Hey, lovely readers 💫
Before we dive into Chapter 2, I just want to say thank you for staying with this story. Your support means everything to me!
This chapter is a little deeper.
And don't forget-every read, vote, and comment truly inspires me to write more. 💌
Now, let the story pull you in...
The city was wrapped in night.
But its skyline still shimmered - glass and steel catching the glow of neon lights like distant stars refusing to fade.
Below, Manhattan pulsed with its usual chaos, blissfully unaware of the storm building inside the man standing far above it all.
From the outside, everything looked calm. Serene.
But inside the penthouse that soared above the skyline, silence wasn't peace.
It was pressure.
Coiled.
Waiting to detonate.
The elevator doors opened with a soft mechanical sigh - and he stepped out.
A man who didn't need noise to be noticed.
A man who didn't need a crown to look like royalty.
Tall - easily over six feet - built like discipline and fire had carved him from stone.
Dressed in nothing but black trousers, his bare chest glistened with sweat - as if he'd just spent hours battling demons in the dead of night.
Veins pulsed along his arms, his jaw clenched tight with a fury that wasn't new.
Just louder tonight.
His hair was damp and messy, loose strands falling over his forehead, curling slightly. He looked like sin sculpted in flesh - handsome, yes - but with eyes too dark to feel safe.
He didn't speak.
Didn't sigh.
Didn't rush.
He simply walked - straight to the bar - and sat.
But he didn't pour himself a drink.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he didn't need liquor.
He needed silence.
He just stared - unblinking - at the portrait mounted on the wall across from him.
His grandparents. Regal. Proud. Captured in time, untouched by age.
Viransh Singh Rathore.
The media called him the Architect King of Manhattan - the genius behind billion-dollar skylines. A man who bent steel, glass, and gravity to his will.
But before all that... he was just a boy who left India at thirteen.
An heir who walked away from a throne he never asked for.
His fingers tapped against the marble bar. A steady, rhythmic click. His shoulders were rigid, jaw stiff.
It wasn't the disastrous pitch today that unsettled him.
It was the call.
His grandfather never called twice.
But last night... he had.
"Hum thak gaye hain, Viransh... Teri Dadi roz poochhti hai, tu kab aayega..."
"Is baar naa mat karna, beta... pata nahi, agla mauka milega bhi ya nahi..."
("We're tired now, Viransh... Your Dadi asks every day, when you'll come back..."
"Don't say no this time, beta... I don't know if there will even be a next chance...")
He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
The weight of those words was heavier than any skyscraper he'd ever built.
Go home?
He hadn't been back since he was fourteen. Only once - for his uncle's funeral.
One day. Then nothing.
No roots. Just distance.
He glanced at the crystal paperweight resting on the bar - a miniature fort.
A gift from his grandfather the day he left for New York.
It had been sitting there for years - untouched, unspoken, unforgotten.
He picked it up, holding it in his palm.
Didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping it until his knuckles turned white.
The door behind him clicked open.
Shahveer walked in - hoodie on, shorts loose, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.
"Well, well..." he smirked, giving his friend a once-over. "The king looks like hell."
Viransh turned, just enough for one look. Cold. Sharp.
A glance that could silence an entire room.
Then he turned away again.
Shahveer strolled over and placed a mug beside him.
"Relax. It's caffeine, not sympathy," he said, leaning on the counter.
Viransh took the mug. Sipped in silence.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Just the quiet hum of the city beneath them.
Then Shahveer broke the silence, voice casual but probing.
"So... was it the pitch that pissed you off? Or..."
He trailed off.
Didn't need to finish.
Viransh didn't respond. Just took another sip.
"...He called again?" Shahveer asked gently.
A small nod.
No words.
Just... tension.
Stillness.
Then - almost like it slipped out - Viransh murmured,
"I think he's... sick."
Shahveer blinked.
That, he hadn't expected.
"Damn."
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy with history. With guilt. With words that neither of them wanted to say out loud.
Finally, Shahveer spoke again. More serious now.
"You gonna go?"
"I don't know."
"You should."
No answer.
"I mean, come on, Vir. You left at thirteen. Went back once. You've built an empire, yeah... but maybe it's time."
Viransh turned, voice sharp as shattered glass.
"You think it's that simple?"
Shahveer held his gaze - calm, steady.
"I think you're still carrying something you never let go of."
Viransh's voice dropped, hollow.
"Not everything can be let go."
"No. But maybe it can be faced."
Viransh turned away, walking toward the giant glass wall behind them - the window that framed the skyline like a painting.
The city sparkled beneath him. Neon and gold.
But to him... it felt hollow.
A kingdom made of lights, but no warmth.
From behind him, Shahveer's voice came - softer now, sincere.
"What are you afraid of, Vir?"
A pause.
A long beat.
Then, without turning, Viransh answered.
"That if I go back... I won't be able to walk away again."
The room fell silent.
No movement.
Just the pulse of the sleepless city, and two men - suspended in a moment that demanded more than just words.
Finally - with his back still turned - Viransh spoke.
Low. Final.
"Pack your bags."
A beat.
"We're leaving."
And just like that...
The king who once swore never to return...
Was going home.
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A soft warmth kissed my cheek, and I stirred slowly, caught between dreams and daylight.
My eyelids fluttered open-heavy with sleep, slow, reluctant. But within seconds, the unfamiliar ceiling came into view. Not the faded one from my old home. Not the ceiling where I'd once stared for hours.
No.
This one was too perfect. Too polished.
Reality struck like lightning in my chest.
I sat up with a jerk.
The plush bed, the soft sheets, the carefully curated antique furniture-it all screamed of a life far from mine.
My breath hitched as my eyes roamed the room, now clearer in daylight. It wasn't like this last night... or maybe I hadn't paid attention. Last night, I was too tired, too emotionally drained to care.
But now-morning light didn't lie.
Everything here gleamed with luxury. The walls wore intricate moldings, the curtains floated like whispers, and a quiet fragrance of sandalwood hung in the air.
Anyone else might have gasped at the sheer elegance of it all. Anyone else might have felt like royalty, waking up in the guest quarters of a palace.
But not me.
I wasn't built to be dazzled by wealth. My comfort came from familiar chaos, flour-covered aprons, and early morning bakery rushes. This world? It wasn't mine.
With a soft sigh, I reached for the hair tie on the side table and gathered my hair into a lazy ponytail.
