Se-Ri's POV
We returned to the estate just after sunrise, drowsy and rumpled from the road. A wave of staff met us at the entrance with juice trays and fresh towels like we were rockstars — instead of sleep-deprived siblings with questionable packing skills.
I barely had time to shower and regroup before the chaos began again.
Because today was the sangeet.
Performances. Henna. Champagne. Glitter explosions. That brand of family madness where even your most emotionally distant cousin starts rehearsing choreography with full commitment.
Amisha was already shrieking from her room that she couldn't find her hair straightener. Rhea was somehow both choreographer and costume designer, barking orders while getting her brows threaded.
I wore a slate blue lehenga — clean lines, matte sequins, high neckline. Elegant. Unbothered. Amisha sparkled beside me in coral net with mirrorwork. She'd insisted we dance together.
It had been years since I'd danced publicly. Longer still since I'd danced for fun.
We performed to a retro Bollywood classic — full twirls, inside jokes, sibling-level chaos. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be. People laughed. Rhea cried halfway through. I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
Then Rajveer came up on stage.
"There's someone special to me here," he said. "My childhood friend. My brother. Leo. I want him to play something for us."
Wait. He plays piano?
Leo came up after a beat of hesitation, wearing a black kurta, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. Understated, but sharp — like always.
He sat. No mic. No introduction. Just him and the keys.
He started playing.
It wasn't a wedding song. No chords begging for attention. Just a soft, wordless melody — careful, spacious, like he was testing what quiet could hold.
The spotlight caught him, but it felt like he was somewhere else entirely. Alone. Focused. Honest.
I didn't move the entire time.
Later, after the noise had faded into shawls and yawns and cake forks scraping plates, I stepped outside for air.
The terrace was cool and quiet. Moonlight glinted on the glass banisters. Somewhere far below, water rustled.
He was already there. Leaning against the railing. Looking at nothing.
I didn't ask to join him. I just did.
For a while, we didn't speak.
Then:
"You were good tonight," he said.
"Which part?"
"The part where you laughed while dancing."
I smiled. Slow. Real.
"You weren't bad yourself," I said. "That piece you played. What was it?"
He shrugged. "Something unfinished."
The silence that followed didn't feel awkward. Just... full.
Then I said, softer now, "I'm sorry. About yesterday. That question."
He looked at me. "Which one?"
"The one about your mother," I said quietly. "I wasn't thinking. It was—stupid."
He shook his head. "She left when I was six."
A pause. Then, gently, "You don't have to be sorry about it."
I didn't know what to say to that. So, I didn't try. I just reached for his hand and held it — lightly, like it might not stay.
He didn't pull away.
After a moment, he glanced sideways at me — something playful edging in.
"That dance step you and Amisha did," he said. "The ridiculous one? Can you do it again?"
I groaned. "Oh my god. Are you serious?"
He smiled — barely. But it was the kind of smile that made you want to stay exactly where you were.
"I am not dancing on a terrace at midnight," I warned.
"You're afraid I'll outshine you."
"You wouldn't last one verse."
He just raised an eyebrow.
And I laughed — quietly, like I didn't want to wake whatever spell was holding us both in place.
Epilogue
Leo's POV
She laughed.
Not the tight, practiced laugh I'd seen her offer to relatives or potential investors — but something else. Quiet. Unarmored. Real.
I hadn't meant to ask about the dance. I didn't know why I did. Maybe I just wanted to hear what her voice sounded like when it wasn't deflecting.
She was holding my hand like it might not last. And I didn't pull away.
The moonlight turned the sequins on her dress into something kinetic. She didn't know how striking she looked — or maybe she did, and that was the trick.
She had apologized for the question about my mother.
Most people don't. Most people never even notice what they touch.
But she did. And she didn't force me to answer. That mattered.
I wasn't supposed to let this happen — to be affected. To let someone in this close.
But she wasn't loud.
She wasn't needy.
She was... precise.
And that made her dangerous.
I looked at our hands again.
Still holding.
Still warm.