A U T H O R ' S P O V

The anklet slips from Rudraksh's fingers, the delicate clink echoing sharply in the otherwise quiet room. The sound seems impossibly loud, reverberating through the charged air between them. Both he and Ishaanvi instinctively turn away, their gazes darting elsewhere, as if the closeness they shared moments ago has been abruptly severed, leaving a fragile, intangible tension behind. She recoils slightly, her eyes dropping to the floor, overwhelmed by the sudden gravity of the situation. Rudraksh feels it too—a strange, gnawing ache deep in his chest, an emptiness he can't name, as if a fragment of himself has been ripped away.

Why does it feel like something essential, something vital, has vanished into the space between them?

Ishaanvi's fingers tremble as her gaze falls on the anklet, lying untouched and abandoned on the polished floor. She bends slightly, hesitant, drawn to it almost magnetically. The room seems to contract around them, the air thick, heavy with words unspoken and emotions unclaimed. Time stretches, silent and suffocating, until Rudraksh's voice cuts through like a blade.

"Hold on."

His tone is firm, undeniably commanding, yet threaded with a subtle softness that twists inside her chest. She freezes mid-motion, uncertainty flickering across her features, searching his dark eyes for intent, for reassurance, for a clue to the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. Rudraksh's gaze is intense, layered, and unreadable, as though he is seeing something in her that no one else ever has. Something she isn't prepared to confront.

Without waiting for her response, he gestures to Ryan, whose presence is immediate and silent, understanding every nuance of his boss's intent. Moments later, Ryan returns, carrying a chair and placing it carefully beside Ishaanvi. Confusion curls across her brow as she glances at Rudraksh. His gaze, however, leaves no room for question or refusal—every movement, every look is laced with undeniable authority.

"Please," he says, voice smooth yet imbued with a quiet insistence, "have a seat."

His words carry weight, layered with an undercurrent of something she can't define. It isn't the command itself—it's the certainty, the unshakable presence behind it, that makes her pause. Slowly, deliberately, she sinks into the chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her heart hammering in her chest. Her gaze locks on his, searching, probing, aching for clarity she isn't certain she wants. The tension between them stretches taut, a living thing, yet neither dares to make the first move.

Rudraksh crouches before her, settling onto one knee with the fluidity of a predator and the precision of a master strategist. His movements are deliberate, every gesture measured, every shift of his body purposeful. His fingers extend toward her ankle, brushing the soft golden skin with a tenderness that belies his formidable presence. He lifts her foot with careful precision, the unexpected contact sending an electric shiver racing through her spine. Her breath catches in her throat, shallow and uneven, as heat blooms across her skin.

The intimacy of the gesture is disarming, stirring something deep within her—a mixture of trepidation, curiosity, and something undeniably magnetic. Her chest rises and falls in uneven rhythms, heart thudding against her ribs like a frantic drum. She opens her mouth to speak, to protest, but the words die halfway, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze. Why does he unsettle her so profoundly? Why does her body respond to him, even as her mind screams caution?

She finally whispers, voice trembling, "What do you think you're doing?"

Rudraksh's eyes flick up, dark and smoldering, meeting hers with a heat that is both commanding and unnervingly intimate. "I'm giving you back something you lost," he says, voice low and deliberate, "and kindly do not lose it again."

With those words, he slides the anklet back onto her ankle, his fingers brushing her skin with care, precision, and an intimacy that leaves her breathless. Each movement is measured, deliberate, yet gentle—a silent promise woven into the simple act. The soft jingle of the anklet echoes, subtle but profound, as if sealing an unspoken connection that neither of them yet fully comprehends.

