After gathering herself on the balcony, Myra decided she needed to keep moving, to not let Niyati see even a single crack in her armor. With slow, determined steps, she walked back inside the palace.
The house was unusually quiet, heavy with an invisible tension, almost as if it was waiting for something to snap.
Myra made her way toward the kitchen, wanting to prepare a cup of tea to calm her rattled nerves. She pushed the door gently and stepped inside—only to freeze instantly.
There, standing by the counter with her back half-turned, was Niyati.
She was boiling water in the kettle.
The shrill whistle of the steam filled the small kitchen, an eerie, piercing sound that immediately dragged Myra's mind to a place she didn't want to revisit. Her chest tightened painfully. She knew exactly what Niyati was doing.
It wasn't casual. It was deliberate.
Niyati was mocking her past, digging her fingers into the deepest of her old wounds—wounds most didn't even know existed.
Years ago, when they were just children, it had been Niyati who had first realized that Myra was terrified of boiling water. Myra's stepmother had often used scalding threats as punishment. It wasn't just the burns she feared—it was the sheer helplessness that came with the threat. And now, here it was again, the monster in the steam, the ghost in the kettle's shriek.
Niyati didn't even bother hiding the smirk curling on her lips as she stirred the boiling water unnecessarily, letting the steam rise in thick clouds around her.
"Just making some tea," she said innocently without even looking at Myra, the fake sweetness of her voice cutting sharper than a knife.
Myra's entire body wanted to recoil, to run—but she stood her ground.
Her hands were trembling slightly at her sides. Her breath came out uneven, shallow. Her mind screamed at her to back away, to leave this room where the air felt heavy and thick with malice.
But she didn't.
She clenched her fists by her sides so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. She forced herself to step around Niyati as if she were completely unaffected, even humming a soft tune under her breath—one she barely remembered—to drown out the deafening whistle of the kettle and her own racing heartbeat.
She grabbed a cup and poured herself cold water instead.
Niyati watched her from the corner of her eye, waiting, wanting her to break.
But Myra didn't give her the satisfaction.
She drank the water calmly, placed the cup down with steady fingers, and left the kitchen without a word, her head held high, even as her legs nearly buckled beneath her with every step.
Niyati's mocking laughter echoed behind her, low and sinister.
---
That night, as the household retreated to sleep and the corridors fell silent, Myra returned to her bedroom.
She closed the door softly, leaning against it for support.
The room was dimly lit by the moonlight pouring through the curtains. Her safe space.
Or at least, it used to be.
She tried to shake off the uneasy feeling curling around her ribs like vines. She told herself she was fine. That she had survived worse. That she was stronger now.
She changed into a simple, comfortable nightdress, brushed her hair absentmindedly, and slipped under the covers.
But the moment she closed her eyes—it hit.
The darkness wasn't comforting. It was suffocating.
Images flashed behind her closed lids: boiling water, burning skin, Niyati's cruel laughter, the steam curling like claws in the air.
Her chest tightened.
Her breathing quickened.
She bolted upright, her hands clutching the blanket.
No, no, no, not again… she thought desperately, trying to steady herself.
But her body wasn't listening.
The familiar cold sweat broke across her forehead. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, painful and fast, like a bird trapped in a cage. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably, and it felt as if the walls were closing in around her.
A sharp sob tore from her throat.
She stumbled out of bed, gasping for air, clutching her chest.
It felt like drowning in her own fear.
"Myra, breathe…" she whispered to herself between ragged breaths, pressing her palm over her heart, but the panic spiraled faster, pulling her into its merciless grip.
Tears blurred her vision, and she sank to the cold floor, hugging her knees to her chest like a terrified child.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.
The memories—the helplessness, the fear—they clawed at her mind, blinding her to the present. Rationality was gone. Only terror remained.
Somewhere deep inside, a small voice screamed for Ranvijay.
But he wasn't here.
And Myra—fragile, gentle Myra—had to face this demon alone tonight.
