Adultery Love Sex And War Part 1 : Age Of Darkness

[Speedy21]

Tmrw mrng it's then...

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                  CHAPTER 21

The morning sun filtered into the apartment, casting golden light over the walls. Birds chirped outside, and the hum of traffic rose faintly from the streets of Mumbai. It was the kind of day that once brought comfort to Sonarika, but now the sunlight only mocked the darkness inside her heart.


Hemant sat at the dining table with Karan, patiently helping him untangle a puzzle cube before college. 

"You almost had it" he said, his deep voice gentle. 

"Remember—it’s about patterns, not speed" 

Karan grinned, soaking up his father’s encouragement.

Anjali walked through with her textbooks, hair tied up in a messy bun. 

"Bhaiya, you promised to quiz me on anatomy later" she reminded him.

He smiled faintly. 

"I didn’t forget. Tonight, after dinner" 

His presence still anchored the household, and to Karan and Anjali, he was the same affectionate Hemant.

Only Sonarika knew the truth—that once dinner was over, Hemant would slip away again to YOD Industries, telling Karan he had “night shifts.” In reality, he slept in his private office room, unable to share a bed with her after the betrayal she confessed weeks ago.

That morning, however, something felt different. He had lingered longer than usual after the children left for college. The silence that followed their departure stretched heavy, and Sonarika’s heart thudded with an intuition she couldn’t ignore.

Hemant finally turned toward her. His face was calm, not harsh, but his eyes carried the weight of sleepless nights. 

"Sonarika" he said quietly. 

"We need to talk"

She froze where she stood, clutching the edge of the counter. For days she had dreaded these words, yet hoped for them too. 

"Now?" she asked, her voice faltering.

"Now" he confirmed. 

They moved to the sofa, the same space where years of memories lingered—Karan learning to walk, late-night movies, whispered confessions of dreams. Today, it became the place where a marriage was put on trial. Hemant’s voice broke the silence. 

"Why did you need him?" 

His tone was not cruel, but it cut her deeper than any accusation could. His eyes didn’t waver.

Sonarika’s lips trembled. For a moment she wanted to deny it, to take back her words at the Gateway of India, to make the betrayal vanish. But lies would be meaningless now. 

"Because I felt alone, Hemant. Even when you were here… I felt invisible"

His brows furrowed. 

"Invisible? I was right here. With you. With Karan. With Anju" 

His voice carried more confusion than anger, as though trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts.

"No, Hemant" she said, her voice breaking as tears blurred her vision. 

"You were always chasing tomorrow. Always promising me a future, always saying, ‘One day we’ll have everything, one day it’ll all fall in place.’ But while you were building that dream, my present was empty. I needed you then, not someday"

Her chest heaved as the words poured out. 

"And Vikram… he was there. He saw me, in that moment. He didn’t talk about tomorrow. He made me feel alive then. That’s why I succumbed. Not because I stopped loving you, but because I couldn’t keep living in promises while my present slipped away"

Hemant sat still, the sunlight outlining his weary face. For a moment, his silence was crushing. Then, quietly, he said. 

"And yet you came back to me. Why?"

"Because you changed" she whispered. 

"You rebuilt yourself, found your fire again. You became the man I had fallen for. I thought we could begin again"

He gave a faint, bitter smile. 

"But you went back to him"

Her tears spilled freely now. 

"Yes. Because I was torn. With Vikram, there was poetry, dance, nights that made me feel wild. With you, there was safety, tenderness, love. I wanted both. And it destroyed us"

Hemant leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

"So to escape the weight of promises, you made one you could never take back"

"Do you know the cruelest part?" she asked, her voice trembling. 

"It was only at the divorce lawyer’s office that I learned the truth. That while I was accusing you of chasing tomorrows in my mind, you had already built it. You revealed the truth about the Villa. The dream house we always talked about. The future I thought was only words was right at the doorstep all along. And I—" 

She broke down, covering her face. 

"I betrayed the man who loved me beyond time"

For a moment, Hemant’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Hemant thought of the Silver Beach villa. He had walked its empty halls in the initial renovation phase that started weeks ago with hope, picturing family breakfasts, birthday parties, laughter echoing in its rooms. Now it stood waiting, a hollow monument to a future that would never be. A family laughter that might never come.

He finally asked, his voice low. 

"Do you still love him?"

She froze, her body trembling. 

"I don’t know" she admitted. 

"I don’t know what I feel for him anymore. But I know I’ve wounded you deeper than anyone else ever could"

Hemant rose slowly, his frame carrying the weight of years compressed into moments. He walked toward the door, each step heavy with decision.

Panic surged in her chest. 

"Don’t you have anything to say?" she cried. 

"Don’t you hate me? Don’t you want to scream? Please, Hemant, say something!"

He turned, his eyes meeting hers one last time. 

"No. Because the woman I loved is gone. What stands before me is someone else—a woman who chose another man when her husband was fighting for their future. And it’s best we eventually go our separate ways"

With that, Hemant stepped into the brightness of the morning, leaving Sonarika collapsed on the sofa, the warmth of the sun unable to soothe the cold despair now consuming her.


FEW HOURS LATER


The factory floor of YOD Industries buzzed with the rhythm of machines, the clang of steel, and the hum of engines. Hemant walked among his workers, clipboard in hand, pretending to take notes. To them, he was their founder, their leader, the man who had built something from nothing. But beneath that mask, his mind was elsewhere. He paused at a workstation where young engineers calibrated one of his Alignment Knots. 

"Good. Keep the tolerances tight" he said absently. 


The engineers nodded eagerly, unaware that their boss’s voice was hollow, his eyes glassy. Work was supposed to distract him. That was why he had buried himself here, sleeping in his private office instead of the apartment. Yet, every gear turning, every spark of welding seemed to ignite memories he wanted to bury.



He leaned against a railing, watching a machine press steel into shape. Suddenly, the sound of hissing steam transformed into the echo of clinking glasses. The workshop dissolved in his mind, replaced by music, laughter, and glittering chandeliers. He was back at the TANISHQ party years ago, the night he first saw Vikram Bajaj. The millionaire had walked into the hall with that effortless confidence, drawing eyes like a flame draws moths. Hemant had thought nothing of it then.


He remembered standing by the buffet, filling his plate, while Sonarika and Vikram spoke across the room. At the time, it was polite conversation, just business. Now, in his mind, it shifted, warped. He saw her laughing too freely at Vikram’s words, leaning closer, brushing her hair back. Then suddenly—she wasn’t just talking. She was kissing him. Their lips locked hungrily, hands roaming as if they had waited a lifetime for this moment.


Hemant’s heart pounded as the hallucination intensified. He saw Sonarika pressed against a wall, Vikram’s hand cupping her face, her body arching into him. Gasps and moans drowned out the music as passion took hold. In the hallucination, they didn’t care about the party anymore. They were lost in each other, moving with a desperate hunger until her cries rose, sharp and unrestrained. Hemant staggered, his knuckles white against the railing, feeling every betrayal as though it were happening before his eyes.

 
"Sir? Are you alright?" A worker’s voice brought him back for a moment.


Hemant blinked, but the hallucination’s grip was too strong. He muttered a vague reply and walked off, his chest tight, breath shallow. The factory floor blurred again. This time, music swelled—not party music, but the rhythmic beat of drums. Lights illuminated a stage. Hemant blinked and found himself at TANISHQ’s Founder’s Day. He remembered that night too well. Sonarika and Vikram had been called to perform a special dance. He had smiled, clapping politely, even prideful at her talent. The crowd cheered, whistles filling the air. Meghna’s grin had been wide, too wide.



But in his mind’s replay, the dance turned carnal. Their bodies pressed too close, movements no longer choreographed but primal. Sonarika’s eyes burned with desire as Vikram spun her, pulled her in, and kissed her deeply under the stage lights. The crowd didn’t recoil—they roared. The applause turned into chants. 


"More! More!" 


Meghna clapped furiously, her laughter sharp and cruel, her eyes darting at Hemant. The hallucination intensified. Clothes loosened, hands wandered. On that very stage where employees once cheered, Sonarika moaned into Vikram’s ear, surrendering as though the audience wasn’t even there. Hemant’s fists clenched as the stage scene warped into a nightmare. Meghna stepped forward, smirking, whispering directly into his ear though she was yards away. 


"Look at her, Hemant. She’s free. She’s alive. She never belonged in your dull, miserable arms"


He tried to look away, but his eyes refused. Sonarika and Vikram were lost in the throes of passion, movements frantic, breathless, culminating in cries of release. The audience clapped wildly, Meghna’s laugh rising above it all. She leaned in, her voice mocking and venomous. 


"Move on, Hemant. You’re alone now. She’s happy where she belongs—with him. Not with you"


The mocking laughter grew louder, echoing, rising to a crescendo that shook his very bones. Hemant clutched his head, staggering as the scene reached its climax—cheers, moans, laughter swirling in a cacophony of betrayal.


"Sir?" A worker’s hand touched his arm. 


"Sir, are you okay? You’re sweating…"


Hemant blinked hard, the hallucination snapping apart like glass shattering. The stage, the crowd, Meghna’s mocking face—all gone. He was back on the factory floor, the whir of machines in his ears, his workers staring at him in confusion.

"I’m fine" 

He muttered, waving them off, though his voice cracked. He forced his legs to move, each step heavier than the last, until he reached the stairs to his office. Inside his private room, he shut the door, leaning against it, his breath ragged. His reflection in the glass pane showed sweat on his brow, his eyes hollow.

Finally, he let go. His fists slammed against the desk. A guttural cry escaped him, torn from somewhere deep, somewhere wounded beyond repair. He sank into his chair, head in his hands, the hum of the factory muffled behind the door. The visions still lingered at the edge of his mind, taunting him. And in that solitude, Hemant finally admitted what he had avoided for days—the woman he had loved unconditionally was gone, and nothing he built, no matter how grand, could bring her back.


The afternoon sun poured through the glass walls of YOD Industries, streaking the concrete floors. Hemant sat in his office chair, the echoes of his hallucinations still gnawing at him. He rubbed his temples, exhausted, when a knock came at the door.

"Come in" he muttered, his voice low.

The door opened, and Kunal stepped inside. Dressed in a tailored grey suit, his presence carried the poise of a businessman—but his eyes were warm with concern. 

"Hemant" he greeted softly. 

"I came straight from the airport. I heard you weren’t yourself these past days"

Hemant stood slowly, managing a faint smile. 

"Kolkata, wasn’t it? Big project?"

Kunal nodded. Hemant gestured for him to sit. The two men faced each other, silence stretching before Hemant finally let out the words he had carried like lead in his chest. 

"Sonarika has been having an affair"

"What?" Kunal’s eyes widened. 

"With Vikram Bajaj" Hemant continued, his tone steady but hollow. 

"She told me herself. At the Gateway. I thought I knew what betrayal felt like… but I had no idea until that moment. It shook me. Broke me"

Kunal leaned forward, his face heavy with guilt. 

"Hemant, no… I should’ve stopped this. I should’ve kept Mouni away. You know how she talks, how she poisons the air around Sonarika. Maybe she pushed her into this. If I had—"

"Stop" Hemant said firmly, raising a hand. His eyes softened. 

"Don’t blame yourself, Kunal. If anything, your friendship is one of the only good things left in my life. Don’t taint it with guilt"

"But—" Kunal swallowed hard. 

"No" Hemant interrupted gently. 

"This was me. My failure. I was never true to myself. I promised Sonarika futures, but I left her present barren. That’s on me, not you, not Mouni. Not anyone else"

Kunal’s gaze searched him. 

"Hemant… you’ve always been a good man. Strong. Kind. I don’t believe you’ve failed her"

Hemant leaned back in his chair, a bitter chuckle escaping him. 

"Good man? Kunal, there’s something you don’t know. Something I’ve hidden from everyone, including you. But maybe… maybe it’s time you learned the truth about me"

"What are you saying?" Kunal frowned. 

Hemant stood, walking slowly to the window. He looked out at the busy factory floor, the men and women working tirelessly on his designs. His reflection in the glass seemed foreign to him.

Hemant looked away, his jaw tightening as though fighting an old war within himself. 

"If I tell you… it will change everything you think you know about me"

"Then tell me" Kunal said firmly. 

"Whatever it is, I want to know. You’ve carried me through storms when I was drowning in shame. Let me share your burden"

Silence fell. Hemant stared at the floor, then at the wall clock ticking. 

"It will take time" he murmured. 

"And you’ll wish you hadn’t asked"

"Then I’ll sit here until I hear it" Kunal leaned back, resolute. 

Two hours later, the office was dim with the fading sun. Kunal sat slumped in the chair, his face pale and damp with sweat. His eyes were wide, glassy with disbelief. He looked as though the weight of a thousand worlds had been dropped on him. Hemant sat across from him, silent, his expression calm yet tired. He had finally spoken truths buried for decades—truths that would never escape this room again.

Kunal ran a trembling hand through his hair. 

"Michael King…" he whispered, almost afraid to say the name aloud. 

"All these mayhem , all this violence....and you....you endured it?"

He laughed bitterly, the sound almost hysterical. 

"London, Shanghai, the States… the whole world thinks Michael King is dead. And here you are, changed from the pain and trauma , trying to find a different reason in life to live ,  living as a husband, a father, a friend. Building something real"

His laughter died into silence. Tears rimmed his eyes as he leaned forward. 

"The pain you told me, the loss you carried… I can’t even imagine how you bore it. No man should’ve had to"

Hemant’s voice was steady but soft. 

"That’s why I buried Michael King, Kunal. I chose to become my real self Hemant Kumar , make a name to my own biological identity. To build YOD. To raise my son. To love Sonarika. I thought I’d escaped Michael King. But destiny…” 

He trailed off, looking down at his hands. 

"Destiny sometimes can be a dirty game"

Kunal swallowed hard, his throat dry. 

"Hemant… tell me what I can do. Please. I owe you my life—you helped me when my marriage fell into disgrace, when everyone mocked me for what I allowed with Mouni. You pulled me out of that abyss. Tell me how I can return even a fraction of what you gave me"

Hemant gave a small, broken smile. 

"Be here. That’s all I’ll ask of you. Because soon, I’ll be more alone than I’ve ever been. And when that happens… I’ll need someone who remembers I was once more than Michael King. I was Hemant. A husband. A father. A friend"

Kunal’s chest tightened as he looked at the man across from him. 

"You’ll never be alone as long as I’m breathing" he swore. 

"If you fall, I’ll stand beside you. Always"

Hemant’s eyes glistened faintly, though no tears fell. He nodded, his voice soft but resolute. 

"Then that will be enough, Kunal. That will be enough"

He embraced Kunal knowing that there will be someone that will be close to him. Hemant eventually asks one last thing.

"But I need your word. More than that I need a promise"

"Whatever you need Hemant.....whatever you need"

"Then promise me Kunal.....promise me that no matter what happens.......you will never tell my truth to Sonarika........never...."

"But why Hemant? She needs to know this. She can truly understand you with this"

"No Kunal , I don't need her to. She has a new man in her life , let her make her choice and live on. I should never be part of her world anymore"

"Then what about Karan? Are you going to abandon him too?"

"Never , its never about abandonement Kunal. Sonarika loves someone else , and my truth will only hurt her further. She is already overwhelmed with the separation. I know it , I've seen her many times in recent days crying for what she has lost. I don't want her to burden her further , if Vikram can give her the happiness she needs. Then that is what she deserves"


The words seemed to pierce Hemant, but he didn’t flinch. He simply nodded. 

"Yes. I still love my Sona. And I always will. But love… love has only been suffering for me. Every time I’ve given my heart, I’ve only found loss waiting at the end. Sonarika is no different. I’ve accepted it now— I don't think there is a place for me in her heart anymore"

The room felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were listening. Kunal swallowed hard, his own heart aching. Hemant continued, his voice softening. 

"My faith in love… it’s broken, Kunal. I won’t go searching for it again. Not in this lifetime. The only love I still hold… is for Karan, my son. For Anjali, my sister in law who will always be my sister in heart. And for my friends. For you.”

Kunal’s chest tightened. He had seen Hemant as a pillar, a man who bore storms without flinching. To hear this quiet surrender broke something inside him. He stood, walked to Hemant, and without hesitation embraced him tightly. 

"Don’t lose hope brother" he whispered. 

His voice trembled. 

"The universe has strange ways. One day… one day it will give you true happiness. And when that moment comes, you will finally be at peace"

Hemant closed his eyes in the embrace, allowing himself for the first time in days to lean on someone else’s strength. His arms wrapped around Kunal with the weight of a man carrying years of buried sorrow.

"Thank you" he whispered back. 

"I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But today… having you here makes it bearable"


They hugged again, stronger this time, the embrace less of comfort and more of brotherhood—an unspoken vow between two men scarred by love and life, yet unwilling to let each other fall. The sun outside had dipped lower, golden light spilling into the office. In its glow, the two friends stood as though time itself had paused, two lives bound by pain, trust, and a fragile thread of hope that someday, somewhere, peace might come.



THAT NIGHT


The house was unnervingly quiet that night. Karan had fallen asleep early after a day of play, his small snores drifting down the hallway. Anjali too slept after a lengthy Viva Hemant conducted on her on the subject of Anatomy , a promise he fullfilled. Hemant was gone to his factory for his sleep. But Sonarika lay on their bed—no, her bed now—staring at the ceiling in the dim yellow light of the bedside lamp. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer, as if the walls themselves were pulling away from her. She couldn't help but think about him , a man who was her beacon was no longer present near her at her most vulnerable. She couldn't do anything but sink into the mattress and let the hours bleed into each other.


On the nightstand sat the wedding photo—its glass reflecting the light in such a way that the younger Hemant’s smile almost looked like a cruel reminder. She picked it up, tracing the curve of his jaw in the picture with a trembling finger. The lawyer's office meeting replayed in her mind over and over. The coldness in his voice. The way he wouldn’t even look at her when he spoke of the divorce. And then… the gut-wrenching revelation about the Silver Beach villa.


Her body curled inward as a sob forced its way up her throat. She pressed the photo to her chest, as if holding it could hold back the truth. 

"You loved me so much" she whispered into the darkness. 

"And I destroyed it"


The memories began to spill—long drives to Lonavala and Matheran on certain weekends, him waking her with coffee on Sundays, his laugh when Karan took his first steps. Even the silly fights about what movie to watch now felt precious, like fragments of a world she had shattered with her own hands. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. For a moment, she thought—hoped—it was Hemant. But the screen lit up with Vikram’s name. Her chest tightened with something between deeper feelings and regret. She silenced the call and turned the phone face down.


She realized, bitterly, that she didn’t want to talk to Vikram at this moment. Not now. Not after seeing what Hemant had been planning for their family. What he had been willing to give, and give up, for her. Her eyes landed on the wardrobe. She knew inside were still the clothes Hemant had bought her over the years—saris in colors he loved, the black dress he said made her look 'dangerous' 


She remembered the way his eyes used to light up when she wore them. She got up, almost in a trance, and pulled the black dress from its hanger. She held it against herself in the mirror, but it only made her feel emptier. She didn’t see the woman Hemant loved in the reflection—she saw someone else entirely. Someone who had traded devotion for momentary thrill.


Dropping the dress onto the bed, she sat on the floor and hugged her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her chest ached, not just from grief, but from the dawning realization that she couldn’t undo what had been done. Her mind wandered to the cooling period the lawyer mentioned. Ten months. Ten months to rethink. Ten months to hope. But then she remembered Hemant’s eyes when he said, Get used to this new norm. That didn’t sound like a man waiting to be convinced.


She thought of Karan, and the shared custody agreement. The idea of not seeing him every day, of him packing a bag to go stay with his father—it felt like someone had taken a knife to her soul. The weight of guilt pressed so hard she could barely breathe. She whispered into the silence. 

"I’m sorry… I’m so sorry" as if the walls, the ceiling, the photo frame could carry her words to him.


But deep down, she knew that sorry wasn’t enough. Hemant had loved her fiercely, and she had shown him that his love wasn’t safe with her. She had proven his faith in her wrong. Her body shook with another wave of sobs. She curled onto the bed, clutching the black dress in one hand and the wedding photo in the other, her tears soaking into both.


The villa kept coming back into her mind—she could almost see it, hear the ocean outside its walls, imagine Karan running through the rooms. And then it twisted into a darker vision: Hemant there, alone, living in the dream they once shared but with no place for her in it. She wondered if Vikram could ever give her something like that. The answer came instantly, on paper—yes.After all he is a millionaire , if he wants , he will build a palace for her , like he used to say , treat her like a queen. And now in that moment , no visions of Bali or Jabalpur dared to step in her mind. Because more than the feeling of being loved and cherished in her life , right now her mind was filled with the certainty of all the things she will loose. Yes , she has some strange feelings for Vikram , especially after the closeness they had , but it didn't hold a candle to what she felt for Hemant right now at the moment. Vikram knew her. Because he didn’t know her the way Hemant did. Because he hadn’t built a life with her from scratch.


