'Whenever you're ready,' I say, stepping back, out of the camera's frame.

'I'm not,' she says flatly, her eyes locked on the camera like it's some kind of beast poised to attack.

I walk back to her, crouching beside the low rattan chair she's perched on. She's sitting in the back garden, surrounded by a postcard-perfect backdrop of lush greenery and bursts of flowers—exactly the kind of beauty that belongs in a brand promo. But her eyes are darting, her hands gripping the armrests like they might steady her spinning world.

'Maithili,' I whisper, taking her hands gently in mine. She doesn't flinch, but she doesn't relax either. 'The worst is behind you, okay? From here, it's just forward. I'll make sure nothing from before ever gets near you again. Trust me on that. Your voice—your story—is what's going to make this brand. We'll take it slow. Voiceovers, shots that feel natural. Just... be as strong and steady as the brand you've built.'

Her gaze flickers to mine, skeptical. I feel the weight of everything she's measuring—the weight of my words against everything I've done. The pain I caused, the promises I failed to keep. I fight the urge to drop my eyes, to back away. Instead, I hold her gaze, even when it feels like standing under a too-bright light.

After a moment, she nods. It's a small, reluctant thing, but it's enough to make my chest loosen a fraction. I smile, give her hands a squeeze, and step back again.

She takes a breath, looks into the camera, and starts, her voice hesitant at first: 'Every piece of clothing has a story to tell—a story of transformation, of empowerment, and of hope.'

Then she glances at me, her expression seeking something—validation, approval, maybe a lifeline.

'Don't look at me,' I say, smiling gently.

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and starts over. This time, her voice is clearer, steadier.

'Every piece of clothing has a story to tell—a story of transformation, of empowerment, and of hope. I'm Maithili, the founder of Mai, an upcycled clothing brand that weaves sustainability and empowerment into every thread.'

Sagar, our cameraman, and Juhi, the video editor and creative powerhouse behind Roameo, have promised me an hour to get the video ready to render. Juhi is hunched over her laptop, pulling the audio from the footage and syncing it with clips of the indigenous women we hired for the shoot. On the screen, a smaller version of Maithili speaks with a calm eloquence that feels almost surreal given how tense she was earlier.

When her voice fades out, Sagar and Juhi lean toward each other, muttering about instrumental tracks. Something subtle but evocative, they agree, though their murmurs drift into the background as my attention shifts.

Maithili sits nearby, twisting the edge of her dupatta between her fingers, her gaze unfocused but heavy with self-doubt. Sagar notices too. He launches into a ridiculous joke about an ant and an elephant, the kind that's so absurd you can't help but laugh. I see it—a flicker of amusement in Maithili's eyes, followed by a beautiful, tentative smile.

Relief rushes through me, loosening a knot I hadn't realized was there. I exhale quietly and slip inside, leaving them to their easy laughter.

I step into the kitchen where Helen Aunty, Himansh Kaka's wife and our housemaid, is drying her hands on her apron.

'Can you bring it outside with four cups of chai?' I ask.

She nods, smiling, and pulls a pan from the dish rack, setting it on the stove to brew the tea. With the sound of the gas burner clicking on, I slip back outside and drop onto the chair beside Maithili.

I flip through my phone, pulling up photos from the last five years, narrating the stories behind each one. At first, her smiles are polite, the kind people give when they're trying to be nice. But then her eyes catch on a video—me diving into our pool with a dolphin kick, cutting clean through the water. In the next clip, I'm doing a butterfly stroke, moving with the kind of ease you only get from years of practice.

'I didn't know you swim,' she says, leaning in slightly.

'I'm pretty good,' I admit, grinning.

'Why don't you take it professionally?' she asks.

'Because I like it too much,' I say simply.

Her head tilts, and for a moment, there's no need to explain further. She just gets it.

As I scroll deeper into my albums, I hit 2019—a freshman year party at IIM. I'm in a grey suit and lilac shirt, flanked by two girls I don't even remember, both clinging to my arms and grinning at the camera.

'Who are they?' Maithili asks, pointing to the screen as I try to swipe past.

'I have no idea. A year ahead of me, maybe?'

'You ever had a girlfriend?' she asks, her tone casual but her curiosity anything but.

I turn to her, a playful smile already tugging at my lips.

