A U T H O R ' S P O V

The notification blinks onto her screen. It is from Ranbir.

A wave of nerves rolls through Ishaanvi, sharp and sudden, leaving a tightness in her chest. She reads his message once, then again, as if the letters themselves might shift into something different the second time. Her pulse races, quick and unsteady, carrying both anticipation and something darker she can't quite name.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling just enough to make the letters blur. The soft click of each keystroke feels too loud in the quiet of her room. She types quickly, afraid that if she hesitates, her courage will crumble. By the time she presses send, her breath has thinned to a shallow, unsteady rhythm.

Turning toward the mirror, she studies her reflection. The girl staring back has hopeful eyes, but uncertainty lingers at the edges, like clouds curling in the distance before a storm. She smooths down her hair, adjusts the strands framing her face, and forces a small smile—an attempt at confidence. With a final inhale, she slips out, locking the door behind her with a soft, definitive click.

She doesn't feel the moment her anklet loosens. The delicate silver chain slides down her ankle and falls to the floor, the tiny bells giving a faint chime before settling in silence. No one hears it. She doesn't look back.

The hallway is hushed, lit in warm gold from distant lamps, but the air feels thicker, heavier. Her footsteps seem to echo more than usual, each one tightening the knot in her stomach. With every step toward the room where they planned to meet, her heartbeat grows louder, pressing against her ribs.

She is two steps away when it happens.

A sudden grip—rough, unyielding—locks around her arms from behind. The shock steals her breath. Her body jolts, muscles stiffening instinctively. Before she can draw in air to scream, another hand covers her mouth, smothering the sound before it can leave her throat.

Panic surges through her as she struggles against the grip, her mind spinning to make sense of what's happening. Who is this?

"Shh... baby. It's me."

The familiar voice cuts through the fog. The moment his hand slips from her mouth, Ishaanvi whirls around, her dupatta swirling with the sudden motion. Her eyes are wide, her breath uneven, and one palm instantly presses against her chest as if to calm the wild rhythm inside.

"Ranbir ji!" she gasps, voice a mix of shock and relief. "Do you have any idea how you just scared me?"

He smiles slowly, almost like he's savoring her flustered expression. "Scared? You? No, I don't believe it. You're far too brave for that."

She tries to glare, but the corner of her lips betrays her with a small upward twitch. "Brave enough to scold you, perhaps. You shouldn't sneak up like that. What if someone saw us?"

He takes a measured step closer, his shoes making barely a sound on the marble, yet the space between them shrinks until she feels the faint warmth radiating from him. The subtle scent of his cologne—woody, spiced, and unmistakably him—drifts into her senses, making her pulse quicken for reasons she refuses to admit aloud.

"Someone will see us soon enough," he murmurs, eyes never leaving hers. "On our engagement day. Until then..." His smile turns just a shade more daring. "I'm collecting my stolen moments."

Her cheeks warm instantly, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear to busy her hands. "Stolen? You make it sound... scandalous."

"It is," he says without hesitation, leaning in just enough for his voice to drop. "Every minute I get with you before the big day feels like a secret treasure. And I'm a very greedy man when it comes to treasures."

She swallows, trying to keep her voice steady. "You're impossible."

"And yet," he counters softly, his gaze sweeping over her face, "you're still here. Looking like this... like a dream I don't dare wake up from."

Her lashes lower, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker of shyness in her eyes. "This? It's just a simple outfit, Ranbir ji."

"Simple?" He lets his fingers trail lightly over her sleeve, the faintest touch, almost as if testing whether she'll pull away. "You could wear anything and make it look regal. But this..." his eyes dip briefly, taking in the way the fabric flows around her, "this is dangerous."

Her heart stumbles over a beat, and she glances away, whispering, "Ranbir ji..."

"Yes, future Mrs. Ranbir?" His grin is shameless, but there's warmth behind it.

She exhales sharply, half-amused, half-exasperated. "You're not supposed to call me that yet."

"I'm practising," he says, reaching up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingertips graze her temple, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "And when I say it after the engagement, I want it to sound perfect."

She shakes her head, though her lips curve despite her efforts. "You really think you're charming, don't you?"

"I don't think," he replies, his tone lower now, the teasing melting into something more certain. "I know."

"Ranbir ji... my Baba must be looking for me," she murmurs, her voice trembling like a candle flame flickering against the wind. Her gaze flickers to the hallway beyond him, searching for an escape, but his presence fills the narrow space, leaving her no clear way out.

"Shh... baby," he whispers, leaning closer, his tone velvet-smooth, coaxing. "Just focus on me." His breath ghosts over her skin, warm and intoxicating, and the faint scent of his cologne—deep, woody, laced with something sharper—wraps around her senses. Her chest tightens, caught between the pull of his voice and the warning bells ringing in her mind.

