Mansion – That Evening
The air was heavy with the kind of silence that only lived after emotional detonation.
Outside, the pool shimmered like glass—but inside, everything cracked beneath the weight of unsaid truths.
Anjali stood by the poolside, her dupatta caught in the breeze like it too was asking—what now?
She didn't turn when the footsteps came.
But she knew.
That walk.
That rhythm.
That tension in the air like a thunderstorm pacing in leather shoes.
Arnav.
Storm in human form.
His eyes were dark.
His jaw locked.
His hands? Clenched like the truth trying to stay in.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
For a full thirty seconds, it was just the sound of the water lapping, the city buzzing faintly outside, and emotions screaming between them.
Finally—
> Anjali (softly, no judgment): "you didn't apologize"
> Arnav (stiffly): "No."
> Anjali: " you didn't explain"
> Arnav (quiet, but like shattered glass): "Worse. I… felt."
She turned now. Not with shock. But quiet understanding. Her expression soft, but surgical.
> Anjali: "Ah. The Raizada curse. Emotion."
He looked away. Toward the pool. Like it might show him a reflection he could actually live with.
> Arnav (muttering): "It wasn't supposed to get this far."
> Anjali: "What wasn't?"
> Arnav: "Her. The… feelings. The chaos."
> Anjali (gently): "Feelings aren't flaws, Chhote. They're mirrors. They show you who you are. Who she is."
He swallowed. Hard.
> Arnav (strained): "I don't do messy, Di. I control. I lead. I don't... chase after girls with jalebis and half-baked apologies."
She smiled faintly, stepping toward him.
> Anjali: "And yet you did. Why?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't need one.
> Anjali: "You can't bulldoze your way into a woman's life and expect her to stay because your heart had a panic attack."
He flinched slightly.
That hit too close.
> Arnav (defensive): "I didn't ask her to stay."
> Anjali: "But you wanted her to."
> Arnav: "I just wanted her to understand. That I… didn't mean to—"
> Anjali (cutting gently): "Mean to what, Chhote? Mock her? Intimidate her? Make her feel small just because she made you feel?"
He looked down.
Guilty.
Raw.
Exposed.
> Arnav (barely audible): "I said she was lying…"
> Anjali: "Yes."
> Arnav: "But she wasn't."
> Anjali: "No."
> Arnav: "I was."
A long pause.
She stepped closer, placing a hand on his clenched fist.
> Anjali (softly): "You said she looked at you like you were real."
His eyes widened—just a flicker.
> Anjali: "So stop acting like a shadow."
> Arnav: "What if I ruin her? Like I ruin everything I touch?"
> Anjali: "Then you don't touch. Not until you learn how."
> Arnav (hoarse): "How do I learn?"
She smiled, bittersweet.
> Anjali: "You show up. With truth. With apology. With no expectations and no spreadsheets."
> Arnav (bitterly): "She called me arrogant."
> Anjali: "She was being kind."
> Arnav (hollow laugh): "She looked at me like she hated me. But then she—she didn't throw the jalebis. She kept them."
> Anjali: "Because part of her still sees the boy inside the suit. The one who sketches her laugh at 3 a.m."
He blinked.
Said nothing.
She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper now—
> Anjali: "So go. Not as ASR. Not as the man who owns half of Delhi. Go as Arnav. The boy who fell for a girl with stars in her eyes and flour on her nose."
A pause.
He looked up at her.
The shield cracking just a little.
> Arnav (softly): "And if she doesn't want to see that version of me?"
Anjali smiled.
> Anjali: "Then you still show up. Not to win. But to mean it."
The breeze picked up.
The pool shimmered.
And somewhere across town, a girl with a guarded heart sat sewing stars onto a dupatta, not knowing a storm in black was about to knock on her door.
---
Gupta Boutique – The Next Morning
The sewing machine whirred, soft and steady, like the heartbeat of the little boutique.
Outside, the world bustled, but inside?
Time was stitched in silk and silence.
Khushi sat by the window, dupatta in hand, threading silver stars into midnight blue fabric.
Her brows were furrowed. Not from the embroidery—she could do that in her sleep.
But from him.
The storm she pretended didn't rattle her bones.
> "Jiji," she muttered, stabbing the needle through a constellation. "What kind of man throws feelings at you like designer grenades and then walks off like he owns the emotional stock market?"
Payal sipped chai without looking up.
> "The kind of man you haven't stopped thinking about since he left."
> "I'm not thinking about him."
> "That's your fifth star on the same corner. The dupatta's going to look like Orion had a panic attack."
Khushi scowled.
> "It's a design choice."
Before Payal could respond, the door jingled.
> Ding-ling.
Khushi didn't look up. She couldn't.
Because deep down, her heart already knew.
She recognized the silence before the voice.
That silence that clung to the walls. Dense. Electric.
The kind that carried storms wrapped in cologne and cashmere.
> "Khushi."
Her name. One word.
Spoken like a challenge. Like a question. Like an apology.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
No guards. No sunglasses. No sarcasm.
Just him. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Gaze heavy like the sky before rain.
> "What now?" she asked, voice steadier than she felt.
He didn't answer immediately.
He walked closer.
Slow.
Like every step might set the boutique ablaze.
Payal silently escaped into the back room, mouthing a panicked "Buaji will kill me" on the way.
Now it was just them.
And the sound of her needle. Slowing.
Then—
Stopping.
> "You didn't throw them," he said.
> "Throw what?"
> "The jalebis."
> "How do you know I didn't?"
> "Because I would've felt it."
Khushi blinked.
> "Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a stalker-poet."
> "I've been called worse."
> "Try 'emotionally constipated'."
He smiled. Barely.
> "That's new."
> "Why are you here, Arnav?"
He inhaled sharply.
Then walked to the counter and placed a box.
White. Gold ribbon. Again.
> "No jalebis this time," he said. "Just a note."
She didn't touch it.
> "If it says 'Round Three', I'm setting it on fire."
> "It says… I'm sorry."
Pause.
A long one.
A breath caught between who they were and who they were becoming.
> "You're sorry?" she echoed.
He nodded.
> "For calling you a liar. For making you feel like this was a game. For showing up without knowing what I want."
She looked away.
Out the window.
Anywhere but him.
> "And now?" she whispered.
> "Now I know what I want."
> "Which is?"
He stepped closer.
> "You. Not to own. Not to win. Just… to deserve."
Her breath hitched.
She hated that he could do that.
Just be there and make the walls she built tremble like tissue paper in the wind.
> "And if I say no?"
> "Then I come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the next."
> "With sweets?"
> "With truth."
Khushi looked down at the box.
Her fingers hovered. Shook slightly.
Then—
Opened it.
No jalebis.
Just a single fabric swatch.
Champagne pink.
The one she had stitched into her boutique logo. Months ago.
And under it?
A note.
Handwritten.
> "For the girl who stitched stars into her dreams—and accidentally stitched herself into mine."
She blinked.
Hard.
> "This doesn't mean I forgive you."
> "I'm not asking for forgiveness."
> "Then what are you asking for?"
He met her gaze.
Unflinching. Raw.
> "A beginning."
And for once, she didn't slam the door.
She didn't run.
She stood still.
And maybe, just maybe…
She stitched the tiniest smile onto her lips.