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Author's POV
The silence stretched thick between them.
Shivansh still stood a few feet away, the light behind him casting golden shadows across the lines of his chest, water droplets sliding down his torso like molten glass. His presence filled the room so completely that it felt like the walls themselves had pulled back, afraid to interrupt.
But it wasn't his intensity that unsettled Isha this time.
It was her own reaction.
She had seen him like this before. Shirtless. Disheveled. Even closer than this. And she had never once blinked.
But today…
Her eyes refused to meet his.
She felt a strange heat crawl up her neck, her fingers fidgeting with the end of her kurti, and her gaze dropped to the floor—unable to lift. She stared at a crack in the marble tile, then the shadow of the curtain, then anywhere that wasn't him.
And Shivansh noticed.
Of course, he did.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips, and he took one step forward. The air between them pulled tighter, as if strung with invisible thread.
"Agar aise hi sharmati rahogi toh frr" he said in a low, teasing voice, " main tumare vo sare book wali fantasy kaise poori karunga?"
( if you keep being shy like this then for,)
( how will I fulfill all those bookish fantasies of yours?)
Her eyes widened, and her lips parted as she jerked her head up for just a second—just long enough to see the glint of amusement in his gaze. That teasing confidence. That knowledge that he still had an effect on her.
But this time… she didn't melt.
She looked away again, her jaw tightening.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. Controlled. Tired.
"Tumhe lagta hai ki bas ek joke… ek smile… sab theek kar dega, Shivansh?"
( Do you think just a joke… a smile… will make everything alright, Shivansh?)
He stilled.
Her words were like cold water thrown on fire. His smile faded slowly, replaced by a frown that creased between his brows. He stepped forward again, less teasing now, more uncertain.
"Isha…" he said cautiously, "main—"
( isha.. I..)
"Don't," she said, lifting a hand.
Her eyes were on the ground, but her voice was steady now, gaining weight with every word.
"Don't say sorry. Not yet. Not if you still don't understand what you did."
He didn't speak. Just watched her.
And she continued—voice trembling, but firm.
"You shouted at me. In front of everyone. Like I was some random girl. Like I meant nothing to you in that moment."
"It wasn't like that—" he tried to cut in, but she raised her voice slightly.
"Then what was it, huh?" she snapped. Her eyes finally met his. Hurt. Raw. Unfiltered. "Was it your anger? Your ego? Your pride? Your frustration?"
She stepped back slightly, putting space between them—not physically, but emotionally. The space that hurts.
"You don't get to stand here now, shirtless and charming, and think I'll forget what that felt like. How humiliated I was. How much it hurt."
His chest rose with a deep breath.
"I lost control," he admitted. "I was angry. I'm not proud of it. But it wasn't meant to—"
"But it did," she interrupted. "It did hurt. And just because I don't scream or cry or throw things… doesn't mean it didn't leave a scar."
There was silence again.
He looked down. His fists clenched. The vulnerable side of Shivansh—the side no one really saw—surfaced in that moment. Stripped of arrogance. Stripped of pride.
"Tumne vo phone chin liya ek dam se or, " he said, voice cracking at the edge. "Main… frustrated the aarya ki baat sun ke toh mera sara frustration tumpe nikal gya."
( you snatched that phone suddenly and,)
( I was frustrated after hearing Arya's words so all my frustration was taken out on you.)
Her eyes welled for a moment—but she blinked fast. She wouldn't cry. Not yet. Not now.
"You think this is just about you?" she asked. "You keep saying main gussa tha, main frustrated tha, main ya tha vo tha.. but what about me?"
(You keep saying I was angry, I was frustrated, I was this I was that.. but what about me?)
That hit him.
She could see it in the way his shoulders dropped just a little. How his lips parted like he wanted to speak but didn't know how.
"I'm not just your employee, Shivansh. I'm not the girl you yell at when you're mad and then charm when you're calm."
He moved toward her then, finally close enough that she could see the water still sliding down the edge of his jaw. He didn't try to touch her.
He just whispered.
"Main tumhare layak banna chahta hoon. Sahi tarike se. Har baar galti karta hoon… par har baar tumhari taraf lautta hoon. Kyunki tum ho. Aur tumse behtar kuch nahi hai."
( I want to be worthy of you. The right way. I make mistakes every time… but I always come back to you. Because you are there. And there is nothing better than you.)
Her breath hitched.
Tears threatened, but still she didn't let them fall.
"Then show me," she said quietly. "Don't tell me. Show me. Earn back what you broke. Slowly. Properly."
A long pause.
Then, finally, he nodded.
Once.
Twice.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't try to be a king.
He was just a man.
The silence between them was temporary—always temporary.
Because beneath that silence, two hearts were burning with things left unsaid.
He was standing too close. And she was standing too stiff.
It wasn't tension made of attraction anymore.
It was tension made of fire and bruised hearts.
"You really think I don't care, Isha?" he said, voice suddenly sharp. "You really think I would've shouted like that if I didn't care?"
She flinched.
