CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 30
The villa clung to the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Amalfi Coast where the waves crashed against the rocks like whispered warnings in a language only the broken could hear. The Mediterranean stretched endlessly before them, a canvas of deep blue and silver strokes under the setting sun.
Vedika stood barefoot on the stone terrace, wrapped in a soft beige shawl. Her eyes scanned the horizon, not in admiration, but in longing — as if searching for something just out of reach. Escape, perhaps. Or peace. Or herself.
The salty wind caught strands of her hair, tugging them across her face. She didn’t brush them away.
Behind her, footsteps. Steady. Measured. Heavy.
Abhimaan.
He had shed the tailored blazer, rolled his sleeves up, and left his collar open. He looked every bit like a man on a romantic getaway — handsome, confident, in control.
But Vedika didn’t turn around. Her breath hitched as she felt him approach, his presence wrapping around her like invisible chains.
“You’re quiet,” he said, voice low. “Don’t you like the view?”
She didn’t respond.
“I chose this place for you,” he continued, stepping beside her. “Far from everyone. No distractions. Just us.”
Vedika finally looked at him. “You brought me here to keep me alone.”
“I brought you here because you’re mine,” he said, not flinching. “And I wanted to give you something beautiful — before you ruin it with your resistance.”
His words laced with a strange tenderness that twisted like a knife. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She froze.
“I can be gentle,” he murmured. “But only if you stop running inside your mind.”
She looked away, focusing on the waves. “You can trap me in a palace, Abhimaan. But you can’t make me love you.”
“I don’t need your love,” he said quietly. “I just need you.”
Then — before she could step back, before she could breathe — he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t violent. It was slow. Purposeful. His lips moved against hers like they belonged there, as if they were retracing something sacred.
But Vedika’s body tensed. Her fists clenched. Every nerve in her screamed at the violation masked in tenderness.
She pulled away — hard. “Don’t.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m your husband.”
“You’re my captor.”
“I’m both,” he said. “And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Her breath trembled. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if trying to erase what had just happened.
“You feel disgusted?” he asked, his voice calm, almost amused. “You should. Because you don’t hate the kiss. You hate yourself for not being able to stop it.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “You’re sick.”
“And you’re mine,” he said again, as if it was the only truth that mattered.
The waves crashed louder, echoing the storm within her. She turned away, gripping the stone railing like it could hold her together.
Abhimaan stepped behind her, his hands gently resting on her shoulders — not restraining, not forcing — but anchoring her in place.
“Tomorrow, we’ll sail to Capri. A boat just for us. No staff. No interruptions.”
Vedika said nothing.
“Wear the blue dress,” he added, whispering against her ear. “The one that matches the sea. I want to see you drown in it.”
She stood rigid, skin crawling, heart thudding.
And somewhere in that silence, the sunset bled into the waves like a wound left open too long.
Venice looked like a dream. Or rather, a painting soaked in golden dusk, where every canal whispered secrets and every bridge led to somewhere magical — or nowhere at all.
Vedika stood on the balcony of the 14th-century palazzo Abhimaan had rented for the week, its gothic arches casting long shadows over the water. Below, gondolas glided through the narrow canals, their oars cutting the surface with gentle, hypnotic rhythm.
The air smelled of old stone and salt. The bells of a distant basilica chimed six times — twilight.
Inside the suite, Abhimaan was changing. She could hear him humming faintly, like a man content in his kingdom. This wasn’t a honeymoon for him — it was a victory tour. A celebration of ownership. Of conquest.
“Get ready,” his voice echoed from within. “We’re having dinner at the Palazzo Contarini. I’ve arranged a private violinist.”
Vedika didn’t move.
A moment later, he appeared at the doorway behind her — black tuxedo, collar sharp, cufflinks glinting like restraint. His eyes fell on her reflection in the window. She wore a soft ivory gown that flowed like mist, her hair tied in a loose bun, her bare shoulders glowing in the fading light.
He came closer. “You look like a dream.”
She stiffened.
He traced his finger along the edge of her collarbone, voice like velvet. “Smile for me tonight, Vedika. The world is watching. And I don’t want to break it. Yet.”
The palazzo was lit by hundreds of candles, floating above mirrored floors and antique chandeliers. Guests whispered in admiration as the mysterious Indian couple entered — she with quiet grace, he with commanding charm.
Vedika wore the mask of a woman in love — practiced smiles, nods at strangers, hands placed where expected. But every time Abhimaan touched her back or leaned too close, a fire burned in her throat — not passion, but revulsion.
He toasted to “eternal beginnings” as the violinist played a haunting solo. Vedika sipped her wine, her eyes scanning for exits she would never reach.
Later, they returned to the suite by gondola. Venice glittered around them — churches, bell towers, and statues rising out of the water like ghosts. Abhimaan sat beside her, too close, his arm resting behind her shoulders.
“You’ve done well tonight,” he said. “The world saw a wife in love.”
“I was pretending.”
He smiled. “I know. And I liked it.”
The gondolier turned a corner, guiding them into a darker canal, lit only by the moon.
Abhimaan’s hand moved to hers. “You can hate me all you want, Vedika. But no one will believe you now. Not your mother. Not the media. Not even yourself.”
“You’re delusional.”
“No,” he whispered. “I’m inevitable.”
Then he leaned in — his lips claiming hers in a slow, intense kiss, stealing what little space she had left. She pushed him away, breath ragged, tears stinging.
“I said no.”
He paused, gaze darkening. “You said yes. At the altar. Before the gods. Before your mother. That yes belongs to me now.”
He didn’t force her. But his words sank deeper than hands ever could.
Back in the palazzo suite, she locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection for a long, hollow moment. The woman staring back didn’t look like Vedika anymore.
She splashed water on her face, trying to wash off the feeling of his kiss, the weight of his possession. But it lingered.
Outside the door, she heard his voice again.
“Tomorrow, we take the train to Florence. You’ll love the villa there. Very private.”
She closed her eyes, her fists clenched against the porcelain sink.
In the city of illusions, the biggest lie was that Venice belonged to lovers.
Tonight, it belonged to obsession.