

But their eyes said everything.

His gaze asked her:
Why?
Why did you say yes to the wedding?
Why did you stand there that day, silent, when we were supposed to run?
Why did you let them bind us in fire when you knew I wasn’t ready to burn?

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full—of missed chances, of aching regrets, of years stitched together by misunderstandings and pride.

Tanishk’s chest rose slowly. He looked at her like she was the question that ruined him and the answer that could save him—all at once.

Kashish’s lips parted, a breath escaping—half hope, half heartbreak.

Please, her eyes begged.
Just talk to me. Once. Before it’s too late.

But his jaw clenched tighter.

He broke the gaze.

And walked past her.

Not with cruelty.
But with pain too deep to carry in front of her anymore.

Kashish turned as he passed, watching his back fade down the hallway—shoulders tense, footsteps heavy, heart... unreachable.

She didn’t follow.

Because something told her this time—

He needed to walk.

And she needed to wait.

Again.

The penthouse door slammed shut—again.

But this time, it didn’t echo in emptiness.

Shree stood in the hallway, clutching the edge of her dupatta.She hadn’t expected him back so soon—not like this. Not with fire in his eyes and silence heavier than thunder.

She watched from a distance as Tanishk shrugged off his blazer and flung it over the back of the couch. His tie followed, landing carelessly on the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing across the living room like a caged animal.

The tension in his body wasn’t new—but tonight, it vibrated with something dangerous.

Shree stepped forward, cautiously.

“Sahib...”

He didn’t turn.

She tried again, softly. “Is everything alright?”

“Do I look like I’m alright?” he snapped, without looking at her.

She flinched.

Not because of the volume, but because he had never raised his voice before.

Still, she didn’t retreat.

She’d learned to read people’s silences long before she learned to read books.

Shree stepped closer, voice gentler. “You’re lucky, you know…”

Tanishk paused, half-turned, breath uneven.

She continued carefully. “To have a father. To have a mother. People who care enough to yell at you. There are people who would do anything for that.”

He turned fully now—eyes sharp, burning. “You think they care?”

Shree blinked. “I think they’re worried. They called you, waited for you—”

“You don’t understand,You don’t know –” he cut in bitterly. “They don’t worry. They control.”

The words dropped like a blade.

Tanishk paced again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Do you know what that man did? The great Akhand Chandravanshi? He used me. Used her. Turned us into chess pieces in some stupid empire game.”

Shree’s brows drew together in confusion. “Her…?”

And then—he said it.

Didn’t mean to.
Didn’t plan to.
But his mouth moved before his pride could stop it.

“Kashish.”

Shree stilled.

Tanishk’s voice rose—not angry at her, but at something far beyond the walls of this home.

“She was my best friend. My whole life. Mangoes in summer, tuition classes, family vacations—we were just… us. No labels. No drama. She tied rakhi on my hand when we were ten!”

He turned, eyes wild with disbelief at his own memory.

“And then one day, they decide—no, declare—‘It’s perfect! Make it a marriage. Make it a business deal. Join the families. Kill two birds with one mangalsutra.’”

Shree swallowed hard, watching the man unravel before her eyes—not from weakness, but from years of silent endurance.

“I didn’t even get a say,” he spat. “Neither did she. And when I finally tried to stop it, when I told them I wouldn’t go through with it—” He laughed bitterly. “They made me feel like I was betraying the bloodline. Betraying my duty. As if that’s what marriage is—a sword and a signature.”

Shree stood there healing all his .

Shree stood there, absorbing every word—his grief, his fury, the unspoken ache beneath it all. He was unraveling, yes, but not into pieces. Into truth.

And then—he said it.

“They planned it all. She and I... we were supposed to run away.”
His voice was quieter now, rawer. “We had a plan. She agreed. She promised.”
His breath caught, and when he spoke again, it was with a wounded edge.
“But she didn’t come—” he stopped himself, biting down on the bitterness.

For a long moment, there was only silence between them.
Not heavy. Not accusing. Just... still.

Then Shree, never one to speak without care, met his eyes and asked quietly, “Did you ever ask her?”

Tanishk blinked, caught off guard.
Shree stepped closer. “Did you ever ask why she didn’t come, Sahib?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Shree’s gaze didn’t falter. “You say she broke the promise. But maybe she had no choice. Maybe she tried, and something—someone—stopped her. Maybe she was protecting you. Did you ask?”

Tanishk turned away, jaw tight.

Shree’s voice softened further. “Sometimes silence isn’t betrayal, Sahib. Sometimes it’s the only shield someone has left.”

The words hung between them, trembling on the edge of truth and doubt.
And for the first time that night, the fire in Tanishk’s eyes dimmed—just a little.

The room was quiet now.

Shree had retreated to the corner, letting her words linger in the space between them.

Tanishk stood frozen—no longer pacing, no longer burning. Just… still.

Her voice echoed in his mind:

“Did you ever ask her?”

“Sometimes silence isn’t betrayal. Sometimes it’s the only shield someone has left.”

He wanted to argue. To hold on to his version of the past—the version where he was the wronged one, the betrayed, the abandoned.

But something about the way she said it…

It disarmed him.

No accusation. No judgment.

Just… a possibility.

That maybe he hadn't known everything.

That maybe Kashish hadn't broken their bond.
Maybe she had protected it the only way she could.

Tanishk exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

How many years had he spent carrying a wound wrapped in assumptions?

He turned away from Shree, walked to the window, and looked out at the dark city blinking beneath the storm.

She had been his best friend. His safest place. His home, before all this chaos began.

And he had never once looked her in the eyes and asked, “Why?”

He had let pride fill in the blanks. Let silence harden into resentment.

But now… the silence was cracking.

He could feel it.

Not because of anything Kashish had done.

But because someone—finally—had asked him the one question he had refused to ask himself.

“What if she was trying to protect you?”

He turned around, eyes sharper now, but not in anger. In clarity.

Tomorrow.

He couldn’t rewrite the past. But he could stop letting it fester.

He would go to the Chandravanshi estate tomorrow.

Not to demand explanations.

But to offer something neither of them had given each other in years:

A real conversation.

A chance.

Behind him, Shree watched silently, her gaze steady but soft.

She knew he wouldn’t thank her—not yet.

But she also knew what she had done.

She hadn’t healed him.

She had opened the door.

And now, he was finally ready to walk through it.

Tomorrow, he would go to Kashish.
Not as the boy.
But as the man ready to finally listen.