A U T H O R ' S  P O V

Ishaanvi's heart pounds as she stares down at the ring glinting on her finger. It feels heavier now than it did before, as though the cold metal is not just wrapped around her skin but digging into her very bones, pressing its weight into her heart. Every thud in her chest echoes with the same question, merciless and unrelenting. Did Ranbir even want this?

The doubt gnaws at her, sharp and merciless, until suddenly, a realization slices through her haze of confusion like a knife tearing through silk.

Her breath falters. Her lips part.

This ring...Ranbir didn't put it here.

The memory rushes back, vivid and undeniable. She remembers his eyes. Those eyes that had caught hers for a fleeting second, heavy with something unspoken, just before he bent down to touch her anklet. At the time she had brushed it off, thought it a gesture too small to mean anything. But now... now she sees it for what it truly was. He hadn't simply fixed her anklet. His hands, steady, sure, deliberate, had brushed her skin like a silent claim. And then...now he had done something far bolder.

He had slipped the ring onto her finger.

Not Ranbir.

Rudraksh.

The truth crashes into her with the force of a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air. A chill races down her spine, her pulse hammering in her throat. Why would Rudraksh do that? Why would he cross that invisible line, turning a mere trinket into something charged, intimate, binding? What was he trying to say without words?

Her mind reels with questions, each one darker than the last, but underneath the confusion simmers something else. Something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Her eyes sweep across the room in search of him, her heartbeat climbing higher with every second. Instead, they land on Ranbir. He stands across the room, laughing carelessly with Mahira, his flirtatious grin on full display as if nothing in the world could touch him.

The sight doesn't sting the way it should. Her chest burns, her pulse races, but not because of Ranbir. Every flicker of heat, every wild beat of her heart belongs to someone else. To the man who dared to touch her without asking. To the man who slipped the ring onto her finger as though it belonged there.

Rudraksh.

Ishaanvi takes a deep breath, trying to steady the trembling in her hands. She turns away from Ranbir's careless smile and begins walking toward the exit, her steps slow at first, then stronger with every stride. Her resolve hardens with each breath. She needs answers. She will not stop until she finds them.

And yet, as she moves, a question clings to her like a shadow she cannot shake.

Why does it feel as if everything is finally falling into place... and at the very same time, nothing makes sense at all?

With quiet, determined steps, Ishaanvi slips away from the noise of celebration. The deeper she walks into the mansion, the more the music and laughter dissolve, swallowed by a silence that feels too heavy, too deliberate.

And then she sees him.

Rudraksh stands at the far end of the corridor, framed by the towering windows. The night stretches behind him, pouring through the glass like liquid darkness, wrapping his figure in shadows that cling to him as though they belong to him. His posture is still, his shoulders broad and unyielding, as if he has been waiting for her without ever saying so.

She does not need light to recognize him. The weight of his presence is enough. It coils around her like an invisible chain, tugging at her with a pull she cannot resist.

Her footsteps falter. She stops just a few paces behind him, her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling as though her own body betrays her calm. Her lips part, the name escaping before she can second-guess it.

"Rudraksh."

The way his name rolls from her lips makes something flutter in his chest, but he buries it quickly beneath the calm mask. He turns slowly, every movement deliberate, every line of his body controlled. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lock with hers, pulling her in before she can steady herself.

"I need to know," she whispers, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm. "Why did you put the ring on my finger?"

A single brow lifts, faint amusement flickering across his face. "You are still stuck on that?"

"You did it deliberately."

"Did I?" His head tilts slightly, as though he is considering her words with mild interest. "Maybe. Or maybe you were too lost in your own world to notice, and I was simply being helpful."

"Helpful? You think this is some kind of joke?"

"No," he answers smoothly, taking a step closer. The movement is unhurried, calculated. " But I think you are searching for something that does not exist."

Her breath catches.

He leans in just enough for the space between them to thin, enough to make her pulse stumble against her will. "Sometimes, Ishaanvi, things are not that deep. A gesture is only a gesture. A ring is only a ring."

But his tone is too careful, too polished, and she hears the crack beneath the calm.

She narrows her eyes, voice low. "Then why does it feel like you are hiding something?"

A faint smile tugs at his lips, slow and dangerous. "Maybe you simply want there to be more."

Her heart twists painfully. No. Yes. Both at once. She does not want anything more, not with him, not when every boundary is already breaking inside her.

Her thoughts scream against her heart : We cannot be together. That is the truth. And I should not let myself be distracted by him, not now. Not when everything demands clarity and strength. This is a high time for me.

Yet the weight of his gaze refuses to let her walk away.

"There you are!" Shivanya's voice cuts through the quiet tension around Ishaanvi like a bell, jolting her out of the haze Rudraksh's presence has wrapped around her.

"I have been looking everywhere for you. Come on, everyone is on the dance floor! And you have to dance today," Shivanya says, her excitement contagious. She reaches for Ishaanvi's hand, tugging her gently toward the main hall.

