AMAR KILA PALACE

RAJASTHAN - MEWAR

The Darbar Hall of Mewar Palace had been transformed for the sagai into something that looked almost unreal, as if the entire palace had stepped into a celebration that belonged to another era.

The vast hall rose high beneath intricately carved ceilings painted in faded gold and deep vermilion, each arch framed with delicate Rajasthani motifs. Crystal chandeliers hung like clusters of frozen stars, their warm light spilling across the polished marble floor until the entire hall shimmered softly.

Garlands of fresh marigolds and jasmine were draped along the carved pillars, their bright orange and ivory petals cascading in thick strands. The sweet scent of flowers floated through the air, blending with the faint aroma of incense burning somewhere near the entrance.

At the far end of the hall, a grand Sagai stage had been arranged beneath a canopy of sheer silk drapes in shades of royal gold and deep red. The drapes were tied back with strands of pearls and tiny bells that chimed faintly whenever someone passed. Two ornate silver chairs stood at the center of the stage, surrounded by low brass lamps whose flames flickered gently.

Everywhere else, the hall was alive with people.

Clusters of guests filled the space like moving islands of color. Women in shimmering sarees and lehengas—emerald, ruby, sapphire—laughed softly as their bangles chimed when they gestured. Elderly relatives sat together on cushioned sofas along the walls, speaking in hushed but animated voices about family history and alliances.

Young cousins darted through the crowd, half-running and half-skidding on the smooth floor before being scolded by their mothers.

Near the long buffet tables set along one side of the hall, servers in cream sherwanis moved gracefully with trays of drinks, weaving through conversations without interrupting them.

The air carried a constant murmur—laughter, greetings, whispers of speculation about the couple, the soft tuning of a sitar and tabla from musicians seated in one corner preparing to play.

And beneath it all was a quiet sense of anticipation.

Everyone kept glancing toward the staircase that led down into the Darbar Hall, waiting for the moment the families would arrive with the couple.

The entire palace seemed to be holding its breath, wrapped in gold light, flowers, and the hum of a hundred conversations.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

VISHAKHA'S CHAMBER

The Vishakha's Chamber in City Palace, Udaipur was a quiet sanctuary of royal elegance. Soft light streamed through carved jharokha windows, scattering delicate patterns across the cool marble floor. Rich silk curtains in deep crimson and gold framed the windows, stirring gently with the breeze.

At the center stood an ornate four-poster bed draped in sheer muslin, layered with embroidered cushions and a brocade coverlet. Nearby, a carved vanity table held crystal perfume bottles, strings of pearls, and scattered bangles that shimmered softly under the lamplight.

Vishakha sat before the mirror.

She wore a deep crimson lehenga embroidered with intricate golden thread that caught the light with every movement. Her dupatta had been perfectly draped over her head and across one shoulder, its embroidered border framing her face like a crown. Around her waist rested a slender kamarband, a delicate gold belt whose tiny hanging charms brushed softly against the fabric of her lehenga.

Glass bangles circled her wrists, chiming softly beside the heavier gold and red kadas.

Three necklaces adorned her.

First came the Rathore Haar—a magnificent gold necklace that had been the pride of the Rathore women for generations, passed down from mother to daughter. 

Just above it rested a green-studded guluband, sitting gracefully against her throat and perfectly balancing the longer haar beneath it.

A large regal nath curved along her cheek, its delicate gold ring making her profile appear even more graceful.

Her arms carried their own ornaments of royalty. A finely crafted bajuband encircled her upper arm, set with small rubies that glimmered faintly whenever she moved.

Her hands were decorated with intricate Mehendi, the patterns winding gracefully across her palms and wrists. Over them rested a pair of ornate hathphool, delicate chains linking her rings to her bangles and spreading like golden flowers across the back of her hands.

The tips of her fingers had been brushed lightly with alta, their deep red color contrasting beautifully with the mehndi.

Her feet were adorned with the same care. The edges had been brushed with deep red alta, glowing softly against the marble floor. Silver bichiya rested on her toes while delicate payals circled her ankles, their tiny bells chiming gently whenever she shifted her feet.

Her long hair had been brushed until it fell smooth and glossy down her back. A small string of jasmine flowers rested among the strands, their sweet fragrance drifting softly through the chamber.

Heavy jhumkas adorned her ears, supported by delicate sahara chains that rose from the earrings and were pinned into her hair, giving them a regal steadiness.

Between her brows sat a small green bindi, perfectly aligned with the large red maang tikka resting at the center of her forehead.

Her makeup reflected the refined elegance of royal women in the 1980s. A thin line of dark kajal carefully outlined her eyes, extending slightly at the corners to make them appear larger and more expressive. Her brows were softly shaped but left natural and full. A light dusting of face powder gave her skin a smooth, matte finish, while a faint rose tint warmed her cheeks.

Her lips were painted a rich deep red, bold yet classic.

And surrounding her was the faint fragrance of rose ittar, subtle but unmistakably royal.

When Vishakha finally looked at her reflection in the mirror—gold, silk, and tradition woven into every detail—she did not merely look dressed for a ceremony.

She looked every bit the Rajkumari of Mewar.

"Haaye Rajkumari... nazar na lage aapko," the eldest maid whispered softly, her wrinkled face lighting with pride as she looked at Vishakha, "bilkul kisi apsara se kam nahi lag rahi aap."

The other maids standing around her nodded in quiet awe, some exchanging glances while others simply stared at the princess they had watched grow up within these very walls, and now here she was—draped in crimson and gold, adorned like royalty itself—ready for her engagement.

For a moment none of them spoke.

Time, it seemed, had slipped past them without warning.

"Arre, rona band karo... aaj khushi ka mauka hai," the eldest maid said after a moment, though her own voice had softened with emotion. She wiped the corner of her eye with the edge of her dupatta, pretending she had only brushed away dust, and then turned toward Anandi. "Anandi, tum yahin ruko. Hum neeche jaakar taiyaariyaan dekhte hain."

With that, she ushered the other maids out, their soft footsteps fading down the corridor until the chamber fell quiet once again. Vishakha turned toward Anandi, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Anandi, aapne abhi tak lehenga nahi pehna," she said, her brows knitting slightly as she looked her up and down. "Humne aapko bola tha na."

Anandi smiled faintly at that, her gaze lingering on Vishakha with a mixture of affection and hesitation. There was always something about the way the princess spoke to her—so naturally, so warmly—that made it easy to forget the distance the world insisted existed between them.

"Rajkumari... I can't," she said quietly, reaching forward to straighten Vishakha's maang tikka which had tilted slightly to one side. "I am a maid."

Vishakha rose so suddenly that the soft chiming of her bangles echoed through the room. "Agar aapne aise dobara bola na, toh hamse bura koi nahi hoga, Anandi," she said firmly, pointing a finger toward her with a sharpness that held more frustration than anger.

Not anger at Anandi.

Anger at the words.

At the people who had made her believe them.