He tilts his head, eyes darkening, and his fingers trail from her shoulder to her jaw, the slow drag of his knuckles sending goosebumps racing down her arms. "Do you even know," he murmurs, almost to himself, "how impossible it is to look away from you?"

Her lips part to answer, but he's already leaning in, his gaze locked on her mouth. At the last second, instinct makes her turn her face. His lips land in her hair, and then the moment cracks.

He pulls back abruptly, the softness in his eyes snuffed out, replaced by a sharp edge. "What the hell was that, Ishaanvi?" His voice is still low, but there's steel in it now, and his jaw ticks as he studies her like she's just undone something he was carefully building.

"I—" she starts, but he steps forward, closing the gap she'd tried to create, his hand bracing against the wall beside her head.

Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts again. The tension in his shoulders eases. A faint smile plays on his lips, not entirely kind but devastating all the same. "You're scared... but you like it when I'm close, don't you?" His thumb grazes her cheekbone, the gentleness almost cruel after his earlier snap.

Her breath hitches. "Ranbir ji, this isn't the time—"

"Every second with you is the time," he cuts in, his tone dropping to a husky murmur. "You're going to be mine, Isha. Everyone will know soon enough. So why not let me steal you for a few minutes now?"

She tries to steady her voice. "People will see—"

"No one will see us," he interrupts, with a slow, dangerous grin. "And if they do... maybe I want them to." His eyes glint with something unreadable, a mix of possessiveness and teasing.

He leans closer again, and for a heartbeat, the air between them feels heavy, too warm. She feels her pulse in her fingertips, in her throat, in the space between them.

But before either can move further, a sharp voice cuts through the charged stillness.

Mahira steps into the scene, her brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything okay, guys? I hear some noises and think I should check in." Her gaze sweeps over both of them, lingering on Ishaanvi as she takes in her slightly ruffled appearance.

"Everything's fine, Mahira," Ranbir says instantly, his voice softening and a smile spreading across his face the moment he sees her.

"Oh! So she must be your fiancée!" Mahira exclaims, her tone brimming with excitement.

For the briefest moment, Ranbir's smile falters—so slight it could almost be missed—but Ishaanvi catches it. The playful spark in his expression drains, replaced by something unreadable, and the knot in her stomach tightens.

"Yes," he says smoothly, his voice even but lacking the warmth it carried for Mahira just seconds ago. "This is my fiancée, Ishaanvi. Ishaanvi, meet my friend Mahira."

Mahira's face lights up, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy. "Congratulations!" she beams, stepping forward without hesitation. Her arms wrap around Ishaanvi in a warm, unguarded hug, the kind that makes it impossible not to relax just a little. Ishaanvi inhales the faint scent of jasmine clinging to Mahira's hair, the delicate fragrance wrapping around her like a fleeting comfort.

For a moment, the tension in Ishaanvi's chest eases. She allows herself to sink into the embrace, feeling the sincerity in Mahira's touch—so different from Ranbir's possessive grip earlier.

Mahira leans in, her voice dropping to a soft whisper meant only for Ishaanvi's ears. "You look absolutely stunning, sweetheart."

A genuine smile tugs at Ishaanvi's lips. Her voice is equally soft, a little breathless. "And you look as gorgeous as ever. I mean... I've seen your interviews and all—you're even more beautiful in person."

Mahira pulls back with a knowing grin, her gaze warm, but Ishaanvi's attention flickers to Ranbir. He's watching them closely, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. His fingers flex slightly at his side, and there's a flicker of something—irritation? Possessiveness?—before it vanishes, replaced by the same charming ease he wears like armor when Mahira is looking his way.

"Ishaanvi, go to your room and touch up your makeup," Ranbir says, his voice calm yet threaded with command. His gaze locks on her, unblinking, carrying an air of authority that makes the words feel less like a suggestion and more like an order carved in stone.

The statement lingers between them, heavy and expectant. Ishaanvi's brows knit together, her lips parting in protest. A spark of defiance flickers in her chest, fragile but persistent.

"But—" she begins, her tone no louder than a hesitant whisper. But then one look from him is enough to cut her off.

"Go on, sweetheart," he adds, his voice softening in tone but not in intent. The endearment drips with a manufactured sweetness, an almost saccharine layer that fails to mask the steel beneath. "Tonight's going to be a big deal."

Reluctance settles into her bones. She swallows the words pressing against her tongue and nods, the motion stiff and reluctant. Turning away, she walks off, her heels tapping softly against the floor. Each step feels heavier than the last.

The moment her figure disappears down the hallway, Ranbir's entire demeanor shifts—like a mask sliding into place. The edge in his gaze dissolves, replaced by a warmth so convincing it could fool anyone.