Ishaanvi glances back instinctively. Rudraksh follows, slow and deliberate, his presence silent but unmistakable. Every step he takes behind her seems to pull the air tighter around her chest.

As they reach the wide entrance to the dance floor, Shivanya gives one last playful tug before letting go, and the world opens up in a burst of light and sound.

Colors spin, music thrums, laughter rises, and bodies moving in perfect rhythm to the beat. The energy is intoxicating, overwhelming in comparison to the stillness of the hallway they have just left.

But Ishaanvi's smile falters. Her gaze sweeps across the crowd, and it stops abruptly.

There, in the center of the floor, stands Ranbir. Not alone. He is close to Mahira, too close, too comfortable, their laughter mingling with the music.

Before she can dwell further, Shivanya spins toward her to say something, but Yuvraj appears like a whirlwind, sweeping Shivanya into his arms with a dramatic twirl. "Sorry, Ishaanvi! I am stealing her for a bit!" he calls, and in an instant, Shivanya disappears into the crowd.

Everyone is dancing. Everyone but her.

But she is not alone.

A familiar warmth brushes against her back, making her pulse leap before she even turns.

That presence.

Heavy. Steady. Unignorable.

"I think you do not like crowds," his voice murmurs, deep and smooth, carrying a calm certainty that makes her heart stumble.

Ishaanvi turns just slightly, and there he is.

Rudraksh.

Standing beside her as if he has never left, as if he belongs there entirely. The dim lights trace along the angles of his face, casting shadows that make his expression unreadable, yet his gaze burns into hers with quiet insistence.

"I do not," she admits, her voice soft, almost fragile. "But she brought me here for a dance. I do not know how to dance, yet I could not say no."

"And now she is gone," he says, his words measured, yet comforting. His eyes flick to the dance floor, where Shivanya laughs in Yuvraj's arms.

"I suppose I am used to being left alone," she whispers, not meaning to reveal the edge of loneliness that gnaws at her.

Rudraksh's gaze does not waver. "You are not alone," he says simply, and it feels like a promise rather than reassurance.

He extends his hand toward her, deliberate, calm, steady. There is no pressure, no hesitation. Just an invitation she cannot resist.

"I do not know how to dance," she murmurs, barely meeting his eyes, her voice hesitant, brittle.

Rudraksh does not flinch. He does not look surprised. Instead, a slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips, softening the intensity in his eyes.

"You do not need to know," he whispers, his voice low and smooth, like velvet brushing over her senses. "Just follow me."

"I will step on your foot," she says nervously, almost laughing at her own doubt.

"Then do it," he answers calmly, steady and patient. "I do not mind. Just focus on me, and everything else will fall into place."

She stares at his outstretched hand. It is elegant, steady, commanding. Her fingers twitch at her side, as if they have a mind of their own. Part of her screams to step back, to escape the gravity of his presence. Another part, louder and more foolish, aches to know what it feels like to place her hand in his, even for just a single dance. Her pulse quickens, her breath shallow, but before she can stop herself, her hand rises almost of its own will. She slides it into his. The touch is a whisper, delicate and brief, yet it sends a warm shiver crawling up her spine.

His hand is firm but careful, holding hers with precision and gentle strength. He guides her through the crowd, moving with effortless confidence, every step measured, every motion fluid. Her body responds to him instinctively, aligning with his movements as if it recognizes a rhythm older than either of them.

The music fills the air, soft and slow, enveloping the room in dim golden light.

Boond boond mein, gum sa hai
Ye saavan bhi toh, tum sa hai

The world around her blurs. Guests dance and laugh, but they exist only as shadows. The chandeliers cast reflections in every corner, but her eyes remain locked on him. Every step he takes pulls her deeper into a gravity she cannot resist. Every glance, every brush of his palm against her hand, every subtle movement speaks to a connection she cannot yet name.

His hand slides to her waist with deliberate slowness. The touch is calculated, intimate, yet not overbearing. Her chest brushes against his, and she feels warmth pooling there, a heat that is both thrilling and terrifying. Every instinct tells her to pull away, yet her body betrays her. Her muscles relax against his guidance, every nerve awake with awareness.

She hesitates, then allows her other hand to rest lightly on his shoulder. Her fingers tremble, betraying the storm of sensations she is barely able to control.

They move together.

Slowly, deliberately, as if the rhythm itself was written for them alone. His guidance is seamless, the way he moves his body with hers creating a harmony she never imagined possible. The crowd becomes a haze, the laughter a dull murmur, the lights a soft blur. All that exists is this intimate space, this moment suspended in time.

Ek ajnabi ehsaas hai
Kuch hai naya, kuch khaas hai

His eyes catch hers. They are dark and unreadable, yet there is a magnetic intensity in them, a pull that seems to tug at her very soul. Her breath quickens, her chest rises and falls in unsteady waves, but she cannot look away.

He pulls her a fraction closer. The movement is minimal, barely noticeable to anyone else, yet it ignites a fire in her veins. His hand flexes on her waist with precise, almost possessive intent. She can feel the strength beneath the gentleness, the authority beneath the care.