Because Anandi might have been a maid to the rest of the palace, but to Vishakha she had always been something else entirely—someone who had stood beside her through childhood laughter, secrets whispered under blankets, and quiet tears no one else had seen.

"Aap abhi jaakar woh lehenga pehniye," Vishakha continued, her voice steadier now though the authority in it remained unmistakable. She held Anandi's gaze until the other girl slowly straightened to her feet. "Aur jo bhi kuch bolega... unhe hum dekh lenge."

Anandi sighed softly, knowing from experience that arguing further would be pointless. There was no moving Vishakha Singh Rathore once she had decided something.

So she turned and walked toward the adjoining room where the lehenga had been kept for her, though as she did a reluctant smile tugged at her lips—half warmed by the affection Vishakha showed her, half worried about the trouble that affection might one day bring.

She did not want that.

Behind her, Vishakha watched until she disappeared from view, and only then did she allow herself a satisfied smile before returning to the vanity.

She sat down slowly, adjusting the fall of her dupatta as she looked at her reflection once more.

For a moment she simply stared.

She really did look beautiful.

The thought made her exhale softly.

God... she still could not quite believe the day had finally arrived. Soon she would no longer be just Vishakha of Mewar; she would have someone beside her, someone with whom she would share the rest of her life.

Even if that someone was, quite frankly, infuriating. Especially after yesterday.

The memory returned uninvited, and the faint smile on her face faded almost immediately. The way he had behaved—so casually brushing off his injury as though it were nothing—had angered her far more than she cared to admit. She knew men like him had been raised around danger, around wounds and blood and battles that were spoken of as though they were ordinary things.

But that did not mean she had to like it.

She didn't like the way he had dismissed it.

Didn't like the careless way he had waved it away.

And what frustrated her most was that she did not entirely understand why it had bothered her so much.

Perhaps it was because he was going to be her husband, she told herself.

And what wife would be pleased to see her husband treat his own injuries as if they meant nothing?

Yes... that must be it.

Still, she had not been shocked by the sight of blood. That part had never frightened her. She had grown up watching her father return from battlefields bruised, sometimes wounded, sometimes frighteningly close to death, and she had learned long ago to meet such moments with steadiness.

Her father himself had taught her one rule she had never forgotten.

Never ask a wounded man how he was hurt.

So she hadn't asked.

But the way he had brushed it aside—so easily, so carelessly—had stayed with her.

And she had not liked it.

Not even a little.

Somewhere, perhaps very soon, Yansong would realize that earning forgiveness from Vishakha Singh Rathore was not nearly as simple as it might first appear.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

DARBAR HALL

 The great Darbar Hall of the palace had transformed entirely for the evening. Rows of tall brass lamps had been lit along the marble floor, their flames flickering gently beneath the crystal chandeliers that hung from the high painted ceilings. The hall shimmered in warm gold light. Garlands of marigold and jasmine draped the carved pillars, their fragrance mingling with the faint smoke of incense that curled lazily through the air.

Guests filled the hall in clusters—nobles, relatives, and family friends who had travelled from across Rajasthan for the occasion. Silks rustled as women moved through the hall, their sarees and lehengas flashing emerald, ruby, and sapphire under the lights, while men in embroidered sherwanis and crisp safas greeted one another with warm handshakes and respectful nods.

The Day had finally come.

Low conversations floated everywhere.

Laughter here.
Soft gossip there.
Occasional bursts of greetings as another respected guest arrived.

At the far end of the hall, a raised platform had been arranged for the ceremony. A canopy of deep red silk stretched above it, embroidered with golden motifs of peacocks and lotuses. Beneath it stood two carved silver chairs, placed side by side, while trays of sweets, fruits, and ceremonial gifts had been arranged neatly on a long table nearby.

Musicians sat cross-legged in one corner of the hall, slowly tuning a sitar and tabla, letting soft notes drift through the gathering. And then, slowly, the murmur of conversation began to quiet.

Because the Rathore family had entered.

Ranvijay walked first, dignified and composed, greeting elders with folded hands and brief embraces. But even as people greeted them politely, there was a clear anticipation in the room.

Everyone knew who they were really waiting for.

It happened a few minutes later.

A soft stir spread through the hall as the musicians straightened and several guests instinctively turned toward the grand staircase that descended into the Darbar Hall.

And then she appeared.

Vishakha stepped onto the staircase slowly, her dupatta falling gracefully over her head as the golden embroidery of her crimson lehenga caught the warm glow of the chandeliers above. Each step was measured, careful, the heavy fabric of the royal attire trailing behind her like a river of red and gold.

Behind her, two of her maids followed quietly one of them Anandi obviously in the lehenga Vishakha had chosen for her, their heads respectfully lowered, their hands gently lifting the long trail of the lehenga so it would not drag along the marble steps. Another maid walked just a step behind Vishakha, watchful and attentive, ready to steady the Rajkumari if the weight of the attire made the descent difficult.

The entire Darbar Hall seemed to fall into a hushed silence.

Conversations faded.
Music softened.

All eyes slowly turned toward the grand staircase.

She looked like a Apsara.

The soft clinking of Vishakha's bangles echoed faintly in the hall as she descended, the delicate ghungroos on her anklets chiming with every careful step. The golden lamps lining the hall reflected in the polished marble floor, making the scene almost unreal—like something out of an old royal painting.

At the bottom of the staircase, the royal families and guests watched in quiet admiration.

Some of the elder women exchanged emotional glances, remembering the little princess who once ran through these very halls with loose braids and laughter.

And now—

She stood there as Rajkumari Vishakha.

Graceful.
Poised.
Ready for her sagai. 

For a brief moment, Vishakha's eyes lifted toward the hall... searching through her veil, almost instinctively, for the one person who mattered the most tonight.

Even though she had been most annoyed with that very person.

And yet she searched for them.

For a moment the hall seemed to fall into a hush.

The soft chime of her payals echoed faintly with every step she took downward. The jewelry adorning her glimmered gently with movement—the ancient Rathore haar, the guluband resting against her throat, the delicate sahara chains supporting her jhumkas as they swayed lightly against her hair.

Even the musicians paused briefly, as though the moment deserved silence. People watched in quiet admiration. Some smiled softly. Others exchanged impressed whispers. She truly did look like a Rajkumari stepping out of an old legend.

When she reached the bottom of the staircase, Ranvijay stepped forward and offered his arm, guiding her toward the decorated stage where the ceremony would take place.

He glanced at his daughter how grown up she had become. Today she was being engaged off to someone who would protect her with his whole life. Ranvijay knew that and he was happy and yet still the pain of being seperated from his daughter very soon was killing him. He would be all alone.

Tears welled up in his eyes but he wiped them away before they could even fall. Before Vishakha could see them and get all worried.

Across the hall, the groom's family had already arrived. And among them stood Yansong.

Vishakha rolled her eyes at him from across the stage, the gesture small and quick, almost hidden beneath the delicate veil that rested over her head, yet somehow still full of the unmistakable sass that had always been so uniquely hers.

