Third Person POV.

The sun had begun its slow descent, painting Jaisalmer's sky in shades of gold and crimson. By the time lamps were lit in Sharma Kothi, the haveli no longer looked like a house—it looked like a palace resurrected from the pages of history. 

Every archway was draped in marigold and jasmine garlands, every jharokha illuminated with a thousand diyas that bathed the sandstone walls in a honeyed glow. The faint fragrance of roses and sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the sound of shehnai and dhol, echoing through the courtyards.

The main hall was transformed into nothing less than a darbar. Crystal chandeliers cast their brilliance upon silk-draped ceilings, the soft flicker of candles blending with the golden light of the diyas. 

Rows of velvet seats had been lined up for dignitaries, politicians, and royal guests who had come from across Rajasthan and beyond to witness the union of two powerful families. 

The media thronged outside and at the corners, cameras ready, whispers passing through them like sparks of fire—they were not just covering an engagement, they were covering history.

On one side, the Agnivansh family stood together like a living portrait of royalty. Veer Agnivansh's proud aura filled the space as he sat in the front row beside his lifelong friend, Pranay Sharma, the host and grandfather of the bride-to-be. Atharva and Aarav Agnivansh carried themselves with quiet regality, their wives, Meera and Yukta, the epitome of grace. 

Sugandha, the matriarch, sat poised, her jewels glittering as though echoing her pride. Siya, Kiaan, Vihaan, and Myra—young, magnetic, commanding—turned heads wherever they went, their laughter and conversations flowing like a soft contrast to the otherwise heavy air of power.

The Sharma family, equally radiant in their Rajasthani finery, moved swiftly to welcome every guest. Pooja, Ira's grandmother, was the image of warmth as she greeted the elders of the Agnivansh clan, while Richa, Ira's mother, attended to the women from their extended family. 

Rishabh Sharma, in his element, commanded his media house to capture every moment with precision, even as he subtly played the role of a protective brother, keeping his gaze steady on the flow of rituals. 

Piyush, the father, bustled around ensuring no detail was amiss—no flower out of place, no guest unattended.

Sugandha leaned slightly, her matriarchal grace never faltering as she touched Vihaan's arm. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of command.
"Jaao... tumhare bhai ko bulao. Samay ho gaya hai."

Beside her, Meera's soft eyes rested on her son for a moment, then turned to her nephews. She added gently, "Everything is waiting on him. Bring him down."

Vihaan and Kiaan exchanged a quick look. Both young men—sharp, confident, and bred in royalty—nodded without hesitation. With quiet precision, they rose, straightening their sherwanis before moving towards the staircase. 

The air shifted subtly as they walked; even their footsteps carried the unspoken awareness that they were fetching not just their elder brother, but the man upon whom the evening's grandeur rested.

The crowd's murmur dimmed faintly as the two Agnivansh princes disappeared down the ornate corridor toward the room assigned to Aariv. 

Beyond those carved wooden doors, the Chief Minister of Rajasthan, heir to an unshakable dynasty, waited—composed, powerful, and soon to step into the engagement that bound two families forever.
*****************

Inside the quiet of the room, Aariv stood before a full-length mirror, his sherwani in deep ivory and gold embroidery catching the warm light of the chandelier. 

His broad shoulders and tall frame carried the outfit like it was made only for him. 

The faint glimmer of his turban's brooch reflected against his sharp, chiseled features—his face carved like that of a Greek god, flawless yet devoid of emotion. Hazel eyes, cold and unreadable, flickered once to the mirror before dropping back to the iPad in his hand.

Even in this moment, when the world was waiting for him, Aariv Agnivansh was still working. The man did not bend to time—it bent for him.

The door creaked open. Vihaan and Kiaan entered, their usual charm subdued as they found their brother standing like a monarch in solitude. For a second, they paused. There was no denying it—Aariv didn't need to try; he was power personified.

"Bhai," Vihaan said quietly, "it's time."

Aariv placed the iPad on the table, his movements precise, unhurried. With one final glance at his reflection, he adjusted his sherwani cuff, and without a word, moved forward. 