When he finishes securing the clasp, his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, grazing her golden skin with deliberate slowness. His gaze holds hers, dark, intense, and unreadable, and the air between them seems to thicken, charged with the weight of unspoken words and unshed emotions. Ishaanvi's pulse hammers in her chest, and she feels the sudden need to break the tension. Hastily, she withdraws her foot from his grasp, the abrupt space making her head swim, a strange dizziness tugging at her senses.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her voice barely audible, rough with restraint. Her throat feels tight, almost as if each breath has to fight its way out. She straightens quickly, stepping back as though putting physical distance could undo the invisible pull that lingers between them.

Before she can fully retreat, a new presence fills the room. Ranbir steps in, his eyes immediately locking onto her. He takes in the way her hands tremble slightly, the shallow, uneven rise and fall of her chest, the subtle tension in her posture.

Then Ranbir's gaze shifts behind her, and a broad grin splits his face. He spots Rudraksh—his best friend, returned after five long years—and the years of separation seem to vanish in an instant.

"Rudy, my dude! You finally made it!" Ranbir shouts, arms wide, charging forward before Rudraksh can brace himself. The hug is thunderous, almost knocking the wind out of him, but warmth and familiarity flow through the embrace, wrapping them in memories of old camaraderie. Rudraksh lets out a laugh, the sound rich and low, a brief crack in his otherwise controlled demeanor.

Even as he returns the hug, Rudraksh's eyes flicker toward Ishaanvi. The warmth of nostalgia mingles with something heavier, deeper, a strange pull he can't yet name. His heartbeat quickens, subtle but insistent, as if her presence has stirred something long buried.

"How's it going, Ranbir?" Rudraksh asks, his tone carefully neutral, but the edge beneath it betrays something unspoken, a pull he doesn't yet dare name.

"I'm still as hot as ever," Ranbir replies, swagger in his step, grin widening as he winks at Rudraksh. The ease, the infectious joy—it should have been simple, but Rudraksh can't fully engage. His eyes flicker, almost compulsively, back to Ishaanvi.

She stands a few feet away, poised, her attention divided between Ranbir's playful banter and something else she can't quite hide. Her smile is polite, measured, but her eyes betray her. Every so often, they drift back toward him, brief flickers of acknowledgment, recognition he doesn't understand.

Rudraksh feels his chest tighten, unbidden, a coil of unease and something more complicated threading through him. She's a stranger—she shouldn't matter, and yet, every glance she casts pulls at him, tugging at the threads of his composure.

Ranbir, oblivious to the storm brewing between them, sweeps Ishaanvi into his arms with a possessiveness that makes Rudraksh's stomach clench. She flinches—just for a heartbeat—but it's enough. That fleeting vulnerability, the slight hitch in her breath, pierces something deep inside him.

"Let me introduce you, Isha. This is Rudraksh Khurana. He's older than me, but he's my best friend," Ranbir says, voice brimming with warmth, gesturing toward him.

"And Rudy, meet my fiancée, Ishaanvi," he adds proudly.

Fiancée.

The word slams into Rudraksh like ice water, sharp and undeniable. His stomach twists, muscles clenching, every rational thought fleeing before the surge of something dangerous—possessiveness, intrigue, a pull he cannot ignore. She is already promised, already taken, and yet every instinct screams at him to reach for her, to claim her attention in some quiet, private way.

"Hi, Isha," he says softly, almost too low, the syllables intimate in the air. Her name on his lips makes her eyes lift, just a fraction, a flash of recognition crossing her face before it retreats behind politeness. His chest aches at the small, unspoken acknowledgment—like a chord struck too perfectly.

Ishaanvi's polite smile meets him, hands folding together, but her gaze lingers, betraying something she doesn't intend to show. He sees the slight quiver, the way her pulse seems to pick up, and something in his chest twists painfully.

Rudraksh notices everything—the tilt of her head, the soft golden warmth of her skin, the way her breath catches just enough to betray her calm. The pull is magnetic, undeniable. He wants to step closer, to close the distance that logic tells him should remain, but his feet feel rooted, trapped by the invisible gravity of her presence.

Her name escapes his lips again, quieter this time: "Isha..." The sound reverberates in the space between them, laden with something unspoken, dangerous, irresistible.

