The orange glow of the evening sun draped over the hospital room like a silken veil, turning the sterile white walls into a canvas of warm gold. 

The harsh mechanical beeping of the monitors seemed to soften, blending into the quiet rhythm of two souls finally breathing the same air.

Anjali's POV

I watched him. My heavy eyelids felt like lead, but I couldn't bring myself to close them.

 I was terrified that if I blinked, the image of the man in front of me would dissolve into salt and mist. Aryan. My husband. 

The man I had forgotten, but whose name my soul had been screaming for four years.

He was like a restless storm, unable to stay still. One moment he was adjusting the heavy velvet curtains to block the glare, the next he was meticulously peeling an apple, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. 

He moved with a frantic, protective energy, constantly hovering over me, tucking the edges of my blanket as if I were a fragile porcelain doll that might shatter in a breeze.

When he leaned over me for the tenth time, his shadow falling softly over my face, I reached out.

 My fingers were weak, but I managed to catch his hand.

"Main theek hoon, Aryan... Main kahin nahi ja rahi hoon. Aaram kar lo, please," I whispered, my voice a mere breath.

Aryan paused. His hand, warm and calloused, stilled against my shoulder. He looked down at me, and my heart broke. 

His eyes weren't just tired; they were haunted, shimmering with unshed tears that seemed to reflect the four years of hell he had endured. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand moving to caress my hair with a tenderness that felt divine.

"Kahin jaane bhi nahi dunga," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion.

 "Ye chaar saal kitne bhari the mujhpe... main bata bhi nahi sakta, Anjali."

I slowly moved my hand up, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips.

 "Tum nahi bhi bataoge, toh main samajh jaungi."

He didn't say a word. He simply leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine. I closed my eyes, feeling the heat radiating from him.

 Then, I felt it—the soft, lingering pressure of his lips on my forehead. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a seal, a silent vow that the world could no longer reach us.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his fingers entwining with mine, refusing to let go.

"Maan lo... agar main nahi milti kabhi toh?" I asked softly, the thought of our near-misses making my chest tighten.

Aryan's gaze deepened, turning dark with a raw, painful honesty. 

"Agar tum nahi milti na Jaan... toh main bhi khoya rehta. Main bas ek jism hota jo duniya ko dikhane ke liye zinda rehta... par meri jaan hamesha wahin rehti jahan tum thi. Main bas ek adhura khwaab ban kar reh jata."

A tear escaped the corner of my eye. I remembered seeing him in Rishikesh—how he looked so lost, so broken, yet so desperately hopeful. 

I remembered thinking back then, 'How lucky his wife must be to be loved like this.' I was such a fool. It was me. All that love, all that agony, was for me.

I smiled through my tears, a small, bittersweet curve of my lips. Aryan noticed immediately. 

He raised his eyebrows slightly, a flicker of his old, charming self peeking through the exhaustion.

"Tumhe aise muskurata dekh dil ko sukoon milta hai," he murmured.

I rubbed my thumb over his clenched fist, feeling the strength in him. 

"Itna pyaar karte ho mujhse?"

He leaned in closer, his breath fanning against my skin, his voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated in my soul. 

"Itna... ki agar koi kehta ki 1000 maut marni hai tumhe us tak jaane ke liye... toh woh bhi karta, jaan"

I caressed his face, my heart overflowing. 

"Itna pyaar sehat ke liye hanikarak hota hai, Mr. Taneja."

He let out a soft, melodic chuckle—the sound I had missed without even knowing it. 

"Par agar pyaar tumse ho... toh sehat ki tension kisko hai?"

He hovered his lips just a fraction of an inch above mine, his eyes searching mine with a hunger that was four years in the making. 

In that golden evening light, surrounded by the scent of lilies and the echo of his heartbeat, I realized that the tragedy was over. 

We weren't just survivors; we were a masterpiece of a love that death itself couldn't erase.

Author's pov:

The hospital room grew quiet as the moon began to climb, replacing the golden sunset with a cool, silver glow. 

Anjali's breathing had evened out into the deep, restorative sleep of someone who had finally found her sanctuary.

Aryan stood over her for a long time, his shadow falling across her peaceful face. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, feather-light kiss to her forehead.

