AMAR KILA PALACE

RAJASTHAN - MEWAR

SHAHI BAGH

The Shahi Bagh lay wrapped in a quiet, almost deliberate elegance, its pathways stretching out in perfect symmetry beneath rows of flowering trees, their petals catching the last light of evening while the hedges stood trimmed with such precision they looked less like nature and more like something disciplined into obedience.

At the center, the marble fountain whispered endlessly, water slipping over stone in a soft, steady rhythm that seemed to hush the entire garden into stillness, while the faint fragrance of roses and jasmine lingered in the air—subtle yet persistent—curling around everything like a memory that refused to fade, and the golden hue of dusk settled over it all, warm and regal, almost deceptive in its calm.

Yansong walked through it the way he always did—unhurried, controlled, every step measured without effort, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough and tailored pants that fit close without trying, everything about him carrying that quiet authority that didn't need to be announced because it was already understood.

But his mind refused to follow that same discipline.

It was a new day, and yet the night before clung to him stubbornly, refusing to loosen its grip no matter how much he tried to ignore it, returning not in full memories but in fragments that refused to settle—her voice first, always her voice, and then the way she had looked at him.

Not with fear.

Not even with caution.

With something else.

Something he couldn't place—and couldn't seem to shake off.

He hadn't slept, not properly, because every time he had tried, it had been the same thing all over again, the moment her gaze had dropped to the bruise on his head replaying with an unsettling clarity, followed by the way her expression had shifted without hesitation, softening in a way that felt instinctive rather than thought out, as if his pain had mattered without needing a reason.

As if he mattered.

His jaw tightened slightly at that.

When was the last time anyone had reacted to him like that without calculation, without fear threading through it, without expecting something in return?

The memory rose again, uninvited, her voice steady and almost gentle—

"Ek kapda thande paani mein bhigo ke apne sar par rakh lena... sujan kam ho jayegi."

It was nothing.

It should have been nothing.

And yet it stayed.

It stayed more than anything else she had said, more than the defiance, more than the way she had stood up to him, because no one spoke to him like that, no one allowed themselves that kind of unguarded softness in his presence.

People feared him, respected him if that word could even be used when it was nothing more than fear dressed better, and everything around him functioned on that understanding, on that distance, on that control.

She didn't.

She looked at him without hesitation, spoke without weighing her words, called him out when he was wrong as if his authority meant nothing in that moment—and he had known he deserved it—and then, without pause, she had cared, not carefully, not out of obligation, but naturally, as if it wasn't something she had to think about.

Like—

His steps slowed, just barely, the shift so slight it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

Like a fiancée would.

The thought came sharper this time, enough to irritate him, enough to make something in his chest tighten in a way that didn't sit right, because it suggested something simple where nothing about him had ever been simple, as if that was all he was to her, not the name he carried, not the power, not the history that followed him like a shadow.

Just a man.

The feeling lingered longer than it should have, pressing in a way that made him shift his shoulders slightly as if he could shake it off, but it didn't leave, settling somewhere under his skin in a way that was both unfamiliar and unwelcome.

He didn't understand her.

And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

She wasn't something he could read, couldn't predict, couldn't control, and that lack of control sat wrong in a way he couldn't quite define, because everything in his life had always followed a pattern he understood.

This didn't.

This marriage wasn't supposed to be like this, it was meant to be simple, an arrangement, a responsibility where he would give her everything—comfort, security, status—and in return she would live within the boundaries he set, and that would be the end of it.

That was how it was supposed to work.

He wasn't made for marriage, he had known that long before this had even been decided, because a man like him didn't become a husband, not in the way the word actually meant, not in any way that involved something real.

At least... that's what he had believed.

Until yesterday.

Because a man who had never apologized, who had never bent, never lowered himself for anyone—

had gone down on his knees in front of a woman he had known for barely two weeks and asked for forgiveness.

His jaw clenched harder at the memory, something sharp flickering through him, irritation rising not just at the memory but at himself.

What the hell was she doing to him?

He had a reputation to maintain, an image built over years, something people feared, something that kept everything in place, and he couldn't afford to let that crack, couldn't afford to let anyone see him lose control in ways he didn't even understand.

The sound of footsteps broke through his thoughts. He turned.

A royal guard stood a few steps away, posture straight, expression carefully neutral, though something in his eyes had shifted ever since Yansong had stepped into this role, something that carried more than just respect now.

Because now he wasn't just who he had always been. Now he was the Yuvraj. "The Maharaj has kept the clothes for you in the chambers," the guard said quietly, bowing just enough.

Yansong gave a slight nod, nothing more, and the guard left as silently as he had come, leaving the quiet behind once again.

And then—

"Shit."

The word slipped out under his breath, irritation surfacing before he could stop it, sharper this time.

Ranvijay had told him. This morning.

They were going to the Kuldevti Mandir.

For the ritual.

For him... and Vishakha.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration settling in with something else he refused to name.

He didn't understand any of it—the rituals, the meaning, the faith behind it.

He didn't believe in God.

Never had.

He believed in control, in power, in shaping outcomes with his own hands, because he had seen too much to trust in anything unseen, too much blood, too much loss, too many moments where people had begged for something to save them and nothing had come.

He had watched them die.

He had heard them scream.

And nothing had answered.

So what was there to believe in?

His gaze dropped briefly, unfocused.

And yet—

just because he didn't believe didn't mean it meant nothing.

He had never disrespected faith, never mocked it, because he understood what it gave people—comfort, hope, something to hold onto when there was nothing else left.

And Vishakha...

She believed.

Not casually.

Not out of habit.

Deeply.

And he would never take that away from her, never force his disbelief onto her world.

So if this mattered to her—

he would go.

Not because he believed.

But because she did.

A faint memory surfaced then, quiet and steady.

Just because you don't believe in something doesn't mean it holds no value.

It lingered longer than he expected.

His gaze shifted—and that's when he noticed him.

Devansh.

A little distance away, slightly bent, holding out a carrot as a rabbit nibbled cautiously from his hand, completely at ease, completely unaware.

Yansong stilled.

There was something about the way he did it.

Careful.

Patient.

Familiar.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his attention fixing on the small, almost insignificant detail in a way that didn't match its importance.

He had seen that before.

Not from him.

From her.

Vishakha.

The recognition came before the thought fully formed, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten, his body going still in a way that felt instinctive rather than controlled.

Did he learn that from her?

The question hit harder than it should have, something tightening suddenly in his chest, his fingers curling into his palm before he even registered it, his weight shifting forward just slightly—almost a step, almost movement—before he stopped himself.

Why does it matter?

The thought came harsher, immediate, as if trying to shut the first one down.

It didn't.

It shouldn't.

And yet his gaze didn't move, lingering on Devansh a second longer than necessary, long enough for something uncomfortable to settle in his chest, something unfamiliar, something he didn't like.

Something dangerously close to jealousy.

His expression hardened almost immediately, irritation snapping into place as a shield, his shoulders straightening as he forced the feeling down the way he always did, burying it beneath control, beneath logic.

Ridiculous.

It meant nothing.

And yet—

it didn't leave.

Devansh straightened slowly, something shifting in the air just enough to make him turn, and the moment his eyes landed on Yansong, he froze.

For a brief second, something raw flickered through him, sharp enough to sting before he could push it down.

This was the man. The man who would marry her. His grip tightened unconsciously around the carrot in his hand, the rabbit retreating slightly at the change, though he barely noticed it.

Vishakha.

He didn't say her name.

Didn't let himself.

He had loved her for years, quietly, without ever saying it out loud because he had always thought there was time, that things like that didn't just slip away overnight.

He had been wrong.

She had gotten engaged yesterday.

And just like that—

whatever he had held onto, even silently, even without hope—

was gone.

His throat tightened, something in his chest pulling in a way he couldn't let show, and for a brief second—just a second—his expression slipped, the smile fading before he could stop it, before he forced it back into place like nothing had happened.

"Arre... tum yahan kya kar rahe ho?" he said, the lightness in his tone practiced, controlled, just enough to hide what sat underneath.

Yansong closed the distance between them, his own expression settling into something equally composed.

"Ah... actually," he said, voice low, measured, "I wanted to ask you something."

Devansh paused, the words catching him off guard in a way he didn't show, though his fingers tightened slightly around the carrot before he loosened his grip.

Still, he nodded. "Haan, bolo."

For a brief moment, Yansong seemed to consider his words, his gaze shifting away for a fraction of a second before returning.