"Don't twist it," she replied coldly. "You shouted because you wanted control. Because you couldn't handle not being the one in power."
His eyes narrowed.
"Power?" he scoffed. "Do you seriously think this—us—is about power for me?"
"Yes," she said. "Sometimes it is."
That hit him harder than she expected.
He stepped back, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration.
"So what then?" he said bitterly. "I'm the villain now? You want me to stand here and just take the blame for everything that went wrong between us?"
"I want you to see it!" she snapped. "I want you to see how your words—your actions—affect people! Affect me."
Her voice cracked, but she kept going.
"You keep making me feel like I'm not enough, like I should just silently adjust to your anger, your silence, your moods. And then when you come back like this—calm, wet, shirtless—you expect me to... what? Forget everything?"
"That's not fair," he muttered.
"No. It's not," she agreed. "But neither is loving someone who hurts you without realizing."
That silenced him.
She could see his jaw flexing. His chest rising and falling faster now.
"You're saying I don't realize it?" he asked, voice dangerously low. "You think I don't go back and remember every f**king word I said to you? Every time you looked at me like I'd broken something we both built?"
He was angry now.
But not the usual cold Shivansh anger.
This was personal. This was wounded.
"Then why do you keep doing it?" she asked, voice trembling. "Why do you keep acting like I'm supposed to be okay with you breaking me in public and charming me in private?"
"Because I thought you were stronger than this," he said.
Silence.
It hit like a slap.
He didn't mean it.
She knew it.
But he'd said it.
And suddenly her eyes were glassy.
"You thought I was stronger?" she whispered. "No. You just hoped I would tolerate more."
Shivansh's eyes widened. His lips parted.
"Isha, I—"
"Don't," she cut in. "Don't fix it with another sorry you'll forget tomorrow."
She turned away, hands clutching the sides of her kurti, trying to breathe through the ache rising in her chest.
"You think I don't get scared?" she said quietly. "You think I'm not terrified of how much you affect me? How easily you can ruin my day with just one look, one word?"
He took a step forward. Then stopped.
"Then why are you still here?" he asked, his voice low. "If I hurt you so much, why are you still in this room?"
She turned back.
And for the first time, her voice cracked fully—raw, painful, honest.
"Because I love you, dammit."
The words rang out. Echoed in the room.
He froze.
But her face was breaking.
"I love you. And that's the problem. That's why it hurts so much. That's why I stay. That's why every fight feels like it's going to destroy me."
She turned her back to him again, hand on her forehead, trying to wipe away a tear that betrayed her strength.
"And every time I think we're getting better," she whispered, "we do this. We start healing just to bleed again."
He didn't know what to say.
For once, Shivansh Raghuvanshi, the man with words sharp as swords, had nothing.
Only his heart, and it was beating loud enough for both of them.
"You're not wrong," he finally said, voice quiet. "I hurt you. And I keep hurting you because I don't know how to love right."
"Then learn," she said, not turning around. "But not at the cost of me."
His voice had been rising.
So had hers.
Words were starting to burn louder than they were meant to.
And something in his chest… twisted.
Shivansh stepped back, then forward again, then clenched his jaw like he was trying to hold in a scream.
His eyes fell on her—wild, hurt, fuming.
But even in that rage, something about her made the storm inside him… pause.
"Isha…" he whispered, eyes lowering, lashes fluttering like he was dizzy.
She froze mid-sentence.
He wasn't yelling anymore.
He looked pale. Not out of fear—but like something was pressing down on his lungs.
He took one shaky breath. Then another. Then—he stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her.
Suddenly.
Fully.
Desperately.
She gasped, caught completely off guard.
"W-What are you—? Shivansh, no—don't—don't touch me right now—"
She tried to pull back, her hands against his chest, but he tightened the hug, lowering his head beside hers.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking against her shoulder.
"For five more minutes, please let me breathe,please I beg you. "
She stilled.
There was a tremble in his arms—barely there, but real.
He wasn't doing this to manipulate her.
He just… needed a breath.
A pause.
A moment of peace in the war they had become.
And she had always been that for him. Even now, when she wanted to slap sense into him.
She didn't hug back.
But she stopped pushing away.
They stayed like that. Standing still. His arms curled around her like a lifeline. Her hands hanging at her sides, unsure… yet not walking away.
They didn't count the minutes.
They didn't speak.
The silence held them like a fragile thread—neither love nor hate, just the ache of two souls trying to remember what peace felt like.
And just when he loosened his hold, thinking maybe she wouldn't leave—
She stepped back.
A chill settled between them again.
Her eyes flickered with a memory—the shouting, the insult, the chaos of that morning.
The hurt returned.
Without a word, she walked toward the door again.
Away from his warmth.
Away from the plea he didn't know how to repeat.
He didn't stop her.
Because even a hug couldn't heal what he'd broken.
A pause.
Then she walked to the door.
Stopped.
"You said you remember everything you did," she said. "Then remember this too."
She didn't look back.
And this time, the silence didn't hold longing.
It held loss.