Vihaan and Kiaan followed, their postures straightening instinctively as though even they felt smaller in his aura.

The engagement hall fell into silence the moment Aariv appeared at the top of the grand staircase. 

Guards in black suits flanked every corner, their eyes scanning the crowd, earpieces buzzing faintly with coded instructions. 

The sheer discipline of their stance reminded everyone present that Aariv was not only the groom today, but the Chief Minister of Rajasthan—the most powerful man in the state.

He descended the steps with regal precision, every stride measured, unhurried. His face remained stoic, carved in cold authority, yet his presence burned through the hall like fire.

Women gasped softly, eyes following his tall figure, lips parting with desire at the sight of a man so untouchably perfect. 

Men, some with admiration and some with envy, shifted in their seats—aware they were witnessing a force, not a person. Whispers rippled through the gathering like a wave, but no one dared speak too loud.

The chandeliers glowed brighter, the soft music slowed, and for that one moment—Aariv Veer Agnivansh owned the hall. 

He didn't smile, didn't greet, didn't soften his expression—he didn't need to. His silence was power, and every eye was his prisoner.

Veer Agnivansh, seated with Pranay Sharma in the front, allowed a proud smile to ghost across his lips as his grandson walked forward, a living embodiment of their legacy.

Aariv entered the engagement hall not as a groom, but as a king walking to claim his throne.
*************

The chants of the panditji echoed gently across the hall, mingling with the faint ringing of temple bells. After completing the small pooja for Aariv, the panditji turned toward the Sharma family and spoke with reverence,

"Ab dulhan ko bulaiye..."

All eyes turned toward Pooja and Richa. They exchanged a glance, their hearts swelling with pride and a mother's emotion. With a soft nod, they signaled to Rishabh. His role wasn't just duty—it was honor.

Rishabh inhaled deeply and made his way up the grand staircase. Each step felt heavier, not with burden, but with the anticipation of what awaited him. 

At the door, he paused, knocked gently, and the door opened to reveal Isha.

Her teasing smile vanished when she saw the look on her brother's face—frozen, breath caught. Rishabh's eyes had gone past her, inside the room.

And there she was.

Ira.

Standing by the window, bathed in the glow of soft sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. Draped in an ivory and blush pink lehenga, her beauty was otherworldly—too divine to be contained by earthly comparisons. The delicate embroidery shimmered against her porcelain skin, but it was not the fabric that made her breathtaking—it was her.

Her long dupatta, light as a whisper, framed her face, falling across her shoulders like a blessing from the heavens. Kohl defined her ocean-blue eyes, already brimming with untold emotions. A faint blush dusted her cheeks, though whether from makeup or the weight of the moment, no one could tell. Her lips trembled ever so slightly as though words had abandoned her, leaving behind only innocence and quiet strength.

She wasn't just a bride-to-be. She was a vision, an angel descended, the kind of beauty that silences the soul.

Rishabh's throat tightened. His protective heart ached, torn between pride and the bittersweet realization that his little sister was no longer just his. She belonged to someone else now, to a life far beyond his reach.

"Beautiful..." he whispered, voice raw, as if the word itself wasn't enough to carry the weight of what he saw. His eyes glistened, but he quickly blinked them clear, not wanting Ira to see his weakness.

Isha turned back toward Ira with a grin, though her own hazel eyes shimmered too. "Come, didi... it's time."

Inside the softly lit room, silence lingered after Rishabh's whispered "Beautiful." Ira lowered her gaze, fingers nervously tracing the embroidery of her dupatta. Isha shut the door behind her, leaning on it for a second, watching both her elder siblings—one standing strong but heavy with responsibility, the other fragile in her quiet grace.

Rishabh took a deep breath and stepped inside, his eyes locked on Ira. His usually confident shoulders seemed tense, his jaw set. Then, with a sudden intensity, he walked forward, cupped Ira's hands in his own, and looked into her blue doe eyes.

"Iru," he said softly, voice trembling with emotion. 