Minutes—or maybe hours—passed before the worst of the storm inside her began to ebb away. She rocked herself slowly, whispering broken reassurances to the empty room.
"You're safe. You're safe. She can't hurt you. She can't hurt you anymore…"
But the trembling didn't stop.
Neither did the tears.
She sat there on the floor, staring blankly into the darkness, feeling like she had lost a battle she had fought so hard to win.
And somewhere deep inside her, the lonely ache of wishing Ranvijay was here—just to hold her, just to anchor her back to reality—gnawed at her even more fiercely.
Her breathing was getting worse.
Desperately, Myra crawled toward the side table, trembling fingers searching for something—anything—to calm her spiraling mind.
The pills...
She remembered the small bottle. She hadn't needed them lately because Ranvijay was there. His presence alone had been enough to keep her steady. But now, now when she needed them the most, she couldn't find them.
She threw open drawers, scattered papers, toppled books, but the bottle remained missing, like hope slipping through her fingers.
Her heart was thundering painfully, her mind screaming for escape, for relief.
In a frenzy of helplessness, she stumbled against the table and her elbow hit a glass sitting near the edge.
It shattered onto the floor with a loud, splintering crash.
Without thinking, Myra dropped to her knees, her shaking hands reaching for the shards, almost as if the physical pain would be better, easier to manage than the storm inside her chest.
She grabbed the broken pieces tightly, the sharp edges slicing into the soft skin of her palms. She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the cold, cruel glass like an anchor, a distraction from the terror choking her.
The stinging pain was immediate, a cruel comfort, grounding her—but it wasn't enough.
It wasn't him.
Tears streamed down her face, her lips trembling as silent sobs wracked her fragile body.
And then—
Suddenly—
Two strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her into a chest that was so familiar, so heartbreakingly needed that for a moment she thought she was hallucinating.
The world seemed to still.
"Myra," came the low, urgent voice against her hair. A voice she would recognize anywhere. Rough with fear, thick with concern.
Ranvijay.
She gasped as his arms tightened around her, cocooning her trembling frame, steadying her shaking hands gently away from the glass. She felt his warmth soak into her frozen skin, felt his heartbeat thundering against her back like a steady drum she could cling to.
He was here.
He came back.
Her body fought against him for a second—out of pride, out of fear—but her soul gave in without resistance.
She slumped against him, broken and exhausted, as the last of her strength drained away.
Ranvijay scooped her into his lap effortlessly, cradling her against him like she was something precious and fragile. His hand slid behind her head, pressing her face into his chest, shielding her from the shattered world around them.
"Shh, sweetheart," he murmured, rocking her gently, his breath trembling just as much as hers.
"I'm here... I'm here now."
It was like someone had poured cool, healing water over her burning wounds. His arms were firm, unyielding, his hold an anchor she didn't know she needed this desperately.
She hated how much she needed him.
She hated how her pride screamed at her to push him away.
But more than that, she hated the thought of letting go.
Ranvijay pressed soft kisses to her hair, his heart breaking at the sight of blood pooling in her palms, at the trembling wreck she had become in his absence.
He shifted slightly, one hand carefully prying the glass shards from her fingers, murmuring soothing words against her temple as if trying to stitch her broken pieces back together with nothing but his voice.
"You're safe now," he said again and again. "You're not alone, Myra... not anymore."
Fresh tears spilled from Myra's eyes, soaking into his shirt.
She gripped his jacket tightly, as if she was afraid he would disappear too, as if he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
"I-I tried to be brave," she whispered brokenly into his chest, her voice barely audible.
"I tried... but you weren't here..."
Ranvijay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as guilt ripped through him.
"I know, angel. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I shouldn't have—"
He couldn't even finish the sentence.
All he could do was hold her tighter, as if his arms alone could protect her from every ghost that haunted her.
Minutes passed, maybe hours. The night outside grew deeper, but inside the room, there was only the quiet, painful sound of healing beginning—through tears, through whispered apologies, through the silent strength of two shattered hearts trying to find each other.
