A U T H O R ' S  P O V 

"Yaar, Ranbir, ab teri bhi shaadi ho rahi hai. Ab tu bhi Yuvi ki tarah joru ka gulaam ban jayega," Krish teases, a wicked grin curling his lips as his elbow nudges Ranbir playfully. His tone drips with exaggerated drama, and the quip ripples through the warm afternoon air, drawing an easy round of laughter from the group.
(Ranbir, now you're getting married too. Soon you'll be just like Yuvi, wrapped around your wife's finger.)

Yuvraj, reclining with a drink in hand, doesn't let the remark pass. With practiced ease, he leans forward and delivers a light smack to the back of Krish's head—a mix of mock reprimand and friendly affection flickering across his face.

"Joru ka gulaam? Usse pyaar kehte hain, idiot," Yuvraj retorts smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth even as his gaze softens. He speaks with the quiet certainty of a man unashamed of how love has shaped him—grounding him, deepening him in ways his friends might never understand until they feel it themselves.
(Wrapped around her finger? That's called love, idiot.)

"Love?" Ranbir scoffs, leaning back against the sofa as if the word itself amuses him. "More like nonsense. And anyway, I'm not the kind of man who gets tamed. My fiancée is this shy, traditional girl, like a bride straight out of a 90s movie. You know my type is... very different." He lets the words hang in the air, his long legs stretching out, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, his posture exuding calculated nonchalance. He tips his chin, runs a hand through his artfully tousled hair, and offers a deliberate wink like the star of a scene that exists entirely for his own ego.

Yuvraj's smirk fades, replaced by a furrow of concern. "If she's not your type, then why marry her at all? Are you honestly going to ruin that girl's life?" His voice drops, its edge sharpened with sincerity.

Ranbir's smirk remains, but something flickers in his eyes—brief, almost imperceptible weariness. "For Mom," he says finally, the words slow and measured. "You know how Dad is—either I marry that girl, or he cuts me out of the will. And my name in that will... well, that's worth more to me than a set of wedding vows." His shrug is casual, but it carries the weight of a man treating commitment like a mere transaction.

Yuvi leans forward, his tone cooling to steel. "Then be honest with her. Don't play house if you have no intention of making it a home. With that charm of yours, she could start believing you actually care and when the truth hits, it will destroy her."

Ranbir chuckles under his breath, rolling his eyes in theatrical dismissal. "Relax, Yuvi. I'm not a heartless villain. She'll have her luxurious life in my mansion, and I'll have mine... somewhere several thousand miles away. Paris sounds good—maybe with a blonde or two. Win-win." He turns to Krish with an easy grin, raising his hand for a lazy high-five.

Before Yuvi can respond, a voice calls from across the living room.

"Yuvraj, kahan ho? Shri kab se ro rahi hai. Mere paas chup hi nahi ho rahi. Please handle her," Shivanya calls out, cradling their wailing daughter. Her brows are drawn tight, her voice taut with exhaustion and worry.
(Yuvraj, where are you? Shri's been crying non-stop and she's not calming down. Please handle her.)

"Aa raha hoon, jaan. Bas ek minute," Yuvraj replies instantly, already rising to his feet. His tone carries urgency; Shri's cries echo sharper now, tugging at him instinctively.
(I'm coming, love. Just one minute.)

"Jaa, joru ka gulaam. Tera bulawa aa gaya," Ranbir quips from behind, his voice light but laced with that familiar glimmer of mischief.
(Go on, the queen has summoned you.)

Yuvi stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns back to face Ranbir, his expression void of humor. His eyes narrow, the air between them cooling in an instant. "Shut up," he says, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable weight of warning. "If you screw this up—if you even think about playing with that girl's life—you'll regret it. And it won't just be because of your father's will."

For a moment, Ranbir's grin falters, though he masks it quickly. Yuvi's gaze lingers on him for a heartbeat longer before he turns and strides away, his words still hanging in the air like a blade suspended over the unspoken.

Just moments later, the low, resonant purr of an engine ripples through the quiet afternoon, cutting through the fading laughter like a deliberate interruption. Heads turn instinctively as a sleek, obsidian-black sedan glides into view, its bodywork so polished it mirrors the world around it—the blinding sun, the drifting clouds, the faint shimmer of heat rising from the driveway. The rhythmic crunch of tires on gravel grows louder, each rotation pulling the scene taut with unspoken anticipation.

