Katha's POV

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I paced the length of the bedroom, my hands tangled in my hair, pulling at the roots. The silence of the room was screaming at me.

Why did I say that? Why did I push him?

I had seen the look in his eyes before he stormed out. It wasn't anger. It was devastation. I had stripped him bare, forced him to acknowledge the one thing that tormented him, and then... then I let him walk away.

"Dhruv," I whispered, staring at the closed door.

I couldn't stay here. I couldn't just sit on the edge of the bed and wait for him to come back. I needed to find him. I needed to tell him that I didn't care about the bloodline or the photos or the past.

I rushed to the heavy oak door and grabbed the handle.

I twisted it.

It didn't move.

I frowned, twisting it harder. "What?"

Locked.

He had locked it from the outside.

A cold spike of panic drove into my chest. He hadn't just left; he had trapped me. He wanted to make sure I didn't follow him. He wanted to be alone with his demons.

"No," I gasped, rattling the handle violently. "Dhruv! Open the door!"

Silence answered me.

I spun around, scanning the room frantically. The intercom.

I ran to the wall unit and smashed the button for the housekeeping quarters.

"Hello? Pick up, please pick up!"

"Ma'am?" A sleepy voice crackled through the speaker.

"Send someone to the master bedroom," I ordered, my voice trembling. "The door is jammed. I need it opened. Now."

Three minutes later—the longest three minutes of my life—I heard the click of a master key. The door swung open. A young maid stood there, looking bewildered.

"Ma'am? Are you okay? Who locked you in?"

I didn't answer. I didn't even look at her. I pushed past her, sprinting into the hallway.

"Where is he?" I demanded, breathless, turning back for a split second. "Have you seen Dhruv?"

The maid blinked, startled by my frantic state. "Sir? I... I saw him walking toward the West Wing, Ma'am. Toward the bar. But he looked—"

I didn't wait for her to finish. I was already running.

My bare feet slapped against the cold marble floor as I flew down the corridor, past the silent portraits, past the grand staircase. The house felt too big, a maze designed to hide him from me.

Please be okay. Please don't do anything stupid.

I reached the double doors of the private bar. They were slightly ajar.

I pushed them open and stumbled inside.

The smell hit me first—the sharp, pungent tang of expensive whiskey and something metallic. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains.

"Dhruv?" I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I stepped further in, my eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Then I saw him.

He was sitting at the far end of the room, slumped over the mahogany table. His head was resting on his crossed arms, buried and hidden. He looked like he had simply fallen asleep.

But his right hand—the one hanging limply off the edge of the table—wasn't resting.

Blood was dripping from his fist. Drip. Drip. Drip.

It pooled on the expensive rug, dark and glistening.

"Dhruv!"

The scream tore out of my throat. I rushed to him, falling to my knees beside his chair.

My hands hovered over him, terrified to touch, terrified to make it worse. The crystal glass was shattered in his palm, shards glinting in the dim light, embedded in his skin.

"Oh God," I choked out, tears instantly blurring my vision. "What did you do?"

He didn't move. His breathing was heavy, rhythmic but deep. He wasn't dead. He was unconscious—passed out from the alcohol, the exhaustion, and the blood loss.

I needed to wake him. I needed to call an ambulance.

No, a voice in my head stopped me. If I call an ambulance, the press will know. The family will know. Rohini Mom will know. He will hate me for exposing him.

I had to fix this.

I scrambled up and ran to the small attached washroom in the corner of the bar. I grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet and a clean, white towel. I soaked the towel in warm water and ran back to him.

I knelt beside his chair again. My hands were shaking, but I forced them to steady.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to his sleeping form. "This is going to hurt."

I gently took his wrist. His skin was burning hot.

I slowly, painstakingly pried his fingers open.

Even in sleep, he was holding onto the pain. He resisted for a second before his hand relaxed, surrendering to me. The remaining shards of glass fell onto the carpet with a soft tinkling sound.

I bit my lip to keep from sobbing as I saw the cuts. His palm was a mess of lacerations.

I started to clean it. I dabbed the wet towel over the wounds, washing away the whiskey and the blood.

Dhruv hissed. His brow furrowed in his sleep, a low groan escaping his lips. He tried to pull his hand away.

"Shh..." I soothed, holding his wrist firm but gentle. "It's okay. I've got you. Just sleep."

I worked quickly. I used the tweezers to pull out the tiny splinters of glass, apologizing silently with every flinch of his hand. I applied the antiseptic—he groaned again, louder this time—and then wrapped his hand in layers of white gauze.

I taped it shut.

I sat back on my heels, breathing hard, staring at the stark white bandage against his tanned skin. It looked like a flag of surrender.

I looked up at his face. He looked so young like this. The harsh lines around his mouth had smoothed out. The arrogance was gone. He was just a man who had hurt himself because the pain inside was too loud to silence.

"You idiot," I whispered, brushing a lock of hair off his sweaty forehead. "You absolute idiot."

I couldn't leave him here. But I couldn't carry him upstairs either; he was dead weight, far too heavy for me.

I looked around the room.

I stood up and dragged a heavy, plush armchair from the corner. It scraped against the floor, but Dhruv didn't stir. I positioned it right next to his chair.

I sat down, angling my body toward him.

"Come here," I murmured.

I reached out and gently lifted his head from the table. He was heavy, warm, and pliant. I guided him slowly, carefully, until he was leaning sideways.

I pulled his head down to rest on my shoulder, tucking his face into the crook of my neck.

He sighed. A long, shuddering exhale that ghosted against my skin.

His body seemed to recognize the contact. He shifted instinctively, his uninjured arm coming up to rest heavily across my lap, seeking an anchor even in oblivion.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him close. I rested my cheek on top of his head.

The smell of whiskey and blood was still there, but now it was mixed with the vanilla scent of my own skin and the rain that still clung to him.

He was safe.

For tonight, he wasn't the unwanted son or the heartbroken lover. He was just mine to protect.

I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart against my side.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered into the darkness of the bar.

And as the clock chimed midnight, I fell asleep sitting up, holding the man who had tried to push the world away, refusing to let him go.