Chapter 1 COLDNESS AND INNOCENT
The heavy iron gates of the Visakhapatnam bungalow creaked open, cutting through the dead silence of the 2:00 AM night. Virat stepped out of his SUV, slamming the door with a force that echoed through the empty driveway.
His mind was a chaotic mess of dark, gruesome imagery. Another body. Another young, adolescent girl found discarded in the isolated wooded suburbs, her life snuffed out by a calculated strike to the pressure points of her neck, finished ruthlessly with a thin iron wire. The brutality of the Trichy serial killer was pushing his legendary short temper to an absolute boiling point. His veins burned with a volatile mix of exhaustion and fury.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was dimly lit, cast in warm, soft shadows. And there she was.
Sai.
She was curled up on the edge of the sofa, fast asleep, having exhausted herself waiting for him. Her soft, curvy, milky-buttery frame—which always seemed to glow even under the dimmest light—was draped in a simple, pastel-colored cotton saree. The contrast was striking. He had just come from a horrific crime scene of death, and here she sat, looking like a fragile, beautiful, bunny-like soul. The red glass bangles on her wrists caught the faint light, clinking softly as she breathed. Her mangalsutra rested against her collarbone, and the fresh sindoor in her parting partition stood out starkly.
Virat’s jaw tightened. Four months. For four months, he had ignored her existence under this roof, trying to break her spirit so she would leave. Yet, she remained, trying to adjust to his suffocating silence and terrifying aura.
On the dining table sat two plates of food, carefully covered.
Without a word, Virat walked past the sofa. His heavy boots thudded against the floor, a sound that usually made his own family tremble. He didn't glance at her. He marched straight upstairs to his room, ripped off his soiled shirt, washed the literal and metaphorical blood from his hands, and changed into a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants.
When he walked back downstairs, the kitchen light was on. The heavy footsteps had woken her.
Sai stood by the stove, hurriedly reheating the food. Her deep brown hazelnut eyes were wide, blinking away the remnants of sleep, filled with that familiar, nervous flutter she always had around him.
Virat walked to the table, pulled out a chair with a sharp scrape, and sat down. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his expression carved from stone.
Sai carefully walked over, holding the warm plate with the end of her saree. She placed it in front of him, her silver payal and toe-rings tinkling softly in the quiet room. She set her own plate aside, choosing to sit on the chair adjacent to him, her hands nervously gripping the edge of her saree.
"Suniye ji..." her voice was a soft, tentative whisper, cutting through his heavy silence. "You... you are very late today. Was the work a lot?"
Virat didn't answer. He picked up his spoon and began to eat, his movements rigid and cold. The food was perfectly seasoned, just how he liked it, but his mind was too numb to care.
Sai watched him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took a small, shaky breath, trying to bridge the miles of distance he put between them every single day.
"Suniye ji..." she murmured again, her hazelnut eyes searching his harsh, unreadable face. "How... how does the food taste? Is the salt okay? I made the chicken gravy exactly the way Ma said you preferred..."
Virat paused for a fraction of a second. His grip on the spoon tightened until his knuckles turned white. He could feel her gaze on him—innocent, hopeful, and terrified all at once. He knew his reputation. He knew people feared his explosive temper. He had wanted her to fear him too, to run away from this forced marriage. But her persistence only fueled his dark mood tonight.
Slowly, he lowered his spoon. He didn't look up at her. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated with dangerous authority.
"If it was bad, I would have thrown the plate by now."
Sai flinched slightly at the harshness of his tone, her fingers twisting her gold and red bangles nervously.
"I... I just wanted to make sure you liked it," she said softly, lowering her gaze to her lap, her fair skin flushing slightly. "You look very tired. If you want, after you finish, I can bring you some warm water for your feet, or..."
"I don't need anything," Virat interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, cold and final. He resumed eating, clearing his plate with mechanical efficiency, completely shutting her out once again.
Sai swallowed the lump in her throat, adjusting the pallu of her saree. She sat there quietly, a simple housewife kid trying to survive the storm that was DCP Virat Sarkar, wondering if the ice between them would ever thaw, or if his rage would eventually consume them both.
Comment and tell me should I write the next part