"You know... today we're supposed to go to the mandir," he said, his tone steady but not as detached as before, "and I don't really know how any of it works."

A small pause followed, quieter. "What I'm supposed to do."

The space between them stilled, something unspoken settling into it. "I know this is... awkward," Yansong added after a moment, his voice lower now, "maybe even inappropriate, asking you this."

Devansh didn't interrupt, but his attention sharpened, his gaze fixed on him now in a way it hadn't been before.

"I just thought," Yansong continued, slower this time, "you might be able to explain the pooja to me."

Silence followed.

Not empty.

Heavy.

Devansh held his gaze for a second too long, searching for something he couldn't quite name, something that didn't match what he had expected from him, because there was no arrogance in it, no ego, no sense of superiority.

Just a question.

And something else.

Something he hadn't expected to see.

For a fleeting second, something in him shifted—not enough to change anything, not enough to ease the ache—but enough to make him understand one thing.

This wasn't careless.

Whatever this was—

it mattered.

His grip loosened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Of course," he said finally, his voice quieter now, more genuine than before. "I'll tell you."

And maybe that was enough.

Because even if Vishakha was never going to be his—

even if that truth had settled in a way that still hurt to acknowledge—

the only thing he had ever truly wanted for her...

was for her to be happy.

Even if it wasn't with him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

VISHAKHA'S CHAMBER

Soft light streamed through the carved jharokha windows, scattering delicate, shifting patterns across the cool marble floor, while rich silk curtains in deep crimson and gold framed the arches and stirred gently with the breeze, as if the room itself was breathing in quiet anticipation.

Vishakha sat curled on her four-poster bed, surrounded by a sea of lehengas spread carelessly around her, layers of silk, zari, and embroidery catching the light in a way that made each one seem more tempting than the last, and it only made things worse because how was she supposed to choose just one when every single piece looked like it belonged to a different version of her she wasn't ready to let go of.

God, why is this so confusing.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of a dupatta before she let out a soft, frustrated sigh, glancing up at Anandi, who stood beside the bed with that knowing look in her eyes, the kind that said she had already understood everything without a single word being spoken, like she always did.

"Anandi, hame toh samajh nahi aa raha isme kya pehne..." Vishakha's voice softened at the end, her eyes almost pleading, as if she were silently asking to be rescued from a decision that suddenly felt far too heavy for something as simple as clothes.

Anandi couldn't help but chuckle, the sound warm and familiar, as she moved closer and knelt beside her on the bed, her hands resting lightly against the mattress while she looked up at Vishakha, a fondness in her gaze that went far beyond duty, because somewhere along the years the lines had blurred, and Vishakha had never once treated her like she was anything less than her own.

"Rajkumari... main kya kahun?" she said softly, though the hesitation in her voice wasn't uncertainty, it was the quiet awareness of a place she was never meant to cross, even if Vishakha had unknowingly erased that boundary long ago.

"What do you mean, what can you say?" Vishakha shot back immediately, her brows knitting together as she pushed herself up, standing right on the bed with her arms crossed over her chest as if that alone would make her look more intimidating, though in that moment, draped in half-worn fabric and frustration, she looked anything but—if anything, she just looked unbearably endearing.

Her anklets chimed softly as she shifted her weight, chin lifted stubbornly.

"HELP ME OUT NOW!" she burst out, the words coming out more like a whine than an order, her lips forming a small pout as she looked down at Anandi like a child denied something she desperately wanted.

Anandi sighed, though the hint of a smile tugged at her lips, because this—this exact moment—was something she had seen countless times before, these little storms Vishakha created when the world didn't bend the way she wanted it to, and yet, she always gave in.

"Acha, theek hai... pehle aap baith jaiye," she said gently, reaching out as if to steady her before she did something ridiculous like lose her balance in the middle of her own tantrum, her tone patient, almost practiced, as she prepared herself to sort through not just the lehengas—but the chaos in Vishakha's heart that came with them.

Vishakha uncrossed her arms and finally sat down, though the pout lingered stubbornly on her lips, refusing to leave as if it had made a quiet promise to stay until she got exactly what she wanted, and knowing her, she would not let go of it so easily.

Anandi, already accustomed to these moods, began sorting through the lehengas spread around, lifting one after another, her fingers brushing over rich fabrics as she asked softly which color Vishakha liked more, which embroidery caught her eye, trying her best to bring some order to the chaos.

And then, suddenly—

An idea sparked.

It was almost visible in the way Vishakha's expression shifted, her eyes lighting up with a mischief that came too quickly, too brightly, and Anandi immediately stilled, because she knew that look far too well, knew that it never meant anything simple, never meant anything safe.

Vishakha tilted her head, looking down at her with a slow, knowing grin, one that only grew wider by the second, and Anandi felt a quiet sense of dread settle in her chest.

"Rajkumari... ab aap kya soch rahi hai?" Anandi asked, her voice carrying a sigh already, as if she was preparing herself for whatever was about to come, silently hoping—perhaps foolishly—that it wouldn't be something reckless this time.

But Vishakha only leaned closer, her movements conspiratorial, as though the walls themselves might overhear, her voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against Anandi's ear like a secret meant for no one else.

"Aap... please pata kariye na... voh kis rang ka kurta pehenge... please."

There it was.

Anandi closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling slowly, because of course it would be something like this, something that involved him, something that would require crossing lines they were not meant to even approach.

Vishakha pulled back just enough to look at her, her lashes fluttering in exaggerated innocence, though the determination in her eyes betrayed everything, because she already knew how this would end—Anandi could refuse all she wanted, but if she did, Vishakha would simply go herself, and that was something Anandi could never allow.

For a moment, it seemed like she might protest.

Like she might remind her of boundaries, of guards, of consequences.

But then she saw it—the quiet hope, the stubborn insistence, the kind that never really asked but always expected—and her resolve softened, just like it always did.

"Theek hai..." she murmured at last, giving in with a small nod as she pushed herself up, smoothing the folds of her saree as if preparing for something far more serious than a simple errand. "Main pata karke aati hoon."

Vishakha's reaction was instant.

She clapped softly, a burst of delight escaping her before she threw herself forward without a second thought, her arms wrapping tightly around Anandi's neck as she buried her face against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar comfort she had always found there.

"You are the bestest friend," she whispered, her voice softer now, warmer, as she pulled back just enough to press a quick kiss to Anandi's cheek, the gesture careless and affectionate all at once.

Anandi stiffened for a second, her breath catching as she tried to steady herself, her hands hovering awkwardly before she gently pushed her back, blinking rapidly as she fought to keep the sudden sting in her eyes from spilling over.

"Acha... acha... bohot hai..." she muttered, attempting to sound composed, though her voice betrayed a slight tremor. "Ab bas kijiye... aap mujhe rulayengi, Rajkumari..."

She didn't wait for another word.

Turning quickly, before the moment could linger any longer than it should, she walked out of the chamber, her steps steady despite the thoughts rushing through her mind, because she knew very well what she was about to do was not as simple as it sounded.

Yansong's chambers were heavily guarded, always had been, and no one entered without reason.

But still—

For Vishakha, she would.

And without looking back even once, Anandi stepped into the corridor, already planning how she would get past the guards, how she would find out what she needed, because some loyalties were stronger than fear, and hers had never once failed Vishakha.

Vishakha let herself fall back onto the bed, her face burying into the pillow as her lehenga pooled around her in soft folds, a quiet smile tugging at her lips that she didn't even try to hide anymore, because there was no one here to see it, no one to question it.

Yesterday refused to leave her.

No matter how much she tried to think of something else, it returned again and again, in fragments that only grew clearer—the way he had come to her, not out of compulsion but choice, the softness in his voice when he apologized, the way there had been no arrogance in him despite everything he was, and then... that small, almost insignificant detail—

He had brought her favorite flower. Her fingers curled slightly into the bedsheet as the thought settled deeper, her heart reacting before her mind could catch up, because who notices something like that unless it matters to them?

Unless she matters to them.

The first time she had met him, she had liked him—it had been simple then, easy, the kind of liking that came from admiration, from noticing the way he spoke, the quiet respect in his words, the gentleness in his demeanor.

But now...

Now it wasn't simple anymore.

Somewhere along the way, without her even realizing it, that quiet admiration had turned into something deeper, something that had rooted itself inside her without permission.

She was in love with him.

It was not some sudden realization, not something that startled her or made her question herself, but rather a truth that had been quietly settling within her for a long time, something she had known deep down long before she had found the words to admit it, even to herself.

