A U T H O R ' S  P O V

As Ishaanvi steps into the grand hall, her presence ripples through the air like a fragile disturbance upon still water—graceful, yes, yet heavy with hesitation that clings to her every movement. Her posture remains regal, chin lifted, spine unwavering, but her fingers betray her—clutching at the fabric of her lehenga in a desperate attempt to mask the storm swelling within.

Her gaze does not falter to the marble floor in submission as it once might have. Instead, it hovers defiantly above the sea of stares—unyielding, though shadowed by uncertainty. It is as though she forces herself into visibility, daring the world to see her, even when every instinct begs her to vanish into the walls.

"She's barely wearing any jewellery. Looks more like a guest than the bride-to-be..."

"But look at her... she doesn't need all that gold to shine."

"She doesn't belong here."

"She's glowing."

The words entwine around her like thorns camouflaged in roses—half-admiration, half-reproach, neither of which feels gentle. The weight of their scrutiny presses against her ribs until each breath becomes deliberate, careful, too shallow to feel whole.

But Rudraksh Khurana looks at her like the world itself has folded down into one fragile frame—like she is the center and the edges, the beginning and the end. His eyes are soft, reverent, almost desperate, as if she is not just a woman but a dream he has chased through lifetimes. Every breath he takes is tuned to hers, every flicker of his lashes a prayer that she will acknowledge him and see herself the way he sees her—divine, untouchable and forbidden.

He has seen her in this attire before, and yet now... she feels transformed. More captivating. More dangerous. His mind orders him to look away, but his body betrays him. His gaze remains tethered to her, bound by an invisible chain that will not break.

His throat tightens. His pulse hammers.

This is not admiration. This is the slow collapse of restraint. This is ruin in the making.

"It feels like she's made to destroy me... and I'd let her, every single time." he breathes—too soft to mean speaking, too loud to be lost.

"Hmm?" A velvety voice coils around him like smoke curling into the edges of a flame.

Rudraksh freezes. Too late.

Slowly, he turns, and there she is—Mahira. Brow arched, lips curved in that infuriating, knowing smirk that cuts sharper than any blade. She has caught him. Trapped him in the act of staring at the woman he should never be looking at—the woman he knows he shouldn't notice, yet cannot stop seeing.

"Tch tch, Mr. Khurana," Mahira teases, silk and poison in her tone. "The way you're staring at your best friend's bride? Naughty, naughty."

His jaw tightens, tension coiling in his chest like a live wire, yet his gaze does not waver. "Watch your words, Ms. Sehgal," he replies, low, measured, though the edges of his voice hum with a restraint that could snap at any moment.

Mahira steps closer, the sharp scent of her perfume slicing through the room, intoxicating, warning. "Just saying what everyone else will whisper soon if you keep looking at her like that," she murmurs, eyes glinting with danger.

"Let them whisper," he says, voice dark, razor-edged. "I answer to no one."

She leans in, her tone dropping, heavier, intimate. "Then answer this: Are you willing to ruin your friendship for a woman who doesn't even know the fire she's walking into?"

His eyes hold hers, unblinking, unflinching. "It's not her walking into fire," he murmurs, but the words feel heavier than any shield.

Mahira's smile curls, wicked, deliberate and thought comes tos her mind, "Good. Because this game? It's only just begun."

He turns, leaving her chuckles curling in his wake, a melody sharpened with amusement and warning—but not before stealing one last glance at Ishaanvi. One look that burns with everything he refuses to name, everything he cannot let go.

The dam inside him shatters.

For the first time, Ishaanvi doesn't feel like a shadow. She doesn't feel like a ghost beside the man who refuses to see her in public, in her own moment. She feels alive. Seen. Dangerous.

She has told herself she will not search the crowd for him tonight—not when her entire future hangs on a thread beside a man who won't even glance her way. Yet her restless eyes betray her. Inevitably, they find him. And it is like a fracture opens inside her chest, letting something bleed through that she will never dare to acknowledge.

Rudraksh does not look at her like the others do. Not with judgment. Not with pity. His gaze is raw, consuming, secretive. It exposes her in ways no one else ever could, strips her bare yet leaves her trembling with a power she didn't know she had.

He looks at her as if she is the answer to a question he has never dared to voice aloud, a secret he has kept buried beneath restraint, distance, and propriety.

And God help her... she does not look away.

She whispers, in the quiet of her mind, a truth she has never admitted: "It's so wrong to say, but I feel like it won't be Ranbir who will make me feel alive tonight... It will be Rudraksh. And only my heart knows how willingly I'll let him ruin me."

