Ruhani had promised herself she would not take his calls anymore. For days, she ignored the notification of his booking request, telling herself it was better this way. He wasn't like her other clients—his presence lingered too strongly, his energy pressed against her calm like waves testing a fragile shore.

But then came the message.

"I'm really feeling stuck. I just need a little clarity. Please."

She sighed, pressing her phone against her chest. It wasn't unusual—people often reached out when desperation clung to them. And she was weak to it, weak to the pull of empathy. Too kind, her mother always told her. Too willing to bend when someone played the right emotional note.

That was why she avoided men like him.

Still, guilt whispered at her. What if he truly needed guidance? What if he was lost in ways she couldn't see?

"Fine," she murmured, more to herself than to him, and scheduled the reading.

When the screen lit up, his camera was on, as it always was, though it revealed nothing more than his background—expensive walls, sleek furniture, the faint glow of city lights through tinted glass. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, fixed on the frame where her hands shuffled the deck.

"Thank you," he said simply, his tone smooth, but there was weight in the words—as though he knew he had pushed her into this.

Ruhani didn't reply, only nodded and adjusted the cards. She needed to stay professional, keep the distance firm.

"What would you like to know?" she asked.

His pause was deliberate. Then: "When will I get married?"

Ruhani hesitated only briefly before letting the cards answer. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, drawing from the deck, laying them gently across the velvet cloth. The spread revealed itself—numbers, symbols, arcs of possibility.

"One to two months," she said finally, her voice calm, though something in her chest stirred uneasily.

His lips curved slightly, a shadow of satisfaction flickering across his features. "One to two months," he repeated, as though turning the words into a promise. "And... what do you see about the marriage itself?"

Her intuition tensed, but she obeyed the call of the cards. She pulled again, letting them speak.

This time, the picture unsettled her.

"The wedding looks small... very minimal people," she said slowly. "The bride seems... hesitant. Nervous. There's confusion, perhaps even fear of this new life. She isn't certain about the relationship. And the other energy... it feels driven, like an achievement."

She trailed off, her throat tight. The words unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

On the other side of the screen, he leaned back slightly, watching her. His silence was heavier than words.

Ruhani lowered her eyes, carefully gathering the cards. "That is what I see."

She wanted to end it there, wanted to press the screen dark and retreat into the safety of her own quiet. There was something about his energy tonight—sharp, insistent—that left her feeling uneasy, almost fragile.

"I think," she said softly, almost apologetically, "that I should rest for some time. I won't be taking readings for a while."

Before he could argue, she ended the call, her heart beating faster than it should have.

And for the first time since she had started her work, she wondered if she had allowed someone too close.

Vardhan:

Vardhan sat in silence long after the screen went dark.
The call had ended too quickly, too abruptly.

Her last words replayed in his mind. "I should rest for some time. I won't be taking readings for a while."

It was the first time she had said something like that. Until now, even when she kept her distance, she had always returned. But this time, her voice had carried an edge—soft, yes, but firm enough to sting.

She was pulling away.

His jaw tightened. He had seen this pattern before—people backing off when things grew intense, when they sensed his hunger for control, for more. But he wasn't accustomed to hearing no. Not in business, not in life.

And especially not from her.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, his eyes drifting to the city glittering beneath his penthouse windows. By all logic, Ruhani should have been insignificant in his world. She was just a voice, a pair of hands behind a camera, someone whose life was painfully ordinary compared to his own.

Yet she had become something he could not replace.

Her voice. That softness that cut through the steel walls he'd built. That peace she gave him—the kind no award, no degree, no victory had ever delivered.

And now she wanted to step back? To leave him restless, dangling without that anchor?

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. She didn't understand. She couldn't.

He thought of the reading again. Marriage in one to two months. A small wedding. A nervous bride. Achievement written in the spread.

It had unsettled her—he saw it in the way her hands hesitated, in the quiet catch of her voice. She had felt something she wasn't telling him.

And that only fueled his hunger.

Because what if... what if the cards weren't just symbols? What if they were glimpses of what was already being written? What if the nervous bride was her?

The thought made his chest tighten, not with fear, but with a strange, possessive satisfaction.

But then came her retreat. Rest for some time.

He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, eyes narrowing. He had chased empires, torn down competitors, rebuilt from ashes—all with sheer will. Finding her, keeping her, wouldn't be harder than that.

If she thought distance would protect her, she was mistaken.

The hunger was already inside him. A hunger to hear her, to see her, to know her world until no corner of it was hidden from him.

Patience, he reminded himself. Patience had always been his sharpest weapon. She would come back—because he wouldn't give her another choice.

But beneath his calm smile, his thoughts burned.

Ruhani Sharma wasn't slipping away from him.

Not now.
Not ever.

***