Ranbir, unaware, chuckles and claps Rudraksh on the shoulder, the noise breaking the tension slightly, yet Rudraksh's attention never leaves her. He watches Ishaanvi retreat, excuses herself from Ranbir's embrace with a hurried, nervous smile, and every step she takes leaves a hollow ache behind in him.

She closes the door behind her, her fingers trembling as they twist the lock. The click resonates through the quiet like distant thunder, rattling her bones more than the music still drifting faintly from the hall. For a heartbeat, she stands frozen, pressed against the wood, eyes shut tight, bracing herself against the invisible wave that crashes within her chest.

Her breath comes in uneven pulls, shallow and sharp. The silence of the room presses in, louder than the distant melody, louder than her own racing heartbeat. It hasn't slowed since he walked in—since his gaze found her, unrelenting, piercing.

Why does the ground feel like it's shifting beneath her feet?

Her fingers clutch the soft folds of her lehenga, knuckles whitening against the delicate fabric. She glances at the mirror, catching her own reflection—stunned, trembling, undone. This is not the composed bride she thought she was; this is someone raw, vulnerable, exposed. Her lips quiver, and her dark, wide eyes betray a storm she cannot tame.

She hadn't expected this.

She hadn't prepared for the tempest his presence brings.

And yet—he hadn't said a word beyond polite courtesy. Nothing should have lingered, nothing should have mattered. And still... something in his eyes had stayed too long. Too deep. Too knowing.

Her world tilts, spins, threatens to crumble.

Meanwhile, Rudraksh's expression remains unreadable as he turns to Ranbir. "Could you show me my room?" His voice is calm, casual, almost disarming. But beneath it runs an edge, a gravity, a weight that only someone attuned could sense.

Ranbir, oblivious, leads the way with his usual cheer. Behind him, Rudraksh moves silently, deliberate, like a storm contained in human form. Moments later, they pause outside a guest room. Pleasantries exchanged, Ranbir departs, leaving him alone.

Rudraksh steps in, the door shutting behind him with a soft, definitive click. His fingers find the lock instinctively, twisting it again, flexing, unclenching—muscles taut beneath skin, hands betraying the tension he refuses to let surface. He surveys the room quickly, methodical, clinical—but his mind doesn't register the furniture, the carpet, the quiet sterility. His mind is back in the hallway. Back on her.

He slides a hand into his pocket, withdrawing something tiny. A clasp, nearly insignificant to anyone else, yet it holds the weight of a fleeting, stolen moment. He curls it in his palm, staring at it, as though the metal might anchor him to the memory of her golden warmth, the faint tremor of her breath, the subtle quake of recognition in her eyes.

His lips twitch—a movement between a smile and nothing at all. It carries an almost dangerous warmth, a spark he cannot fully contain.

"Strange," he murmurs to the quiet room, voice low, distant, carrying over the emptiness. "How some things don't need names to be unforgettable."

The stillness seems to press against him, thick, tangible. His jaw tightens, fingers clenching into fists. Every nerve hums with the memory of her, of the way she had looked at him—like a storm he had barely survived—and yet, he had seen fire in her eyes he still wanted to ignite.

Then, barely more than a whisper, he lets the words escape, each syllable coated in shadow, each phrase a fragile, yet insistent promise that lingers longer than it should:

"She doesn't know... not yet. But she will be mine. Mine in ways she cannot imagine, in ways she will not see coming until it is too late to resist."

In that suspended moment, it is clear that this is not mere desire. This is a claim, deliberate, deliberate, a silent, shadowed covenant with fate itself. One day, he will make her see it. One day, she will belong to him, fully, irrevocably, and until that day comes, he waits—watching, biding, calculating.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The grand hall glimmers under crystal chandeliers, a constellation of wealth and influence assembled in one opulent space. Business magnates, politicians, and socialites move like predators in tailored armor, voices a constant hum of gossip, speculation, and veiled envy. Every eye seems to follow the anomaly among them: Ishaanvi. The whispers cut sharper than diamonds. How could a girl like her, just an assistant to Shekhar Raichand, be marrying Ranbir Raichand, heir to an empire?