She had enough.
The moment she spun toward the door and reached for it, she realized something that pushed her closer to the edge.
It was locked.
They had locked the damn door from outside.
"Great," she hissed under her breath. "Now even the doors are against me."
She jiggled the handle a few times, then knocked sharply.
"Open the door!" she shouted, louder this time. "I need to meditate! I am not staying here with this man any longer!"
But no one opened it.
She knocked again, louder, angrier.
"I swear, if you don't open this door—"
A voice came from behind her. Calm. Slow. Infuriating.
"You should really work on your temper, sweetheart. It's not good for your health."
She froze.
Her hands dropped from the handle, fists clenched now.
Her jaw tightened.
She turned slowly.
He was leaning against the pillar, a towel was still in his place, but wearing a simple black T-shirt, his arms folded, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
His voice—so casually taunting—dug under her skin.
"What did you say?" she asked, dead serious.
"I said," he repeated with that same lazy drawl, "your temper will ruin your skin. And maybe your aura too."
She stormed to the door again, knocked with more frustration.
"OPEN THE DOOR!" she yelled.
When silence replied again, she stepped back and stood near the door, arms crossed, not even looking at him.
"I'll meditate right here if I have to," she muttered.
He stretched slowly, like a cat ready to provoke its prey.
And then—without warning—he walked forward, mischief flickering in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. As she was standing on her toes cause of their height difference.
He didn't answer. Instead, he came dangerously close.
And then—just as she turned to move back—he picked her up.
Effortlessly. Swiftly. One arm under her legs, one around her back.
"SHIVANSH!" she yelled, half panicking. "PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW!"
"Why?" he asked innocently, adjusting his grip. "Now you can look me in the eye, sweetheart. No more neck pain. Perfect height. You're welcome."
"You—! You're making fun of me again! Is this a joke to you?!"
"Nope," he said, smiling. "This is poetic. You always want eye-level conversation, na? See? Problem solved."
He even winked.
WINKED.
As if this was all some game.
As if her emotions weren't crashing like a storm inside her.
"SHIVANSH, PUT ME DOWN!" she yelled again, trying to wriggle out of his arms.
"Not until we finish the argument properly," he said calmly, as if he wasn't holding a furious human torch in his arms.
"This is not finishing anything!" she shouted. "This is mocking me! You—! You always do this! You shout, then flirt, then pick me up like I'm some doll and expect me to melt!"
Her voice cracked.
"I'm tired of being the smaller one in everything. Smaller voice. Smaller height. Smaller respect."
That one hit.
His eyes flickered for a second.
But he still didn't put her down.
So she screamed:
"Put me down! Put me down! I SAID PUT ME DOWN!"
And finally, he gently placed her on the floor.
But the moment her feet touched the ground—
SLAP.
Her hand flew before either of them realized.
It landed hard across his cheek.
The sound echoed.
He didn't move.
Just stood there, his face turned to the side, cheek bright red—almost silver under the harsh light.
Even the air between them paused.
She was breathing heavy. Her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Her hand trembled.
His expression? Blank. Not angry. Not amused. Just… silent.
She had never slapped anyone before.
She had never imagined slapping him.
But something in her broke the moment he laughed at her pain—even unknowingly.
And now it hung between them like glass—sharp, shattered, impossible to pick up without bleeding.
He slowly turned to face her again. His cheek marked. His ego cracked.
But his voice… was quiet.
"That wasn't about height, was it?"
She stared at him. Eyes glossy. Lips trembling.
"No," she whispered. "That was about you thinking I'm always going to be okay with the way you treat me."
She turned away, tears welling now—not from guilt, but exhaustion.
"I don't need you to lift me up to your height, Shivansh," she said. "I just need you to see me. Right where I am. Right as I am."
He didn't reply.
Because for once, he realized—
He couldn't charm his way out of this one.
The air between them was thick—thicker than it had ever been. Her slap still burned across his cheek, a line drawn not in skin, but pride.
Shivansh stood still, tall and unmoving, the imprint of her fury etched in silence. Isha was heaving, her chest rising and falling with the force of emotion clawing at her throat. Tears didn't come, but pain—pain was there, loud and loud enough to scream without a single sound.
He didn't speak. Not right away. Just watched her, with those stormy eyes that were usually cold, calculating... but now? Now they were raw.
Then he stepped forward. Slowly. Controlled. Each step a warning.
Isha backed up instinctively, till her spine hit the wall behind her. Her breath caught.
"I took your slap," he said quietly. "Now you take mine."
Before she could move, before she could even form a protest, he grabbed her wrists—not harshly, not painfully, but firmly—and pinned them above her head. His body caged her in, not to overpower her... but to confront her.
Her lips parted in shock, her eyes wide with fury. "Shivansh—don't you—"
But his mouth was already on hers.
The kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was chaos. Fire and fury and grief, all poured into one desperate, crashing collision of lips. He kissed her like she was the only air he could breathe—and right now, he was suffocating. His lips pressed hard, moving fast, seeking answers in every pull and press.
