After a long moment, Sarita turned toward Kuldevi.
She prayed without words.
And the flame burned on.
???
Abhinav was inside the car before he fully registered moving.
The door slammed. The engine roared awake. Anand Mahal vanished behind him.
Hospital. Unidentified woman. Yellow clothes.
The words cut through him with brutal clarity.
He drove fast enough for the city to blur at the edges. Not reckless. This was focus pushed to its limit, sharpened by dread.
Every red light felt like an insult. Every slow vehicle in front of him tested his control. He cut through traffic, slipping through impossible gaps, taking corners with a force that made the tires scream against the road.
The speedometer climbed. Still not fast enough.
His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly blood from his split knuckles spread across the leather. He didn’t notice.
Only forward remained. Only the hospital.
From the outside, he still looked composed. Spine straight. Breathing controlled. Face unreadable. The perfect Anand heir managing a crisis.
Inside…Hospital. Yellow clothes. Unidentified woman.
His mind circled the words, refusing to step into the thought waiting beyond them.
The hospital rose ahead in harsh white light.
He pulled into the emergency entrance too fast. The car stopped at an angle across two lines. He was out before the engine died.
Two police officers waited near the sliding doors.
One moved forward with an introduction Abhinav did not register. The other matched his pace as they entered.
“Female. Mid-twenties. Unconscious on arrival. No identification.” The officer kept pace beside him. “Yellow clothes. Build is similar. Facial injuries make confirmation difficult.”
The smell hit him first. Antiseptic. Medicines. Bleach. Hospitals always smelled the same. And looked painfully clean. Clean enough to hide suffering beneath it.
“I apologize for calling you before confirmation…”
A short nod from Abhinav cut him off without a glance.
The officers led him into a room where a woman lay on the bed, motionless, white sheets pulled up, bandages covering most of her face.
He did not look there. His eyes went to her hands. Too small. Wrong fingers. Wrong shape.
Not the hands that traced old carvings in hidden chamber. Not the hands that clutched his shirt when he kissed her. Not the hands that rested against his chest before dawn while the Haveli slept.
His eyes moved over her shoulders. Her frame.
No.
Relief struck so hard it hurt.