From a distance, most people wouldn't have noticed it at all. To them she still looked like the perfect Rajkumari—standing gracefully beside her newly announced fiancé, jewels shimmering under the golden chandeliers while guests continued approaching the stage to offer their congratulations.

But Yansong noticed.

Even through the thin veil partially covering her face, even through the distance between them and the constant movement of people around the stage, he caught that brief flicker of irritation in her expression.

By now he knew her well enough.

The slight narrowing of her eyes, the faint tilt of her head, the way her posture stiffened ever so slightly whenever she was annoyed.

She was furious.

Completely, absolutely furious.

Dressed in a deep red sherwani and kurta that mirrored the royal colors of the evening, he stood tall among the gathered guests. The rich fabric was embroidered with subtle gold thread that shimmered under the chandelier lights, giving him an air that was both regal and composed.

Several gold malas rested around his neck, the weight of them unmistakably royal. Thick golden bracelets circled his wrists—gifts that Ranvijay himself had presented to him earlier. And Yansong had accepted them with quiet grace, wearing them now not as ornaments, but as a sign of honor.

The jewels glinted softly as he shifted slightly, but his posture remained calm... steady.

Beside him stood his father, Bai Chen, dressed in another finely tailored golden sherwani and kurta. The rich fabric gleamed under the chandelier light, giving him a presence that was both dignified and commanding. With his hands folded calmly before him and his posture perfectly straight, he looked every bit the respected elder among the gathered nobles.

And just beside them stood Lina.

She wore a beautiful golden and green lehenga, the dupatta draped perfectly over her shoulder, its delicate border catching the light each time she moved. The jewellery around her neck and wrists sparkled elegantly—of course, the very pieces she had chosen earlier.

The same jewellery she had bought with the help of Devansh.

Lina adjusted one of her bangles lightly, her eyes moving across the hall for a moment before a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She couldn't deny it. Despite how incredibly irritating he was...He had actually helped her pick everything out perfectly. 

Yansong knew she is annoyed and yet still whatever words had been in his mind vanished instantly. She looked so fucking beautiful.

Because standing there beneath the glow of chandeliers, moving toward him with slow measured steps, was the woman who was about to become his fiancée.

And she looked—

dangerously beautiful.

Man in his world would have fought war for woman like her. To win over her and yet here he was getting her so easily.

Unfortunately for him...

she was also still very, very angry.

On the other side of the grand hall, near the carved sandstone pillars, stood Devansh.

Dressed in a deep ivory sherwani embroidered with fine golden thread and a matching kurta beneath, he looked every bit the heir people whispered about—composed, striking, and impossibly confident. The warm light of the chandeliers caught the subtle embroidery of his attire, making it glint softly whenever he shifted even slightly.

Beside him stood his father, Arnav Chauhan.

The man who had built Chauhan Corporations from the ground up with nothing but relentless ambition and a mind sharper than most men in the room. Years had added a touch of silver at his temples, but his presence still carried the same authority that had turned a modest business into an empire. Tonight he wore a regal charcoal sherwani, standing tall, greeting the arriving guests with measured nods and polite smiles.

Next to Arnav stood his wife—Anuradha. His stepmother since Devansh had been five years old. She was dressed elegantly in a maroon silk saree that shimmered faintly beneath the golden lights of the hall. A delicate mangalsutra rested against her neck, paired with a simple gold necklace, while a line of sindoor filled the parting of her hair—quiet symbols of a married woman that she carried with practiced grace.

Her posture was poised, her expression calm as she watched the gathering crowd. And yet, every now and then, her eyes flickered briefly toward Devansh.

As if measuring him.

As if seeing the pain he was trying his best to hide.

Slowly, the murmurs filling the grand Darbar Hall began to settle.

At the far end of the hall, the palace ministers had started gathering near the raised stage, their silk achkans and shawls brushing softly as they took their places with dignified composure. The royal guards followed soon after, forming a respectful line along the carved pillars of the hall, their spears held upright as the golden crests on their uniforms glinted beneath the chandeliers.

Near the center of the stage stood the pandit, carefully arranging the silver thali placed before him. Inside it lay the engagement rings resting on a bed of rose petals, along with kumkum, rice grains, and a small diya whose flame flickered gently in the still air.

A quiet sense of anticipation spread through the hall.

One of the senior ministers stepped forward, his voice deep but respectful as it carried across the gathering.

"Rajkumari Vishakha aur Yuvraj Yansong ko manch par aane ka nivedan kiya jata hai."

All eyes slowly turned toward them. He was officially a Yuvraj now, engaged to Rajkumari Vishakha he had become a part of royal family.

The guards shifted slightly, making space as Vishakha was guided forward, the soft rustle of her lehenga echoing faintly in the silence. The jewels adorning her wrists chimed delicately with every step she took.

Beside her walked Yansong, calm and composed, his posture straight as they approached the stage together.

The moment they stepped onto the platform, the hall seemed to hold its breath.

The pandit folded his hands respectfully before them.
"Shubh muhurat shuru ho chuka hai," he announced gently.

The diya flame flickered brighter.

And the royal engagement ceremony finally began.

Rajkumari Vishakha and Yuvraj Yansong stood side by side on the raised platform.

The pandit gestured toward the silver thali placed before them. A palace attendant carefully lifted it and stepped forward, holding it respectfully between the couple. Resting upon the bed of rose petals were the two rings—delicate yet regal, their diamonds catching the light.

"Yeh shubh sagai ki anguthiyaan hain," the pandit said softly. "Aaj se do vanshon ka sambandh aur mazboot hone ja raha hai."

A quiet murmur of approval moved through the crowd. Vishakha lowered her gaze slightly, her lashes casting faint shadows against her cheeks as the weight of the moment settled around her. The bangles on her wrists chimed faintly as she folded her hands together.

She knew it this was the moment. It was going to happen today. She would belong to someone from today.

Yansong glanced at her briefly. Calm. Controlled. But even he could feel the heaviness of hundreds of eyes watching them.

The pandit nodded toward him first. "Yuvraj, kripya Rajkumari ko anguthi pehnaiye."

A servant stepped forward with the ring. For a brief second, the hall felt completely still. Yansong picked up the ring from the thali. The diamond flashed beneath the chandelier light as he gently reached for Vishakha's hand. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she extended her hand forward, the intricate mehendi designs curling across her skin.

Slowly... carefully... He slid the ring onto her finger. His movements were gentle not wanting to hurt her and yet the gentleness was surprising seeing his large and tall figure.

The moment it settled into place—

The hall erupted into applause. Ministers and Mahamantri smiled, elders nodded approvingly, and the palace guards struck their spears lightly against the marble floor in a ceremonial salute.

The pandit raised his hand again, smiling. "Ab Rajkumari Vishakha, Yuvraj ko anguthi pehnayein." The thali was lifted again toward her.

Vishakha took a slow breath before reaching for the second ring. The next moment... belonged to her.

