Gupta House after exhibition
The Gupta house smelled of mustard crossed, glaring at a pot of dal like it had personally insulted her. "Khushi! Did you add salt or sugar to the dal? Because this tastes like chemistry experiment!"
From the kitchen came the unmistakable clatter of pots, followed by a rushed, "Hai Devi Maiyya!"
Khushi tumbled into the dining area, apron askew, dupatta wrapped around her head like a bandana, and jalebi batter splattered across her cheeks like war paint.
She darted to the stove, grabbed a spoon, and tasted the dal.
"Oh no! I was thinking about something—I mean, nothing—and I must have grabbed the wrong jar!"
Buaji narrowed her eyes, arms akimbo. "Arey titaliya, your brain has clearly gone on vacation. And you've been floating around like a love balloon since you came back from that exhibition!"
Khushi flushed and glanced guiltily at the jalebi batter bowl.
Payal peeked in from the hallway, half-amused, half-curious. "Or should we say… someone?"
"Jiji!" Khushi's voice squeaked a bit too loudly. "Don't start!"
Payal walked in fully, leaning against the fridge. "I knew it. You met someone. Admit it."
"I did not!" Khushi insisted. "Well… I mean yes. But not like that! He was just a man. A man I bumped into. Literally. And I ruined his suit."
Buaji perked up instantly. "Handsome?"
"Dangerous."
"Rich?"
"Scary!"
"You liked him." Payal grinned, arms folded.
"No, I didn't! I mean—I don't know! He had this… presence. He didn't even say much, but it felt like he could read my whole life just by staring!"
Buaji smacked the side of the dal pot.
"Oho! He stared?
You let him stare?
And he still alive?
Maybe it's true what they say—miracles happen when diyas fall."
Khushi groaned and buried her face in her dupatta. "It was one diya! And an accident!"
Payal leaned forward, teasing. "What was he wearing?"
"Uh… suit. Charcoal gray. Expensive. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not an exhibition."
"Name?"
Khushi hesitated.
"Arnav Singh Raizada."
There was a pause.
Buaji straightened like she'd been hit by lightning. "Arnav… Singh Raizada? The fashion Raizada?"
Khushi nodded meekly.
Payal's eyes widened. "You bumped into that Raizada?"
"And knocked a tray of fire at him," Khushi added helpfully.
Buaji gasped. "Hai re Nandkishore! You tried to kill a millionaire!"
"I did not!"
"He's a businessman, na?" Payal asked.
"What did he say?"
"He said… 'Let it be. I'll do it.'"
Buaji blinked. "He untangled your dupatta himself?"
Khushi stared at the floor. "Yes."
Buaji dramatically collapsed into a chair. "It's a proposal!"
"It is not!" Khushi cried. "He was just… being polite. And weird. And he stared. And I babbled. Oh God, I babbled so much. I told him about Buaji, the diya tray, my Jiji—why do I talk like that?!"
Payal giggled. "Because you're Khushi."
Khushi sighed, grabbing the jalebi batter bowl and stirring with too much force. "You're hopeless."
Buaji watched her carefully. "You've been smiling into that batter for the last half hour like it's Salman Khan's photo."
Khushi glared. "It's not Salman Khan. It's just… he looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn't just a girl with clumsy feet and a loud mouth."
Payal's voice softened. "He saw you."
Khushi nodded slowly. "And I saw him."
Buaji sat up straighter. "Then call him!"
Khushi choked. "What?! No! Why would I—? We don't even have each other's numbers!"
Buaji pointed a spoon at her. "You go back to that exhibition and you find him. Or better—invite him here. For tea!"
Khushi turned a deeper shade of red. "Are you trying to give him a heart attack?"
Buaji nodded solemnly. "If he likes chaos, he's come to the right place."
Payal burst out laughing. "Poor man won't know what hit him."
Khushi stirred the batter, eyes distant. "He already doesn't."
And somewhere deep inside her chest, that flutter returned.
Something had shifted. Something she couldn't name.
A spark. A thread. A magnetic pull that had nothing to do with dupattas or diyas or drama.
Just… him.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
The man with fire in his eyes.
And her red dupatta still clinging to his memory.
---
Raizada Mansion
The Raizada Mansion was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clink of the city in the distance—horns, footsteps, echoes of Delhi that never quite slept. But inside, the world was hushed.
Arnav sat on the edge of his bed, collar undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The room was dim, lit only by the soft golden pool of light from the antique desk lamp across the room. His laptop sat open on the desk—but untouched for nearly an hour. Emails unread. Notifications ignored.
The coffee beside it had gone cold. Forgotten.
In his hand was a pencil. Thin. Mechanical. Not his usual weapon of choice. Arnav Singh Raizada didn't draw. He didn't sketch. That had been his Di's thing, his mother's thing—people who felt things. He built things. Empires. Strategies. Power plays.
And yet.
The paper before him was no longer blank.
A line. Then another. The curve of a cheek. A flutter of fabric. Fingers reaching upward, tangled in red. A diya tray slipping from a nervous grasp. That look—the startled, raw expression in her eyes when she spun into him.
Khushi.
He whispered the name under his breath like it was a foreign word he was trying to pronounce correctly. Like a language he didn't know he was learning.
What are you doing?
He dropped the pencil, leaned back against the chair, exhaling slowly.
You don't draw women. You don't even look at them. Not really. You've been surrounded by models, executives, debutantes, heiresses—and none of them ever clung to your thoughts like static.
So why her?
Why the chaos?
Why that voice—breathless and full of panic, stammering apologies, then cracking jokes in the same breath? Why did the memory of her dupatta brushing his wrist feel more vivid than any business deal he'd struck in the past year?
He stood abruptly, as if motion would exile the thought of her. He crossed to the window and drew the curtain open. Delhi stretched before him like a constellation of flickering lives. But it wasn't the city he was seeing.
It was her eyes.
You look like a dream I forgot I had.
He'd said that. Hadn't he? Or thought it?
Either way, it haunted him.
He paced. His hand ran through his hair. He paused at the desk again and looked down at the paper.
There it was.
A sketch. Rough. Barely formed. But undeniably her.
Not perfect. Not polished.
Just real.
He reached into the drawer of the desk and retrieved something. A small object. Metallic.
A button.
The same one that had popped from his sleeve when her dupatta snagged on it. He'd meant to toss it. But instead, it had ended up in his drawer. His pocket. His palm.
And now, here it was again. Still hers. Somehow.
He turned it over in his fingers like it was a talisman.
What are you doing to me, Khushi?
He didn't believe in magic. Or fate. Or destiny. He believed in precision. Structure. Numbers.
But that moment—when she had looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, and said, "I—I didn't see you there"—that had felt like… something else.
He closed the sketchbook, pushed it away.
This is ridiculous.
He should be thinking about the heritage line's international rollout. The Paris collaboration. The quarterly board meeting. Not a girl who smelled like rosewater and disaster.
Still.
He didn't sleep.
He didn't even lie down.
He sat there. In the dark. Staring at a red thread caught in the hinge of his desk.
Khushi.
He wasn't in love. He didn't do love.
But something had begun.
Something irreversible.
And for once, Arnav Singh Raizada wasn't sure what to do next.