For Vardhan, waiting was a weapon. He had built his empire on patience sharpened with precision, moving only when the time was right. But now, with her face and voice imprinted on his mind, patience burned like a slow fire.

It took less than a week for his men to deliver the information he demanded.

"Her name is Ruhani Sharma," the report began. "Lives with her parents and younger brother, Saransh. Works at a private firm as an analyst. Commutes daily between office and home. Rarely goes out. Keeps to herself."

He read every word, his sharp eyes catching details others might dismiss. Her routine was quiet, predictable. No late-night parties, no crowded social circles, no men in her life. It was almost startling in its simplicity.

The first time he saw her outside the screen, it was from a distance. She was stepping out of her office, a stack of files hugged to her chest, her hair tied loosely as though she hadn't cared much for appearances. She wore a simple kurti, no jewelry save for a thin chain around her neck, and sensible flats instead of heels.

And yet, there was something about her presence.

She wasn't meek. He noticed the way she spoke to the guard with kindness but firmness, the way she held her files as though she would never drop a responsibility entrusted to her. There was a strength beneath her quiet demeanor—a steel he hadn't expected.

That night, as he sat in his car across the street, watching her walk inside her small apartment building, he found himself smiling again. She was everything he hadn't realized he had been looking for—simple yet composed, caring but not naïve.

But there was also a wall around her.

He saw it in the way she avoided unnecessary conversations at work, in the way she brushed off lingering stares from colleagues, in the way she never allowed herself to linger in places where attention could follow.

She was guarding herself.

From what, he didn't know. But he recognized the signs—he had seen enough brokenness in people to know she had tasted heartbreak, maybe more than once. And now, she carried that quiet shield with her, invisible yet firm, protecting her soft heart from wounds she refused to bear again.

That only made him more intrigued.

For a month, he followed her life from the shadows. His men sent him details, photographs, notes. But often, he didn't need them. He preferred to see her himself—sitting in his car parked near her office, or in a café across from her building. He watched her walk, work, and live a life so starkly different from his own.

Her days were painted in simplicity: office, home, sometimes a visit to the market with her mother, sometimes sitting with her brother in the park as he laughed over something trivial. She didn't need extravagance to glow. She didn't chase attention, didn't seek admiration.

And yet, Vardhan could not look away.

During this time, he booked three more readings. He sat across the screen as her hands moved, as her voice reached him, pretending to be lost, asking questions about purpose, about the weight of choices, about why he felt restless despite success.

And every time, her words struck deeper than he expected.

"You already know the answers," she told him once, her tone steady but kind. "You just don't want to face them. But peace doesn't come from control. It comes from surrender."

Surrender.

The word tasted like ash on his tongue. He was a man who surrendered to nothing. Not to rivals, not to fate. And yet, when she said it, he found himself craving the very thing he had always rejected.

He shut his laptop that night, but the echo of her words lingered long after.

And as the days passed, one truth grew undeniable—
she was no longer just a voice to him.

She was becoming a need.

Ruhani:

Ruhani had read for countless people over the years—students worried about exams, mothers anxious for their children, men desperate for promotions, women questioning the sincerity of lovers. Each session was a window into someone else's storm, and she had learned to keep herself steady, detached, professional.

But lately, one client unsettled her.

He called himself Vardhan.

From the beginning, there was something different about his energy. Most men came to her either skeptical or too eager. He was neither. He was calm, almost controlled, yet beneath his questions she could feel a restless pull, like a river pushing against its own banks.

The last time they spoke, he had asked—quite suddenly—how many children he would have. She had answered with her usual neutrality, guiding him through the spread of cards, but afterward she found herself staring at the screen long after he disconnected.

Something about the question lingered. Something about him lingered.

It was unlike her to think about clients after readings. Yet here she was, scrolling through her thoughts, wondering. Against her better judgment, she searched his name.

It didn't take long.

The internet was filled with him. Articles, interviews, photographs from events—Vardhan Ranavat, self-made businessman, empire-builder, a name spoken with both admiration and envy in financial circles. His achievements were staggering; his face appeared everywhere, from glossy magazines to industry panels.

Ruhani leaned back in her chair, a frown tugging at her brow.

So he was real. So successful. So... unreachable.

She almost laughed at herself. A man like him—what was he doing spending hours listening to tarot readings? What was he searching for in cards that he couldn't find in boardrooms and numbers?

"It should not be this hard for someone like him to make choices," she murmured under her breath. He had money, power, influence—everything most people chased their whole lives. And yet, he came back to her, again and again, as though her voice, her hands shuffling cards, were something he could not let go of.

A shiver of unease crawled through her.

This wasn't right. She had always been cautious about people—especially men. Wealth and power blinded too many of them, turned them into storms that destroyed everything delicate. She had seen it once, too closely, and she wasn't ready to walk into that fire again.

Her peace mattered.

She didn't want glittering chaos; she wanted a simple, happy life. A partner who was kind-hearted, someone who understood her silences, someone who cared and nurtured without needing to dominate. She wanted time with her husband, not stolen minutes between flights and board meetings. She wanted a family grounded in love, not in competition or control.

Vardhan Ranavat was everything she had promised herself she would avoid.

No matter how polite he sounded in readings, no matter how magnetic his voice could be across the line, no matter how her intuition tugged at her with questions she didn't want answered—she would keep her distance.

She had to.

From the next time, she decided, she would say no. Or make excuses. Anything to stop this thread from pulling her closer.

Because she already knew—this wasn't just a client anymore. And she couldn't afford to let her heart walk where her mind had already drawn a boundary.

***