The way he had been with her—so kind, so effortlessly respectful—never once crossing a line, never making her feel small or uncomfortable, always holding himself with a restraint that spoke louder than any grand gesture ever could.

He had seen her.

Not as a title, not as a responsibility, not as someone to impress or control—but simply as her.

And that, more than anything, was what had undone her.

Because he was everything she had once thought existed only in her imagination, everything she had quietly wished for but never truly expected to find in reality.

The kind of man who listened.

The kind of man who understood.

The kind of man who made space for her without ever making her feel like she had to fight for it.

He was... the man. The man she had dreamed of in the soft corners of her heart, the one she had unknowingly shaped in her thoughts over the years, never believing that someone so close to that image could ever truly exist.

And yet, he did.

And now—

Now she was going to marry him.

The thought should have overwhelmed her, should have made her pause, question, hesitate.

But instead, it filled her with something warm, something steady, something that felt almost like peace.

As if everything had fallen into place exactly the way it was meant to.

As if, without even realizing it, she had been walking toward him all along.

The realization didn't startle her, didn't shake her the way it should have, instead it settled into her like something that had always been there, waiting patiently for her to understand it, because what else could explain the way her eyes searched for him in every room, the way her breath seemed to pause for a second whenever she caught sight of him, the way his absence felt... wrong.

She had always been kind, always caring.

But this wasn't that.

This was different.

With him, it wasn't a choice.

It was instinct.

It was the way his pain felt like it would echo inside her own chest, the way she found herself thinking about him at the most unexpected moments, the way even now, lying here, her heart felt just a little too full.

And somewhere deep down, she believed he felt it too.

Because why else would he come to her like that?

Why else would he care enough to explain, to apologize, to remember?

Unless she meant something to him.

Unless this wasn't one-sided.

A small thought flickered at the edge of her mind then—quiet, uncertain, almost hesitant—but she pushed it away before it could fully form, because she didn't want to question something that felt this right.

She didn't want to doubt him.

Her thoughts drifted again, softer this time, back to yesterday—to the sagai—and this time it wasn't his words she remembered, but him.

The way he had looked.

The effortless way he carried himself, the strands of his hair falling over his forehead in a way that made him look almost unfairly perfect, like someone who didn't belong in the same world as everyone else.

Her cheeks warmed instantly at the memory, a soft flush spreading across her skin as she buried her face deeper into the pillow, as if it could hide the smile that widened despite her efforts.

"Haaye... koi itna sundar kaise ho sakta hai..." she murmured, her voice muffled, barely audible even to herself.

But beneath the softness, beneath the shy smile and quiet admiration, there was something far deeper taking root—

something steady, something irreversible.

Because this wasn't just a passing thought anymore.

This wasn't just admiration.

This was the quiet, undeniable beginning of a love she hadn't planned for—

and one she would no longer be able to walk away from.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ARNAV AND ANURADHA'S CHAMBER

The chamber was intimate yet regal, a space meant for quiet closeness rather than display. Soft lamplight brushed against the carved walls and heavy drapes, casting a warm, golden glow that seemed to wrap the entire room in a hushed embrace. At the center, the grand bed stood layered in silks, untouched and pristine, while faint traces of sandalwood and rose lingered in the air, subtle yet constant. Everything about the room felt private, almost sacred—as if the world outside had been gently shut away, leaving only the two of them within.

Anuradha sat at the corner of the bed, her gaze fixed beyond the window yet seeing nothing at all, lost somewhere far deeper than the view before her. The chamber remained steeped in silence, broken only by the faint rustle of her saree and the soft, intermittent chime of her anklets and bangles whenever she shifted ever so slightly.

A crease had settled upon her forehead, deep and unmoving, one that did not belong to passing thoughts but to something heavier, something that had been building since yesterday. Worry had etched itself into every delicate feature of her face, quiet yet undeniable—the worry of a mother.

The sudden invitation to Vishakha's wedding had taken both her and Arnav by surprise. For years, they had believed—no, expected—that Vishakha would one day become their daughter-in-law, Devansh's bride, the girl who had always belonged with their son in ways that never needed to be spoken aloud. But fate, in its own unpredictable way, had rewritten everything, placing her hand instead in that of the man who had once saved her father's life and, in doing so, had earned a promise of her forever.

And they were happy. Truly, genuinely happy for her—for the girl who had never been less than a daughter in their eyes, who now stepped into a new life, one that promised her safety, respect, and companionship.

Yet, since yesterday, something had not sat right with her.

Her son—her Dev—who should have been the happiest, who should have stood beside his best friend with that effortless smile he wore so easily, had seemed... distant. Quieter than usual. There had been a weight in his eyes, something unspoken yet painfully present, as though he were carrying a storm within himself and refusing to let even a single drop spill.

She wasn't the one who had given birth to him, but she had raised him, loved him, watched him grow through every phase of life, and that was enough to know him better than most ever could. A mother did not need blood to recognize pain.

Even if he had never made it easy for her.
Even if his words had often been sharp, his distance deliberate.

Her love had never faltered.

She was still his mother.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the door until it creaked open softly, the faint sound enough to pull her back. She turned, her gaze landing on Arnav as he stepped inside.

As always, he carried himself with effortless authority—his expensive suit jacket unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white shirt beneath, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his presence alone enough to command attention without ever trying. Time had done nothing to diminish him; if anything, it had only made him more striking.

For a brief moment, something eased within her.

Anuradha forced a smile onto her lips, instinctively masking everything that lay beneath it. The last thing she wanted was to burden him, not when he had just returned from work, not when his world already carried more responsibilities than most.

But Arnav was not a man who missed things.

He stepped further inside, his shoes making almost no sound against the carpet as he shrugged off his jacket and placed it carelessly on the bed. His gaze shifted to her, softening instantly, instinctively—but then it stilled.

The smile didn't reach her eyes.
Her shoulders were too stiff.
And her fingers... they were fidgeting with the edge of her saree.

That was all it took.

In a matter of seconds, the distance between them disappeared. One moment he stood across the room, and the next he was beside her, lowering himself slightly as his hands closed around hers—large, warm, calloused against her smaller, delicate ones.

"Mithu," he called softly, the nickname slipping out with an ease that only came from years of love, his voice gentler than it ever was with anyone else. "Kya hua?" he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against her skin, a quiet habit that had always managed to calm her, no matter how restless her thoughts had been.

Despite herself, a faint smile tugged at her lips.

Not a single day had passed in all these years when this man had not been concerned for her, when he had not set aside everything—meetings, deals, numbers that ran into crores—just because she had needed him, even for something as small as deciding what to cook for dinner.

"Kuch nahi hua... main theek hoon, Chauhan ji," she replied softly, but her voice betrayed her, a slight tremor slipping through despite her effort to keep it steady. "Mujhe kya hoga..."

Arnav exhaled slowly, unconvinced, not even for a moment.

He knew her too well.

He knew the way her gaze avoided his when she wasn't being honest, the way her hands busied themselves with nothing when something weighed on her mind. There was no hiding from him—not really.

"Mithu..." he said again, this time with a quiet firmness, a warning wrapped in softness, one that said he knew, that she didn't need to pretend, not with him. "Please tell me what's troubling you. I can see the tension on your face."

His hold on her hands tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground, to reassure.

Anuradha let out a soft sigh, her resistance faltering. She had known from the very beginning that she wouldn't be able to hide it from him for long. She never could.

For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes dropping to their joined hands as though gathering the courage to speak, but when she finally looked up at him, the worry she had been holding back surfaced without restraint.

"Chauhan ji..." she called, her voice quieter now, heavier.

"Haan, Mithu, bolo... kya baat hai?" he replied gently, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles, a gesture so natural, so familiar, that it warmed something deep within her despite everything.

"Main sun raha hoon."

She swallowed, her throat tightening before the words finally came.

"Mujhe bas Dev ki chinta ho rahi thi..." she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Aapne notice nahi kiya? Kal se... woh kuch theek nahi lag raha tha."

Her brows drew together as she continued, the worry only deepening with every word.

"Bilkul chup tha... aur kuch bol bhi nahi raha tha."

Arnav fell silent, her words settling heavily between them. A faint frown formed on his face as he considered it.

"I didn't notice, Mithu," he admitted after a moment, his voice thoughtful, "but if you did... then there must be something."

His gaze softened again as it returned to her, taking in the concern that refused to leave her eyes. God... how pure this woman was. No blood tied her to that boy, and yet she worried for him as though he were a part of her soul, as though his pain belonged to her just as much.

