The alarm rang, pulling me out of sleep. For a moment, I lay still, listening to the quiet of the haveli. Reyansh's arm was draped around me, heavy and protective, and I carefully moved away so I wouldn't wake him.

Today was my first day at the hospital. My heart raced — not with excitement, but with fear. Fear of responsibility, fear of change, and somewhere deep inside, fear of emotions I didn't want to name.

I respected him deeply. The way he admired me, the way he loved me without asking for anything in return, the way he treated me with dignity — it all made me feel safe. But love? No. I wasn't ready to call it that. I didn't even know what my heart wanted.

As I got dressed, arranging my accessories, I caught myself thinking of his words from last night: "Ok, you sleep. I have some work." He always carried so much, yet still made me his priority. That respect I had for him grew stronger, but I reminded myself — respect is not love.

I tied my hair, looked at myself in the mirror, and whispered, "You can do this, Aroohi. One step at a time."

And though I didn't realize it yet, every step I took was slowly leading me closer to him.

I walked into the living room, greeting everyone with a smile. The morning felt heavy with responsibility, but their presence lightened it. We all sat together for breakfast, laughter and chatter filling the table.

Afterward, I went to my room, took out my bag, checked my ID, and came downstairs ready to leave. Just then, Maa stopped me. She held out a small bowl of dahi-chini, her eyes soft.

"Aaj pehla din hai tumhara," she said warmly.

Karan chuckled, teasing, "Par Maa, ye toh pehle hi doctor hai na, toh ye kyun?"

Maa's tone sharpened, protective. "Meri beti mere liye toh aaj pehli baar jaa rahi. Tu apna mooh band rakh."

I hugged her tightly, my throat tightening. I knew my family loved me, their warmth wrapping around me like a shield. But somewhere deep in my heart, I still craved the love of my own Papa and Mama — the love I had lost, the love that left a hollow space inside me.

Yet here, in this haveli, they were all trying to fill that emptiness. They were giving me the same warmth, the same care, the same love. And though I didn't say it aloud, I felt it — a fragile comfort, a reminder that I wasn't alone.

I stepped outside, ready to leave for the hospital, and there he was — Ansh, standing near the car. I frowned slightly.
"What are you doing here? Didn't you go to the office?" I asked.

He smiled, calm and certain. "Jaan, aaj tumhara pehla din hai... isliye mai hi drop karunga. Aur pick bhi."

I nodded, not arguing. But when I opened the car door, my eyes froze. A bouquet of pink roses lay on the seat, wrapped beautifully. I turned back, confused. "What is this?"

He leaned closer, his face near mine, his voice low and warm. "Flowers... for my jaan."

For a moment, I was shocked, unable to process his words. Then slowly, I realized what he had said. My cheeks burned, a blush spreading across my face before I could stop it. I quickly sat inside the car, trying to hide my expression, but inside my heart was racing.

I respected him, admired the way he cared, the way he made me feel seen. But I wasn't ready to name this feeling. Not yet. Still, his words lingered, and my blush betrayed me.

The car stopped in front of the hospital. My heart thudded harder than before — the weight of the day pressing down on me. I reached for the door handle, but his hand caught mine gently.

He couldn't come out with me. Our marriage was still hidden, and if anyone saw us together, it would create a storm we weren't ready for. Still, he pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me in a protective hug. Then, softly, he pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"Go," he whispered, his voice steady but full of warmth.

I nodded, swallowing the nervousness inside me. Before stepping out, I leaned in quickly and kissed his cheek — a small gesture, but one that carried all my respect and silent gratitude.

Then I opened the door, clutching my bag tightly, and walked toward the hospital entrance. Each step felt heavy, but behind me, I knew his eyes were still on me. Watching. Protecting. Believing in me more than I believed in myself.

I walked into the hospital with my bag clutched tightly, but the moment I stepped inside, I felt a strange calm. Everyone already knew me here — my seniors, the staff, even the nurses greeted me with warmth. That familiarity wrapped around me like a shield, reminding me that this place was mine, my world.

I went straight to my cabin. Soon, my assistant Neetu entered with a polite smile. She handed me my schedule, explaining the rounds, the patients, and the meetings lined up for the day. I listened carefully, noting everything down.