That was the moment Sonarika remembered what Hemant said. He could not see his Sona. And he was right , Sonarika was not the same woman , not anymore. Vikram and the insane passion she felt changed her , awakened something in her , something Hemant never saw. She had become bold , passionate , something that was part of her life not so long ago. But she fixed herself with a little help from Hemant to forge something new , better and much more different. Hemant built her to the confident woman she was until now. Because Hemant's words , it looked at her like the real truth. That Sona , the hardworking , focused , committed Sona was lost in the throes and chasm of passion she jumped in with Vikram. Now a more dependant , passionate but a more submissive version of herself. A version Rocky absolutely loved had came out of her. Sonarika acknowledged the truth now seen before her.


She thought of calling Hemant, of telling him she didn’t want the divorce, that she’d do anything to fix it. But another thought stopped her: maybe she didn’t deserve to fix it. Outside, the wind rattled the balcony door, and for a brief moment, she could almost hear Hemant’s voice telling her to close it before things in the room fall. She closed her eyes, letting herself pretend it was real.


When she opened them, the emptiness of the room struck her again. This was her reality now—nights without him, mornings without his quiet 

"Good morning, Sona"


She finally lay down, curling toward his empty side of the bed, the sheets still faintly carrying his scent. She breathed it in like a lifeline, afraid it would fade before the cooling period even ended. The tears slowed, but the heaviness didn’t lift. It settled in her bones, in her heartbeat, in the silence between breaths. She knew sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. Her last thought before drifting into a restless half-dream was simple and devastating: she had taken her great love and traded it for nothing.


In the darkness, the photo on the nightstand caught a sliver of moonlight. The couple in it smiled, frozen in a moment where forever still felt possible. But in the bed below, only one of them remained—awake, broken, and unsure if she’d ever feel whole again.


THE NEXT MORNING



The morning light crept reluctantly through the curtains. Sonarika hadn’t truly slept—just drifted in and out of shallow dreams that always ended the same way: Hemant walking away from her. Her head ached from the night’s tears, and her eyes felt heavy, swollen. She considered staying in bed all morning, but the faint thud-thud of little feet in the hallway pulled her back to reality.


Karan appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up at odd angles, still in his dinosaur pajamas. 

"Mumma" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Are you making breakfast?"

She forced a smile, one she hoped didn’t look as brittle as it felt. 

"Of course, sweetheart. Give me five minutes"


Down in the kitchen, she moved mechanically—spreading butter on toast, pouring milk into a glass. Karan sat at the table, swinging his legs, humming a tune from one of his cartoons.


"Did Papa not come yet?" he asked suddenly, breaking the rhythm of the clinking utensils.

The question made her hand pause mid-air. She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. 

"Papa has extra work today baby....he will be here a little late"

Karan frowned. 

"But it’s Saturday. He always squashes my favorite juice on Saturday.”


She felt the sting of tears threatening again. 

"He’ll do it next time" she said softly, pushing the toast toward him. 

"Eat up before it gets cold"


But her son wasn’t convinced. 

"Mama… did you and Papa fight?" 

His tone was hesitant, careful, the way children test the waters when they know something is wrong but can’t name it. She crouched beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. 

"No, baby. We just… need some space right now. Grown-up stuff"


"Space?" he echoed, confusion clouding his small face. 

"Like when I go to my room and you tell me to think about what I did?"

Her lips trembled into a sad smile. 

"Something like that"

He stared at her a moment longer, then whispered. 

"I don’t like space. I like it when we’re all together"


The words landed like a knife. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his hair so he wouldn’t see her tears. 

"Me too, baby. Me too"


They stayed like that for a long moment, the kitchen silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. When she finally let go, she ruffled his hair and tried to inject some cheer into her voice. 

"How about we go to the park after breakfast? Just you and me"

He brightened instantly. 

"Can we get ice cream after?"

"Absolutely" 

She said, grateful for the distraction, even if her heart still felt like it was splintering in slow motion.


As Karan ate, she leaned against the counter, watching him. For a moment, she let herself imagine the villa at Silver Beach—the three of them having breakfast there, Karan’s laughter mixing with the sound of waves outside. But the image dissolved quickly, replaced by the memory of Hemant’s cold expression in the lawyer’s office.

Karan looked up from his plate. 

"Mama?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"When Papa comes home… can we all go to the beach?"

She managed to nod, even though deep down she feared the day would never come. 

"We’ll see, baby" she whispered. 

"We’ll see"


Some time later , as Anjali arrived in the kitchen freshened up. She noticed the paleness in Sonarika.

"Didi , are you okay"

"I am fine Anju" Sonarika said trying to mask her sorrow.

"You don't look okay"

"Trust me , I am fine"


The phone buzzed for the sixth time since the morning. Sonarika sat curled on the sofa, her face pressed into the cushion, eyes raw from hours of tears last night. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to speak to anyone—not even him. But when the screen lit up with Vikram’s name once more, something in her broke. She slid her thumb across the screen.

"Soni…" Vikram’s voice came through immediately, trembling with urgency. 

"Thank God. I thought I lost you. I called and called—why didn’t you pick up?"

Her throat tightened at the sound of his worry. 

"I… I couldn’t. I was grieving. I’m still grieving. I am in deep pain Vicky. Everything is slipping away from me"

"That’s exactly why I needed to hear your voice" he pressed gently. 

"You don’t have to go through this alone. Let me be there for you. Please, Soni… can we meet now?"

Silence stretched for a moment. Her heart warred with itself. Finally, she whispered, 

"Skyview Garden. In half hour from now"

                                                                                                                                   (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                             (CHAPTER CONTD)

SOMETIME LATER AT SKYVIEW GARDEN


When Sonarika arrived there, the garden was quiet, the air thick with dew and the faint fragrance of blooming marigolds. Vikram was already waiting near a stone bench beneath a gulmohar tree. His eyes widened as soon as he saw her. Sonarika’s face was swollen, her lids puffy, lips trembling. She didn’t even attempt to hide the wreck she had become. The moment she reached him, she collapsed into his arms, and her body shook violently as sobs poured out of her.

Vikram held her tightly, stroking her hair, letting her weep against his chest. 

"Shhh… let it out. I’ve got you. I’m here"

She clung to him as if he were her last tether, her tears soaking his shirt. For a long time, neither spoke—only the sound of her muffled cries filled the quiet garden. Finally, when her sobs softened to uneven breaths, Vikram pulled back slightly, cupping her face. 

"What happened? Tell me"

Sonarika bit her lip so hard it almost bled. Then the words spilled out in a rush. 

"I told him. Hemant. Everything. About us. About what I’ve done"

Vikram froze. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing in disbelief. 

"You… told him?" His voice was both shocked and pained. 

"Soni, that was reckless. I told you. I told you the reaction could be severe"

Her eyes welled again. 

"I know! But I couldn’t keep living a lie. He deserved the truth. And now… now it’s all shattered"

She dropped her gaze to the ground, her fingers twisting into knots. 

"He couldn’t handle it Vicky. He suffered a stroke. Do you understand? My truth broke him"

Vikram’s hands tightened on her shoulders, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and compassion. 

"My God… Soni. That could have killed him. You should have waited. Planned this out. But…" 

He stopped himself, exhaling slowly, softening. 

"But I know why you did it. You couldn’t bear the guilt anymore"

She nodded, tears streaking her face. 

"And now… he’s filed for divorce. Out of court settlement. Just like that, Vikram. My family… it’ll never be the same again"

Vikram pulled her back into his arms, pressing her against his chest. 

"Listen to me. This was inevitable. If not now, then later. You couldn’t keep living with half your heart in one world and the other half in another. It had to break. At least now… you can begin again"

Sonarika shook her head desperately. 

"You don’t understand. My family—Hemant, Karan, our home—it was my place of peace. And now it’s gone. I feel like part of me is dying"

He stroked her back slowly, soothing. 

"Then let me help rebuild you. You can start a new family. With me. I can give you peace too, Sonarika. Maybe a different kind, but no less real"

Her eyes lifted to his, glistening with pain. 

"I am still struggling with the feelings I have for you Vicky , I am still trying to understand it. But right now… it feels so inappropriate. Hemant is leaving me, and that part of my heart is breaking. How can I talk about new beginnings when I’m standing over the ashes of my old life?"

"Because you’re not standing alone" Vikram whispered. He brushed away her tears with his thumb. 

"And about Karan—don’t think for a second I’d ever come between you two. He’s your son. I’d protect that bond with everything I have. I’d safeguard it for you"

Her lips trembled as she stared at him, searching his face. For the first time in days, she felt a thread of relief—a breath of safety in the storm. 

"You really mean that, don’t you?"

He nodded firmly. 

"With all that I am" 

Slowly, he lifted her chin, his eyes locked on hers. Then, tenderly, he kissed her. At first it was soft, almost hesitant, but the weight of their emotions deepened it quickly. It grew more passionate, raw, an outlet for everything left unsaid. But just as his hands tightened on her waist, Sonarika pulled back, shaking her head. 

"No. Not now. Please. I appreciate it, Vicky, I do… but intimacy isn’t what I need right now. My heart isn’t ready. Not like this"

Vikram’s eyes softened, his breath still ragged. He nodded, pressing his forehead to hers. 

"That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. When this storm settles, I’ll still be here. Maybe that’s what destiny wants for us—to survive this fire and begin anew"

Sonarika closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace once more. They sat quietly on that park bench, her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For the first time since her world had shattered, she allowed herself to breathe without breaking. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Sonarika sat pressed against Vikram’s chest, her hands limp in her lap, staring at the scattered petals on the ground. The stillness of the morning made her feel like she was caught between two worlds—one that had already ended and another she was too afraid to step into.

"Do you regret it?" Vikram finally asked, his voice quiet, careful. 

"Not telling him, but… us. Do you regret me?"

Sonarika’s head jerked up slightly, her swollen eyes flashing with hurt. 

"Don’t say that. Don’t diminish what we have. It was never a mistake. You…" 

She trailed off, breath trembling. 

"You woke something in me, Vicky. Something that had been buried for years. You reminded me I was alive"

Vikram’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. He cupped her cheek again, tracing her jawline with his thumb. 

"That’s all I needed to hear. Because I swear, Sonarika, no matter how heavy this gets, I’ll carry it with you"

She lowered her gaze, torn. 

"But how do I carry myself? Hemant was my anchor, my compass. Even when he was distant, even when I felt neglected, he was… safe. He was my home. And now that home is burning to the ground, I don’t know where to stand"

Vikram shifted closer, their knees brushing. 

"Then stand here. With me. Let me be your ground. It won’t erase the pain, but it’ll give you somewhere to rest"

Sonarika bit back another sob. 

"You make it sound so simple, but it isn’t. My heart doesn’t work like that. Part of it will always love him. And that part is broken beyond repair now. Do you understand what that feels like? To feel for two people in such different ways, and lose one forever?"

Vikram nodded slowly, his eyes searching hers. 

"I do. And maybe that’s why I’m not asking you to erase him. I’m asking you to allow yourself to keep living despite the break. Even broken hearts can still beat, Soni. I’ll remind you of that every day if I have to"

The words lodged deep in her chest, making her shiver. She pulled back slightly, staring at him with a raw vulnerability. 

"Why are you so patient with me? Why not walk away? Most men would"

Vikram gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. 

"Because I already tried walking away, remember? Tried keeping my distance. And it damn near killed me. I can’t unlove you, Sonarika. Even if it means waiting through your grief, even if it means accepting that part of you still belongs to him—I’ll take whatever you give me"

Her tears threatened again, but this time she fought them back, studying him intently. 

"You make it sound noble. But what if all I ever give you is half a heart? Would that really be enough for you?"

"If it’s yours" Vikram said firmly. 

"Then yes. Because half of your heart is still more than the whole world to me"

Sonarika let out a broken laugh, shaking her head. 

"You say things like that, and you make me want to believe in us. But then the guilt rises again. I see Karan’s face, I see Hemant’s eyes the moment I told him… and I feel like I destroyed everything good in my life"

Vikram leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers again. 

"No. You didn’t destroy yourself. You chose honesty, painful as it was. Hemant’s choices are his. Your love for Karan is untouched. And me? I’ll never stop seeing the good in you, no matter how much you try to bury it beneath guilt"

She closed her eyes tightly, her fingers curling into his sleeves. 

"Sometimes I wish I could just vanish. Stop existing in this chaos. Stop hurting everyone I love"

His arms tightened protectively around her. 

"Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare, Sonarika. You are not a burden. You are not poison. You are a woman who dared to seek something real, something alive. That doesn’t make you evil—it makes you human"

A long silence followed, her breathing ragged but slowly calming under his embrace. The weight of his words sank into her bones, easing some of the suffocating self-loathing. Finally, she whispered. 

"Do you ever wonder… if this is destiny? Or just us making selfish choices?"

Vikram exhaled slowly, brushing his lips against her temple. 

"Maybe both. Maybe destiny doesn’t write in straight lines. Maybe it bends, twists, forces us into choices that look selfish until we realize they were survival. Maybe you and I were meant to find each other in the ruins"

Sonarika tilted her head back slightly, her eyes catching his. 

"And if these ruins are all I have left? If tomorrow never gets better?"

Vikram smiled sadly but with quiet certainty. 

"Then we’ll build a life out of ruins. Together. Stone by stone. And even if it’s imperfect, even if it’s scarred, it’ll still be ours"

A shuddering breath escaped her lips, and for the first time since everything collapsed, Sonarika felt something stir faintly in her chest—hope. Fragile, trembling, but alive. She leaned into him again, resting her cheek against his shoulder. They sat like that as the morning light grew stronger, filtering through the gulmohar leaves above them. The world carried on around them—birds calling, gardeners sweeping pathways—but inside their shared silence, time seemed to pause. And in that pause, Sonarika allowed herself to imagine, just for a heartbeat, that maybe she wasn’t only losing—but also beginning again.



The minutes stretched into nearly an hour, and Sonarika felt the trembling in her body finally still. Vikram’s presence was steady, like a hand resting on broken glass—not fixing it, but holding it together long enough so it wouldn’t shatter further. She shifted slightly, drawing back, though her hands lingered on his arms as though afraid he might disappear if she let go. 

"I should go" she murmured, her voice weary. 

"Karan will wonder. I have plans with him for the day. I can’t stay here forever, no matter how much I want to"

Vikram gave a small nod, though his eyes betrayed the ache of wanting to keep her close. 

"I know. But before you go…" 

He glanced around and then leaned down, plucking a single gulmohar blossom that had fallen on the grass near them. Its petals were bright, fiery red, almost too vibrant against the weight of the moment.

He held it out to her, not in grand gesture but quietly, almost shyly. 

"Keep this. It won’t last long. It’ll wither in a day, maybe two. But maybe… it can remind you that even fragile things have beauty. Even fleeting moments can matter"

Sonarika’s eyes softened as she took the flower. Her thumb brushed the delicate petals, and for a moment, the corners of her mouth curved into the faintest smile. 

"You always know how to make something small feel like it means everything"

Vikram leaned back on his heels, studying her as if committing her to memory. 

"That’s because to me, you mean everything. Even when you’re breaking, even when you’re pushing me away"

She inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of his words sink into her chest. Part of her wanted to hush him, to remind him of the impossibility of their situation. But another part—the part that still longed for warmth in a cold, collapsing world—simply held the flower tighter. Rising slowly, she brushed the grass off her saree and extended her hand toward him. 

"Walk me to the gate?"

He rose with her, their hands brushing but not intertwining—both aware of the invisible line between comfort and intimacy she wasn’t ready to cross. Yet the silence between them felt thick, charged with everything unspoken. As they reached the edge of the garden, Sonarika slowed. She turned to him, eyes shimmering again but steadier than before. 

"Thank you, Vicky… for not letting me drown in this. For being patient, even when I don’t deserve it"

He tilted his head, his expression tender but resolute. 

"You don’t need to thank me. Just… don’t give up on yourself, Soni. Even if Hemant walks away, even if the world judges you—I’ll still be here, waiting on the other side"

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she reached up impulsively and brushed her fingers against his cheek—a fleeting, delicate touch that spoke louder than any confession. Then she pulled back quickly, almost afraid of her own boldness. Vikram didn’t move to catch her, didn’t press for more. He only gave her a look of quiet promise, one that told her she wasn’t alone.

With the gulmohar bloom still clutched in her hand, Sonarika finally turned and walked toward the waiting cab at the street outside the park. Each step felt heavy, but there was also something new beneath the grief—a faint, almost imperceptible thread of hope pulling her forward. Vikram remained where he stood, watching until the car pulled away and vanished into the morning traffic. Only then did he exhale, running a hand through his hair, the taste of her sorrow and resilience lingering in his chest. He whispered to himself. 

"One day… she’ll come back not just broken, but whole. And when she does, I’ll be ready"


Back in the cab, Sonarika pressed the flower gently to her lips. For the first time in days, her tears didn’t fall from despair—but from the fragile possibility that maybe, just maybe, a future could be rebuilt, even out of ruins.


SOME TIME BACK AT YOD INDUSTRIES


While Sonarika sat in that quiet garden, Hemant was elsewhere—inside his cabin at YOD Industries, staring blankly at the window looking at the green and silent corner of the Mumbai port. The city seemed alive, buzzing with horns, laughter, and urgency, and it was far from here but loud enough to be audible making it a unique blend of silence and chaos, yet his heart beat in a void where sound barely reached.

His desk was littered with untouched paperwork, contracts, and proposals. Normally, he would have devoured them, analyzed every clause with surgical precision. Today, they were blurred shapes, irrelevant in the shadow of the fracture inside him.

Kunal had left him only an hour ago after another friendly talk. Their conversations yesterday of confessions, drinks, and silence still echoed in Hemant’s chest. He had revealed everything—Michael King, the empire, the blood-soaked legacy buried under a new name. And in Kunal’s exhausted silence afterward, Hemant had seen the reflection of his own truth: he was no longer just Hemant.

But even knowing that, even baring his darkest history, he felt no relief. Only the ache of Sonarika’s absence, and the cold finality of her love slipping away. He wished the anger in him would burn away his insecurities and it worked ,  but it couldn’t burn away the memories: her face as she told him about Vikram, her eyes filled with tears but steady with conviction.

"She doesn’t love me anymore" 

He whispered to himself, as if saying it aloud might dull the sting. 

"And she never will"

The words made something in him collapse, but at the same time, something else began to rise. If there was no love left to protect, no vows left to honor, then what bound him anymore? What shackled him to loyalty, to chastity, to sacrifice? He turned to the shelves behind him where framed photos of him and Sonarika once stood. He had already removed most of them, locking them away in a drawer. Only one remained—a family portrait with Karan smiling brightly between them. Hemant touched the frame, his thumb tracing over his son’s face.

"For you" he murmured softly. 

"I will still be a father. That doesn’t change" 

But when his eyes shifted to Sonarika’s image beside him, his voice hardened. 

"But for her… it’s over. Whatever part of me belonged to her is dead"

That realization didn’t heal him. It broke him further. Yet, paradoxically, it also freed him. Like a prisoner whose cell door had been unlocked—not by mercy, but by abandonment. Later that day, Simon dropped by—his newly trusted business colleague and confidant. They sat together in the newly constructed executive lounge of YOD, sipping dark liquor for Simon and coke for Hemant under dim lights. Simon cracked jokes, talked about new ventures, but even he could sense Hemant wasn’t the same.

"You’re colder" Simon finally said, studying him with a wary eye. 

"It’s like the warmth’s gone. What happened to you, Hemant?"

Hemant gave a dry, humorless chuckle. 

"The warmth was an illusion. It belonged to someone who thought love could save him. But love doesn’t save—it destroys"

Simon didn’t press further, but he nodded slowly, as if he has gone through some serious emotional turmoil. In that moment, he saw not Hemant, the ambitious businessman, but a shadow of someone else—something sinister. He believed Hemant was falling victim to the side effects of doing business with the Mehta's as he too is engulfing himself in this dark business.

Before the evening, Hemant let Kunal drag him out to their old haunt—an Irish pub tucked in the lanes of Colaba. The familiar clink of glasses, the sound of old rock ballads from the jukebox, and the warm oak scent of the bar filled him with a strange nostalgia. Here, he didn’t feel like a husband grieving betrayal. He felt like the man he once was—reckless, sharp, untethered. The amber drink in his hand tasted different in this space. It wasn’t drowning sorrow anymore; it was fuel.

