Raizada Mansion
The Delhi skyline blinked with lazy city lights. Horns had gone quiet, the breeze carried the scent of dust and distant rain, and the whole world seemed to have surrendered to sleep.
Everyone-except Arnav Singh Raizada.
He was wide awake.
Pacing.
Restless.
There was a sharp elegance in the way he moved-measured strides, jaw clenched, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his navy trousers, the other absently flipping a silver Montblanc pen between his fingers.
The same pen he'd used an hour ago...
To sketch her.
Khushi'
The name itself sparked something raw in his chest. A low, slow ache that had no medical explanation.
> "Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, shooting a look at the untouched laptop on his desk.
Emails blinked silently. The Jaipur merger pitch was open. The numbers were waiting. Aman had even texted.
> "Sir, should I postpone tomorrow's call? You seem... distracted."
Distracted?
No.
He was consumed.
Her image had taken up permanent residence in his head. The sway of her braid. The chaos in her hands. That sharp, untamed mouth that had no filter and no fear.
> "She spilled ghee on my shoes."
He stopped pacing.
> "She insulted my attitude."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile.
> "And now I can't stop thinking about her?"
The absurdity of it stung. He-ASR-was spiraling over a girl who made jalebis, called him 'Laad Governor,' and looked like mischief wrapped in a dupatta.
He turned toward his desk.
The sketch was still there.
A rough pencil drawing. Half-finished.
Her, mid-turn-hair caught in a breeze, dupatta lifting like a banner, one eyebrow arched in rebellion. Her lips slightly parted, like she was about to scold him again.
> Why do I remember her expression better than I remember merger numbers?
He sank into the leather chair and rested his elbows on the table, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
This was madness.
He'd never been the type to doodle.
He signed contracts, not portraits.
But tonight?
He'd started sketching her without meaning to. First her eyes. Then the slight curve of her cheek. Then he'd tried to erase it. Crumpled the page.
Only to draw her again.
> What is wrong with me?
He leaned back in the chair, arms crossing, eyes dark.
This wasn't how he did things.
He was ruthless. Composed. Calculated. He'd built an empire on logic, not longing.
But here he was-fingers itching to know what her hair smelled like. Wondering if she laughed in her sleep. If she wore anklets. If she ever slowed down.
> "She's chaos," he murmured.
His voice was rough in the quiet room.
> "And I... crave it."
The admission was bitter and addictive.
He stood up again, crossing the room to the window. The city stretched before him, endless and uncaring. But in his mind, all he could see was her-standing in the middle of that crowded exhibition hall, eyes wide, voice fierce, looking at him like he wasn't a tycoon... but a problem to solve.
And God, he wanted to be solved.
The city outside had gone quiet. Not a single honk, not even the restless flutter of curtains. But sleep? It evaded him like Khushi avoided logic.
Arnav lay back against the headboard,
Gripping a sketch of her he'd never admit to drawing.
Khushi Kumari Gupta
Tornado in a salwar suit, Serial eye-roller and shoe critic.
A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.
Flashback:
Empty Corner of the Exhibition Hall -
The exhibit had slowed for the evening. Most guests had drifted toward the food court or parking lot, leaving behind only echoes of clinking glasses and the soft murmur of a flute.
Khushi stood by a moody abstract painting that looked like a tomato had fought with a paintbrush and lost. Her expression said exactly that.
> "This one's called 'Capitalism and Chaos'," Arnav's voice came from behind her, deep and smooth.
She didn't turn. "Hmm. I thought it was called 'Overpriced Mess No. 7'."
He chuckled, just a breath.
> "Much like your opinions. Loud. Messy. Unfiltered."
Now she turned, slowly. Arms crossed. Eyes sparkling.
> "Still better than your shoes."
He blinked.
> "My what?"
> "Your shoes," she repeated, eyes dropping deliberately to the sleek Italian leather. "They look like they're here to fire someone. Or sue a employee."
A pause.
Arnav raised an eyebrow. "They cost more than entire exhibition ."
Khushi leaned in a little. "Then they must be very sad. All that money and still so... soul-less."
> "That's because they don't scream every time they hit a pebble."
> "They don't scream because they're dead inside," she snapped, then blinked, surprised at herself.
He took a step forward.
She didn't move.
> "Funny," he murmured. "You've been staring at them for a while now."
> "Please. I was just wondering how they haven't burst into flames from the sheer amount of attitude they carry."
> "They're used to heat," he said quietly. "They walk into fire daily."
Their eyes locked.
His voice dropped just a little lower. Silkier. More dangerous.
> "Especially when the fire wears red and stares like she's trying to roast me alive."
Khushi's mouth opened-then closed.
Her heart? Somewhere doing bhangra with the tabla in the background.
> "You're impossible," she muttered, stepping back, cheeks a little too warm.
> "And yet... here you are," he replied, one brow arching. "Still standing in front of me. Still talking about my shoes."
She huffed, turning away-too fast-and caught her dupatta on a nail.
Arnav stepped forward instinctively, untangled it in silence.
His fingers brushed hers for a second too long.
She didn't breathe.
He didn't blink.
And then she walked away, fast.
Leaving behind a very still, very smug Raizada... and a pair of very insulted Italian shoes.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Why was she living rent-free in his head?
Why did her words echo louder than Aman's reports?
Why did the mental replay of her mocking his Prada shoes feel... enjoyable?
Disgusting.
Infuriating.
Weirdly addicting.
He picked up his phone, stared at the screen. Debated texting Aman:
> "Find out her shoe size."
But deleted it.
Got up. Poured himself a glass of water. Didn't drink it.
he mumbled
> "Who insults a man's shoes to his face?"
A pause.
His lips curved.
> "And still walks away with her dupatta caught... poetic."
