Raizada Mansion
next morning at Raizada and the smell of cardamom chai wafted gently through the house.
At the breakfast table, Anjali sat cross-legged on the cushioned bench, humming an old 90s song and flipping through a home décor magazine. The table was laid out perfectly: silver toast rack, fresh-cut fruit, and a tea set delicate enough to be stolen from a royal palace.
Lavanya shuffled in next. In panda-print pajamas and fuzzy slippers, she plopped down in her usual chair, hair tied up in a loose bun. "Di," she said with a dramatic gasp, "you have to see ASR's Insta explore feed."
Anjali looked up with a faint smirk. "He has explore feed?"
Lavanya turned her phone around, screen tilted for Anjali to view.
Banarasi sarees.
Gajras.
Rangoli reels.
Vintage embroidery.
More gajras.
Anjali nearly choked on her tea. "Wait, wait, wait. Arnav Singh Raizada? Looking at gajra reels? Did someone drop him on his head?"
Lavanya laughed. "Or into a vat of rose-scented nostalgia."
"He hates flowers."
"Exactly."
Anjali leaned forward, eyebrows raised in mock-seriousness. "We need to talk to him. This is suspicious behavior. It's either a girl or a brain tumor."
Lavanya was about to respond when footsteps echoed.
Arnav.
Sharp. Crisp. Assembled.
Navy suit. Rolex. Perfect stubble. The very image of composure.
He strode in, picked up his black coffee like a man picking up a weapon, and muttered, "Good morning."
Anjali and Lavanya shared a look.
Lavanya took a deep breath and fired first. "So... Bhai. What's her name?"
Arnav paused mid-sip. Just for a second. Barely perceptible.
"Whose name?"
Anjali grinned wickedly. "The girl in the exhibition. The one with the dupatta. The one who didn't run when you glared."
"She spun into him," Lavanya added. "Like a full Bollywood twirl."
Arnav's jaw twitched. "You two need help."
Lavanya leaned in. "ASR. You are watching G-A-J-R-A reels. We're not stupid."
Anjali chimed in. "You didn't even like Diwali. Now your explore page looks like it's planning a shaadi."
He stood. "I have a meeting."
"You have a feeling," Lavanya said under her breath.
Arnav stopped in the doorway. "I'm not in love."
"No one said love," Anjali replied, sipping her chai like a queen. "Just obsession."
"Fixation," Lavanya agreed.
He walked out. Silent. Controlled.
But as he passed the console table by the door, he glanced down.
There, tucked between a stack of coasters and a silver tray, was the red thread from the night before. Unraveled. Still clinging to his cufflink.
He pocketed it without a word.
Back at the table, Lavanya and Anjali high-fived.
"This is going to be fun," Lavanya whispered.
Anjali nodded. "He's cracked. And you know what that means?"
Lavanya grinned. "Time to meddle."
----
In the Gupta household, and chaos was already simmering at a boil.
The television was on in the living room, blaring the morning bhajan hour; the pressure cooker let out an angry whistle in the kitchen, and Buaji's voice rose above it all like a battle horn.
"Khushi bitiya! The milk is overflowing! Again!"
"Coming!" Khushi shouted from the balcony, where she was furiously beating a carpet against the railing. "Just give me two min—oh no, the gas!"
She dropped the carpet and ran inside, her braid bouncing behind her like a nervous tail. The kitchen smelled dangerously sweet and smoky at the same time.
Buaji stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the stove. "This is what happens when girls fall in love! Their brains float out their ears!"
"I'm not in love!" Khushi protested, yanking the vessel off the flame and splashing milk on the counter in the process.
Payal peeked in from the dining room with a mug of tea. "You're singing love songs to yourself, Khushi. In Urdu. You don't even know Urdu!"
"I was humming," Khushi said defensively.
"'Tere naina bade qaatil maar hi daalenge,'" Payal sang pointedly.
Khushi flushed. "It's catchy! It was on the radio!"
"Also," Buaji said, narrowing her eyes, "you were talking to a jalebi this morning."
"I was practicing expressions," Khushi huffed. "Some people meditate. I talk to batter. It's called therapy."
Payal burst into laughter. "It's called obsession."
Khushi turned back to the sink, rinsing out a sticky pot with unnecessary aggression. "You all are impossible. It was just a weird moment. A few seconds. He probably doesn't even remember me."
Payal said something under her breath.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Khushi dried her hands, trying to push down the memory of that moment. That voice. That look.
The intensity of Arnav Singh Raizada's stare still burned behind her eyelids. Cold. Calculated. And yet…
She had never felt more seen.
"Forget him," she muttered to herself.
"Good plan," Buaji said, plopping down with her newspaper.
Khushi nodded. " Exactly. I will not think about him today."
She tied her dupatta tighter. "In fact, I'm going to stay busy. Productive. Mindful. No thoughts of rich, brooding businessmen allowed."
"Excellent," Buaji said, sipping her chai. "Go buy sabzi."
"Done."
"And pick up my medicine "
"Consider it done."
"And drop by the mandir and help set up the decorations for the summer mela."
Khushi groaned.
"Don't forget your gajra," Payal teased.
"I will throw this slipper at you, Jiji."
She stepped out onto the street and inhaled sharply. Sunshine. Dust. Horns. Chaos. Comfort.
She could do this.
She would do this.
No more Arnav Singh Raizada.
But five steps into the bazaar, she froze.
There. In the display window of a boutique.
A mannequin.
Wearing a red dupatta.
Khushi stared.
Her feet didn't move.
The sunlight hit the cloth at just the right angle. Crimson. Threaded in gold. Just like hers. Just like that moment.
She blinked and turned away, muttering, "Ridiculous."
But even as she walked on, her hand drifted up—just briefly—to the edge of her own dupatta.
She smiled.
Just a little.
---
Later , Khushi stirred her chai absentmindedly, eyes distant.
"Khushiiii!" Buaji bellowed from the kitchen. "If you burn this chai again, I swear on all my missing hairpins—"
"Nahin Buaji, bas do second!" Khushi snapped out of her daze, spilling a bit of tea on her notepad.
"Hai Devi Maiyya," she whispered, horrified, "he's infecting my doodles now."
From the hallway, Payal peeked in, eyebrows raised. She had her dupatta wrapped around her like a superhero cape—clearly in a mood.
"Still thinking about Mr. 'What-the'?" she asked sweetly.
Khushi gasped. "I'm not!"
"Hmm." Payal held up fingers. "One accidental dupatta rescue, run-ins. And six dream sequences in a row. That's a record, even for you."
Khushi flung a spoon at her. It hit the fridge.
Payal dodged, grinning. "You have the accuracy of a confused pigeon."
"Go away, Jiji!"
"Fine," Payal said, grabbing an apple. "But if you start carving his name into your parathas, I'm calling Buaji."
Khushi groaned into her chai.
"It was just a stupid coincidence…"
Her voice faltered.
Because some part of her knew—coincidence didn't usually come wrapped in Hugo Boss and brooding stares.