Chapter 10 — Midnight, Ten Years Later

The apartment settled into silence once the city dipped into night.

Ishita stood near the glass wall that separated the living area from the private theatre, arms folded loosely, watching Kabir scroll through his phone with a focus that hadn't left him all day. Meetings, calls, names that carried weight—she could sense it in the way his jaw tightened, in the pauses between messages.

"Movie," she said suddenly.

Kabir looked up. "Now?"

She nodded. "Now."

There was no argument. There never was, not when she asked like that—calm, decisive, already halfway to the theatre door.

The entire floor belonged to them. Not an apartment so much as a private world stacked above the city—soundproofed, guarded, invisible. The theatre lights dimmed automatically as they stepped in, velvet seats curving around a screen that filled the wall.

Kabir loosened his jacket, setting it aside. Ishita curled beside him, legs tucked under herself, hair still damp from a hurried shower. She handed him popcorn, deliberately avoiding his eyes.

"You're distracted," he said.

"So are you," she replied.

The movie started—something light, something familiar they'd both seen before. It didn't matter. Within minutes, Kabir's arm found its way around her shoulders. She leaned in without thinking, cheek resting against his chest. His heartbeat steadied her, as it always did.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.

Halfway through, Ishita laughed softly at a scene. Kabir glanced down at her, memorizing the sound, the way it slipped out when she forgot the world existed. He brushed his thumb along her arm, a quiet promise of I'm here.

Time drifted.

The movie credits rolled, and the room stayed dark.

Kabir checked the time out of habit.

12:00 AM.

Before he could say anything, Ishita slipped out of his hold and stood. The lights stayed dim. The screen went black.

"I'll be right back," she said.

He frowned slightly. "Where are you—"

The theatre door closed behind her.

A moment later, the lights warmed just enough to glow.

Ishita returned, carrying a small cake, candles flickering, casting gold across her face. She walked slowly, deliberately, like this moment deserved care.

Kabir froze.

She stopped in front of him.

"Happy anniversary," she said quietly.

Ten years.

The words settled slowly, heavily.

Kabir stood, stunned in a way very few things could manage. "You planned this," he said.

She smiled—soft, a little nervous. "You forgot."

"I never forget," he said automatically. Then paused. "I... didn't realize the date."

She stepped closer, setting the cake on the table between them. "I know."

That was the thing about her—she always did.

Ten years of hidden vows. Ten years of loving him in fragments stolen between danger and distance. Ten years of being Ishita Sharma to the world and Ishita Rathod only in rooms like this.

He reached out, cupped her face gently. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. You're here. That's enough."

They stood together as the candles burned, silence wrapping around them like a shared memory.

"Make a wish," she said.

Kabir didn't close his eyes. He leaned down, kissed her forehead instead, then blew out the candles.

"I already have everything I want."

She laughed softly, blinking fast. "Show-off."

They cut the cake together. He fed her the first bite. She fed him the next, fingers lingering against his lips longer than necessary.

"You know," she said, sitting beside him again, "ten years ago, I thought I was signing a contract."

Kabir's arm circled her waist. "And now?"

"Now I know I married a very difficult man."

He smiled faintly. "And yet."

"And yet," she echoed, resting her head against his shoulder, "I'd choose you again."

He tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Outside, the city moved on—unaware, uninterested.

Inside, time paused once more.

Ten years down.

And neither of them intended to stop.

Close your eyes."

He did.

She opened the first box and gently placed it in his hands. "Okay. Now."

Inside lay a luxury watch — elegant, timeless. Very Kabir. He studied it for a moment, then looked up at her.

"You didn't have to."

"I know," she said. "But I wanted to."

She reached for his wrist and fastened it herself, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. "This one's for the world," she added softly. "For meetings, travel... for everything you carry so quietly."

Then she picked up the second box.

"This," she said, her voice lowering, "is for us."

Inside was a gold bracelet — a simple kada, solid and understated. She took it out and slipped it onto his other wrist.

Kabir went still.

"It's not about status," she continued. "It's about strength. About constancy. About how you've held us together even when things tried to break us."

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the bracelet.

"You wear armor for everyone else," she said gently. "This is a reminder that you're allowed to be held too."

He pulled her into his arms without a word, forehead resting against hers. "Ten years," he murmured. "And you still know exactly how to undo me."

She smiled against his lips. "Good. I plan to keep doing that."

They stayed like that for a long moment — the city humming outside, the apartment wrapped in warmth, the weight of time not heavy, but precious.

No promises were spoken.

They didn't need to be.

They had already lived them.

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