A pair of women at the bar eyed him, their smiles flirtatious. Years ago, he would have politely ignored them, claiming his marriage, wearing his loyalty like armor. But at this moment, his gaze lingered back. Not with hunger, but with a dangerous kind of curiosity. He didn’t approach them. Not yet. But in his mind, a door had opened—one that had been locked shut for years by vows that no longer held weight.

As time passed, laughter circled their table, Kunal already tipsy, Simon deep in conversation with another patron. Hemant sat slightly apart, swirling his glass, watching the play of lights and shadows across the room. He realized he wasn’t obsessed with Sonarika anymore. But there was also a realization that Sonarika will forever be embedded to him. Now whether she stays a wound in his life or something less painful is something he has to figure out. The ache was still there, a wound raw and bleeding—but it wasn’t pulling him back. Instead, it was pushing him forward, shoving him into the arms of a world he had once known too well. 

A world of glamour, danger, temptation, and freedom. A world where Michael King thrived.

He thought of Tamanna briefly—her long-ago crush on him, her innocent admiration. He thought of Pranitha too—the kiss she gave him in the hospital, unspoken affection in her eyes. And then of all the faces he had brushed past in Bollywood’s glittering corridors, women who once looked at him with curiosity, respect, and maybe something more. Before, he had shielded himself from them, built walls around his chastity because Sonarika was his anchor. But the anchor was gone, cut loose, sinking into another man’s ocean. He was adrift now, free—or cursed—to float where the currents took him.


His phone buzzed with a new message. Another invite—this time to a Bollywood afterparty hosted by a well-known producer. Normally, he would decline. Tonight, his finger hovered over the yes. He wasn’t seeking love. He no longer believed in it. But escape? Distraction? A night where pain could be drowned in neon lights, laughter, and perhaps someone else’s arms? That, he could consider.


And as the night folded into the promise of tomorrow, Hemant finally admitted something to himself he had long resisted: his life no longer revolved around Sonarika.


THAT EVENING


Karan enthusiastically asked Hemant for a trip to the beach. Hemant was reluctant but he didn't want Karan to be disappointed with this. The drive was quiet, filled mostly with Karan’s chatter about what he wanted to do first. Hemant’s hands stayed fixed on the steering wheel, his gaze unwavering on the road. Sonarika stole glances at him, her heart aching at the wall between them.


At Juhu Beach, Karan darted off the moment his feet touched the sand, running toward the waves, laughing as the salty wind whipped at his hair. Hemant followed slowly, hands in his pockets, his figure tall and restrained against the backdrop of the horizon. Sonarika trailed behind, her saree catching in the wind, eyes fixed on Karan’s joy.


For a moment, they were side by side again, standing shoulder to shoulder as they watched their son chase the tide. Neither spoke. The silence was thick, but when their hands brushed accidentally, Sonarika’s chest tightened. Hemant didn’t flinch, but he didn’t pull away either. Later, Karan begged them to help him build a sandcastle. Reluctantly, Hemant knelt beside him, pressing the damp sand into towers. Sonarika crouched on the other side, smoothing the walls with careful hands. Their fingers met more than once, each touch a reminder of the bond they once shared.


Sonarika felt it deeply—that intimacy in the smallest things. She remembered when they once built dreams together with the same synergy. Now, the sandcastle stood fragile between them, a mirror of their broken marriage. Karan was oblivious. He ran to fetch seashells to decorate the towers, calling his parents to admire his work. Hemant smiled faintly, clapping his son on the back. Sonarika caught the rare softness in his face, a softness she hadn’t seen in weeks. As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, they sat together on the sand, letting the waves kiss their feet. For Karan, it was bliss. For Sonarika, it was bittersweet. For Hemant, it was endurance.


Eventually, they returned home. The evening air carried the smell of roasted corn and sea salt, but the silence in the car was heavier than the waves they left behind. Anjali greeted them at the door, arms full of shopping bags, her cheeks flushed from her outing with friends. 


"Oh, you all went to the beach? I missed it!" she laughed. 


Her energy softened the atmosphere, and for a while, the house felt alive again. Dinner was wholesome—simple dal, rice, vegetables, but filled with conversations thanks to Karan and Anjali. They spoke of the institute, friends, and silly anecdotes. Hemant listened quietly, answering when needed. Sonarika observed, her heart torn between the comfort of family and the storm inside. After dinner, as the children settled in, Hemant turned to Sonarika in the hallway. 

"If you don’t mind… I’ll stay the night here" he said, his tone neutral.

Her breath hitched. She looked at him, bothered by the casualness of it, but also unable to protest with sincerity.

"No need to say that Hemant.....this is your house"


Later, Hemant emerged from the washroom, changed into a black tank top and soft grey pyjamas. The fabric clung to his frame, showing the well-toned muscles he had rebuilt over months of discipline. Sonarika caught herself staring—her eyes tracing the lines of his arms, his chest, his shoulders. She cursed herself for noticing. They slipped into bed, each lying on opposite ends, the silence suffocating. Sleep evaded them both. Finally, Hemant broke the silence. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay years of ache. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes" Sonarika turned toward him in the dark.

"What made him attractive to you?" Hemant asked bluntly. 

"What did Vikram have that I didn’t?"

The question sliced into her. Not because she hadn’t thought about it—but because speaking it aloud meant hurting him all over again. 

"Hemant…" she whispered, pained.

"Answer me" he pressed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

After a long pause, she whispered. 

"We found common ground in poetry and dance. We shared the same favorites, the same passions. That’s how it started. It was never meant to… grow the way it did"

Hemant absorbed it in silence, but then asked the most searing question: 

"Was he better than me? In bed"

"I won’t answer that" Sonarika stiffened. 

"Your silence says enough" Hemant chuckled bitterly. 

"No" she said firmly, turning toward him. 

"Don’t compare. Please. I’ll be honest with you, Hemant. You always held back with me. And I… I wished you wouldn’t. I craved for you to take me, to dominate me, to… rock my world. But you never did"

Tears filled her eyes. 

"Still, you gave me something Vikram never could—a deeper meaning to intimacy. You taught me that sex isn’t about power. It’s about sharing, about connecting. I was always satisfied with you… but I always wanted all of you. And you never gave me that"

Hemant lay still, her words echoing in his mind. 

"You never gave me all of you" 

It stung like no bullet or betrayal ever had. He realized that the good parts of himself—the passion, the wildness, the dominance—he had buried with Michael King, never allowing Sonarika to see them. Slowly, he turned his face toward her. In the dim glow of the night lamp, he saw her eyes glistening, searching for him. His voice cracked faintly as he asked. 

"Do you… do you miss what we had once?"

Sonarika’s lips trembled. 

"Every single day" She gestured around the room. 

"This room once echoed with our laughter, our whispers, our giggles, your grunts, my moans. It was alive. Now it only hears my cries"

Her words shattered the last of his defenses. Tears stung his eyes as he reached out, pulling her into his arms. Sonarika collapsed against his chest, sobbing into him, her body trembling as though she had been waiting for this embrace forever. He held her tighter than he had in years, his hands moving over her back with desperation. She clung to him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin, feeling again the peace she had lost.

When they finally pulled back, their faces were only inches apart. Hemant’s breath was ragged, his heart hammering. He stared into her eyes, and in that moment, he stopped fighting what he felt. He kissed her. Hard. Fierce. All-consuming. His lips crashed onto hers with a hunger he had never allowed himself to show. Sonarika gasped against his mouth, shocked at first, but then surrendering as the wildfire spread through her. She felt his tongue invade, wrestling with hers, his teeth biting at her lower lip. It was raw, it was wild, it was everything she had once begged for.


For the first time in her life at that moment, she didn’t think of Vikram. She didn’t think of betrayal, or divorce, or the ruin of her family. Her mind, her body, her spirit—all screamed Hemant’s name. She could feel his muscles tense beneath her touch, feel the inferno of his passion surge through every movement. It was as though the man she once loved had finally unleashed the part of himself he had locked away. She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands clutching his shoulders, urging him closer. The fire between them was undeniable, uncontrollable.

But then, abruptly, Hemant pulled away. His chest rose and fell violently as he broke the kiss, his face torn with conflict. Sonarika’s eyes widened, her lips swollen, her breath unsteady. 

"Why did you stop?" she demanded, frustration lacing her voice.

Hemant closed his eyes, shaking his head. 

"I can’t. Not like this"

"Not like what?" she shot back, her voice breaking.

He looked at her, pain etched into every line of his face. 

"Knowing there’s another man in your heart. I can’t give myself to you while you’re still his too"

Sonarika’s eyes flooded. 

"Vikram is not replacing you, Hemant! Don’t you see? I still love you. I still—"

"No" he cut her off sharply. 

"This should not happen. We made a choice to separate for a reason"

Her voice rose, trembling. 

"We didn’t make a choice—you did! You’re the one ending our marriage, not me!"

Hemant’s expression hardened. 

"Listen to yourself. Do you even hear how hypocritical you sound? You brought him into our lives. You betrayed me. And now you want to claim love?"

Sonarika sobbed, clutching her chest as though her heart were breaking all over again. 

"I know I’m messed up. I know I’ve ruined everything. But don’t you dare think I don’t love you. Because I do, Hemant. Despite everything, I always will"

For a moment, his eyes softened, but he forced the feeling down. He turned onto his side, away from her. 

"Don’t do this again. Don’t make me feel something that shouldn’t exist anymore"

"Hemant—" She reached for him, desperate.

"Go to him tomorrow" Hemant muttered bitterly. 

"Maybe he can satisfy the hunger you crave. Maybe he can give you the dominance you always wanted"

His words cut deeper than knives. Sonarika covered her mouth to muffle the sob that escaped. She turned away, tears streaming silently onto her pillow. And so, the once-loving couple lay inches apart, yet worlds away. Facing opposite directions, their tears soaked into the same bed—a bed that had once been their sanctuary, now their battlefield. Sleep came to them both, not as peace, but as an exhausted surrender after a night of love, fire, and sorrow too heavy to bear.


THE NEXT MORNING



Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, cutting through the heavy silence that had lingered after their bitter night. The smell of fresh parathas and tea filled the air as Sonarika busied herself in the kitchen, her eyes swollen from crying but her hands determined to carry the day with some semblance of normalcy. Karan bounded in, hair messy from sleep, his voice carrying the unfiltered cheer of childhood. 

"Mumma! Papa! Come on! Breakfast time!" 

He tugged at Hemant’s arm, who was sitting at the dining table staring absently at his phone. Hemant looked down at his son, a faint smile breaking his tired face. 

"Alright, champ, I’m coming" 

He ruffled Karan’s hair, and for a brief second, the darkness inside him lightened. Anjali entered soon after, still in her casual outfit from last night, stretching her arms. 

"Something smells amazing, Didi. You’re spoiling us"

Sonarika forced a smile. 

"Only because you all deserve it" 

She set the dishes on the table—hot parathas, a bowl of curd, pickles, and tea.

They sat together as a family, the four of them, just like old times. Karan, oblivious to the distance between his parents, kept chatting excitedly about the institute, cricket practice, and how he wanted to go to the beach again. Hemant chuckled faintly at his son’s antics. 

"Didn’t you drag us there just yesterday?"

"Yes! But it was fun! Papa was there, Mumma was there. I want more days like that" 

Karan insisted, stuffing paratha into his mouth. Sonarika’s eyes softened at the boy’s words. She glanced at Hemant, who avoided her gaze, but she caught the twitch of his jaw—the silent ache he tried to bury. Anjali leaned back in her chair. 

"Honestly, it felt like old times last night. Just us. Together. I miss that"

The words hung heavily. Hemant cleared his throat. 

"Life changes, Anju. But we’ll always be here for each other, no matter what"

After breakfast, Karan ran to pack his cricket bag, and Anjali got ready to head out with friends again. Sonarika lingered at the sink, washing plates slowly, her heart thudding with the dread of being left alone with Hemant. Soon enough, the kids left. The door closed, and silence returned. Hemant leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching her as she wiped her hands on her saree.

"You didn’t hold back last night" 

Sonarika said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, cautious, but honest. Hemant’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. 

"You’re right. I didn’t. And if I hadn’t stopped, I would’ve gone all the way with you" 

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead. 

"But the thought of you giving your love to another man… it messed me up. I couldn’t escape it"

Sonarika’s eyes welled again. 

"I don’t love him, Hemant. I… I do have unexplained feelings for Vikram, yes, but it's not love"

Hemant let out a bitter laugh. 

"Oh, of course. Not love. Just… what then? Obviously, he’s some sex machine in bed, isn’t he? That’s why you’ve got these so-called ‘deeper’ feelings for him"

She shook her head, hurt. 

"Don’t reduce it like that. Yes, he awakened something in me, something I didn’t even know was missing. I can’t deny that. But even with that, he has never replaced you in my heart"

His lips curled into a cruel smirk. 

"Your heart? Don’t make me laugh, Sonarika. Your heart is less a place of love and peace and more like a two-bedroom apartment complex. One for me, one for him. Maybe you’ll rent out more space if someone else comes along"

Sonarika staggered back as if slapped. Tears spilled instantly. 

"Why do you hate me so much?" she whispered, clutching her chest.

Hemant’s expression hardened into stone. 

"I don’t hate you. I hate what you’ve turned us into. I hate that I can’t look at you without seeing him"

She tried to step closer, her hands trembling. 

"Please… don’t push me further away. Last night—"

"Last night was a mistake" Hemant cut her off coldly. 

"I shouldn’t have stayed. I won’t do that again"

"Hemant…" Her lips trembled. 

He grabbed his bag from the corner, not meeting her eyes. 

"I’ll keep sleeping at the factory until the new house is ready. At least there, I don’t have to drown in this… mess"

Sonarika broke down, tears falling freely as he walked to the door. 

"Don’t go like this… please…"

He paused for a moment, his back stiff, as though torn between staying and leaving. But he didn’t turn. 

"Goodbye, Sonarika"

The door shut, leaving her in the empty apartment, her sobs echoing off the walls. She slid to the floor, her body curling in on itself. Maybe Vikram will be her peace, she thought bitterly. Maybe he can be her strength. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true. Deep down, she knew the difference between the two men in her life. And so she accepted the truth in her heart—she may never again find the peace she once found in Hemant. That place of safety, of unconditional love, was gone, and no one could ever replace it.

                                                                                                                                              (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                     (CHAPTER CONTD)

SOMETIME LATER AT THE R&J CAFE NEAR TANISHQ




The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass windows of the café, casting golden shadows over the wooden tables. It was the same place Sonarika and Vikram had stolen hours together during their affair—the familiar smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon pastries lingering like echoes of their secret past. Vikram was already there, sitting at their usual corner booth. He had chosen it deliberately, the seat that had once given her the comfort of being hidden from prying eyes. When he saw her walk in, pale and weary, he rose with a smile that faltered the moment he caught the dullness in her eyes.

"Soni…" 

He greeted softly, pulling her chair out. She gave him a faint smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes, and sat down.

"You look tired" Vikram said, studying her face. 

"Rough night?"

She looked down at the menu, though she wasn’t really reading it. 

"You could say that" Her voice was flat, carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Vikram reached across the table, placing his hand over hers gently. 

"Hey… look at me" She did, reluctantly, and he offered her the smile she used to love. 

"Whatever it is, you’re not alone. You’ve got me"

For a fleeting moment, warmth spread across her heart at his words. She squeezed his hand back, then pulled away to stir her coffee. 

"I know. And I do appreciate you, Vicky. Truly"

"Then why do I feel like I’m not reaching you anymore?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice. 

Sonarika sighed, staring at the steam rising from her cup. 

"Because you aren’t. Not the way you used to. Not the way he did"

Vikram flinched at the mention, his smile fading. 

"Hemant"

She nodded slowly, her throat tightening. 

"Even when he hurts me, even when he pushes me away… the emptiness he leaves behind is unbearable. You try, Vicky. You really do. You make me laugh, you listen, you care. But…" 

Her voice cracked. 

"You don’t fill that space. No one can"

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Vikram leaned back, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his composure. 

"So what am I to you then? A distraction? A… substitute?"

Sonarika shook her head firmly. 

"No. Don’t say that. I am still trying to figure out us, Vicky. You showed me a side of myself I didn’t know existed. And I love that about us. But…" 

She hesitated, searching for the right words. 

"You’re not my peace. Hemant was"

Vikram clenched his fists beneath the table. 

"And yet he doesn’t want you anymore. He’s made that clear, hasn’t he? He walked away. I’m here, Soni. I’ve always been here"

Her eyes softened, filled with guilt. 

"I know. And part of me acknowledges and appreciates you for that. But another part… the part that’s broken, that’s still crying for him… it won’t let me give you all of me"

Vikram swallowed hard, his voice dropping. 

"So you’ll keep me half-loved while you mourn the man who doesn’t want you?"

Tears stung her eyes. 

"I don’t know what else to do. I can’t erase him from my heart, Vicky. And it’s killing me"

He leaned in, lowering his voice, desperate. 

"Then let me help you forget. Let me be the one who takes away that pain"

Sonarika met his gaze, her hand trembling as she reached across the table, but her eyes betrayed her truth. 

"You can hold me, Vicky. You can care for me. But you’ll never be able to erase him"

His face fell, the sting of defeat sharp and bitter. He nodded slowly, forcing a smile that didn’t mask the hurt. 

"Then I’ll take what I can get for now. Because losing you entirely… would destroy me"

She closed her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her heart split again, knowing she was dragging them both through a storm with no shelter in sight. Vikram reached across the table again, this time not gently but with a kind of urgency. His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face toward his. His eyes burned with longing. 

"Then stop crying over a man who has given up on you. Let yourself feel what I can give you, right now"

Sonarika’s breath caught, her heart pounding against her ribs. The café around them blurred into silence. 

"Vicky… don’t" she whispered, though her body leaned instinctively toward his warmth. 

He moved closer, their faces just inches apart. 

"You say I can’t erase him… but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I just have to remind you that you’re still alive. That you’re still wanted. By me"

Before she could argue, his lips brushed hers—light at first, testing. A flicker of heat ran through her, unbidden, the taste of coffee and longing mingling. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a second, she allowed herself to melt into him. The kiss deepened quickly, Vikram’s desperation spilling through. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, his lips pressing harder, demanding more. Sonarika responded with a shaky breath, part of her craving the fire, part of her recoiling at the guilt twisting inside her chest. She pulled back suddenly, her lips trembling, her heart racing. 

"Vicky, no… I can’t—"

He didn’t let go, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot and ragged. 

"Why not? You want this. I can feel it. Don’t lie to yourself, Soni"

"I want the comfort… but not the intimacy. Not like this. Not while my heart still bleeds for him"

Tears pooled in her eyes. Vikram exhaled sharply, frustration darkening his features. 

"Every time I think I have you, he takes you back without even lifting a finger. Do you know how much that destroys me?"

Her voice broke, soft and aching. 

"And do you know how much it destroys me to feel torn like this? I am vulnerable to my core , I need time , to figure out which is my way and what is my future"

His grip softened then, his anger melting into sorrow. He kissed her forehead instead, lingering. 

"Then let me be patient. I’ll wait. I’ll keep holding you until the day you’re ready. Even if it kills me"

Sonarika closed her eyes, a single tear sliding down her cheek, staining the space between longing and regret. She leaned into his chest, inhaling his warmth, while deep inside her the emptiness Hemant left still echoed like a hollow room.



WEEKS LATER IN TANISHQ


The day at TANISHQ felt unusually long for Sonarika. Her eyes were fixed on her computer screen, yet nothing seemed to register. Every design, every email, every client call blurred into meaningless noise. Inside, she carried the heaviness of Hemant’s words, Vikram’s desperate kiss, and the unrelenting ache that seemed to define her days. By noon, her phone buzzed. A message popped up from a mutual friend: 

'Guess what? Ragini’s back in Mumbai! Landed last night'

For the first time in weeks, Sonarika’s lips curved faintly, though her heart was still heavy. She didn’t hesitate. She typed out a message: 

'Ragini, it’s Sonarika. Can we meet? I… really need to see you'

The reply came swiftly. 

'Of course. Come to my flat before evening. I’ll be here'


That was all the push she needed. Sonarika applied for an early leave, claiming exhaustion. The staff didn’t question her—she looked the part. By late afternoon, she was standing outside Ragini’s apartment door, her palms clammy. The door opened, and there was Ragini—warm-eyed, stylish as always, yet with the perceptiveness of someone who had lived through storms of her own. One glance at Sonarika’s face and she knew. 