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The grand hall buzzes with excitement, soft music playing as guests chatter and laugh. Ishaanvi stands beside Ranbir, heart hammering in her chest, waiting for him to slide the ring onto her finger. The priest smiles warmly and gestures toward the velvet box. "Beta, you may now place the ring on her finger."

Ranbir reaches in, fingers brushing the ring—but then he freezes. His hand hovers above hers, just an inch away, held in suspended hesitation. Ishaanvi's pulse quickens. Is he nervous? Or is something else holding him back? The silence stretches, pressing against her ribs like a heavy weight.

She glances at him, then at the crowd. Their expectant eyes settle on her, all anticipation and curiosity. Why isn't he moving? Anxiety coils tightly in her stomach. The joyful hum of the room fades; the world seems to shrink around her.

Then, without warning, a sharp bang shatters the air. The sound cracks through the hall like a whip, sharp and explosive, and chaos erupts instantly. Guests scream, ducking beneath tables or bolting toward the exits. The music dies mid-note, replaced by the harsh rhythm of panic.

"What was that?" Ishaanvi's heart hammers in her chest, her breath hitching as the echo of the blast vibrates through the marble floors. Her pulse spikes, each beat a drum of warning, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as if time itself has stopped.

She scans the hall, eyes darting frantically, but the noise and confusion swallow everything. Shouts, screams, and the rapid patter of hurried footsteps ricochet off the walls. The polished floor glimmers beneath overturned chairs and scattered flower arrangements, a dizzying chaos of sound and motion. It feels as though the very world has tilted beneath her feet.

Instinct takes over. She drops to one knee, hand skimming the marble floor. The engagement ring—once secure in Ranbir's hand—is lying a few inches away, nudged loose by the shockwave of the explosion. It glints faintly under the chandeliers, a fragile beacon amid the turmoil.

Her mind races. I have to grab it before it's lost.

Fingers trembling, she closes over the cold metal, relief washing through her in a brief, sharp spike—but it doesn't quiet the storm of panic inside her. Screams ripple through the hall, urgent and raw, some people shouting for help, others for safety, others simply in disbelief. Every sound sharpens the edge of fear slicing through her chest.

She rises slowly, legs unsteady beneath her, the marble slick beneath her heels. The chaos swirls around her like a living thing, but her gaze remains locked on the ring, clutched tight in her hand. And then—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

And die.

Darkness swallows the grand hall. Music cuts abruptly, screams falter into whispers, confusion thickening like fog. She can barely hear herself think, can barely trust her senses.

A sound cuts through the oppressive silence. Footsteps. Not hurried. Not panicking.

Calm. Measured. Certain.

Her breath catches as a voice—low, commanding, impossibly familiar, whispers beside her ear.

"Stay calm. Don't move."

The words coil around her like a shiver. Recognition flares in every nerve of her body.

Rudraksh.

Her pulse spikes, thundering so loud she worries he might hear it even in the chaos. She can't see him, yet every inch of her senses screams that he's close, impossibly close. Her fingers reach out blindly, brushing against the air, searching for something—someone—to anchor her. Perhaps him. Perhaps the certainty that he is here, and watching, and protecting her, when her fiance abandoned her at this moment.

A sudden pressure closes over her hand. Rudraksh's hand—sure, steady, impossibly precise—takes the ring from her palm.

"Wait—what are you doing?" she breathes, her voice trembling, barely audible over her own rapid heartbeat.

No answer.

Only the sensation of him—his fingers brushing hers again, warmer than the room, firm, deliberate.

And then the engagement ring slides effortlessly onto her finger.

Her breath catches in a strangled gasp. The weight of it, delicate yet heavy with implication, presses against her skin, a reminder of the life she thought she had and the life she never asked for.

Confusion coils tight in her chest. Why has he done this?

Before she can find words, before the fog of her panic clears even slightly, his touch withdraws. The warmth vanishes, leaving her hand cold, trembling. The ring glints faintly under the fractured light, now a secret mark she alone wears in the darkness.

She stands frozen, blinking, trying to process the impossible sensation—the certainty of his presence and the sudden, sharp absence. Her senses strain, scanning the shadows, seeking him among the murmurs of panic, the shuffling feet, the whispered cries. But there is nothing. No hint. No trace. Only the restless, confused crowd moving around her.

Then, the lights flicker once and go off again. A low hum of electricity vibrates through the marble floor, and for an instant, darkness swallows everything. The chaos of the hall sharpens into a kind of cruel stillness, broken only by the soft echo of her own heartbeat.

And in that heartbeat, she feels it—Rudraksh's presence, lingering just beyond her reach, a promise and a warning, like a shadow she cannot escape.

The engagement ring, now firmly on her finger, feels heavier than it should, as if carrying a secret she is not yet ready to understand. She curls her fingers slightly, gripping it, and a thought slices through her mind like a whisper she cannot speak aloud:

He saved me. And somehow... I know this isn't the last time he will touch my life like this.

