𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔:-𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭

【Ａｕｔｈｏｒ＇ｓ　ｐｏｖ：】

Lucas rushes in-sweat breaking on his temples, face pale, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. The man has faced mafia threats and gunpoint negotiations, but this-this-is terrifying.

"Pardon, Monsieur," Lucas stammers in French, "je croyais que-"

(I thought-)

But Rudraksh raises a hand sharply, slicing the air with authority. "Don't think, Lucas. Just follow orders. I told you, I don't want her near me. Not a step, not a whisper, not a fucking breath."

Lucas bows his head quickly. "Oui, Monsieur. I will ensure it."

And yet she's still standing there. Calm. Gentle.

Like a monsoon that refuses to be feared.

Before Lucas can flee the room, Vania takes a bold step forward. Her eyes meet Rudraksh's-bruised with sadness, but fierce with purpose.

She reaches out, her hand touching his forearm, her voice quiet but firm.

"Because I am your wife."

Wife.

The word tastes bitter on his tongue.

He glares at the spot she touches-like it's acid.

And then-shove-

He throws her hand off, his face twisted in disbelief.

Did she just touch him again?

This woman is insane. Suicidal. A walking storm with no fear of fire.

Does she truly want to die?

She lowers her gaze slightly, takes a breath, and says softly, "I came here to serve you breakfast. That's it."

He scoffs-loud and laced with fury.

"You think this is service? I told you not to stay near me. Are you deaf or just desperate to ruin my morning?"

His voice is a hammer. His words-daggers dipped in venom.

She flinches. Just slightly.

But he sees it.

And something in him stirs-something he immediately buries under ice.

She didn't know he would react like this. Not for a plate of food. Not for a quiet act of care.

Still, she steps back, the weight of his rejection crashing into her chest like a thousand bricks.

"I... I'm sorry," she says, voice cracking under the weight of her pride. "I am so sorry. I'll leave the place. The servant will serve you."

And before another insult can be thrown, before another blow can land-

She runs.

Not like a coward. But like a woman who just got stabbed where no one could see.

She disappears down the hallway, her steps heavy, hollow.

Locks herself in th her room.

Slides to the floor.

And cries.

But not the gentle kind.

No. These tears come from the center of her soul-

from the hollow where love once bloomed and now bleeds.

Her sobs are muffled behind doors thick with silence.

Not the peaceful kind-no, the cruel silence that mocks her hope.

Pain drips down her cheeks like ink from a broken pen,

staining the marble floor as if even the palace must bear witness to her ruin.

And still-she loves him.

Still, she chooses him.

Even when he tears her piece by piece,

even when he refuses to choose her back.

Outside, in a different storm, Rudraksh still stands beside the shattered breakfast table, his hand gripping the head of the chair so tightly his knuckles turn ghost-white. His jaw is clenched, frustration radiating from every line on his face-

But it isn't just anger.

There's something else hiding behind his eyes.

Something he refuses to name.

Something he shoves down so deep, not even the devil could find it.

"Go the fucking away, Lucas. Leave me fucking alone."

His voice slices through the tension like a butcher's blade.

Lucas doesn't need to be told twice. The man may have faced death negotiations and explosive deals in the heart of France, but nothing-nothing-compares to facing Rudraksh Martin's wrath when it's dipped in emotion.

He scurries away like a shadow retreating from fire.

Left alone, Rudraksh storms toward his personal palace bar, ripping open a fresh bottle of scotch like it's his lifeline.

He pours without care, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim, staining the crystal like blood.

He drinks. On an empty stomach.

And not for celebration, not for power, but for distraction. For silence. For a break from the war inside his chest.

For the first time in his cold-blooded mafia reign, Rudraksh Martin is scared.

Not of death.

Not of betrayal.

Not of bullets tearing through his body.

But of her.

Of Vania.

Of what she makes him feel.

Of the way she doesn't flinch even when he breaks her.

Of the softness that still lingers in her eyes when she looks at him like he's not a monster.

He needs to stay cruel. Colder. Stronger.

He must push her to the point she begs for divorce.

Because he can't afford to fall-he doesn't know how to be human anymore.

Hours slip like fog.

He wakes with a pounding headache, the burn of morning's whiskey still clinging to his throat like regret.

The room spins. His body aches with stiffness and consequence.

He staggers to his bathroom.

The mirror meets him with brutal honesty-dark circles bruising his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, his eyes... hollow.

"What a bloody mess," he mutters, splashing cold water on his face, as if it can wash away the truth.

"And all because of her."

He dresses up like he always does-tailored, powerful, flawless.

His Armani suit hugs his frame, a contrast to the chaos inside him.

He adjusts his cufflinks like they're shackles, imprisoning him in this role he's chosen-cold, cruel, untouchable.

But as he steps downstairs, that illusion of control cracks the moment he sees her.

There. In the kitchen.

Vania.

Her back is to him, her hands moving methodically as she prepares lunch-like nothing ever happened, like her heart wasn't crushed beneath his boots hours ago.

The soft humming in her throat falters the moment his footsteps echo through the hallway.

She senses him. Of course, she does. Her hands freeze over the cutting board.

But she doesn't turn.

She doesn't run.

She stands tall, spine straight, eyes focused, pretending-trying-to pretend that he's just a shadow in the room.

And Rudraksh...

He watches.

He leans against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, voice low and laced with mockery.

"Look who decided to play housewife today. How quaint."

His tone is all sarcasm, but underneath it-

a spark.

An ache.

A quiet, burning question he'd never ask:

Why are you still here?

Why the fuck are you still choosing me... after ev

erything?

But Rudraksh doesn't do vulnerability.

No.

He only knows how to cut...

So he sharpens his words and waits to watch her bleed again.