Chapter 102 What's The Reality Of Samar ?
As he lowers his head, sorrow fills his eyes an ache that is slowly breaking him from within. And Samar, who understands his pain without words, simply sits there in silence, watching him.
Vihan finally breaks his silence, his deep voice echoing through the quiet room, “Samar, you should also tell me the truth about yourself. Before it gets too late.”
Samar closes his eyes for a moment, taking a long, heavy breath. Then, in a low voice, he says, “Yes, I will tell her but I fear she might misunderstand me. That in her eyes I might break, I might fall.”
Vihan places a firm hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with him. His voice is steady, reassuring.
“She won’t misunderstand, Samar. If you speak with your heart, she will definitely understand you.”
Samar lowers his head, silently nodding. At that moment, Vihan stands up to leave. Samar asks, “Where are you going?”
Vihan looks straight into his eyes and replies, “To Rimjhim, to ask for forgiveness once again.”
Saying this, he walks out. As soon as he gets into his car, he instructs the driver, “To Mehergaon.”
The car rolls out of the compound. Vihan stares out of the window, his face blank, devoid of any expression as if all emotions have been drained from his soul.
Meanwhile, at Shekhawat Villa, the daylight is fading. In the kitchen, Neeti is busy preparing lunch, wearing an apron, her face glowing with a gentle tiredness of love and responsibility. Upstairs, Shorya, who has returned early from the office, enters his study.
Moments later, the entire house echoes with his furious voice. “NEETI!!!”
Startled, Neeti drops the utensils. Fear grips her as she rushes toward the study. Mr. Shekhawat, too, hurries out of his room, and both reach the study door together.
The sight inside freezes them in place.
Shorya’s face is red with anger. In front of him stands a little boy just three years old named Vikram. His big brown eyes shine with innocence, his chubby cheeks smeared with crumbs, tiny fingers clutching a packet of chips. Completely unaware of the chaos he has caused, he sits on the laptop, having pulled out important papers from the laptop file and scattered them all over the floor.
Neeti’s heart skips a beat. She immediately rushes forward, gathering the papers while gently lifting Vikram off the desk. But Shorya’s anger explodes like fire.
He roars, “What’s the use of cleaning up now? Why don’t you pay attention in the first place? You can’t even manage a child?! These were my important documents!”
His words hit Neeti like daggers. The papers slip from her trembling hands, tears well up in her eyes. Vikram, sensing his mother’s pain, begins to cry and clings to Neeti’s legs. His little soul understands that his mother is being scolded.
Neeti hugs Vikram tightly, wiping his tears, and without uttering a word, she walks out of the study. Her silence hurts more than Shorya’s shouting.
Mr. Shekhawat, who has been quietly observing, finally erupts. His voice is deep, stern, filled with fury, “Why are you shouting at that girl? Shame on you, Shorya! She is your wife, and Vikram is her son your responsibility too! Not just hers!”
Shorya tries to defend himself, his tone bitter, “I work the entire day in the office, and she just stays at home. Can’t she even handle one child? Do you even realize how important these documents were for me?”
Mr. Shekhawat’s eyes blaze like lightning. Cutting him off, he raises his hand and thunders, “Enough! You’re not the only one who works. Neeti works harder than you taking care of this entire household for me, for you, for Vikram! And what mistake did she even make? He’s a child, innocent… what would he know? And for this, you crush her dignity?”
Shorya lets out a frustrated breath, hastily gathers his documents and laptop, and storms out of the study without another word.
Mr. Shekhawat stands there, his chest rising and falling heavily. Looking toward the door where Neeti has disappeared with Vikram, he mutters to himself in a grave tone, “No matter what happens, Shorya, it is you who must apologize. Even God cannot win against a woman, and you are just a man. After what you said today, may God himself save you.”
Inside a tall building, there is a calm and disciplined atmosphere. Everywhere, shining glass walls reflect the glow of bright white lights. This building is the head office of a pharmaceutical company, where new research projects and medicines are developed every day. That afternoon, a conference is being held inside the boardroom.
Among those seated is a young but silent man, Karan Rajput. His face carries no smile, only a stillness that seems permanent. His eyes look deep, slightly weary, as though life has long ago stolen his ability to laugh. His expression hardly ever changes restrained without emotion. It is as if his heart and mind move in one strict rhythm: only work, only responsibility.
Opposite him sits one of the company’s shareholders. The man flips through a few documents, then slowly lifts his gaze toward Karan. In a composed tone, he says, “Mr. Rajput, from today onwards, this company belongs to you. You are the new CEO.”
The words carry weight, but Karan’s face remains unchanged. No joy, no pride, not even surprise. It is as if he has already known, almost accepted, that one day this seat would be his. With only a slight nod, he responds in a calm, steady voice, “From tomorrow, inform the staff. Tell everyone to resume their duties.”
His tone is so cold, so controlled, that it leaves the man across the table momentarily speechless. All he can manage is a faint, “Yes, of course,” with a quick nod.
Without another word, Karan rises from his chair. Every step he takes is measured, deliberate, leaving behind an unspoken authority. He walks out of the conference room, through the long gallery, and finally exits the building.
Evening is slowly changing its shades. Inside Aryan Villa, a deep silence has spread, as if even the walls are mourning someone’s pain. In one corner of the drawing room, Rohit sits on the sofa. He wears a simple white T-shirt and grey lowers. A laptop rests on his lap, his eyes fixed on emails, and his face carries the exhaustion of both body and mind.
But suddenly, the calm atmosphere shifts. The faint sound of anklets and hurried footsteps breaks the silence. From the door, a girl walks in quickly. She wears a simple green suit, with a dupatta slipping to the floor from one side. Bangles clink on her wrists, shaking with her anger. At first glance, she looks like a married woman, but neither sindoor shines in her hairline, nor is there a mangalsutra around her neck.
And that girl is Ruhi. She storm up to Rohit and shout, “I Ordered you for ice cream!”
TO BE COUNTINUE...!!!