She had always been the one holding this family together—quietly, selflessly, without ever asking for anything in return.

"Mithu," he said once more, waiting until she met his eyes again. "Woh koi chhota bachcha nahi hai. He's a grown man now. He knows how to deal with his problems... aur humein usse deal karne dena chahiye."

Anuradha listened, knowing he wasn't wrong. Devansh was no longer a child who needed constant guidance. If something truly troubled him, he could come to them—he knew he could.

And yet...

A mother's heart did not follow logic.

It did not quiet itself with reason or wait for explanations.

The moment it sensed even the slightest trace of pain in her child, it began to ache.

And once it did—

It never truly stilled.

Anuradha listened, her gaze lingering on Arnav's face as his words settled gently between them, calm and reasonable, the kind that always carried weight, the kind she trusted without question.

She gave a small nod, slow and thoughtful, even though the unease within her did not entirely fade.

"Hmm..." she murmured softly, her fingers curling slightly around his, as if drawing comfort from his presence. "Aap sahi keh rahe hain..."

And he was.

Devansh was not a child anymore. He had grown into a man who carried his own burdens, who had learned to stand on his own without reaching out for support, even when he perhaps should have. If something truly weighed on him, he would speak... someday.

Arnav watched her carefully, knowing that while she had agreed, her heart had not fully let go of its worry.

It never did.

His hand lifted instinctively, moving to her face, his fingers brushing lightly against her temple before smoothing the crease on her forehead, as though he could erase every trace of concern with that simple touch.

"Bas..." he said quietly, almost like a gentle command. "Itna mat socha karo."

Slowly, he stood up, his hand lingering for a brief second before he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his palm coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin as if he might pull her into his arms—

but he didn't.

Instead, he paused, a small smile tugging at his lips, one that reached his eyes, warm and familiar, before he gently pulled back.

"Let me go bathe, Mithu," he said lightly.

Then, with a quiet huff, he added, "I smell like shit."

And just like that, with a quick wink—one that somehow still managed to steal her heart the same way he had years ago—he turned and walked away.

Anuradha watched him go, that faint smile still resting on her lips, the heaviness inside her easing just a little more.

Somewhere along the long, quiet hallway near the Guest Wing of the Mahal, a lone figure stood half-hidden in the soft play of shadows, her fingers restlessly fidgeting with the edge of her saree as though the delicate fabric might somehow steady the impatience stirring within her.

Anandi had positioned herself carefully—close enough that the grand guest chamber remained within her line of sight, yet far enough to avoid drawing the attention of the guards stationed nearby, their presence as immovable as the marble pillars themselves—and despite standing there for what felt like far too long, she still had no idea how she was supposed to slip inside unnoticed and find out what Yansong was wearing.

Because that was all she needed. Just that one small detail.

So she could go back and tell Vishakha, who had insisted, with that quiet stubbornness of hers, on wearing the same color as him.

It was childish—perhaps even a little foolish—but it was also so unmistakably Vishakha that Anandi could not bring herself to question it, because loving her had always meant indulging the little things, the small whims that made her who she was, and their relationship had never needed a name or a definition; it had always existed somewhere deeper than that, in a space where blood meant nothing and yet everything, where they chose each other again and again in ways that mattered.

And if something as simple as this could make Vishakha happy, then Anandi would stand in this corridor all day if she had to.

She let out a slow breath, her gaze flickering once more toward the chamber, her mind already beginning to circle the same problem again, when suddenly her attention shifted—almost instinctively—as a familiar figure stepped into view.

Lin.

Of course.

Relief came first, quick and certain, because if there was anyone who could walk into Yansong's chamber without raising so much as a question, it was him—someone who belonged in these corridors in a way she never quite did, someone who could pass through guarded doors as though they were nothing at all.

But the moment her eyes settled on him, something else followed, softer and far more complicated, as the memory of yesterday returned unbidden—the way he had come to apologize, hesitant yet sincere, the way he had tried to explain himself when he did not owe her anything—and though she had not shown it then, had kept her expression carefully neutral, something in her chest had tightened at the realization that he was not used to being understood, perhaps not even used to being cared for at all.

And with that came the quiet sting of guilt, because she had been angry with him—unfairly so—when the truth was she had simply misunderstood.

Just then, as her thoughts threatened to pull her under again, she caught herself, her fingers stilling against the fabric of her saree as her focus returned to him fully, as though the answer she had been waiting for had been standing in front of her all along.

As if she had already felt his presence, she turned—and found him standing there.

She straightened at once before finally speaking.

"Mujhe aapki help chahiye thi."

Lin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a flicker of surprise passing through his eyes as he wondered what could possibly have driven her to seek him out, but he composed himself quickly and gave a small nod.

"Boliye, kya baat hai?"

Anandi lowered her gaze, her fingers fidgeting with her saree more insistently now.

Yesterday, when he had left after apologizing, she had been certain she would never speak to him again—because God knew what people would say if they saw her standing with a man like this, what would happen if her uncle found out, how easily reputations were ruined over things that were not even true.

She had sworn to herself last night that she would keep her distance.

And yet here she was.

Standing before him once again.

Seeking his help.

Even when she didn't want to.

It felt as though Mahadev Himself was writing something she did not yet understand, pulling her into moments she had no control over.

She lifted her eyes to him, and for a fleeting second, the way his gaze held hers made her breath catch, the way his arms had shifted from his chest to rest casually in his pockets only making him look more at ease, more—

God.

How could someone be this sundar?

She froze.

Did she just—?

Haaye Mahadev, meri raksha kijiye.

Her thoughts tangled, her words slipping away before they could even form, and all she wanted now was to say what she had come for and leave before anyone noticed, before anyone began to look, before assumptions were made that she would never be able to undo.

"Kya hogaya aapko?" Lin waved a hand lightly in front of her, pulling her back to the present, one brow lifting as his curiosity deepened.

She straightened immediately, forcing herself to ignore the tightness in her chest, clearing her throat as she tried to gather what little composure she had left.

"Mujhe... actually woh jo aapke sahab hain na..." she paused, already aware of how ridiculous this sounded, but Vishakha's stubborn face flashed in her mind, and she pushed forward anyway, "...aapke sahab kaunsa rang ka kurta pehen rahe hain?"

Lin stilled. For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if trying to decide whether he had heard her correctly.

And when it finally sank in—when he realized that this, this was what had her so tense, so flustered, so utterly serious—he broke.

A deep, unrestrained laugh escaped him, rich and sudden, his head falling back as amusement overtook him completely, as though he could not remember the last time something had caught him this off guard.

Anandi froze.

Someone could hear.

The guards.

Without thinking, she stepped forward and clamped her hand firmly over his mouth, pushing him back behind the nearest pillar, her eyes flashing with warning as she glared up at him.

The guards outside Yansong's chamber glanced in their direction at the sound, their attention sharpening for a brief moment—but seeing nothing, they exchanged a look and returned to their post.

Only then did Anandi exhale, though her hand remained over his mouth.

Lin tried to speak, his voice muffled against her palm, the warmth of his breath sending an unexpected shiver down her spine—but she recovered quickly, pressing her hand more firmly as if to silence him completely.

"Kuch bolna bhi mat," she whispered, her voice low but firm as she slowly withdrew her hand, though her glare did not soften in the slightest.

She stood there, trying—failing—to look intimidating in a way she never had before.

But Lin... Lin only looked amused.

Deeply amused.

Because he hadn't expected this.

Not from her.

And instead of irritation, instead of anger—something else flickered in his eyes.

Interest.

Leaning in slightly, closing the distance between them with effortless ease, he lowered his voice just enough for only her to hear.

"You are feisty... aren't you?"

His breath brushed against her cheek, far too close, far too steady, and Anandi had to gather every ounce of control within herself just to remain still.

"Excuse me. I am not," she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest, though even to her own ears it sounded weak—unconvincing.

Because this—this was the first time she had done something like this.

The first time she had dared to take control.

The first time she had stood her ground before a man she had been trying so hard to avoid.

God... what had she done?

She looked up at him, expecting anger, expecting at least some irritation—

But all she found was that same amused expression.

This man was enjoying this.

Truly enjoying it.

And somehow, that only made her more frustrated, because she had come here with a purpose, a simple task to complete, and instead she had found herself caught in something far more complicated—

While he stood there, watching her struggle like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.

And the worst part was—he wasn't even trying to hide it.

