Chapter 8: The Weight of Secrets
Yash’s POV
The moment Yash saw the blinking dot on the tracker app, his blood ran cold.
“He’s not moving.”
The dot pulsed at a location marked CityCare Hospital—an unassuming facility in an average neighborhood. But the implications were massive. Raaz. Alone. Wounded. Vulnerable. The idea itself was unthinkable.
Yash slammed the car door shut and barked orders into his Bluetooth.
“Get five men to CityCare Hospital. Armed, low profile. NOW.”
It took him twelve minutes to reach. Twelve minutes of unbearable silence in the SUV, each second heavier than the last.
He burst into the hospital lobby like a storm.
“I need the man who came in thirty minutes ago. Stab wound. Where the f*** is he?” Yash shouted, gripping the front desk.
The nurse flinched. “He’s—he’s in surgery, sir.”
Yash’s eyes narrowed. “Who approved it?”
“The girl… she said she’s his wife,” the nurse stammered.
A muscle ticked in Yash’s jaw. He glanced at the emergency ward doors and then turned back, his voice lethal calm.
“Do you know who he is?”
No one answered.
“I said DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU REFUSED TO TREAT?” he thundered.
The nurse and a nearby doctor froze.
“That man is Raaz Singh.” Yash’s voice dropped low. “Leader of the syndicate. The most powerful name in Mumbai’s underworld.”
Whispers erupted. Faces paled.
“And you turned him away when he was bleeding to death,” Yash hissed. “If anything happens to him, none of you will have a hospital left to work in. Or a life.”
The silence that followed was thick with dread. Suddenly, everyone was rushing. Extra nurses ran into surgery. Senior doctors appeared out of nowhere. Machines were prepped. The fear of death had ignited efficiency.
Yash exhaled and stared at the closed OT doors.
“She saved him,” he murmured to himself, thinking of the girl who brought Raaz here. “Whoever she is… he’ll want to know.”
Aanya’s POV
Rain still tapped softly against the hostel windows as Aanya shut the door behind her.
She didn’t bother turning on the lights. The quiet was a blessing.
Her clothes were still damp, and the blood stains had darkened over time—red turning rust brown. Her hands trembled as she peeled the kurta off and dropped it into the laundry bucket.
Then came the leggings. Stiff with dried blood.
She stared at herself in the mirror—hair disheveled, eyes rimmed red, lips pale. Her fingertips touched her own reflection.
"I lied… I kissed a stranger... and I gave away Ma's ring..."
She sank to the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, the echo of Raaz's shallow breathing still haunting her ears.
Tara would’ve scolded her. Called her crazy. Reckless.
But Tara was gone for the week, visiting her family in Pune. Aanya was alone—with the storm, the guilt, and the terrifying memory of the night.
She closed her eyes.
The feel of Raaz’s cold skin, his fingers tightening slightly around hers… his eyes fluttering open for a second as they wheeled him away...
She shivered.
"Why do I care? I don’t even know his name..."
And yet, somewhere deep inside her heart, something had shifted. A bond had been formed—not of words, but of blood, rain, and fear.
Aanya didn’t know yet how powerful that bond would become.
But Raaz… Raaz would remember everything.
Raaz’s POV
A dull ache clawed through his abdomen, dragging him from the depths of unconsciousness.
Everything was white. Sterile. The beeping of machines. The weight of gauze on his body. The burn of antiseptic.
But Raaz’s mind wasn’t on the pain.
It was on her.
The girl with trembling hands. Tear-filled eyes. The girl who held him like she knew him. Fought for him like he was hers.
The girl who kissed him.
And called herself his wife.
“Where… is she?” Raaz rasped.
Yash, who had been sitting beside him, jerked up. “Raaz! You’re awake!”
Raaz’s eyes opened slowly. Pale. Feverish. But intense. “The girl… brought me here. Where is she?”
Yash hesitated. “You remember her?”
Raaz turned his face toward the window, rain still streaking the glass like a memory that refused to fade. “She saved me. Argued with the doctor. Said she was my wife…”
“She’s not your wife,” Yash said cautiously. “We don’t know who she is yet. No ID, no name at reception. She left after paying your fees. Gave them a ring.”
Raaz’s jaw tensed. “Find her.”
Yash blinked. “Raaz, she’s no one. Just a college girl, probably. She walked into this mess by accident.”
Raaz looked at him—eyes cold, determined. “I don’t care if she’s the Prime Minister’s daughter or a damn librarian. She saved me. Held me when I was bleeding out. Kissed me… and I didn’t pull away.”
Yash studied his boss. Raaz Singh—the man who hated to be touched, who tolerated no weakness, who trusted no one—was lying in a hospital bed, whispering about a girl like she was oxygen.
“You really want me to track her?” Yash asked, serious now.
Raaz’s voice was a whisper. “I need to see her… just once. Then maybe I’ll breathe again.”
Yash nodded, already pulling out his phone.
Raaz closed his eyes. Aanya’s face—the softness, the panic, the fearless lie she told—burned into his mind.
Who are you, girl?
And why do I feel like you already belong to me?