"Oh, Sonarika… you don't look well , what happened?"

Sonarika’s lips trembled. The composure she had worn all day shattered in an instant. She stepped inside, and as the door closed behind her, she collapsed into Ragini’s arms, weeping softly. They settled on the couch, tea untouched on the table. Words poured out of Sonarika like a dam breaking. She confessed everything—the secret affair with Vikram, the nights of deception, the guilt that had gnawed at her, and finally the devastating confession to Hemant that had shattered her marriage.

Ragini listened, her face grave but calm. She stroked Sonarika’s hand occasionally, but when the confession was over, she spoke firmly. 

"I warned you, Sonarika. I told you to stay away from Vikram. You knew he was danger… and yet, you went headlong into him"

Sonarika raised her swollen eyes, desperate. 

"I know. I know, Ragini. But it wasn’t so simple. I… I felt something with him. Something that made me forget my ache , my incompleteness, even if just for a moment"

Ragini’s expression hardened slightly. 

"You can’t reason it away, Sona. Not with me. Because in my marriage, I was you. My husband cheated on me. And I remember how I begged for answers, how I drowned in humiliation. Do you know who stands in my place right now?"

Sonarika’s face fell, guilt slamming into her again. Ragini continued, her voice low but sharp. 

"It’s Hemant. The man who loved you, who gave you his life. And you are the one who tore his world apart"

The words stung, but Sonarika didn’t fight them. She bowed her head, tears dripping onto her lap. 

"You’re right. I’ve destroyed everything. I’m watching him drift further and further away, and I can’t stop it. I feel helpless, Ragini. Completely helpless"

The room fell into silence, broken only by Sonarika’s soft sobs. She finally looked up with pleading eyes. 

"I need help. I’m behaving so erratically… some days I don’t recognize myself. I need order in my life again. I can’t go on like this"

Ragini’s features softened. She leaned forward, clasping Sonarika’s hands. 

"Then let’s get you help. Professional help. There’s a therapist I know—Neha Bharadwaj. She’s brilliant, Sona. She’s dealt with complicated cases like yours. She’ll help you find some balance again"

"Therapy? You think I need that?"

Sonarika blinked, startled. Ragini nodded firmly. 

"I’m not saying it’ll bring Hemant back. It may not fix your marriage. But it will give you clarity, strength, and sanity. You’ve been spiraling, and you need someone neutral, someone trained, to guide you out of this mess"

Sonarika sat still for a long moment, absorbing the idea. Then slowly, she exhaled, her shoulders sagging in something close to relief. 

"Maybe… maybe you’re right. I’ve been fighting everyone, even myself. I think I do need someone to help me through this"

Ragini pulled her into another hug, gentler this time. 

"Good. Then trust the process, Sonarika. Trust Neha. She won’t judge you. And maybe—just maybe—it isn’t too late to save yourself from this pit"

Sonarika buried her face in Ragini’s shoulder, whispering shakily. 

"Thank you… thank you for not giving up on me"

Ragini stroked her back, her voice warm yet firm. 

"I know what pain does to people, Sona. But you don’t have to drown in it. You’ve made mistakes, yes—but now it’s time to learn how to live again"

For the first time in weeks, Sonarika felt something close to hope—a fragile thread, but a thread nonetheless. As Ragini held her, she thought: Maybe she can still find herself, even if she lost him.


NEXT DAY AT THE MUMBAI SUBURBS


The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender. Soft instrumental music played from a corner speaker, calming in tone, yet Sonarika’s nerves refused to settle. She kept adjusting her dupatta, her palms damp, her heart uneasy. Therapy. It was a word she never thought would apply to her. Neha Bharadwaj’s office door opened. A woman in her early forties, poised yet warm, stood there with a knowing smile. 

"Sonarika?" she asked. Her voice carried assurance.

Sonarika rose, entering the room. The space was minimal but inviting: cream walls, a plush couch, bookshelves stacked with psychology texts, and soft lighting that softened the edges of everything. It didn’t feel clinical—it felt safe.

"Please, sit" Neha gestured. 

"This is your space. No judgments here. Whatever you say stays with me"

Sonarika nodded faintly, perching at the edge of the couch. At first, her words were halting, but once Neha encouraged her gently, the confessions began to flow. She spoke of Hemant, the betrayal, Vikram, and the unbearable grief of watching her marriage collapse. Neha listened, hands folded in her lap, her gaze attentive but not pressing. 

"You’ve carried a lot" she murmured after a while. 

"But tell me—when you say Vikram gave you something Hemant couldn’t… what do you mean exactly?"

Sonarika hesitated. Her cheeks flushed. 

"With Vikram… it wasn’t love, not the way I had with Hemant. It was… intensity. Desire. A rush. He made me feel alive, wanted, powerful. Like every touch mattered"

Neha tilted her head. 

"And did this intensity feel new to you? Or had you felt something similar earlier in life?"

Sonarika blinked, her mind pulling back years. 

"Actually… yes. In my teens. My first love, Rocky. Back in Delhi. It was the same—wild, reckless, addictive. Everything about him was excitement. Our relationship was more physical, more… consuming"

"Interesting" Neha said softly. 

"And when did this begin?"

Sonarika took a shaky breath. 

"After… after an accident. I was sixteen. Meghna—my best friend—she was in danger. At our building complex near the playground. A huge metal grill was being lifted by ropes, but they snapped. I pushed her away. It hit me instead"

Her voice trembled as she recalled it. 

"I woke up weeks later in the hospital. Everyone was there. My parents, my siblings… even Rocky. I should’ve been dead, but I wasn’t"

Neha leaned forward slightly. 

"That was a serious head injury, then"

Sonarika nodded. 

"Yes. Doctors said it was a miracle. But after that… it was like something inside me had changed. I felt… different. With Rocky, I became bolder. More daring. Our romance turned more physical, and it was like I couldn’t stop seeking that thrill"

Neha’s brow furrowed, though her expression remained composed. She made notes, but carefully, not to alarm her patient. A head trauma. A shift in behavior.

"So this craving for intensity—did it continue into adulthood?" Neha asked gently.

Sonarika exhaled, pressing her hands together. 

"Yes. With Hemant, I had peace, love, stability. But when it came to sex , he always held back. I wasn't bothered at first as we were lost in the happiness and warmth of building and raising a family. But something inside me… wanted more from him , and it left me a little unfinished. Eventually I learned to live with it. Then Vikram awakened that side of me again. I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t resist"

Neha’s eyes softened. 

"Sonarika, I want you to understand something. There’s no instant cure for what you’re feeling. But this is not just weakness or betrayal. What you’ve described could have roots in something deeper. Therapy is a slow process. But if you trust it, you will see improvements. You’ll gain clarity, and maybe one day, peace"

Sonarika swallowed hard, her throat tight. Relief mixed with fear in her chest. At least here, she wasn’t being judged. She nodded, her voice faint. 

"I’ll try. I… I want to get better"

The session ended with Neha reassuring her. 

"One step at a time. I’ll walk this path with you. You’re not alone anymore"

When Sonarika left the office, her face carried the faintest trace of hope. She still felt broken, but she wasn’t drowning alone now. Once the door closed, Neha sat back at her desk, reviewing her notes. After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up her phone and dialed Ragini.

"It’s Neha" she said once Ragini answered. 

"I’ve just finished my first session with Sonarika. I need to share my observations. There’s something you need to know"

"Tell me" Ragini’s tone was tense. 

Neha’s voice was calm but weighted. 

"Her descriptions, her past, her compulsions—they suggest more than just emotional distress. Sonarika is suffering from Hypersexuality. Likely a complication stemming from her teenage head injury. This isn’t just about choices. It’s neurological. And it needs careful, sustained treatment"

"My God…" Ragini closed her eyes, heart sinking. 

Neha added softly. 

"But it isn’t hopeless. With therapy, structure, and support, she can reclaim control. She just needs time—and people who won’t give up on her"

"Okay Neha , I will look after her"

"And Ragini one more thing. The accident she described , I think there is something more to it"

"Like what?"

"People don't suffer hypersexuality from a hit on the head. Somehow or someone coerced her into an abundant sexual situation. It could be her ex Rocky or someone else. But I have a feeling , judging by what she said and I've analyzed. There is something deeper that is going on in her life and she is being manipulated or pushed to situations like this"

"Who could that be?"

"I don't know for now Ragini. Maybe as we continue the therapy we can find out. For now , lets give her some relief. I want her to recover in good health. But first I need to clear some doubts regarding her head injury. And for that , I need your help"

"Anything you need Neha"

                                                                                                                                                                   (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                               (CHAPTER CONTD)

SAME TIME SOMEWHERE IN MUMBAI



Tamanna’s insistence was impossible to refuse. 

"Just one evening, Hemant. Come with me. It’s a friend’s sangeet, not a courtroom trial" 


She teased, tugging his arm with mock drama. Hemant relented, half-smiling, grateful for her persistent warmth. The open-roof auditorium sparkled under a sky freckled with stars. Strings of golden fairy lights dbangd across the venue, reflecting off sequined sarees and glittering sherwanis. Laughter and dhol beats mingled in the air. For a long time, Hemant hadn’t been in the middle of such joy.


Tamanna walked beside him, radiant in her silver lehenga. The embroidery shimmered with every graceful step she took. Heads turned when she passed, but she seemed oblivious, chatting away, ensuring Hemant didn’t feel like an outsider among strangers. The sangeet had reached its lively peak—dancers swaying, relatives cheering, and the bride and groom glowing in the attention of their families. Hemant found himself surprisingly at ease, his lips curving into a smile more than once.

"You’re smiling" Tamanna observed, poking his side. 

"That’s already an achievement. Now I want more"

"What more?" Hemant asked, raising a brow.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. 

"I want you to sing. You sang at the alumni meet, remember? Everyone still talks about it"

Hemant chuckled, shaking his head. 

"Tammu, this is a wedding function, not my college nostalgia trip"

“Exactly! What better stage than this?” she pressed. 

"Come on, Hemant. One song. For me"


Something in her playful insistence disarmed him. Against his usual reserve, he agreed. The orchestra set their instruments, and the emcee announced a surprise performance. When Hemant took the microphone, the chatter hushed. He paused, then with quiet confidence began: 

Dhoom dhadakka ho gaya toh

Hosh saara kho gaya toh

Aaj keh de baat dil ki baawre 

(If there’s a huge celebration

If You lose Your consciousness

Just tell me what’s there in Your heart, O crazy one!)


The familiar rhythm pulsed through the venue, and the orchestra rose with him. Hemant chose the hit song number Dhoom Dhadakka from Namaste England movie , a song that can catch the vibe of a sangeet ceremony. Within seconds, the air was electric. Guests clapped to the beat, dancers twirled with more energy, and laughter erupted across the hall. Hemant’s voice, seasoned yet unpretentious, carried the song with grace.

The bride and groom joined in the fun, clapping and swaying, their families egging them on. Cheers grew louder as the sangeet transformed into a mini concert, all led by Hemant’s unexpected performance. Tamanna leapt into the dance floor, her silver lehenga shimmering like liquid moonlight. She danced freely, joyfully, her movements syncopating perfectly with Hemant’s voice. Her laughter, her radiance, it was magnetic.

For the first time in years, Hemant wasn’t haunted. He simply lived in the moment. His voice soared, the beat thumped, and happiness rippled across the crowd like wildfire. As he sang, though, his eyes found Tamanna often—her graceful twirls, her glowing face, the curve of her form accentuated by the lehenga. She looked breathtaking. Desire stirred within him, raw and undeniable.

It wasn’t love, he realized—not anymore. Love had been shattered within him, twisted into something unrecognizable. But attraction? That still lived. And Tamanna, in that moment, embodied it. The song ended in a storm of applause. Guests rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. The bride and groom clapped their hands together, showering Hemant with appreciation. He bowed slightly, smiling in genuine gratitude. Tamanna rushed up to him, still flushed from dancing, her breath short. 

"See? I told you! You were brilliant" she said, her eyes wide with admiration.

Hemant looked at her, really looked at her. For the first time since his marriage, he allowed himself to accept a truth: he was drawn to her, deeply, powerfully. Yet as quickly as the realization came, so too did his restraint. This was desire, yes, but not destiny. His heart, once capable of devotion, was scarred beyond repair. Love was something he no longer trusted, no longer believed in. Tamanna deserved more than a broken man carrying shadows of betrayal. She deserved someone who could take her hand fully, without hesitation, without walls. And Hemant knew he could not be that man—at least not now.

As the music resumed, Hemant exhaled, the taste of applause still lingering in the air. He let go—not for himself, but for her. Watching Tamanna glow under the fairy lights, he whispered silently in his heart: 

"She deserves better. She deserves a man who can give her the love I can’t" 

And so Hemant smiled, burying his turmoil under charm and composure, as the sangeet carried on around him.


NEXT DAY NEAR DHRISTI STUDIOS


The next evening, Hemant arrived at the familiar Café Veranda tucked into a quiet corner near Tamanna’s Dhristi Studios. It was their usual spot, a place that had become their sanctuary—away from noise, away from eyes, a space that felt almost suspended from reality. Tamanna was already there, seated by the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of cappuccino. She looked up when he entered, and her smile lit up her face—warm, unassuming, the kind of smile Hemant had always secretly loved.

"You’re late" she teased softly as he took the seat across from her. 

"I was beginning to think the applause last night had gone to your head"

Hemant chuckled, shaking his head. 

"No, nothing like that. I just… needed a little time before facing you again"

Tamanna tilted her head, curious. 

"Facing me? Why? Did I do something to scare you?"

He exhaled slowly, his eyes momentarily dropping to the table. 

"No. It’s me. I need to be honest, Tamanna. Last night… you looked gorgeous. More than gorgeous, really. And for the first time in years, I felt something. Desire"

She didn’t interrupt, watching him with calm patience. Hemant’s voice dropped lower. 

"But that’s the problem. I’m too broken, Tammu. Betrayal does something to a man. Love—it’s gone from me. I don’t trust it anymore. And when I looked at you, wanting you, I felt like… like a pervert. Like I’m disrespecting the bond we have"

Tamanna’s lips curved into that soft, knowing smile again. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her palm. 

"And yet, even when you confess this, the first thing you say is that you’re worried about me. That, Hemant, doesn’t make you a pervert. It makes you a good man"

Hemant’s chest tightened at her words. 

"You’re too kind"

"Not kind" she corrected gently. 

"Just honest. Look—what you feel, what you’re struggling with—I’m not bothered by it. If anything, it makes me see you clearer. You’re human, Hemant. And despite everything you’ve gone through, you still think about others before yourself. That is rare"

He studied her face, her calmness, her unshaken composure. 

"So you’re not angry?"

Tamanna laughed lightly, shaking her head. 

"No. Not angry. Maybe a little flattered, if I’m honest. Because the truth is… there’s some real compatibility between us. I can feel it in moments like these"

Her tone softened, confessional. 

"I’ve never fully moved on either. You know that, right? Dev… he was my everything. Losing him changed me. Even now, sometimes, the loneliness still claws in the evenings. Maybe that’s why I understand you better than anyone else could. You’re a single parent, just like me. And maybe that makes our struggles strangely relatable"

Hemant nodded slowly, a sense of relief washing through him. For the first time, someone wasn’t judging, wasn’t measuring him against impossible expectations.

Tamanna’s eyes searched his. 

"Back in college, I used to think of you as my dream man. Maybe it was silly then. But even now… Hemant, you’re still desirable. More than you realize. The fact that you came closer than friends usually do—it doesn’t scare me. It… excites me. It makes me wonder what more there could be"

Hemant swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"You really mean that?"

"I do" Tamanna replied softly. 

"But we don’t need to define anything right now. Let’s just… focus on what we have. Our companionship. Let it grow naturally, see where it takes us. No expectations. No chains"

Her words, so steady and unhurried, struck something in him. Hemant leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. 

"You have no idea how much peace that gives me. To know you understand"

Tamanna reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his hand in a gesture of reassurance. 

"I’ve always understood you, Hemant. More than you think. And maybe, just maybe, this time in life is giving us another chance—to write something new, even if it’s not called love"

Hemant looked at her, and for the first time, he didn’t feel guilt. He didn’t feel like a broken man chasing shadows. He felt… seen. Truly seen. And with Tamanna’s hand lightly resting over his, he allowed himself to breathe in that moment of solace. When they stepped out of the café, the city was alive with its usual hum. The lamps lining the streets cast a golden glow on the pavements, and a faint drizzle had left the air cool and crisp. Hemant inhaled deeply; the air smelled of rain-soaked earth and brewing tea from nearby stalls.

Tamanna walked beside him, her dupatta lightly brushing against his arm in the breeze. Neither of them spoke for a while. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was comfortable, the kind of silence that speaks louder than words. After a few minutes, Tamanna broke it gently. 

"You know, I missed this. Just walking with someone, not needing to pretend I’m okay all the time"

Hemant glanced at her, the softness in her profile illuminated by the streetlight. 

"I get that. Pretending… it drains you. With you, Tamanna, I don’t feel like I have to pretend"

She turned her head to look at him, her smile faint but tender. 

"That’s exactly what I meant"

They crossed the road slowly, the faint honk of a taxi echoing behind them. Tamanna adjusted her dupatta, and without thinking, Hemant steadied her by the elbow. The touch was brief, instinctive, but it lingered in both their minds. Tamanna noticed the hesitation in his eyes afterward. 

"Don’t be so cautious with me, Hemant" she said lightly. 

"I won’t break"

Hemant smiled ruefully. 

"It’s not you I worry about. It’s me. I’m still figuring out what parts of me are broken, and what’s left intact"

She stopped for a moment under a large peepal tree, the leaves rustling in the breeze. Looking at him with quiet strength, she said, 

"You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Just… let yourself be. With me"

Something about the way she said it soothed him. They resumed walking, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. At times, their arms brushed, and neither pulled away.

"You know" Tamanna said thoughtfully. 

"Last night when you sang… I saw the Hemant from college. The man who could make an entire auditorium fall silent, then cheer wildly a moment later. You were alive in that moment. I loved seeing that"

Hemant chuckled softly, shaking his head. 

"That was another lifetime. That Hemant was reckless, full of dreams. He didn’t know how heavy betrayal feels"

Tamanna tilted her head, her voice gentle but firm. 

"Maybe. But last night proved he’s not entirely gone. He’s still there, waiting for you to let him out again. And maybe this time, he doesn’t need to be reckless—just real"

Her words lodged deep in him, stirring something he hadn’t felt in years. They kept walking, passing by the glow of small bookshops and chai stalls. The world around seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them in their cocoon of conversation. Eventually, they reached Tamanna’s car parked at the edge of the lane. She turned to him, hesitating as if weighing whether to say more. Then she smiled, the same smile that had calmed his storm in the café. 

"Thank you for tonight, Hemant. You don’t realize it, but you gave me peace too"

Hemant nodded, his voice low. 

"You’ve given me more than peace, Tammu. You’ve given me something I thought I’d never have again… a moment where I didn’t feel broken"

For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, a quiet intimacy shimmering between them. Tamanna didn’t lean in, nor did he. Instead, she simply placed her hand on his arm and gave it a small squeeze—an unspoken promise of companionship.

"Goodnight, Hemant" she whispered, before slipping into her car.

As her car drove off, Hemant stood there under the streetlamp, his heart oddly lighter. For the first time in months, he realized he wasn’t carrying his grief alone anymore. And maybe—just maybe—Tamanna was the beginning of something he didn’t yet dare name.

That is when his phone rang. It was Raquel.

"Raquel what is it"

"Bhaijaan , I've found them. Ricky's killers"

There was a sudden switch in Hemant's demeanor. What was moments ago a relieved and cheerful face of hope now darkened to a brutal and cold entity.

"Where are they?" Hemant asked in a low and growly tone.

"They're planning at hit at London!"

                                                                                                                                                                      (CHAPTER TO BE CONTD)

[Harry Jordan]

                                                                                                                                     (CHAPTER CONTD)

TWO DAYS LATER!



Meghna unlocked the door to her Mumbai apartment, Disha following her, the faint hum of the city outside following her in. She set her luggage down when she was engulfed by warm arms. Disha’s fragrance—jasmine and sandalwood—wrapped around her. Soon it was Meghna's turn to take control. She moved her mouth lower, lips grazing the edge of Disha’s throat. She could feel the warmth of the other woman a hairsbreath from her lips and inhaled deeply - sweat and salt and jasmine.

"Fuck. Meghna" Disha whispered.