My eyes drifted to the drawer just below. I knew what was inside. My fingers moved before my thoughts caught up.
I slid it open gently.
And there it was.
Papa's locket.
Oval-shaped. Silver. Worn smooth by time and tears. I picked it up delicately, the metal already warm from resting in its velvet nook.
On the back, barely visible to the world, was the letter "I." My father's whisper carved into silver.
I brought it to my lips and closed my eyes.
Flash.
My seventh birthday. Papa crouching down, tucking the locket into my palm.
"Iru, this is my blessing. It'll always live close to your heart. I'll always love you."
The last birthday I ever celebrated with him.
A lone tear slipped down my cheek, tracing a familiar path. But I brushed it away quickly.
No. Not today.
I wouldn't let sadness define me.
"I miss you, Papa," I murmured. "But your Iru is strong. She won't get scared of a new life. Not anymore."
I kissed the locket one more time, pressing it a little longer this time, like trying to feel his heartbeat through it. And then I placed it back, carefully, closing the drawer like sealing away a part of me.
My phone buzzed loudly beside me, dragging me back to the present. I glanced at the screen and a soft smile tugged at my lips.
Riya.
Of course.
I answered, and before I could even breathe a word, her voice exploded through the speaker.
"Iru! What the hell! You didn't answer my call last night! Are you okay? Did aunty say something again? She didn't scold you, right?"
I chuckled, a real one this time. Trust her to always assume the worst and still be ready to fight the world for me.
"I was just... not in my zone last night. Umm, yeah-something happened," I replied softly.
A pause on her end. I could almost see her squinting at the phone, dying to drag the full story out of me.
"Okay. Meet me at Meetha Mahal. Sharp. Don't be late."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Okay. See you there."
The line went dead.
I sat still for a moment. Just breathing. And then slowly got off the bed. My feet touched the marble floor-cold and polished. I tiptoed towards Maa's room.
She was still asleep.
Her brows were furrowed, lips slightly parted. Even in sleep, she looked... guarded. Worn. My heart clenched. I stepped closer and gently adjusted the comforter around her, brushing back a few strands of hair. I bent down, leaving a quick kiss on her forehead-so quick it wouldn't even register.
So quick... it wouldn't break the walls between us.
By the time I stepped into the kitchen, But to my surprise, the palace staff had already set everything in place-spices aligned, vegetables.
Still, I preferred doing it myself.
So I cooked.
Just the way Maa liked it-aloo sabzi with soft chapatis. Familiar smells filled the space and for a moment, I felt grounded.
When I was done, I packed everything and placed it carefully in the fridge for her.
Back in my room, I stood in front of the wardrobe and pulled out my favorite outfit-a white Anarkali suit. Soft, flowing, and familiar. I wore it like armor. Today, I needed that.
I paired it with silver jhumkas, touched up with light makeup, and let my hair loose. Somedays, dressing up felt like a rebellion. A way of telling the world-I still choose joy.
Then, I picked up my purse and phone.
Riya would be waiting at the bakery.
At Meetha Mahal.
The one place in the world that still felt like mine.
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After some time I reached to my shop and open it with so love I really love this, opening my shop and and making good foods for my customers.
The soft jingle of the glass door chimed as I pushed it open.
The morning light spilled across the floor in lazy golden strips, brushing against the pastel counters and rows of glass jars. The familiar scent of sugar, spices, and something warm - something home - curled into the air and wrapped around me like a quiet hug.
My Meetha Mahal.
My little escape. My sanctuary. I paused just inside the doorway, letting the silence sink into my bones. It wasn't empty... it was peaceful.
The kind of peace you only feel when the chaos is behind you - or at least outside.
A small smile tugged at my lips as I moved forward.
I straightened a few chairs, smoothing the velvet cushions, brushing off dust that probably wasn't even there.
Maybe I needed to do something - anything - just to stop thinking.
And then I remembered.
"Oh right," I murmured to myself, walking into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge door, "monsoon cake."
There it was - resting prettily under the soft light of the fridge, its swirled cream cloud-like and perfect. My little experiment from yesterday, half-forgotten in the whirlwind of shifting and silent goodbyes.
I lifted it carefully and set it on the counter like something precious.
"Waah Iru, tu toh best hai..." I grinned, admiring it. "Kitna accha cake banaya hai tune. Itna sundar."
("Wow, Iru, you're the best..."
"You've made such a beautiful cake. It's so lovely.")
With a small laugh, I gave myself a dramatic tap on the shoulder. It felt silly, but... comforting.
Before that quiet pride could settle in, a loud voice burst through the shop like a storm.
"Iraaya! Kidhar hai tu?!"
("Iraaya! Where are you?!")
Riya.
I sighed, half-smiling already, and shouted back, "Kitchen mein!"
("In the Kitchen!")
Within seconds, she appeared at the doorway like a hurricane - hair wild, expressions wilder. Her eyes scanned me with sharp urgency.
"Kal raat kya hua?" she demanded. "I was calling you. I was actually worried! Tu gayab hi ho gayi thi!"
("What happened last night?"
"I was calling you. I was actually worried! You just disappeared!")
I paused, leaning against the counter, suddenly feeling like the silence of the kitchen was slipping away. Her words touched a part of me I had been trying to avoid.
I kept my eyes on the drawer I'd just opened, staring at spoons that didn't need rearranging. "Bas... shift ho gayi main."
("That's all... I moved.")
Riya blinked. "Shift ho gayi? Kahaan?"
("You shifted? Where?")
My fingers drummed once on the wood. I hesitated.
And then I said it - simply, flatly. "Palace."
She blinked again.
"Kya?"
("What")
I didn't reply. Just kept my eyes down.
But then came the explosion.
"Wait wait wait-PALACE?!" Riya practically screamed, stumbling back like I'd just confessed I was royalty. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped.
"As in... ACTUAL palace?" She blinked rapidly. "Like chandeliers, jharokhas, velvet curtains, and sadiyon purani kahaniyaan waala palace?!"
("Like a palace with chandeliers, jharokhas, velvet curtains, and stories from centuries ago?!")
Her voice climbed with every word. "Are you being serious right now?! IRAAYA!" She threw her hands up, spinning in a full circle before collapsing dramatically against the kitchen wall, one hand over her heart. "Tu toh sach mein Cinderella nikli yaar!"
("You really turned out to be Cinderella, huh!")
