Chapter 6: What the Suit Hides

(Kabir Rathod's POV)

Pain was inconvenient.

That was the only word I allowed myself.

The suit slid over my shoulders smoothly, custom-made, structured enough to hide what lay beneath — the stitches, the stiffness, the reminder that bullets had tried and failed to finish what many men before them couldn't.

The mirror reflected the same man the world knew.

Kabir Rathod.

Former royal blood.

Present-day king of empires.

A businessman by daylight.

A name whispered carefully after dark.

No weakness.

No cracks.

I adjusted my cufflinks and walked out.

The Rathod Group headquarters stood tall against the Rajasthani skyline — stone, glass, and power blended into one. Every corridor fell silent the moment I passed through. Not out of fear alone, but certainty.

I didn't need to announce myself.

They already felt it.

Veer fell into step beside me, tablet in hand, expression sharp.

"The Dubai shipment cleared customs," he said. "The hospital expansion proposal is ready for signatures."

I nodded once.

"And the underworld accounts?" I asked.

"Stabilized. No leaks after the last cleanup."

Good.

We walked into the boardroom. The meeting started exactly on time — numbers, acquisitions, logistics, defense contracts, hospitals, malls, shipping routes.

I spoke when needed.

Decided without hesitation.

Ended debates with a glance.

This was my world.

Controlled. Predictable.

And still —

A dull ache pulsed beneath my ribs, sharp enough to remind me of yesterday's blood, not strong enough to slow me down.

I ignored it.

The meeting stretched past noon.

Lunch trays were brought in.

I didn't touch mine.

Veer noticed, of course.

"You should eat," he said neutrally, eyes still on the screen.

"I'll eat later."

He didn't argue. Veer knew better than to push when I used that tone.

He didn't know the truth anyway.

That food only went down when she made sure of it.

That my body listened to her even when my mind resisted.

No one needed to know that.

The door opened again.

One of our long-term partners entered — a man nearly my father's age, loyal, sharp, and ambitious even now. Beside him walked his daughter.

Confident posture. Calculated smile.

"She'll be handling my international dealings from now on," the man said proudly. "Learning fast."

Her eyes met mine.

"Kabir Rathod," she said, extending her hand. "It's an honor."

I shook it briefly. Professionally.

"The honor is mutual."

She smiled — too comfortably.

Throughout the meeting, her attention stayed trained on me. Questions angled in my direction. Comments timed precisely. Laughter where none was necessary.

I noticed.

I dismissed it.

Interest meant nothing.

I had long stopped confusing attention with importance.

But somewhere between a discussion about European logistics and security restructuring, she leaned closer than required and said softly, "We should discuss this over dinner sometime. It'll be easier."

I met her gaze calmly.

"Veer handles international strategy," I said evenly. "You can coordinate with him."

Her expression tightened, just slightly.

The conversation moved on.

Veer noticed nothing unusual.

No one did.

That was the point.

By evening, the pain sharpened.

I still didn't eat.

The building emptied slowly, staff leaving one by one until only the core remained. I signed off the last document, shut down the screen, and stood.

The moment I stepped into the elevator, silence wrapped around me.

That was when the thoughts slipped in.

Uninvited.

Uncontrolled.

Did she eat today?

Did she sleep after those surgeries?

Was she still angry?

I exhaled slowly.

I didn't check my phone.

I never did while at work.

Some lines were never crossed.

The drive to her apartment was quiet.

Security cleared the route. Lights dimmed as the car disappeared into the private underground access. No neighbors. No witnesses. No names.

She opened the door herself.

Hair tied up loosely. Glasses gone. Exhaustion written plainly across her face.

"You're late," she said.

"You skipped food," I replied.

Her eyes narrowed.

"That's not your concern."

"It is."

She turned away, walking toward the kitchen. I followed, watching the way she moved — tired but precise, like she refused to let the world see her slow downHugged her from back my face in her hair they smell to good

"Still angry biwi " I asked

"You're hiding pain," she said without turning.

"I'm managing."

She scoffed softly.

"You always are. Until you aren't."

She placed a plate in front of me.

"Eat."

I didn't argue.

I never did with her.

She watched me carefully — not like a doctor, not like a wife, but like someone who knew exactly how fragile power could be beneath control.

"You went back too soon," she said.

"The world doesn't wait."

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"I don't care about the world."

I looked at her then.

Really looked.

"You're angry."

"Yes," she said immediately. "Because you think surviving means you can ignore consequences."

"I survived."

"Barely."

Silence stretched between us.

Then, softer: "Don't do that again."

I didn't promise.

I reached out instead, pulling her closer until her forehead rested against my chest — carefully, avoiding the wound without being told.

She exhaled shakily.

This — this was where the suit came off.

Not physically.

But everywhere else.

He kissed her forehead gently, his thumb brushing away the worry etched between her brows.

"Biwi... I'm here," he murmured, grounding her in the certainty of his presence.

Before she could respond, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, unhurried kiss — one that spoke more than words ever could. It wasn't rushed or demanding; it was warm, reassuring, full of promise. She melted into him, her hands finding his shoulders as the kiss deepened, turning softer, needier, more intimate with every passing second.

They barely realized when they moved — from standing to the bed — laughter mixing with quiet breaths, foreheads resting together, hearts racing in the same rhythm. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in closeness and trust.

And somewhere between whispered names and shared silence, the night claimed them.

Much later, the room was quiet again — calm, warm, safe.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, pulling her closer as she rested against his chest. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns along her arm, a silent after-care that spoke of love rather than desire. She listened to his heartbeat, steady and familiar, finally at ease.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they drifted into sleep — not as two separate souls, but as one comfort, one home.

By morning, I was gone before sunrise.

Back into the suit.

Back into control.

And the world still had no idea who Ishita Sharma truly was.

Good.

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