"Bas thodi der, Jaan. Kuch zaroori kaam hai... main abhi aata hoon," he whispered, his voice a promise.

As he stepped out into the hallway, his face hardened. The gentle husband vanished, replaced by a man who still had one final debt to settle.

 He saw Reeva and Jay waiting near the nurses' station.

"Jab tak main wapas nahi aata, uske saath rehna, hmm?" he instructed Reeva.

She offered a small, supportive smile and nodded. Aryan then turned his gaze to Jay, his eyes turning into cold flint. 

"Mujhe uske paas le chalo."

Jay didn't need to ask who. He simply nodded, and the two men walked toward the exit, their footsteps echoing with a grim finality.

Meanwhile;

In the damp, dimly lit holding cell of the local station, the air felt heavy with the stench of iron and rot.

 Dev Singhania didn't look like a king anymore. 

He was slumped in the corner of the cell, his expensive white shirt now a tattered, crimson rag.

 His face was a map of purple bruises and dried blood, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the madness screaming in his mind.

He was swaying back and forth, his fingers clawing at the concrete floor until his nails bled.

"Gulaab..." he whispered, the name sounding like a broken sob.

He looked at his hands, trembling violently. He could still feel the resistance of the blade as it entered her skin. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see Anjali; he saw the light fading from her eyes because of his hand.

It was a psychotic loop of regret and obsession. 

To Dev, his love was a religion, and he had just committed the ultimate sacrilege. He began to laugh—a high-pitched, jagged sound that quickly turned into a guttural scream of agony.

"Nahi! use kuch nhi hoga haan! Maine usey paane ke liye kitno ko maara!" He slammed his head against the iron bars, the metallic clang ringing through the station. 

"Gulaab... meri Jaan... Jhanvi..."

He started scratching his own arms, trying to dig out the imaginary scent of her that he felt was trapped under his skin. 

He was a man who had built a palace of lies, only to set it on fire with himself inside.

The sound of heavy boots echoed in the hallway. The other prisoners went silent.

 The guards stood straighter. Dev didn't look up; he was too busy trying to piece together a shattered memory of a smile that would never belong to him again.

The shadows outside his cell lengthened as two figures approached. 

Aryan stood behind the bars, looking down at the broken remains of the man who had tried to steal his soul. 

The silence between the two men was deafening—one was a man who had regained his world, and the other was a monster who had finally realized he was the villain of his own story.

The atmosphere in the police station was suffocating, thick with the smell of old paper and the lingering scent of Aryan's own dried blood. 

Jay stood a few feet away, finalizing the paperwork with a grim-faced inspector, but Aryan's world had narrowed down to the iron bars and the pathetic creature behind them.

Aryan stood perfectly still, his silhouette casting a long, dark shadow over the cell. He looked like a god of vengeance carved out of stone. 

He watched Dev—the man who had played with lives as if they were chess pieces—now reduced to a trembling mess in the corner.

"Maar diya tumne usko," Aryan said, his voice terrifyingly calm, as cold as the depths of an ocean.

The words acted like a lightning bolt. Dev, who had been muttering to himself, shot up. 

He lunged at the bars, his bruised fingers clutching the iron so tightly the metal groaned.

"K-k-KYA BAKWAAS KAR RAHA HAI TU!" Dev screamed, his voice cracking, his eyes bulging with a desperate, frantic fear. 

"Nahi... nahi! Meri Gulaab... woh theek hai! Maine use bas... maine use..."

Aryan didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared into Dev's soul with eyes that held no mercy.

 He knew Anjali was safe, breathing, and recovering, but he wanted Dev to rot in a hell of his own making.

 He wanted Dev to feel the same soul-crushing weight of a funeral for a woman who was still alive—the same agony Aryan had carried for 1,461 days.

"Tere junoon ne use maar diya," Aryan continued, each word a slow, deliberate stab. 

"Jis hath se tumne use paane ki koshish ki, usi hath se tumne uska dil cheer diya. She's gone. And the last thing she felt was loathing for you."

Dev's grip on the bars loosened. He stepped back, his head shaking in a rhythmic, psychotic denial. 

