The fire was real.
Not a dream. Not a trick.
The east wing of the Haveli was engulfed in red — flames clawing their way up velvet drapes, devouring antique wood, spitting black smoke into the sky like a curse being lifted.
Riaan ran.
Dragging Meher with him.
"Where's Devika?!" she screamed, choking on ash.
He turned — saw only a white silhouette through smoke — unmoving, standing at the edge of the flames like she belonged there. Like she'd summoned them.
"She isn't leaving," Meher said, eyes wide.
"She planned this," Riaan replied. "She's burning the proof."
And yet, something in him turned back anyway.
---
The portrait room.
Smoke kissed every canvas like a lover in heat. But one remained intact.
A final painting.
Still covered.
Riaan ripped the sheet away.
It was him again.
But not alone.
Beside him — Devika.
And beside her… Aarav.
Three figures.
All identical men.
Only the eyes changed.
Aarav's eyes: soft, unsure.
Riaan's: confused, burning.
The third man—older. With a scar.
Nikhil.
The original. The one Devika never spoke of. The one whose disappearance started it all.
---
"Back away from the fire!"
Inspector Raghav and his men had broken through the west wall, soaked and coughing, dragging Riaan and Meher out into the open courtyard.
Minutes later, the east wing collapsed.
A scream echoed.
And stopped.
---
Two days later — Jaipur Central Hospital
Riaan was bandaged but breathing.
Meher sat beside him, holding a small parcel: the only thing recovered from the blaze.
A charred, half-melted tape recorder.
They played it on an old Walkman.
A man's voice spoke.
Not Aarav's.
Nikhil's.
> "She paints them. Then breaks them. Then buries them. She wants to recreate me… every time. Aarav was the last. I was the first. If you hear this…
You may be the final one."
Riaan closed his eyes.
It all made sense now.
Devika wasn't a lover.
She was a collector.
---
Later That Night
Riaan stepped out into the hospital balcony.
The rain had started again.
Behind him, Meher watched silently.
She came up behind him. Placed her hand on his chest.
"I thought I'd lose you," she whispered.
"You almost did."
Their lips met — raw and slow.
Not desperate.
Not wild.
But real.
Because after you've nearly died, the only touch that matters is one that promises life.
They fell into each other like waves.
Not in lust.
But in salvation.
---
But Devika...
She wasn't dead.
Not quite.
Found unconscious. Third-degree burns. Lying in the underground stone chamber where her earliest paintings were stored — preserved behind fireproof glass.
They say her eyes opened in the ambulance.
And she smiled.
Because even in the ashes, she had one final painting tucked beneath her — untouched by flame.
A blank canvas.
Waiting.