That faint curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes, the way he simply stood there as though he had nowhere else to be, as though her urgency, her frustration, her entire situation was nothing more than a passing amusement to him—it only made something in her tighten further.

Anandi drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, reminding herself why she was here in the first place, because if she allowed this moment to stretch any longer than it already had, she would lose whatever little control she still held.

"Dekhiye," she began, her tone firmer now, though still hushed, mindful of the guards not too far away, "mujhe mazaak ka time nahi hai, bas itna bata dijiye aur main chali jaungi."

Lin tilted his head slightly, studying her as though weighing something far more significant than her words, his gaze lingering on her face just a second longer than necessary, as if trying to read what lay beneath her impatience.

"Bas itni si baat?" he murmured, almost to himself, though there was something deliberate in the way he said it, something that suggested he already knew he wasn't going to make this easy for her.

Anandi's jaw tightened. "Yes. Itni si baat," she replied, each word clipped, controlled, because she refused to let him drag this any further than he already had.

For a moment, he said nothing.

And then, instead of answering her, he took a step closer.

Not enough to startle.

Just enough to make her aware of it.

Of him.

Of the way the space between them shifted, thinned, became something fragile and dangerous all at once. "Par problem yeh hai," he said quietly, his voice dropping just enough to pull her attention fully onto him, "ki mujhe samajh nahi aa raha... aap itni si baat ke liye itni pareshaan kyun ho rahi hain."

Anandi blinked, caught off guard for the briefest moment, because that was not the direction she had expected this to go in.

"Kyunki—" she started, then stopped, realizing far too late that explaining would only make this worse.

Because what was she supposed to say?

That Vishakha wanted to match outfits like some lovestruck girl?

That she had been sent here on what was essentially a mission of color coordination?

No.

Absolutely not.

"Woh aapko jaana zaroori nahi hai," she said instead, lifting her chin slightly, trying to regain some of the ground she felt slipping beneath her feet, "aap bas bata dijiye."

Lin watched her for a moment longer.

And then—very deliberately—he smiled.

Not broadly.

Not teasingly.

But in a way that felt... knowing.

"Zaroori toh hai," he said softly, "warna main kyun bataun?"

Anandi stared at him. For a second, she genuinely thought she had misheard. "Aap... bataenge nahi?" she repeated, disbelief slipping into her voice despite her efforts to remain composed.

He shrugged lightly, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. "Ho sakta hai bata doon," he corrected, his tone almost thoughtful now, "agar aap mujhe reason bata dein."

There it was.

A condition.

Of course.

Of course he wouldn't make it easy. Anandi let out a quiet breath, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her saree once more, her mind racing as she tried to find a way out of this without saying too much, without giving him something he could hold onto, twist, or worse—tease her about.

But the longer she stood there, the more she realized he wasn't going to budge.

And time was slipping.

With every passing moment, the risk of someone noticing them increased, the weight of it pressing down on her thoughts until it became impossible to ignore.

Fine.

If that was what it took.

"Rajkumari ne bheja hai," she said finally, the words coming out quicker than she intended, as though saying them fast enough might lessen their impact, "unhe... same color pehenna hai."

There was a brief pause.

And then—

Lin blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And just like that, the amusement returned.

Stronger this time.

"Same color?" he repeated, as though testing the words, and Anandi immediately regretted everything.

"Haan," she snapped, her patience thinning rapidly now, "ab please—"

But she never got to finish.

Because before she could, he let out a soft huff of laughter—not as loud as before, but no less entertained—and shook his head slightly, as though this was, without a doubt, the most unexpected explanation he could have received.

"Aur aap..." he said, looking at her with something that almost resembled disbelief, "...itni der se yahan khadi hain, sirf iske liye?"

Anandi's silence was answer enough.

And for a moment, something shifted in his expression.

The amusement didn't disappear.

But it softened.

Just slightly.

Because now, it wasn't just funny.

It was... something else.

Something he couldn't quite place.

"Strange," he murmured, almost absently, before his gaze returned to her fully, more focused this time, more intent, "log usually itni mehnat kisi aur ke liye nahi karte."

The words landed heavier than they should have.

And Anandi felt it. That quiet weight.

That unspoken meaning beneath something that had sounded so casual.

''karte hai.'' she whispers softly but firmly her gaze once again shifted to her saree fidgeting with it. ''bas aapne kabhi dekha nahi.''

She simply held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, before looking away, her voice quieter now when she finally spoke again.

"Toh... batayenge?"

There was a pause.

A brief one.

And then, finally—

Lin exhaled, as though giving in to something he hadn't planned to.

"Blue," he said.

Just one word.

Simple.

But it landed like the end of a long battle.

Anandi blinked, processing it, relief washing over her almost instantly, her shoulders easing for the first time since she had stepped into that corridor. "Thank you," she said quickly, almost too quickly, already turning as though to leave before this could stretch into something else again.

But—

"Anandi."

She stopped.

Of course she did.

Slowly, she turned back, her brows knitting slightly at the way her name sounded in his voice—steady, deliberate, as though he wasn't calling her back for something trivial.

"Haan?" she asked, cautious now.

Lin held her gaze for a moment, something unreadable settling in his expression, something quieter than before, yet far more serious.

And when he spoke, his voice had lost that teasing edge entirely.

"Aap hamesha aisi hi hain?" he asked.

Anandi frowned faintly.

"Aisi... kaise?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Just looked at her, as though trying to decide how much to say.

And then, finally—

"Dusron ke liye itna karne wali."

The words were simple. But they stayed.

And for the first time since this conversation had begun, Anandi didn't have an immediate response.

Because this time—

It didn't feel like a game anymore.

With nothing left to say, she simply nodded and walked away, leaving him standing there, lost in a kind of silence he wasn't used to—a man who had spent his life taking, never giving, now wondering, perhaps for the first time, what it would feel like to offer something without wanting anything back.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

2 hours later

Vishakha stood in her private chamber, a vision so composed and regal that it almost felt as though time itself had slowed, if only to take her in properly, to understand the quiet authority she carried without ever needing to demand it. She was not merely dressed for the day—she was draped in legacy, in rituals older than memory, in a kind of restrained grace that did not ask to be seen and yet could never be overlooked.

Her deep blue lehenga fell around her like a still midnight, heavy silk layered with intricate gold zari work that traced age-old motifs—patterns once worn by the queens of her lineage, preserved not just in fabric but in expectation. Nothing about it was loud, nothing excessive, and yet every thread held weight. The blouse fit her perfectly, its embroidery echoing the same quiet grandeur, while the dupatta rested over her head with practiced ease, its gold-edged border framing her face in a way that felt less ornamental and more sacred.

The blue choker at her throat sat close against her collarbone, studded with uncut stones and pearls, not shimmering for attention but holding its place like it belonged there. Beneath it, a longer haar rested against her chest, adding depth without clutter, each piece aware of the other, nothing competing, everything aligned.

Her wrists were lined with blue and gold bangles, broken occasionally by traditional kadas, the soft, rhythmic sound of them the only thing disturbing the stillness whenever she moved even slightly. Rings adorned her fingers, connected to delicate haathphools that traced over her hands, drawing attention to the faint, almost imperceptible tension in them—something only a careful eye would notice.

The golden maangteeka sat perfectly at the center of her forehead, while a passa adorned the side, completing her look without overwhelming it. Her jhumkas brushed softly against her neck with every small turn of her head, catching light in fleeting glimmers.

At her waist, the kamarbandh rested with quiet authority, its fine chains settling against the lehenga, not shifting, not asking to be adjusted, just there—like it had always belonged. And beneath it all, the soft chime of her payal followed her, silver anklets whispering her presence with every step she would take.

Her feet, brushed with alta, appeared briefly beneath the hem, each step she would leave behind marked not just in motion, but in ritual.

Beneath the veil, her expression remained composed—kohl-lined eyes steady, unreadable in a way that came not from coldness but from control. Her lips held neither a smile nor a frown, as if she had already made peace with whatever awaited her.

Today was not about becoming a bride.

Today was about walking toward her Kuldevi.

Toward Banmata.

By the time they reached the base of the temple, the journey behind them had already stretched long enough to quiet even the most restless thoughts, the cart ride leaving behind a lingering stillness that now stood in contrast to what lay ahead.

The stairs.

They didn't seem to end.

They rose endlessly, carved into the hillside as though meant to test not just devotion, but resolve. The temple itself wasn't even visible from where they stood, hidden somewhere above, beyond the climb.