Foreshadowing coils around her heart, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She doesn't know how, or why, or what he plans—but deep inside, she knows one truth: Rudraksh is no longer just an observer. He is a force, unpredictable, dangerous... and utterly hers, whether she is ready for it or not.

After a minute, the lights flood back into the hall, warm and familiar, but the energy has shifted. The brief blackout leaves a strange, electric tension hanging in the air, a ripple that makes the polished marble floors feel slippery under her feet. Guests exchange uneasy glances, murmurs weaving through the room like uncertain currents. Phones are lifted, flicked on, only to reveal dead screens, useless against the mystery of the outage. The hum of the chandelier above feels louder somehow, every crystal catching and scattering light in a way that makes shadows twitch unnaturally across the walls.

A guard steps forward, his uniform crisp, his stance rigid, voice measured but carrying the faint tremor of awareness.

"Please, everyone, remain calm," he says, voice cutting cleanly through the murmurs. "There was a minor issue with the electrical system—a short circuit caused a temporary power surge. Everything is under control. You may continue with the ceremony."

A tentative sigh of relief rolls through the crowd, some guests relaxing, some still glancing anxiously at the ceiling as if expecting another flicker. Ishaanvi exhales slowly, letting a small bubble of relief rise in her chest. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe there's no danger.

Her eyes sweep the room. First to her family—her baba, steady and watchful.. Then past the Raichands, the Khuranas. Then her pulse catches, a sudden stab of unease.

He is not there.

She scans the room frantically. The chandeliers glint above, guests shuffle, mutter, whisper, try to laugh—but she sees nothing. No sign of him. The space he had occupied just a moment ago feels hollow, impossibly empty. The noise of the crowd presses around her ears, but in the pit of her chest, all she feels is the deafening absence of him.

Her fingers brush the ring on her hand, the metal cold and heavy, a sharp reminder of what just happened. The engagement, the chaos, the near panic—they all feel surreal, like she's caught between two realities. She can still hear the echoes of screams, the frantic shuffling of feet, the low, uncertain hum of conversation.

Ranbir's gaze flicks to Ishaanvi's hand, confusion knitting his brows together. His eyes narrow slightly, a crease forming at the corner of his forehead. "Wait... did I... Did I already put it on?" His voice wavers just enough to betray the unease beneath his practiced composure.

Ishaanvi blinks, throat tightening as her pulse quickens. She forces a delicate smile, hiding the storm of questions and nerves swirling inside her. "It... happened during the commotion," she murmurs, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as if the words themselves are a fragile lifeline. The memory of Rudraksh's touch lingers faintly on her skin, a ghost imprint that sends a shiver racing down her spine.

Following the priest's calm instructions, she reaches out to Ranbir, her fingers brushing against his as she slips the second ring onto his hand. The metal feels ordinary in contrast to the charged moment that preceded it, yet every heartbeat carries the echo of what just happened.

A ripple of polite applause spreads through the room, hands clapping softly in a rhythmic, rehearsed manner. The earlier chaos—the darkness, the screams, the thunder of panic—fades slowly, replaced by a curated sense of relief. Yet beneath the surface, a tension lingers, an unspoken question dangling in the air: who was truly in control of that moment?

Ranbir and Ishaanvi bow to receive the elders' blessings, the ritual precise, measured, almost hypnotic. And then, her father steps forward—an anchor in the turbulence. His embrace is steady, grounding her. The warmth of his arms wraps around her like a shield, the calloused strength of his hands cradling her head with practiced tenderness.

"Thank you, beta. Always be happy, Saanu." he whispers, voice low but carrying the weight of countless unspoken promises.

Ishaanvi closes her eyes for a brief heartbeat, letting the familiarity of his care seep into her bones, the steady rhythm of love anchoring her amidst the lingering chaos. A small, almost imperceptible smile curves her lips when she opens her eyes, catching the depth in his gaze—the quiet devotion, the watchful presence of someone who has always guarded her.

Yet even as the ceremony continues, the memory of the blackout, the ring sliding onto her finger, and the presence that had briefly enveloped her refuses to leave. Somewhere in the corner of her mind, a whisper flutters—a warning disguised as memory. It tells her that not everything is as it seems, that the moment has been shaped by unseen hands, guided by someone who moves in shadows, someone whose intentions are deliberate and dangerous.

Even as she smiles, even as the ceremony continues as if nothing happened, a tremor of anticipation coils tightly in her chest. Something, someone, is coming. And she knows, deep down, that the calm around her is only temporary.

