Katha's Pov

The sun hadn't even risen properly yet, but the driveway of Rathore Manor was buzzing with activity. Or rather, silent, efficient activity.

I stood at the top of the porch steps, clutching my purse, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air.

I looked down at myself.

Gone was the beige "CEO Wife" blazer dress. Gone were the sensible kurtis.

Today, I was wearing Vacation Katha.

I smoothed down the fabric of the dress I had bought yesterday. It was a short, sage-green floral number with long, billowy sleeves and a flirty skirt that ended mid-thigh. It was cute. It was fresh. And it was definitely shorter than anything I had ever worn in front of Dhruv.

I adjusted my sunglasses on top of my head and walked down the steps.

Dhruv was standing by the trunk of a sleek, black convertible—not the Maybach today, but something sportier, faster. He was loading the suitcases with the ease of a man who worked out way too much.

He was wearing a crisp white satin shirt, unbuttoned at the top just enough to show a hint of his chest, tucked into sharp black trousers. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms and that expensive watch he never took off.

God, he looks good, I thought, my heart doing a little traitorous flip. Why does he have to look like a model even at 5 AM?

He slammed the trunk shut and turned around.

"We are ready to—"

He stopped.

His eyes landed on me.

He didn't say anything. He just looked. His gaze started at my face, traveled down to the floral print, lingered on the hem of the skirt, and then dropped to my bare legs.

The silence stretched. It wasn't the cold silence of the office. It was heavy. Charged.

I felt a blush creeping up my neck, but I forced myself to twirl slightly.

"Good morning, husband," I chirped, flashing him a bright smile. "Ready for the road trip?"

Dhruv cleared his throat loudly, his eyes snapping back up to my face. He looked almost... flustered.

"You're wearing that?" he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

"Why?" I teased, walking up to him until I was standing right in front of him. "Is it too short, Mr. Rathore? I remember you said you liked the short ones."

Dhruv’s jaw clenched. He opened the passenger door for me, refusing to make eye contact.

"Get in the car, Katha," he muttered. "Before I change my mind and wrap you in a blanket."

I laughed, sliding into the leather seat. "Aye aye, Captain."

He shut the door a little harder than necessary and walked around to the driver's side. As he slid in, the scent of his cologne—musk and expensive soap—filled the small space.

He started the engine. The car purred like a beast waking up.

"Goa, here we come," I whispered, buckling my seatbelt.

Dhruv didn't smile. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, his knuckles white. He looked straight ahead, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line.

"Yeah," he said quietly, the word lacking any enthusiasm. "Goa."

I watched his profile as we pulled out of the gates. He looked tense. He looked like he was driving to a funeral, not a beach.

I have to fix this, I thought determinedly. I have 12 hours to turn the Shark into a human.

Time: 7:45 AM

The first two hours were silent.

Dhruv drove with laser focus, weaving through the morning traffic with terrifying precision. He didn't speak. He didn't turn on the radio. He just drove, lost in his own head, probably replaying every traumatic memory he had associated with the destination.

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Dhruv," I said, breaking the silence.

"Hmm."

"I'm bored."

"Look out the window," he replied without looking at me. "Nature is fascinating."

"I've been looking at nature for two hours," I groaned, slouching in my seat. "It’s just trees and trucks. I need entertainment."

"I am driving, Katha. I am not a circus clown."

"You could be," I suggested mischievously. "You have the grumpiness for it."

He shot me a glare. "That doesn't even make sense."

I reached forward toward the dashboard.

"Don't," he warned.

"I'm just checking the temperature," I lied, my fingers hovering over the infotainment system.

"Katha, do not touch my—"

Click.

I connected my phone via Bluetooth before he could stop me.

"Oops," I grinned. "My finger slipped."

"Disconnect it," he ordered. "I like silence. It helps me think."

"You think too much," I countered. "You need to stop thinking and start feeling the vibes, Mr. Rathore."

I scrolled through my playlist. Sad songs? No. Classical? Boring. Ah, perfect.

I hit play.

A loud, upbeat Bollywood item song blasted through the expensive speakers.

Dhruv flinched as if he’d been shot.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, reaching to turn the volume down.

I swatted his hand away. "It's culture, Dhruv! It’s Music. How can you not like this?"

"It's noise pollution," he grumbled, looking pained. "Katha, please. Put on some jazz. Or news. The stock market opened an hour ago."

"We are on vacation!" I shouted over the music, dancing in my seat. "No stocks! No graphs! Only Music!"

I started singing along, intentionally off-key.

I looked at him. He was trying so hard to be annoyed. He was frowning, his brow furrowed, his eyes focused on the road.

But then, I saw it.

A tiny, microscopic twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He was fighting a smile.

"You are impossible," he muttered, shaking his head. But he didn't turn the music off.

Score one for the wife.

Somewhere near Lonavala Time: 9:30 AM

"I'm hungry."

Dhruv sighed. "We stopped for coffee an hour ago."

"Coffee is bean water. I need sustenance," I declared, reaching into the massive tote bag I had brought along—my Mary Poppins bag of wonders.