'A girlfriend?' I pretend to consider. 'Well, there was Sakshi in fourth grade. She smiled at me every time I gave her my lunch, but one day, I caught her eating from Dheeraj's lunchbox. When I asked why, she said his pancakes were better than my sandwiches.'

Her eyebrow lifts, a smirk tugging at her lips. 'Okaaaaay...'

'Then there was Priyanka in ninth grade,' I continue, warming up to the game. 'She shyly said "thank you" when I let her copy my homework. I thought we had something special, but the next day, she gave Chirag the same smile.'

This time, she laughs, soft but real, the kind of laugh that makes the air feel lighter.

'And in twelfth grade,' I add, lowering my voice like I'm about to share something monumental, 'there was someone very special. Very pretty. Very intelligent. She used to make methi ke parathe for me. Even sewed me a suit once.'

I scroll back to the photo from the party, waiting for her reaction. Her smile falters, slipping from her lips, but I see it linger in her eyes, curious and bright.

'So no,' I say, throwing a dramatic hand over my chest, 'I don't think I've been emotionally ready for a relationship since. That last one really had me. Ironclad grip. It's been a long road to recovery.'

Her finger rises, pointing at me like she's caught me red-handed.

Her eyes narrow, but her mouth curves into something sly. She points a finger at me.

'You!' she says.

I catch her finger and kiss it.

'Yours,' I reply softly.

But before I can see what effect that has, someone clears their throat behind us.

'Wow,' comes a voice and we look up and see Helen aunty pushing a trolley, balancing a tray of chai and plates of breakfast.

I spring to my feet, grabbing the plates and passing them around.

'Methi ke parathe?' Maithili whispers, her voice low, just for me.

I meet her gaze, smiling. 'For old times' sake.'

Once we're fed, Sagar and Juhi call us over to see the result.

'It's ready!' Juhi announces, clicking a few buttons on her laptop.

She hits play.

[Opening Scene: Soft, upbeat instrumental music plays. The camera pans over a sunlit workshop where women are skilfully stitching and embroidering clothes. The pieces are vibrant, with intricate patterns and textures.]

Maithili (Voiceover):
'Every piece of clothing has a story to tell—a story of transformation, of empowerment, and of hope. I'm Maithili, the founder of Mai, an upcycled clothing brand that brings sustainability and empowerment together in a single thread.'

[Cut to Maithili sitting in the garden, framed by a backdrop of lush greenery and vibrant blooms. She speaks directly to the camera.]

Maithili (on-screen):
'At Mai, we take export rejects—those perfectly good pieces of clothing that would otherwise end up in landfills—and give them a second chance. But this isn't just about sustainability. It's about the hands that breathe life into these pieces.'

[Scene shifts to close-ups of indigenous women sewing, embroidering, and cutting fabric. The camera lingers on their hands working with precision and care.]

Maithili (Voiceover):
'Our team is made up of incredible indigenous women—artisans who bring their traditional skills to a modern canvas. Every embroidery pattern, every stitch you see, is handcrafted. No machines, no shortcuts—just the time-honoured techniques passed down through generations.'

[Cut back to Maithili.]

Maithili (on-screen):
'These women are the heart of Mai. For many of them, this work is more than just a job. It's a way to reclaim their independence, support their families, and keep their cultural heritage alive.'

[Scene shows a woman smiling as she works on a vibrant embroidered piece. The camera pans to other women laughing and chatting while stitching.]

Maithili (Voiceover):
'Each piece we create isn't just clothing—it's a celebration of their stories, their resilience, and their craftsmanship. By wearing Mai, you carry a piece of that strength with you.'

[Transition to a montage of the upcycling process: sorting through rejected clothing, cutting and reassembling fabrics, adding intricate embroidery, and finishing with beautiful, modern designs.]

Maithili (Voiceover):
'Our process is thoughtful and deliberate. From choosing export rejects to designing each piece, we ensure that no material goes to waste. The result? Modern, unique clothing that's kinder to the planet and full of character.'

[Cut back to Maithili, smiling warmly.]

Maithili (on-screen):
'Fashion doesn't have to come at the cost of our environment—or our people. By supporting Mai, you're choosing a sustainable future and empowering women to create a better life for themselves and their communities.'

[Scene ends with shots of models wearing Mai's clothing in urban and natural settings, highlighting the versatility of the designs. The final frame shows the brand's logo: "Mai – Fashion for the Future."]

Maithili (Voiceover):
'Together, we can wear change, stitch by stitch. Thank you for being part of our journey.'

[Fade to black with website and social media handles on-screen.]

'Amazing!' I say, nodding at the team.

At the same time, Maithili speaks up. 'I don't like that we're lying about the women.'

'We aren't lying,' I reply, though I've already explained the strategy to her—how it works, the technicalities, the market.

The truth is, she can't be catering to the masses and upscale it. That's the reality of the upcycled clothing line. No two pieces are identical. So why not capitalize on it? Take what's unique about us and make it our strength. And if that means bending the story a little, what's the harm?

Her brows furrow, a crease forming between them. 'This is lying.'

'This isn't lying,' I counter, my voice steady. 'This is manifesting.'

Sagar jumps in. 'Sir's right. You've gotta pretend to be the best before you actually are. It's a universal rule.'

Juhi nods in agreement. 'Exactly. Social media's been doing it for years. Products get sponsored, hyped up before they even hit the shelves. We're just doing the same thing—building the buzz until it becomes the truth.'

'See?' I tell her.

When the frown still refuses to soften, I press my fingers to her forehead, smoothing away the crease. She looks startled by the gesture, stepping back a little, only to lose her footing. I catch her by the waist just in time.

Her dupatta slips from her neck, floating down like a soft feather caught in a breeze.

She clears her throat, and I lift her gently, handing her the dupatta back. We both step back, giving each other space, while Sagar and Juhi conveniently turn their attention elsewhere, pretending to admire the unexpected beauty of the house.

'Thanks,' Maithili breathes.

I catch the flush on her cheeks, the way her tousled hair spills over her neck, dark against the soft, pale skin. It's the kind of sight that pulls at something deep inside me. I clear my throat, my eyes reluctantly shifting away, hoping she doesn't sense the heat that burns beneath the surface, the quiet hunger to keep looking—and never stop.

'I want to give you something,' I say, demanding her eyes on me.

She obliges, wary at first, but then melts into the instinctual ease between us.

'Come with me,' I tell her, dismissing Sagar and Juhi with a nod.

We walk to my room. She stands hesitantly by the door, lingering just outside as if unsure whether she's meant to step over the threshold. I move toward the closet, open a drawer, and pull out the small emerald pouch.

When I return, she's a few steps inside the room, her eyes scanning everything like she expects it to suddenly explode.

'Here.' I take her hand, placing the pouch into her palm.

'What is it?' she asks.

'Keys,' I answer.

'Keys to?'

'The house,' I reply, watching her face for any shift.

'But why are you giving it to me?'

'This is your home now.'

As I say that, I see the dissent spark in her eyes. Her shoulders stiffen, her lips pressing into a thin line, as if it was an offensive insinuation.

I offer an explanation, 'I took that home away from you.'

'What do you mean?' Her mouth parts slightly, and she takes an involuntary step to the side of the media console, almost like she's trying to put some space between us before I drop a confession.

'I paid your mother-in-law—the woman you've been living with. For sustenance.'

'What?'

'Yes.'

'When?'

'Today. Before you woke up, I think. She was doing Surya Namaskar in the compound garden when I told her the situation.'

'What did she say?' she asks, her voice low, a slight tremor in it.

I remember what she said. It was a clamor of "She sinned," "She pays," "So you are the lover because of whom my only son went to jail," and then, finally, "Five lakhs and get her out of my sight."

'She agreed,' I say, tuning the noise out.

'She's not your responsibility,' she mutters, breath hot with anger.

'She wasn't yours either. That chapter is over, Maithili. You don't owe anyone anything anymore. Not her, not anyone.'

She looks at me for a moment, something fierce and fragile flickering in her gaze. A single tear slides down her cheek, tracing the curve of her lip before it pauses at her chin. I reach out instinctively, making it disappear beneath my fingers.

'I'm not worth it, Romil,' she whispers.

'You're worth more than a thousand of me, Maithili,' I say, my hands cupping her face. 'And still, that wouldn't come close to what you deserve.'

Her tears fall freely now, and I don't move—just watch, helpless and tender. Before I can stop myself, she's up on her toes, her lips brushing against mine. The kiss is soft, but certain, and there's something in it—a promise, a question, an answer—that I don't want to pull away from.