"You still nervous", he whispers, voice low and smooth, brushing against her ear, a heat she can feel even though his lips do not touch her skin.

"A little", she admits, voice fragile, barely more than a sigh.

"But I can't see a little bit of nervousness", he murmurs, teasing but knowing, his breath warm against her.

"That is because I am pretending", she admits, fighting to convince herself more than him.

He chuckles softly. The sound is intimate, private, a caress to her ears.

"Pretend with me then. Just for tonight, let us lie to the world together."

Kusoor ye saara, mausam ka hai

He spins her with effortless grace. His hand glides along her back, light and possessive. When she twirls back into his arms, she feels the pull again, the magnetic tension drawing her closer despite every rational thought.

Chalne do manmarziyan
Hone do gustakhiyan

Her mind started screaming : She should pull away. She should create space and assert control.

Yet she cannot.

And her hands tighten more one on his shoulder, one holding his hand. Her fingers tremble against his skin.

"Why are you doing this?"She whispers, voice delicate, almost a surrender.

"Because only I can", he replies, voice steady, controlled, impossible to ignore.

Her breath catches at the force behind his words, the inevitability in the way he moves, holds her, guides her.

"I mean right now", he continues, voice thickening with intent, "you are dancing with me. I can do this only, not anyone else."

"What happens when it is over?" She asks, voice quivering, a mixture of fear and curiosity.

His hand slides down her back, grazing the curve of her waist, too sensually. She gasps softly, breath shivering against the music.

Keh do tum bhi kahin
Laapata to nahi
Dil tumhara bhi kuch
Chahata toh nahi

He flexes his hand on her waist, firm yet careful, almost protective, almost claiming. Then he whispers, just enough for her to hear,

"Then you go back to forgetting me, and I go back to pretending that I do not notice the way your lips part when you hold back what you really want in your life."

" I want you." This is what her heart answers but she shook it off immediately.

Her body responds to every word, every touch, every subtle pressure of his hand. Her pulse races, her stomach twists in low heat, and her fingertips tighten instinctively. He has not leaned closer, but he is everywhere, impossible to ignore.

There is no charm here, no playfulness. Only honesty raw and unpolished, and she finds herself dangerously drawn toward it.

Sirf ikk mere siva
Kuch aur na dekh tu

They move together as if their bodies remember a rhythm they do not consciously know, a harmony neither has learned yet both feel instinctively.

"You are trembling", he whispers.

"I am not", she says, voice taut, words fighting the reality of her body.

"You are", he insists, voice velvet and fire at once, and I have not even begun.

Her fingers tighten on his shoulder, hand brushing along his back, breath caught, heat pooling low in her body. She wants to glare, to assert herself, yet her body softens, yielding to a pull she cannot fight.

Tujhko aana hai toh banke tu saans aa
Naa rahe dooriyan iss qadar paas aa

His proximity is both dangerous and magnetic. Her pulse races, her chest rises in shallow waves. She feels heat where his hand rests, breath ghosting her neck, but the intent behind him remains unreadable.

"You are not afraid of dancing", he murmurs, voice low, voice deep, "you are afraid of how right it feels, how easily you might let me guide you anywhere if I asked."

Her knees threaten to give out. She cannot think. She cannot fight. She is feeling, completely, utterly, without control.

Bas ye ijaazat de mujhe
Jee bhar ke main pee loon tujhe

Her senses collapse into the rhythm, the movement, the pull, the magnetic tension between them. Every step is a silent confession, every touch a question. She cannot name what it is, yet she feels it, deeply, irrevocably.

When the dance ends, she steps back reluctantly, every inch a reminder of what she had just felt. Her chest heaves, skin still tingling, and pulse thrums with memories of the brush of his hand. The applause and chatter return to the world around her, but she is suspended, lost in the echo of what occurred.

Rudraksh steps back to preserve distance. Calm. Controlled. His expression unreadable, his eyes no longer fiery, but composed, calculating.

She blinks, catches her breath, and the fragile moment of intimacy dissipates like smoke.

"Well", he says lightly, voice smooth and measured, "for someone who claimed she did not know how to dance, you survived."

"Barely", she manages, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips.

The rest of the engagement continues, polite and structured. Gifts exchanged, laughter under soft fairy lights, and the practiced masks of civility worn with perfection.

Yet long after the music stops, long after the guests depart, she still feels it. The warmth, the tension, the magnetic pull, the rhythm that belonged to them alone.

It is not the dance that terrifies her.

It is him.

How he can make her forget everything else in a heartbeat and yet leave her with a storm of unanswerable questions. How he can feel like home and a mystery all at once.

And she realizes, with a shiver she cannot ignore, that she cannot, will not, be the same after this. Not after the way he touched her, not after the way he made her heart race, not after the way he made the world narrow down to just him.

The questions she should not be asking burn brighter than any answer she could ever hope to find.

And even if she tried to unravel them, he will never let her see the full truth.

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