The hours passed quickly. Between patients, paperwork, and discussions, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time — alive. This was my life, my purpose. The hospital walls, the sound of footsteps in the corridors, the smell of medicines... it all reminded me that I belonged here.

After some time, I returned to my cabin, sinking into the chair. A tired smile spread across my face. Yes, I thought, this is where I am meant to be. This is me, living again.

I sank into my chair, exhaustion mixing with a strange satisfaction. My eyes fell on the nameplate on my desk — Dr. Aroohi. For a moment, I just stared at it, letting the weight of those two letters sink in.

I closed my eyes, and memories rushed back. Why did I become a doctor? There was a reason, a big one. I never wanted people to feel helpless when it came to those they loved. I had lived that pain myself — watching, powerless, when love wasn't enough to save someone. That helplessness had carved itself into me, shaping my destiny.

This wasn't the life I had imagined. In fact, I never wanted to be a doctor. My dreams were different once. But life... life never goes the way we think. It twists, it breaks, it remakes us. And here I am.

Now, I can't imagine living without this. The hospital, the patients, the responsibility — it has become my heartbeat. My identity. My way of fighting back against the helplessness I once knew too well.

I opened my eyes again, looking at the nameplate with a faint smile. This is me. This is my life. And I will carry it forward, no matter what.

We sat in car then she look at me and ask "Why this?".

I move closer towards her face, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "Flowers... for my strength."

Her brows knitted together. "Strength?" she repeated, almost questioning me.

I held her gaze, steady and certain. "Yes. You are the one who gives me strength, jaan. Every day, every moment. These flowers aren't just roses... they're a reminder that you are the reason I stand tall."

She froze for a second, then quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing pink. That blush — it told me my words had reached her heart, even if she didn't want to admit it.

Inside, I knew the truth: she wasn't ready yet. She respected me, admired the way I cared, but love was something she hadn't accepted for herself. And that was fine. I could wait. Because for me, her presence was enough. Her silence, her blush, her respect — all of it was proof that someday, when she was ready, she would see what I already knew.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the hospital. My chest tightened — I wanted to walk her inside, to stand beside her proudly. But I couldn't. Our marriage was still hidden, and if anyone saw us together, it would create questions we weren't ready to answer.

So instead, I leaned toward her, pulling her into a tight embrace. For a moment, I held her as if the world outside didn't exist. Then I pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to let her feel the promise in it — I'm here, always.

"Go," I whispered, my voice steady though my heart was restless.

She nodded, her eyes soft, and before stepping out she leaned in quickly, pressing a kiss to my cheek. That small gesture carried more weight than words. It was her way of saying she trusted me, even if she wasn't ready to name what she felt.

I watched her walk toward the hospital doors, her figure growing smaller with each step. And in my heart, I knew — she was my strength, my jaan. But she wasn't ready yet. So I would wait, silently, patiently, until the day she realized that the love I carried for her was hers to claim.

I parked the car and sat quietly, knowing I couldn't walk her inside. Our bond was hidden, but in my heart it was the most sacred truth. I watched her disappear through the hospital doors, and then I drove away, carrying her presence with me.

When I entered my office, the staff greeted me, but I didn't react. My mind was elsewhere. I walked straight into my cabin and sat down at my desk. My eyes fell on the photoframe placed carefully in front of me — her photograph.

Beside it, I had kept something even more precious: her footsteps imprinted, a symbol I never let go of. To the world, it was just a keepsake. But to me, it was worship. She was my Lakshmi, the one who brought light into my life, the one who gave me strength when I thought I had none.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at her photo. She doesn't know yet. She isn't ready. But one day, she will understand — that for me, she is not just love. She is devotion. She is my strength. She is my Lakshmi.

As I sat in my office, staring at her photograph and the imprints of her footsteps I had kept like sacred relics, a truth weighed heavy in my heart. I knew she wasn't ready to disclose our marriage to the world — and somewhere, that was good for her.

Because I am not just a man. I am a king in a world of shadows, a mafia king. And in this world, enemies don't fight fair. If they cannot defeat the king, they strike at his weakness — his queen.

My bacha is my queen. She is innocent, untouched by the darkness I live in, unaware of the cruelty that defines my world. She doesn't understand yet how dangerous it would be if anyone knew she belonged to me.