But the moment it came time for her to place the ring on his finger, something in Vishakha shifted. She picked up the ring from the silver thali, the diamond catching the light as it rested between her fingers. For anyone watching, she looked perfectly composed—every inch the graceful Rajkumari expected of her.

Yet the moment Yansong extended his hand toward her... She pushed the ring onto his finger. A little too firmly. The metal pressed hard against his knuckle before finally sliding into place.

From a distance it looked like nothing more than a slightly hurried gesture, the kind no one would question in the excitement of the ceremony.

But Yansong felt it.

Every bit of it.

The force.
The silent defiance.

His eyes flickered toward her for the briefest moment. He didn't react. Not even a flinch. His expression remained calm, almost indifferent, as if nothing unusual had happened at all. To the watching crowd he looked exactly the same—composed, dignified, unbothered.

But he knew.

She was angry.

No—far beyond angry.

She was furious.

And the reason was still lingering between them like unfinished words from yesterday.

For a second their eyes met.

Vishakha's gaze was sharp, blazing with restrained irritation beneath the calm mask she wore for the royal court.

Yansong simply looked back at her.

Unmoved.

If anything, there was the faintest trace of understanding in his eyes.

Almost as if he had expected this.

Almost as if... he deserved it.

Around them the hall had already burst into applause again, ministers smiling, elders blessing the union as rose petals were tossed lightly onto the stage.

But between Vishakha and Yansong—

The real conversation had happened without a single word spoken.

After the ring settled into place, the applause inside the Darbar Hall only grew louder.

Rose petals were tossed toward the stage as the ministers and nobles smiled approvingly. The palace guards struck their spears lightly against the marble floor again in ceremonial salute, the sound echoing through the hall.

The pandit raised his hand gently to quiet the room before speaking.

"Is shubh avsar par dono parivaaron ko badhai ho. Aaj se Rajkumari Vishakha aur Yuvraj Yansong ka sagai sambandh sampann hua."

A wave of satisfaction passed through the elders gathered near the stage. The royal parents stepped forward one by one.

First came Ranvijay, placing his hands gently over the couple's heads in blessing. Yansong bowed slightly in respect while Vishakha followed the gesture with practiced grace.

Then Bai Chen stepped forward, his expression proud yet controlled, offering the same blessing. "Khush raho," he said quietly.

Servants soon approached with trays of sweets, offering them to the elders and the ministers as the musicians in the far corner slowly began playing soft shehnai music.

The formal ceremony was over. But the moment between the two of them was far from finished. Standing side by side on the stage, Vishakha kept her gaze forward, greeting the approaching guests with polite nods as congratulations began pouring in.

Yet beneath the calm expression on her face, the irritation from yesterday still burned quietly.

Beside her, Yansong stood just as composed, acknowledging each guest with the same steady politeness expected of a crown prince.

For a moment, when no one was directly watching them, he leaned slightly closer.

His voice barely above a whisper.

"You're still angry."

Vishakha didn't even look at him.

"Of course I am."

"You pushed the ring harder than necessary."

Vishakha didn't even look at him.

"Did I?"

There was a pause.

Then quietly, almost amused, he said,

"I deserved that."

That made her glance at him sharply.

But before she could respond, another group of ministers approached the stage, bowing respectfully to offer their congratulations. She hadn't expected him to accept his mistake so openly. She had thought it would bruise his ego but no he knew he was wrong.

The moment broke.

Once again they stood side by side, smiling for the royal court, the perfect image of a newly engaged couple beneath the glittering chandeliers.

Yet between them—

The silence was far from peaceful.

And the story between them had only just begun.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

GUEST CHAMBER

Evening had begun to settle heavily over the vast City Palace, Udaipur, the golden light of dusk slowly fading into the deep blue quiet of night. Inside the chamber, the last threads of sunlight slipped through the carved jharokha windows, scattering intricate patterns across the cool white marble floor like fragments of a fading day.

Lamps had been lit along the walls now, their steady amber glow warming the painted murals and polished brass vessels that decorated the chamber. The faint curl of sandalwood incense drifted lazily through the air, mixing with the soft breeze that slipped past the silk curtains, making them sway almost imperceptibly.

From somewhere beyond the palace walls came the distant ringing of temple bells, slow and rhythmic, while the quiet footsteps of palace guards echoed along the endless corridors of City Palace, Udaipur, reminding anyone listening that the palace never truly slept.

Yansong stood near the jharokha, bare chest catching the soft lamplight as his arms remained crossed tightly over it, his shoulders stiff with a frustration he had no idea how to deal with. His gaze rested somewhere far beyond the courtyard below, but his thoughts were anything but calm.

How the hell was he supposed to apologise to her?

The thought itself felt ridiculous the moment it formed.

He had never apologised to anyone in his life. Not to rivals. Not to allies. Not even to men twice his age.

For fuck's sake... he was a mafia boss.

Men feared him. They stepped aside when he walked into a room. They lowered their eyes when he spoke.

And yet here he was—standing half dressed in a royal palace chamber, trying to figure out how to say sorry to the woman he was going to marry.

He dragged a hand slowly over his face, exhaling sharply.

Because the problem wasn't really Vishakha.

The problem was his father.

If she stayed upset... if she mentioned even a word of it... if his father somehow found out that before the wedding had even happened he had already managed to offend his future wife—

Yansong grimaced.

He was finished.

Completely finished.

His father had already warned him once. Just once. And everyone who knew his father understood that one warning was all a man ever got.

And they weren't even married yet.

Yet somehow he had already managed to make Vishakha furious.

His jaw tightened as the memory of the engagement ceremony from a few hours ago replayed in his mind.

The darbar hall filled with nobles. The lights. The music. The endless rituals.

And Vishakha. Standing beside him in all that royal grace and jewelry... yet barely sparing him a single glance.

When it had been time for the traditional first bite—the small sweet they were supposed to feed each other—she had looked at him with such open irritation that for a second he had been sure someone else would notice.

She had pressed the sweet against his lips with just enough force to make her anger obvious.

And when it had been his turn...

She had stared at him.

Not shy.

Not nervous.

Just furious.

He had been lucky. Incredibly lucky that his father had been distracted with the guests at that exact moment.

Otherwise—

Yansong let out a slow breath.

He might actually be dead by now. His fingers absentmindedly brushed against the heavy ring resting on his hand, the diamond catching the lamplight as he stared at it. It was expensive. Ridiculously so. A ring meant for royalty.

And yet the weight of it felt far heavier than gold or diamonds ever should.

Because until today he had believed this marriage would be simple.

A duty.

A responsibility.

He would give her whatever she needed—wealth, security, status. The life expected of a wife married into power.

They would live side by side, respectfully distant.

No complications.

No emotions.

Just an arrangement that satisfied both families.

But now...

Now he was standing here trying to figure out how to apologise to the woman who wasn't even his wife yet.

God, what the hell was he doing?