I burst out laughing, her chaos washing over me like a needed splash of absurdity.
"Bas ab yeh bata... koi raajkumar mila ya nahi?" she asked, leaning in with eyes that sparkled with mischief and dreams.
("Okay, now tell me... did you find your prince or not?")
Still laughing, I shook my head. "Nahi yaar. Mujhe in sab me intrest nhi hai."
("No yaar, I'm just not interested in all this.")
But even as the words left my mouth...
Something stirred.
A sudden hush bloomed inside me, soft but sharp.
A name surfaced, uninvited - unwelcome, maybe - but persistent.
Vir.
I didn't say it. I didn't even breathe it.
But it was there - curling into my thoughts like the first drop of rain before a storm.
The way Yash Uncle had said his name yesterday... the way it lingered.
That quiet weight in my chest wasn't from the cake.
I blinked once. Swallowed.
"Aye sun na," Riya waved a hand in front of my face. "Kya hua? Kahaan kho gayi tu suddenly?"
("Hey, listen,"
"What happened? Where did you suddenly zone out?")
My thoughts drifted, just for a moment, to yesterday.
To that brief mention - that single name that refused to leave my mind.
"Vir..." I said it aloud, barely a whisper, like tasting a word for the first time. "Pata nahi... koi Vir hai."
("I don't know... some guy named Vir.")
A pause. Then softly, "Par isse zyada mujhe kuch nahi pata."
("But I don't know anything beyond that.")
Riya narrowed her eyes. "Kya kaha tune?"
("What did you just say?")
I blinked, snapping back. "Kuch nahi." I shook my head, brushing it off. "Waise bhi, main toh guest house mein reh rahi hoon. Palace mein kaun hai, kaun nahi, mujhe lena dena nahi hai. Na hi jaana hai mujhe."
("Nothing."
"Anyway, I'm staying in the guest house. Who's in the palace and who's not-I've got nothing to do with it. And I don't want to know either.")
My voice was calm, but inside... it wasn't that simple.
A beat of silence lingered between us. The kind that settles after something unsaid is almost spoken - heavy, but hesitant to stay.
Then, Riya's gasp sliced through it like a match lighting up the dark.
"AREY WAAH! Cake?!" she shrieked, eyes landing on the monsoon cake like she'd just discovered hidden treasure. Her voice leapt with childish delight, dramatic as ever. "TU NE bina mujhe bulaye start bhi kar diya?!"
("Oh wow! Cake?!"
"You started without even calling me?!")
Relief surged through me like a deep breath finally taken.
Thank God for cake.
For her. For this - the escape from thoughts I wasn't ready to untangle yet.
I let out a soft laugh, the corner of my mouth lifting. "Drama queen. Baith ja."
("sit down.")
I turned back to the counter, steadying my hands as I cut a slice - generous, perfectly neat. She didn't even wait.
Before the plate touched the table, her finger was already swiping a thick curl of frosting off the top, and she popped it into her mouth with a satisfied hum.
"Mmmm... Iraaya, tujhme kisi baker ka soul aaya hai," she said, eyes closing like she was tasting art instead of cake.
("Mmmm... Iraaya, you've definitely got the soul of a baker in you.")
I joined her at the little table in the corner, and for a moment, it was just... stillness.
Two girls. One old wooden table. A shared slice of cake - and the quiet healing that comes when the world outside the door is paused.
We sat shoulder to shoulder, elbows occasionally bumping, laughter mixing with the faint scent of cocoa, vanilla, and that delicate touch of cardamom I'd added last night without even thinking.
The cake was sweet, soft, but not overpowering.
A bit like this moment.
A moment that didn't ask questions. That didn't demand answers.
Just a space to breathe.
For the first time since yesterday, something inside me unclenched - even if only a little.
Then came the soft creak of the back door.
My gaze flicked up, instinctively alert - but then instantly melted into familiarity.
"Arrey... Kesar Bhaiya!" I stood up quickly, a real smile blooming before I even registered it fully.
There he was, just like he always returned - tan from the village sun, sleeves rolled, a cloth slung across one shoulder. There was a kind of peace in his presence - like time hadn't touched him, like no matter how much changed around me, he would always be the same.
"Namaste, didi," he greeted warmly, his voice steady and kind. "Wapas aa gaya hoon. Kaam sambhal lunga ab."
("Namaste, Didi,"
"I've come back. I'll handle the work now.")
Something tugged in my chest - something that felt close to safety.
"Aapka intezaar tha, bhaiya," I said softly, the warmth in my voice surprising even me.
("We were waiting for you, Bhaiya.")
He nodded with a smile that said everything without needing words. Then he disappeared into the storeroom, already slipping back into rhythm.
I turned back to the table, only to find Riya staring at me with frosting at the corner of her mouth and a grin that could split the sun.
"Waise... shaam ko chalte hain na bahar?" she said casually, though her eyes were gentle - reading me far too well.
"Thoda fresh ho jaayega tera dimaag. Ek acchi si coffee, halka sa walk. Tu chal na."
("So... shall we go out this evening?"
"It'll help clear your mind a bit. A nice cup of coffee, a light walk. Come on, just come with me.")
I met her eyes.
For a second, I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because a part of me - a quiet, tired part - was still stuck somewhere in yesterday.
In that house. In that name.
But I looked around.
At the shop. At the empty chairs. At the cake we'd nearly finished.
At her - always loud, always messy, always there.
And for the first time since the move, I felt like me again.
I nodded slowly. "Theek hai. Chalte hain."
("Alright. Let's go.")
She grinned. "Ok girl."
And just like that, something heavy lifted.
As if - even for a few hours - I could leave behind the confusion, the memories, the silence of that enormous palace...
And return to something warm. Familiar.
Sweet.
Because sometimes, it doesn't take a prince to save you.
Just a slice of cake, a good friend...
And a quiet evening where the world feels soft again.
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The golden glow of the setting sun filtered through the tall jharokha windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor of the royal chamber. The silence in the room wasn't empty - it was thoughtful, waiting, as if it too was listening.
Padmavati Rathore stood by the carved wooden mirror, slipping gold bangles onto her wrists with a measured grace, her eyes occasionally glancing toward the man seated in the armchair near the window - her husband, Yash Singh Rathore.
He hadn't spoken in a while.
Only the rustling of the peepal tree outside the window filled the space.