The car rolls to a precise halt, its engine humming one last time before falling silent. For a heartbeat, the air feels suspended, charged with curiosity and the kind of hush that precedes the unexpected. Ranbir, Krish, and their other friends inside seem to still, as if the house itself is holding its breath.

The door swings open with unhurried grace, and she steps out.

A woman, perhaps twenty-six, commands the space before she even closes the car door. Confidence radiates from her in waves, an elegance so instinctive it borders on dangerous. She wears a deep emerald saree that clings in all the right places, the fabric's liquid sheen catching the light with every subtle movement. Each pleat is deliberate, sculpting her figure as though the garment was made for her and her alone. The sequined blouse—sleeveless, backless, unapologetically bold, turns her into a vision of contradiction: refined yet provocative, restrained yet utterly arresting.

Diamond earrings sway lightly with each step, scattering pinpoints of light that dance against her skin. Her sunglasses—oversized, perfectly proportioned, conceal her eyes, transforming her into an enigma you can't help but try to solve. The faint breeze toys with the loose strands of her hair, which cascade in dark, silken waves over her right shoulder.

Ranbir stood frozen along with everyone and their gazes lock onto her, all traces of banter forgotten. It is as though time distills into frames: the subtle lift of her chin, the lazy curve of her smirk, the precise click of her heels against the gravel. The world narrows to her alone, every other sound dulled to a background murmur.

She smirks—not out of shyness, not as an accident, but with the cool precision of a woman who knows exactly what she's doing. The small, deliberate curve of her lips sends a faint, electric charge into the space between them. And then she walks forward, her stride fluid, assured, each step a quiet declaration that she owns every inch of ground she crosses.

"Close your mouth or a fly might wander in," she murmurs into his ear, her voice low, smooth, and laced with playful mockery. The faint brush of her breath against his skin sends a ripple of warmth down his neck. Her hand lands lightly on his shoulder—just a pat, casual to anyone watching, but to him, it's a spark that ignites something far less innocent.

For a fleeting second, Ranbir feels the heat climb to his cheeks, an uncharacteristic betrayal of composure. Before he can craft a reply, she glides past him with an unhurried, deliberate sway in her walk, the delicate perfume trailing behind her as dangerous as the smirk she leaves him with.

The trance breaks with the faint click of her heels against marble. Ranbir blinks, drags in a slow breath, and forces his pulse to settle—but it doesn't. Instead, excitement tangles with desire, curling in his chest like smoke. In the next beat, he's moving after her, his usual swagger slipping back into place as if it had never faltered.

"Well, hello there, stunning lady," he calls out, stepping neatly into her path. His voice is silk wrapped over steel, smooth and confident. "Ranbir Raichand, sole heir of the Raichand Empire." He offers his hand, palm up, his dark eyes glittering with the kind of charm that has undone more than a few women.

She pauses, her gaze flicking to his extended hand before she slips hers into it with a smile that could melt glass. "Mahira Sehgal. An investor your father brought on board," she says, her voice melodic, each syllable deliberate.

"Mahira," he repeats, drawing her name out like he's tasting it. "What a beautiful name." His tone lowers, intimate, as he brings her hand to his lips. The brush of his mouth against her skin is feather-light yet bold enough to make the air between them shift—an unspoken dare woven into the gesture.

Her eyes glint, and her smile tilts into mischief. "I heard there's a wedding in your family," she says, teasing, her voice lilting with mock innocence.

The remark lands like a subtle spark in his mind. Yes, he's the one getting engaged today—but the thought is weightless, irrelevant compared to the pull she exerts on him in this moment. His impending marriage is nothing but a background hum, easily drowned out by the far more enticing melody of Mahira's presence.

"Yes, today's his engagement," Krish interjects from the side, his grin breaking through the charged quiet. "By the end of the week, he will be a married man."

"Oh, so you're the groom," Mahira says, her tone playful but edged with curiosity. She steps closer, her gaze running over him in open assessment. "You look far too young to be shackled for life."

Ranbir leans in, their faces now separated by only a breath. His voice is low, meant for her alone. "I have zero interest in this marriage," he murmurs, his grin turning into something darker, more dangerous. "I don't love my fiancée."

Her brows lift slightly, but she doesn't step back.

"Leave it. You should go and take rest for a while. And whenever you need me," he continues, his voice a low blend of promise and provocation, "just call. I'll be right outside your door... after all, you are my beautiful guest now."

Their eyes lock, holding in that electric space where words are no longer enough. The unspoken desire between them is tangible, hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

"Ranbir."