Yansong stared at it for a moment too long, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as his gaze traveled upward, calculating, reassessing, already regretting decisions that had somehow led him here.

God, this had to be a joke.

He shifted his glance toward the pandit standing beside them, hoping—if not for an escape—then at least for some mercy. The man only smiled, calm, knowing, entirely unhelpful.

"Ab yuvraj rajkumari ko godi mein uthayenge... aur phir seedhiyan chadhkar mandir tak jayenge."

For a second, Yansong didn't react.

Then it settled.

Godi mein... uthayenge?

He blinked once, slow, like maybe the words would rearrange themselves into something more reasonable if he gave it time.

They didn't. His gaze snapped toward Devansh, sharp, questioning, accusing all at once—as if this had somehow been his doing, as if he had deliberately withheld this very crucial piece of information.

Devansh, to his credit, looked just as blindsided. There was a brief flicker of something dangerously close to amusement before he schooled his expression, turning his attention instead to his watch with a seriousness that came a little too suddenly to be convincing.

Traitor.

Vishakha, meanwhile, looked up at him, her eyes soft, pleased even, as though this entire situation was unfolding exactly the way she had expected it to. For a fleeting second, she took him in—the ivory angrakha, the kesariya pagdi, the way he stood there trying to maintain composure despite clearly losing ground—and something in her expression shifted into quiet satisfaction.

At least they matched.

She leaned slightly closer, her voice low, meant only for him.

"Aap girayenge toh nahi na?"

There it was.

That tone.

That deliberate, feigned innocence that fooled absolutely no one.

Yansong turned to her slowly, disbelief written plainly across his face as he searched for any sign that she didn't mean it, that she wasn't—of all things—enjoying this.

She was.

There was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, just enough to confirm it.

Of course she was enjoying this.

Of course.

He exhaled once, sharply, running a hand briefly through his hair before letting it fall back to his side, already aware there was no way out of this—not here, not now, not with everyone watching and certainly not with whatever this ritual meant to her family.

God.

This was insane.

He had faced men twice his size without hesitation, had walked into situations most would avoid without a second thought, had built a reputation that thrived on control and distance and not—definitely not—this.

And yet here he was.

Being told to carry a woman—his soon-to-be wife—up what looked like an endless flight of temple stairs.

Unbelievable.

He stepped closer anyway.

Not with hesitation this time, but with the kind of reluctant acceptance that said he had already decided he was going to do this—and now he just wanted it over with before she said something else.

Because she would.

He could see it in her eyes.

That barely-there glint beneath the veil.

God.

Without giving himself another second to think, he bent, one arm sliding behind her back, the other beneath her knees—and lifted her in one smooth, effortless motion.

Vishakha gasped, her arms coming up around his neck instinctively, more out of reflex than intention, as though her body had decided before her mind could catch up, clinging just enough to steady herself against the sudden shift.

She had been teasing him, pushing, prodding, fully aware she was getting under his skin—and God, she had.

His arm tightened around her bare waist where the blouse ended and the lehenga began, fingers brushing against skin that had no business feeling that soft, and she stilled immediately at the contact, a sharp shiver slipping down her spine before she could stop it.

God—fuck.

He froze for half a second himself, the way her arms had wrapped around his neck pulling her closer than necessary, close enough that he could feel the quick rhythm of her heart against his chest, could feel the warmth of her, the softness of her, something so dangerously delicate it made something in him go quiet.

Too soft.

Too soft for a man like him, for hands that had never learned how to hold anything gently, only how to take, to grip, to control.

Behind them, Lina let out a very audible, very delighted, “oh my god—” before slapping a hand over her mouth, while Devansh—traitor that he was—had very conveniently turned his face away, his shoulders just a little too still to be innocent.

Yansong noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He shot him a sharp look over Vishakha’s shoulder, the kind that promised consequences later without needing a single word, before looking ahead again, already done with the both of them.

“Comfortable?” he asked, adjusting his hold slightly, almost like he was flexing without meaning to, the ease with which he carried her making it look effortless.

She didn’t seem impressed.

Not even a little.

“Haan, abhi tak toh theek hai,” she murmured, adjusting her veil with her free hand so it stayed between them, a thin barrier she clearly had no intention of dropping, and then, like she couldn’t help herself, she added, almost sweetly, “par aage ka pata nahi.”

He let out a quiet huff, something between a breath and a laugh he refused to fully give in to, continuing up the stairs without breaking pace.

Right.

So this was how she wanted to play it.

A man who could take down men twice his size without blinking was being questioned by this tiny woman in his arms, this woman who clearly thought there was even a possibility he might fail at something as simple as carrying her up a flight of stairs.

She was questioning him.

Him.

A man who had spent his childhood climbing the Great Wall of China out of sheer boredom, and here she was, doubting him like he might drop her any second.

“Aise kya dekh rahe hai?” she narrowed her eyes beneath the veil, pointing a finger at him as much as she could in this position. “Dekhiye, agar aapne giraya na toh—”

God.

This was too much.

She was pushing him on purpose, and it was working far too well.

He was a second away from snapping, from losing that thin, fragile grip on control he was holding onto by a thread, his jaw tightening as he inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the irritation back down.

“Main giraunga nahi,” he said, voice low, almost lazy, like it wasn’t even a reassurance, just a fact.

Vishakha raised a brow beneath the veil. “Giraayenge nahi?” she tilted her head slightly, trying to catch his expression. “Bohot confidence hai aapko.”

God, she needed to stop moving.

Every small shift made it harder to keep her steady, made him more aware of her than he already was.

He exhaled sharply. “Aap itna hilna band karegi,” he muttered under his breath, teeth clenched just enough to give him away.

“And also… it’s not confidence,” he added after a beat, voice quieter now, almost absentminded in a way that felt deliberate, “it’s experience.”

That did it.

Vishakha went completely still.

Experience?

Her mind didn’t even try to be rational.

It went exactly where it shouldn’t.

Her stomach dropped, something cold settling in her chest at the thought, sharp and unpleasant and entirely unfamiliar—and yet not unfamiliar at all.

Other women.

Of course there were other women. Seeing the kind of job he was involved in. 

Why wouldn’t there be?

The idea of him holding someone else like this, this close, this easily, made something inside her twist in a way she did not like one bit.

“Kya bola aapne?” she asked, sharper this time, the softness gone.

Yansong glanced at her, just for a second, and there it was—that faint, knowing smile, the kind that said he knew exactly what he had done. “Kya?” he replied lightly, as if he hadn’t just thrown a match into dry grass.

Her fingers tightened around the back of his neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point, nails pressing in just slightly as if she could transfer the storm in her chest straight into him.

His brow lifted.

Interesting.

“Aapne kis kis ko uthaya hai?” she asked, trying—failing—to keep her tone even, the question slipping out sharper than intended, heavier than it should have been, because she couldn’t seem to hold it in anymore, couldn’t seem to ignore the thought of him carrying other women the way he was carrying her now.

He didn’t answer immediately.

And that, more than anything, made it worse.

Because silence meant he was thinking about it.

Because silence meant there was something to think about.

Yansong adjusted his grip on her ever so slightly, like her question hadn’t landed exactly where she intended it to, like it hadn’t slipped under his skin in a different way altogether, his thumb pressing absently against her side as he continued climbing, unhurried, steady, completely unaffected on the outside.

“Hmm,” he finally hummed, like he was actually considering the question, like it deserved thought.

Vishakha’s grip tightened.

Wrong answer.

Very wrong answer.

“Aap soch kyun rahe hai?” she snapped under her breath, leaning just a fraction closer, her veil shifting with the movement, her voice dropping but the edge in it only sharpening. “Itna lamba list hai kya?”

That earned her a look.

A proper one this time.

Slow.

Measured.

The kind that started at her eyes—what little he could see of them through the veil—and lingered just a second too long before moving away again, like he was deliberately choosing not to react the way she wanted him to.

“Jealous hain?” he asked, almost idly.

And just like that—

Silence.

For half a second.

Because that wasn’t—

That wasn’t what she had expected.

“Main?” she let out a short, disbelieving breath, pulling her head back just enough to look at him properly, even if the veil still stood between them. “Aapko lagta hai main jealous ho rahi hoon?”

There it was again.

That look.

That almost-smile he was trying—and failing—not to show.

He didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

“Bilkul nahi,” she added quickly, a little too quickly, her fingers digging into his shoulder now instead of his neck, like she needed somewhere to put the sudden rush of something she refused to name. “Mujhe kya farq padta hai aapne kisko uthaya hai, kisko nahi—”

“Achha?” he cut in quietly.