And then-
"Are you sure about letting them stay here?" Padmavati finally said, her voice quiet but edged. Not angry. But unsure.
Yash didn't move.
His gaze was still out the window, his hands laced together, his jaw tight - as if holding words that didn't want to come easy.
"They're part of a storm we buried years ago," she added, softer now. "Why dig it back up?"
He exhaled slowly - once.
Then turned slightly toward her, the weight of time sitting behind his eyes.
"Did you forget... what happened thirteen years ago?" His voice was low, almost too soft for the grandeur of the room they stood in.
Padmavati paused. The bangles in her hand stilled.
Yash stood up - not hurriedly, but like a man standing beneath the burden of something unfinished.
"I made a promise," he said after a moment, his voice steadier now. "A promise I never fulfilled."
He looked straight at her now - not just as a husband, but as a man weighed by regret.
"I won't make that mistake again."
Silence.
A moment passed - and then another.
Padmavati stepped forward, her expression no longer cautious but calm. Gentle.
The kind of strength that doesn't fight the storm, but walks into it with grace.
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You did good," she said, softly. "You're doing the right thing, Yash."
He nodded once.
And together, they left the room.
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The jet cut through the clouds like a silent predator - sleek, private, mercilessly fast. Inside, the cabin hummed low with ambient lighting and quiet tension.
Shahveer snored softly across from him, half-sprawled on the recliner, legs dangling, hoodie pulled over his eyes.
But Viransh sat upright, unmoving.
The glass of whiskey in his hand had barely been touched. The ice had melted into dull amber water, long forgotten.
His gaze was fixed on the horizon - or what little of it he could see through the window.
The sun had begun to set, bleeding orange into the edges of a sleeping desert. Even from the sky, Rajasthan looked ancient... sacred. Like the earth itself carried memory in its cracks.
His jaw clenched.
Thirteen years.
He had left this soil a boy.
And now, gravity was pulling him back - not just across continents, but across everything he had buried.
A quiet ding signaled descent. Shahveer stirred, rubbing his face.
"We there?" he mumbled, yawning.
Viransh didn't answer.
Shahveer sat up and stretched. "Wow. Look at that... this place really does look royal from the sky."
But Viransh's eyes hadn't moved.
Not yet.
Not until the wheels kissed the earth with a soft thud - like the first knock on a door long shut.
The jet rolled to a smooth halt on the private airstrip just outside the Rathore estate.
As the door lowered with a mechanical hiss, the warm air of Rajasthan rushed in like a memory too familiar to ignore - dry, sun-kissed, and tinged with the faint scent of dust and history.
Shahveer stepped out first.
And then - slowly - Viransh followed.
Boots touched native soil.
But his soul didn't land with them.
Not yet.
A small army of cars waited at the edge of the runway.
Black SUVs. White Land Cruisers. One of the vintage Rolls Royces from his grandfather's collection, polished until the metal gleamed like old royalty.
Uniformed drivers stood beside each one, backs straight, heads lowered.
The air smelled of sandalwood... and reverence.
Shahveer let out a low whistle. "Damn. Didn't think they'd roll out the entire cavalry."
One of the senior chauffeurs stepped forward. "Rathore-saab," he greeted with folded hands.
Viransh didn't correct him. Not this time.
"Take him," he said, nodding toward Shahveer. "To the palace. I'll come separately."
Shahveer looked at him, frowning. "Bro... everything okay?"
Viransh didn't answer at first.
His eyes were locked on the car parked at the very end of the line - a matte black Mahindra SUV. No family crest. No tinted glass. No luxury.
Just silence.
He nodded at that one.
The driver understood.
Viransh turned to Shahveer. "Go ahead. I'll meet you there."
Shahveer opened his mouth to argue - but something in Viransh's expression made him stop.
This wasn't about logistics.
This was about... space.
Time.
Maybe even penance.
So Shahveer gave him a short nod and got in.
The SUV peeled away down the desert road, kicking up gold dust in its wake.
Viransh watched it disappear.
And only then did he move toward the car waiting for him - quieter, plainer, but somehow heavier.
He slid in.
No guards.
No entourage.
Just him and the road.
As the car rolled forward, the city of Jaipur unfurled slowly around him - vibrant, chaotic, stunning. Like a forgotten lullaby playing softly in the background of his mind.
Narrow streets where time moved differently.
Children ran barefoot past fruit carts. The same air, the same red stone - but everything felt different.
Or maybe... he was different.
The sky had started to bleed into hues of grey.
A low, restless wind stirred the air as Viransh gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles pale against the leather. The hum of the engine was smooth beneath him, almost smug - like it knew just how far it could take him before breaking down.
The black SUV sliced through the winding road that snaked from the airstrip into the quieter fringes of Jaipur. Here, everything slowed - even time.
And all of it... made his chest ache.
He didn't want to be here.
Every turn of the wheel felt like being dragged deeper into a world he had tried to escape. Deeper into expectations he no longer respected.
Deeper into the memory of a boy who once ran barefoot through those palace corridors.
His jaw clenched as a voice echoed in his head - a memory that had refused to fade.
"Is baar naa mat karna, beta... pata nahi, agla mauka milega bhi ya nahi..."
("Don't say no this time, son... I don't know if there'll even be a next chance...")
His Dadu's voice had been calm. Loving, even.
But layered with something else now. Finality.
Viransh exhaled, slow and steady, nostrils flaring. The kind of breath you take when you're trying not to feel anything at all.
Outside, the sky was changing rapidly - a dull silver smudged with brooding clouds, monsoon wind curling through the trees like it had teeth.
Then - it happened.
A sudden jolt.
The steering wheel jerked in his hands. The engine sputtered once, twice - a sickening sound, like metal choking on breath.
His brows furrowed sharply. "No-no, no..."
He tapped the brake.
Warning lights blinked across the dashboard like a mockery.
The SUV rolled forward a few feet... then died.
Dead silence.
He sat there. One hand still on the wheel. Rain beginning to speckle across the windshield. His jaw locked tight. His temple ticked.
Then - he slammed his palm against the steering wheel with a sharp crack.
"Fuck!"
But the rain didn't care.
It started light - a soft patter.
Then, like a switch had been flipped, the heavens split open.
Sheets of rain pounded the SUV, loud and relentless, as if the storm itself had been waiting for him.
A muscle in his cheek flexed.
