BOOK 1 in IMMORTAL SERIES.
In the heart of udaipur , a city of palaces and secrets stood the infamous MR. ABHIMANYU RAICHAND , his towering presence exuded an aura of authority , as if the world bowed to his every whim . Renowned as the king of udai...
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ABHIMANYU'S POV
"Jaan, aapne yeh soch bhi kaise liya ki hum aap par bharosa nahi karte?” I murmured. “Agar hum iss duniya mein sabse zyada bharosa karte hain, toh woh sirf aap par hai,” I said and kissed her forehead.
My heart shatters, fragmenting into a million pieces at the sight of her lying there so still. This silence is a stark contrast to the usual symphony of her presence.
She, who would either be lost in her own little rants or murmuring to herself—a mirror to how I converse with my innermost thoughts. Yet, her voice has always been the balm to the tempest within me, soothing the beast that lurks in the shadows of my soul.
I yearn for my little moon, my Akshara, to return to her vibrant self, to fill the silence with her light once more. "Do you understand, Miss Akshara Rajvansh? I want my little moon back," I whisper to her resting form on the hospital bed, hoping for a sign, a flicker of her spirit, to assure me that she's still with me.
The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the lively conversations that used to fill our moments together.
There she lay, motionless, her voice—a voice that once danced through the air, now stilled. I couldn't help but wonder, as I spoke into the void, "Is she not listening to me too?"
Memories of my mother's words in childhood came flooding back, offering a sliver of solace. She had said that a person can hear us in every condition until God claims their soul.
And I clung to that belief, that somewhere within the quietude that enveloped her, Akshara was listening to me.
I leaned closer, my voice barely a whisper, "Can you hear me, Miss Rajvansh? Don't forget a lot of work is pending, and you can't take off from your responsibilities." The hope that she might respond, even in the smallest of ways, kept my words flowing.
"I know you're there, I know you can hear me, and don't forget you have to prove something to me," I affirmed, my heart holding onto the thread of connection that, though unseen, I felt certain was there.
"Little moon,” I murmured, my voice a fragile tremor. “Do you hear me? Even in this stillness, I know you’re there. Your soul, suspended between wakefulness and dreams, listens to my every word.”
I leaned closer, as if bridging the gap between our worlds. The room smells of antiseptic and uncertainty, but my focus remains solely on her—the woman who has become my sanctuary, my silent confidante.