So I keep her hidden, protected, worshipped in silence. To me, she is Lakshmi — the strength, the light, the devotion that keeps me standing tall. And I will guard her with everything I have, even if it means the world never knows she is mine.

The clock struck 7, and I left my office, driving straight toward her hospital. The roads blurred beneath me, my mind focused only on one thing — her. By 8, I reached the parking lot and sent her a message: I'm here, Jaan.

After a few minutes, she appeared, walking toward the car. The moment she sat inside, I noticed it — she looked tired, yes, but there was something different about her face. A glow. A happiness I hadn't seen in a long time.

She had spent her day in the hospital, in her world, and it showed. That place gave her life, gave her purpose. And seeing her like this... it gave me peace.

I didn't say anything at first. I just watched her quietly, memorizing the way her eyes carried both exhaustion and joy. Inside, I thought, This is what she deserves. A life where she feels alive, where she smiles without fear. And I will protect this glow, no matter what it costs me.

Because she is not just my queen. She is my strength, my Lakshmi. And tonight, seeing her happy after so long, I felt like the king who had won his greatest treasure.

Without a word, I handed her the bubble tea I had brought. Her eyes lit up instantly, sparkling with childlike joy. "Oh God, I really needed this," she said, her voice carrying both relief and excitement.

I nodded, watching her sip it, content just to see her smile. "How was your day?" I asked.

She leaned back, her expression soft. "Good," she replied, then turned to me. "And yours?"

I shrugged lightly. "It was okay."

And with that, I started the car, driving us toward the haveli. Inside, I felt a quiet satisfaction. She was happy, glowing, alive in her world again. And for me, that was enough — because her happiness was my strength.

We reached the haveli, and as soon as we stepped inside, everyone was gathered in the living room. Papa looked at her with warmth and asked, "Beta, how was your day?"

She smiled softly, her voice calm but proud. "It was good, Papa."

Maa's eyes lit up, and she said, "Acha, tum dono jao, freshen up ho jao."

We both nodded. I walked with her toward our room, the quiet comfort of home wrapping around us. Inside, I went into the bathroom first, letting the water wash away the weight of the day. When I came out, she went in, her dupatta trailing behind her as she disappeared inside.

I glanced at her side of the room, the faint scent of roses still lingering from the morning. Then, without disturbing her, I moved toward my study. That was my space — where I could think, plan, and guard the world we lived in.

But even as I sat down at my desk, my mind wasn't on the papers in front of me. It was on her — the glow on her face when she came home, the way she carried herself with quiet strength.

After dinner, I returned to my study, drowning myself in files and thoughts. Hours slipped by, and when I finally walked back into our room, I stopped at the sight before me.

She was sitting on the bed with patient files spread around her, her brows furrowed in concentration. My jaan looked tired, but there was a quiet determination in her eyes.

I stepped closer and asked softly, "Jaan, what are you doing?"

Without looking up, she replied, "I have work. These files are of my patients. You go and sleep, I will come later."

Her voice was calm, but I could hear the weight of responsibility in it. She was living her world, her purpose — and I respected that.

I nodded, changed my clothes, and instead of leaving her alone, I sat beside her. Watching her flip through the pages, I realized something: she wasn't just my queen, she was a warrior in her own way. Innocent to my world, yes, but fierce in hers.

She glanced at me, amused. "You sleep na... why are you sitting with me?"

"I want to help you," I said simply.

She laughed, shaking her head. "Thank you, but do you even have any little idea what I am doing?"

I smiled. "I know I don't understand... because I am not a doctor. But when you go to sleep, I will also go."

She tilted her head, curious. "Aur aisa kyun?"

I leaned closer, my voice low, steady. "Tumhare bina neend hi nahi aati."

Her cheeks flushed, a soft blush coloring her face. She looked away quickly, hiding it, and returned to her files. But I saw it — that small reaction, that warmth. And for me, it was enough. Sitting beside her, watching her work, I felt peace. Because even if she wasn't ready yet, I would wait. Always.

She finally closed her files after almost an hour, slipping them neatly into her bag. I had been waiting for that moment, watching her with quiet patience. The instant she finished, I moved without hesitation — scooping her up in my arms, bridal style.