Ishaanvi stands apart, an enigma wrapped in understated elegance. Unlike the women around her—swathed in couture, dripping with jewels and designer arrogance—she wears simplicity like armor. A soft pastel blouse tucked into tailored cigarette pants, hair pulled into a precise low ponytail, tiny pearl studs glinting at her ears. No labels, no ostentation.

She moves through every place like a shadow with purpose, each step measured, deliberate. She does not belong to this society, not really—but she belongs in herself. Her reputation isn't bought; it's forged in discipline, in long nights of uncompromising work, in loyalty that never bends. And tonight, that reputation is the only thing shielding her from the razor-sharp gaze of the Raichand elite.

But the truth beneath her composed exterior gnaws at her ribs: she hasn't chosen any of this. Every smile she gives, every polite nod, is a submission to a reality forced upon her. Her father's debt is a noose, the Raichand empire a cage gilded in gold. She joined their world as an assistant out of necessity. She agreed to marry Ranbir out of desperation.

Hope, small and fragile, whispered that she might make it through. But hope can be a cruel companion.

Across the room, Ranbir leans against a marble pillar, laughter curling around him as he banters with Krish. But the moment something shifts near the grand staircase, their conversation dies mid-laugh, attention snapping.

Mahira Sehgal descends like a tempest in silk. Draped in a baby-pink saree embroidered with gold, she glows under the chandelier light, every step a carefully choreographed proclamation of authority. Sleeveless blouse, long earrings swinging like pendulums of calculated rebellion—she doesn't walk. She glides. Every motion deliberate, every gaze measured, because tonight, Mahira isn't merely present. She is a statement, a threat, a storm in someone's life.

Her eyes catch Rudraksh Khurana—the man whose silence is sharper than swords—and a smirk tugs at her lips. It's not just amusement. It's intent. A challenge. To dance on his nerves.

Spine straight, chin high, she pivots on her heel and does it: a slow, deliberate, hair flip, the kind movie heroines save for grand entrances and exits. Each strand arcs like liquid silk, every movement dripping with calculated drama.

But physics had other plans.

Her voluminous curls veered wildly, defying every law of intention, and smacked Ryan squarely in the face.

Thwack.

Ryan staggered back, half a step, blinking as if the scented silk had slapped him into another reality. His fingers instinctively went to brush a rogue strand away, but the jasmine-laced fragrance clung stubbornly, leaving him dazed, almost hypnotized.

"Wow... what a heavenly smell" he mumbled, voice trailing off into a dreamy haze, as though Cupid himself had personally delivered a shampoo commercial to bless his senses.

For one absurd, suspended heartbeat, he looked up at her, utterly enchanted, completely untethered from the chaos around him.

Until he turned.

And met the glacier-like gaze of Rudraksh Khurana.

Time shatters in that instant. Ryan freezes, his mouth opening, closing, unsure of how to form words under the weight of that piercing look. It's not anger. Not exactly. It's more—a lethal calm, a silent warning wrapped in ice. One look says everything: Shut up. Now.

Ryan's eyes widen. A gulp, a shiver, a quiet acknowledgment of defeat. He straightens, hands raised slightly in surrender, and falls into step behind Rudraksh, moving like a soldier in the shadow of a storm.

But somewhere, in that small, fleeting collision of hair and fragrance, the first thread of a reckoning begins to weave itself—quiet, relentless, and utterly unavoidable.

Rudraksh moves toward his parents with quiet dignity, dressed in a tailored midnight-blue bandhgala suit that clings to his broad shoulders, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the chandelier light with every measured step. Black leather shoes, polished to perfection, ground him in quiet authority. A silver cufflink glints at his wrist—minimal, but deliberate—a marker of precision, of control. Every inch of his attire speaks of power, restraint, and an unyielding elegance, just like him.