I pulled out a large packet of spicy potato chips. The smell filled the car the moment I popped the bag open.

Dhruv wrinkled his nose. "That smells like chemicals."

"It smells like happiness," I corrected him. I took a chip and crunched it loudly. "Want one?"

"No," he said instantly. "I don't eat processed junk. My body is a temple."

"Your body is a machine," I rolled my eyes. "Live a little, Dhruv. Have a chip."

I pulled out a chip and held it out to him.

"Katha, I'm driving," he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Exactly. Your hands are busy. So I have to feed you."

I held the chip near his mouth. "Open up. Here comes the airplane."

"I am not five," he deadpanned.

"Open. Up."

He glanced at me. I gave him my best puppy-dog eyes—the ones that I knew worked on him because he had literally apologized to me .

He sighed, defeated.

He opened his mouth.

I popped the chip in. His lips brushed against my fingers for a split second—warm and soft. A jolt of electricity shot through my arm, but I played it cool.

Dhruv chewed reluctantly. Then he swallowed.

"Well?" I asked expectantly. "Verdict?"

"It's... salty," he grumbled. "And spicy."

"Good spicy?"

He paused. "Give me another one."

I grinned. "I knew it! The Shark loves junk food!"

For the next twenty minutes, I fed him chips one by one. It was such a small thing—my fingers brushing his lips, him leaning slightly toward me to take the food—but it felt incredibly intimate.

The tension in his shoulders began to melt. He wasn't gripping the wheel as hard anymore. He was even tapping his fingers on the leather to the beat of the music (which I had mercifully switched to a softer romantic playlist).

"You have crumbs on your shirt," I pointed out, looking at his pristine white satin shirt.

Dhruv looked down, horrified. "What? Where?"

"Relax," I laughed. I reached over and brushed the crumbs off his chest.

My hand lingered there for a second, feeling the solid muscle beneath the silk.

Dhruv went still. He didn't push me away. He glanced at me, his dark eyes softening.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"Anytime, partner," I whispered back, pulling my hand away reluctantly.

Entering Karnataka Border

The landscape had changed. The concrete jungle of Mumbai was long gone, replaced by lush greenery, coconut trees, and the humid, salty air of the coast.

Dhruv had relaxed significantly. He had rolled his sleeves up higher, and he was driving with one hand on the wheel, his other arm resting on the open window frame. He looked... normal. He looked like a man on a road trip with his wife, not a CEO escaping a crisis.

"So," I said, turning down the music volume. "Tell me something."

"What?" he asked, glancing at me.

"What were you like in college?" I asked. "Before you became the Dhruv Rathore? Were you a nerd? A party animal?"

Dhruv snorted. "I was invisible."

"Liar," I said. "You look like this. You couldn't have been invisible."

"I was focused," he corrected. "I finished my MBA in record time. I didn't have time for parties. I was... trying to prove something."

"To whom?"

"To everyone," he said quietly. "To my father. To the board. To myself."

He looked at the road, his expression turning thoughtful.

"I thought if I was the smartest, the fastest, the richest... maybe it would make up for the rest. Maybe they would forget where I came from."

My heart squeezed. Even his ambition was a trauma response.

"You know," I said softly. "You don't have to prove anything to me."

Dhruv looked at me. His gaze was intense, searching my face behind my sunglasses.

"I know," he said. And the way he said it—soft, sure—made my stomach do flips.

"And for the record," I added, lightening the mood. "I think College Dhruv was definitely a nerd. You probably organized your pens by color."

"I still organize my pens by color," he admitted shamelessly.

I burst out laughing. "I knew it! My husband is a control freak."

"And my wife is a chaos demon," he shot back, a smirk playing on his lips.

"But you like it," I challenged.

Dhruv didn't answer immediately. He looked back at the road, the smirk softening into a genuine, small smile.

"Maybe," he whispered.

Goa Border Time: 4:30 PM

The sign appeared on the side of the highway: WELCOME TO GOA.

The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly.

Dhruv saw the sign. His hand tightened on the gear shift. The relaxed posture vanished. His jaw set hard again.

We were here. The place of his nightmares. The place where his mother left him.

I saw the panic flicker in his eyes. He slowed the car down, his breathing becoming slightly irregular.

"Dhruv," I said softly.

He didn't look at me. He was staring at the palm trees as if they were enemies.

I reached out and placed my hand over his on the gear shift.

"Hey," I said, squeezing his hand.

He looked at me, startled. His eyes were wide, filled with the ghost of that seven-year-old boy.

"We are just visiting," I reminded him gently. "We are not staying forever. And you are not alone this time."

I laced my fingers with his.

"I'm right here," I promised. "I'm holding your hand. I won't let go."

Dhruv looked at our joined hands. He took a deep breath, holding it for a second, then exhaling slowly.

"You promise?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I promise," I said. "Clause Number... whatever. The wife sticks with the husband."

A faint shadow of a smile returned to his face. He squeezed my hand back, hard.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

He pressed the accelerator.

The car crossed the border.

We were in Goa.

The air smelled of salt and memories. But as I looked at Dhruv, who was still holding my hand tight as he drove us into his past, I knew we would be okay.