A small, broken scoff escaped his lips, which slowly evolved into a haunting, manic laugh. But the laugh didn't last. It transformed into a jagged, primal cry of absolute ruin.

"NAHI! NAHI! AAHHHH!" Dev roared, clutching his head and collapsing to his knees. 

"M-meri Gulaab! Maine... maine apne hi hathon se apne khuda ko maar diya? NAHI!"

He began to thrash on the floor, his fingernails digging into the concrete, his screams echoing through the corridors of the station. 

He was mourning a death that hadn't happened, trapped in a lie that felt like the ultimate truth.

Aryan watched the spectacle with a cold, detached satisfaction. 

He was playing a dangerous game, weaving a wall of lies around a man who had lived by them.

 Aryan knew that for a monster like Dev, a quick death would be a mercy. 

He wanted Dev to live every remaining second of his life in this cage, haunted by the image of Anjali's blood on his hands. 

He wanted him to wake up every morning in a cold cell, realizing that he was the murderer of his own obsession. This wasn't just justice; it was a psychological execution.

Aryan leaned closer to the bars, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Dev could hear.

"Ab tum yahan raho, Dev. Is andhere mein. Aur har pal uske khoon ki boo apni saanson mein mehsoos karna. You killed her. Aur ab, tumhari saza yeh hai... ki tum zinda rahoge."

Aryan turned away from the sound of Dev's animalistic screams, his expression shifting from one of cold hatred to clinical authority.

As he approached the inspector's desk, the officer stood up instantly, his spine straightening in a gesture of instinctive respect. 

There was an aura around Aryan now—not of a grieving husband, but of a man who held the strings of power in his blood-stained hands.

"I have spoken to the Ministry," Aryan said, his voice level and terrifyingly calm.

"He will be transferred to Tihar Jail by tomorrow morning. But until that transport arrives, ensure he receives the highest level of 'hospitality' this station can provide. Break his spirit, break his bones if you must... but make sure he doesn't die. He hasn't suffered nearly enough for what he's done."

The inspector swallowed hard and nodded. "Consider it done, Mr. Taneja."

Aryan walked out of the station, the cool mountain air hitting his face.

He stepped into the car, Jay taking the driver's seat. 

As the engine roared to life and they began the drive back toward the hospital, a heavy silence hung between them.

Jay exhaled sharply, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight. 

"Ab kya?"

Aryan leaned his head back against the leather seat, closing his eyes. 

"Ab kya matlab?"

"Dev Singhania ek bahut bada naam hai is desh mein, Aryan," Jay said, his voice laced with genuine worry.

"He has lawyers, he has politicians in his pocket. Koi na koi rasta nikal kar use chhudwa hi lega. He's too powerful to just rot in a cell."

Aryan let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated with a confidence Jay had never seen before.

"Tumhe sach mein lagta hai ki uska naam hi is desh mein bada hai?"

Jay glanced at him, confused. "Matlab?"

Aryan opened his eyes, staring straight ahead at the winding road, his gaze as sharp as a blade.

"Duniya ko lagta hai ki Dev Singhania ke paas power hai kyunki wo shor machana jaanta hai. Par asli power wo hoti hai jo khamoshi se chalti hai. Power unke paas hoti hai jo system ko banate hain, chalate nahi."

He turned his head slightly toward Jay, his eyes glinting in the dashboard light.

"Taneja Group ki jadein itni gehri hain, Jay, ki agar main ek baar unhe hilla doon toh Delhi ke bade-bade takht gir jayenge. Dev Singhania ne sirf ek ladki ko nahi chheena tha... usne ek aise insaan ko lalkara hai jo use mitti mein milane ki taqat rakhta hai bina apna hath ganda kiye."

Aryan's voice dropped to a terrifyingly cold tone.

"Politics, law, and even the shadows of the underworld—everything follows the person who controls the capital of this country. Dev is a king in his own mind, but in the real world, he is just a pawn I've decided to discard. Use koi nahi chhudwayega, Jay. Kyunki jo use bachane ki koshish karega, main use bhi usi cell mein Dev ke bagal mein sula dunga."

Jay felt a chill run down his spine. He realized that the man sitting next to him wasn't just a successful businessman; 

he was a titan who had been dormant, and now that he was awake, there was no force on earth that could stop him.