Chapter 4: Crimson and Ice

Chapter 4: Crimson and Ice

The heavy oak doors clicked shut, and the sudden drop in volume was jarring. There were no

cameras here. No whispering politicians. No security guards bowing their heads. There was only the

hum of the central air conditioning and the heavy, unresolved tension stretching between them.

Ahana stood in the center of the vast room, feeling entirely miniature against the towering

bookshelves and deep charcoal walls. Her heavy red bridal lehenga, glittering with thousands of

hand-stitched gold sequins, looked like a splash of blood against his sterile, grey world.

She turned around slowly to face him. Abhimanyu was standing by the door, his hands adjusting the

cuffs of his midnight-black sherwani. His posture was still as rigid as a soldier's, his jaw tightly set.

"The left side of the wardrobe is completely empty," Abhimanyu said, his voice flat and clinical,

breaking the silence. "I had the staff clear it out for your things. The adjoining bathroom is yours. I will

use the one down the hall."

Ahana let out a dry, quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. She reached up, unpinning the

heavy red veil from her hair and setting it onto his immaculate mahogany desk. "Is that the official

briefing, Counselor? Do I get a map of the perimeter next?"

Abhimanyu’s hands paused on his cuffs. He looked up, his dark eyes tracking her as she began

unbuttoning the heavy, stifling gold jewelry around her neck. He saw the faint tremor in her fingers,

the exhaustion lining her eyes, and the way her shoulders slumped the moment she thought he

wasn't looking.

His chest ached with a sudden, sharp ferocity. He wanted nothing more than to step forward, take the

heavy necklace from her hands, and tell her she could finally stop fighting. But the memory of

Devansh’s words at the reception—"You marry the hero's daughter, you lock in the emotional

vote"—burned fresh in his mind. If he showed her how deeply he cared right now, she would see it as

a calculated manipulation. She would think he was trying to buy her affection while she was broken.

So, he stepped toward his desk instead, keeping his distance. "I am trying to make this transition as

seamless as possible for you, Ahana. You’ve had a long night."

"A long night?" Ahana turned to face him fully, her emerald necklace dangling from her fingers. Her

signature sunshine energy was pushing through the exhaustion, turning into sharp defiance.

"Abhimanyu, my father died two months ago. Tonight, I was paraded around like a prize pony to

secure your family's public image, and now I am locked in a high-security fortress with a man who

looks at me like I’m a tax audit. Don't manage me. Just be real for one second."Abhimanyu went entirely still. The accusation stung, but it was the raw vulnerability in her voice that

almost broke his control. He closed the distance between them, stopping just two feet away. He

loomed over her, his dark silhouette blocking out the harsh light of the desk lamp.

"You want real, Ahana?" his voice dropped, turning low, rough, and entirely stripped of his political

polish. "Real is knowing that the gates outside this room are the only things keeping the sharks from

tearing you apart. Real is knowing that your father gave everything to protect mine, and I will damn

well destroy my own life before I let anyone dishonor his memory by hurting you. You think I am

managing you? I am keeping you safe. That is my only mandate."

Ahana blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, volcanic heat beneath his icy exterior. For a split

second, she saw a flash of something intense and deeply protective in his eyes—a raw emotion that

didn't look like duty at all.

Before she could process it, the heavy gold zipper at the back of her bridal blouse gave a sharp,

stubborn snag. Ahana winced, her hands flying to her back as she tried to untangle the intricate

threadwork of the lehenga from the metal teeth. "Great. Perfect timing."

Abhimanyu watched her struggle, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "Stop moving.

You’re going to tear the fabric."

"I don't care about the fabric, Abhimanyu, I just want to breathe," she muttered, her voice cracking

slightly with frustration as she twisted her arms awkwardly.

Exhaling a long, defeated breath, the grumpy political heir took a step closer, completely entering her

personal space. "Hold still," he commanded softly.

Ahana went completely still, her breath catching in her throat as Abhimanyu’s large, warm fingers

brushed against the bare skin of her upper back. The contrast was instant—his hands were slightly

rough, radiating an intense heat that sent a sudden, unexpected shiver straight down her spine.

"I told you to stop moving," Abhimanyu murmured. His voice was lower now, raspy and stripped of all

its usual boardroom authority. He was standing so close behind her that she could feel the steady,

heavy rhythm of his chest against her shoulder blades.

"I'm not moving," she whispered back, staring straight ahead at the charcoal wall. Her heart was

suddenly hammering against her ribs, loud enough that she was terrified he could hear it.

Abhimanyu looked down at the pale curve of her neck, his jaw tightly clenched. Up close, the faint,

sweet scent of jasmine in her hair was completely intoxicating. His fingers were trembling slightly, but

he forced them to be steady as he carefully worked the intricate gold threadwork out of the metal

teeth of the zipper. Every brush of his knuckles against her skin felt like an electric shock to his

system. He had spent years dreaming of being this close to her, but never like this—never under the

shadow of a tragedy, never when her heart belonged entirely to her grief.With a final, careful tug, the metal track cleared. The zipper slid down smoothly, loosening the heavy

silk of her bridal blouse.

Abhimanyu immediately stepped back, his hands retreating into the pockets of his black sherwani as

if he had just been burned. The cold, impassive mask slammed right back over his features, though

his dark eyes remained intensely focused. "It's fixed. The wardrobe has silk robes and cotton clothes.

Take your time."

Ahana clutched the front of her loosened blouse, turning around slowly to look at him. She expected

to see his usual judgmental, rigid expression. Instead, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something

raw, dark, and utterly breathless in his gaze before he looked away toward the window.

"Thank you," she said softly, the defensive edge completely gone from her voice.

Without waiting for him to respond, she gathered the train of her heavy red lehenga and walked

toward the adjoining bathroom. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind her, finally insulating

her in privacy.

The bathroom was a sanctuary of white marble and heated floors. Ahana leaned her back against the

closed door, letting out a long, shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She looked at

herself in the massive, gold-framed mirror. Her hair was a bit wild from the pins she’d pulled out, her

lipstick slightly faded, but there was a faint, pink flush on her cheeks that hadn't been there at the

reception.

"He isn't completely made of stone," she realized, her fingers tracing the place on her back where his

hands had rested. "There is a storm hiding behind that ice."

Turning away from the mirror, she carefully peeled off the heavy, gold-laden bridal wear that felt like a

uniform for a life she hadn't chosen. Inside the spacious dressing closet, she found the clothes he

had mentioned. Tucked away neatly next to his pristine suits was a collection of soft, cotton lounge

sets in warm, bright pastel colors—yellows, soft pinks, and creams.

Ahana stared at them, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her exhaustion. They weren't

the dark, sterile colors of his room. They were her colors. He had explicitly ordered them for her

before she even moved in.

She quickly changed into a comfortable cream-colored cotton set, washed the heavy layers of

makeup off her face, and tied her long hair into a loose, comfortable braid. Stepping back out into the

main bedroom, she felt lighter, ready to face the grumpy political heir on more equal terms.

But when she opened the door, the room was empty. Abhimanyu was gone.