Isha struggled at first—not because it hurt, but because she was drowning in emotions she couldn't name. But he wasn't stopping. Not until she knew what he felt.
He bit her lower lip—just enough to make her gasp. Just enough to make her feel. His hands let go of her wrists and moved to her cheeks, cradling her face like she was something both sacred and forbidden. His lips trailed from hers, down her jawline, slow and aching, whispering the ache he couldn't say aloud. To her neck. Her collarbone.
And just like that, he stopped.
She was breathing hard. Too hard.
His breath was just as ragged, his forehead now resting against hers. Their chests were barely inches apart. They weren't arguing anymore, but they weren't fine either. This was the pause between a storm and another.
She closed her eyes. "Yo…you can't just kis..kiss me like this in the middle of our argument."
He opened his eyes slowly, and a soft, broken smile played at his lips. "Oh, I can. And I will." His thumb traced her lower lip gently. "You can do it too. In fact, you can do much more than that i won't mind it. After all, I am all yours."
That was when she shoved him back with all the strength in her small frame—anger surging through her again, not because of the kiss itself, but because he always... always did this.
"You can't just fix things with a kiss, Shivansh!" she cried. "I'm not something you fight and make up with like it's nothing!"
"I know that," he said, voice low, gaze steady. "But it's the only language I have left when I can't breathe without you."
Her eyes shimmered—but not with tears. With fire.
And they both knew this wasn't the end.
It was just another wound. And maybe... a new place to begin.
She was trembling—not out of fear, but out of exhaustion. Emotionally gutted, utterly done. Her chest was rising too fast, her fists clenched. And when he moved toward her again, something in her snapped.
"Don't," she warned.
But he did. He stepped forward like he always did—confident, controlled, trying to handle the storm that he himself had brewed. He reached out again, maybe to hold her, maybe to push her back against the wall again—but this time she was faster.
Isha pushed him. Hard.
Harder than he expected.
He stumbled a step back, shocked.
She turned toward the door, her eyes glassy with uncried tears. Her body was screaming to leave, to escape before she broke more. But before she could grip the handle, he came from behind, holding her wrist—not forcefully, just with that one quiet plea he couldn't hide anymore.
"Ek kaam karo" his voice cracked, " Dubara mujhe mar lo but aise bhar mat jao, pakka aage se kabhi bhi tumpe nhi chilayunga pakka promise but please aise gussa me mat jao maan jao na. "
( Do one thing.)
( Hit me again but don't get angry like this, I am sure I will never shout at you again, I promise but please don't get angry like this, please agree to this.)
She froze.
"I deserve it," he added, stepping in closer. "But don't go."
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled her back—not to the wall this time, but to him. Into his lap as he sat on the edge of the sofa, wrapping her tightly in his arms like letting go would kill him.
But she was too hurt. Too raw.
Her heart was full of fractures—some old, some brand new.
"Let me go!" she shouted, voice breaking now. "Why do you always do this? Why do you hold me when you're the one who breaks me?!"
He didn't speak.
So she pushed again. Out of his hold. Out of his arms. Out of everything.
And then she just walked backwards—eyes locked on him, like she was memorizing him for the last time. Her hands were shaking at her sides. Her lips parted, but no words came.
A soft creak.
The door. Unlocked now. Someone had opened it—maybe one of the elders downstairs had noticed the tension upstairs, maybe someone had just passed by. She didn't care.
She turned and walked fast—towards it.
"Please…" he called behind her. "Just stay. Just this once."
She didn't reply.
Didn't even flinch.
She walked out like he didn't exist in that moment. Like his voice was nothing more than background noise in a memory she was already trying to erase.
Shivansh stood frozen, arms still open, his breath heavy, regret hanging on his every feature.
And she… she didn't stop until she reached the first floor. Her feet somehow carried her to the guest room, the only place in this unfamiliar palace that felt far enough from him.
She slammed the door behind her. Locked it.
Then sank to the floor.
She didn't cry right away. She didn't scream either.
She just sat there, staring at nothing.
Because when you love someone so much… and they keep choosing silence over understanding, pride over apology—
It doesn't break your heart in one clean snap.
It shatters you in a thousand quiet pieces.
The door clicked behind her.
And with that, she was gone.
Just like that.
No scream. No tear. Just that look. That look that haunted him more than her words ever could.
Shivansh stood there in the center of the room, the mess of everything around him, and the worse mess inside him. His hands dropped to his sides. He didn't even realize they'd been trembling until the tension started fading out.
He stared at the door for what felt like a lifetime.
She left.
Again.
Because of him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hands covering his face, and tried—tried—to breathe. But every breath felt wrong, like he was stealing it from the air that had once belonged to her. To them.
He should've said something.
Should've apologized.
Should've—
Click.
The door opened.
He didn't even look up.
Soft footsteps entered cautiously. A familiar voice came first—low, mature, with the calmness only age could carry.
"Shiv?" It was dhruv.
Then a second, lighter voice, worried and motherly, followed, "Why was she crying?"