Meghna looked up at her to see Disha’s eyes closed, head canted back. She smiled before pushing the other woman back against the wall and burying her face in Disha’s neck. Disha felt the pain of Meghna’s teeth against her neck. She would have marks tomorrow but she didn’t care, she wanted to give in, to let her body be scarred by whatever this was between them. Meghna had pulled up Disha’s tank top and unclasped her bra. There was a desperate freneticness to the other woman’s motions - it was a storm Disha allowed to engulf her. At the feel of the other woman’s mouth on her nipple a wanton moan tore from Disha’s chest. She swallowed it down, the sound of it surprising her. Meghna’s mouth released her nipple and moved to her ear, breath hot as she bit Disha’s earlobe.

"I’m going to enjoy fucking you Disha" Meghna uttered.

The voice was searing with an edge of danger and Disha started to understand the violence in Meghna’s need. It caused the heat coursing through her body to rush between her legs. This she could handle, desire that wasn’t safe, something that needed her, that wanted her without regard for her feeling. It had been something she had done for most of her life to escape all the other emotions , and yet this time it felt like more than that.

She grabbed Meghna’s face with both hands and pulled their lips together, biting Meghna’s lower lip before kissing her hard, invading the other woman’s mouth with her tongue. Meghna pushed back, tongues fighting, invading, retreating as Meghna’s hands found their way to the band of Disha’s trousers.

Disha felt coolness hit the throbbing between her thighs as Meghna pulled her trousers down with both hands and slid a hand under the fabric of her panties. Meghna pulled back from their increasingly rough kiss to meet Disha’s eyes. There was a softness in them Disha hadn’t expected and she realised Meghna, for all her bluster, was checking for consent. Disha nodded breathlessly. Meghna watched intently as her fingers found the wetness between Disha’s thighs but Disha’s head fell back at the touch as she tried to bite off a moan. It was a strangled thing, the sound that erupted from her chest before being muzzled. She couldn’t stop her hips from thrusting on to the fingers Meghna slid inside her, wanting more, needing release from this unexpected torrent of need.

"Harder" Disha said, her voice cracking.

Meghna withdrew and Disha bit her lip to stop herself from the discontented whine that formed in her throat at the absence. The fingers returned, more of them, thrusting inside her without pretence. It felt perfectly, filling her as she continued to push herself on to them, wanting them impossibly deeper inside. She heard herself panting, felt the beads of sweat on her forehead, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to break apart to the fingers inside her.

Meghna’s thumb brushed her clit and she exhaled sharply at the touch - the too-much/not-enough pressure that threatened to take her over while being something she wanted to ride forever. The thumb returned in circles, slowly increasing pressure that was always soft enough to stop her from climaxing but hard enough to drive her closer. Pushing her closer and closer to an edge she couldn’t see.

Their lips met again, urgent, tugging them both toward the familiar gravity of each other.

As they stumbled into the bedroom, the city lights painted the walls in fractured gold. Passion overran restraint. The storm between them was not new, but tonight it felt fiercer, edged by longing and hunger. They lost themselves beneath the sheets, skin on skin, silence broken only by breaths that grew ragged and names whispered like prayers.

"Fuck you’re beautiful" 

Slipped from Meghna’s mouth before she realised she hadn’t kept it as a thought. Disha gave a small chuckle, a true and slightly modest smile crossing her face.

"I’m sure you say that to all the girls straddling you mostly naked" 

She diverted before leaning over Meghna again. Meghna felt the soft weight of Disha’s breasts press against her as Disha kissed her shoulder, a hand trying to squeeze under Meghna’s back to her bra. Meghna tilted her body just a little and reached her own hand behind and unlatched it. This last bit of exposure felt unexpectedly vulnerable and she had to force herself to ignore the panic and focus on the desire - wanting Disha’s touch on every part of her bare skin.


Disha met her eyes in thanks before leaning over again, tongue behind Meghna’s ear as she softly sucked a trail from there to the hollow above her collarbone, moving the bra strap and easing off the fabric. Bra thrown aside, she held Meghna’s breasts in her hands, thumb lightly skimming over hardening nipples. Meghna bit her lip, her hip bucking just a little as the pressure of Disha’s thumb on her nipples felt like a jolt of electricity between her thighs. Disha met Meghna’s eyes again, a smirk on her face before she leaned down and replaced one of her thumbs with her mouth, sucking on Meghna’s left nippled while her thumb continued to tease her right. Meghna bit harder at her lip as a moan seeped out, her legs wriggling beneath Disha in a useless attempt at relieving the pressure building between them. Disha switched nipples, her expression flagrantly devilish. Meghna pushed down the need to run, trying to ground herself in her body. Her body that wanted this. There was no need to think or flee. She could feel. She regrounded herself in her body. When she finally accomplished it Disha had moved down Meghna’s body and was starting to take off her panties.


Meghna could feel the cool air against wetness and huffed against another moan. She watched as Disha tossed her panties aside before meeting her eyes again, devilish smile gone as she checked Meghna was okay. The expectation of mutual trust in that small motion made Meghna’s eyes water.

"God Disha, do you want me to beg?" Meghna uttered, crass and deep.

It was a facade and by the small curve of Disha’s smile she knew it. And then Disha’s tongue was between her legs and Meghna couldn’t stop the groans, expletives and pleads as it found her clit and circled it infuriatingly - Disha’s fingers pushing inside her. Meghna had no control over her hips which bucked wildly against Disha’s face and hand as fingers delved deeper and tongue pressed hard. Released. Circled, pressed, and released. It was an excruciating dance and Meghna could feel herself getting closer just by the sheer pressure of Disha’s fingers crooked deep inside her. And then Disha took Meghna’s clit in her mouth and sucked.


The trail of nonsense Meghna had been uttering turned into a keening wail and her body arched off the bed as she climaxed hard, body rigid as Disha kept the pressure on. Meghna held on for as long as she could, the bliss trying to overtake her, until it did and Meghna fell back to her bed with an opaque whiteness floating before her closed eyes. It may have been minutes but eventually she opened her eyes to see Disha propped on an arm next to her, watching her patiently.

"Glad I didn’t kill you" she offered with a grin.

"Give me two minutes and you’ll wish I had… wish you hard… wish you had" 

Meghna stumbled over her words, brain still fuzzy. Disha laughed lightly as she laid down on the bed beside her. As the tingly edge of the orgasm retreated she turned to look at Disha. Goodie-two-shoe and vibrant woman in her life. But fuck she was beautiful and the way she watched Meghna with a patient warmth made Meghna’s heart swell in a way that was incredibly uncomfortable.

Tangled in warmth and damp sheets, Disha traced lazy circles on Meghna’s bare shoulder. Her eyes sparkled with contentment. 

"You’re glowing, you know. That trip must’ve been incredible. I can see it in your eyes"

"You’re half right" Meghna chuckled softly, her lips curving. 

"Half right?" Disha tilted her head. 

"I am happy… but not because of the trip" Meghna’s smile thinned, her voice lowering. 

"Then what is it?" Disha frowned, her hand pausing mid-circle.

"Oh....I'll let you know soon enough.....first I wanna see it with my own eyes"

"See what?"

"Destruction"

The word disturbed Disha. She looked at Meghna puzzled. Meghna giggled and responded.

"Don't be surprised Disha , I am no saint. Lets just say I have some evil plans. And one day , it will benefit you"

"Benefit me how?"

"Like I said , I'll tell you in time. First I need to see it with my own eyes. After that I will show you the truth"

Disha was a little unsettled by it. She was seeing a side of Meghna she never saw. As Meghna embraced her , Disha felt the strange feeling , that she is walking into a danger that might ruin her life as well.


SOME TIME LATER



The amber liquid swirled in her glass, catching the dim desk light in fractured glimmers as Meghna leaned back in her leather chair. Her office room, tucked within the confines of her lavish apartment, smelled of whiskey and burning wax. The half-melted candle flickered in the corner, its flame bending as if shivering under the tension hanging in the air. On the wall across her desk, an entire board was plastered with photographs—Sonarika’s smile caught mid-laughter, Sonarika’s profile in candid shadows, Sonarika cradling her son. Each image was a pin driven deep into Meghna’s heart, twisted until it bled hatred. Yet her eyes, half-clouded with tears, betrayed an emotion she could not admit even to herself.


'Why you?' 

She whispered, the words curling in her throat like smoke. Her trembling hand traced Sonarika’s photograph. 

'Why did you get everything that was mine? The life I should have lived. The family that should have been mine. You stole it… you, who don’t even know'


Her gaze drifted to another photo, faded at the edges—a younger Jagjeet smiling alongside Amrita, her mother. The image always cut deeper than a knife. A reminder of betrayal. A reminder that her mother had died at the hands of a violent husband, while Jagjeet—the man who should have saved her—let her perish. Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding as memories assaulted her. 


That day in Nainital, the cliff, the scream. Little Samhita, Sonarika's younger sister who was barely four , her tiny fingers reaching out, her eyes wide with terror, before a ten year old Meghna’s push sent her tumbling into the abyss. Meghna’s pulse raced. That was the moment her revenge was born, black and unrelenting. Yet even vengeance is not pure. It had been contaminated by a single act—Sonarika’s sacrifice. 


The accident. An incident that happened when Sonarika was sixteen and enjoying a wonderful time with her friends in the outdoors of her New Delhi house. And then as Meghna was plotting to exact her next revenge , it happened. A grill that was being fit at an upper floor lost its support and spiralled down. Sonarika seeing the danger , lunged. The way Sonarika threw herself forward, shoving Meghna out of death’s path, only to be struck down herself. The image of her lying unconscious in a hospital bed had haunted Meghna for years.


For weeks, Meghna had waited in that sterile room, watching machines breathe for Sonarika. Every beep felt like judgment. Every rise and fall of her chest was a reminder of the debt she did not want to owe. Humanity had clawed its way into Meghna’s soul that day, and she hated it. Jagjeet’s voice echoed in her skull. You are a curse. An omen. You brought this upon us. His words, spat like venom, carved scars that never healed. They became kindling for the fire inside her, reminding her of her place, reminding her that she was never meant to belong.


And then, when Sonarika recovered, she had smiled at Meghna with warmth. She had reached out, as if sensing something deeper, becoming a sister she had never been before. That smile—the damnable smile—made guilt fester. The murder of Samhita burned like acid in her chest. But hatred was stronger. It always was. Her revenge found new shape in Sonarika’s changed self. The head injury had unlocked something raw, primal. Her restraint dissolved. With Rocky, she became compliant, reckless, lost in desires she couldn’t control. Meghna had seen the cracks and widened them, pushing her into temptations, feeding her the poison of instability. She remembered every manipulated moment—the switched pills for her recovery, the staged opportunities, the whispered encouragements. Like a puppeteer, she pulled Sonarika’s strings, guiding her towards destruction. And when Rocky finally abandoned her, Meghna savored the bitter tears Sonarika shed. It was a private symphony only she could hear.


But fate had its own way of mocking. Meghna planned to entangle her with Subhash her boss in TANISHQ at that time. She cherished that plan to see how Sonarika's family will react when their daughter become the keep of an older man. But her plans crumbled when Hemant entered Sonarika’s life. His presence steadied her, gave her new purpose. Meghna had watched helplessly as Sonarika rose again, building a family, a life. The rage in her heart screamed louder than ever. And the striking similarities between Hemant and Javed's behavior only fuelled her dissent towards Hemant when Javed vanished.


And then Vikram appeared. Like a gift from the void, he became the crack in the wall Meghna had been waiting for. His affair with Sonarika was the perfect storm. It ripped through her marriage, shattered Hemant’s world, and handed Meghna a dagger sharp enough to pierce them all. Now, Hemant is broken , his body barely survived a stroke. Sonarika had confessed everything to him, her sins spilling out like blood. The news had reached Meghna, and it felt like the universe itself was bowing to her vengeance. She had broken them. She had finally broken them.


And yet, as she stared at the photos, her chest ached. Her tears fell silently, blurring Sonarika’s image. Why do you make me doubt myself? she screamed inwardly. Why do you still pull at a string in my heart that should have been cut years ago? The whiskey scorched her throat as she gulped more, trying to drown the conflict. She wanted to see Sonarika ruined, crawling, begging for breath. She wanted Jagjeet to watch his beloved daughter suffer, just as her mother had suffered. But deep down, the faint echo of sisterhood clawed for air. Her fingernails dug into the wooden desk as her breathing grew uneven. 

"No" she hissed to the silence. 

"She must suffer. She must know pain. There is no redemption for her… for me. Only ashes. Only ruin"


Yet another voice—fragile, treacherous—whispered from the back of her mind. She saved you. She bled for you. Could you not save her now? Meghna slammed her fist against the desk, silencing the thought, shattering the glass in her hand. Blood mingled with whiskey across her palm, dripping onto papers littered with plans. The red spread like an omen, like a reminder of the blood already on her hands. Samhita’s face appeared in her mind, innocent, terrified. The guilt strangled her, but vengeance quickly pushed it aside.


Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would meet Sonarika. Tomorrow she would look into her broken eyes and decide whether to twist the knife deeper or to… no. She stopped herself. There was no 'or' There was only vengeance. Her phone buzzed against the desk, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. She picked it up, staring at the screen, before pressing call. Her voice, low and steady, hid the storm raging inside her. 


"I’m back in the city. Tomorrow, I’ll see her. I’ll see how broken she truly is"


A pause. The voice on the other end was cold, commanding, almost serpentine. 

"Remember our deal, Meghna. Sonarika and Vikram must become a couplle. Do not forget what is at stake"

Meghna’s lips curled into a half-smile, bitter and tired. 

"Yes. I remember" 

Her voice shook slightly, betraying the conflict she desperately wanted to bury. As the call ended, she lowered the phone slowly, her hand trembling. Across several states state, in the gleaming towers of BajajCorp Complex in Gurgaon, Anjana Bajaj disconnected the other side of the phone call, her eyes narrowed over the skyline, pulling her own strings in this web of ruin.

But here, in the dim solitude of her office, Meghna was left alone with her demons. Surrounded by photographs, drowned in whiskey, and haunted by her own choices, she whispered into the silence, 

"Tomorrow… we’ll see if I destroy you, Sonarika…and the ironic part is.....there is no one that will save you from me!!!!"


FEW HOURS BACK IN AZERBAIJAN



The dusty road wound like a scar across the face of Mount Bazardüzü. Lai Tong’s convoy climbed in silence, headlights cutting through the mist, black SUVs crawling like armored vipers toward the village of Qamarvan. The mountain loomed above, vast and unforgiving, as though nature itself waited to pass judgment on the trespassers. Inside the lead vehicle, Lai Tong leaned back in his seat, cigar smoke curling around his sharp jawline. His eyes burned with arrogance and fury—the confidence of a man who had carved his way into the underworld with bullets and blood. His brother had been a shadow, but Lai dreamed of being the storm.



The convoy rumbled into the outskirts of Qamarvan. The villagers scattered like dry leaves before a gust. Mothers pulled children indoors. Men stood in silence, heads bowed, eyes refusing to meet Lai’s gaze. Respect, fear—it mattered little. What Lai wanted was dominance, not admiration. The Zarir Mansion rose from the village like a fortress. Its white stone walls bore the weight of generations. Its iron gates creaked open, and Lai’s men poured out, weapons flashing under their jackets. They moved with the aggression of conquerors, though the village air seemed thick with an unspoken warning. Lai stepped onto the gravel, his shoes crunching against the earth. He glanced once at the bowed villagers, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

"They know power when they see it" he muttered, as his men formed around him like shadows.


Inside the mansion, Daraaksh Zarir stood at the balcony, feeding pigeons from his palm. His calmness was eerie, his gaze fixed beyond the horizon, as though he had already seen the storm approaching. When his servant informed him of guests, Daraaksh nodded slowly, finishing his ritual before turning inward with deliberate grace. Lai entered the grand hall and paused. The place was dbangd in silence. Heavy curtains blocked out most of the light. Portraits lined the walls, garlanded with flowers. Each frame was a memory of power now reduced to death. The air smelled of incense and grief.

"A graveyard" Lai muttered under his breath, lips curling.

The doors opened, and Daraaksh appeared. His black kurta and white pyjama flowed with effortless dignity. His calmness was unnerving. His presence filled the hall without effort.

"Welcome, Lai Tong" Daraaksh said softly, his voice calm yet unyielding. 

"You carry storms into my home. Sit, and let us speak"

Lai’s arrogance burned in his smirk. 

"You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? Ricky Tan is gone. A Red Pole butchered in his own sanctuary. That’s what happens when anyone forgets the name Tong"

Daraaksh sat across from him, hands folded, his eyes like still water hiding an ocean’s depth. 

"Yes… bold. But the bold die quickly, Lai. You carved a message in Ricky Tan’s blood. But tell me—who was that message for?"

Lai leaned forward. His tone sharpened like a blade. 

"For Michael King. He needs to know I am coming"

Silence. Then Daraaksh laughed softly, like a man pitying a child who reached for fire. 

"Michael… is no man to taunt. He is ruin. He is war itself. He was named Michael by a priest, do you know why? Because he saw in him the Archangel Michael himself. God’s soldier. Sent to punish the wicked. And you think yourself his equal?"


SAME TIME IN SHANGHAI


Thousands of miles away, in Fengxin Town. Heavy booze and moans of prostitutes echoed at Lai's base near the sea. Some men were teasing the hookers , others were talking about their cold blooded work of bloodbath at Golden Yang hotel slaughter. And then the mood changed. The lights flickered. Then darkness swallowed Lai’s base whole. Music died, laughter turned to murmurs, murmurs to dread. Shadows moved. Boots scbangd floors. Someone cursed. Then a scream ripped through the dark.


Red suits flashed in the gloom. Blades hissed. Men dropped one after another, throats slit, screams cut short. Blood pooled unseen in the dark. The killers moved like ghosts, their katana strokes whispering death.


BACK IN QAMARVAN , AZERBAIJAN



Back in Azerbaijan, Daraaksh’s voice deepened. 

"My family mocked Michael once. They thought he was a man to be hunted, just another rival to be crushed. My father. My brothers. They underestimated him. And he destroyed them"

Daraaksh clapped his hands once. From the shadows, a wheelchair rolled forward. Gilshah Zarir, body burned, face melted, soul consumed by pain, emerged under the dim chandelier light. Lai’s cocky smile faltered for the first time. Daraaksh pointed at the portraits. 

"My father Iranshah. To his left, Raakin, my elder brother. To his right, Kamshad, my brother-in-law. Michael slaughtered them all. He left Gilshah alive… alive to suffer. That is Michael King"


BACK IN FENGXIN TOWN , SHANGHAI


In Shanghai, rain hammered down. Lai’s men fled into the open yard, the sea roaring at one side, the gates sealed at the other. Suddenly, headlights flared in unison. Howard Tsao. Vincent Ma. Sam Lin. Conroy Wu. Red Poles of the Triads. They stood in silence, eyes locked on the prey before them. Lai’s men steadied their guns, desperation etched into their faces. But confusion struck when the Red Poles didn’t advance. Instead, their eyes drifted past them—beyond them—into the storm.

Slowly, Lai’s men turned.


Lightning split the sky open. For a heartbeat, the world turned white. In that flash, a figure stood in the center of the yard. Alone. Immovable. A silhouette carved by fury itself.

Michael King.

His black suit was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead. In one hand, he held the Inquisitor, its blade gleaming wet. On his fingers, the Archangel and Garuda rings shimmered. In the lightning’s glare, it seemed as though wings spread from his back, shadow and light colliding into a vision of dread. In the storm, Michael King moved. He was fury and grace, lightning incarnate. His blade—the Inquisitor—shined in the lightning making it appear like a celestial weapon. For a moment, silence reigned. Even the storm seemed to pause. Then one of Lai’s men screamed, raising his rifle. The spell shattered. The massacre began.


Michael moved like a warrior fuelled with vengeance. His blade cut through the first man, cleaving chest from shoulder. Blood sprayed across the surface. The storm roared in approval. Another lunged. Michael spun, his sword slicing the man’s legs clean. He dropped, screaming, before Michael’s boot ended his voice forever. Guns cracked, muzzle flashes blinding in the dark. Michael ducked, his sword singing through the rain, severing limbs, piercing hearts. Each strike was surgical, yet feral. He was both  judge and executioner. The Red Poles watched. Silent. They bore witness, not participants—men who understood they stood before something beyond ordinary flesh and blood.



BACK IN QAMARVAN , AZERBAIJAN


At the Zarir Mansion, Daraaksh leaned closer to Lai. 

