Sitting before the mirror on her wedding day, adorned with the red bridal attire, Zoya, Delhi's one of the most renowned Gynecologist couldn't feign the absurd heaviness in her chest, as if something awful was going to happen. And the little hopeful...
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The night bled into Nischay's study room, a canvas stained with shadows and the acrid tang of stale smoke. He sat shrouded in a haze, a cigarette dangling precariously between his lips like a punctuation mark to his unspoken desires. Each drag painted crimson swirls in the air, mirroring the embers of longing glowing deep within him.
Alcohol addiction.
It took days for him to realize it, and it's become an insatiable addiction now, one that he can't stop even if he wants to. He's even started smoking.
"How pathetic." He thinks.
Zoya doesn't know about it, and Nischay is in no plans to tell her. She's yelled at him thousands of times when she found him drinking alone, shrouded in the dim light of his study room hiding from her. He's even distanced himself from her.
It's become a need now, one that keeps him consumed, enough that the pain kills him a little less, enough that he can live.
The vodka, once a shield against the gnawing ache, lay abandoned on the nightstand, a testament to its inadequacy. It couldn't drown the symphony of her memory, the insistent thrum of his need. He was adrift in a sea of longing, with only the flickering embers of his cigarette offering a meager semblance of light.
Nischay gets up from the chair, slamming the glass on the table as he releases a breath. He walks out of his room, strolling straight to their bedroom. Opening the door he finds Zoya, dolled up in a pretty beige colored embroidered saree.
The view leaves him speechless.
Her porcelain skin, flawless and cool, the curve of her lips, a promise of laughter yet to be shared, a melody yearning to be sung. The cascade of her raven hair, cascading down her back like a waterfall of midnight, her delicate arch of her brows, a question mark perpetually poised above those dark depths.
Zoya, struggling with the waist chain, freezes when her gaze falls upon Nischay through the mirror. She snaps her head back and turns around and finds him standing at the door, as if hesitating to come near her.
"Need help?" Nischay whispers, almost surprising her. He has been acting strange from the court's first hearing, as if distanced himself from her.
Surprise takes so much of Zoya, her cheeks burning with gladness, she almost forgets to answer him.
Without an answer from Zoya, Nischay strides toward her, slowly pushing her back until she's pinned between him and the dressing table.
"Hands up." Nischay says, leaning a little to her waist, but spellbound Zoya stays clueless in his grip.
He raises his head up, jaws clenched. "Hands. Up. Zoya." Nischay repeats, this time a command, stern and warned as he stares deep into her eyes.
No smile lingers upon his face, his gaze hooded and dark as he demands. Zoya raises her arms up slowly, giving him the space to her body. She swallows hard as Nischay leans down, his breath hitting her neck, causing shivers to run down her spine.