"Hey there, beautiful," he greets, his lips curving into an easy, boyish grin as his eyes meet Mahira's. The mischief in his gaze seems almost tangible. "Did you miss me?"

Mahira lets out a soft chuckle, arching one perfectly shaped brow. "We saw each other just a couple of hours ago, Mr. Raichand. Do you really think I missed you in that short time?" Her voice is teasing, but there's a hint of challenge in her tone, like she's testing the waters.

Ranbir takes a slow step toward her, closing the gap inch by inch. His grin widens, his voice dipping lower, smooth as silk. "Two hours? Felt like more than that. I missed you like crazy." His words hang in the air, intimate, creating a cocoon around them.

Mahira's lips twitch into a knowing smile. "Remember, you're getting engaged today, Mr. Raichand. Your fiancée might not appreciate you being... let's say... this friendly with another woman." Her tone is laced with playful reprimand, but her eyes glint with mischief.

Ranbir's gaze deepens, the charm fading into something more raw. "She's my mother's choice," he admits, his words slow and deliberate, as though each one carries weight. "I don't feel anything for her. But you..." His voice softens, reverent. "You're becoming my choice, Mahira. I really like you."

He reaches out, the backs of his fingers grazing hers, a feather-light touch that lingers just long enough to spark an unspoken tension. But Mahira's hand closes gently around his, halting the contact before it deepens.

"Not here, Mr. Raichand," she warns, her tone still calm but edged with seriousness. "People could get the wrong idea. And that wouldn't just harm you—it would reflect badly on your father and the company."

For a moment, Ranbir studies her face, searching for any trace of playfulness. But her gaze is steady, her stance unwavering. Slowly, he nods. "You truly are a beauty with brains, Mahira." His voice is laced with genuine admiration, yet his eyes still hold that glint of unspoken desire.

They share a fleeting look—part understanding, part temptation—before turning away, each retreating toward their respective rooms. The air between them remains charged, as if the conversation has only been paused, not ended.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Ishaanvi heads toward her room, the delicate swish of her peach lehenga brushing softly against the polished marble floor. The intricate golden threadwork shimmers under the warm ambient lights, each glint dancing like fireflies with her every step. Her sheer dupatta drapes gracefully over one shoulder, fluttering faintly with her movement. Bangles on her wrists clink in a soft melody, while a single silver anklet chimes with each step, creating a rhythm that echoes her graceful poise.

Her golden-toned skin glows warmly under the chandeliers, catching the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal—like sunlight poured into human form. She is elegance itself, yet the unspoken weight in her grey eyes tells a story no one else can see.

She's lost in her thoughts when a bright red toy car skitters across her path, its shiny wheels spinning until it stops at her feet. Blinking in surprise, she bends to pick it up, the lehenga's fabric pooling around her in a rich, peach-and-gold swirl. The cool plastic contrasts sharply against the warmth of her hands.

"Solly! My cal got in achident!" a tiny voice calls.
(Sorry! My car got in accident!)

A little boy races toward her, his flushed cheeks rosy under the light, curls bouncing wildly. His wide, innocent eyes—brimming with mischief—fix on her, his lips forming a perfect pout as he stretches out his hands for the toy.

Ishaanvi's lips soften into a smile.
"It's okay, cutiepie. We'll make your car chakachak again."
(Chakachak = Shiny)

She ruffles his soft curls, and he giggles, the sound bright and airy like temple bells at dawn.

"Really?" he asks, hope glimmering in his eyes.

"Absolutely," she assures, her voice warm.

He leans forward without warning and plants a quick, shy kiss on her cheek.

"You ale sooo plettyyy," he mumbles, suddenly bashful, glancing down.
(You are so pretty)

Her laugh is light and genuine, her golden cheeks taking on the faintest blush.

His mother arrives, scooping him into her arms with a smile of mild apology. "Time to go, Aarav." The boy squirms, looking over her shoulder at Ishaanvi with a pleading gaze.

"Promise you'll play with me again?"

"I promise," she says, giving a small wave.

The boy's grin is triumphant as he's carried away. Ishaanvi rises, lifting her lehenga slightly as she resumes walking, the fabric swaying around her legs like a soft breeze.

But something feels off. She glances down—and frowns. Her anklet is gone.

"Oh no, not again," she mutters, half amused, half annoyed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

From the far side of the hall, Rudraksh Khurana enters.

He moves with the kind of presence that parts conversations mid-sentence. Every step is deliberate, shoulders squared, his tailored white shirt clinging just enough to suggest the strength beneath. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, the light catching on lean muscle as his hands shift with quiet precision. A black blazer hangs casually over his arm, and his trousers fit with tailored perfection. Polished leather shoes glide silently over the marble, as though even the floor dares not challenge him.

