Ruhani closed her laptop gently, as though the very weight of the screen might break her resolve if she slammed it shut. The cards were still scattered across her desk—the spread that had left her unsettled. She glanced at them once, then quickly gathered each card back into the deck, sliding them into the box as if locking away the unease with them.

She needed distance. From him. From whatever this strange connection was turning into.

Tarot had always been her sanctuary, not a trap. A tool to guide, not to entangle. But lately, with every session with Vardhan, she had felt something shift. He wasn't like her usual clients who asked, listened, thanked her, and left. He pulled more, pressed more, always lingering as though her words weren't just predictions but oxygen.

And she had given in—more than once.

Her kindness had always been her weakness. People had told her so. She hated to see anyone sound desperate, lonely, or confused. She always ended up giving a little more than she should, carrying a little weight that wasn't hers to bear. That was why she avoided attachments—because once tied, she didn't know how to untangle herself.

But Vardhan Ranavat was different. Too different.

She had searched him once, almost against her own will, and found more than she had wanted to. The empire he owned, the interviews, the magazine covers—all of it screamed of a man who had everything. Power. Wealth. Fame. People bowed to his name.

And yet, he was here, on the other side of her screen, asking questions about marriage like a lost boy.

That contradiction unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Why me? she thought. Why not a hundred other places where he could buy answers, companionship, distractions?

Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her spiral. It was her mother, asking if she'd eaten. Ruhani smiled faintly and replied quickly before stepping out of her room. The simple chatter of her family filled the air—her father reading the newspaper, her mother fussing about tea, her brother Saransh laughing at something on TV.

This was the world she wanted. Simple. Steady. A life where love was gentle, where she wouldn't have to guard her heart every second.

She couldn't risk all that for someone like him. Men like Vardhan were blinded by ambition. They didn't see people; they saw goals. And she knew—knew with every scar she carried—that ambition could consume kindness, leaving nothing but ash.

So she told herself again: she would stay away. No more sessions, no more blurred lines. She would make excuses if she had to. Protect her peace, protect her heart.

Yet even as she promised herself that, a small ache lingered. Because his last look on camera—his silence before the call ended—kept replaying in her mind.

He had looked... almost vulnerable.

Ruhani shook her head firmly, retreating into her room. Vulnerability or not, she couldn't let herself be pulled into a fire she knew would burn her.

She lit a small candle by her bedside, closed her eyes, and whispered a silent prayer for strength. For distance. For peace.

But somewhere deep down, she feared it wouldn't be enough.

Vardhan:

Vardhan was a man who thrived on clarity. In business, in negotiations, in every pursuit—he mapped, strategized, and conquered. Yet with Ruhani, he found himself in uncharted waters, where clarity slipped away the moment her voice echoed in his mind.

She had pulled back. He felt it in the abruptness of her last call, in the way she avoided his messages afterward. She was slipping into silence, the kind of silence that could stretch into forever.

But Vardhan had never been one to let silence dictate terms.

Within a week, he had her life mapped out. His men had been efficient—tracking her routines, noting her commute, the office where she worked, the small café she sometimes stopped at on Fridays. They even found out about her favorite bookstore, the one she visited once a month, always alone.

He hadn't approached her yet. Not directly. Watching was enough, for now.

The first time he saw her outside the screen, his breath had stalled.
She was real in a way his imagination hadn't managed to capture. Fair skin that glowed under the late afternoon sun, long curls brushing her shoulders, a grace in her walk that felt almost... untouched. She wasn't the kind of woman who dressed to draw eyes, yet he couldn't look away.

And the strangest thing—he didn't want anyone else to, either.

It was an alien feeling, this possessiveness that clawed at him when he saw strangers' gazes drift her way. He had built companies with cold logic, not emotions. But Ruhani... she was undoing him without even knowing it.

So he watched. For a month, he let the unseen threads stretch between them.
When she took the cab, he sometimes followed her from some distance. When she visited the bookstore, he entered minutes later, never too close, never too far. At the café, he lingered two tables away, sipping coffee he didn't even like, just to listen to the softness of her voice when she ordered tea.

And through it all, he never approached.

Because he wanted her to come to him. He wanted her to feel the pull, the same way he did every time she spoke through that glowing screen.

Yet patience was a sharp blade, and even he could feel it pressing against his skin.

Her absence from his readings gnawed at him. He replayed old recordings of her voice late at night, sometimes with his eyes closed, letting it wash over him like a balm. It was maddening—that a voice could give him more peace than all his victories combined.

But she would return. He would make sure of it.

And when she did, he wouldn't let her retreat again.

Because Ruhani Sharma might think she could hide behind her walls, but Vardhan Ranavat had already begun weaving himself into her world—thread by invisible thread—until escape would no longer be possible.

***