Ranvijay shifted only to lift her gently into his arms again.
"Myra," he whispered against her forehead, voice thick with emotion, "let's clean those hands, hmm? I've got you... I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded weakly against him, her fingers still clutching his jacket.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Myra allowed herself to believe it.
Maybe... just maybe... she wasn't as alone as she had thought.
Ranvijay didn't wait for her permission.
With the utmost care, he stood, still carrying her close to his chest.
Myra's fingers clung to his jacket, small and trembling, but she didn't utter a word.
Not a whisper.
Not a cry.
It was as if her voice had drowned inside her — lost in the storm she had fought alone.
He carried her into the bathroom, gently setting her down on the marble counter as if she was made of glass. His hands cupped her cheeks for a moment, searching her face.
Those big, broken eyes stared back at him — hollow, lost — but still... still so beautiful to him.
Ranvijay exhaled slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
No words. Just actions.
He knelt before her, tenderly pulling her wounded hands into his. His heart twisted painfully at the sight — small cuts, smeared blood, tiny shards still embedded in her delicate skin.
She didn't flinch. She didn't pull away.
She simply watched him with that heartbreaking, silent obedience — trusting him even when her world was collapsing.
Ranvijay opened the first-aid kit with fumbling fingers, desperate to be gentle, desperate to fix what he could.
He dipped a cloth in warm water and began wiping away the blood with soft, careful strokes. His touch was feather-light, reverent, like he was touching something sacred.
He glanced up at her once — and it shattered him inside.
She was sitting motionless, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks, her saree crumpled around her, her bare feet dangling from the counter. She looked so small. So breakable.
So unlike the stubborn, fiery Myra he knew was buried somewhere deep inside.
He forced his gaze back to her hands, focusing on cleaning every wound, whispering apologies under his breath even though she remained silent.
Once her palms were cleaned, he carefully removed the tiny shards one by one, blowing softly on the deeper cuts, wincing every time her body tensed under his touch.
He worked patiently, dressing each cut with soft bandages, sealing his love into every touch, every wrap.
Still, Myra didn't speak.
Not even when he finally finished, his hands lingering on her wrists as if reluctant to let go.
Ranvijay slowly rose to his feet, towering over her, his hands sliding up to cradle her face once again.
"Myra..." he whispered, but her eyes only blinked slowly, glassy and tired.
No words.
She didn't need them.
She had already screamed loud enough inside her soul.
Without saying anything further, he gently pulled her head against his chest again, wrapping his arms around her trembling body.
She stiffened for a second — out of habit, out of fear — and then slowly, so slowly, she relaxed into him.
She let herself lean against his steady heart, her forehead pressed to his chest, her breath brushing against the fabric of his shirt.
Ranvijay lifted her again, bridal style, carrying her back into the bedroom like she weighed nothing at all.
He laid her down carefully on the bed, pulling the covers up around her shivering form.
Myra's hand, almost unknowingly, caught the edge of his jacket.
Ranvijay stilled.
He looked down — and saw it.
The faintest plea, the tiniest hint of fear that if he left again, she would fall apart.
He didn't hesitate.
Without removing his clothes, he slipped onto the bed beside her, tugging her gently into his arms again, pulling her against him, tucking her under his chin.
She didn't resist.
She curled into him like a wounded bird seeking shelter from the storm, her small body fitting perfectly against his larger frame.
Ranvijay held her all through the night, never letting her go, his fingers threading through her hair slowly, rhythmically, offering comfort the only way he knew how.
No promises.
No questions.
No words.
Just his heartbeat — steady and sure — whispering to her broken soul:
I'm here.
I'm not leaving.
You're safe.
And somewhere, deep in the darkest corners of her mind, Myra heard it.
Felt it.
Believed it.
Even if she hated it, even if her pride screamed otherwise — her heart clung to him.
Because sometimes, the deepest love didn't need to be spoken at all.
It just needed to be felt.
And in Ranvijay's arms, for the first time in years, Myra let herself feel.