"Do you see? That is what you chase. That storm. That fury. Alone, you are nothing. But together, perhaps we can carve his legend into pieces"


BACK IN FENGXIN TOWN , SHANGHAI


In Shanghai, the yard was painted red. Michael’s suit clung to him, soaked in blood and rain. His face twisted with pain, fury, grief. He remembered Ricky Tan’s lifeless eyes. He remembered betrayal. He remembered everything.

Only one man remained. Michael dragged him by the collar, pressing the Inquisitor against his throat. His voice was a low growl. 

"Where is Lai Tong?"

The man stuttered, gasping. 

"Az—Azerbaijan… Zarir… Mansion"

Michael’s eyes burned. The name—Zarir—crashed into his soul like thunder. Memories ignited. A house aflame. Screams. Corpses burning. The Rustom family. His nightmares. His rage. With a roar that split the storm, Michael brought the Inquisitor down. The man’s body split clean in two, halves collapsing in a spray of gore. Blood splashed across Michael’s face, mingling with the rain. He staggered back, chest heaving, his entire body trembling with fury. He turned toward the sea, the storm raging in unison with his soul. He screamed—a sound not human but primal, the cry of a man reborn into chaos.


BACK IN QAMARVAN , AZERBAIJAN


Back at Zarir Mansion, Daraaksh slid two briefcases across the table. 

"A token" he said. 

"To remind you that we walk the same path, Lai Tong"

Lai closed the briefcases, eyes sharp, ambitions sharper. 

"Together then. Michael will fall" 

He rose, his men following, their boots echoing across the marble floor. Daraaksh watched them leave, lips curling into a smile both amused and sinister. Outside, the villagers dared not lift their gaze as Lai’s convoy roared away.

Daraaksh walked into the storm-drenched balcony, watching clouds gather. His phone buzzed. Daraaksh answered, his face softening. A woman’s voice purred across the line—Anjana Bajaj. 

"It worked" she cooed. 

"Soon my brother Vikram and Sonarika will be united. The plan moves forward"

Daraaksh chuckled. 

"And only good things await you, Anjana. You will have your kingdom. And I…" His eyes darkened. 

"…I will bring a man back from the grave, only to bury him again"

"Why?" she teased. 

"Why obsess over him?"

Daraaksh’s voice dropped to a whisper. 

"Because that is what Family is for. After all this is all a family business. And he has a big debt towards me , and I intend to get it back , piece by piece , from his life"


In Shanghai, Michael stood drenched, blood dripping from the Inquisitor. Rain washed crimson from his face, but it could not cleanse his soul. His rings glowed faintly. His breathing slowed, but his eyes remained wild—eyes of a man who had returned to the darkness he once escaped. Lightning split the sky again. In that flash, the Inquisitor gleamed like judgment. Water and blood dripped from its edge, forming a puddle at Michael’s feet.

Across the world, Daraaksh whispered into the storm. 

"Welcome back, Michael. Our war begins now"

Michael raised his head toward the heavens, rain lashing his face. His lips curled into a snarl, his voice a vow carved in thunder. 

"Zarir , Your Judgement Is Coming!!!"

And as storm and blood embraced, the stage was set. Two men, oceans apart, now bound by fate. Their war would not be a battle. It would be a cataclysm.

                                                                                                                                                                       END OF CHAPTER 21

[Harry Jordan]

Phew! That was a Lengthy Update!


Just to give you a quick Headsup Readers. I have a busy week coming so the next chapter might be delayed. Which is why I gave a lengthy update with this chapter this time to compensate the delay. However , if things go according to my plans then maybe you can get one in time. But there is no guarantees. For now , enjoy the recent chapter 21. I can bet many of you will like the tail end sequence and the Villain Reveal along with the Badass Action Segment. I initially wanted to stall that but what the hell , it was too good to ignore!


Anyways , hope you guys enjoyed this recent chapter and strap in as the ride will get only much more crazy from this point on!



        YOURS TRULY

HARRY JORDAN 

[RCF]

When she is with Hemanth, she says its a mistake
When she is with Vikram, she says don't call it a mistake, you have awakened something
When she is with Hemanth, she says I wish I never met a person called Vikram
When she is with Vikram, she says I do not regret us, you have shown me a part of myself that I do not know I have it.

Ultimately she says she loves Hemanth but she needs intense sex because she got head injury that made her nymph lol

Not even sure its worth to understand her anymore, This is a story where woman side characters are much more interesting than main lead. Tamannah has a grace and dignity that she is leading her life with a single daughter, Pranitha is a business woman and a diamond in the mud, Her family is sinister but she is as pure as you can get....Even Disha who is a mere secretary who knows some one's bad intentions when she sees one...Ragini, even Mouni who has done bad for her husband has a reason and was pushed into it by Kunal...Sonarika is worst of all...probably only better than Meghana.

The plot revealed so far tells us that there is a sinister plot to unite Sonarika and Vikram by his sister making him a pawn...So the ending would obviously be different than the plan, If they unite the plot would align with their plan so does this mean that Sonarika and Hemant will unite again at the end, I would rather have Tammanah or Pranitha become his love life, Ideally Tamannah as she has seen true love and knows its value when she lost it so would treasure it if she finds it again.

~RCF

[Harry Jordan]

When she is with Hemanth, she says its a mistake
When she is with Vikram, she says don't call it a mistake, you have awakened something
When she is with Hemanth, she says I wish I never met a person called Vikram
When she is with Vikram, she says I do not regret us, you have shown me a part of myself that I do not know I have it.

Ultimately she says she loves Hemanth but she needs intense sex because she got head injury that made her nymph lol

Not even sure its worth to understand her anymore, This is a story where woman side characters are much more interesting than main lead. Tamannah has a grace and dignity that she is leading her life with a single daughter, Pranitha is a business woman and a diamond in the mud, Her family is sinister but she is as pure as you can get....Even Disha who is a mere secretary who knows some one's bad intentions when she sees one...Ragini, even Mouni who has done bad for her husband has a reason and was pushed into it by Kunal...Sonarika is worst of all...probably only better than Meghana.

The plot revealed so far tells us that there is a sinister plot to unite Sonarika and Vikram by his sister making him a pawn...So the ending would obviously be different than the plan, If they unite the plot would align with their plan so does this mean that Sonarika and Hemant will unite again at the end, I would rather have Tammanah or Pranitha become his love life, Ideally Tamannah as she has seen true love and knows its value when she lost it so would treasure it if she finds it again.

~RCF

Well that is exactly why she plays with her words. This is her nymph side making her want it all. And I believe its perfectly in sync with the character. Sonarika in this story is a victim and she herself has no idea about it. She has always been at a recieving end for Meghna's revenge and she is unaware about it. And I wanted to explore a story idea where the victim is unaware of her enemies and finding her path. This is why Sonarika acts in a way and that reveal makes it make sense. The vibrant , independent and confident Sonarika was a result of Hemant's relationship and support. And even though Vikram loved that independent Sonarika , he is unknowningly turning her into that old submissive part. And the interesting part is , even Vikram is a pawn in this game as now its revealed Anjana wants Vikram to pirsue for her own ulterior motives.


The best parts of Sonarika is yet to come as the story will now transition to a chance of redemption for her. Not just towards Hemant , but for herself as well. So yeah , this new arc will start Sonarika to find her self and find her flaws and mold herself for the better. And that is exactly why characters like Tamanna and Pranitha are given better arcs because Sonarika now will have to advance to a character that evolves and grows from her mistakes and finds maturity and sanity to her character. 


In short , I don't intend for Sonarika to stay a victim the entire story. Like I said , there is more to Hemant and Sonarika that connects them. Both the characters will take their evolution in their arcs to next level from now where Sonarika fights to redeem and evolve herself. Hemant will be drawn back to Michael and end his conflicts once and for all. But do they have a future together? That we will have to wait and read as this new conflicts and challenges will change them further and eventually both of them will become different persons with different outlooks and perspectives. They can either move away from each other and find solace in knowing that it was good when it lasted and move on after the storm settles or they can find their way back together to form a bond that will be truly unbreakable in all sense.



Either way this is the start of their own "Wars" and they have to fight it and find themselves for both each other and their own individual future.

[RCF]

Understood, She can only go up now that she is at the bottom of the pit. War of lords, War of sisters, War for his love...Interesting lol

~RCF

[Speedy21]

So u gave a plot to sona character to rectify herself at what cost...does mk.accept her .even she redeem herself... Lie rcf said does she knows wht she wants at all!?.. i like tammu character class apart..she knows value of hemant..........

[Harry Jordan]

So u gave a plot to sona character to rectify herself   at what cost...does mk.accept her .even she  redeem herself... Lie rcf said does she knows wht she wants at all!?.. i like tammu character class apart..she knows value of hemant..........

That is the point of her character , Sonarika isn't clear in her mind on what she wants because her mind is not exactly in the best condition. Meghna has already damaged her to many extent. This is the point where Sonarika's character truly finds her path , she is in the bottom of her own hell now suffering. But this will also be an awakening for her , to find herself and find her true identity and heal from her wounds and mental scars. Even if Hemant accepts her or not , she can find solace in knowing that she is truly healed and learn from her mistakes to make her journey ahead in life.

[INDIANMAVERICK]

"PURE CINEMA"

Hey Harry,



As I mentioned in my previous post thanks for giving us this wonderful story.

I just finished reading, and I honestly don’t know where to start. My head is spinning with everything you packed into this story—the emotions, the moral dilemmas, the way you built tension and peeled layers off each character. I didn’t just read this; I lived inside it for hours. And now, I feel like I need to talk to you about everything that hit me, because there’s a lot.

Let me start with Sonarika, because she’s the gravitational pull of this entire narrative. You made her so much more than the cliche of a woman caught between two men. From the very first intimate moment with Vikram, you didn’t just describe passion—you described hunger and memory colliding. That line where she says, “I tried to forget you, but I remembered every time I touched silence”—that hit like a shard of glass to the heart. It told me right then this wasn’t about a fling. It was about something that had been echoing inside her for years, something unresolved.

And yet, the way you handled her guilt was phenomenal. You didn’t make her guilty in a shallow, soap-opera way; you made it existential. That nightmare sequence where the world of roses and silk collapses into the cold Mumbai hallway, where she sees Hemant dead and Karan hollowed out—I swear, I had goosebumps. It wasn’t just a dream; it was a warning, almost cosmic in its cruelty. And the detail—the cotton in Hemant’s nose, the divine lamp burning above his head—that imagery is going to haunt me. It’s as if you’re saying, “This is what betrayal births—not just broken trust, but broken worlds.”

Then comes her morning resolve. That scene on the couch, when she’s dressed in the blue salwar, mangalsutra back in place, vermillion on her forehead—God, Harry, that was such a gut punch. She’s not the same woman from the night before. The sensual goddess from Jabalpur is gone, and sitting there is a wife, a mother, a woman who has chosen the hard road of truth. When she says, “I am going to tell Hemant the truth”—I had to stop and just breathe. Because here’s a woman who knows this will shatter her life, but she chooses it anyway, not for redemption, but for dignity. That’s rare, and you wrote it like someone who understands what integrity really costs.

Now, Vikram. I love how you refused to turn him into a cheap antagonist or some one-dimensional “other man.” He’s tender without being soft, assertive without being toxic. That exchange—“Because I’m weak around you” and his reply, “No. Because you’re honest around me”—that floored me. You made him the mirror she can’t look away from, the man who reflects back the version of herself she thought was lost. And the way you ended his arc in this Story—with that quiet, aching goodbye at the terminal—oh man. That kiss. Not desperate. Not angry. Just reverent. A kiss that feels like both closure and a loaded promise. It’s like they both know the story isn’t done with them yet, but for now, this chapter is closed. That subtlety is rare, and you nailed it.

And then, Hemant. Harry, what a masterstroke this character is. When the Story started, I saw him as the archetypal good husband: loving, attentive, almost too perfect. And then you started peeling. First, through memory—the warm-water-bag story, which by the way, was such a brilliant way to show his quiet heroism without making him loud about it. Then through the intimacy scenes—where instead of making it just about heat, you layered history, tenderness, and the unspoken plea of “don’t let this be our last time.” That hit deep.

But the real earthquake? That Kala Chowk scene. Jesus. I went from admiring Hemant to fearing him in the space of a page. The way he dismantles Ranga and Sarang with surgical calm, the way he uses the meat shop like a butcher’s altar—it’s terrifying and poetic at the same time. “You went after a child”—that line becomes a death sentence. And then the crowbar through the throat? That’s not revenge porn; that’s character revelation. In that moment, we realize Hemant isn’t just a husband. He’s a man with a past soaked in shadows, a man who can turn primal when the code he lives by is broken. And then, the way you link it to Azerbaijan and the Garuda ring—it’s genius. The present violence wakes the ghosts, and suddenly the domestic frame cracks open to reveal a much bigger canvas.

And can we talk about that hospital resurrection scene? The rings on the tray, the almost ritualistic feel of it—Hemant lying there, silent, and then that shift when Michael King stirs again. I swear, I felt the temperature drop when I read that. This isn’t healing; this is a man stepping back into a skin he thought he’d shed forever. It’s beautiful and terrifying because now I’m asking: what happens when a man who loves like Hemant—and kills like Michael King—loses everything he anchored himself to? That, to me, is the spine-chilling promise of your next act.

The secondary characters—Anjali, Karan, even Meghna in her absence—weren’t just props. Anjali’s warmth, her teasing (“Jabalpur gave you a facelift?”)—that gave the family scenes texture. And Karan—every time he burst in with his innocent chatter, I felt my throat tighten, because that innocence is exactly what’s at stake. And when Sonarika looks at Hemant at the beach, thinking, “How do you tell the man who trusts you that you broke everything he ever believed in?”—that question hung over every scene for me after.

Now, the scope. Harry, I have to applaud you for this. You started with what looked like an intimate drama and then widened the lens until I was staring at a geopolitical thriller. That Shanghai massacre, the sword scene—the way you described the blade gleaming like a verdict, the vow screamed into the storm—that’s operatic, but because you grounded us in the living room first, it works. It doesn’t feel like a genre-switch; it feels like a destiny unfolding. And the antagonists—you only gave us glimpses (Dilawar, Rafique, Daraaksh), but the menace is palpable. It’s like you’ve planted landmines all over the map, and I can hear the ticking already.

Let me tell you what really stayed with me, though: the symbols.

 The rings. The Garuda, the Archangel—they’re not accessories; they’re identities. When Hemant burns his blood-soaked clothes and that ring glints in the firelight, it’s like a prophecy being fulfilled.
 The weather. The golden patio light, the monsoon clouds, the razor lightning on Sonarika’s flight home—it’s like the sky is always keeping score.
 And the locked room. When Hemant opens it and we see the weapons, the dossiers, the life he buried—that’s Chekhov’s armory on steroids. You know it’s going to explode, and when it does, the blast radius will be massive.

Now, if I’m being brutally honest, there were moments where the erotic detail almost drowned out the emotional beat underneath. Like, I loved that you showed the rawness of physical intimacy, but sometimes I wanted you to linger more on the psychological texture of those moments because that’s where this Story is richest. That said, those scenes did something important: they made the stakes visceral. They reminded me this isn’t just an affair; it’s bodies remembering what the soul tried to forget.

Harry, this isn’t just a story—it’s a whole damn storm system. You made me care about these people even when they were breaking things I hold sacred. You didn’t hand me heroes and villains; you handed me humans, messy and magnificent. And that last line—“The Age of Darkness Has Just Begun”—felt less like a tagline and more like a sentence hanging over all of them. I closed the site and just sat there, staring, wondering what the cost of truth and vengeance will be when the fire really starts. Then again when I opened it, it was here THE CHAPTER 21 my god!!!

---

 Chapter 21 – A Masterpiece of Pain, Psychology, and Human Complexity

I’ve read countless chapters across stories, but this one… this one didn’t just tell a tale; it ripped open the human soul and poured out its rawest truths. Chapter 21 is not just narrative—it is a psychological autopsy of love, betrayal, guilt, masculinity, longing, and survival. Every word pulses with pain, every scene breathes tension. Here’s my breakdown, character by character, and what it truly means beneath the surface:

---

 1. Hemant – The Man Who Carried Heaven and Fell into Hell

If love is faith, Hemant was its priest—and Sonarika burned his temple down.

From the opening breakfast scene, where he anchors Karan and Anjali with tenderness, to the silent implosion later at YOD Industries, we witness a man performing normalcy while bleeding inside. That moment where he lingers after the kids leave? That was not hesitation—it was resignation. He knew the conversation was inevitable. And when it comes—“Why did you need him?”—it is not anger, but pure existential pain. His question wasn’t about sex or betrayal—it was a question about his own worth. About the failure of everything he thought defined him as a man, a husband, a provider.

And then… the hallucinations. Oh God, the hallucinations. Those weren’t just images—they were manifestations of trauma and obsessive rumination. When the party morphs into a scene of Sonarika and Vikram’s passion, when the dance turns into primal lust on stage, it isn’t just jealousy—it’s ego death. Hemant isn’t imagining sex; he’s watching the annihilation of his identity as a husband, as “enough.” That’s why Meghna’s mocking voice in his mind is devastating—because it echoes his deepest fear: “She never belonged to you.”

Then comes the storm behind closed doors with Kunal—the confession of Michael King. That twist is monumental. For years, Hemant buried a violent past under layers of stability and love, believing he had escaped destiny. This wasn’t just about killing a name; it was about killing the man who thrived in chaos. But now—betrayal resurrects Michael King. Notice how Hemant says, “Love doesn’t save—it destroys.” That’s the pivot. That’s when idealistic Hemant dies, and pragmatic, broken, dangerous Hemant begins to breathe again.

And the bed scene… it was pure fire and ruin. The kiss was not romance—it was war. It was Hemant reclaiming what he lost, punishing her and himself, tearing down the wall he had built for years. But when he stops? That’s the last vestige of morality in him clinging to life. Because if he gave in, he would lose not just Sonarika, but himself. His refusal wasn’t weakness—it was the strength of a man who refuses to love halfway while drowning in betrayal. The moment he says, “Go to him tomorrow”, the venom is no accident—it’s his pride bleeding through broken ribs.

And finally, the psychological descent—when he goes out with Simon and Kunal, flirting with temptation, hovering over the abyss of Michael King’s world. That’s not healing—it’s a man slipping into a darker self, rationalizing freedom as revenge, mistaking numbness for strength. Hemant is not just a character anymore; he’s a case study in love curdling into nihilism.

---

 2. Sonarika – The Woman Torn Between Hunger and Home

Sonarika is not a villain. She is not an angel. She is something far more terrifying—a flawed human craving to feel alive.

Her confession is brutal in its honesty: “Because I felt alone, even when you were here.” That line exposes the psychological chasm in modern marriages—the absence in presence. Hemant was building futures while abandoning the present. And Sonarika? She was starving for now, for warmth, for touch. Enter Vikram—poetry, dance, passion. She didn’t fall out of love with Hemant; she fell into a void and filled it with fire.

The scene with the wedding photo and black dress is haunting because it reveals post-betrayal grief in its purest form. That moment where she whispers apologies to an empty room isn’t regret for cheating—it’s mourning for the self she used to be, the Sona Hemant loved. Her realization—“I traded devotion for thrill”—isn’t just guilt; it’s the birth of shame, and shame is heavier than sin.

At the garden with Vikram, she is raw, shattered, clinging to the man who gave her escape, even as her soul screams for the man she lost. Her honesty—“Not now. My heart isn’t ready”—shows that infidelity doesn’t always equal indifference. She still aches for Hemant even while leaning on Vikram. That duality is messy, real, painfully human.

And then the café scene… That was the quietest scream of all. When she says, “You’re not my peace. Hemant was.” That sentence alone dismantles every fantasy Vikram had—and it cements Sonarika as a woman trapped between passion and peace, love and lust, past and present. The tragedy? She knows she can’t have Hemant back, and yet she can’t give herself fully to Vikram. This is purgatory. And she built it herself.

---

 3. Vikram – The Lover Who Won but Still Lost

Vikram is fascinating because he’s both a savior and a sinner in Sonarika’s life. He gave her thrill, reminded her she was alive, gave her the poetry Hemant buried under cement and deadlines. But Vikram wants something impossible—a whole heart from a broken woman.

His dialogue at the café—“So what am I to you then? A distraction?”—is raw male insecurity laid bare. Because deep down, he knows the truth: he will never be Hemant. He can offer money, passion, promises of palaces—but he cannot offer history, cannot offer Karan’s childhood laughter, cannot offer the gravity of years Sonarika shared with Hemant.

