KABIR’S POV

She was crying.

And I couldn’t move.

Not because I didn’t want to — God knows I wanted to reach for her, pull her into me, beg her to hit me, scream at me, forgive me.

But because I didn’t think I had the right anymore.

Five years ago, I made a choice.

One I’ve relived every fucking night since.

And now, standing in front of her — watching her fall apart and somehow hold herself together with the grace of a queen — I realized something brutal:

There is no pain worse than seeing your home and knowing you don’t belong there anymore.

She looked at me like I was a wound that never healed. Like she had learned to live with the limp I gave her.

And I hated myself for it.

“I don’t know if I can survive you again,” she whispered.

Her voice broke.

And so did I.

I stepped back. Not much. Just enough to stop myself from doing what every cell in my body screamed for.

I clenched my fists in my pockets, trying to contain the storm rising inside me.

“You shouldn’t have to,” I said softly, my throat raw. “You deserve a life that doesn’t make you bleed.”

Shanaya wiped at her cheek, standing taller. “Then why show up? Why not just let me forget?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Because I tried. And I couldn’t.”

My eyes locked onto hers.

“I tried to live without you. I tried being the cold, controlled version of myself the world needed me to be. But no matter how powerful I became, no matter how far I stayed… every city, every face, every damn second reminded me of you.”

She looked like she wanted to scream. Or run. Or both.

I didn’t blame her.

“I watched your interviews,” I confessed. “I saw the photos. You smiled. You shined. And I was proud, Shanaya. But I couldn’t tell if I was proud of your strength or dying from the fact that I wasn’t the reason behind it anymore.”

The silence between us buzzed with a million words we never said.

“Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” she whispered.

I looked away. Up at the stars. Then down — at her.

“Because every time I tried, I remembered the way I left you. And I hated myself so much I didn’t think I deserved to be near you again.”

I stepped closer now. Barely breathing.

“But tonight… seeing you like that, across the ballroom, with him—”

My voice broke.

“Do you love him?” I asked. And it killed me to ask it. “Vihaan.”

She hesitated.

And that was all it took for hope to sneak into my ribcage like light through broken glass.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

My heart pounded.

I inched forward. She didn’t back away.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” I said, voice thick. “But I need you to know — I never stopped loving you, Shanaya. Not for a single breath. And if there’s even one corner of your heart that still remembers us… tell me. Please.”

She looked up at me then — her eyes glossy, unsure, torn between past and present.

And in that moment, I wasn’t the mafia heir. I wasn’t the speech-giver or the empire runner.

I was just Kabir.

The boy who fell in love with a girl on a rainy afternoon, and never recovered.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

Because when she turned away, silent tears running down her cheeks — I knew.

She was still mine.

And I was still hers.

But life…

Life hadn’t stopped punishing us.

---

SHANAYA'S POV

The terrace door clicked shut behind me, sealing away the echoes of a past I hadn’t been ready to face. Of a man I wasn’t ready to see again.

My heels echoed against the marble floor as I walked toward the far end of the corridor, needing space—needing to breathe. But just as I turned the corner near the hallway overlooking the garden, I saw him.

Vihaan.

Standing in silence, arms crossed loosely over his chest, back against the pillar, eyes already on me. As if he knew I'd come here. As if he'd been waiting.

I froze.

He looked calm, maybe too calm. That brand of quiet only Vihaan mastered when he was about to break, but refused to show it.

“Done running?” he asked softly. No anger, no bitterness. Just a quiet question. But the weight behind it hit me like a punch.

“I’m not running,” I whispered, though the lie tasted bitter.

His brows lifted slightly. “Aren’t you?”

I didn't respond. I couldn't.

He pushed off the pillar, walking closer until we stood face to face. The light from the chandeliers filtered through the glass behind me, casting soft gold over his sharp features. But his eyes—his eyes were tired. Hurt. And tired of hiding it.

“You lied,” he said. “Back there, when he asked if you loved me. You hesitated.”

I closed my eyes for a second. “Vihaan—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently. “Don’t give me the PR version. Don’t give me the safe one. Just tell me… why?”

My throat tightened. “You know what this is. What we are.”

“A contract?” He tilted his head. “An arrangement for public appearances? A partnership for business power? Yeah. I know.”

Then he stepped closer. “But you also let me believe… that maybe, maybe there was something more. You let the world believe it. You let me believe it.”

“Because I wanted it to be true,” I whispered.

He stilled.

“I wanted to believe,” I said, “that if I worked hard enough, buried deep enough, smiled often enough… I could rewrite the story I never got to finish. That I could pretend long enough to make it real.”

Vihaan looked at me with quiet devastation. “And what changed?”

“I saw him.”

It was barely a whisper, but it shattered something between us.

“I saw Kabir,” I said, voice cracking. “And everything I tried to erase… came rushing back like it never left.”

He looked away for a moment, jaw tense, like he was bracing himself against the storm in his chest.

“Do you love him?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

He looked back at me, eyes glassy. “Every cell in your body screamed his name when he stepped on that stage, Shanaya. I saw it. Felt it. The way your hand trembled in mine. The way your breath caught.”

“Vihaan—”

“You don’t owe me love,” he said, cutting me off. “I never asked for that. What hurts is… you gave me just enough to believe I had a chance. A glimpse of something real, in a world full of staged smiles and magazine headlines. And I—I let myself hope.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“You were never second to anyone,” I said. “You’re my best friend. My partner. The only person who saw me rebuild myself after him. The one who stayed.”

“But I was never the one you ached for,” he replied, voice low, “and I think I always knew that.”

I took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled. A tired, broken thing. “Don’t be. I would’ve chosen you again. Even knowing how it ends. That’s the problem with loving someone like me… and being in love with someone like him.”

Silence settled between us, heavy but honest. No lies. No mask.

Finally, he stepped back.

“We’ll finish the contract,” he said. “Keep up the facade. The merger still depends on it. And I’ll stand by you until it’s over.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“But after that,” he added, “I won’t keep pretending. Not for the media. Not for the world. Not for you.”

Then he walked past me, his scent lingering in the space we once shared—something clean, safe, comforting.

I watched him go.

And for the first time in five years, I realized something brutal.

The man who broke me wasn’t the only one I had hurt.

And this time… I couldn’t blame the past.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE :

You’ve just seen Shanaya and Kabir face each other after five years of silence. You’ve seen Kabir’s heartbreak beneath his cold poise, his eyes lingering on a girl who once promised him forever. And you’ve seen Shanaya — caught between what she rebuilt with Vihaan and what she never truly let go of.

Writing this hurt.

Because it wasn’t just about a love lost or a love left behind — it was about choosing yourself when both feel impossible.

About the guilt of hurting someone who stayed, and the ache of still bleeding for someone who didn’t.

Vihaan deserved better. Shanaya deserved clarity. Kabir deserved peace.

But in the world of “Ashes of Us,” nothing is that simple.

Thank you for walking through this pain with them. For breathing with them in the silence between words.

And remember…

Love isn’t always about who we end up with.

Sometimes, it’s about who we never stopped waiting for.

— Vrinda

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