He still didn't lift his head. But they must've known.
Because the silence answered everything.
"She ran out, didn't she?" his choti maa whispered to her husband.
Shivansh's fists clenched on his lap. His throat burned. But he didn't move. Couldn't.
They were quiet for a while. No scolding. No judgments. Just... silence, heavy like winter air.
His choti maa finally stepped closer and sat beside him, not touching, just sitting like someone who didn't know what to fix anymore.
"We thought you two were... sorting it out," dhruv said, stepping near the window. "But she looked—"
"I know," Shivansh muttered, voice hoarse. "I know how she looked."
His choti maa glanced at him. "What happened, beta?"
He laughed—dry, cracked. "What didn't?"
She waited.
He didn't speak for a while. But then the words fell—not proud or poetic, just true.
"I pushed her," he said. "Not just today. I keep pushing her. Every damn time."
He looked up then, eyes dull. "She slapped me today, did you know that?"
Neither replied.
"She was angry. So angry. But I... I deserved it. Every inch of that slap."
His chest ached as if the air was being sucked from the room.
"She's the only one who can calm me, did you know that?" he whispered. "Just by being there. Just by hugging me. But today, even that didn't work. Today, I became the storm she wanted to run from."
His choti maa placed a hand on his shoulder.
"She still loves you," she said softly.
He shook his head. "Then why did it feel like she was saying goodbye?"
The room fell still again.
"Because love," dhruv finally said, turning toward them, "can't survive in a warzone forever. Even the strongest need peace, son."
Shivansh stared at the floor. Her voice echoed in his mind—
"You can't kiss me in the middle of our argument!"
But he did.
Because in the middle of everything chaotic, he always chose her—in all the wrong ways.
His choti maa stood and smoothed the front of her saree. "Let her breathe. Let yourself breathe."
"I'm scared," Shivansh admitted.
"Of losing her?" dhruv asked gently.
He nodded, almost childlike.
His choti maa smiled, bitter and warm. "Then don't love her like she's a possession. Love her like she's freedom."
And with that, they walked out, the door quietly shutting behind them.
Leaving him with the one thing he was most afraid of.
His guilt.
And silence.
ISHA'S POV
The moment I shut the guest room door behind me, it felt like everything inside me collapsed.
I leaned against it, sliding down slowly until my knees hit the floor and the weight of everything I'd been holding in came crashing down like a tidal wave. My breath hitched. My vision blurred.
Why did he always do this?
Why did I always let him?
I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking slightly, as if trying to comfort a version of me that no longer felt whole. My throat burned from holding back sobs, but eventually… I gave up.
Tears streamed down. Hot, furious, and aching.
He had kissed me like a man who was drowning and I was his only breath. But he also hurt me like I was his punching bag for his rage. And in between all of that — the love, the anger, the need, the pain — I was left choking in the middle.
He didn't even stop.
Not until I couldn't breathe.
Not until I looked like I was breaking.
I buried my face in my hands and let the sobs take over, ugly and unfiltered. I wanted to scream, to tear something apart. Instead, I just cried, like some broken girl in a fairytale who didn't want a prince anymore — just peace.
My lips were still bruised. My neck stung. And my heart? It wasn't even beating right.
"You can't kiss me in the middle of our argument!" I said.
But he did.
And part of me hated that I still wanted to feel that kiss again.
I hated myself for it.
A sudden knock on the door startled me.
I gasped and quickly wiped my face, dragging myself up with whatever strength I had left. I rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. My reflection was a mess — red eyes, wet cheeks, trembling lips. I patted myself dry, took a deep breath, and forced on the blankest expression I could wear.
Another knock came, gentler this time.
I walked to the door and opened it just a crack, peeking my head out.
And there she was — Chhoti Maa sa — smiling, calm, and holding a thal delicately covered with a bright red cloth.
I blinked at her, confused, hesitant.
"Oh, finally," she smiled more warmly, "you're still in one piece. I was about to break the door down."
I opened the door fully, stepping back wordlessly as she walked in like sunshine, completely ignoring the storm I had been swallowing a moment ago.
"Come, come," she said, sitting on the bed, patting the space beside her. "Sit down, na."
I obeyed — too numb to fight back. She placed the thal between us and kept glancing at me.
"You look pale," she said gently. "Didn't even cry properly, did you?"
My eyes widened.
She chuckled. "Yes, beta, I can see. I have sons too. I've seen fights worse than this, believe me."
She reached forward and tucked a small strand of hair behind my ear. I stiffened at the touch.
But she didn't ask. She didn't press.
She just said, "I won't ask what happened. Not my place. But..."
She pulled the red cloth off the thal, revealing the softest pink lehenga I had ever seen. Delicate sequins danced in the light, and a matching sheer dupatta folded neatly beside it.
"...now get ready."
I blinked.
"What?"
She smiled sweetly. "You've created a scene, now wear something worthy of it."
I nearly laughed — but it came out more like a confused exhale.