Before he could sink deeper into that miserable spiral of thoughts, the chamber door suddenly burst open with enough force to slam against the wall.

Yansong's head snapped toward it instantly, irritation flashing across his face.

And there, standing casually in the doorway as if he owned the place, was Lin, still dressed in the golden sherwani and kurta from the ceremony.

Perfect.

Exactly what he needed right now.

Yansong was already drowning in stress, and this bastard had decided to show up like the night still had room for more trouble.

Lin leaned casually against the doorway for a moment, one shoulder resting against the carved wood as if he had all the time in the world, his sharp eyes quickly taking in the sight before him.

Yansong standing half dressed near the jharokha, arms crossed, face dark with irritation.

The tense silence in the room.

The untouched glass of whiskey on the table.

Lin's brow lifted slightly. Something was seriously wrong.

"Boss," he asked softly after a moment, his gaze studying Yansong's face carefully. "What's wrong?"

Yansong didn't answer.

He only stared at him with the kind of expression that warned most men to quietly turn around and leave before they made a mistake. Lin, unfortunately, had never been good at leaving.

The silence stretched for a few seconds.

Then he cleared his throat lightly. "Boss... I gotta ask something."

Yansong gave a small, distracted nod, his attention still somewhere else entirely.

Lin tilted his head slightly, curiosity finally getting the better of him. "Why did sister-in-law look like she wanted to murder you?"

The question hung in the air. For a second Yansong didn't move. Then he slowly turned his head and looked at him.

Lin almost wished he hadn't asked. Because the look on Yansong's face could have scared the soul out of most men.

"I don't know," Yansong muttered finally, his voice low with irritation. 

Lin blinked in confusion. “You don’t know?”

Yansong finally snapped. “Will you stop it now?” His voice rose sharply before he exhaled in frustration, dragging a hand through his hair as if trying to pull the irritation straight out of his skull. For a moment he looked away, jaw tight, then muttered under his breath, almost reluctantly, “I made her upset.”

“Well, that was obvious,” Lin replied dryly, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might be listening. “The way she was glaring at you through that veil… honestly, Boss, it looked like she could burn you alive if she tried.”

Yansong didn’t even attempt to deny it.

He simply stood there in silence, the faint crease between his brows deepening. “My father can’t know,” he said at last, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

That was all he said, but it was enough. Lin understood immediately. Everyone in the house knew what that meant. If his father found out there was trouble between Yansong and his future wife before the wedding, it wouldn’t just become a family issue — it would turn into a war of pride.

Lin sighed quietly. “Boss… then you’ve got to fix this,” he murmured. After that he fell silent, because the truth was obvious to both of them. Fixing something like this required a thing Yansong had almost never done in his life.

Yansong stared ahead for a long moment, as if the very thought was something he was still getting used to.

Then he spoke.

“I have to apologise.”

The words left his mouth calmly, almost too calmly, as though they were nothing unusual. As though men like him said such things every day.

But Lin knew better.

In all the years he had worked with Yansong, he had never once heard him apologise to anyone. Not to an enemy, not to a subordinate, not even to someone he respected.

And yet now…

Now he was talking about apologising to his fiancée.

Lin's reaction was immediate. He burst into laughter. Not quiet laughter either — the loud, uncontrollable kind that filled the entire chamber as he doubled slightly, pressing a hand against the table.

Yansong's glare could have melted steel. "Stop laughing." God, he was just two minutes away from killing this idiot.

Lin tried. He really did. But the sight of the most feared man he knew standing there looking genuinely troubled over apologising to a woman was simply too much.

"You?" Lin finally managed between breaths. "Apologise?"

Yansong's voice dropped dangerously.

"Lin."

That only made it worse. Lin shook his head, wiping the corner of his eye. "This... this I have to see."

He straightened again, studying Yansong with exaggerated seriousness now. "So let me understand this properly," he said. "You are terrified that your fiancée is angry with you... because if she stays angry..."

"My father will kill me." Yansong whispers with his jaw clenched it wasn't even a lie. His father would really do it.

Li nodded slowly.

"Ah."

That made perfect sense.

Everyone feared Yansong.

But Yansong feared his father.

And his father clearly adored the future daughter-in-law. The way Yansong's father had looked at Vishakha during the ceremony — proud, approving... almost protective already.

If the future daughter-in-law complained even once...

Yes.

Yansong was probably finished.

"So," he said after a moment, "the most feared man I know is currently standing here panicking because his fiancée is angry."

''Will you stop saying same thing again and again.?'' Yansong glares at Lin then looks up at him almost horified. God, what the fuck.

He never panicked and yet here he was. 

''I don't know to apologise.''

Li stared at him. For a full three seconds. Then he slowly ran a hand down his face.

"Incredible," he muttered.

A mafia boss... who didn't know how to say sorry to his own fiancée. This night was becoming more entertaining by the second.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

SHAHI BAGH

As evening settled over Shahi Bagh, the gardens softened under a warm golden light. The old Mughal trees cast long shadows across the pathways, and the air carried the faint scent of wet earth and blooming flowers. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves while the fading sun painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, giving the entire garden a quiet, regal calm.

Devansh had been standing alone as the sun slowly dipped toward the horizon, fading away—just like Vishakha was fading from his life. Once, she had been his best friend. Now she was someone else's fiancée.

He sighed heavily as tears filled his eyes again. God... why was this happening to him? He had loved her truly, and yet she had been taken away from him, married off to a man she barely knew. A stranger.

He had never imagined life would take such a turn. Never.

He couldn't even look at her properly as she wore another man's ring. Everyone around him was celebrating, laughing, blessing the couple... while he felt as if something inside him was quietly dying.

God... why him? Just then he heard footsteps approaching. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Anuradha—his stepmother. Hatred tightened inside his chest as the footsteps came closer.

Anuradha stopped beside him, her presence gentle and hesitant. "Devansh bacha, aapne khana nahi khaya?" she asked softly, worry evident in her voice. She still remembered how little he had eaten during the engagement feast.

"Bhookh nahi thi," he murmured, not even glancing at her. To him, this woman was not his mother. Every gesture of concern felt forced... artificial. He had never accepted her as his mother and never would.

"Bache, tabiyat toh theek hai na?" Anuradha reached out slightly, ignoring the cold distance in his voice like she always did—because her love for this boy, who had never once called her maa, was still stronger than the hatred he held for her.

Devansh did not answer immediately. He stood there with his hands resting against the cold stone railing of the pathway, his gaze fixed somewhere far ahead in the darkening garden, as if the fading light between the trees was easier to look at than the woman standing beside him.

For a moment, only the rustling of leaves filled the silence.

Then he exhaled slowly, a tired breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. "Main theek hoon," he muttered at last, though the hoarseness in his voice betrayed the lie.

Anuradha watched him quietly. She had lived in this house long enough to recognize the weight in that voice. A mother always knows when a child is hurting... even when the child refuses to call her mother.

Her eyes softened. "Devansh," she said gently, "subah se aapko dekh rahi hoon... aap bilkul khamosh hain."

