Sarvagya leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening around his spoon as he watched the scene unfold before him.
Across the dining table, Shashank sat with a smug smile, his injured arm wrapped in bandages, a direct consequence of their recent altercation. Sarvagya could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air, the tension so thick it was suffocating. And then, just as he had expected, Shashank spoke—his voice carrying a falsely casual tone that only irritated Sarvagya further.
"Tripti," Shashank said, turning his attention toward her, "you remember, don't you? You promised to feed me with your own hands. Look at me, both my hands are injured, and right now, they're completely useless. If you don't keep your promise, how will I eat?"
Sarvagya's jaw clenched. His grip on the spoon tightened to the point that his knuckles turned white.
Shashank was playing dirty.