"Bhabhi sa and Bhai sa are about to come. And everyone downstairs is waiting. You can either look like a broken heroine or you can look like his queen. Your call."
My throat clenched.
She stood and smoothed her saree. "If you need any help, I'm outside. Just shout. And wipe your nose, okay?" she added with a wink.
I wanted to smile. But the corner of my lips just twitched.
She turned toward the door, but paused before stepping out. "Oh, I came with your clothes, yes—but the jewellery and sandals were mistakenly kept in Shiv's chamber."
My heart stopped.
Her tone remained casual. "I had asked one of the staff to put everything here, but seems like they misunderstood."
She opened the door halfway, then leaned in again.
"So you wear this here... and go there to complete the look."
She winked again.
"And maybe, just maybe... you both complete a little more than that, hmm?"
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
And I was left alone.
Again.
But this time...
There was a soft pink lehenga staring back at me.
And somewhere upstairs... my jewellery was waiting in his room.
So was he.
I closed my eyes.
I'm not ready.
But maybe, I never would be.
And still… I stood up.
Because sometimes, showing up was the only thing you could do.
As soon as Chhoti Maa sa left, the room grew quiet again — painfully quiet. But something about her presence had softened a corner of my heart. Not fully. Not enough. But… just enough.
I looked at the thal still lying on the bed, the red cloth folded over to one side.
With a slow breath, I moved closer, fingers gently picking it up.
When I lifted the lehenga, my hand paused.
Wait.
Something was underneath.
I pushed the lehenga aside — and that's when I saw it.
A rich, deep red saree shimmered back at me, almost glowing under the soft yellow lights of the room. My breath caught.
There was something… dangerous about it. Like it wasn't just cloth and thread — it was a mood. A dare. A statement.
Beside it lay two blouses — one intricately embroidered with a classic neckline and cap sleeves. Sophisticated. Elegant.
The other…
I bit my lip.
The second blouse was backless — held together with two thin strings at the top and bottom, and a halter neckline that made my cheeks flush just looking at it.
"Wow," I whispered under my breath, lifting it with delicate fingers.
The fabric was soft, sensual, whispering boldness in my ear.
I stared at it for a long second, and then—
"No, no. You were crying five minutes ago. You can't wear this," I told myself, placing it back down. "You're a mess, Isha. This is not the time."
But I kept staring.
And slowly… something shifted.
Why not?
Why not make this moment mine?
He bruised my heart.
He kissed me like he owned me.
He left me gasping and shattered.
Maybe this was my way of saying — I'm still standing.
I took a deep breath and whispered to myself, "Screw it."
I stood, grabbed a towel, and walked into the bathroom.
As the warm water hit my skin, I felt a strange sort of calm wash over me. Not peace — but power. Like I was cleansing off the pain, the shame, the vulnerability… and making space for something new.
I ran my fingers over my face, still puffy from crying, and mumbled, "No one's going to see that. You won't let them."
Once done, I wrapped the towel around myself and stepped out, hair dripping, feet padding quietly over the floor.
The blouse was still there.
Waiting.
I picked it up, held it against my chest, and looked at myself in the mirror.
"You've worn sarees before," I said softly, wet hair sticking to my cheeks. "You know how to do this. Come on, Isha. Pull yourself together."
I dried off quickly and slipped the backless blouse over my head. It hugged my body perfectly — snug, supportive, scandalous.
I stared at the bare skin of my back reflected in the mirror.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered, tying the strings slowly. My fingers trembled just slightly. "Okay… top string… then bottom. Don't mess it up now."
Once the blouse was secure, I took the red saree and began draping it carefully, pleating it with practiced ease.
"I hope Chhoti Maa sa sent this by mistake," I chuckled nervously to myself. "Because if she picked this on purpose, then she's a devil in disguise."
With each fold, each pin, each soft tuck — I felt more and more like myself. But not the broken version. Not the tear-stained, fight-shaken Isha.
This was the version of me I wanted to be.
"I don't need makeup," I told my reflection firmly. "You've got enough fire in your eyes already."
But a small voice inside me whispered, Your lipstick, your kohl, everything… it's upstairs. With him.
I looked at my half-bare reflection.
With him.
Of course it was.
He probably didn't even know that all my stuff had been moved to his chamber.
"Great," I muttered. "Now I have to walk in looking like a damn temptress and ask him for my bindi."
I rolled my eyes at myself.
"Stop being dramatic, Isha. Just walk in, take your things, get ready, and leave. Simple."
Except nothing about him — about us — was ever simple.
Still, I slipped on the last pin, smoothed the pleats, adjusted the pallu over my left shoulder, and let the saree fall in perfect waves across my waist.
I took one last look in the mirror.
No jewelry. No makeup. No lipstick.
But…
Somehow, I looked fierce.
Maybe you don't need armor, I thought. Maybe the fire in your blood is enough.
Straightening my back, I whispered under my breath, "Let's go."
My bare feet hit the floor silently as I walked to the door.
My destination?
Shivansh's chamber.
Where my jewelry waited.
And so did… he.