He clenched his jaw. Of course she had been watching. She always was. Watching. Caring. Acting like she belonged in a place that had never been hers.

His fingers tightened slightly around the stone. "Aapko kya farq padta hai," he said quietly, though there was a sharp edge beneath the calm tone.

The words should have hurt. They always did. But Anuradha did not react the way most people would. She simply looked at him for a long moment, the concern in her eyes unchanged, as if his bitterness was something she had long learned to carry without complaint.

"Farq padta hai," she replied softly. 

Devansh let out a faint humorless laugh under his breath. "Haan," he said, finally turning his head slightly, though his eyes still refused to meet hers. "Sabko farq padta hai... bas jab zaroorat hoti hai tab kisi ko kuch dikhai nahi deta."

His throat tightened as the image forced its way back into his mind.

Vishakha standing in the darbar hall.

The golden lights.

The sound of claps.

The ring sliding onto her finger.

He swallowed hard.

"Aapne dekha tha na," he murmured, his voice growing lower. "Sab kitne khush the."

Another pause stretched between them.

"Sabko lag raha tha jaise koi bahut bada utsav ho." His eyes finally lifted toward the sky, now deepening into dusk. "Kisi ko yeh nahi laga ke... shayad kisi ka sab kuch khatam ho raha hai."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Anuradha felt her chest tighten hearing that.

She had known.

A mother notices the quiet heartbreaks long before the world does.

Slowly, she placed her hand over his arm.

Devansh stiffened instantly at the touch, but she did not remove it. "Beta," she said gently, "kabhi kabhi zindagi humein woh cheez nahi deti jo hum poori sachchai se chahte hain."

Devansh's eyes shut for a brief second.

He didn't want wisdom.

He didn't want comfort.

He only wanted one impossible thing.

Vishakha.

"Phir kyun diya tha?" he whispered, the pain finally cracking through his voice. "Agar cheen lena tha toh pehle diya hi kyun tha..."

The wind moved softly through the tall trees of Shahi Bagh, carrying the faint scent of night flowers as darkness slowly began to settle over the garden.

Beside him, Anuradha said nothing for a long time.

She simply stood there, her hand still resting gently on his arm, staying beside the boy who refused to call her mother... yet whom she had loved like a son for years.

Even when he pushed her away.

Even when his heart was breaking right in front of her.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Night had wrapped the palace in a cloak of quiet, the corridors dim except for the faint glow of oil lamps flickering against the marble walls. Yansong pressed himself against the cold stone of the pillar, barely daring to breathe, listening to the muffled steps of the guards outside Rajkumari's chamber.

His heart pounded in a rhythm unfamiliar to him—fast, urgent, almost betraying the careful calm he usually wore like armor. He had rehearsed this in his mind a hundred times, yet the thought of speaking to her—just her—made him tense in a way he hadn't felt in years.

Lin, ever the master of mischief, had promised a diversion. And true to form, he could hear the soft scuffle of feet approaching, a faint laugh from the corridor signaling that the guards' attention was about to be pulled elsewhere.

Yansong exhaled slowly. This was it. For once, he wasn't thinking like a boss, like someone who commanded fear and respect—he was just a man, wanting desperately to make things right.

God, he thought, he still didn't know how to do this—how to say sorry without sounding weak, how to reach her without tripping over his own pride. But tonight, he would try. Tonight, he would let go.

Lin crept down the corridor, a sly grin tugging at his lips. He had already scoped out the guards—two of them pacing lazily, yawning as though nothing could ever surprise them.

"Time for some... creative chaos," he muttered under his breath. First, he crouched near a decorative vase, giving it a gentle nudge. The vase teetered dramatically, then—crash!—it fell over with a spectacularly loud smash, sending shards scattering across the floor.

One guard jumped. "What was—"

Before he could finish, Lin leapt from behind a tapestry, flailing his arms as if fighting off invisible attackers. "A ghost! A ghost in the hallway!" he shouted, letting out a ridiculous high-pitched scream that sounded somewhere between terror and opera.

The other guard stumbled backward, slipping on the scattered vase shards (thankfully unharmed) and colliding with the first. They both fell in a tangle of armor and startled curses, clutching at their helmets like clumsy children.

Lin didn't stop there. Spotting a pair of ornamental shoes left by a servant, he tossed one down the corridor. "It's possessed! RUN!" he yelled, pointing wildly as if the shoe were charging at them. The guards shrieked, jumped over one another, and scrambled in panic down the hall.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Lin dusted his hands off and smirked. "Perfect. That should give Yansong all the time he needs."

From his hiding spot, Yansong peeked around the pillar, trying—and failing—not to let out a chuckle. The corridor was now empty. The guards were a safe distance away, still arguing about whether they'd seen a ghost or a flying shoe.

Yansong slipped quietly into Vishakha's chamber, closing the door behind him with careful precision. The room was silent... too silent. His eyes moved around slowly, scanning the space, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He frowned slightly.

Where was she?

Had she stepped out somewhere?

For a moment he simply stood there, hands resting at his sides, irritation beginning to creep in. He had gone through quite a bit of trouble to get here unnoticed, slipping past guards and corridors like a shadow—and now the Rajkumari herself wasn't even in her chamber.

Shit...

Shit...

Shit...

Just as he exhaled in frustration, something cold pressed against his back.

A sword.

He felt the metal through the thin fabric of his black shirt, the point resting firmly between his shoulder blades. His body stiffened instantly.

God. Who the hell was trying to start a fight with him now?

"Bilkul bhi mat hiliyega." Vishakha's voice came from behind him. There was the faintest pause in her words, a hint of fear she was clearly trying to hide, but her tone remained steady... composed in a way that surprised even her.

"Agar kuch bhi kiya toh maar denge."

Yansong froze.

And then it clicked.

Shit.

Of course.

From behind he must have looked exactly like an intruder. Dressed entirely in black, slipping inside her chamber at night—any sensible person would assume the worst.

Still... he hadn't expected Rajkumari Vishakha to be the sort who held a sword this confidently.

Before Yansong could even open his mouth to explain, Vishakha pressed the sword slightly deeper against his back.

"Hamne kaha no words," she whispered firmly.

The authority in her voice was sharp enough that he immediately fell silent.

For a strange second, the tone reminded him uncomfortably of the way he himself spoke to his men.

The room fell completely still.

Yansong stood there with his hands raised slightly, debating whether turning around was a good idea or an extremely bad one. One wrong move and she might actually stab him before realizing who he was.

Then suddenly—

Thwack.

Something hard struck the back of his head.

Yansong lurched forward a step, blinking in stunned disbelief as his hand instinctively flew to the spot.

"What the—"

Thwack.

Another hit landed before he could even finish the sentence.

This time with what looked suspiciously like the heavy brass candle holder she had grabbed from the nearby table.

"Chup!" Vishakha hissed, clearly unwilling to let a possible intruder talk his way out of anything.