Yet, Vikram’s persistence—his willingness to take “half a heart”—shows a different kind of obsession. He doesn’t want to just love Sonarika; he wants to conquer her grief. And that makes him dangerous—not physically, but emotionally. Because a man who accepts half today will demand the whole tomorrow. His line—“Even broken hearts can still beat, Soni. I’ll remind you every day if I have to”—isn’t just devotion; it’s possession disguised as patience.

---

 4. Kunal – The Silent Confidant, Bearing the Weight of Secrets

Kunal is the emotional ballast in this storm. His reaction to Hemant’s confession—“Michael King…”—is brilliant writing. That single whisper carries shock, fear, and awe. Kunal represents loyalty without judgment, but his silence now becomes another tragedy—because he holds a secret that could either destroy Sonarika or redeem her understanding of Hemant. His line—“You’ll never be alone as long as I’m breathing”—isn’t just friendship; it’s a vow forged in fire. And in a world where everyone else is breaking promises, Kunal keeping his might be the only pure thing left.

---

 The Psychology of This Chapter

Hemant is suffering not just heartbreak but a full-blown identity collapse. His hallucinations are classic PTSD symptoms triggered by betrayal—a wound science says the brain processes like physical pain.
Sonarika is caught in cognitive dissonance—she wanted passion without losing peace, but now, having both cost her everything, she is spiraling into self-contempt masked as longing.
Hemant’s need to reclaim dominance in bed before pulling away is not lust—it’s about power, worth, and reclaiming self-esteem after emasculation.
Vikram’s obsession with being the “healer” stems from savior complex—and that will likely turn toxic as Hemant walks toward his darker side.

---


This chapter is not just storytelling. It is an anatomy of love at its ugliest, loyalty at its weakest, and desire at its most dangerous. It shows us that betrayal isn’t a single act—it’s a chain reaction of unmet needs, unspoken words, and unhealed wounds. The beauty of this chapter lies in its refusal to offer clean answers. There are no heroes here. No villains. Just broken people trying to survive their own choices.

If love built this house, betrayal set it on fire—and now we’re watching the ashes form something unrecognizable.

Bravo. Truly. This chapter doesn’t just deserve praise—it deserves to be studied.

---

Thank you for writing this. Thank you for writing them. I cannot wait to see what you do next, because if this is Act One, the world isn’t ready for Act Two.



Yours Truly With Love
Mav

[Harry Jordan]

"PURE CINEMA"

Hey Harry,



As I mentioned in my previous post thanks for giving us this wonderful story.


Thank you for writing this. Thank you for writing them. I cannot wait to see what you do next, because if this is Act One, the world isn’t ready for Act Two.



Yours Truly With Love
Mav

Thank you for your kind words Mav. I appreciate that you love my story so far. I definitely promise a dramatic and thrilling ride ahead in the future! 


         With Regards

 HARRY JORDAN 

[EPLOVER4U]

When she is with Hemanth, she says its a mistake
When she is with Vikram, she says don't call it a mistake, you have awakened something
When she is with Hemanth, she says I wish I never met a person called Vikram
When she is with Vikram, she says I do not regret us, you have shown me a part of myself that I do not know I have it.

Ultimately she says she loves Hemanth but she needs intense sex because she got head injury that made her nymph lol

[quote pid='6017069' dateline='1756052244']
totally agree with you here, i thought harry will give or try to give the reason of her understanding of her own self by her own resolve yes little bit help from others but the head injury is just lol...
[/quote]

Not even sure its worth to understand her anymore, This is a story where woman side characters are much more interesting than main lead. Tamannah has a grace and dignity that she is leading her life with a single daughter, Pranitha is a business woman and a diamond in the mud, Her family is sinister but she is as pure as you can get....Even Disha who is a mere secretary who knows some one's bad intentions when she sees one...Ragini, even Mouni who has done bad for her husband has a reason and was pushed into it by Kunal...Sonarika is worst of all...probably only better than Meghana.

The plot revealed so far tells us that there is a sinister plot to unite Sonarika and Vikram by his sister making him a pawn...So the ending would obviously be different than the plan, If they unite the plot would align with their plan so does this mean that Sonarika and Hemant will unite again at the end, I would rather have Tammanah or Pranitha become his love life, Ideally Tamannah as she has seen true love and knows its value when she lost it so would treasure it if she finds it again.

~RCF

Well that is exactly why she plays with her words. This is her nymph side making her want it all. And I believe its perfectly in sync with the character. Sonarika in this story is a victim and she herself has no idea about it. She has always been at a recieving end for Meghna's revenge and she is unaware about it. And I wanted to explore a story idea where the victim is unaware of her enemies and finding her path. This is why Sonarika acts in a way and that reveal makes it make sense. The vibrant , independent and confident Sonarika was a result of Hemant's relationship and support. And even though Vikram loved that independent Sonarika , he is unknowningly turning her into that old submissive part. And the interesting part is , even Vikram is a pawn in this game as now its revealed Anjana wants Vikram to pirsue for her own ulterior motives.


The best parts of Sonarika is yet to come as the story will now transition to a chance of redemption for her. Not just towards Hemant , but for herself as well. So yeah , this new arc will start Sonarika to find her self and find her flaws and mold herself for the better. And that is exactly why characters like Tamanna and Pranitha are given better arcs because Sonarika now will have to advance to a character that evolves and grows from her mistakes and finds maturity and sanity to her character. 


In short , I don't intend for Sonarika to stay a victim the entire story. Like I said , there is more to Hemant and Sonarika that connects them. Both the characters will take their evolution in their arcs to next level from now where Sonarika fights to redeem and evolve herself. Hemant will be drawn back to Michael and end his conflicts once and for all. But do they have a future together? That we will have to wait and read as this new conflicts and challenges will change them further and eventually both of them will become different persons with different outlooks and perspectives. They can either move away from each other and find solace in knowing that it was good when it lasted and move on after the storm settles or they can find their way back together to form a bond that will be truly unbreakable in all sense.



Either way this is the start of their own "Wars" and they have to fight it and find themselves for both each other and their own individual future.

So u gave a plot to sona character to rectify herself   at what cost...does mk.accept her .even she  redeem herself... Lie rcf said does she knows wht she wants at all!?.. i like tammu character class apart..she knows value of hemant..........

That is the point of her character , Sonarika isn't clear in her mind on what she wants because her mind is not exactly in the best condition. Meghna has already damaged her to many extent. This is the point where Sonarika's character truly finds her path , she is in the bottom of her own hell now suffering. But this will also be an awakening for her , to find herself and find her true identity and heal from her wounds and mental scars. Even if Hemant accepts her or not , she can find solace in knowing that she is truly healed and learn from her mistakes to make her journey ahead in life.

Harry honestly you just stretched it bro, the reasoning that you had given on Sona nature personally i.... no words man just no words. I hope for better reasoning yes agree with your point of her been victim but the way you are trying to do it just just but at the end it is yours so as a reader i must bear it in the hope of good situation folding

regards Ep

you are also doing the samething that krish tried to do in his story with krish meera, man i was on different horse i thought she was like this from inside, but you put the manipulative or influenced on her to be like this is just destroy the sona shit shit

[EPLOVER4U]

"PURE CINEMA"

Hey Harry,



As I mentioned in my previous post thanks for giving us this wonderful story.

I just finished reading, and I honestly don’t know where to start. My head is spinning with everything you packed into this story—the emotions, the moral dilemmas, the way you built tension and peeled layers off each character. I didn’t just read this; I lived inside it for hours. And now, I feel like I need to talk to you about everything that hit me, because there’s a lot.

Let me start with Sonarika, because she’s the gravitational pull of this entire narrative. You made her so much more than the cliche of a woman caught between two men. From the very first intimate moment with Vikram, you didn’t just describe passion—you described hunger and memory colliding. That line where she says, “I tried to forget you, but I remembered every time I touched silence”—that hit like a shard of glass to the heart. It told me right then this wasn’t about a fling. It was about something that had been echoing inside her for years, something unresolved.

And yet, the way you handled her guilt was phenomenal. You didn’t make her guilty in a shallow, soap-opera way; you made it existential. That nightmare sequence where the world of roses and silk collapses into the cold Mumbai hallway, where she sees Hemant dead and Karan hollowed out—I swear, I had goosebumps. It wasn’t just a dream; it was a warning, almost cosmic in its cruelty. And the detail—the cotton in Hemant’s nose, the divine lamp burning above his head—that imagery is going to haunt me. It’s as if you’re saying, “This is what betrayal births—not just broken trust, but broken worlds.”

Then comes her morning resolve. That scene on the couch, when she’s dressed in the blue salwar, mangalsutra back in place, vermillion on her forehead—God, Harry, that was such a gut punch. She’s not the same woman from the night before. The sensual goddess from Jabalpur is gone, and sitting there is a wife, a mother, a woman who has chosen the hard road of truth. When she says, “I am going to tell Hemant the truth”—I had to stop and just breathe. Because here’s a woman who knows this will shatter her life, but she chooses it anyway, not for redemption, but for dignity. That’s rare, and you wrote it like someone who understands what integrity really costs.

Now, Vikram. I love how you refused to turn him into a cheap antagonist or some one-dimensional “other man.” He’s tender without being soft, assertive without being toxic. That exchange—“Because I’m weak around you” and his reply, “No. Because you’re honest around me”—that floored me. You made him the mirror she can’t look away from, the man who reflects back the version of herself she thought was lost. And the way you ended his arc in this Story—with that quiet, aching goodbye at the terminal—oh man. That kiss. Not desperate. Not angry. Just reverent. A kiss that feels like both closure and a loaded promise. It’s like they both know the story isn’t done with them yet, but for now, this chapter is closed. That subtlety is rare, and you nailed it.

And then, Hemant. Harry, what a masterstroke this character is. When the Story started, I saw him as the archetypal good husband: loving, attentive, almost too perfect. And then you started peeling. First, through memory—the warm-water-bag story, which by the way, was such a brilliant way to show his quiet heroism without making him loud about it. Then through the intimacy scenes—where instead of making it just about heat, you layered history, tenderness, and the unspoken plea of “don’t let this be our last time.” That hit deep.

But the real earthquake? That Kala Chowk scene. Jesus. I went from admiring Hemant to fearing him in the space of a page. The way he dismantles Ranga and Sarang with surgical calm, the way he uses the meat shop like a butcher’s altar—it’s terrifying and poetic at the same time. “You went after a child”—that line becomes a death sentence. And then the crowbar through the throat? That’s not revenge porn; that’s character revelation. In that moment, we realize Hemant isn’t just a husband. He’s a man with a past soaked in shadows, a man who can turn primal when the code he lives by is broken. And then, the way you link it to Azerbaijan and the Garuda ring—it’s genius. The present violence wakes the ghosts, and suddenly the domestic frame cracks open to reveal a much bigger canvas.

And can we talk about that hospital resurrection scene? The rings on the tray, the almost ritualistic feel of it—Hemant lying there, silent, and then that shift when Michael King stirs again. I swear, I felt the temperature drop when I read that. This isn’t healing; this is a man stepping back into a skin he thought he’d shed forever. It’s beautiful and terrifying because now I’m asking: what happens when a man who loves like Hemant—and kills like Michael King—loses everything he anchored himself to? That, to me, is the spine-chilling promise of your next act.

The secondary characters—Anjali, Karan, even Meghna in her absence—weren’t just props. Anjali’s warmth, her teasing (“Jabalpur gave you a facelift?”)—that gave the family scenes texture. And Karan—every time he burst in with his innocent chatter, I felt my throat tighten, because that innocence is exactly what’s at stake. And when Sonarika looks at Hemant at the beach, thinking, “How do you tell the man who trusts you that you broke everything he ever believed in?”—that question hung over every scene for me after.

Now, the scope. Harry, I have to applaud you for this. You started with what looked like an intimate drama and then widened the lens until I was staring at a geopolitical thriller. That Shanghai massacre, the sword scene—the way you described the blade gleaming like a verdict, the vow screamed into the storm—that’s operatic, but because you grounded us in the living room first, it works. It doesn’t feel like a genre-switch; it feels like a destiny unfolding. And the antagonists—you only gave us glimpses (Dilawar, Rafique, Daraaksh), but the menace is palpable. It’s like you’ve planted landmines all over the map, and I can hear the ticking already.

Let me tell you what really stayed with me, though: the symbols.

 The rings. The Garuda, the Archangel—they’re not accessories; they’re identities. When Hemant burns his blood-soaked clothes and that ring glints in the firelight, it’s like a prophecy being fulfilled.
 The weather. The golden patio light, the monsoon clouds, the razor lightning on Sonarika’s flight home—it’s like the sky is always keeping score.
 And the locked room. When Hemant opens it and we see the weapons, the dossiers, the life he buried—that’s Chekhov’s armory on steroids. You know it’s going to explode, and when it does, the blast radius will be massive.

Now, if I’m being brutally honest, there were moments where the erotic detail almost drowned out the emotional beat underneath. Like, I loved that you showed the rawness of physical intimacy, but sometimes I wanted you to linger more on the psychological texture of those moments because that’s where this Story is richest. That said, those scenes did something important: they made the stakes visceral. They reminded me this isn’t just an affair; it’s bodies remembering what the soul tried to forget.

Harry, this isn’t just a story—it’s a whole damn storm system. You made me care about these people even when they were breaking things I hold sacred. You didn’t hand me heroes and villains; you handed me humans, messy and magnificent. And that last line—“The Age of Darkness Has Just Begun”—felt less like a tagline and more like a sentence hanging over all of them. I closed the site and just sat there, staring, wondering what the cost of truth and vengeance will be when the fire really starts. Then again when I opened it, it was here THE CHAPTER 21 my god!!!

---

 Chapter 21 – A Masterpiece of Pain, Psychology, and Human Complexity

I’ve read countless chapters across stories, but this one… this one didn’t just tell a tale; it ripped open the human soul and poured out its rawest truths. Chapter 21 is not just narrative—it is a psychological autopsy of love, betrayal, guilt, masculinity, longing, and survival. Every word pulses with pain, every scene breathes tension. Here’s my breakdown, character by character, and what it truly means beneath the surface:

---

 1. Hemant – The Man Who Carried Heaven and Fell into Hell

If love is faith, Hemant was its priest—and Sonarika burned his temple down.

From the opening breakfast scene, where he anchors Karan and Anjali with tenderness, to the silent implosion later at YOD Industries, we witness a man performing normalcy while bleeding inside. That moment where he lingers after the kids leave? That was not hesitation—it was resignation. He knew the conversation was inevitable. And when it comes—“Why did you need him?”—it is not anger, but pure existential pain. His question wasn’t about sex or betrayal—it was a question about his own worth. About the failure of everything he thought defined him as a man, a husband, a provider.

And then… the hallucinations. Oh God, the hallucinations. Those weren’t just images—they were manifestations of trauma and obsessive rumination. When the party morphs into a scene of Sonarika and Vikram’s passion, when the dance turns into primal lust on stage, it isn’t just jealousy—it’s ego death. Hemant isn’t imagining sex; he’s watching the annihilation of his identity as a husband, as “enough.” That’s why Meghna’s mocking voice in his mind is devastating—because it echoes his deepest fear: “She never belonged to you.”

Then comes the storm behind closed doors with Kunal—the confession of Michael King. That twist is monumental. For years, Hemant buried a violent past under layers of stability and love, believing he had escaped destiny. This wasn’t just about killing a name; it was about killing the man who thrived in chaos. But now—betrayal resurrects Michael King. Notice how Hemant says, “Love doesn’t save—it destroys.” That’s the pivot. That’s when idealistic Hemant dies, and pragmatic, broken, dangerous Hemant begins to breathe again.

And the bed scene… it was pure fire and ruin. The kiss was not romance—it was war. It was Hemant reclaiming what he lost, punishing her and himself, tearing down the wall he had built for years. But when he stops? That’s the last vestige of morality in him clinging to life. Because if he gave in, he would lose not just Sonarika, but himself. His refusal wasn’t weakness—it was the strength of a man who refuses to love halfway while drowning in betrayal. The moment he says, “Go to him tomorrow”, the venom is no accident—it’s his pride bleeding through broken ribs.

And finally, the psychological descent—when he goes out with Simon and Kunal, flirting with temptation, hovering over the abyss of Michael King’s world. That’s not healing—it’s a man slipping into a darker self, rationalizing freedom as revenge, mistaking numbness for strength. Hemant is not just a character anymore; he’s a case study in love curdling into nihilism.

---

 2. Sonarika – The Woman Torn Between Hunger and Home

Sonarika is not a villain. She is not an angel. She is something far more terrifying—a flawed human craving to feel alive.

Her confession is brutal in its honesty: “Because I felt alone, even when you were here.” That line exposes the psychological chasm in modern marriages—the absence in presence. Hemant was building futures while abandoning the present. And Sonarika? She was starving for now, for warmth, for touch. Enter Vikram—poetry, dance, passion. She didn’t fall out of love with Hemant; she fell into a void and filled it with fire.

The scene with the wedding photo and black dress is haunting because it reveals post-betrayal grief in its purest form. That moment where she whispers apologies to an empty room isn’t regret for cheating—it’s mourning for the self she used to be, the Sona Hemant loved. Her realization—“I traded devotion for thrill”—isn’t just guilt; it’s the birth of shame, and shame is heavier than sin.

At the garden with Vikram, she is raw, shattered, clinging to the man who gave her escape, even as her soul screams for the man she lost. Her honesty—“Not now. My heart isn’t ready”—shows that infidelity doesn’t always equal indifference. She still aches for Hemant even while leaning on Vikram. That duality is messy, real, painfully human.

And then the café scene… That was the quietest scream of all. When she says, “You’re not my peace. Hemant was.” That sentence alone dismantles every fantasy Vikram had—and it cements Sonarika as a woman trapped between passion and peace, love and lust, past and present. The tragedy? She knows she can’t have Hemant back, and yet she can’t give herself fully to Vikram. This is purgatory. And she built it herself.

---

 3. Vikram – The Lover Who Won but Still Lost

Vikram is fascinating because he’s both a savior and a sinner in Sonarika’s life. He gave her thrill, reminded her she was alive, gave her the poetry Hemant buried under cement and deadlines. But Vikram wants something impossible—a whole heart from a broken woman.

His dialogue at the café—“So what am I to you then? A distraction?”—is raw male insecurity laid bare. Because deep down, he knows the truth: he will never be Hemant. He can offer money, passion, promises of palaces—but he cannot offer history, cannot offer Karan’s childhood laughter, cannot offer the gravity of years Sonarika shared with Hemant.

Yet, Vikram’s persistence—his willingness to take “half a heart”—shows a different kind of obsession. He doesn’t want to just love Sonarika; he wants to conquer her grief. And that makes him dangerous—not physically, but emotionally. Because a man who accepts half today will demand the whole tomorrow. His line—“Even broken hearts can still beat, Soni. I’ll remind you every day if I have to”—isn’t just devotion; it’s possession disguised as patience.

---

 4. Kunal – The Silent Confidant, Bearing the Weight of Secrets

Kunal is the emotional ballast in this storm. His reaction to Hemant’s confession—“Michael King…”—is brilliant writing. That single whisper carries shock, fear, and awe. Kunal represents loyalty without judgment, but his silence now becomes another tragedy—because he holds a secret that could either destroy Sonarika or redeem her understanding of Hemant. His line—“You’ll never be alone as long as I’m breathing”—isn’t just friendship; it’s a vow forged in fire. And in a world where everyone else is breaking promises, Kunal keeping his might be the only pure thing left.

---

 The Psychology of This Chapter

Hemant is suffering not just heartbreak but a full-blown identity collapse. His hallucinations are classic PTSD symptoms triggered by betrayal—a wound science says the brain processes like physical pain.
Sonarika is caught in cognitive dissonance—she wanted passion without losing peace, but now, having both cost her everything, she is spiraling into self-contempt masked as longing.
Hemant’s need to reclaim dominance in bed before pulling away is not lust—it’s about power, worth, and reclaiming self-esteem after emasculation.
Vikram’s obsession with being the “healer” stems from savior complex—and that will likely turn toxic as Hemant walks toward his darker side.

---


This chapter is not just storytelling. It is an anatomy of love at its ugliest, loyalty at its weakest, and desire at its most dangerous. It shows us that betrayal isn’t a single act—it’s a chain reaction of unmet needs, unspoken words, and unhealed wounds. The beauty of this chapter lies in its refusal to offer clean answers. There are no heroes here. No villains. Just broken people trying to survive their own choices.

If love built this house, betrayal set it on fire—and now we’re watching the ashes form something unrecognizable.

Bravo. Truly. This chapter doesn’t just deserve praise—it deserves to be studied.

---

Thank you for writing this. Thank you for writing them. I cannot wait to see what you do next, because if this is Act One, the world isn’t ready for Act Two.



