The storm inside Shabd Heer had a name.
Armaan.
For weeks, Shabd had watched it happen—his Vashti laughing with someone else, leaning on someone else, letting someone else in.
And he let it slide.
Until now.
Because today, in the operating theater, Armaan crossed a line.
He reached out—fingers brushing Vashti's lower back as they scrubbed in, too familiar, too smug—and Shabd saw red.
Vashti didn't even flinch. She was focused, flipping through the patient file. Unbothered.
But Shabd?
He was about to start a war.
The moment the surgery ended, he cornered Armaan in the locker room, gloves still on, eyes cold.
"You ever touch her again like that—" his voice low, sharp, lethal "—and I will break every finger you used."
Armaan scoffed. "Wow. Protective much?"
"I'm serious."
"She's not your girlfriend, Shabd."
"No," he growled. "She's not. But she's still mine."
Armaan stepped closer, smug. "Then maybe you should've acted like it before I did."
That was it.
Shabd lunged—grabbing Armaan by the collar, slamming him into the locker so hard it echoed.
"Keep testing me," he hissed. "See what happens."
Before it could get bloody, Vashti walked in.
And froze.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Shabd let go immediately, breathing hard, backing off.
Armaan straightened, smirking. "Just a chat. About you."
She looked between them, eyes blazing. "Are you two in high school?"
Neither spoke.
She walked up to Shabd, furious. "You think scaring him will change anything? You think jealousy makes you more attractive?"
"I don't care how it makes me look," Shabd snapped. "I care that he touched you."
Vashti blinked.
And laughed—darkly. "So now you care. Now that someone else sees my worth?"
Shabd's voice softened. "I always saw it, Vashti. I just didn't think I deserved it."
She stepped closer, fire in her eyes. "Then maybe stop fighting Armaan… and start fighting for me."
Then she walked out, leaving them both breathless.
But only one of them still stood a chance.
And this time, Shabd was done being calm.
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