Yansong turned halfway now, both shocked and deeply offended.

"Raj—"

Thwack.

The candle holder hit his shoulder.

"Hamne kaha na bolna mana hai!" she snapped. For someone who was supposed to be a delicate Rajkumari, she was alarmingly enthusiastic about hitting him with whatever object came within reach.

And before Yansong could even attempt speaking again, Vishakha had already grabbed the nearest vase.

The next moment—

Crash.

The vase shattered right against his head.

And then—

Boom.

Yansong collapsed to the floor.

Unconscious.

Honestly, if anyone had seen it, it would have been almost comical—the most dangerous man in the room knocked out cold by his own fiancée while he had only come here to apologize.

His vision dimmed rapidly, darkness closing in as his eyes fluttered shut.

"Mujhe... sirf maafi maangni thi..." he murmured weakly.

Then everything went black.

For a moment Vishakha stood frozen.

Then she finally saw his face.

Her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

"Shit... shit... shit..."

Her eyes widened in horror.

"Hey Mahadev... hamne yeh kya kar diya!" The sword slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor as she rushed forward, dropping beside him. Carefully she lifted his head into her lap, her hands trembling now.

"Suniye...?" she whispered urgently, already apologizing under her breath.

A swelling was forming on the back of his head.

God.

What had she done?

She gently lowered his head back onto the floor before scrambling up in panic, grabbing a glass of water from the nearby table. Returning quickly, she sprinkled some on his face, watching anxiously for any reaction.

She waited.

And waited.

Still nothing.

Just when panic was about to properly settle in—

Yansong finally groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open as he rubbed the back of his head with a pained expression.

God.

That really hurt.

He blinked a few times before his gaze settled on Vishakha, who was staring down at him like she had just committed a crime.

"Aap toh... dangerous hai," he said slowly. He paused, studying her properly now, as if seeing her from an entirely new perspective.

This woman could genuinely kill him if she wanted.

If it had been someone else they wouldn't be alive right now. But it was her.

In that moment, Yansong silently made a decision—never fight with her again. Never upset her again.

Not if he valued his life.

"Uh... I am sorry," Vishakha murmured softly, guilt filling her eyes.

"Hame laga koi chor hai."

Yansong blinked slowly, still lying half in her lap, the dull throb in his head reminding him very clearly that this had not been a dream.

He stared up at her for a long moment.

Her hair had loosened slightly from its braid, a few strands falling over her face. Her eyes were wide with panic, lips parted as if she had been whispering prayers the entire time he had been unconscious.

For the first time since entering the chamber, he realized just how close she was.

Very close.

Too close

"Rajkumari..." he whispered faintly, pausing for a moment as he drew in a slow breath, the kind that told him this was the moment and he simply had to say it.

The instant the word left his mouth, Vishakha's eyes widened and a visible wave of relief crossed her face.

"Hey Mahadev..." she breathed, placing a hand over her chest before glancing at him again, worry quickly replacing that relief. "Aap theek hai? Sar toh nahi ghoom raha? Hume laga... hume laga—"

Yansong slowly pushed himself upright, wincing the moment his fingers touched the back of his head.

God. This woman was dangerous.

"Koi nahi, Rajkumari," he murmured dryly, his voice still low. "Bas teen vaar hi toh the."

Vishakha's eyes widened even further.

Teen vaar.

She had hit him three times. Of course she had... and she hadn't even realized she had attacked him with half the objects in the room.

For a moment she simply stared at him, horror slowly spreading across her face.

Hey Mahadev... what had she done?

Yansong raised one finger.

"Talwar."

Then another.

"Candle holder."

Then a third.

"Phooldaan."

"Hey Mahadev... hamne kya kar diya," Vishakha whispered in absolute shock, covering her face with both hands.

But Yansong had gone strangely still, his gaze drifting around the room—to the fallen sword, the scattered objects, then back to her, and finally to the aching back of his head.

And suddenly...

He couldn't help it.

A chuckle escaped him.

Then another.

Before he knew it, he was laughing outright, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet chamber, even to his own ears.

He himself seemed almost startled by it, but once it started he simply couldn't stop.

The mighty, feared man who could command an entire empire of criminals... had just been defeated by a Rajkumari armed with household decoration.

"Aap... has rahe hai?" Vishakha asked slowly, lowering her hands and staring at him in complete confusion.

"Main soch raha hoon," he said after a moment, glancing toward the sword lying on the floor beside her, "agar aapko sach mein gussa aa gaya... toh mera kya hoga."

Her cheeks flushed instantly. "Hume sach mein laga koi ghus aaya hai," she defended softly, clearly embarrassed now. "Aap itni raat ko... kaale kapdo mein..."

If she had known it was him, she would never have done any of this.

God... what was even happening?

Slowly, Yansong straightened his shoulders, the laughter fading from his face as his expression shifted into something quieter, more serious.

"Galti meri thi," he said after a moment, glancing at her briefly before looking away again. Fuck.. he had said the words.

Galti.

He had never apologized in his life. Always had been too proud to say those words.

After a brief pause he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gulaab phool, one he had quietly taken from the Shahi Bagh after hearing that she loved their scent and sometimes wore them in her hair.

So he had brought one for her.

"Aapko pasand hai... toh main le aaya," he murmured, avoiding her gaze as he extended his hand toward her, while his other hand awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

God, what the hell was he even doing?

Then finally he forced the rest of the words out, hesitating for a brief second — something he almost never did.

"Kal jo hua... jo maine kaha..." he sighed softly. "Mujhe nahi kehna chahiye tha."

Vishakha froze.

She hadn't expected an apology.

If anything, she had expected arrogance... maybe even attitude.

But this?

Before she could say anything, he had already stood up and turned toward the door.

But her voice stopped him.

"Acha suniye?" 

Yansong paused mid-step but didn't turn around. God, this was embarrassing enough already.

"Ek kapda thande paani mein bhigo ke apne sar par rakh lena," she said softly, fidgeting slightly with the edge of her lehenga before adding quietly, "sujan kam ho jayegi."

"Ji," he replied under his breath. But instead of leaving immediately, he hesitated there for a moment, as if something else was still sitting at the edge of his mind.

Then, without turning around, he said quietly—

"Aaj... aap bohot sundar lag rahi thi."

And just like that he walked out, leaving a blushing Vishakha standing behind him... and perhaps making the universe realize that somewhere along the way, the feared Mafia had begun to soften.

And maybe he had never actually said the word sorry before, not once in his life. But the flowers he had given her earlier, awkwardly placed in her hands without meeting her eyes, and the quiet way he had admitted it was his mistake… that was perhaps the closest thing to an apology anyone could ever expect from a man like him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

OUTSKIRTS OF MEWAR

Night on the outskirts of Mewar carried a quiet, watchful stillness. The desert wind moved softly through sparse khejri trees, stirring dry grass and sand along the narrow paths.

In the distance, the faint outline of the Aravalli hills rested under a pale moon, while scattered village huts glowed dimly with oil lamps.