She gasped, her eyes wide. "Yeh kya kar rahe ho?"

I looked down at her, my voice firm but gentle. "You are tired."

Without giving her a chance to argue, I carried her to the bed. She clutched at me lightly, still surprised, but I could see the blush rising on her cheeks. I laid her down carefully, then slid beside her, pulling her close against me.

Her warmth settled into my chest, her heartbeat steady against mine. I tightened my hold, silently promising myself that no matter how heavy her world became, I would always be here to carry her through it.

And then, with her in my arms, sleep finally claimed us both.

With my jaan, time slipped away like sand through fingers. I didn't even notice how quickly more than two weeks had passed since she started going to the hospital again. Every evening, her glow returned, her laughter softened my edges, and her presence made the haveli feel alive.

But tonight was different. Tonight, I had to tell something important to everyone.

The dining table was alive with laughter, everyone talking and enjoying the evening. But inside me, a storm brewed. I stood up, my voice cutting through the chatter. "I have to tell something important."

All eyes turned to me. I took a breath. "I have to go to Italy for a business meeting."

Chachu leaned forward, curious. "Kitne din ke liye?"

"Almost ek hafte se zyada lagega," I replied.

Dadu's brows furrowed. "Itna important hai?"

I nodded firmly. "Yes, Dadu. Bahut important hai." I was about to explain further when Dadi interrupted, her voice warm but decisive. "Koi nahi, tum Aroohi ko bhi le jao apne saath."

My heart clenched. I shook my head. "Dadi... par mafia related work bhi hai. Aur agar media ko kuch pata chal gaya toh vo alag problem hai."

Before Dadi could insist again, Aroohi spoke gently, her tone practical. "Dadi, koi baat nahi. Waise bhi mere paas appointment hai un patients ke jab main holidays par thi. Aur waha yeh kaam karenge... main toh bore ho jaungi."

Her words were simple, but they carried weight. She was right — her world was the hospital, her patients. And mine was the shadows, the deals, the danger. Mixing them could destroy the fragile balance we had built.

I was still heavy with thoughts when suddenly Vikram broke the silence at the dining table. He clapped his hands, did a little happy dance, and grinned. "Acha hai bhai jaa rahe hai! Ab mai aur Aru itni movies dekhenge... inki vajah se dekh nahi paa rahe the."

His words pulled laughter from everyone, lightening the mood. Then he turned to my jaan, his eyes mischievous. "Hain na, Aru?"

She looked at him, her face glowing with a rare happiness, and nodded. "Haan," she said softly, her smile reaching her eyes.

I watched her, my heart tightening. That innocent joy, that simple nod — she didn't realize how much it meant to me. She was happy, and that was all I wanted. But deep inside, I knew the truth: Vikram's teasing was harmless, yet the world outside wasn't. My queen was too innocent to understand the dangers waiting in the shadows.

Still, seeing her laugh, seeing her nod with that sparkle... it made me forget, just for a moment, that I was a mafia king. In that instant, I was just her husband, silently worshipping the happiness on her face.

The dining table was warm tonight, filled with chatter and smiles. Papa asked me about my day, and I told him it was good. Maa fussed over us like always, and for a moment everything felt normal, simple, happy.

Then Rey stood up, his voice serious, saying he had something important to share. My heart skipped — I thought maybe... but no, he spoke of Italy, of business meetings. Everyone's faces turned concerned, asking questions, and I answered Dadi gently when she suggested I go with him. "Dadi, koi baat nahi. Mere patients ke appointments hain. Aur waha toh bore ho jaungi."

I meant it. My world is here, in the hospital, with my patients. His world... I don't fully understand it, but I know it's dangerous. Somewhere inside, I feel it's better this way.

Then Vikram broke the tension with his silly clap and happy dance. "Acha hai bhai jaa rahe hai! Ab mai aur Aru itni movies dekhenge..." He looked at me, grinning. "Hain na, Aru?"

I couldn't help it — I laughed, nodding with happiness. "Haan."

For a moment, I forgot everything else. The danger, the secrets, the weight Rey carries. I was just Aru, smiling at Vikram's mischief, feeling light. But when I glanced at Rey, his eyes were on me, steady, unreadable. And I knew — even if I laughed, even if I smiled, he was always watching, always guarding.

