The palace had bloomed again, this time with shades of yellow and gold.
Marigold garlands hung from every archway, turmeric paste glowed in silver bowls, and the air was thick with laughter. Women in silk saris smeared haldi on Rajveer's cheeks, teasing him mercilessly while musicians beat dhols in rhythm. The courtyard was alive, drenched in color, joy spilling into every corner.
Aayat lingered at the edge, her eyes following the chaos with quiet fascination. Children ran with fists full of petals, servants bustled past carrying trays, and Ishika barked light-hearted orders to keep everything in place. Aayat felt out of place in the crowd, yet the artist in her was alive — drinking in every hue, every movement.
And then she felt it.
That weight again. That presence.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, her gaze shifted across the courtyard — and there he was.
Anirudh.
Standing apart from the celebration, draped in a dark sherwani that contrasted sharply with the sea of yellow, he was a storm in the middle of sunlight. His eyes didn't move from her, not once, not even when others approached him with respect and fear disguised as cheer.
For a moment, the festival blurred. The laughter dulled. All she could see was him.
He moved toward her. Each step deliberate, unhurried, until he stood close enough for the scent of sandalwood and spice to mix with the marigolds around them.
Anirudh: "Four days."
His voice was low, meant only for her.
"Four days, and yet you've haunted me."
Aayat stiffened, her heart stumbling in her chest.
Aayat: "You shouldn't say things like that."
He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear, dangerous and soft all at once.
Anirudh: "And why not? Truth doesn't vanish because you fear it."
She stepped back instinctively, clutching her dupatta tighter. But his gaze followed her like a tether, sharp and unrelenting.
Aayat: "You don't even know me."
Her voice was steadier than she felt.
For the first time, his expression softened — just slightly. A flicker, almost tender.
Anirudh: "No. I don't know you. But I will."
The words were not a promise. They were a verdict.
Before she could respond, Ishika called her name from across the courtyard, breaking the spell. Aayat turned, her breath ragged, and when she looked back — he was already walking away, as if he had never been there.
But his words lingered, echoing in her chest, burning hotter than the haldi smeared across the groom's skin.
Anirudh's Perspective
From the shadows of the palace balcony later that night, Anirudh watched the remnants of the Haldi celebration fade. Servants cleared petals, laughter dimmed, music stilled.
But inside him, nothing had quieted.
Four days he had waited. Four days of telling himself it was obsession, hunger, possession. But when he saw her today — in the glow of marigolds, with sunlight tangled in her hair, her innocence pressed against her defiance — something inside him shifted.
It was dangerous. More dangerous than any enemy he had faced. Because this wasn't just obsession anymore.
It was love.
But not the kind sung in poems or written in soft words. No, his love was born of fire and shadow, of chains and possession. The kind that demanded, consumed, destroyed.
And it terrified him. Because he could see the path clearly — a path where she could either ruin him… or become his ruin.
Anirudh's lips curved into a dark smile, his eyes fixed on the courtyard where she had stood.
"Run if you must, Aayat," he whispered into the night.
"But remember — fire always finds what it burns for."