"No matter what happens from tomorrow... you remember one thing. Main hamesha tumhare saath hoon. Always. Whether you're in this house or the palace of Agnivansh, whether you laugh or cry—your brother will always stand by you. No power, no man, no throne can change that."

Ira blinked rapidly, her eyes blurring with unshed tears. Her lips quivered, but no words came out—only a nod as she pressed her forehead gently against Rishabh's hand.

"I know you're scared," he continued, his voice cracking slightly despite his effort to stay composed. "And Isha too... both of you are my life. Tum dono meri zimmedari nahi ho, tum dono mera garv ho. I swear, as long as I live, nothing will touch you."

Isha, who had been standing quietly, suddenly let out a loud, exaggerated sniffle. "Arey wah, bhaiya... don't get too emotional. What if my kajal smudges, haan? Then dulhan didi will shine, and I'll look like a crying crow beside her!"

She forced a laugh, tilting her head dramatically. Her hazel eyes, though shining with tears, sparkled with mischief.

Rishabh turned to her, trying to glare, but ended up smiling. Ira let out a soft giggle, muffling it behind her hand.

"Crow, really?" Rishabh said, shaking his head. "You'll always be my drama queen."

Isha stepped forward and hugged both of them at once, pulling them into a clumsy embrace. "Drama queen ya crow, who cares. As long as I've got you both, nothing else matters."

For a moment, time stood still—three siblings wrapped in each other's arms, their breaths uneven, their hearts heavy, but bound together by a love unshakable. 

Outside, the world waited with lights, music, and rituals. 

But inside that room, it was just them—the brother making a vow, the elder sister stepping into a new life, and the youngest trying to stitch their breaking hearts together with laughter through her tears.

Ira's steps felt heavy, though her lehenga whispered like soft clouds against the marble floor. 

One hand was looped around Rishabh's arm, the other gently held by Isha, but inside she felt alone—terrifyingly alone.

Her blue eyes flickered down with every step, the intricate patterns of the carpet blurring. 

Am I ready for this? she thought. Do I even know him? Aariv Veer Agnivansh—the name everyone speaks with fear, with respect. But for me, he's just a stranger. A stranger I am about to bind my life with.

Her heart thudded in her chest, faster than the rhythm of the shehnai echoing faintly from the hall. What if I cannot adjust? What if his world suffocates me? 

She imagined the palace, its towering walls, its endless expectations, and herself—just a fragile girl who had only ever known the safety of her home and the freedom of her dance.

Rishabh's grip tightened slightly on her hand, as though he could feel the storm inside her. She glanced at her brother's face, his jaw firm, his eyes steady, silently promising her strength. 

On her other side, Isha squeezed her fingers lightly and whispered, "Didi, you're glowing. Stop worrying, warna I'll start crying and ruin everything."

A shaky smile tugged at Ira's lips, but the knot in her stomach only tightened. They're trying so hard to make me brave. But what if I disappoint them? What if I disappoint him?

The golden lights from the engagement hall spilled toward them, growing brighter with every step. Voices, laughter, and the clinking of glasses swirled around, but for Ira it all sounded muffled, distant.

She inhaled deeply, trying to compose herself, but her palms were clammy against Rishabh's sleeve. Her mind whispered a prayer: Ganpati Bappa... bas himmat dena. I will try. I will do my duty. Just... don't let me break.

And with that, flanked by her brother's strength and her sister's innocence, Ira moved forward—toward a hall where hundreds of eyes waited for her, and toward a man whose world terrified her, yet whose shadow she could no longer escape.

The grand hall of Sharma Niwas, draped in golden marigolds and lit with crystal chandeliers, was alive with chatter, clinking glasses, and the rustle of silk sarees. 

Ministers whispered among themselves, media cameras flashed, and guests exchanged pleasantries—until a sudden hush swept like a wave across the room.

Every head turned toward the staircase.

There she was.

Ira.

Draped in an ivory and blush-pink lehenga, her dupatta falling like a veil of moonlight, she descended slowly, her hand resting lightly on Rishabh's arm. 