He shoved the door open and stepped out, the storm hitting him full-force - cold, fierce, and unapologetic. Within seconds, his black shirt was plastered to his body, rain dragging the fabric down every contour of him - across the broad plane of his chest, clinging to the cut of his abs beneath.
His trousers soaked through instantly, molding to the powerful line of his thighs.
His hair darkened, flattened over his forehead, a few strands dripping near his eyes.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't cower.
But the frustration was visible - in the way his hands curled into fists. In the tension roping through his shoulders.
Water slid down his neck, down the sharp line of his jaw, trailing over his throat.
His boots splashed as he moved around the SUV, popping the hood with a practiced flick. He leaned in, veins visible under his skin as his arms flexed, rain running like silver over his forearms.
Steam hissed from the engine.
He scanned the mess of wires and heat and nothing made sense.
Not right now.
Not soaked like this, with his patience unraveling inch by inch.
He cursed again under his breath and slammed the hood shut, water flying from the edges.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. Hair dripping. Muscles straining under drenched clothes. He looked like a god carved in fury and rain.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed.
The line connected almost instantly.
"Send another car. Immediately," he snapped. His voice was low, clipped, seething. "I don't care. Just get it here in the next ten minutes."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just ended the call, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and leaned against the hood of the car, head tilted back, rain hitting his face.
And then - through the curtain of rain - he saw it.
A tea stall.
Flickering light under a crooked tin roof, yellow and warm like a mirage.
Faint laughter floated out, barely audible through the storm.
His gaze lingered.
Brows furrowed.
There was something about it - the simplicity, the life, the hum of conversation against the downpour.
It looked... real.
Human.
The complete opposite of the palace waiting for him.
Viransh straightened slowly, wiping rain from his eyes.
And then he began to walk.
One step at a time.
Heavy boots against wet earth. Rainwater trailing down his spine. Shoulders broad, posture unbending - even now.
Unaware that fate was about to collide with fire.
And that this storm - wasn't the only one waiting.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"I told you!" I beamed, arms wide open, fingers stretched toward the sky like I could catch the clouds. "Monsoon cake ka jaadu chal gaya! Dekh, barish ho rahi hai!"
("The magic of the monsoon cake worked! Look, it's raining!")
And it was.
Oh, it was.
The rain fell like a secret finally confessed - steady, soft at first, then wild. I could feel it sliding down my skin, seeping into the fabric of my white dress, turning it translucent against my body.
Cold. Electric. Alive. My long hair was already soaked, strands sticking to my cheeks, my neck, my spine.
But I didn't care.
I tilted my head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting the drops kiss my lashes, roll over my lips, soak through every layer of me.
God, I loved this.
The scent of wet mitti rose like a hymn from the ground - earthy, pure, honest. A smell that always reminded me I was home. I breathed it in so deeply it settled in my chest like memory.
"Iru! Kya kar rahi hai?" Riya's voice cut through my haze, tugging at my wrist like an anxious mother hen. "Bheeg jaayegi poori!"
("Iru! What are you doing?", "You're going to be drenched!")
I laughed again - freer, louder.
"Arey toh bheegna hi toh hai!" I grinned, slipping out of her grip like water.
"Baarish ka mazaa yahin toh hai!"
("Oh come on, getting drenched is the whole point!", "That's the whole joy of rain!")
I spun once under the open sky.
Just once.
But in that spin - something opened.
My dupatta flew like wings behind me, soaked but weightless. My jhumkas swayed against my wet cheeks. Rain clung to the corners of my smile.
My heart felt like it had just remembered how to breathe again.
The world faded around me - just rain and sky and this inexplicable, stupid joy. The kind that bloomed without permission. The kind that tasted like childhood.
"Pagal," Riya muttered behind me, but she was smiling too. I could feel it even without turning.
(Mad)
Because when I laughed like that - really laughed - I knew it made people forget things.
Their worries. Their weight. The world.
It was something Papa used to say.
"Tera chehra jab hansta hai na, toh lagta hai jaise subah ki pehli kiran ho gyi ho."
(When your face smiles, it feels like the first ray of morning light.)
And for a second, just one second, I let myself believe that maybe he was watching.
Maybe this rain was him, too.
Soaked and dripping, we finally ducked under the crooked tin awning of a small tea stall.
It wasn't much - faded paint, plastic sheet half-tied across one side, the smell of coal smoke curling through the damp air. But oh... it felt like something.
Warm.
Real.
Like all the small stories in the world had come to take shelter here.
We stepped in, trailing water like children. The wooden chairs creaked under our weight as we sat, giggling, still catching our breath. My kurta clung to me, making me shiver, but it was the good kind of cold. The kind that felt like being kissed by the sky.
"Do adrak wali cutting chai, bhaiya," I said, brushing wet strands from my eyes as I smiled at the chaiwala. He nodded, already pouring.
(two ginger tea, brother)
I leaned forward, arms resting on the wooden table, chin on my palm, watching the rain blur the outside world into watercolors.
"I swear," I whispered, voice soft as steam rising from a kettle, "yeh mausam... it's made for stories."
(this weather...)
Not the loud ones.
Not the ones in books or movies.
But the ones that sneak up quietly.
In a moment. In a cup of tea. In the rain.
She smiled, warm and familiar, the corners of her eyes crinkling the way they always did when she was about to say something silly.
"And chai," she added, nudging my elbow gently.
We both laughed-soft and easy-as the chaiwala placed two steaming kulhads before us. Little cups of comfort, their rims stained with the golden edge of masala.
I wrapped both hands around mine, letting the heat seep into my fingers, up through my palms and into the quiet corners of my chest.
Outside, the rain painted trembling lines down the window pane-soft, silver threads stitching the sky to the earth.
There's something womb-like about a storm.
Something that wraps around you instead of washing you away.
Something that makes you feel safe inside tiny, glowing corners of the world-like this.
A friend beside you. Hot tea in your hands. Laughter still warm in the air.
And then-
It changed.
Not the chai.
Not the weather.
The air.
A shift so subtle, I didn't realize it until I felt it.
Boots.
Heavy ones.
It was the kind of presence you didn't hear so much as feel.
The door creaked open behind me.
Then-like a fist thrown into calm water-the wind barged in.
Cold, damp air crashed through the stall, swirling into the steam rising from our chai. It carried the scent of drenched earth and diesel, of rust and thunder and something sharp-like iron heated just before it bends.