He bows to touch Devraj's feet. Devraj's arms envelop him—strong, proud, yet carrying the subtle weight of a father's hidden worry. "How are you, my cha-mp?" he asks softly.

"I'm fine, Dad," Rudraksh replies, lips curving into a practiced smile. But Devraj sees through it. That smile—so calm, so measured is armor.

Vishakha draws him close, her warmth wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. "I missed you so much, beta."

"I missed you too, Maa," he murmurs. His voice falters just enough to betray the smallest crack in his composure—a trace of emotion he doesn't dare reveal fully.

Before the moment can settle, Archana interjects playfully, "Ab toh Rudraksh aa gaya India finally, toh Bhabi kab bahu laa rahe?"
("Now that Rudraksh has finally returned to India, when are you bringing his bride?")

Vishakha smiles, cupping his cheek with affection. "Jab mera beta bolega."
("Whenever my son decides.")

The priest steps forward, breaking the familial cocoon. "Raichand Sahab, muhrat ka waqt hone wala hai. Ladki ko bula lijiye."
("Mr. Raichand, it's almost time for the auspicious moment. Please call the bride.")

Shekhar nods, but before Archana can turn, all eyes instinctively shift toward the grand staircase.

And there she is.

Ishaanvi.

Descending as if she weren't merely walking toward a compromise—but toward something far greater, something inevitable.

She wears the same peach lehenga that brushes the floor with each measured step, the embroidery intricate and poetic, glinting softly under the chandeliers. Golden threads catch the light and shimmer like liquid fire, tracing curves and contours of the fabric with an elegance that feels almost predestined. The blouse fits her form perfectly, its neckline subtle yet commanding, hinting at strength beneath delicate grace. A sheer dupatta flutters across her shoulders, whispering around her like it too is drawn into her orbit.

Her makeup is flawless—warm, sun-kissed tones that highlight her golden skin, soft blush accentuating the high planes of her cheeks, her lips a gentle rose that seems both inviting and untouchable. Her hair cascades in soft waves down her back, tiny crystals embedded like distant stars, catching the light and scattering it across her aura. A small, delicate bindi rests at her brow, grounding her poise with quiet intensity.

But it isn't her attire that arrests the room.

It's her.

Gone is the assistant the world had dismissed, the girl who had never commanded a room. Tonight, she radiates an impossible elegance. Her grey eyes—soft yet piercing—scan the hall with silent appraisal, cutting through the façades, reading intentions, marking truths.

Every step is deliberate, each movement a silent declaration. She does not flinch under the weight of gazes. She meets every look, unafraid, unbroken, almost daring someone to challenge her presence.

Rudraksh, casually glancing at his phone beside Devraj, finally lifts his eyes—and the world shifts. Her presence is magnetic, impossible to ignore. Every step she takes down the grand staircase feels deliberate, controlled, yet there is a fluidity that makes it seem effortless.

And her grey eyes—intense, quiet, unflinching, pierce straight through the crowd, straight through him.

For a heartbeat, the room—the whispers, the clinking glasses, the laughter—falls away. There is only her. Only the sudden, electric awareness of her. Something tightens in Rudraksh's chest, a knot of anticipation and something deeper, unspoken, unclaimed. He keeps his posture perfect, controlled, but beneath the surface, every muscle hums with a tension he refuses to name.

She meets his gaze without hesitation. Not a flicker of fear, not a trace of doubt. Just steady, deliberate acknowledgment—as though she knows he's watching. As if she wants him to.

His jaw tightens. Fingers flex, curling lightly into fists. The pull he feels is quiet but insistent, curling through his ribs like smoke, impossible to ignore. Rational thought warns him: 'She is not yours, she belongs to him.'

And yet, every instinct screams that she is exactly where she is meant to be—under his gaze, within the invisible orbit he creates.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