The room stirs with whispers, heads turning, but Rudraksh doesn't spare a glance. His focus is unshakable, his dark gaze fixed ahead.

"Ryan," he says, his baritone smooth but commanding. "The clients know the meeting will be virtual?"

"Yes, sir. All confirmed," his assistant replies, hurrying to match his long strides.

Then Rudraksh stops.

At his feet lies a silver anklet, its tiny bells giving a delicate jingle under the chandelier's glow. Something about the sound freezes him. He crouches slowly, fingers brushing over the cool silver, tracing the tiny carvings. His usual sharp features soften, and for a fleeting second, his eyes close. The chime isn't just a sound—it's a pull. A memory. A feeling.

Something unnameable but undeniably familiar.

He lets his thumb trace over the intricate links, the bells giving a single, gentle chime that pierces the silence between them. His jaw tightens. There's no reason for it to affect him. Yet it does. And his lips automatically curves into a smile.

"Sir—" Ryan's voice intrudes, tentative, testing as he don't know what his eyes are seeing.

Without even glancing up, Rudraksh flicks two fingers in a silent command for him to stop. The gesture is precise, almost dismissive. Ryan swallows his words instantly, his mouth snapping shut. The echo of his voice dies in the cavernous hall.

Still crouched, Rudraksh allows his gaze to linger on the anklet one last moment before rising. The motion is fluid, controlled—he uncoils to his full height like a man who knows his own power, shoulders squaring as his spine straightens. The sharp light above catches in his dark eyes, adding depth to their intensity.

The anklet remains secure in his right hand, his fingers wrapped protectively around it, the curve of his thumb pressing lightly against one bell as though unwilling to let it go. His other hand brushes against his blazer draped over his arm, the fabric swaying with the motion.

And then—

The collision.

A body—warm, soft, and impossibly delicate—collides with Rudraksh's chest, jolting him out of the rhythm of his stride. Instinctively, his hands shoot out, wrapping firmly around her waist to steady her, muscles tense yet controlled, an effortless mix of strength and precision. Her startled gasp grazes his ear, sending an unexpected flutter through his chest. She closes her eyes, instinctively leaning into him, and he feels the gentle rise and fall of her breaths, each one a quiet rhythm against the tautness of his own heartbeat.

Her golden skin radiates warmth against him, soft and alive, the subtle scent of jasmine lingering faintly from her perfume. Rudraksh notices every detail—the sweep of her hair against her cheek, the delicate curve of her shoulders, the tiny flutter of her eyelashes as she clings to him. The world around them fades into a blur of indistinct shapes and muted murmurs, leaving only the electricity sparking between them.

Her lips tremble as she mutters a quiet prayer—Om Namah Shivaya—so fragile, so vulnerable, that it tugs at something deep inside him. Rudraksh's usual control, the cold precision he wears like armor, falters for a fraction of a second. He tightens his hold just enough to reassure her without constraining her, feeling the way her body instinctively molds to his. Her trust—or perhaps her vulnerability—sends a shiver up his spine he doesn't fully understand.

He allows himself the smallest of indulgences: a soft, almost imperceptible smile, one that reaches his eyes. It's not the charming, polished smile of a man accustomed to power and admiration; it's raw, human, fleeting. It is a smile of recognition, though he can't yet name what it is he recognizes. The feel of her closeness, the warmth, the rhythm of her heartbeat—it resonates with him in ways that defy logic.

She opens her eyes slowly, confusion clouding the soft grey of her gaze. Those eyes, wide and luminous, meet his, and he feels a jolt that is equal parts disorienting and familiar, as if he's brushed against a memory he can't quite place. The flutter of her lashes, the slight tremble of her lips, the tiny rise of her shoulders—all of it presses against his mind, refusing to be ignored.

Rudraksh notices the subtleties: the way her fingers curl slightly at her sides, the little intake of breath as if bracing herself, the golden shimmer of her skin under the soft light. Each detail embeds itself into him, etching a silent understanding that this moment is important, weighty, significant in ways he cannot yet explain. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his lips twitches upward. It's not the charming smile he wears for the world, nor the sly grin he flashes in a deal—it's something different.

Softer. Warmer. Vulnerable, even, though he would never admit it aloud.

Ryan, observing from a few steps back, freezes in silent awe. He has seen his boss smile before, but never like this. Never so soft, so human, so unguarded. And that to be twice in just five minutes.

The connection between Rudraksh and Ishaanvi lingers like a delicate thread in the air, electric and palpable, pulling them toward something neither of them can name. Though strangers in circumstance, the familiarity of the moment feels undeniable, as if their souls recognize one another across time and space.

Then, a sudden, sharp sound shatters the fragile silence, and the spell breaks, leaving them both aware of the room around them, yet the imprint of the connection remains, heavy, charged, impossible to ignore.