Apart from the occasional call of a night bird or the distant clink of a guard's spear, the land lay wrapped in a calm, shadowed silence.

Li walked along the narrow dirt path toward her house, his steps slower than usual. He hadn't forgotten yesterday. The way she had looked at him with genuine concern, the way she had spoken to him so gently as if his pain actually mattered. And then he had ruined it.

He had laughed it off like a fool and made it seem as though he was mocking her kindness. Since that moment he hadn't slept properly. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory returned, sharp and stubborn.

God, he really couldn't shake it off.

For the first time in his entire life someone had cared for him. Truly cared. Not because they wanted something from him, not because they feared him, not because they needed a favor.

It had been real. And that was exactly why it had unsettled him so much.

He stopped right outside her small house, standing quietly near the mud wall. He knew Anandi lived here with her little brother and her uncle. The house itself was simple, the faint glow of an oil lamp spilling through the cracks of the wooden window.

Calling out to her at this hour would only create trouble. People would whisper. And he knew exactly how the world worked. They wouldn't blame him. They never did.

They would blame her. Lin let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing down at the ground. After a moment he bent, picking up a small stone lying beside the path.

Without thinking too much about it, he tossed it lightly toward the window.

The stone hit the wooden frame with a soft tap.

He waited.

Inside, Anandi had just returned from the Mahal. It had been a long day, but thankfully everything had gone well. Rajkumari's engagement had been successful, and the entire palace had been filled with celebration since morning.

Now the house was quiet.

She sat beside the small bed, gently patting her little brother Arya as he slowly drifted into sleep. The boy clutched the edge of her dupatta even in his dreams.

She smiled faintly at the sight. Anandi had become more than just a sister to the seven-year-old. She had been his mother for as long as he could remember. Their real mother had died years ago, and their father had fallen last year while serving in the royal army.

Since then, their uncle had been the one raising them, doing his best to hold what little family they had together.

Just as Arya's breathing grew soft and steady, a small sound broke the silence of the room.

Tap.

Anandi frowned slightly and turned her head toward the window. Another faint sound followed.

She stood up slowly, careful not to wake Arya, and walked toward the window. A small stone lay on the floor near the wall.

Her brows pulled together in confusion as she bent down and picked it up. Who would throw a stone at their window this late?

Her uncle was away on work tonight. And even if he had returned early, he certainly wouldn't be throwing stones at his own house like some thief.

Something about it made her uneasy.

Anandi quietly walked into the small kitchen and picked up the belan from beside the stove, gripping it firmly in her hand.

If someone was lurking outside, they were about to regret it.

Slowly, cautiously, she moved toward the door. Her grip tightened around the belan as she pushed the wooden door open just a little, peeking outside into the dim night.

The courtyard lay quiet under the pale moonlight. For a brief moment she saw nothing.

Then her eyes landed on the tall figure standing near the mud wall. Her grip immediately tightened. Before the man could even speak, Anandi marched forward with surprising speed and swung the belan straight toward his shoulder.

Li barely had time to react. “—Arre!” he hissed under his breath, jerking to the side just as the belan came flying past him, missing his arm by barely an inch.

The wooden roller clattered somewhere behind him. Anandi stepped forward again, tightening her grip on the belan, clearly preparing to strike properly this time.

But Lin turned around at that exact moment. “Arre—” he started under his breath, the protest barely leaving his lips.

The words died there.

Completely.

Because he finally saw her.

For a second he simply stared, utterly mortified and strangely speechless at the same time.

God.

He had seen that lehenga earlier today in the Darbar hall when she had walked in beside the Rajkumari, but standing here, under the faint moonlight, it somehow looked even more striking.

The soft fabric moved with the night breeze. The bangles on her wrists matched perfectly, glinting faintly whenever she shifted. And her hair—

Not the usual braids she always wore while working in the palace.

Tonight it fell in loose waves over her shoulders.

God, how could someone look this beautiful without even trying?

Anandi froze as well. The anger that had driven her forward faltered when recognition settled in.

This wasn’t some thief sneaking around the courtyard. It was him.

Lin. The very same man she had treated in the palace yesterday. The very same man who had also managed to make fun of her.

“Aap…” she whispered under her breath as the realization fully struck.

But the softness lasted barely a moment. Her expression hardened immediately. “Aap yaha kya kar rahe hain?” she demanded in a sharp whisper.

Her grip on the belan tightened again as irritation rushed back.

“Aur yeh pathar kaun phenkta hai?” she added, her voice rising slightly despite herself. “Itni raat ko yaha koi dekh lega toh kya sochenge?”

Lin slowly raised both his hands in surrender, palms open, trying very hard not to make any sudden movement that might encourage her to swing again.

“Woman, will you calm down for at least a moment?” he whispered, his voice deliberately quiet.

He had come here to apologise. Not to get beaten to death with a belan.

''I know I shouldn't be here.'' he whispers softly tucking his hands in his pocket, finding it difficult to say sorry just like his boss he had also never said sorry in his entire life.

Jaisa boss waisa uska aadmi.

''Then why are you here?'' she asks instantly but there is also curiousity in her expression now as she finally lowers the belan.

Lin looked down for a second, suddenly finding the dusty ground extremely interesting. For someone who could fight ten men without blinking, this felt far more difficult. “I…” he started, then stopped.

Anandi crossed her arms, the belan still firmly in her hand.

Lin let out a quiet breath. “I came to say sorry.” The words sounded awkward the moment they left his mouth.

Anandi blinked, clearly not expecting that. “What?”

“For yesterday,” he said, finally looking at her. “You were worried about me. And I… acted like an idiot.”

She studied his face carefully, trying to figure out if he was joking again. But for once there was no teasing smile there.

Only something uneasy. Almost sincere. “I wasn’t making fun of you,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I just… didn’t know what to do with it.”

“With what?” she asked.

“With someone actually caring.” The words came out before he could stop them. For a moment the night fell completely silent between them.

Anandi’s grip on the belan loosened slightly.

Lin gave a small, awkward shrug.

“In my world people usually care when they want something,” he said lightly, though there was something heavy beneath the words. “So I didn’t know how to react.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then slowly… she lowered the belan. But the irritation hadn’t fully left her face yet.

“You could have said that yesterday,” she muttered.

Li scratched his eyebrow awkwardly.

“…I tried. But you left”

That made her pause. Then she sighed quietly, pressing her palm against her forehead for a second. “You came all the way here in the middle of the night just to say sorry?”

Li nodded once.

“Yes.”

Another silence stretched between them. Finally, Anandi shook her head softly. No one had ever did this much for her. She was a maid no one came to say sorry like this to her

“Aap pagal hai kya?”

But this time there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Lin rubbed the back of his neck, unsure what to say, but the small smile on his face suggested he already knew the truth.

She had forgiven him.

And he had never felt so happy in his life. Not when signing a deal. Or ending a enemy.

But seeing her smile did.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess