Third Person POV.

Valencia, Spain.

Valencia woke up slowly that Sunday. The sunlight bled through the lace curtains in delicate patterns, turning Falak's small apartment into a quiet painting. Somewhere in the kitchen, the coffee machine hissed and sighed, filling the air with the bitter warmth of freshly ground beans.

Falak shuffled out of her room, hair a tangled mess, clutching it into a lazy bun with one hand. Her pyjamas hung loose, her bare feet soft against the wooden floor. She looked like she hadn't entirely escaped her dreams yet.

On the couch, Naina sat cross-legged, scrolling through her phone, eyes squinting against the light.
Falak: mock serious "It's IT Day. No phones."
Naina: grinning without looking up "I'm looking at cat memes. Not work."

They shared that quiet, knowing smile—the kind only two people who had stitched their lives together could share. Without needing to speak, they slipped into their Sunday rhythm. Music, low and unhurried, filled the room—Hindi retro brushing shoulders with Spanish pop.

They moved around each other in the dance of years—dusting shelves, untangling fairy lights, watering plants.

Falak: "If you keep that cactus there, the sun will fry it."
Naina: slides it a few inches. "Better?"
Falak: "That's like giving someone an umbrella in a hurricane."
Naina: "So... you?"
Falak: glares, fighting a smile "Rude."

By noon, the apartment smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and coffee. They changed—Falak in faded jeans and a white tee splattered faintly with blue paint, Naina in a flowy floral dress—and wandered to the corner grocery.

The bell above the shop door chimed. Miss Susan, warm-eyed and plump, greeted them from behind the counter.
Miss Susan: "My favorite troublemakers."
Naina: "We're behaving today."
Miss Susan: "Lies."

Five minutes later, they were arguing over chocolate.
Naina: "Dark chocolate is healthier. Good for your heart."
Falak: "Milk chocolate is good for your soul."
Naina: "So is therapy. Which you don't do."
Falak: laughs but it catches halfway "Touché."

That catch—barely noticeable—was the shadow. The way her eyes flickered away, just for a second.

With their bags heavier and the debate unresolved, they made their usual stop at Starbucks. Their corner table by the window was free, sunlight pooling on the wooden surface.

Naina held her cup, looking unusually pensive.
Naina: "I've been thinking... maybe it's time I go back to India."

Falak paused, the steam from her coffee curling into the still air between them.
Falak: "Back?"
Naina: "Yeah. Shubh's been waiting. Nine years... It's cruel to keep him in limbo. And he's... good, Falak. Gentle. I think I owe it to him to try."

Falak's throat tightened. Her mind flashed to another gentle promise, another man who once spoke of forever. And the image of him—dark eyes, burning, possessive—slammed into her chest like a wave she thought she'd learned to swim against.

She reached across, her fingertips brushing Naina's hand.
Falak: "Don't stay for me. You've already been my anchor... and my shield. But you have your own life. Don't let it rust here."

Naina's voice softened.
Naina: "I don't want you to be alone."

Falak smiled—slow, deliberate.
Falak: "I won't be. I have my work, my art... and always you. You've been putting your life on hold because of me. That's not fair, Naina. You're my backbone, yes. But Shubh—he's been waiting for you for years. Your engagement's been pending far too long. And Shubh is worth keeping. Don't lose him the way—"

She stopped. Her breath caught. The way he had lost her. The way she had lost herself.

Naina noticed, her gaze steady.
Naina: "Hey. Don't go there."

Falak looked down at her cup, then back up with a forced brightness.
Falak: "Right. IT Day. No past allowed."

They clinked their mugs. Outside, Valencia moved on—streets alive with chatter and church bells—but inside, the air held something else.

The warmth of friendship.
The ache of memories.
And the quiet, unspoken truth that even on the most ordinary days, the past was never really gone.

Singhal Mansion

The Singhal Mansion was a whirlpool of luxury and movement — servants carrying trays of expensive crystal, decorators arguing over flower arrangements, and Ritu Singhal, dressed in an elegant silk sari, inspecting every corner like a commander in battle.

Her eyes glittered with something rare — contentment.

At last... after years of worry, pain, and disobedience from her sons, one of them was about to take the "right" step. Disha Awasthi — ambitious, poised, and polished — was exactly the kind of woman she had envisioned as Saksham's wife.

As she walked past a table stacked with catalogues for jewellery and designer sherwanis, her thoughts went uninvited to the past.

Nine years ago, she had seen her eldest son spiralling into ruin... all because of that girl. She had wanted to step in, to be the mother he needed... but by then, it was too late.

Falak Kashyap's mother had somehow become more of a mother to her sons than she ever was — and Ritu, proud as she was, had resented that fact deeply. Falak herself was never her choice — too meek, too simple, too... unremarkable. But her father-in-law had silenced every objection because Saksham's heart had been blind, stubborn, and madly in love.

And then, disaster. Betrayal. Separation.

Now, finally, things were falling into place.

"Rohan!" she called to a servant. "Make sure the caterers know the menu changes. And tell them I want gold detailing on the dessert table — no compromises."

A ripple of excitement passed through her when she spotted Saksham coming down the grand staircase, dressed in a crisp black shirt, his jaw sharp and unreadable.

Her smile widened, motherly pride finally surfacing. "Saksham! Perfect timing. Come, help me choose your engagement outfit. I've shortlisted a few sherwanis—"

Her words froze when she noticed the flicker in his eyes. Dark. Dangerous.

Saksham's gaze swept the room — the piles of gifts, the neatly stacked invitation cards, the boards with Disha's name printed alongside his. His fist clenched so tightly the veins stood out on his forearm.

He didn't move towards her.

"Come, beta," she said, softer now, "let's pick the best one. You'll look—"

"Later." His voice was flat, cutting.

Without another word, he strode past her, straight out of the mansion.

Her smile cracked. She stood there for a moment, inhaling sharply to gather herself, before forcing her enthusiasm back on. She would have the daughter-in-law she could flaunt in society. No matter what storms came.

City Hospital, Jaipur.

The private hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lilies. Abeer Kashyap sat beside his father's bed, the beeping of machines the only sound in the heavy silence.

His father lay motionless, a man once so full of life now trapped in a deep, unyielding coma.

The door opened quietly. Alisha stepped in, holding a tray with food and a neatly folded kurta.

"You need to eat, Abeer," she said gently, placing it on the side table.

"Not hungry," he murmured, eyes still on his father's face.

She moved closer, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze. "Love... you've been here all night. Go and change. I'll be right here with him."

Reluctantly, he rose, taking the kurta from her hands and heading into the washroom.

When he emerged, his hair damp and his expression heavier than before, Alisha was sitting by his father's side, her fingers wrapped gently around the old man's hand.

"Uncle," she whispered, "you're strong. You'll wake up. You have to... your children still need you."

Abeer's throat tightened at the sight. Alisha turned to him, eyes shining with unshed tears.

"We should call her," she said softly.

He knew exactly who she meant.

"A week," he replied after a pause. "If he doesn't wake up in a week, we'll tell her."

Alisha's voice trembled. "Abeer, when your mother was in the hospital, we made the mistake of not telling her. Do you remember what it did to her?"

He did. All too well.

Falak had found out ten days after her mother's death. She'd been so shattered she had landed in the hospital herself, panic attacks tearing her fragile heart apart. She hadn't spoken to him for months.

"You think I don't remember?" His voice was hoarse.

"Then don't repeat it. She has a right to know, Abeer. This... this could be her last chance to see him."

His hands clenched. "And what then? The moment she lands in India, Saksham will know. And he'll—"

"I'll make sure he doesn't get near her," Alisha cut in firmly. "I'll personally make sure. But she deserves the truth."

A heavy silence fell between them. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he nodded.

Their eyes locked, the weight of unspoken love and shared guilt heavy between them. A moment later, Alisha's hand cupped his cheek, her lips finding his in a quiet, desperate kiss.

Neither of them noticed the door wasn't fully closed.

Sana stood outside, clutching a bouquet of white lilies meant for Abeer's father.

Her gaze fell on their kiss — and something inside her burned.

The flowers slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Without knocking, she pushed the door open, her face a storm of cold fury.

"Nice," she said sharply. "Really touching scene. But maybe next time you can keep your little romance outside the room where a dying man is lying?"

Her words were laced with venom. She didn't wait for a reply. She turned on her heel and left, the sharp click of her heels echoing down the corridor.

Abeer and Alisha stood frozen, the kiss broken, the air heavy with tension.

And in the shadows of the city, Saksham's rage was already simmering, a storm waiting to break.

*************

The topmost floor of Aurelius Towers was a different world altogether—
where glass kissed the clouds,
And silence carried the weight of power.

Only the muted sound of keys tapping broke the stillness, coming from a sleek black desk outside the grand mahogany doors. Ms. Annie, Saksham Singhal's PA, was a fortress of efficiency—head bent over calls, making notes, ticking off schedules like clockwork.

Beyond those doors lay the empire's throne room.

Inside, the air was colder.
Sharper.
The vast cabin was a portrait of authority—floor-to-ceiling windows bathing the room in steel-blue daylight, the city sprawled beneath like a conquered map. On the far end, in a majestic Italian-leather chair, sat Saksham.

Head lowered, jaw tight, pen moving with precise, almost violent strokes over a pile of contracts.

Not a crease in his three-piece charcoal suit, not a stray hair out of place—only the faint pulse of restrained fury rippling through the line of his jaw.

He worked like a man punishing himself.
Or punishing the world.

The door clicked open—soft, hesitant.

The red of her dress was the first thing that entered.
Then the delicate tap of black stilettos.
Disha Awasthi carried a faint perfume of roses and ambition, her smile bright with unguarded happiness.

"Saksham... aunty called me," she began, her voice warm, almost shy. "She asked both of us to go for the dress trial. She's booked the appointment with Rekha's. She sounded so excited..."

She didn't finish.

Because he didn't look up.

His pen didn't stop.

And then—

"Who let you in?"

The words were low, edged with steel.

Her smile faltered, her heels rooted to the floor. "...What?"

Saksham didn't answer her. He picked up the phone, dialed a single number.

Within ten seconds, the door opened again. Ms. Annie stepped in, tension already visible in the way she held her notepad.

"Yes, sir?"

"Ms. Annie," Saksham's tone was ice, "why are you hired?"

She blinked. "Sir?"

"I asked," his voice sharpened, "why are you here?"

"To... look after your appointments, meetings, your requirements."

"Exactly." He leaned back, his eyes still on the papers. "Then tell me—do I have any appointment with Ms. Disha Awasthi today?"

Ms. Annie's throat worked. "...No, sir."

"Good. You can leave."

The door shut with a quiet thud.

In the thickening silence, Disha stood frozen. He had never been soft with her—Saksham Singhal wasn't soft with anyone—but there had always been... a line. A quiet respect. An unsaid understanding.

Today, he looked at her like she was nothing more than a trespasser.

She whispered his name, "Saksham..." afraid of what he might say next.

He finally looked at her.

His eyes—dark, fathomless, and merciless—pinned her to the spot. "Let's not pretend this is anything more than it is."

Her breath caught. "...What do you mean?"

"This," he gestured lazily between them, "is a business arrangement. A calculated merger between two powerful families. It will strengthen my portfolio, and it will make your father's company untouchable in the international market. That's all."

Her lips parted, words choking somewhere in her chest. "So all this time... this—engagement—it's nothing to you?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I don't do sentiment. I don't do love. You know why you're here—you're smart enough to understand the benefits."

There was no apology in his tone. No flicker of hesitation. Just the brutal efficiency of a man who dealt in deals, not emotions.

Her hands curled at her sides. "And what if I wanted more?"

"Then you've walked into the wrong office." His voice was low, final. "I don't do more."

For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the AC and the faint honk of a car from twenty floors below.

Disha's manicured fingers gripped her clutch tighter, the red leather digging into her palms as if it could anchor her in place. The silence in the room was suffocating—thick, heavy, broken only by the ticking of the sleek designer clock on the far wall.

She swallowed, her throat dry. "Saksham... your mother—"

"My mother," he cut her off, his voice low, measured, and dripping with disdain, "has a habit of arranging things for me as if I am still a boy in boarding school. You should know better than to entertain her illusions."

Her breath hitched. "I thought—"

"That's your first mistake," he said, finally leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes pinning her in place. "You thought this meant something beyond what it is."

His words were like ice—sharp, unrelenting.

Her heart twisted painfully. "You don't have to be so—"

"So what?" He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Honest? Or cruel? The two are often the same."

The air around him felt charged, dangerous. His jaw ticked as he went on, "Don't mistake the absence of hostility for affection, Disha. I repeat. I don't love. I invest. And I don't waste my time on things that don't give me returns."

Her eyes glistened, the weight of his words pressing into her chest until it hurt to breathe. "Then why agree to this at all?"

He gave a humorless smirk. "Because I always get what benefits me. And right now—your father's empire is useful."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. She could feel the burn of humiliation crawl up her neck, but she kept her chin high, refusing to let him see her crumble.

Disha had always believed beauty could be defined—measured in symmetry, sculpted in perfection. But Saksham Singhal defied definition.

Even now, standing with his back to her, he was a art carved in arrogance.
The sharp lines of his suit framed a body honed to lethal precision—broad shoulders tapering into a lean, powerful build that spoke of strength without needing to flaunt it. Every movement, no matter how minimal, carried a predator's grace.

When he turned, the soft light from the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the planes of his face, and she felt her pulse stutter.

God, those eyes.
Dark, bottomless, the kind that didn't just look at you—they stripped you bare. His gaze could freeze a man in fear or set a woman ablaze in want. For her, it was always the latter. Even when that gaze was cold, even when it was fixed on her with irritation rather than desire, she wanted it. Needed it.

His jaw was a sculptor's dream, cut sharp enough to wound, perpetually shadowed by stubble that made him look more dangerous, more untamed. And those lips—firm, commanding, made for words that could shatter or seduce. She had never tasted them, but she'd imagined it enough times to know it would ruin her.

The straight, aristocratic nose, the faint hollow beneath his cheekbones, the quiet, coiled power in the way he stood—it was all a devastating combination.
Saksham wasn't just handsome. He was imposing. Beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful—deadly, unpredictable, impossible to look away from.

She knew he didn't care for her beyond the convenience of their business merger. She knew he kept her at arm's length, every interaction wrapped in that chilling professionalism. And yet... that only made her obsession worse.
The more he pulled away, the more she wanted to drown in him.

Because men like Saksham Singhal didn't belong to anyone.
And Disha Awasthi would spend her life trying to change that.

Saksham, however, was already done. He looked back at his files, dismissing her with a flick of his gaze, as if she were nothing more than another meeting concluded.

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.

"Disha," he said without looking up.

She glanced back, hope flickering—only to have it crushed in the next second.

"Next time... make an appointment."

Her fingers tightened on the door handle. She left without another word.

Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor as she walked out, each step echoing her humiliation. Behind her, Saksham didn't move, didn't look up—his expression an unbreakable mask. But the pen in his hand snapped clean in two, the ink bleeding across his palm.

He didn't even wipe it off.

******************

||STAY TUNED||