Shaurya’s POV
I stood at the threshold of her room—the door slightly ajar, like a silent invitation or maybe a quiet plea.
My eyes swept over the space, and landed on the unopened phone and laptop on her study table—the ones Dad had gifted her. Still in their packaging. Untouched.
It haunted me.
She hadn’t even tried to contact her family. No curiosity. No longing. Just silence. As if no one out there mattered... or worse—her own family was the reason for her shattered state.
I didn’t want to believe that. God, I didn’t want to even imagine that possibility.
But if it’s true…
If the ones who were meant to protect her were the ones who destroyed her…
How was I supposed to help her heal?
How could I ask her to trust us… when they—her own blood—might have torn her apart?
And if that was the case, then I wouldn’t blame her for retreating into silence, for building walls so high no one could reach her.
I closed my eyes briefly and prayed—Let this just be my overthinking. Let the truth not be that cruel.
My gaze shifted toward the wall—the same one she had been scratching last night in her sleep. I could still see faint marks. Her nails, her fingers… they must be hurting.
“You're my responsibility now, Lotus,” I whispered in my mind. “No one can hurt you—not even you.”
“Sir.”
A voice broke my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“We’re here. You called for us,” said one of the men, standing respectfully just outside.
“Yes, thank you for coming on such short notice,” I said, gesturing to them in. “I want to make some changes to this room.”
I turned back to face the space, my voice calm but firm.
“Cover all the walls with soft, padded material. Something that won’t hurt if someone punches or scratches it. Gentle to the touch. Silent to the eyes.”
The designer nodded, attentive.
“Also, I want the headboard padded. If someone wakes up in a panic, they shouldn’t hurt themselves. Cover the entire floor with soft rugs—thick ones. And smooth the edges of every table, every chair in this room. Nothing sharp. Nothing that can leave a mark.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“I want everything done in four hours.”
“We’ll get it done, sir.”
I nodded and walked out.
She was in Siya’s room, thankfully. I had made sure Siya kept her busy with movies. Her room was soundproof—she wouldn’t hear a thing. I quickly sent Siya a message: Keep her occupied for the next 4-5 hours. Don’t let her step out.
Now… onto the second task.
"She doesn’t feel like it."
Those were Siya’s exact words when I had asked her why she wore only white.
My inner voice scoffed at me, “So what now? Gonna force colors into her wardrobe and hope it changes her mind?”
“Of course not,” I answered myself. “Who am I to decide what she should wear?”
"Agar woh sirf safed pehnana chahti hai…
Toh theek hai, main uske liye har rang ka safed le aunga.
Taake jab woh almari khole,
Toh har baar ek naya safed uske samne khada ho,
Aur har kapda usse yeh keh sake—
‘K woh bas dard nahi hai, tu ek kahaani hai… jo abhi poori nahi hui.’
Shayad kisi din, kisi pal…
Woh chand ke safed ke bajaye badal ka safed chune,
Aur phir dhire dhire,
Ek din safed ki jagah ek halka sa gulaabi le aaye…
Na main usse rang dunga,
Na majboor karunga,
Par main har safed mein uske liye ek naya ehsaas rakhunga—
Taake jab woh tayyar ho,
Toh uske pass sirf dard nahi,
Pasand bhi ho."
(If she only wants to wear white…
Then so be it. I’ll bring her every shade of white there is.
So that when she opens her wardrobe,
Each time a new white stands before her,
And every fabric whispers to her—
“That you are not just pain… you are a story still unfolding.”
Maybe one day, in some quiet moment…
She’ll choose the white of clouds over the white of the moon,
And slowly, gently,
One day… she might trade white for a hint of soft pink.
I won’t paint her in colors,
Nor will I force her.
But in every white, I’ll leave behind a different feeling—
So that when she’s ready,
She doesn’t just have pain,
She has a choice.)
And so I made my way to my friend’s wife’s boutique.
Anika Raichand. The most popular designer in Delhi. Owner of the AR Empire… and the undisputed queen of my friend’s heart.
She was waiting for me, as expected.
“Well, well, the Chief Minister graces my humble shop,” she teased with a smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Raichand. You could’ve just sent someone. No need to come personally.”
“Are you serious? The CM himself comes to shop, and I’d miss the gossip rights?” she laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Fair. Let’s begin.”
“What are we looking for?”
“All shades of white.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Yes. Only white. Full length. Full sleeves. Indian wear, mostly.”
I’d only ever seen her in full-sleeved clothes that covered her hands. Always Indian. I knew what she was hiding—what she wasn’t ready to face in the mirror. And I wasn’t going to take that safety away from her.
Anika nodded slowly, her expression softening. “Got it. Give me five minutes.”
As she walked away, my subconscious decided to chime in.
"Waise, Saarkar… kaunsa safed chahiye? Chand wala? Badal wala? Kagaaz wala? Baraf wala? Dhuye wala?"
(By the way, saarkar... Which shade of white do you want? The Moon one?The cloud one? The paper one? The snow one? Or The smoke one?)
I rolled my eyes.
“Dekho kon gangu bai ki saasti copy hai ab.. Bada aya mujhe Aaron warner ki saasti copy kehne wala”("Look who’s acting like Gangu Bai’s cheap version… the same guy who once called me Aaron Warner’s cheap knockoff.")
And then came the answer, whispered like a promise.
Mujhe Lotus wala safed chahiye.
(I want the shade of white that belongs to lotus)
We spent the hours selecting soft cottons, flowing silks, and gentle fabrics in every possible variation of white. Elegant, understated, comforting.
I left quickly—I didn’t want to be seen, especially not by her.
Because I already knew how that conversation would go.
"Who are you to do this for me?"
"I didn’t ask for this."
Cue the death-glares and trademark sarcasm.
Yeah. I’d rather avoid that trauma for the day.
I returned home just as the renovation was wrapping up. Her room looked… softer. Warmer, somehow. I felt peace settle into my chest. She’d be safe here, even from herself.
Then I called Mom.
“Can you arrange these clothes in her wardrobe?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not doing it?”
“It’s her wardrobe. I can’t just go through it like that.”
She smiled at that and nodded. “Good boy.”
At dinner, I sat quietly. But I could feel the stare before I saw it. Sharp. Cold. Burning a hole through my skull.
I lifted my eyes—mistake.
She was looking right at me.
Correction: She was glowering at me like I’d just set her bookshelf on fire.
I froze. And then—God help me—I gulped.
Did I… did I seriously just gulp?
What the hell, Shaurya?
You’re the freaking Chief Minister. You lead Kaala Darbar. You make grown men piss themselves with a look.
And here you are, getting silenced by a glare from a girl in a white kurti.
Well done.
Bravo.
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