The engagement may appear perfect to the world—but Ishaanvi feels the quiet pulse of a storm beneath the surface, a storm that has already begun to circle closer than anyone realizes.

Standing beside Ranbir, Ishaanvi shifts slightly, hoping to catch his attention. But his eyes never land on her. Ever since the ceremony ended, he hasn't spared her a single glance. She clears her throat, about to start a conversation, but just then, a slow smirk appears on his face, one that instantly puts her on edge.

Her eyes follow the direction of his gaze, trying to understand what brought that expression to his face.

And then she sees it.

Mahira.

A strange chill runs through Ishaanvi as her heart sinks. Ranbir's expression is not the usual one he wears when he flirts. It is deeper, sharper, like he has already decided something. Ishaanvi opens her mouth to speak, but before she can form a word, Ranbir walks away. Just like that. Leaves her standing there without a second thought.

He moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who knows exactly what effect he has. His smile is lazy, his stride confident, and his entire attention is fixed on the woman standing near the bar counter.

"Well, well... Mahira," Ranbir says, his voice smooth, dipped in that familiar blend of arrogance and charm. A playful glint dances in his eyes as he watches her.

Mahira turns with deliberate ease, her composure untouched, gaze cool and steady. A faint, knowing smirk touches her lips, the kind that doesn't entertain easily.

"What do you want, Ranbir?" she asks, voice unhurried, calm like still water with danger beneath. "Let me guess... not business, right?"

Ranbir's grin stretches, slow and deliberate, like he's enjoying a game only he knows the rules to.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't bored without me." He throws in a wink, practiced and perfectly timed. But Mahira doesn't flinch. Instead, she raises a single brow, sharp and sarcastic, silently calling him out.

"You know," Ranbir continues, voice dropping just a note lower, the air around him thickening, "you really are stunning. The way you move... the way you speak... It's honestly distracting. Makes it hard to keep my hands to myself."

Mahira lets out the faintest scoff, her smirk never slipping.

"Really? And how exactly would you go about 'keeping your hands to yourself,' Mr. Raichand?" she asks, tone light but edged.

Ranbir laughs, not out of amusement, but because he enjoys the challenge. His eyes glimmer with mischief, but there's something else in them too. Something darker. Sharper.

"Oh, I could find other distractions," he says, stepping ever so slightly closer, just enough to test the air between them. "But the truth is... I don't want to. I'd rather keep my hands on you."

He pauses. A long enough for the words to settle.

"And I have a feeling you wouldn't mind."

Mahira doesn't respond right away. She studies him for a breath too long, her smile still in place, but her eyes unreadable. Then, with maddening calm, she tilts her head ever so slightly.

"Feelings can be misleading, Ranbir," she replies, her voice soft but piercing like velvet hiding a blade.

And before he can speak again, she turns and walks away. Poised. Unrushed.

Unbothered.

Leaving him exactly where she wants him — wanting more.

And like a moth chasing the flame that never flickers for him, Ranbir follows her.

No hesitation.

No shame.

His footsteps are light, but the intent in his eyes is loud. As if there's no audience here and it's just him, trailing behind the one woman who never falls for the show... and yet still owns the stage he walks on.

"Running already?" he calls out, just behind her. His tone is playful, but there's a hint of frustration buried beneath the grin. "You never used to leave a conversation unfinished."

Mahira doesn't stop, but she slows — enough for him to catch up, enough to let him believe he's earning ground.

"Some conversations aren't worth finishing," she says without looking at him, her voice cool, almost indifferent.

"But this one is," he replies, smoothly sliding into her path. He stops in front of her now, his body language calm but deliberate — not blocking, not forcing. Just placing himself where she has to see him.

His voice lowers. The grin is gone.

"I know what you're doing, Mahira."

She finally lifts her gaze to meet his. "Do you?"

"You walk in like nothing affects you. Say nothing. Smile less. Leave the men guessing." He leans in slightly, not to touch, just to invade a sliver of space. "But I'm not guessing. I know you."

She laughs softly and for a second, he swears it almost sounds genuine. Almost.

Then, without breaking eye contact, Ranbir's voice drops into a smooth challenge. "One dance with me," he says, just above a whisper, "and I'll show you I'm not pretending."

Mahira's gaze sharpens, a flicker of amusement and wariness mixing in her eyes. "Is that an offer or a dare?"

Ranbir's smirk deepens, eyes glinting with that familiar, dangerous charm. "Maybe a little of both. But it's your choice."

She holds the moment, silent, like a storm holding its breath before the rain.

Her silence isn't hesitation — it's calculation.

And though she meets his gaze with a calm smile,
something colder stirs beneath it — unreadable, deliberate.

He thinks she's playing along. 

But he hasn't realized...she never walks into fire without knowing how to survive the burn.

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