It became a rhythm, almost a ritual. Twice a month, sometimes more if he could not resist, Vardhan found himself booking sessions with her. The excuses varied—questions about the future of his projects, the path of expansion, even trivial matters he could have solved with data and calculation. But beneath every excuse lay the real truth: he wanted to hear her.

Ruhani's voice.

There was something about it that unsettled him in the gentlest way. Each time her soft "Hello" floated through the screen, he felt an ache in his chest, a strange calm descending over his mind. It was absurd. He had won battles in boardrooms, stood on stages to applause, shaken hands with powerful men—moments that should have filled him with triumph. Yet not once in those victories had he felt the kind of quiet peace that came from her voice.

It was unlike anything he had known.

Even as she spoke of energies, choices, and paths he didn't truly believe in, he craved every word. The world outside—his empire, his ambition, his endless climb to stay above the rest—faded into silence when she spoke.

"You carry a lot of weight on your shoulders," she said once, her fingers turning over a card slowly, thoughtfully. "But peace is not in the next achievement. It's in learning to sit with yourself."

Her words pressed into him like a secret only she had discovered. For a moment, he simply closed his eyes, letting her tone sink into the hollows of his being.

Peace.

The word felt foreign on his tongue. In his world, peace was dangerous—it meant slowing down, becoming weak, losing the race. Yet, as she spoke, he realized he was craving it. Craving her.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Vardhan Ranavat, who could command respect with a single glare, who would tear through obstacles without mercy, was sitting quietly, addicted to the sound of a woman he had never even seen.

He found himself watching not just the cards, but her hands. The way her fingers lingered on the edges, the grace of her shuffle, the little gestures she made when explaining a difficult point. That small black mole on her finger fascinated him—an anchor, a reminder that she was real, not some dream spun by his restless mind.

And slowly, the topics of their readings shifted.

"Will my project succeed?" turned into "What am I meant to learn here?"
"What should I do about this deal?" turned into "What is my real purpose?"

He wasn't even sure when it happened. She had a way of guiding him deeper without him noticing. It should have annoyed him—he didn't like being led anywhere. But with her, he allowed it.

Still, there was tension beneath the calm. His nature—possessive, ambitious, unwilling to lose—warred with the delicate world she seemed to live in. Ruhani was gentle, almost ethereal, a soul who could not harm even in her dreams. And he... he was forged in fire, willing to burn anything that stood in his way.

Perhaps that was why he returned. She was everything he was not.

But he could already feel it—this wasn't just about readings anymore.

He was craving her voice the way men craved air.

Airports always felt the same to Vardhan—crowded, restless, a blur of hurried footsteps and rolling suitcases. For him, they were nothing more than transit points between one battlefield of business and the next. He moved through them with the same detachment he carried everywhere: crisp suit, unreadable expression, phone pressed to his ear as assistants fed him updates about deals that couldn't wait.

But that day was different.

He had just returned from Singapore, another trip packed with negotiations that had gone his way—as they always did. Yet, even as his men congratulated him, even as his competitors begrudged his win, he felt hollow. He should have been celebrating. Instead, he only longed for the next time Ruhani's voice would drift through his screen.

He was adjusting the strap of his watch when it happened.

Through the hum of announcements and the chatter of travelers, a voice cut through—clear, soft, and achingly familiar.

"Hello, yes... I just landed safely. Don't worry, I'll be home soon."

He froze mid-step.

It couldn't be.

But his chest tightened, his pulse quickened. He would have recognized that voice anywhere—because it had lived inside him for weeks, soothing him in ways nothing else could.

Ruhani.

He turned, his gaze scanning the crowd with the sharpness of a hunter. And then he saw her.

She wasn't holding cards now. She wasn't a pair of graceful hands on a velvet cloth. She was a woman, real and alive, walking with her phone tucked to her ear, a small smile curving her lips as she assured someone—her family, perhaps—that she was safe.

For a moment, the world slowed.

Her hair spilled in long, loose curls over her shoulders. Her skin was luminous beneath the harsh airport lights. She wasn't painted in extravagance; she didn't need it. Her simplicity was arresting in a way that struck him harder than he expected. She moved with quiet grace, unaware that someone had stopped breathing just to watch her.

Vardhan's lips curved into the faintest smile, one he couldn't suppress.

So it was true. She existed beyond the screen, beyond the cards. And she was more than he imagined.

His chest swelled with something sharp and possessive. He had only heard her voice for weeks, had only seen her hands—but now that he had glimpsed her, it felt impossible to go back to not knowing.

He did not approach. Not then. He wasn't impulsive; his life had taught him patience when it came to things that mattered. Instead, he reached for his phone.

By the time Ruhani disappeared into the crowd, his instructions had already been given.

"Find her. I want to know everything. Where she lives, where she works, her family, her routine. Everything."

His men didn't question. No one questioned Vardhan Ranavat.

As he walked out of the terminal, the image of her lingered in his mind. The softness of her smile, the way her voice had sounded in the open air, unfiltered by a microphone.

And for the first time, he admitted it—
this was no longer just about her readings.

This was about her.

***