He dropped onto the bed again, resting one arm over his eyes.
The image of her, eyes blazing, lips smirking, dupatta fluttering in rebellion-
It wouldn't leave him.
And sleep?
Yeah. That wasn't showing up tonight.
---
Gupta House,
The same night. The same moon. But a different kind of storm.
Khushi was arguing with her blanket. Again.
"Stop wrapping around my leg like you're ASR's attitude!" she muttered, wrestling it into submission.
The fan above creaked lazily. Her tiny room was flooded in moonlight. The clock ticked like a countdown to madness, and every few seconds... Khushi turned.
Left.
Right.
Back.
Left again.
> "Uff, what is this? Is my brain the new Rajdhani Express? Why won't it slow down!"
She flopped dramatically on her stomach and buried her face into the pillow.
But it was no use.
His face kept appearing behind her closed eyelids.
That frown.
Those dark, serious eyes that made her feel like she was being seen-not just looked at, but actually seen.
And that moment.
How his fingers had brushed her arm when she nearly fell. How their eyes locked as if Devi Maiyya herself pressed the pause button on time.
How he hadn't said a word... but something inside her shivered.
> "Laad Governor," she whispered, like it was a spell or a curse or maybe... something in between.
She sat up with a jolt.
Her dupatta was tangled around her waist. Her diary peeked from under the pillow. She snatched it, flipped to a blank page, and began furiously writing:
---
"Dear Devi Maiyya,"
I don't like him.
I swear I don't.
I don't care about his intense stares or his ridiculously perfect cheekbones or the way he looks like he hasn't smiled in centuries.
Or how he looked at me like... like I wasn't just some random girl who spilled ghee.
Okay?
I'm not thinking about him.
I'm thinking about jalebis.
Sweet, safe, round jalebis.
Sincerely,
Definitely Not In Love,
Khushi Kumari Gupta."
---
She slammed the diary shut and hugged it to her chest.
> "Why is my stomach doing somersaults like it's the Olympics?"
She walked to the window, peeking out at the dark quiet street.
Everything was still.
Yet her heart was doing bhangra.
> "No, . You're not falling for some broody tycoon with more buttons on his suit than expressions on his face."
And yet.
That same broody tycoon had smiled when she'd snapped at him. Actually smiled! Like she'd surprised him.
And that second...
...was living rent-free in her brain.
> "Ugh! You know what?" she told the night. "Maybe I'll see him again. Maybe not. It's not like he's following me to a mandir or anything."
She laughed nervously.
Because that was absurd.
Right?
Just then, from the next room, Buaji snorted in her sleep like a buffalo with sinus.
Payal groaned and muttered, "Khushi, stop talking to your blanket."
> "Mind your business!" Khushi whispered.
And then she turned over again, eyes wide open, heart thumping.
She didn't want to admit it.
But somewhere deep inside her chest...
A soft voice whispered:
> "What if he's not a coincidence? What if he's... meant to be?"
---
Because even dreams can't separate Khushi from her true loves: Arnav Singh Raizada... and sugar syrup.
Khushi was running.
Not the "he's-chasing-me-through-a-mango-orchard" Bollywood kind of running.
No.
She was running with a giant varmala made of jalebis.
And it was melting.
> "Hai Devi Maiyyaaaa! Why is it sticky?!"
She screeched as sugar syrup dripped down her wrist. The mandap loomed ahead, glowing like some holy spaceship. Marigolds rained from the sky. Dhols were playing.
And there he stood.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
Dressed in cream and gold sherwani.
Looking... edible.
And extremely confused.
> "Khushi... what the-are those jalebis?" he asked, blinking as she stumbled to the mandap.
> "It was supposed to be a flower varmala!" she gasped, waving the orange swirl-necklace . "But then Buaji said sweets are more auspicious and somehow the florist became a halwai and now it's... THIS!"
Arnav opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
> "Why are the pandit's mantras in Marathi?" he muttered.
> "He was cheaper!" Khushi whisper. "Budget wedding, okay?!"
Suddenly, Lavanya popped out from behind the mandap with a camera.
> "Say 'rabba veeeee!'" she chirped.
Anjali stood beside her, holding a laddu platter.
> "My chhote's getting married. I knew this day would come. I bribed Devi Maiyya with 11 coconuts."
From the side, Buaji shouted, "Arnav bitwaa! Put sindoor like you mean it, haan? Don't just dab it like ketchup on samosa!"
Arnav looked at Khushi.
She looked at him.
And then, without warning-
SPLAT.
The jalebi varmala broke in half and smacked him right in the face.
> "OH MY-LAAD GOVERNOR!" she yelped, trying to wipe syrup off his sherwani with her dupatta. "I am so sor-wait, did I just MARRY YOU WITH A JAL-?"
He caught her hand.
Pulled her close.
Sugar smeared across his jawline.
> "Only you would turn a wedding into a dessert disaster."
> "Well," she sniffed, "at least it's a sweet start."
He chuckled. Actually chuckled.
> "You're stuck with me now, Mrs. Jalebi Singh Raizada."
She blinked.
> "Wait-am I dreaming? Is this a dream?!"
Arnav smirked.
> "Would it matter if it was?"
And just as he leaned in to kiss her, the dhols rose to a dramatic Dhun-dhan-na-naaaaaaaa-
---
WHAM.
She jolted awake.
Sitting up in bed, heart racing, hair a mess, mouth dry .
Buaji's snores from the next room.
Payal peeked through the curtain, rubbing her eyes.
> "Were you laughing in your sleep... or crying?"
Khushi just stared at the ceiling.
> "...I married him with jalebis," she whispered.
Payal: "...what?"
Khushi groaned and fell back onto her pillow, covering her face.
> "I need therapy. Or less sugar at night."
---