Ambivalence

LEAVE HER

Aaradhya's POV

I observed him intently as he attempted to take care of my hair, following my instructions. A part of me couldn't help but question the sincerity behind his actions. It was a side of Rana Sa I hadn't seen before—gentle, attentive, and willing to engage in tasks far removed from the regal responsibilities he usually carried.

Despite my initial skepticism, I couldn't deny the genuineness of his efforts. He willingly participated in my hair care routine, a task usually reserved for close friends or family. As he brushed my hair, applied oil, and even tried to braid it, I wondered if this was a glimpse into the man behind the stoic exterior.

However, the skepticism lingered. Rana Sa had always been an enigma to me, and deciphering his true intentions was like navigating through a labyrinth of uncertainty. The question that echoed in my mind was whether this caring side was a facade, a temporary display of concern, or if there was a deeper layer to his emotions that I had yet to unravel.

As I observed him attempting to braid my hair, a soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from a man who usually exuded strength and authority. Yet, beneath the surface, I sensed a genuine effort to connect, to bridge the gap between the roles we played in each other's lives.

The next morning, I woke up a little late and went into the bathroom to start my morning routine. While brushing my teeth, I heard him shouting my name as if in distress. I quickly washed my mouth and came out.

"Kya hua?" I asked him.

(What happened?)

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked toward me. "Bed se utarne ki permission kisne di aapko?" His voice was cold and harsh, but there was a softness behind it.

(Who gave you permission to get out of the bed?)

His overprotective behavior made me feel like I could let my guard down for a while. Though he was acting like my father, there was something more than care in his words.

"Mai itni bhi kamzor nahi hu, Rana Sa, ki apne aapko sambhal na paau. Aur vaise bhi, itni bhi chot nahi lagi ki mai apne kaam khud na kar paau," I assured him.

(I am not so weak, Rana Sa, that you cannot handle me. Besides, the injury isn't severe enough to prevent me from doing my work.)

As he lifted me once more, a peculiar sense of déjà vu settled over me. The repetition of this act was becoming strangely familiar, a ritual woven into the fabric of our interactions.

"Hume in sab se koi farak nahi padta, aap ko bed se nahi utrana chahiye tha, Rani Sa," he remarked, a peculiar blend of authority and genuine concern lacing his words.

(I don't care about all this, Rani Sa. You shouldn't have gotten up from the bed.)

Nestled in his arms, I discovered an unexpected comfort, a stark departure from his usual rigid and imposing demeanor. Despite the soothing embrace, a stubborn part of me resisted the notion of dependency. My response echoed the internal conflict that brewed within me, "Rana Sa, it's not necessary. I can manage on my own."

Our eyes locked, and his gaze bore into mine, unearthing a depth of emotion hidden beneath the surface. "Aaradhya, I don't like you always crossing my words; for fuck's sake, listen to me for once."

I recoiled at the tone he directed at me, a tone that had become a disconcertingly familiar refrain in our exchanges.

His words stirred a mix of emotions within me—touching and puzzling me in equal measure. They marked a departure from the established dynamics of our relationship. As he delicately lowered me onto the bed, a fleeting vulnerability lingered in his eyes, momentarily unmasked before being concealed by his customary composure.