Soft.

Too soft.

The kind of soft that made it worse.

He shifted her weight slightly in his arms again, not because he needed to, but because he could, because it forced her to hold onto him just a little tighter, her body instinctively leaning into his before she could stop herself.

“Mujhe toh laga farq padta hai,” he added, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, voice low, almost thoughtful now.

She hated that.

The way he said things like he already knew the answer.

“Aapko galat laga,” she shot back immediately, lifting her chin just slightly, even though he couldn’t fully see it. “Aur waise bhi—” she paused, then added, a little sharper, “aapne jawab nahi diya.”

He exhaled softly, almost like a quiet laugh, shaking his head just a fraction as they reached the next landing.

“Jawab dene layak sawaal nahi tha,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed instantly.

“Ky—”

“Kyunki,” he cut her off again, this time turning his head just enough that his voice dropped closer to her, not loud, not forceful, but far more dangerous in how controlled it was, “maine kisi ko nahi uthaya.”

That—

That wasn’t what she had expected either.

Her fingers stilled.

For a second, she just looked at him, searching, like she was trying to catch the lie before it formed, like she didn’t quite believe him.

“Jhoot,” she said automatically, but there was less bite in it now, more uncertainty.

He stopped walking.

Just for a moment.

Not long enough to make it obvious to anyone else, but long enough that she felt it, the sudden stillness, the way his hold on her didn’t loosen even slightly.

“Main jhoot bolta hoon?” he asked, quieter now, his gaze finally settling on her properly.

It wasn’t anger.

That would’ve been easier.

This was something else.

Something steadier.

Something that didn’t need to raise its voice to be felt.

Vishakha opened her mouth—

And then closed it again. Because the answer was no. Because for all the things she didn’t understand about him, this wasn’t one of them.

He didn’t lie. He never did.

Not like that.

Her grip softened without her realizing it, her fingers no longer digging into him but resting there instead, uncertain now, the earlier sharpness in her chest shifting into something slower, heavier.

“Phir… ‘experience’?” she asked, quieter this time, almost cautious despite herself.

His jaw ticked faintly.

There it was.

The part he hadn’t meant to explain.

“Ladayi mein,” he said after a pause, looking away again as he resumed walking, like the conversation had already ended for him. “Zakhmi logon ko uthana padta hai.”

Oh.

The word didn’t come out of her mouth, but it settled somewhere inside her anyway.

Not women.

Not anything like what she had imagined.

Something else entirely.

Something that suddenly made that word—experience—feel different.

He adjusted her again, more carefully this time, like he was aware of her in a way he hadn’t been a moment ago, like the shift in her had registered without her saying anything.

“Aur aap,” he added after a second, almost as an afterthought, though it didn’t feel like one, “unse kaafi halki hai.”

That—

That should not have made her react.

It absolutely should not have.

And yet—

Her brows pulled together immediately.

“Halki?” she repeated, offended all over again, just like that, the earlier moment completely derailed. “Aap mujhe halki keh rahe hai?”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her pride, the earlier sharpness gone as a quiet embarrassment settled in instead, warm and unfamiliar, making her lower her gaze beneath the veil as if that alone could hide the thoughts she had let run too far.

For once, Vishakha had no comeback.

No teasing remark.

No clever deflection.

Just the faint awareness of how quickly her mind had turned, how easily jealousy had slipped in where it had no right to be, and how he—without even trying—had seen through it.

Meanwhile, Lina—who had been eyeing those stairs from the moment they came into view, curiosity practically buzzing under her skin—finally decided she was done just standing there and wondering, because really, how bad could it be, and who even made these ridiculous rules about only people destined to marry climbing up to the temple anyway?

It was a temple, not some secret passage to fate.

So, without overthinking it, she started toward the stairs, lifting her foot to place it on the very first step—

—and in the next second, she was yanked back so abruptly that she almost lost her balance.

“What the fuck are you even doing?” Devansh’s voice came sharp, laced with disbelief, his grip firm around her wrist as he pulled her away from the stairs like she had just tried to walk straight into danger.

God.

What new problem was this woman trying to create now?

Lina turned back instantly, glaring, trying to twist her wrist free from his hold, but he didn’t budge an inch.

“What are you doing?” she shot back, equally irritated, her brows knitting together. “I just want to see how the temple looks. Is that too wrong?”

His grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to stop her from pulling away again.

“Have you fucking lost it, woman?” he muttered, pointing toward the long, endless stretch of stairs before looking back at her like she had personally offended him. “No, it’s not wrong—but yeah, it is very much dumb.”

He didn’t even soften it.

Didn’t try to.

Just said it like it was a fact.

“Do you even know how tiring it is to go up there?”

That did it.

She jerked a finger toward him, eyes widening in pure offense. “Excuse me? I am not dumb.”

Who did he think he was?

“That's not a question, darling,” he said, dragging out the endearment in a way that was very clearly mocking, his mouth curving just slightly like he was enjoying this far too much. “It’s a fact.”

Her jaw dropped.

“You are dumb,” he continued, like he hadn’t just insulted her twice, inhaling sharply as his irritation started to show more clearly now. “Everything you do—you don’t think, you don’t pause, you just jump straight into things like consequences don’t exist, like walking into a lion’s den is just another casual decision for you.”

Lina gasped, properly offended now, her eyes flashing.

Because how dare he?

No one talked to her like that.

No one.

Not like this, not so bluntly, not like she was something to be handled.

Not even her father.

“Nobody talks to me like that,” she snapped, glaring up at him, her pride stinging more than anything else. “Who do you think you are?”

But Devansh didn’t flinch.

Didn’t step back.

If anything, he stepped closer.

He pulled her in just a little, not enough to make a scene, but enough that the distance between them disappeared, his grip still around her wrist as he leaned down slightly, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“Well, flash news, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel deliberate, before flicking her forehead lightly, the audacity of it making her blink in shock. “Someone needs to deal with that fucking attitude of yours.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“And put you in line.”

“Oh shut up,” she shot back, but the words came out softer than she intended, lacking the sharpness she had started with, and she hated that, hated the way her own voice betrayed her just a little.

“It’s not attitude.”

Even she didn’t sound convinced.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

That silence alone was enough.

“Fine,” she muttered after a second, exhaling sharply, her shoulders dropping just a little as she gave in—just a little. “I do have attitude.”

She looked up at him again then, this time different, her expression softening despite herself, something almost pleading slipping through before she could stop it.

“But I just want to see how the temple looks,” she added quietly, the stubbornness still there, just… less sharp now, less defensive, more honest.

His anger didn’t vanish all at once—it never did with him—but it loosened, bit by bit, the sharp edge of it dulling as his eyes dropped to her face again, to that flicker of something softer sitting there now, something that didn’t argue or snap back, something that just… wanted.

Of course she didn’t know.

Of course she had no idea what those stairs meant, what walking up them implied, what kind of lines she would be crossing without even realizing it.

Fuck.

This wasn’t her being reckless for the sake of it.

She genuinely just wanted to see the temple.

And for half a second—just half—he almost gave in.

But Lina had already had enough.

Waiting was not her strength, and being told no was even worse.

God, she wasn’t a child to be held back and lectured like this, not by him, not by anyone.

Before he could say anything else, before he could decide whether to stop her again or just let it go, she shoved him with whatever strength she had—unexpected enough that he actually staggered a step back—and then she was gone.

Just like that.

Running.

Gathering her saree in one hand so she wouldn’t trip, the fabric lifting just enough to free her steps as she rushed up the stairs without a second thought, without looking back, disappearing higher and higher until she was nothing but a flash of movement against stone.

“Hey bhagwan, kya ladki hai yeh,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face in disbelief, already feeling the headache forming.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbelievable.

He exhaled sharply, then bent down, quickly slipping off his shoes and leaving them behind without care, because there was no time for anything else now.

Because if Arvan and Ranvijay found out—

No.

He didn’t even need to finish that thought.

If they found out she had gone up there, alone, unaware of what she was walking into—

He was dead.

Not metaphorically.

Actually dead.

“Lina!” he called out sharply as he started after her, taking the stairs two at a time now, his pace fast, controlled, but urgent all the same, his voice carrying up the stone path even as she kept going, stubborn as ever.

God help him.

Meanwhile, Yansong had made it halfway up the stairs, his steps still steady but the climb finally beginning to show in the faint sheen of sweat along his temple, the effort subtle but there if one looked closely enough—and Vishakha, of course, did.

