She couldn’t breathe in that intensity.

So she did what she always did when his madness cornered her.

She turned her head away and deflected.

“What’s... his condition?”

So she broke the moment the only way she could.

“What’s... his condition?”

The question cracked in the air like a sudden downpour.

He exhaled. He knew what she was doing. And he let her retreat.

His voice turned clipped, clinical.

But his eyes still burned.

“Liver transplant successful. But barely. He’s fragile. The doctors say even a drop of alcohol could kill him. Right now, he’s stable here. Outside? He wouldn’t last.”

She whispered, “When did this happen?”

“The day you ran," he said bluntly.

“My first instinct was to cut off your support. But when I found your father, he wasn’t support—he was a wreck. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t function. At first, I thought he could help me track you. When he failed, I sent him here."

“To trap me with gratitude".

“Yes,”he admitted, without shame.

“To make you *owe* me. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I want you tethered to me. Mentally. Physically. And emotionally. I want you in my arms willingly—even if I have to walk through fire for that to happen.”

She looked away, eyes burning.

“You saved him to trap me.”

“I saved him to *earn* you. It’s not the same,” he said.

“Traps are for people I don’t care about. You?” He took a slow step toward her.

“You are the only obsession I’ve ever had that makes me want to become something else. Someone else. Do you understand what that means for a man like me?"

“So now you want to live like a perfect couple?”

“Yes. I want a life with you. I want normalcy. Not because I deserve it—but because I refuse to give up on you.”

“You always get what you want, don’t you?”

“I make it happen,” he said with certainty.

“I used to force things. You know that. But look at me now—I’m asking. That’s growth, Asha. That’s *me* trying.”

“So if I say no, you’ll just let go?”

“No,” he said firmly.

“But I won’t *force* you. There’s a difference. I won’t put a finger on you without your consent. Not anymore. But I’ll wait, and I’ll work, and I’ll *earn* what I want.”

“What do you want exactly?”

He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You. Not just your body. Your defiance. Your fury. Your silence. All of it.”

The words crashed into her like a storm.

And then, slowly, she said:

“Fine. I’ll try. I’ll live like your wife. I’ll give you what you want. But if I ever feel you becoming *that* man again, I’ll end it. I’ll end everything. Even my life.”

His eyes darkened. He stepped forward so quickly she stumbled back.

“Don’t talk about death. Not in front of me. Not ever.”

His voice had steel in it.

“You don’t get to leave. If I have to burn down the whole world to keep you breathing—I will.”

She turned her face away, trembling.

“That depends on you.”

He nodded once.

“Then I’ll keep you like you were made of glass. Like you're the only goddamn thing keeping me alive.”**

She looked at the bed again.

“Can I talk to him now?”

He looked over.

“Not yet. He’s sedated. He needs rest.”

He pulled a chair for her.

“Sit. We wait.”

She sat beside him, arms folded tight over her stomach like she was holding herself in. Holding herself together.

“Will he have complications?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes. Rejection risks, liver strain. But he’s under round-the-clock monitoring. And if he ever drinks again, it’s over. No warnings. No chances.”

“For how long?”

“For life. But the next six months are critical. The doctors say even one lapse, and he’s gone.”

They sat in silence, with only the beeping machines filling the heavy space between them. She stared at her father’s face — so familiar, so fragile — and for the first time in a long while, hope hurt more than grief.

And then, her father stirred.

A flutter. A groggy blink. A breath that sounded more alive than the last.

She shot up, her breath catching, lips parting in a tremble.

Her father’s eyes opened—slow, unfocused, but open.

And in that moment, something inside her *broke*. Or maybe it healed. She couldn’t tell.

She clutched his hand, whispering something only he could hear.

And Raghav?

He stayed still. Quiet. Watching. Not claiming credit. Not demanding gratitude. Just *there*—like a wall she hadn’t realized was holding her up.

She didn’t look at him right away. But her heart… shifted.

Despite everything.

Despite the violence, the betrayal, the rage—

He had done this.

He had given her father a second chance at life.

And somewhere inside her — beneath the thorns, beneath the scars — a strange thought took root:

*Maybe… just maybe… he earned something too.*

Maybe not redemption.

Maybe not love.

But… a chance.

And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to give him that.

Not because she owed him.

But because, in the quiet between pain and healing, she finally *wanted* to.

Even if it scared the hell out of her.

Because she’d been starving—for a taste of something that resembled marriage.

Starving for companionship, for a hand that didn’t hurt, for warmth in the coldest hour.

And when someone’s starving, everything else fades. Nothing else matters.

So if he was going to *enjoy* the chance she gave him…

Then why couldn’t she *earn* a little liberty out of it for herself, too?

Even if it was pretend. Even if it was short-lived.

It would be hers. And for once, she wouldn’t deny herself that.

And along the way, her father treatment will be continuing as well.

Well. Im sorry for not updating. My mother health isn't good and I have to take care of her. Hence i didn't find time to write the story therefore didn’t updated. I'll try to update more.