My heart flickered forward, unsure why.
I didn't turn.
Just stared at the window.
My breath ghosted the glass.
Then-
A sudden, violent heat.
Not the comforting kind from chai cupped in hands.
No.
This one seared.
Scalding liquid spilled down the side of my torso-sharp, jarring, slicing through the dampness already on my skin. It ran across my ribs, seeping through fabric and finding bare flesh underneath, so fast that pain didn't even have time to knock-it just barged in, same as the wind.
"Ahh-!" My breath gasped out, sharp and strangled.
My hand jerked instinctively, fingers losing their grip.
The kulhad slipped.
And in one sharp, echoing second, it hit the floor.
A crack.
Porcelain fractured on contact.
Tea splashed across the stone tiles. The rim rolled once, then stilled. Steam rose faintly from the mess like the ghost of the moment that had just shattered.
I was frozen.
Still sitting.
Still staring at the space where the cup had been.
Pain bloomed along my side, a slow burn under soaked fabric, but it was nothing compared to what hit me next.
Outrage.
Thick. Hot. Sudden.
Like blood rushing to the face, rising too fast for breath to catch up.
I looked down-tea stained the side of my white Anarkali, turning the delicate cotton translucent. The wet fabric clung awkwardly to my skin, outlining everything in the worst possible way.
The soft rust color of the chai bled into the curves of my form like a bruise spreading across a blank canvas.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Across from me, Riya's mouth parted in horror. Her hands hovered, unsure whether to touch me or the broken cup or nothing at all.
And then, finally, I moved.
Turned my head.
Slowly.
And saw-
Him.
Tall.
Dark.
Drenched in the storm.
And he was walking past me.
Past me.
Without stopping.
Without looking.
Without a flicker of acknowledgment.
Like I hadn't just been sitting there.
Like he hadn't just clipped my arm and spilled fire on my skin.
Like I was the ghost.
And he was the storm that didn't care what it tore through.
He didn't look back.
Didn't even breathe in my direction.
Just strode up to the counter as if nothing had happened - like I was air and he was wind, unbothered by the chaos he left behind.
"Ek black chai," he told the chaiwala.
(tea)
His voice - low, clipped - held no aggression.
That was it?
No glance.
No hesitation.
Not even the smallest shift of his shoulder to suggest he'd noticed what he'd done - that he'd just poured boiling tea down someone's side and kept walking like I wasn't even there.
My heart stuttered, caught somewhere between shock and fury.
Not from the physical burn.
That had already dulled beneath soaked cotton and rising anger.
Not even from embarrassment - though eyes were still flicking toward me, quick and uncertain, pretending not to look too long.
No.
What I felt was deeper.
Sharper.
It was disbelief.
That this man - this arrogant stranger - could just barge in, wreak havoc, and leave me in pieces without sparing me a single breath of acknowledgment.
I stood there, frozen, rain dripping from my hair, my ruined kurti clinging to my side.
Riya's fingers brushed my arm just then - soft and hesitant - like a tether trying to hold me in place. Her voice was gentle, almost pleading, low enough that only I could hear it over the soft rattle of the storm.
"Iru... just let it go..."
But she was too late.
The words reached my ears, but not my body.
Because something inside me had already snapped free.
My body moved before my mind did.
I stood - fast, sharp, breath curling out of me like smoke.
The legs of my chair scraped against the stone with a screech so sudden and sharp it cracked through the air like thunder - slicing the moment clean in half.
Every head turned.
Water pooled at my feet from the rain still dripping off my clothes, but I didn't feel the cold anymore.
The wet floor slapped beneath my jutti as I marched across it, each step sharper than the last, the sound loud and deliberate, echoing off the chai stall walls.
Each breath burned hotter than the last.
I could feel eyes flicking toward me - curious, startled, cautious - but I didn't waver. Let them watch. Let them see what happens when a woman decides she will not be reduced to invisible anymore.
And there he stood.
At the counter.
Back still turned, spine infuriatingly relaxed, one hand resting casually against his pocket like he had all the time in the world and not a single thing to be sorry for.His other hand was on the counter ledge- the image of composed negligence.
Water still trickled from his soaked sleeve in thin streams, running down his tanned forearm before disappearing into the cuff of his black shirt, plastered now to his frame.
The fabric clung to his back and shoulders like the storm itself had sculpted him from shadow and arrogance.
And yet... he looked untouched.
"Excuse me," I said.
Sharp.
Clean.
Every syllable honed like a blade meant to be noticed.
Nothing.
He didn't move.
Didn't tilt his head.
Didn't even breathe in my direction.
Like I was wind against stone.
Something snapped in me then - quick and bright.
"EXCUSE ME!"
This time, my voice cracked through the thick chai-scented air like lightning across a dead sky.
Every eye turned again.
Every breath paused.
And finally - finally - he turned.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like the act of acknowledging me cost him something. Like I'd just pulled him from some private war he didn't want interrupted.
And that's when it happened.
Our eyes met.
And the world went eerily quiet.
His eyes were dark. Not black no. Deeper than that. The kind of dark that holds stories. Focused. Fierce. Not wide with shock, not soft with apology. Just still.
Composed. Dangerous.
It wasn't the wild, reckless kind of danger. It was the contained kind - lethal in silence. The kind you don't see coming until it's already inside your chest.
His gaze locked onto mine with unnerving precision. And in that frozen breath of time, he wasn't just looking at me - he was measuring me.
And then he spoke.
"Yes?" he said.
Just one word.
Flat. Controlled. Dipped in the kind of impatience that wasn't loud - but carved deep. Not quite rude. Not quite polite.
Like I was a paper cut across his attention span. Like my voice didn't belong in the world he'd built around himself.
I blinked, stunned for a moment by the sheer audacity of his calm.
"You just spilled chai all over me," I said, the words pushing past the tight heat in my chest. "And you didn't even notice?"
His expression didn't shift.
He blinked. Once. Slow. Almost deliberate - like he was taking time to file the moment away, even if he didn't care.
And then-
A shrug.
Simple. Lazy.
One shoulder lifted - barely.
"Didn't see you."
His voice was low. Flat.
Drenched in indifference so cold, it chilled even through the warm hum of the stall.
And just like that - my disbelief turned into something else.
Fire.
A meaningless blip in the orbit of a man who walked like the world belonged to him.
