𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 (on-hold)

44: Madness in his love

I'm dying, dying to see Zoya being used as a pawn, all because of my mistakes. The news criticizes her harshly, and it's all I can do to keep my anger in check. It's not her fault, none of this is. But she's suffering because of me, and that realization is more painful than anything else.

The whiskey in my glass is forgotten, the taste bitter on my tongue. All I can think about is Zoya, her reputation being tarnished because of me. The hurt and anger are overwhelming, a tidal wave of emotions that I can't control. 

The news is a harsh reminder of the damage I've caused. The anger inside me boils over, a raging inferno that threatens to consume me. I can feel it in every fiber of my being, a raw, primal rage that I've never felt before.

The glass in my hand shatters, shards of glass embedding into my skin. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional torment I'm going through. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears, a deafening roar that drowns out everything else.

The words of the news anchor echo in my mind, each one a cruel jab at my heart. They're attacking Zoya, my Zoya, and I can't do anything to stop it. The helplessness I feel is pathetic, as I sit here, in this empty bar, my heart heavy with guilt and regret.

Lost in my reverie, I fail to notice when someone approaches from behind. It's only when I sense the calm perfume emanating from their body and I realize their presence. 

"Nischay?" She whispers, her hand tender and cold on my tensed shoulders and her voice warm near my ear, resembling a calm heaven to my hell. 

She bends down to meet my level as I sat on the chair, but I—I couldn't even pull the nerve to look her in the eyes. 

So, I turned my face away, to avoid her gaze. To avoid the eyes where my home resided. 

She was here, and it kills me to even imagine how terrible she must be feeling to find me here and bear the weight of the world's disdain.

An unspoken fear coils within me, to imagine Zoya being the victim of their jeerings. She did not care whatever the world said about her, but it fucking killed me every time she was called a bad name, only because she was my wife.

"Nischay." Zoya calls me softly, again, her voice a painkiller. I close my eyes shut, my jaws and fists clenching in anger and my grip on the glass tightens. I can't be vulnerable to her, not when she's the one suffering because of me. 

I try hard to avoid my wife, the one I could stare at all my life without a blink. 

I have ruined us, our love.

Zoya calls me again and again, her voice softer with every breathe that escapes her beautiful lips, my name feels like nectar on her lips to me. Yet, I can't taste something that belongs to me, for I failed to cherish it. Failed to protect it from the world as I had promised her. 

"Meri taraf dekho, Nischay." Zoya whispers, her hand framing my face tenderly. 

(Look at me, Nischay.)

If I was her husband, I would've kissed them. But being an asshole that I am, I yank her hand away harshly, my jaws clenching as I resisted my twisting heart. 

"Go away from here, Zoya." I whisper, my breath heavy as I shut my eyes. My chest clenches with pain as I utter the next words, a stone to my heart, "I want to be alone."

Tears choke up my throat, threatening to spill down my eyes, drunken and tired. I gulp the lump down my throat, feeling a bunch of needles stuck in my throat as silence descended between us, and Zoya said nothing to me.