The call slices through the air—sharp, commanding, pulling Ranbir's focus from the magnetic moment he's sharing with Mahira. He turns, finding Yuvraj a few paces away, Shri nestled securely in his arms. Yuvraj's eyes are locked on him, flaring with a silent warning that needs no words: You're standing too close to the edge.

The weight of that gaze presses hard against Ranbir's chest, compelling an instinctive step back. The charged air between him and Mahira doesn't dissipate—it lingers, humming with unspoken tension.

Yuvraj shifts as he approaches, his features softening into polite warmth for Mahira. "Hi, I'm Yuvraj Raisingh. And you are?" His tone is courteous, smooth, but his eyes flick briefly, pointedly to Ranbir before settling back on her.

"Mahira Sehgal," she replies with effortless poise, offering her hand. "An investor who will be working with Mr. Shekhar Raichand." Her smile is practiced, professional, though there's a faint undertone of intrigue still lingering in her eyes.

Yuvraj takes her hand in a firm, respectful shake. "Welcome." He turns, calling over his shoulder, "Krish, take her to the office. Dad and Uncle Shekhar are waiting."

"On it," Krish says quickly, stepping forward. Mahira casts one last glance at Ranbir—a flicker of something unreadable passing through her expression—before she follows Krish down the hall.

As their footsteps fade, Yuvraj pivots back to Ranbir. His polite façade dissolves, replaced by a look that blends exasperation with genuine concern. "For heaven's sake, Ranbir, could you not flirt with every woman you meet? You're getting engaged today." His voice is low but edged, as though he's trying to pull Ranbir back from the edge without making a scene.

Ranbir exhales a short laugh, rolling his eyes. The smirk that curves his lips is infuriatingly unbothered. "Relax, man. It was just a chat between two adults. Nothing more." His tone is casual—deliberately dismissive, as if Yuvraj's warning is nothing but background noise.

Without waiting for a reply, Ranbir turns on his heel and strides toward his room—pace unhurried, shoulders loose, the picture of casual retreat. But Yuvraj's gaze follows him, unblinking, the muscle in his jaw tightening as if he's already bracing for the storm he knows is coming... one that has Ranbir's name written all over it.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

"Saanvi beta, kahan ho? Taiyar hui ki nahi?"
("Saanvi, where are you? Are you ready or not?")

The voice that rolls into the room carries more than just words—it carries years. It's deep and warm, wrapped in the familiarity of countless mornings and bedtime calls, but tinged now with a weight he cannot quite disguise. It moves through the air like an old melody, one that can still find its way to her heart no matter how much time has passed.

He steps inside with measured strides, the soft rustle of his crisp ivory kurta and the faint fragrance of sandalwood trailing behind him, as though he's brought a piece of home into the room. His eyes sweep across the space with quiet urgency, searching the way only a father can—looking not just for his daughter, but for reassurance that she's truly alright. His gaze lingers on empty corners, behind fluttering curtains, even around the dressing table, before returning to the centre of the room with a faint crease of confusion on his brow.

"Ji, Baba... main yahan hoon," her voice drifts out, delicate as gossamer, almost disembodied. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. He stills, trying to place it.
(" Yes Father, I'm here")

"Where are you, beta?" His tone softens, but there's a tension coiling in his chest. He takes a slow step forward, ears pricking at the faintest shuffle of fabric against floorboards—then freezes as realisation dawns. She's under the bed.

A half-smile tugs at his lips, chased immediately by a shadow of concern. He bends, ready to look, when her voice calls out in sudden alarm, "Wait! Baba, I'm coming out—just don't bend down!"

He exhales, somewhere between amused and exasperated, and straightens, folding his hands behind his back in quiet patience.

A moment later, she emerges—her peach lehenga pooling around her as she straightens, stray strands of hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. In her hand glimmers a silver payal, its tiny ghungroos chiming a melody so soft it feels almost like a memory. There's triumph in her smile, but also something unspoken in her eyes—a sheen that isn't entirely from the effort of crawling under a bed.

"It rolled away," she murmurs, kneeling gracefully to clasp the payal around her ankle. The bells stir the air, a delicate sound that seems to carry with it traces of the little girl who once clattered through the house in anklets, laughter echoing behind her.

And then she stands.

