The story I wrote the other day focused more on Shiv’s point of view. For me, their past will always be rooted in his journey and everything he endured.
This one, however, shifts the lens to Shalini — how she might truly feel when the truth finally comes out. It explores Shalini and Parshuram’s story at its core, moving away from the family chaos and focusing on just the two of them - Mr. & Mrs. Parshuram.
I have been wanting to write this along with past since the valentine's day promo crushed Diva's hope
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Part 1 | What the Mask Concealed
Context: Few weeks after kidnapping incident:
Lunch with her sister and a friend. A deliberate attempt to breathe after weeks of tension. For an hour, Shalini wanted to feel like a woman with an ordinary life.
Then the first glass shattered.
Music stopped. Screams tore through the room. Chairs scraped violently as armed men stormed in — loud, reckless, armed.
Her sister froze.
Her friend grabbed her arm, trembling.
Shalini did not freeze.
“Down,” she ordered, pulling both of them behind an overturned table. She scanned the exits, calculated distance, dragged a chair to block one side. Her pulse thundered in her ears — but her movements were precise.
Fear existed.
It did not control her.
Across the chaos, another force entered.
Measured. Strategic. Deadly.
Parshuram.
The moment his eyes found her, something flickered.
Not panic.
Recognition.
He secured the mask before stepping forward.
His commands sliced through the noise. His team responded instantly. He moved with ruthless efficiency — each attacker subdued with swift, decisive force.
Until he saw her.
Shalini wasn’t hiding.
She was directing.
She shielded her sister. Positioned her friend. Whispered instructions to strangers crouched nearby.
She wasn’t waiting to be rescued.
She was fighting — not with weapons, but with will.
Behind the mask, something shifted in his gaze.
Not just protectiveness.
Respect.
A flicker of pride.
She wasn’t fragile.
She was fire.
And that realization sharpened his rage.
When an attacker moved too close to her, Parshuram’s response was excessive. Immediate. Brutal.
Not detachment.
Personal fury.
Shalini began guiding her sister toward the emergency exit. The floor was slick with spilled water and shattered glass.
Her foot slipped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
In chaos, “just enough” is dangerous.
Parshuram reached her in two strides.
His hand clamped around her upper arm, pulling her upright. His other arm braced across her back, positioning her behind him as he neutralized the threat.
Then he turned back to her.
His grip didn’t loosen.
Too firm.
Too controlled.
She pulled slightly. “I can stand.”
He didn’t respond. When debris fell from above, he wrapped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her flush against him to shield her body.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t comforting.
It was territorial.
She stiffened.
She didn’t feel saved.
She felt handled.
As the chaos settled, he reached again — hand hovering near her waist.
She stepped back sharply.
“I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”
Her voice was steady.
“I won’t lie. I was not comfortable with how you held me earlier. Please keep your distance.”
Not loud.
But final.
For the first time since entering the room, Parshuram hesitated.
People usually looked at him with gratitude.
She looked at him with boundary.
Behind the mask, something struck.
Not anger.
Impact.
She turned immediately to her sister and friend, checking them, holding them close, whispering reassurance. She dialed her husband.
Unreachable.
Once cleared, she left.
She never once looked back.
But he watched her go.
And for the first time in years, Parshuram felt something unfamiliar.
Not control.
Not dominance.
Not victory.
Something dangerously close to admiration.
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That night, after the children were asleep (obviously!), Shalini paced the living room.
The doorbell rang.
She opened it instantly.
Shiv stood there — soft, calm, almost sheepish — a bag of vegetables in his hand.
“Mrs. Deshmukh,” he smiled gently. “Are you okay?”
She told him everything.
The chaos.
The fear.
The officer who had held her too tightly.
Shiv listened quietly. His expression shifted to concern.
He pulled her into a hug.
“It’s over now,” he said. “Don’t think too much. Just be careful next time.”
Be careful.
That was all.
No rage. No sharp questions. No visible fire. Just calm.
Before she could react in her anger, he held her gently.
Light. Careful. As if she might break.
“I love you,” he murmured against her hair.
She softened as he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. He cupped her cheeks and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
He watched her blush.
His eyes lingered longer than usual.
Because earlier that day — in the same body, with the same hands — he had felt her recoil.
“Don’t touch me.”
Her voice echoed in his mind.
Directed at Parshuram.
Directed at him.
Now she leaned into him without hesitation.
Trusting. Unaware. The contrast burned quietly beneath his calm.
He tightened his hold around her — just slightly. Not enough for her to notice. Just enough to steady himself.
He pressed his lips to her forehead again.
And beneath the gentleness —
A decision formed.
She must never know.
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Shiv — the calm one, the affectionate one, the man who let her lead emotionally — was the man she chose.
She didn’t know that the other one loved her too.
But Parshuram’s love was not soft.
He loved her the way storms guard coastlines.
Violently. Unapologetically. Without asking permission.
Shiv loved her with reassurance.
Parshuram loved her with wrath.
One held her like she was delicate.
The other held her like the world was.
And she had no idea they were the same man.
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Now the real question lingers beneath everything:
When she finally learns the truth —
Will she feel safer?
Or will she feel that the man she loved was only half of the story?
Mr And Mrs Parshuram
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