Her blue doe eyes shimmered under the soft glow of the chandeliers, holding a nervousness that only made her beauty more fragile, more divine. For a heartbeat, it seemed as though time itself had bent to her arrival.

The whispers died. Even the shehnai seemed to soften, as though bowing to her presence. Women looked at her with awe, some with envy, while men lowered their gaze out of respect, afraid to hold her ethereal beauty for too long. 

She wasn't just a bride-to-be—she looked like an apsara who had stepped down from the heavens.

Beside her, Isha sparkled in her sea-blue lehenga, her hazel-brown eyes dancing with unrestrained joy, trying to mask her tears with a playful smile. 

It was then Vihaan's gaze, sharp and unreadable until now, faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes, which had mirrored his elder brother's stoic restraint all evening, stole a glance at the younger girl walking with Ira. 

His expression didn't change—calm, composed, almost indifferent—but something unspoken lingered in the air between them, like the brush of an untold story.

And then, all eyes returned to Ira.

The hall—filled with royalty, ministers, and hundreds of curious eyes—was silenced by a single girl's entry. A girl who, in her innocence and purity, radiated a beauty so blinding that even the grandeur of the kothi dimmed before her.

The air was heavy with awe. Every breath waited for what would happen next.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Ira's heels clicked against the stage stairs. Every eye followed her, their gazes weighing heavily, yet none dared anticipate what was about to happen. 

She felt a flutter of nerves, a whisper of doubt brushing against her mind, but she forced her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

Aariv stood at the edge, statuesque and motionless. His face was unreadable—perfectly composed, a mask carved from stone. 

No flicker of emotion betrayed him, yet the air around him seemed charged, silent, as if he alone held dominion over the room.

As she lifted her foot onto the next step, his hand shot out. Their fingers met. The touch, light and almost casual to an onlooker, hummed with something deeper—a silent warning, a possessive claim. 

Every eye daring to linger on her seemed to provoke a quiet, smoldering rage within him, though his expression remained untouched, flawless.

Ira's breath caught. A strange current raced down her spine, warm and tingling, igniting something she had never known before. Fear mingled with a thrill, a magnetic pull toward him, making her heart flutter in her chest even as her mind screamed caution. 

She had never felt anything like it, yet part of her wanted to linger in that fleeting, searing contact.

Around them, the crowd shifted, a subtle murmur rising, sensing the tension, though none could name it. The chandeliers above cast glittering reflections that seemed to freeze in the charged air between them. 

Time slowed for Ira. 

The world blurred, the whispers faded, the eyes that had been prying vanished from her awareness. There was only Aariv, his hand firm around hers, his calm aura concealing a fire that sent shivers through her.

She realized, almost with a start, that in that moment, she belonged nowhere but here—with him. And yet, she didn't know whether that thought thrilled her or terrified her more.

Aariv's hand didn't release hers, but it didn't squeeze either—at least, not in a way anyone could notice. It was his presence, the way he subtly guided her up the stage, that made every step feel like it belonged to him. 

To an outsider, it was a simple gesture; to Ira, it was a shadow wrapping around her, protective and unyielding, warning the world that no other could come close. 

He moved with a quiet precision, positioning himself so that he was always just behind her, yet always in control, an invisible barrier no one dared breach.

Ira's gaze fixed ahead, avoiding him, but even as she tried to steady her breath, the sheer force of the man beside her made her body tremble. 

There was something in him—a silent, unspoken dominance—that terrified her, yet she couldn't pull away. His presence pressed against her like gravity, magnetic and immovable, leaving her mind both awed and unnerved.

Every inch she climbed, every flicker of movement in the crowd, seemed to spark a silent fire in him. 

He didn't need to glare, didn't need to speak—the possessive aura around him was enough. Anyone who dared glance at her too long would feel, in some subconscious way, that they had crossed an invisible line. 

To him, she was untouchable. She was his shadow, and no other could cast themselves there.