"You hit my arm. Knocked the cup," I said, my voice tight, trying to hold its ground even as disbelief rattled beneath it.
He didn't even look at me. Didn't blink.
"You were in the way," he replied-
Flat. Effortless. Dismissive.
Five words,tossed carelessly, like scraps falling from a table too fine to notice who sat beneath it, there was no apology in them.
Not even a flicker of regret that he'd poured scalding tea on a stranger and kept walking like it didn't matter.
As if I were a stray object in his path.
An obstacle, not a person.
He turned his head just a little - not to look at me, but to wave me off with silence.
And somehow, that-
That half-turn of disregard-
Cut deeper than the chai had burned.
He was already moving on. Already erasing me.
"In the-!" My voice cracked on the word. "You walk in here like a damn hurricane and then act like you own the place?"
He didn't flinch.
Didn't shift.
Didn't even breathe like someone being confronted.
He just answered - smooth, cool, unaffected - like my rage was background noise too.
"I don't act," he said without turning. "I just do."
There it was.
Not arrogance.
Worse.
Certainty.
His tone didn't try to justify itself.
Because in his world, he didn't have to.
He didn't explain the way he moved through rooms - loud, fast, unapologetic - because he believed rooms should adjust for him.
I stepped forward.
"You could've at least said sorry," I said.
Quieter now but sharper.
That stopped him.
He turned.
Slower this time. Not with the stiff annoyance from before.
But like he was finally deciding I was worth a second look.
Like he was... curious.
And then - he looked.
Really looked.
Not the kind of look that flickers.
Not a glance.
This was deliberate. Calculated.
Like I had just become a problem he couldn't ignore - or an equation he needed to solve.
His eyes, impossibly dark, locked onto mine first.
It was so sudden, so intense, I forgot to breathe.
He didn't blink.
Just looked.
And then - slowly, impossibly slowly - his gaze began to shift.
Downward.
From my eyes to my mouth.
Then lower, past the arch of my jaw, the curve of my throat, the sodden fabric of my kurti.
The dark stain that stretched across it, clinging in places it shouldn't.
Water still trickled from the ends of my jhumkas down the line of my neck, catching in the hollow of my collarbones, tracing my skin like it had a mind of its own.
And I saw it.
I saw him watch it.
Not with shame.
Just... calmly. Observing.
His gaze didn't linger.
It noted.
Precise. Quiet. Unapologetic.
Like he was filing away each detail and not a single one would be forgotten.
My breath caught - and not from the cold.
Because I was watching him watching me.
And it felt like standing under something huge and unrelenting.
And the strangest part?
I couldn't read a damn thing.
His face... it didn't give anything away.
No amusement.
No regret.
No satisfaction.
Just that unreadable stillness. That unnerving quiet power.
Like his expression was locked behind some door I didn't have the key to.
But there was something in his eyes.
Something that flickered - too fast to name, too sharp to miss.
A question, maybe. Or a judgment.
Or worse - maybe nothing at all.
And that - that shook me.
Because I didn't know what he was thinking.
I didn't know what I was feeling.
All I knew was that the silence had shifted.
It had weight now.
Pressure.
A heartbeat.
It pulled tight between us like a thread being wound by invisible hands.
And then - just when I thought he might speak - he did.
That smirk.
Subtle.
Controlled.
But so confidently cruel, it made my skin prickle.
"Sorry?" he said, low, casual, every syllable dipped in ice. "For you standing in the way?"
My stomach flipped.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides. I didn't even notice.
The smirk widened by a breath, just enough to show he'd seen the reaction.
And maybe liked it.
"No thanks," he added, eyes still locked on mine.
And just like that, the storm between us thundered, the unbearable coolness in his voice when he smirked at me like I was just a speck of dirt on his polished boot.
Riya whispered my name again behind me - soft, urgent, cracked with disbelief. A warning. A plea.
But it sounded distant.
Because the blood was already pounding in my ears. My chest. My fingertips."I don't know who the hell you think you are," I said - low, furious - stepping closer.
My words cut through the air between us like a knife through wet silk.
He didn't blink.
"I'm the man you threw yourself in front of," he said coldly, arms folding across his chest with a casual arrogance that made the moment feel even more unreal.
The words hit me like a slap I didn't see coming.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
Threw myself?
My eyes locked on his face - and not even the steady rain, the murmuring crowd, or the rising heat in my cheeks could dull the sharp sting of that sentence. He said it like it was a fact. Like it was obvious. Like he was used to women falling over themselves to get near him.
And that's what made it worse.
Not just what he said - but how easily he believed it.
As if I was the kind of girl who'd trip over her dignity just to get his attention. As if everything I was - everything I stood for - could be reduced to some clumsy attempt at flirtation.
I felt it - the humiliation.
Hot. Sharp. Deep in my chest like a shard of broken glass.
And he... he didn't even flinch.
And then, with a voice dipped in mockery, he added, "Congratulations."
As if humiliating me wasn't enough - now he was rewarding me for it.
My jaw fell open.
"Threw myself-?" I echoed, disbelief scraping against my throat.
The words sounded absurd even as I repeated them.
Not for men who couldn't even say sorry after ruining someone's evening.
And definitely not for stranger who thought their arrogance made them untouchable.
I stared at him - at the eyes that hadn't softened, the mouth that hadn't moved except to mock.
And something in me rose, sharp and unyielding.
Because if he thought he could crush me with his words and walk away unscathed - he hadn't met me properly yet.
"Do you even hear yourself?" I asked, the words falling out like loose stones, jagged and unpolished.
I didn't ask it expecting a reply.
I asked it because I needed to say something because his audacity was deafening.
And then he looked at me.
Truly looked.
Unapologetic.
"I do," he said.
His voice was too calm.
Too smooth.
Not flat like indifference - worse than that. It was intentional. As if he wanted his words to land softly just so they could cut deeper.
And then came the second blow. The one that would stay with me longer.
"You're just not worth listening to."
I didn't move.
I didn't blink.
Time stalled.
Not my pride - that was still burning.
Not my anger - that was boiling just beneath the surface.
My jaw tightened.
My spine straightened.
My pulse no longer raced from emotion - it moved with purpose now.
He didn't know who I was.
He didn't know what I carried.
But he would.
He would.
Because that single sentence had done something no one had done in a long time.
It lit a match inside me.
And that's when I turned.
Not to him.
Not yet.
I turned to the table.
Riya's kulhad sat there.
