The palace courtyards had bloomed again, this time in green and gold.
Lanterns hung from trees, swaying gently in the desert breeze. Silver plates of henna lay arranged on velvet cushions, their earthy fragrance mixing with rosewater and incense. Laughter filled the air as women hummed traditional songs, while the bride-to-be sat at the center, her palms and feet slowly covered in intricate swirls of mehndi.
The atmosphere was bright, almost dreamlike. Guests clapped, children danced, and music rose like a heartbeat in the background. Ishika moved busily among the crowd, ensuring everything was perfect, while Aayat stood slightly apart, sketching the scene in her mind. The emerald glow of the night fascinated her — until the sensation returned.
That weight. That presence.
Her chest tightened before she even turned. She didn't need to look to know.
And then, he was beside her.
Anirudh Rathore. Draped in a deep green sherwani embroidered with gold thread, he carried the same air he always did — one of authority, danger, and inevitability. But tonight, his gaze burned sharper, softer too, as if the night itself belonged to him.
Anirudh: "Do you always hide in corners, little painter?"
Aayat startled, clutching her dupatta tighter.
Aayat: "I wasn't hiding. I was… observing."
His lips curved, not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one.
Anirudh: "Observing is safe. But safe things don't change the world. Or people."
She frowned, unsettled by the way his words seemed aimed deeper than she expected.
Aayat: "And what do you think I should do instead?"
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear.
Anirudh: "Step out of the shadows. Let yourself be seen. Even if it terrifies you."
Her pulse raced. There was no reason for his words to shake her — and yet, they did. She tried to pull back, but his eyes held her still, unrelenting.
Aayat: "And what happens then? What happens if I let myself be seen?"
For a moment, his mask slipped. His voice softened, carrying a weight that was both terrifying and intimate.
Anirudh: "Then you'll belong to me."
The words fell heavy between them. Not a request, not a plea. A declaration.
Aayat's breath hitched, her heart torn between fear and a strange pull she couldn't name. She forced herself to whisper back:
Aayat: "You can't claim people, Anirudh. Not like that."
His gaze darkened, sharp as steel, but his voice was calm. Almost too calm.
Anirudh: "Watch me."
Before she could reply, the dhol beats stopped abruptly. The music faltered. Murmurs spread across the courtyard as the flow of guests stilled.
At the entrance stood a man in a black suit, clutching a leather briefcase. His face was stern, his presence out of place among the colors and laughter.
A lawyer.
Servants rushed to whisper in the ears of the elders. Within moments, the mood of the night shifted, bright celebration folding into tense silence.
The senior royal guards appeared, politely but firmly guiding guests away from the courtyard. Confusion rose, but none dared to question.
Soon, only family remained.
One by one, the Rathores gathered in the grand hall — chandeliers blazing above, the carved doors shut firmly behind them. The air was thick, heavy, and unspoken questions clung to every glance.
The lawyer opened his briefcase, spreading documents across the long mahogany table.
And just like that, the Mehndi night of joy turned into a night of secrets.