Ira's chest tightened, a strange cocktail of fear and fascination coursing through her. She wanted to turn, to look, to somehow see the man who held her so effortlessly, yet she dared not. 

All she could feel was the warmth of his hand, the unspoken claim in the way he moved, and the undeniable certainty that, in this moment, she was utterly and irrevocably his—whether she wanted to admit it or not.

The crowd faded into a blur. The lights dimmed in her awareness. 

There was only him. And yet, even as she acknowledged this, a small, reckless part of her wondered what it would feel like to meet his gaze, to see the storm he held behind that perfectly unreadable mask.

Aariv didn't once let go of her hand. Not for a second. His fingers curled around hers with a quiet certainty, a silent claim to the world itself. He had seen it all—every glance, every whispered admiration aimed at her—but nothing had ever stirred him like this. 

Her screen-like, untouched beauty, flawless and radiant, had ignited a fire in him he didn't fully understand. Rage—for people, for her, even for himself—bubbled beneath the surface, restrained only by the mask of his serene expression.

He didn't know the source, nor did he care to analyze it. One thing was crystal clear: no one, not a single soul, would ever lay a hand on her. She was his. 

That claim, unspoken but undeniable, radiated from him in waves, wrapping around her like a shadow no other could penetrate.

Ira, oblivious to the precise nature of the storm within him, felt the effect anyway. Every step she took on the stage was guided by him, yet it was more than guidance—it was a tether, binding her to him without words. 

The electricity of their touch, the warmth of his hand holding hers, set her nerves alight. 

Something primal and unfamiliar coursed through her, a mixture of fear, awe, and a strange, inexplicable desire to lean into him.

Around them, the crowd existed in a distant haze. Nothing mattered but the unbreakable link between them. 

Aariv's calm, unreadable face concealed a force that could crush anyone daring to approach her, yet to Ira, it felt protective rather than threatening. 

He was her shadow, her unseen guardian—and in that moment, she realized, with a thrill and a tremor, that she had never belonged anywhere else.

No one touches her. She is his. And he would make sure the world knew it, silently, irrevocably, in every calculated step, every measured move, every unspoken warning in his possessive aura.

The ceremony flowed on, music swelling, conversations rising and dipping like waves. Ira stood at Aariv's side, his hand still wrapped firmly around hers, his grip unyielding even as he exchanged polite nods with those who approached. His aura of possession had not dimmed; if anything, it grew sharper with each passing glance thrown her way.

And then the doors at the far end of the hall opened.

Niharika stepped in. Confidence radiated from her with every stride, her heels striking the marble like a measured beat of a drum. Tall, poised, and dressed in a gown that glittered under the chandeliers, she was the perfect picture of sophistication—the kind of woman who commanded attention without asking for it. 

The murmurs spread instantly: the PR head of Aariv's empire has arrived.

On the surface, she was exactly what her role demanded—polished, ambitious, indispensable to Aariv's world of power and reputation. But behind the practiced smile, beneath the flawless image, lived a truth no one here knew. 

No one, except two pairs of watchful eyes: Aatharva and Meera. Aariv's parents.

Their gazes tightened imperceptibly as they watched her glide into the hall. To the rest of the crowd, she was just a business ally, Aariv's PR genius, his party face, his handler in the glittering social sphere. 

But to them, she was something more dangerous: a secret from Aariv's past, a woman who had once crossed the invisible line between his world, if only for fleeting moments.

Niharika's eyes flicked toward the stage, locking briefly on Aariv—and then on Ira, her gaze sharp, assessing. A smile tugged at her lips, slow and knowing, as though she already understood the unspoken claim in Aariv's grip on the girl's hand.

And in that instant, the air shifted again. The ceremony had not faltered, yet tension coiled beneath its polished surface. The past had just walked into the present, and the collision was inevitable.
******************

Dear readers, it looks like my Inked-in account is giving some trouble—the story isn't uploading on time and keeps showing errors. So for now, I'll be continuing HiddenVeil on WhatsApp only. Thanks for understanding and staying with me! 💙

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