Yours Truly With Love
Mav

helllllllllooooooooooo Mavvvyyyy wow just wow man big fan you don't know how much happy i am to see you here please write something man i missing xp   ab maja aayega na kya likha hai bhai just wow par bhai gayab na hona please 

[DeanWinchester00007]

So u gave a plot to sona character to rectify herself   at what cost...does mk.accept her .even she  redeem herself... Lie rcf said does she knows wht she wants at all!?.. i like tammu character class apart..she knows value of hemant..........

Yes, But I think Hemant is not ideal guy for her . I hope she finds some one else .

[DeanWinchester00007]

"PURE CINEMA"

Hey Harry,



As I mentioned in my previous post thanks for giving us this wonderful story.

I just finished reading, and I honestly don’t know where to start. My head is spinning with everything you packed into this story—the emotions, the moral dilemmas, the way you built tension and peeled layers off each character. I didn’t just read this; I lived inside it for hours. And now, I feel like I need to talk to you about everything that hit me, because there’s a lot.

Let me start with Sonarika, because she’s the gravitational pull of this entire narrative. You made her so much more than the cliche of a woman caught between two men. From the very first intimate moment with Vikram, you didn’t just describe passion—you described hunger and memory colliding. That line where she says, “I tried to forget you, but I remembered every time I touched silence”—that hit like a shard of glass to the heart. It told me right then this wasn’t about a fling. It was about something that had been echoing inside her for years, something unresolved.

And yet, the way you handled her guilt was phenomenal. You didn’t make her guilty in a shallow, soap-opera way; you made it existential. That nightmare sequence where the world of roses and silk collapses into the cold Mumbai hallway, where she sees Hemant dead and Karan hollowed out—I swear, I had goosebumps. It wasn’t just a dream; it was a warning, almost cosmic in its cruelty. And the detail—the cotton in Hemant’s nose, the divine lamp burning above his head—that imagery is going to haunt me. It’s as if you’re saying, “This is what betrayal births—not just broken trust, but broken worlds.”

Then comes her morning resolve. That scene on the couch, when she’s dressed in the blue salwar, mangalsutra back in place, vermillion on her forehead—God, Harry, that was such a gut punch. She’s not the same woman from the night before. The sensual goddess from Jabalpur is gone, and sitting there is a wife, a mother, a woman who has chosen the hard road of truth. When she says, “I am going to tell Hemant the truth”—I had to stop and just breathe. Because here’s a woman who knows this will shatter her life, but she chooses it anyway, not for redemption, but for dignity. That’s rare, and you wrote it like someone who understands what integrity really costs.

Now, Vikram. I love how you refused to turn him into a cheap antagonist or some one-dimensional “other man.” He’s tender without being soft, assertive without being toxic. That exchange—“Because I’m weak around you” and his reply, “No. Because you’re honest around me”—that floored me. You made him the mirror she can’t look away from, the man who reflects back the version of herself she thought was lost. And the way you ended his arc in this Story—with that quiet, aching goodbye at the terminal—oh man. That kiss. Not desperate. Not angry. Just reverent. A kiss that feels like both closure and a loaded promise. It’s like they both know the story isn’t done with them yet, but for now, this chapter is closed. That subtlety is rare, and you nailed it.

And then, Hemant. Harry, what a masterstroke this character is. When the Story started, I saw him as the archetypal good husband: loving, attentive, almost too perfect. And then you started peeling. First, through memory—the warm-water-bag story, which by the way, was such a brilliant way to show his quiet heroism without making him loud about it. Then through the intimacy scenes—where instead of making it just about heat, you layered history, tenderness, and the unspoken plea of “don’t let this be our last time.” That hit deep.

But the real earthquake? That Kala Chowk scene. Jesus. I went from admiring Hemant to fearing him in the space of a page. The way he dismantles Ranga and Sarang with surgical calm, the way he uses the meat shop like a butcher’s altar—it’s terrifying and poetic at the same time. “You went after a child”—that line becomes a death sentence. And then the crowbar through the throat? That’s not revenge porn; that’s character revelation. In that moment, we realize Hemant isn’t just a husband. He’s a man with a past soaked in shadows, a man who can turn primal when the code he lives by is broken. And then, the way you link it to Azerbaijan and the Garuda ring—it’s genius. The present violence wakes the ghosts, and suddenly the domestic frame cracks open to reveal a much bigger canvas.

And can we talk about that hospital resurrection scene? The rings on the tray, the almost ritualistic feel of it—Hemant lying there, silent, and then that shift when Michael King stirs again. I swear, I felt the temperature drop when I read that. This isn’t healing; this is a man stepping back into a skin he thought he’d shed forever. It’s beautiful and terrifying because now I’m asking: what happens when a man who loves like Hemant—and kills like Michael King—loses everything he anchored himself to? That, to me, is the spine-chilling promise of your next act.

The secondary characters—Anjali, Karan, even Meghna in her absence—weren’t just props. Anjali’s warmth, her teasing (“Jabalpur gave you a facelift?”)—that gave the family scenes texture. And Karan—every time he burst in with his innocent chatter, I felt my throat tighten, because that innocence is exactly what’s at stake. And when Sonarika looks at Hemant at the beach, thinking, “How do you tell the man who trusts you that you broke everything he ever believed in?”—that question hung over every scene for me after.

Now, the scope. Harry, I have to applaud you for this. You started with what looked like an intimate drama and then widened the lens until I was staring at a geopolitical thriller. That Shanghai massacre, the sword scene—the way you described the blade gleaming like a verdict, the vow screamed into the storm—that’s operatic, but because you grounded us in the living room first, it works. It doesn’t feel like a genre-switch; it feels like a destiny unfolding. And the antagonists—you only gave us glimpses (Dilawar, Rafique, Daraaksh), but the menace is palpable. It’s like you’ve planted landmines all over the map, and I can hear the ticking already.

Let me tell you what really stayed with me, though: the symbols.

 The rings. The Garuda, the Archangel—they’re not accessories; they’re identities. When Hemant burns his blood-soaked clothes and that ring glints in the firelight, it’s like a prophecy being fulfilled.
 The weather. The golden patio light, the monsoon clouds, the razor lightning on Sonarika’s flight home—it’s like the sky is always keeping score.
 And the locked room. When Hemant opens it and we see the weapons, the dossiers, the life he buried—that’s Chekhov’s armory on steroids. You know it’s going to explode, and when it does, the blast radius will be massive.

Now, if I’m being brutally honest, there were moments where the erotic detail almost drowned out the emotional beat underneath. Like, I loved that you showed the rawness of physical intimacy, but sometimes I wanted you to linger more on the psychological texture of those moments because that’s where this Story is richest. That said, those scenes did something important: they made the stakes visceral. They reminded me this isn’t just an affair; it’s bodies remembering what the soul tried to forget.

Harry, this isn’t just a story—it’s a whole damn storm system. You made me care about these people even when they were breaking things I hold sacred. You didn’t hand me heroes and villains; you handed me humans, messy and magnificent. And that last line—“The Age of Darkness Has Just Begun”—felt less like a tagline and more like a sentence hanging over all of them. I closed the site and just sat there, staring, wondering what the cost of truth and vengeance will be when the fire really starts. Then again when I opened it, it was here THE CHAPTER 21 my god!!!

---

 Chapter 21 – A Masterpiece of Pain, Psychology, and Human Complexity

I’ve read countless chapters across stories, but this one… this one didn’t just tell a tale; it ripped open the human soul and poured out its rawest truths. Chapter 21 is not just narrative—it is a psychological autopsy of love, betrayal, guilt, masculinity, longing, and survival. Every word pulses with pain, every scene breathes tension. Here’s my breakdown, character by character, and what it truly means beneath the surface:

---

 1. Hemant – The Man Who Carried Heaven and Fell into Hell

If love is faith, Hemant was its priest—and Sonarika burned his temple down.

From the opening breakfast scene, where he anchors Karan and Anjali with tenderness, to the silent implosion later at YOD Industries, we witness a man performing normalcy while bleeding inside. That moment where he lingers after the kids leave? That was not hesitation—it was resignation. He knew the conversation was inevitable. And when it comes—“Why did you need him?”—it is not anger, but pure existential pain. His question wasn’t about sex or betrayal—it was a question about his own worth. About the failure of everything he thought defined him as a man, a husband, a provider.

And then… the hallucinations. Oh God, the hallucinations. Those weren’t just images—they were manifestations of trauma and obsessive rumination. When the party morphs into a scene of Sonarika and Vikram’s passion, when the dance turns into primal lust on stage, it isn’t just jealousy—it’s ego death. Hemant isn’t imagining sex; he’s watching the annihilation of his identity as a husband, as “enough.” That’s why Meghna’s mocking voice in his mind is devastating—because it echoes his deepest fear: “She never belonged to you.”

Then comes the storm behind closed doors with Kunal—the confession of Michael King. That twist is monumental. For years, Hemant buried a violent past under layers of stability and love, believing he had escaped destiny. This wasn’t just about killing a name; it was about killing the man who thrived in chaos. But now—betrayal resurrects Michael King. Notice how Hemant says, “Love doesn’t save—it destroys.” That’s the pivot. That’s when idealistic Hemant dies, and pragmatic, broken, dangerous Hemant begins to breathe again.

And the bed scene… it was pure fire and ruin. The kiss was not romance—it was war. It was Hemant reclaiming what he lost, punishing her and himself, tearing down the wall he had built for years. But when he stops? That’s the last vestige of morality in him clinging to life. Because if he gave in, he would lose not just Sonarika, but himself. His refusal wasn’t weakness—it was the strength of a man who refuses to love halfway while drowning in betrayal. The moment he says, “Go to him tomorrow”, the venom is no accident—it’s his pride bleeding through broken ribs.

And finally, the psychological descent—when he goes out with Simon and Kunal, flirting with temptation, hovering over the abyss of Michael King’s world. That’s not healing—it’s a man slipping into a darker self, rationalizing freedom as revenge, mistaking numbness for strength. Hemant is not just a character anymore; he’s a case study in love curdling into nihilism.

---

 2. Sonarika – The Woman Torn Between Hunger and Home

Sonarika is not a villain. She is not an angel. She is something far more terrifying—a flawed human craving to feel alive.

Her confession is brutal in its honesty: “Because I felt alone, even when you were here.” That line exposes the psychological chasm in modern marriages—the absence in presence. Hemant was building futures while abandoning the present. And Sonarika? She was starving for now, for warmth, for touch. Enter Vikram—poetry, dance, passion. She didn’t fall out of love with Hemant; she fell into a void and filled it with fire.

The scene with the wedding photo and black dress is haunting because it reveals post-betrayal grief in its purest form. That moment where she whispers apologies to an empty room isn’t regret for cheating—it’s mourning for the self she used to be, the Sona Hemant loved. Her realization—“I traded devotion for thrill”—isn’t just guilt; it’s the birth of shame, and shame is heavier than sin.

At the garden with Vikram, she is raw, shattered, clinging to the man who gave her escape, even as her soul screams for the man she lost. Her honesty—“Not now. My heart isn’t ready”—shows that infidelity doesn’t always equal indifference. She still aches for Hemant even while leaning on Vikram. That duality is messy, real, painfully human.

And then the café scene… That was the quietest scream of all. When she says, “You’re not my peace. Hemant was.” That sentence alone dismantles every fantasy Vikram had—and it cements Sonarika as a woman trapped between passion and peace, love and lust, past and present. The tragedy? She knows she can’t have Hemant back, and yet she can’t give herself fully to Vikram. This is purgatory. And she built it herself.

---

 3. Vikram – The Lover Who Won but Still Lost

Vikram is fascinating because he’s both a savior and a sinner in Sonarika’s life. He gave her thrill, reminded her she was alive, gave her the poetry Hemant buried under cement and deadlines. But Vikram wants something impossible—a whole heart from a broken woman.

His dialogue at the café—“So what am I to you then? A distraction?”—is raw male insecurity laid bare. Because deep down, he knows the truth: he will never be Hemant. He can offer money, passion, promises of palaces—but he cannot offer history, cannot offer Karan’s childhood laughter, cannot offer the gravity of years Sonarika shared with Hemant.

Yet, Vikram’s persistence—his willingness to take “half a heart”—shows a different kind of obsession. He doesn’t want to just love Sonarika; he wants to conquer her grief. And that makes him dangerous—not physically, but emotionally. Because a man who accepts half today will demand the whole tomorrow. His line—“Even broken hearts can still beat, Soni. I’ll remind you every day if I have to”—isn’t just devotion; it’s possession disguised as patience.

---

 4. Kunal – The Silent Confidant, Bearing the Weight of Secrets

Kunal is the emotional ballast in this storm. His reaction to Hemant’s confession—“Michael King…”—is brilliant writing. That single whisper carries shock, fear, and awe. Kunal represents loyalty without judgment, but his silence now becomes another tragedy—because he holds a secret that could either destroy Sonarika or redeem her understanding of Hemant. His line—“You’ll never be alone as long as I’m breathing”—isn’t just friendship; it’s a vow forged in fire. And in a world where everyone else is breaking promises, Kunal keeping his might be the only pure thing left.

---

 The Psychology of This Chapter

Hemant is suffering not just heartbreak but a full-blown identity collapse. His hallucinations are classic PTSD symptoms triggered by betrayal—a wound science says the brain processes like physical pain.
Sonarika is caught in cognitive dissonance—she wanted passion without losing peace, but now, having both cost her everything, she is spiraling into self-contempt masked as longing.
Hemant’s need to reclaim dominance in bed before pulling away is not lust—it’s about power, worth, and reclaiming self-esteem after emasculation.
Vikram’s obsession with being the “healer” stems from savior complex—and that will likely turn toxic as Hemant walks toward his darker side.

---


This chapter is not just storytelling. It is an anatomy of love at its ugliest, loyalty at its weakest, and desire at its most dangerous. It shows us that betrayal isn’t a single act—it’s a chain reaction of unmet needs, unspoken words, and unhealed wounds. The beauty of this chapter lies in its refusal to offer clean answers. There are no heroes here. No villains. Just broken people trying to survive their own choices.

If love built this house, betrayal set it on fire—and now we’re watching the ashes form something unrecognizable.

Bravo. Truly. This chapter doesn’t just deserve praise—it deserves to be studied.

---

Thank you for writing this. Thank you for writing them. I cannot wait to see what you do next, because if this is Act One, the world isn’t ready for Act Two.



Yours Truly With Love
Mav

I dont have enough brain to comprehend all of this , But So detailed and beautifully explained . The only thing I disagree with Is VIKRAM's Part  and he is definitely not savior for her . 

Apart from this , One of the best comment on this thread . *TRULY MAVERICK*

[DeanWinchester00007]

I finally finished the update . That Sona and Vikram part was so unbearable .

I had one criticism before  and Now I have the same criticism  . You need to tone down a bit the whole Sona and VIKRAM situation . 

The plot is fine , the material is not right , great words and line but not needed , not everything needs to have some pinch of intimacy and 

So Sona was crying all night , with her wedding photo , all her confession , how she is still in love with Hemant , wants to make amend , But in Morning , doing Jhappi and Puppi with VIKRAM . Hugging and Crying and Planning their Future , Garden Garden Khel re dono . It just minimizes all her guilt or grief , makes it harder to believe , Did she really care about her married life and all ? 

I understand that She is in lot of distress , Anxiety, might be in Depression probably Alone , No one to share her grief and VIKRAM is there , He cares about her . Their whole interaction could have been like Two normal people just talking and sharing . Genuinely trying to help each other which they were doing , But the whole Jhappi and puppi scene just undermine the whole scenario . Its confusing , and  its disturbing the natural flow . 

To be honest , The whole Garden scene .

If we look at it without context, the paragraph is beautifully  written ,poetic, intimate, full of warmth. 

But with context the characters supposed to be drowning in guilt and grief, I do understand that she needed that but not like this . Physical touches , Cuddling , Roaming in park with holding each other hands, resting her head on his chest , Listening his heart beat , Fingers mingling . YUCKKKKK . Am I suppose to believe that Every person grief differently , This is  Sona way of Grieving , Jhappi and puppi playing garden garden when her whole is falling apart in front of her . And her Lover already making plans for future , and her admiring him for that . What if Hemant had seen her in the Park ?

But okay no Problem . 

In coffee shop , WTF . I own you Big THANK YOU   , For not making them fuck on Coffee table  . Again kissing her Lover while grieving , At least give her character some dignity and some brains . I know VIKRAM unknowingly took advantage of her vulnerability . But still The comfort she feels around him , and their chemistry , the trust , Their compatibility , That He just kissed her out of now where and she let him after a moment she refused . But even in this situation , She is fine , No fear of meeting him , No fear of How Hemant would react , if he saw her kissing him . This is not CONFUSION . 

Though Later, we came to know what might be the reason behind these actions , But still a little bit of maturity was needed in circumstances like this . 

To be honest , I know and I understand what you trying to say , I do  But your words are not supporting your plotline  . 

Creating confusing . You can see lots of comments were on this , The Whole Sona and VIKRAM part dominated the whole story as compare to Hemant and Sona , So when Sona confessed her love for Hemant , and she still loves Hemant , Though VIKRAM gave her new etc etc etc , Hemant is still in her heart etc etc etc . Its hard to believe . 

No wonder people are not even divided on Sona x Hemant vs Sona x VIKRAM thing . They have the clear picture Sona and VIKRAM deserves each other . 

I know as a writer , You always put your 100% in every part , and you wants to bring your A game in every words and line , which you have done spectacularly , But I think you should take different approach here , The intimacy, The sex ( which they will do in future , I know this    and I know this is an erotic website ) will ruin the grief and emotional side Sona' Arc . 

Also , Earlier we had  this GREEN FLAG Image of VIKRAM , I never realize this , Though i made comment  on hidden agenda of VIKRAM , but His character was so perfect without any flaw and Now finally we saw a little GLIMPSE of VIKRAM's unknown side ,his trait and behavior  . Which is good , Finally , The contrast we needed to compare the two characters and also Needed for Sona . I hope there is more we can see. 


But 

Also , Then I also understand the whole point of doing what you did . I get it . THE HIDDEN MEANING and THE SUBTLE HINTS . I have enough faith in you that you gonna pull it  off . 

I hope  whatever happens in future updates  balances out or even out do what happened in Earlier updates , The written material, The Content .

I did not want to make this comment , but The whole Sona and VIKRAM part irked me so much   which I know the may be the whole point of writing that paragraph . lol . This is good but not good . 

(Just wrote what i felt in that moment . lol . I am setting my maturity aside . A little bit of  maturity helps but too much of maturity can ruin the fun ) 


( Note :- Will write another comment on CHAPTER 21 , Later )

[Harry Jordan]

[quote pid='6017069' dateline='1756052244']
totally agree with you here, i thought harry will give or try to give the reason of her understanding of her own self by her own resolve yes little bit help from others but the head injury is just lol...

Harry honestly you just stretched it bro, the reasoning that you had given on Sona nature personally i.... no words man just no words. I hope for better reasoning yes agree with your point of her been victim but the way you are trying to do it just just but at the end it is yours so as a reader i must bear it in the hope of good situation folding

regards Ep

you are also doing the samething that krish tried to do in his story with krish meera, man i was on different horse i thought she was like this from inside, but you put the manipulative or influenced on her to be like this is just destroy the sona shit shit
[/quote]

Well, If I made Sonarika to be a woman that was "Like This Way" from the beginning , then she can only have just one conclusion in her story. But this plot adds the uncertainty because now she has a conflict of her own rather than just "be a cheating wife". I always loved the story trope of "Oblivious Villain in the Shadows" and I found Meghna to be that perfect candidate for it. Because by doing this arc I get to work on two aspects of two different characters , to give Sonarika an arc of her own which will also run parallel to her "finding her path" journey rather than turn her into a cliche "cheating wife turned slut" narrative. The second is to add how ruthless and diabolical the villain Meghna is in her story. Like a full on psycho who is masking her lunacy with appearing like a support and savior to Sonarika and slowly dissecting her piece by piece influencing and manipulating her , turning her into nothing slowly and methodically. A revenge set in motion for decades , this also adds Meghna's dissent towards Hemant more meaning as he basically spoiled her plan of slow killing Sonarika by entering her life and healing her to some extent. But now with Hemant moving away , she gets to control Sonarika again and wreck her on her own satisfying ways. And the diabolical part is her revenge is on Sonarika's father , but she is punishing him through her , she already killed her young sister, now Sonarika is being dismantled unknowingly. But will she succeed or does Sonarika finds the truth and fights back? That is something we'll have to wait and read!