Innocent.
Unaware of what it was about to become.
Still full. Still steaming.
The only thing in this damned moment that hadn't gone cold.
I reached for it.
My fingers curled around the terracotta sides, and the warmth met my skin with a soft hiss - like the universe whispering do it.
And for a breath, I held it there.
Letting the heat bleed into me.
Letting it ground me - anchor me - in the chaos I had no intention of walking away from.
And he was watching me now.
I could feel it - not just his eyes, but the precision of his attention. How it narrowed. Tightened. Shifted from casual arrogance to something... more alert.
More curious.
More dangerous.
Our eye contact locked.
And held.
Waiting.
Like he thought this was over.
Like he believed I'd just stand there and swallow the insult, like so many must have before me.
Too late.
I didn't hesitate.
Not for a heartbeat.
I moved.
Fluid and full of fury.
My arm lifted and flung.
The kulhad left my hand in a clean, precise arc - and the chai followed like a comet.
A ribbon of heat and defiance sliced through the air, glinting golden-brown under the grey light of the storm outside.
And then-
Impact.
The chai hit him dead center - a hot, wet smack against his chest.
It exploded across the soaked fabric, splattering in perfect vengeance.
Gasps erupted instantly - loud and sharp, like the entire stall had been holding its breath.
A woman at the table near us let out a squeak. A man muttered a stunned curse in Hindi. Someone behind the counter knocked over a spoon.
Even the chaiwala froze, ladle in mid-air, a slow curl of steam spiraling up beside his wide eyes.
And Riya - poor, shocked Riya - let out a soft, horrified gasp behind me.
"Iru..." she whispered, not quite loud enough, not quite sure if she was pleading or praying.
But I didn't move.
I didn't flinch.
I stood tall, breathing steady, rage-quiet, and absolutely unapologetic.
The chai dripped down his already drenched shirt, running in rivulets along the folds, staining it deeper, darker.
Steam curled upward from his shirt like smoke off a fuse - delicate, ghostly - trailing between us as if marking the line we had just crossed.
And his face-
It changed.
For the first time since this standoff began, his composure cracked.
And I saw it.
The flicker.
The shift.
The stunned glitch in his arrogance.
His smirk faltered mid-curve, hanging frozen for a beat like his mind hadn't caught up with reality.
His brows twitched downward, confusion clouding his gaze. His mouth parted slightly - not in anger, but in shock. Real, raw disbelief that clung to him like the tea soaking into his clothes.
He hadn't expected it.
Not from me.
And for that one, suspended moment, he just... stared at me. Like I had just knocked his carefully built world sideways.
He looked down at himself.
The tea had bloomed like a stain of defiance across his chest - rich, brown, and steaming. Hot droplets clung to the drenched fabric, sliding down like insults. His fingers flexed slightly, arms still in mid air no longer relaxed.
Then-his jaw moved.
Just a twitch.
Just enough.
That's when I saw it - the burn.
The insult sinking in.
And his expression... shifted again.
The disbelief didn't vanish.
It simmered.
Curdled into something darker.
Slower.
Hotter.
A rage that shimmered just beneath his skin - not the kind that screamed, but the kind that calculated.
His nostrils flared once. His lips drew into a tight, brutal line.
But he didn't lash out.
No.
He controlled it.
Held it down like a beast on a leash.
And then-
He moved.
One step.
Then another.
Measured.
Purposeful.
Predator-sure.
I could hear my heartbeat now - pounding like a war drum in my ears - but I didn't move.
I didn't dare.
Because he came close.
Too close.
The distance between us evaporated like the steam from his shirt. His presence crashed into me - heavy, crackling, electric.
And his scent -
It hit me hard.
Rain and spice.
Smoke and sandalwood.
His cologne mixed with the sharp note of hot tea, and for one disorienting second, the smell wrapped around me, dragged me under.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
My body screamed to move - and yet I stood steady.
Chin high.
Jaw tight.
Unyielding.
And he just looked at me.
Not with anger.
With something more dangerous.
He dragged his eyes over me - slowly - from my drenched hair, down my rain-spattered kurti, to the fingers still curled with phantom heat from the kulhad.
Then back up again.
He didn't speak for a breath.
Then he leaned in slightly - not touching, but close enough to invade.
And in a voice so low I almost didn't catch it through the rain, he said,
"So much guts... hmm?"
My throat tightened.
Our eyes locked.
The air thickened.
Neither of us blinked.
Neither of us moved.
It was supposed to be a glance - a warning.
But it lasted longer than it should have.
Longer than either of us meant to.
His stare bored into mine - steady, unreadable, terrifyingly calm.
Then finally-
He said it.
Voice barely above the thunder, slow and precise:
"You'll regret this."
I didn't flinch.
Didn't lower my gaze.
I let the heat in my chest spill into my words.
"The only thing I regret," I replied, my voice sharp and steady as steel unsheathing,
"is wasting good chai on a man who thinks manners are beneath him."
And it landed.
Not like a slap - no, more like a mark being carved.
I saw the flicker behind his eyes again.
Something twisted.
Something curious.
Like he hadn't decided what he wanted to do with me yet - punish me... or understand me.
A murmur stirred behind me - gasps, hushed voices, someone fumbling with a phone. The storm thundered like it, too, was holding its breath.
And still-
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
Our gazes locked again - locked in a silence more deafening than any scream.
Then-
"Iru, bas!"
(stop)
Riya's hand closed around my wrist.
Her voice, breathless, panicked.
"Iru, we're leaving."
She tugged.
I resisted for a heartbeat too long.
But eventually, I let her pull me.
Even as she dragged me back through the crowd and toward the tea stall's edge, I could feel him.
Still watching.
I didn't need to look back.
I knew.
I felt his eyes on my back - burning holes through the rain, through my spine.
And when I glanced back for just a second, just to confirm-
I saw him.
Still there.
Still as stone.
Jaw clenched.
Eyes locked on me like a man not used to being walked away from.
Like something inside him had shifted.
Cracked.
Awakened.
And he didn't just watch me go.
He memorized it.
∘◦ ❈ ◦∘
I know this chapter turned out a bit long - but since the update was delayed, I wanted to make it extra special for you all! 💖
So... what are your thoughts on Viransh and Iraaya's first meeting?
Tell me everything in the comments - and don't forget to vote if you enjoyed it!
Your support means the world to me 💌
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