When I entered our room, my eyes immediately fell on his packed bags. For a moment, something inside me shifted. I don't know why... but it felt different. Even when I moved out from my house before, I didn't feel this way. But today, seeing those bags, I felt a little hurt.

He was going away. And though I knew it was for important work, a part of me wished he didn't have to. Still, I reminded myself — I have to behave mature. His world is heavy, full of responsibilities. My world is here, with my patients.

Just then, he walked in. Without hesitation, he pulled me into his arms, hugging me tightly. His voice was low, almost guilty. "Bacha, I'm sorry that I can't take you with me. I'm really sorry. Please forgive me."

I looked up at him, surprised. "Ansh, why are you feeling sorry? It's nothing. Even if you didn't have mafia work, I still wouldn't be able to go. I told you na, I have my appointments, and I can't delay them. So don't feel sorry."

He held me closer, but I could see the storm in his eyes. He was worried, restless, carrying guilt I didn't want him to carry. For me, it was simple — he had his world, I had mine. But for him, I was his queen, his Love, his strength. And maybe that's why he felt sorry.

But then I asked him, "Okay... when is your flight?"

His reply hit me like a sudden wave. "After 2 hours."

I froze, staring at him. "What? Why didn't you tell me earlier? Are you stupid? Because your actions are looking exactly like that. And don't tell me you forgot... because the Reyansh Singhania can forget everything, but not his work."

He looked at me then — a little guilty, but more shocked, as if he hadn't expected me to react this way. My heart was racing, my words sharper than usual, but I couldn't help it. Something inside me hurt. He was leaving so soon, and I hadn't even prepared myself for it.

I expected him to look guilty, maybe even apologize again. But instead, he looked straight into my eyes, his voice steady, almost playful. "I can forget anything... even my work. But not you. So this Reyansh Aroohi Singhania can never forget his jaan."

I blinked, shocked. Here I was, scolding him, and he was in a flirty mood. My lips parted, but no words came out. My heart skipped, my cheeks warmed, and I turned my face away quickly, pretending to be annoyed. But inside, I felt something else — a rush, a flutter, a quiet happiness.

then we move out from haveli and sat in car and start going to airport.

The ride to the airport felt heavy, even though I tried to smile. When we reached, he hugged me tightly, his warmth wrapping around me like a shield. Then his lips brushed everywhere — my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks, my nose, even the corner of my mouth. Again and again, he kissed me, refusing to let go.

I gasped, half-blushing, half-scolding. "Bas, Ansh... aur kitna?"

His reply was low, intense. "I can't get enough of you, jaan."

My heart raced, my cheeks burned, and to hide it, I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his forehead. "Call me regularly, okay?" I whispered.

He nodded, his eyes lingering on me, before walking toward his private airplane. I stood there, watching him disappear into the shadows of the runway, my chest aching.

When I returned to the haveli, I changed my clothes and lay down on the bed. But sleep didn't come. The silence was too loud, the emptiness too sharp. I was used to sleeping in his arms, cuddled against him, feeling his heartbeat steady mine. Now, without him, the bed felt cold, unfamiliar.

I turned to his side, clutching the pillow, whispering into the darkness: Ansh... jaldi wapas aana.

The next day, I woke up and instinctively turned to the other side of the bed. Empty. Cold. His absence hit me harder than I expected.

Memories rushed back — his meeting, his hugs, his endless kisses at the airport, and finally his departure. My chest tightened. I felt hurt, not seeing him here. It was only a week, I reminded myself. Just one week. It will pass.

But then another thought slipped in, unsettling me. I don't even love him yet... so why am I feeling like this? Why does his absence ache more than I imagined? Why does the silence feel heavier without his arms around me?

I shook my head quickly, pushing the thoughts away. No, Aroohi. Don't overthink. Be mature. He has his world, his responsibilities. And I have mine.

With that, I got up, straightened my bed, and began getting ready for the hospital. My patients were waiting, and I couldn't let my emotions distract me. Yet, somewhere deep inside, I knew — no matter how much I tried to stay practical, my heart had already started to miss him.

stay tuned for next chapter

bye 

lots of love from your

author ikku