Her lehenga catches the light in ripples, the peach silk brushed with subtle gold threadwork, the skirt swaying with a fluid elegance that makes her seem almost ethereal. The blouse, finely embroidered at the sleeves and neckline, fits with a precision that flatters without flaunting. Draped over her shoulders, her same shade of peach colour dupatta gleams like sunlight tangled in morning mist, each crystal bead stitched into it catching the light in tiny, unpredictable sparks. Her jewellery is deliberate—delicate jhumkas that sway gently as she moves, a slim gold kada encircling her wrist, and now, the newly rescued payal singing faintly at her feet.

For a moment, he simply stares. It is as though time has folded in on itself—he sees the child she was and the woman she has become, overlaid in the same space. His throat tightens. He had braced himself for this day, but no amount of preparation could dull the ache of watching his little girl step into a life shaped by his own failings.

He reaches out, placing a trembling hand atop her head. His voice comes out thick, frayed at the edges with guilt.
"Beta... I'm sorry. All of this... it's because of me. You're being pushed into this marriage when it was never your choice."

Her eyes meet his—steady, luminous, and holding a gentleness that makes his heart ache all over again. She takes his hand in hers, her smaller fingers curling with surprising strength around his.

"Baba, please," she says softly. "Don't carry this guilt. I'm not doing this out of compulsion anymore. Ranbir ji is... a good man. He treats me with respect. I'll be fine. Maybe... maybe I'll even be happy."

He shakes his head faintly. "If I hadn't borrowed money... if I hadn't made those mistakes... you wouldn't have to stand here today, sacrificing your future for mine."

Her grip tightens. "No, Baba. Life doesn't just happen to us—it happens for a reason. Maybe this is part of something larger than we can see right now. Please... stop punishing yourself. This is the path I'm meant to walk."

For a moment, he can't speak. Pride and grief collide in his chest, a storm he cannot quell. He swallows hard, his voice breaking as he whispers, "I just want you to be safe... and truly happy."

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile. "And I will be, Baba. I promise."

And in that promise, so softly spoken, lies both his greatest comfort and his deepest fear.

But just as the tender stillness begins to take root, a brisk knock fractures it. The door swings open with a faint creak, and two women step inside, their laughter and chatter spilling into the room like an overpowering scent of jasmine—familiar, heady, and impossible to ignore.

"May we come in?" one of them asks cheerfully, though her feet are already halfway across the threshold.

"Oh, Archana bhabiji, Vishakha bhabiji—of course, please come!" Mahesh, quick to compose himself, brushes a trace of emotion from his eyes and straightens his posture, his voice slipping back into its usual warmth.

"Mahesh bhaisahab, are you trying to make my daughter-in-law cry right before the wedding?" Archana teases as she walks toward Ishaanvi, the teasing masking a depth of affection. Without asking, she leans in, swipes a smudge of kajal from her own eye, and dots it behind Ishaanvi's ear. The gesture is so small yet so intimate, carrying the silent promise of protection from every evil eye.

"Look at her," Archana says, her gaze softening. "My daughter-in-law looks absolutely radiant today."

A shy heat blooms across Ishaanvi's cheeks. She bows her head slightly, unsure whether to smile or hide.

Then Vishakha steps forward. Her eyes linger on Ishaanvi longer than polite admiration allows, and when she speaks, her tone is light, almost playful—but there's a subtle ache underneath.

"I wish I could have a beautiful daughter-in-law like her."

The words hang in the air for a beat too long. Mahesh's brow creases almost imperceptibly. Ishaanvi blinks, momentarily thrown off. Both know Vishakha has only one son. And he's—

The thought remains unspoken, locked behind Ishaanvi's polite smile.

"Alright, beta, you take it easy. I'll go see if Ranbir is all set," she says, her voice warm and reassuring. With that, both Vishakha and Archana slip out of the room, leaving the father and daughter in their own little world.

"I'm heading downstairs to check out the decorations," Mahesh tells Ishaanvi, his tone light and cheerful, before stepping out.

The room falls quiet once more. Ishaanvi exhales, trying to catch a moment of stillness in the storm brewing inside her. But then her phone buzzes.

She turns sharply, scanning the bed for it. Her eyes land on a familiar corner of metal peeking from beneath the blanket. She pulls it out, expecting a normal notification and unlocks her phone.

But the moment her gaze falls on the notification, her breath catches.

"I can't wait to see you tonight. Please come now near the store room."

Her fingers tremble, a faint shiver running through them. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, drowning out every other sound. The phone almost slips from her grasp as she stares at the message—stunned, speechless, her thoughts scattering in every direction.

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