My heart thudded a little louder with every step I took toward his chamber.
I don't know why.
It wasn't like I was going there to fight. Or confess. Or even talk.
I was just going to collect my makeup and jewelry. That's it.
Still, my fingers fidgeted with the edge of my saree pallu as I walked down the quiet corridor. The faint sound of voices and laughter echoed from downstairs, but up here, it felt like time had paused. Or maybe I had.
I reached the door. His door.
Staring at it for a moment, I took a deep breath.
"Don't make it weird, Isha. Just knock."
Knock knock.
Silence.
I waited.
Nothing.
I knocked again. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
"What the hell," I muttered under my breath. "Is he sleeping? Is he even in there?"
I looked down the corridor, then turned back and hesitantly placed my hand on the handle.
It turned.
Unlocked.
For a moment, I hesitated.
But then I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.
The living room of his chamber was quiet. Spacious. Soft yellow lights cast a golden hue on the rich furniture. The air smelled faintly of him — that same addictive mix of sandalwood, citrus, and a hint of something darker.
I stood at the entrance, eyes scanning the space.
"Shivansh?" I called out softly. No reply.
I took a few cautious steps in, the cold marble floor sending chills up my bare feet.
Was he not here?
The silence wasn't helping. My mind was already spinning too many thoughts. Maybe he left early. Maybe he was—
"I said don't call me again and again. Can't you do something to your own without calling me. "
My eyes flew to the left.
The poolside glass doors had slid open without me noticing.
And there he stood.
Shivansh.
I froze.
Completely.
For a second, my brain forgot how to function.
He was standing near the poolside, phone held to his ear, looking like he had just walked out of a dream someone dared to sculpt in reality.
A black tuxedo suit clung to his frame like it had been stitched by the gods themselves. The collar sat high on his neck, and a black turban wrapped flawlessly around his head — commanding, royal, striking.
His sleeves were rolled neatly at the wrist, revealing his watch and the veins running down his strong forearms. His posture? Relaxed. Confident. Dangerous.
I couldn't stop looking.
"Oh wow…" I whispered so softly, I wasn't even sure I said it out loud.
His voice interrupted again.
"Just keep things under control there. I'll handle it here." He said it calmly, but his tone was sharp. Authoritative.
And then… like he sensed me, his eyes flicked toward the door.
Our eyes met.
A second.
Two.
Three.
He stared.
I stared.
He blinked.
And then… he froze.
His voice faltered for a fraction of a second before he ended the call abruptly and lowered the phone.
I tilted my head. "What's wrong with him?"
He didn't smirk.
He didn't roll his eyes.
He didn't pass a sarcastic remark like he always did when I wore something like this.
He just stood there.
Frozen.
Silent.
And looking at me like…
No. I couldn't decode that look. And I didn't want to.
"Ugh. Whatever," I muttered and looked away, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
But just as I passed him, I swore I heard him say something. Soft. Almost under his breath.
"Calm the fuck down jaana ke ansh. "
My eyebrows knit together.
What?
And then again, as I crossed the sitting area—
"Red? Seriously?" He mumbled, almost annoyed. Or amazed. I couldn't tell.
One last time, I caught his whisper.
"Jaan chaiye thi toh aise hi maan leti mein khushi khushi de deta yeh sab karne ki kya jarurat this apko, jaana."
( If you wanted my life just asked like it, I would have given it to you happily. What was the need for you to do all this, jaana.)
But I didn't stop.
I just ignore him.
I didn't turn.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing I heard.
I crossed the bedroom, ignoring his presence like it meant nothing — even though the heat of his stare was crawling down my spine.
His room was exactly as I remembered — intimidating and perfect. Dark walnut wood, clean sheets, golden lamp lights, and the faint trace of musk.
I reached the walk-in wardrobe area, where my vanity had been set — tucked in the middle of the room, with a beautiful mirror and drawers.
There it was.
My jewelry box.
My makeup pouch.
I exhaled a slow breath as I sat on the ottoman stool.
"Okay. Calm down. You came here for this," I reminded myself. "Not to have a heart attack at the sight of that man in black."
I pulled open the pouch and quickly scanned through my items.
Minimal makeup. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to clean up my face and look presentable.
I applied concealer under my eyes, brushing away the evidence of a rough night and rougher morning.
A soft layer of nude lipstick.
A thin line of kajal.
And a small black bindi in the middle of my eyebrows.
"Good," I whispered. "This is enough. You don't need to be perfect. You just need to feel like you."
I opened the jewelry box and chose the lightest necklace I could find — a simple gold chain with a single ruby drop. Elegant. Not heavy. Just enough.
"Not going for the grand entry look," I smirked to myself. "Just… something clean."
Then I picked a pair of small matching studs and clipped them on.
No danglers. No chandbalis.
I wanted to look delicate, not dramatic.
Lastly, I bent down to the side pocket of the drawer and took out my anklets — the only thing I never felt fully dressed without.
Not too heavy. Not too light. Just… mine.