Through the veil, her gaze lifted to him, quiet for a moment before she spoke, “aap thak gaye?” her voice soft, almost concerned, almost.

And before he could answer, she added, “dekhiye, aap hame girana mat… agar nahi ho raha toh niche utar dijiye,” adjusting her hold just slightly like she meant it, though the hint of mischief betrayed her.

He stilled for a second, not stopping, just… processing.

Was she serious?

“I am a Bai,” he said finally, low and firm, like something ingrained too deep to question, “aur Bai kabhi thakte nahi.”

Vishakha paused, then tilted her head, clearly holding back a smile.

“Thakte nahi?” she repeated slowly, her eyes flicking to the sweat on his face before returning to him, “aap kya ishwar hai, jo thakte nahi?”

“No, I am not God,” he replied just as evenly, unfazed on the surface, “but we Bai’s don’t lose… we don’t get tired.”

She hummed softly, like she was considering that, though the amusement was barely hidden now.

“Achha,” she murmured, shifting just enough in his arms to make it noticeable, “toh phir yeh paseena bas decoration hai?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening just a little.

“Don’t underestimate our power,” he added, quieter this time, more controlled than before.

She went still for a second, then softer—almost thoughtful—

“Main underestimate nahi kar rahi,” she said, peeking at him through the veil, “bas dekh rahi hoon… power ka effect.”

A pause.

Then, gently—

“saans thodi tez ho gayi hai aapki.”

That made him stop.

Actually stop.

Turning his head just enough to look at her, something flickering in his expression now, caught between irritation and reluctant amusement.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

And this time, she didn’t even try to hide her smile.

''agar aap aur boli na toh I will go pick someone who keeps quiet.'' he whispers before focusing back on the stairs.

But Vishakha she actually goes quiet because the thought of him holding a another woman makes her wanna kill someone. She would either die or kill someone before he holds someone else like this.

Yansong lips form a satisfied smile that says something like. Finally shaant hogai.

Lina, who had rushed up the stairs with all that misplaced confidence, was now dragging her feet step by step, her breath uneven, her legs aching in a way she absolutely hadn’t signed up for, every inch of the climb reminding her exactly why Devansh had tried to stop her.

God.

He was right.

She hated that he was right.

“God, Devansh… you were so right,” she muttered under her breath, a tired sigh slipping out as she slowed, glancing around only to realize there was no one—no one at all—just endless stairs and silence pressing in on her.

Stupid curiosity.

Absolutely stupid.

And just as she was about to sit down right there and give up—

“Miss me, darling?”

The voice came from behind, deep, amused, entirely too pleased with itself.

She froze.

For a second.

Then turned.

And there he was.

Devansh, standing a few steps below, arms crossed over his chest, watching her like a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, that look on his face saying I told you so without needing to say it out loud.

“Enjoyed enough?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly, his gaze flicking over her tired state before he let out a quiet sigh, the kind that already sounded like he knew he was about to deal with her again.

She opened her mouth—

Probably to argue.

Probably to deny.

But he didn’t give her the chance.

Before she could say a single word, he stepped forward, his arms coming around her in one smooth motion—one beneath her knees, the other behind her back—and just like that, he lifted her off the ground as if she weighed nothing.

Lina gasped, her arms flying around his neck instinctively, holding on as her feet left the stairs, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t stagger, didn’t react like it took any effort at all, only shifting her slightly in his hold to settle her more securely against him.

“You wanted to see the temple,” he said, voice calm, almost too calm, as if this had already been decided.

“You’ll see it.”

A small pause.

Then, firmer—

“But not alone.”

And just like that, he turned and started walking up the stairs again, steady, unbothered, carrying her with him like it was the most natural thing in the world, because there was no way—absolutely no way—he was letting her go up there by herself.

Not when she clearly had a talent for doing the dumbest possible thing at the worst possible time.

By the time Yansong finally reached the top, the last stretch of stairs falling away behind him, the temple stood ahead in quiet stillness, almost removed from everything below, as if the climb itself had been meant to leave the rest of the world behind.

The mandir wasn’t grand in size, but there was something about it—something old, something deeply rooted—that made it feel heavier than anything built of marble and gold.

The faint sound of bells carried through the air.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

Inside, the pandit had already begun.

The low chant of mantras filled the space, steady and continuous, each word flowing into the next, the sound wrapping around the stone walls and settling into the air like it belonged there, like it had been repeated for generations.

The diya flickered before the idol, its flame steady despite the breeze that slipped through the open arches, the scent of incense thick but calming, curling through the space in slow spirals.

Yansong stepped inside without a word, his pace finally slowing as he crossed the threshold, as if even he understood this wasn’t a place to rush through.

Only then did he lower Vishakha to her feet.

Carefully.

More carefully than he had lifted her.

For a brief second, his hands lingered—just enough to make sure she was steady—before he stepped back, creating that distance again like it had never existed.

Vishakha adjusted her veil immediately, pulling it forward, her movements instinctive now, her eyes lowering as the weight of where she was finally settled in.

The pandit’s chant grew slightly louder as he noticed them, not stopping, not breaking the rhythm, only acknowledging their presence with a brief glance before continuing, as if they had arrived exactly when they were meant to.

“Baith jaiye,” he gestured calmly toward the space before the idol.

They did.

Side by side.

Not touching.

Not speaking.

The space between them small, but filled with something unspoken, something that hadn’t been there before the climb.

The pandit began the pooja properly then, offering flowers at the idol, lighting another diya, the soft crackle of camphor joining the rhythm of his voice as the mantras deepened, each word carrying weight.

“Haath aage kijiye,” he instructed.

Vishakha hesitated for the smallest moment before extending her hands forward, her bangles clinking softly, the sound delicate against the chants.

A second later—

Yansong did the same.

The pandit poured a few drops of holy water into their palms, followed by grains of rice and a small flower, guiding them through each step with quiet authority.

“Saath mein prarthna kijiye,” he said.

Together.

The word lingered.

Vishakha’s fingers tightened slightly around the offerings, her gaze lowering further as she followed, whispering the prayer under her breath, careful, composed—

—but aware.

Too aware.

Of him beside her.

Of how close he was.

Of how this moment—this place—made everything feel different.

Yansong, for once, didn’t look around, didn’t observe, didn’t calculate.

He just followed.

Quietly.

His voice low as he repeated the words after the pandit, not perfectly, but enough, his focus fixed ahead, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t fully left.

The aarti began soon after, the small flame circling before the idol, the light reflecting briefly against gold, against stone, against the red of Vishakha’s veil.

“Prasad lijiye,” the pandit said finally, placing a small portion into their hands.

And just like that—

The chants softened.

The moment settled.

But something about it stayed.

Like the climb hadn’t just brought them here—

It had brought them into something neither of them had fully stepped into before.

In that quiet moment, as the last of the mantras softened into the air and the diya flickered steadily before the idol of Ban Mata, something shifted—subtle, unseen, but deeply felt.

The pandit circled the aarti one final time, the flame casting brief, trembling light across their faces, across Vishakha’s lowered gaze and the stillness in Yansong’s posture, before bringing it to them, waiting.

They lifted their hands together.

Instinctively.

Palms hovering over the warmth before drawing it toward themselves, toward their foreheads, a gesture repeated countless times before them—and yet, for them, it felt… different.

Like it meant more.

The bells rang softly somewhere in the background, the sound carrying through the mandir, steady and resonant, as if marking the moment.

And in that space, in that stillness heavy with prayer and presence, it almost felt as though Ban Mata herself had turned her gaze toward them, not in spectacle, not in something loud or divine in the way stories told it—

—but in something quieter.

A blessing that did not need to be spoken aloud.

A silent acceptance.

As if the path they had stepped onto, whether knowingly or not, had already been seen, already been acknowledged.

Vishakha felt it first.

Or maybe she just imagined it.

A strange calm settling over her, easing something inside her she hadn’t even realized was restless, her fingers loosening slightly around the prasad as she exhaled without meaning to.

Beside her, Yansong didn’t move.

But for once, he didn’t feel the need to.

Didn’t question.

Didn’t resist.

He simply stood there, the weight of something unfamiliar settling over him—not heavy, not suffocating, just… present.

Like a promise he hadn’t made, but had somehow still been given.

The flame dimmed slightly.

The chants faded.

And yet—

That moment lingered.

As though somewhere, beyond what either of them could see or understand—

They had just been blessed.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess