Third Person POV.

The screech of tires broke the silence of the desert road. Ira froze for a moment, clutching her dupatta, heart pounding. She had barely realized a black car had halted inches away from her. Without sparing a glance, she rushed ahead, unaware of the watchful eyes inside.

The driver got out and talked to the girl whose face was hidden to the world. 

But not to him.

Inside the car, silence reigned, thick and heavy. Aariv sat back in the shadows, his sharp jawline catching the faint morning light. His gaze had followed the girl, but his expression never shifted — calm, unreadable, mercilessly composed.

On the passenger seat, his personal assistant, Arun, exhaled sharply.
"Sir," Arun whispered, glancing nervously at the tinted windows, "we... we should not stop here. The media is everywhere. One rumor, and this road will be swarming in seconds."

Aariv did not reply immediately. He leaned his head slightly, eyes still following Ira's retreating figure. His finger tapped once on the armrest — calculated, steady. A signal of thought.

Arun swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. "Sir?"

Aariv hummed low, almost inaudible, a sound of acknowledgment, not agreement.

The driver came inside the car. But the air inside the car has shifted.

The driver, pale with fear of the halt, glanced in the rearview mirror for orders. Aariv's lips curved slightly — not a smile, more a shadow of one.
"Such a girl..." His voice was velvet over steel, calm yet unnervingly final. "Hard to find in today's world."

Arun blinked at him, confused. His throat went dry. "...Sir?"

Before he could frame his words, a voice from the backseat cut through the air — deep, heavy, authoritative, leaving no space for doubt.
"Make sure my soon-to-be wife reaches home safely, Arun."

The words landed like a storm.

The driver's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, his eyes wide. Arun's head snapped back, staring at Aariv, stunned. His ruthless boss hadn't moved an inch, hadn't flickered in emotion, yet his claim had been made. Cold. Unshaken. Final.

"That... that girl...?" Arun stuttered, his voice cracking. "She's... Ira Sharma?"

The silence in the car was louder than any confirmation. Aariv's eyes, half-lidded, held no softness, no warmth. Only possession.

Arun gulped, his palms slick, fumbling for his phone. He dialed without waiting for another command.
"Yes... follow the girl. Discreetly. Report every step." His voice shook, betraying the weight of the order.

The line connected. Outside, Ira's anklets jingled as she disappeared into the busy lane, completely unaware.

Aariv finally closed his eyes, leaning back, his face unreadable as stone. One hand adjusted his cufflink with mechanical precision. Not a flicker of emotion, not a breath of hesitation. Only the cold authority of a man who had already decided her fate.

In the suffocating silence, only his command lingered, echoing in Arun's mind.
My soon-to-be wife.

The convoy of sleek black cars came to a halt before the colossal gates of the fort. Dust swirled in the desert air as two guards in traditional attire hurried forward, bowing low as they swung the massive gates open.

The first car glided in, followed closely by four SUVs, their tinted windows hiding shadows of armed men. As the gates shut behind them with a heavy thud, silence blanketed the courtyard — a silence thick with reverence, fear, and anticipation.

The main doors of the fort creaked open as servants rushed out, their heads bowed. One guard swiftly moved forward, pulling open the rear door of the luxury car.

A polished black leather shoe stepped onto the sandstone floor first — gleaming under the sharp sun. Then came the long leg, clad in a perfectly tailored suit.

And then he emerged.

Aariv.

Broad shoulders filled the doorway of the car, his tall frame casting a long shadow on the ground. The cut of his midnight-black suit clung to his powerful build, crisp lines highlighting his chest and lean waist. His presence was not just seen — it was felt.

His face was carved with precision, as though sculpted from marble. A razor-sharp jawline framed lips that never betrayed emotion, and high cheekbones accentuated the ruthlessness in his aura. His skin carried a sun-kissed bronze glow, rich and striking against the pale desert backdrop.

But it was his eyes that held the power — cold, steel-grey, with a depth that could silence the bravest of men. They didn't wander. They claimed. Every glance was deliberate, every blink measured.

His hair, thick and dark, was combed back with ruthless perfection, not a strand out of place. A watch gleamed on his wrist — understated, yet worth more than most men's fortunes.

The air shifted with his arrival. Guards straightened, servants bent lower, and not a single voice dared to rise. His mere step into the courtyard commanded absolute submission.

Without sparing a word, Aariv adjusted the cufflink on his wrist — a small, sharp motion that somehow carried the weight of command. His lips curved faintly, not into a smile, but something colder... darker... a reminder of the man he was.

Handsome? Yes. But dangerously so. The kind of beauty that could mesmerize — and destroy.

The fleet of black cars screeched to a halt before the towering iron gates of the Agnivansh Fort, the ancestral seat of Rajasthan's most feared dynasty. The guards straightened, saluting sharply as the gates swung open with a deep groan. The convoy rolled in — the lead sedan shadowed by four armored SUVs — until it stopped before the sandstone steps of the grand portico.

A guard hurried forward, opening the rear door.

A polished black shoe struck the marble first, followed by long strides that carried the weight of authority. Aariv Veer Agnivansh, Chief Minister of Rajasthan, unfolded from the car. Broad shoulders filled the cut of his tailored suit; a sharp jawline framed his trimmed beard. His eyes — grey like tempered steel — scanned the courtyard, cold, assessing, unquestioned.

Even the air shifted with his presence. Silence stretched, broken only by the clink of his cufflink as he adjusted it with ruthless precision.

From the steps above, the Agnivansh elders waited.

At the center stood Veer Agnivansh, the once King, the man who built an empire with strategy and blood. His frame, though aged, commanded reverence; the very ground seemed to acknowledge his shadow. Beside him, Sugandha Agnivansh, draped in royal silk, her gaze sharp and unyielding, was the silent queen who kept the dynasty's pride intact.

On one side stood Atharva Agnivansh, Cabinet Minister, posture dignified, the perfect political heir of his father. Next to him, his wife Meera — serene, graceful, the quiet stabilizer of the family storms.

On the other side, Aarav Agnivansh, the ruthless business tycoon, exuded wealth and power like armor. His wife Yukta, sharp-eyed and calculating, stood beside him, her children close.

Kiaan Agnivansh, the empire's industrial force, his tailored arrogance undeniable.
Vivaan Agnivansh, the face of the media, eyes glittering with cunning.
Myra Agnivansh, elegant yet defiant, gazes proudly, lips curled in the hint of a smirk.

And just behind, almost like a soft shadow among blades, stood Siya Agnivansh, the only one whose calm eyes held warmth instead of ambition.

As Aariv ascended the steps, every pair of Agnivansh eyes followed. Veer's lips curved faintly — a king recognizing his chosen successor. Sugandha lifted her palm in blessing; Aariv bowed just enough, a gesture of duty, not humility.

"Rajkishor call Pranay saa...tell them Aariv aaya hai, Humari bahu ko ab hum lene aa rahe hai" Veer declared, his voice still carrying the weight of a throne long gone.

And in that moment, the dynasty stood complete: power in politics, wealth in industry, influence in media — all bound by blood, ambition, and an unspoken ruthlessness that echoed within the walls of the Mahal.

The drawing-room of Agnivansh Mahal glowed beneath the desert sun pouring through latticed jharokhas, scattering golden patterns on polished marble.

Atharva, in a crisp navy bandhgala, leaned forward, a file of constituency reports spread before him. His fingers tapped in controlled rhythm, his mind weighing numbers like weapons. Aarav stood nearby, arms folded, posture relaxed, but his eyes restless, watchful.

The heavy doors opened. Aariv entered with Arun at his shoulder, the shadow that never left him. He bent briefly to touch Veer's feet before seating himself opposite Atharva.

Atharva's voice calm, precise:
"Election ka maidan garm ho raha hai, Aariv. Opposition zameen pe jyada active hai is dafa. Tumhari strategy?" His PA, Santosh Shrivastav standing beside him with a file and iPad.

Aariv's voice measured, detached:
"Clear hai, Papa. Youth aur rural dono ko balance karna hoga. Ground survey complete hai. Rally sequence tight hai. Media narrative Arun ne draft kar diya hai."

Arun adjusted his glasses, voice clipped and professional.

Arun gulped, looking at the authoritative people before him:
"Positioning CM sahab ki decisive aur progressive leader ke roop mein hogi. Narrative purely development-driven."

Atharva gave a slow nod—half approval, half challenge. Before he could probe further, Veer raised his hand. His voice, calm but carrying an authority that silenced even the rustle of files, filled the room.

Veer voice firm but regal:
"Rajneeti ka apna samay hota hai. Lekin parivaar ke rivaaz bhi utne hi maayne rakhte hain. Aaj subah humari baat Pranay se ho gayi hai."

The words were not revelation—they were fulfillment. A promise made years ago, spoken aloud like destiny claiming its form.

Sugandha (eyes moist, voice trembling with joy):
"Ganpati Bappa ke aashirvaad se... hamare ghar mein phir se shubh shagun hoga."
She pressed her palms together, bangles clinking, her chest rising with the kind of happiness only a grandmother could carry. Tears touched the corners of her eyes. "Mere potey ki sagai... maine yeh din dekha, ab aur kya chahiye mujhe."

Beside her, Meera's lips curved, her eyes glistening. She reached for Atharva's arm, her voice thick with unspoken emotions.

Meera (softly, breaking into relief):
"Finally... Aariv ki zindagi mein ek naya adhyay shuru hoga. Uski khamoshi... uska eklaapan... shayad ab kam hoga."

She looked at her son—the boy she had birthed, the man he had become—so distant, so disciplined, yet still hers. A mother's heart longed to see him not just dutiful, but alive.

Yukta sat composed, expression unreadable, her voice calm yet clipped.
Yukta:
"Achha hai... lekin Ira ko humne kabhi apne nazdeek se jaana nahi. Bas wahi soch rahi thi."

Veer's gaze silenced her hesitation.
Veer (firm):
"Pranay hamara apna hai. Rishton ki khudai karne ki zaroorat nahin, Yukta Bahu."

From the other end, Kiaan and Vihaan exchanged a cold glance, their words clipped, calculative.

Kiaan's voice flat, ruthless but teasing:
"Bhaisa, ab toh sirf rallies nahin... engagement bhi calendar mein likhni hogi."

Vihaan smirking faintly, voice low:
"Vote ke beech shaadi ke cards... shaayad logon ko bhi pasand aayega. Strategy ke liye bhi sahi hai."

Their tone carried no warmth—only the ruthless clarity of men trained to measure every step, even in family matters.

On the corner sofa, Myra tilted her chin, disdain curling at her lips.
Myra, making a face, said under her breath:
"Simple families... royal khoon ki shuddhata khatam ho rahi hai."

But Siya's fresh voice cut through, her excitement glowing like a desert flower.
She clapped, her voice bright, eager:
"Main Ira se mili hoon—pichle saal Jaisalmer trip pe. She's amazing. Hum abhi tak baat karte hain. Mujhe lagta hai woh is parivaar mein apni jagah bana legi."

"Bhabhi-sa... Siya," Meera gently corrected, eyes soft on her daughter, who only smiled sheepishly.

Myra made an annoyed face, her irritation poorly masked.

Yet Siya's warmth lightened the heavy air, drawing the faintest smile to Sugandha's face.

And through it all—Aariv sat unshaken. Expression still, spine straight, eyes void of reaction. For him, it was duty—a schedule on paper, another item ticked off.

Until... for a fleeting second, he remembered.
In his mind, across sunlit sands, a girl ran with jyoti in her hand, her dupatta trailing, her eyes glimmering like an unearthly mirage. Eyes that haunted him.

He blinked. The vision dissolved.

Aariv stood, voice flat, detached:
"Jo tay hua tha, wahi hoga. Ganesh Chaturthi par sagai hogi." 

Without another word, he moved towards the staircase, retreating to the third floor—his wing, his silence.

Veer gave a satisfied nod, his gaze following his grandson's retreating back.
The matter was closed.

But for Sugandha and Meera, the matter was far from closed—it was the beginning.
Their hearts brimmed with prayers, with dreams that perhaps this union would heal what politics, power, and silence could not.

Veer cleared his throat, his deep voice echoing in the quiet hall as his eyes shifted to his wife.
"Sugandha, make sure that there is nothing left. Many big names will arrive the day after tomorrow here just to attend Aariv's engagement. Also, Ganesh Chaturthi—we are celebrating this year here in Jaisalmer."

Sugandha looked up from arranging the silver plates, her lips curving into a gentle smile. She nodded, her bangles clinking softly.
"I understand, Raja Sahab. Lekin... we could have celebrated Ganesh Chaturthi in Jaipur as well, like every year. We could have asked Pranay Bhai Sahab to come there with his family, and we could have got Aariv engaged there. After all, we live there."

Veer leaned back slightly, his hand resting on the carved armrest of the chair. His gaze lingered on Sugandha, eyes distant, thoughtful.
"Yes, I know... but this year I want the engagement to happen at the place where we had once taken a promise—as brothers—to unite our families in a relationship. Pranay and I were born and brought up here. Aur main chahta hoon ki mera Aariv apni nayi zindagi ki shuruaat yahin se kare."
His voice softened as a faint smile tugged his lips.
"And Ira... Ira is a sweet child. You will love her when you meet her."

Sugandha's eyes glistened with nostalgia as she folded her dupatta neatly across her lap.
"I have met her once. But that time she was a child—quite obedient... and the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."

Her voice trembled with memory, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her bangles.
"We remembered the childhood years of Ira... a girl, short-spoken, so obedient. When other children were playing and making things difficult for their parents, she was quiet, always listened to everybody. Such an angel she is."

Atharva, seated nearby, exchanged a glance with Meera. Both noticed the faraway look in their father's eyes. Atharva cleared his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tightly.
"Ira is good for Aariv. Obedience... wahi ek cheez hai jo Aariv ko apni zindagi mein zarurat hai."

Arnav, resting against the back of his chair, tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes observing Atharva. His lips curved into a knowing half-smile as if he could already foresee the storms beneath his nephew's charm.

Meera placed a hand lightly on her lap, her voice calm but steady, her eyes holding quiet concern.
"Hum jaante hain Aariv kaise hai... how dominating, how ruthless. Aur aisi zindagi mein... ek shaant saaya chahiye hota hai. Ira will bring that calmness in his life."

At those words, Yukta, seated beside Aarav, shifted uneasily. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, and she made a faint face, though she chose silence over words. Her silence, however, said everything—the unspoken truths of Aariv's nature hung heavy in the room like a shadow.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with pride, hope, and unspoken fears.

Veer's hand tightened over the armrest, Sugandha's eyes softened with motherly warmth, Atharva's jaw clenched with practicality, Meera's calm voice lingered like a balm, and Yukta's silence weighed heavier than words.

The truth settled quietly in the room—
Ira was not just Aariv's bride-to-be.
She was the calm storm their dynasty needed.

***********

Meera was standing at her room's jharokha, gazing outside absentmindedly. The royal chamber, carved with delicate motifs and adorned with rich silks, screamed elegance and timeless grandeur. It was a room that bore the fragrance of power and royalty, yet at this moment, it was filled only with her silence.

She was lost in her thoughts when Atharva stepped inside. Without a word, he closed the heavy wooden door behind him. The sound echoed gently in the vast room. He glanced at his wife, her figure framed by the golden light spilling through the arches.

Quietly, he shrugged off his overcoat, placing it carefully on the stand. He unbuttoned his cufflinks one by one, setting them neatly on the table, then removed his watch and laid it beside them with precision. He was a man of habits, almost obsessively neat—a quality Meera too had imbibed over the years.

He heaved a sigh, his eyes softening as he walked towards her. She didn't look at him, her body still, her posture stiff.

"Aap kuch soch rahi hain, Meera?" he asked gently, his voice thoughtful, testing the silence between them.

Meera didn't answer. Without turning, she shifted slightly to the side, as if brushing his question away with her silence. Atharva's eyes narrowed—he could see it, the tension in the set of her shoulders, the faint sadness clouding her face.

Stepping closer, he placed a hand firmly yet tenderly on her shoulder. His touch urged her to turn. She resisted for a moment but finally faced him.

"Kya hua hai aapko, Meera?" his voice softened, carrying both worry and affection.

She looked down, unable to meet his gaze. He lifted her chin carefully, cupping her face in his palms. His thumbs brushed against her cheeks as his eyes locked with hers. For a moment, time stood still—the kind of silence only two souls bound by years of love and pain could share.

There was regret in his eyes, unspoken but heavy. No matter what happened fifteen years back, no matter the scars of past decisions, Atharva knew one truth—his love for his wife was unwavering. His biggest regret was the hasty decisions of his younger years, mistakes that had cost them more than they ever admitted.

But today, his heart was clear. Today, he was a man determined.

"Meera," he whispered, his voice breaking with honesty, "jo kuch bhi hua pichle pandrah saal mein... uska bojh sirf main uthata aaya hoon. Maine galtiyan ki, faisle jaldi mein liye... par ek baat hamesha sach thi—mera pyaar aapke liye. Aur ab main sirf yeh chahta hoon ki aapko woh saari khushiyaan doon jinki aap haqdar hain."

Meera blinked, her eyes moist. His words struck the very chords of her heart, stirring emotions she had buried deep.

Atharva leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers.
"Aariv ka Ira se shaadi karna... it isn't just about family, Meera. Yeh aapki khwahish hai. Aur meri patni ki khwahish mere liye hukum hai. Jo aap chaahti hain... woh aapko milega. Always."

A faint gasp escaped her lips, her fingers curling around his wrists where he cupped her face. Her body trembled slightly at his intensity, but her heart warmed at the promise in his voice.

The royal room, draped in velvet and gold, stood witness to a moment that wasn't about kingship, power, or dynasty—it was about a husband's love, raw and unshaken, and a wife's quiet yearning finally finding words.

Meera looked at her husband—a husband of 34 years, a promise she had taken at the sacred fire to never let this hand go while she was taking pheras with him. But had he held her hand at the time when she needed him the most?

Her eyes flickered with something she refused to voice. She stepped back from him, creating distance.

"Are Thakurs also invited?" she asked suddenly, her voice steady but her eyes sharp.

Atharva paused, studying her face, trying to understand what she truly meant. His jaw tightened.
"Yes... why?" His eyes narrowed, suspicion lurking beneath his calm tone.

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, and walked towards the bed. Slowly, she untied her hair, letting the heavy waves fall across her shoulders. With practiced grace, she shrugged off the robe from her nightgown and placed it carefully on the side chair—because she knew her husband couldn't bear things left untidy. That was his world: neat, in order, in control.

She slipped beneath the duvet, her silence louder than words.

Atharva followed her, coming to sit at the edge of the bed, directly in front of her. His eyes searched hers.

"Meera... are you hiding something? Do you want to say something?" he asked softly, but keenly, his tone a mixture of concern and suspicion.

At last, she looked at him—looked directly into his eyes. Her face, however, was blank, unreadable.
"Niharika is also coming, right?"

Her voice carried no emotion. It was as if she had trained herself to detach.

Atharva stilled. In that instant, he understood exactly what she meant. He leaned back slightly, his gaze breaking from hers, looking sideways to avoid the weight of her stare. His body stiffened.

"Meera, you know Thakurs are our supportive ally. We cannot just ghost them on a big day."

But even as he spoke, his shoulders tensed. He knew. He knew she was pulling him back into the very wound they had both kept sealed for fifteen long years.

Meera's lips curved in a bitter half-smile, her voice dripping sarcasm.
"I know. Ally, business, politics... bas yahi sab toh iss ghar ke mardon ko samajh aata hai."

Atharva sighed, dragging her name with a low, heavy tone, as though pleading with her to stop.
"Meera..."

But she wasn't done. She wasn't suppressing it anymore.

"I don't want Nivedita anywhere near my Aariv."

The words came blunt, cold, emotionless. She had mastered the art of masking everything—years of living with a ruthless, emotionless husband had taught her well.

Atharva reached forward and took her right hand in his palm, squeezing it softly. 

Her voice was low, imploring.
"You know this can't be happening. But Nivedita... you know Aariv and Nivedita's history, Atharva."

She looked at him, her eyes sharp and cutting through his words like glass. He shook his head, looking up helplessly.
"I know, but I am telling you this. I know my Aariv. He will not do—"

Before he could complete his sentence, she cut him, her voice slicing through the air.
"What you did 15 years back, right? Kaveri Chauhan was also your 'friend and ally' only, right?"

Atharva froze. He turned to look at his wife fully now, shock flashing in his eyes. For fifteen years, she had never uttered that name. She had never spoken about that night. Why suddenly now?

She snatched her hand from his grasp, clenching her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but her pride refused to let them fall.

"I don't want Ira to be the next Meera of this Agnivansh family."

The words hit him like a blade. Atharva was struck speechless. Guilt burned in his eyes, raw and undeniable, but she wasn't giving him even the smallest space for excuses.

He clenched his fists, his throat dry, his body tight with frustration. What could he say? He knew it. He knew it was a mistake. That one decision, in his youth and arrogance, had destroyed everything—Meera's love, Aariv's respect, Siya's trust. Aariv barely spoke to him, even now.