As I bent to tie them around my ankles, my thoughts trailed off again.
His face when he saw me.
His expression.
That unreadable silence.
Why did he stop?
Why didn't he say anything?
No teasing.
No eye rolls.
Not even a snarky compliment.
"Why do I care?" I snapped at myself.
I stood up quickly and adjusted the pallu once more, facing the full-length mirror.
"There," I whispered.
My look was complete.
Simple. Controlled. Confident.
Now, I just had to walk out.
Walk past him.
Past the boy who didn't even blink when I fought him.
But froze the second I stood in his space… draped in red.
I turned sharply on my heel, frustrated beyond words, ready to walk out of the room and away from the suffocation that came with him. My fingers tightened around the edge of my dupatta as I took a step toward the door.
And that's when I saw him.
Shivansh.
Standing silently at the doorway, like he had been there the whole time, watching. His tall frame leaning lightly against the wooden doorframe, his arms crossed, that arrogant smirk missing from his face for once. There was something in his eyes—softness, affection maybe? His gaze swept over me slowly, warmly, like he was memorizing every part of me, trying to silently say everything his mouth wouldn't.
He didn't move. He just looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment.
I froze for a heartbeat. Just a second. But that was enough for him to notice.
I forced myself to look away, gathering whatever was left of my shattered pride. "Excuse me," I muttered under my breath, trying to sidestep him. I didn't want to hear anything he had to say. Not now.
"jaana" he said, voice low, affectionate, almost like a whisper, "why are you walking away?"
I tried to push past him. But suddenly, his hand reached out and gently grabbed my wrist—not rough, not harsh, but firm. Like he couldn't let me go.
A jolt rushed through my body the moment he touched me, like an electric current ran under my skin. I gasped quietly, but quickly masked it, not wanting to give him that power. Not again.
I turned to him sharply. "What do you think you're doing?"
His eyes didn't flinch. "That," he said quietly, "is exactly the issue."
I narrowed my eyes. "What is?"
He didn't let go. His grip was steady—gentle, but not weak. His thumb lightly brushed against the inside of my wrist, and I hated how aware I suddenly was of how warm his touch felt.
"I'm trying to talk to you," he said, "but you won't even look at me."
"That is the issue," I snapped, finally yanking my hand free. "I don't want to look. I don't want to hear. I don't even want to know what you have to say. So please… just stay out of my way."
His eyes searched my face. "I'm not here to argue, and You can wear whatever you want but can you please change in something."
I scoffed. "Then don't. Because I wasn't asking for your opinion."
"I'm not giving one," he said, still calm. "But okay do one thing just change your blouse."
I crossed my arms. "And you are not someone I need to explain myself to. You don't get to decide what's right or not for me."
He looked frustrated now, but still kept his voice composed. "Fine. Wear anything you want. I'm not trying to control you. But please… not this one. Not today."
I frowned. "Why? What's so wrong with it? Why are you suddenly concerned now?"
His voice lowered further, almost like he was trying to reason with a storm. "Because we're going in front of people. And I'm not going to announce anything official. Yet. You're not ready for that. So I'd rather not draw attention. "
I was quiet for a second. Just a second.
He added, softer, "I don't want people talking. And I will not be able to keep you close with me and you will not like it if I follow you. "
I took a deep breath. Something in his tone—so calm, so genuine—almost broke me.
But I straightened my spine. No. Not this time.
With a polite smile, I replied sweetly, "That's your problem, not mine. You're not responsible for my actions, and I don't need you trailing behind me like some shadow, covering my back. I'm not hiding."
He didn't say anything for a moment.
"I just don't want you getting hurt," he said finally. "Even if you hate me."
I looked at him, eyes sharp. "It's my body. My type. My choice. And I'm wearing this."
He didn't argue further. His jaw clenched, but he stepped back.
"Fine," he murmured. "Just… stay close to the dhruv. I'm not saying anything else." Then he turned and left.
I stood still for a beat. My heart pounding in my ears.
But I wasn't done.
I was angry. Furious. At him, at myself, at everything. This wasn't about a dress. It never was. He shouted at me this morning. Ignored me. Humiliated me.
Now I had a plan.
Make him jealous. Make him regret ever shouting at me.
So I walked out with fire in my veins and my head held high.
Downstairs, I went straight to check the preparations. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I moved room to room, giving instructions, checking if the guests had arrived, making sure Maa sa and baba sa outfits were sent to their hotel room for them to change. I dialed the makeup artists to remind them to reach on time. Everything had to be perfect.
And then I heard footsteps behind me.
Two pairs.
I turned—and almost rolled my eyes.
Dhruv and Aviyansh were standing there… looking like two guilty kids caught stealing candy. Both of them had their ears held like schoolboys being punished.
"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath.
They tried to smile.
"Isha…" Dhruv started.
"We just—" Aviyansh added.
But I walked right past them. Not today.
I walked straight toward Chhoti maa sa who was instructing the staff, ignoring the two oversized puppies trailing behind me.
They followed.
Of course they did.
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