Unable to bear her gaze, he stood up abruptly and walked towards the jharokha, the same place where Meera had stood moments ago. His back faced her, rigid, shoulders heavy with the weight of guilt. Meera didn't need to see his face—she knew his body language. She knew he was drowning again in regret. But guilt could never erase the truth of what he had done.

His voice was strained when he spoke.
"Meera, I know what I did was a mistake."

Meera let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. She stroked her hair back, wiping her eyes before any tears could fall.
"Mistake? That was cheating on your wife. Cheating on your children. Aariv was fifteen. Siya was six. They saw you. I saw you. In that part of the house... kissing Kaveri Chauhan."
Her voice rose, trembling but controlled. "Do you want me to elaborate?"

She almost screamed, but then lowered her tone, mindful of the walls. She knew even walls have ears, and she would never allow Veer, her father-in-law, or anyone else in the family—to hear what she and her children had witnessed.

Atharva's fists clenched tighter, his jaw locking as frustration spilled.
"And I said sorry!" His voice cracked with anger.

Meera shook her head, her laugh hollow, broken.
"Sorry? Would you have said the same if I were in your place? If some man had been with me that day?"

"Meera!" he thundered, his face red, his eyes wide with fury. The thought alone drove him mad.

She shook her head slowly, her voice calm but laced with venom.
"You can't bear to imagine your wife with another man. And yet, you wanted me to forget my husband kissing another woman—in a room where your children and I stood at the door, watching."

Atharva's anger broke into desperation. He rushed forward, wrapping his arms around her tightly.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I did a mistake. It was a drunk mistake. I didn't do it intentionally."

Meera shoved him back with force, her eyes blazing.
"I told you she had feelings for you. Maine kaha tha! But you always said she's just an ally. You're a fucking PR head, Atharva! And what did you both do? You both made news for me and my children. A fucking breaking news!"

Her voice cracked, her chest heaving. Then, exhausted, she sighed deeply, looking up as she wiped her tears with trembling hands.

Atharva stared at her helplessly, his face pale, his breath uneven.

She finally steadied herself, regaining composure, her voice cold as she spoke again.
"I don't want to talk about the past, Hukum."

That word hit him like a slap. Hukum. She rarely called him that—and when she did, it was business. It was detachment. It was a distance from her own husband.

Her eyes held his, unflinching.
"You and I both know..." she trailed, but her silence said more than words.

In that silence, their thirty-four years of marriage stood exposed—love tainted by betrayal, loyalty scarred by mistakes, and a bond now hanging by the thread of duty.

Meera turned her back towards Atharva, her hands busy fixing the pillow, tucking the quilt neatly as if order in her bed could bring order in her heart. Her voice came out steady, almost monotonous, but Atharva could hear the pain layered beneath.

"I don't want Nivedita to attend this engagement... or the puja."
She smoothed the quilt once more, not looking at him. "People will talk, Hukum. People always talk. Jaipur knows. Delhi knows. Everyone knows what went on behind those office doors with Aariv. And I..." she paused, her throat tightening, "...I don't want them to whisper in front of Ira, or the Sharma family. Do you understand? Pranay uncle will not like it. And if this reaches Bapusa's ears..." her voice broke for the briefest second, "...it won't be good for anyone. You know this."

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. Atharva stood near his side of the room, his jaw tightening, guilt weighing down on his shoulders like a stone. His eyes lingered on her back, the curve of her spine trembling under the weight of her words.

Finally, he exhaled, placing his phone down on the side table with deliberate slowness. He didn't look at her—perhaps because looking at her would mean facing the reflection of his own mistakes.

"ठीक है... I'll talk to Aariv."
His voice was low, steady, but there was heaviness in it, a defeated acceptance.

Meera didn't respond. She simply slipped under her side of the bed, pulling the quilt up to her chest. Her eyes closed, shutting him out as she whispered a prayer only she could hear.

Atharva turned his head, his gaze lingering on her for one last moment. Regret pooled in his eyes, regret that had lived with him for fifteen years, regret that tonight felt sharper than ever. But he knew—no matter how much he wished, he could not rewrite the past.

He heaved a sigh, shoulders slumping, and walked towards the bathroom. The sound of running water soon filled the room.

Meera lay still in the dark, her body stiff, her face buried in the pillow. A single tear slipped out, staining the fabric.

And just like that, night fell upon the Agnivansh mahal—
a night heavy with silence, with unspeakable wounds that neither of them dared to touch.
***************

Keep the love coming, and let's continue this journey together! 🌙

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