It was one of those rare mornings when the sun seemed to shine just for me. I had decided to take a day off from work no deadlines, no phone calls, no emails. Just me, my thoughts, and my little escape.

After weeks of stress and sleepless nights,

I desperately needed a moment of peace. So, I dressed in my favorite pale yellow kurti, the soft cotton fabric flowing gently as I walked.

I tied my hair loosely at the nape of my neck with a pink ribbon my grandmother had gifted me—something about that ribbon made me feel safe. Wearing my well-worn kolhapuri chappals, I stepped out into the lively streets of the city.

The air smelled faintly of jasmine and fresh rain, a rare drizzle from last night still lingering on the leaves. The hustle of vendors calling out their wares, the distant honking of vehicles, and children laughing somewhere far away created a symphony that only the city could compose.

My destination was the quaint little bookstore tucked between a chaiwala’s stall and a flower shop.

The store was small but magical, like a treasure chest filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered. The faded wooden sign above the door read “Pustak Ghar” in golden letters, and the bell jingled sweetly as I entered.

The familiar scent of old paper and ink wrapped around me like a comforting hug. My fingers traced over countless spines novels, poetry, mythology, history all waiting for their next reader.

But I was here for one book only: The Crimson Petals. It was the last copy in the store, and I had been longing to own it for months.

My heart raced as I reached out to grab it. But suddenly, a strong hand closed over the book before I could touch it.

“Excuse me!” I said, startled, my voice trembling slightly. “Woh… woh meri favourite book hai! Please...”

He turned slowly, and I was taken aback. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp navy blue blazer that somehow looked casual and commanding at the same time. His eyes were dark, intense, but kind—a storm behind a calm sea.

“Mujhe maaf kijiye,” he said softly, his voice deep and steady, “Agar yeh aapki favourite hai, toh aapko milni chahiye.”

My breath hitched. There was something so gentle in his tone, something respectful. I felt shy but also strangely drawn toward him.

“Lekin... main toh pehle reach kar rahi thi...” I whispered.

He smiled faintly, almost apologetic, and then gestured toward the cashier. I watched as he leaned over, whispered something, and nodded.

Moments later, the manager approached me with wide eyes and an even wider smile.

“Madam,” he said, almost reverently, “aaj poora bookstore aapka hai. Jo chahiye, le lijiye.”

I blinked, stunned. “Kya? Aapne... bookstore khareed liya?”

The man beside me—Kieran—gave a slight nod, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Aapki muskurahat ki keemat jitni bhi ho, kam hai,” he said softly.

My cheeks flushed deeply. I could hardly believe it. Here I was, a simple girl from a middle-class family, being gifted an entire bookstore by a stranger whose eyes held untold stories.

I clutched The Crimson Petals to my chest and whispered, “Dhanyavaad...” before leaving, feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed.

As I walked home through the narrow lanes, my mind raced. Who was this man? Why would he do such a grand gesture for me—someone he barely knew?

Back in my cozy apartment, I sat by the window, the book resting on my lap. My laptop hummed quietly on the table, beckoning me.

Curiosity got the better of me. I typed his name: Kieran.

The search results were overwhelming. Articles, news pieces, photos — all revealing a man far more complex than the bookstore buyer I’d met.

“CEO of ShadowTech — Asia’s fastest-growing tech company.”
“Former Commander of Syrian Special Ops — youngest and most decorated.”
“Youngest tech billionaire to make it into the global Forbes list.”

My breath caught. This wasn’t just some stranger — this was a man whose life had been marked by battlefields and boardrooms alike.

“Yeh banda toh kisi film ka hero lagta hai,” I murmured to myself, staring at the screen. How could someone so powerful be so kind, so gentle?

My heart pounded, and a strange warmth spread through my chest. I wanted to thank him properly, beyond the simple ‘thank you’ I had stammered earlier.

With trembling fingers, I typed a message to him.

“Aapne mere liye itna kuch kiya. Kya main aapke liye dinner arrange kar sakti hoon? Ek chhota sa shukriya.”

Seconds passed like hours.

Then, my phone buzzed.

“Only if you promise to wear that smile again.”

My heart fluttered wildly, as if someone had just whispered a secret just for me.

I sat back, unable to wipe the smile off my face. Maybe, just maybe, this day off was the beginning of something beautiful.

────୨ৎ────

I had planned nothing out that day. No deals, no meetings, no flashy events.

Just another day at work, another string of calls and presentations.

But then I saw her.

The moment she stepped into the bookstore, something shifted. It was the way her eyes lit up, the innocent excitement as she scanned the shelves. Like a child rediscovering the world.

She reminded me of simpler times — days when honor and softness weren’t enemies.

When she reached for The Crimson Petals, and I saw her fingers trembling with anticipation, I knew I couldn’t take it from her.

She said, “Woh meri favourite book hai.” Her voice was gentle, but firm.

And I felt a strange compulsion — to step aside, to let her have that joy.

Instead, I bought the entire bookstore.

Maybe it was foolishness, maybe a whim.

But when she smiled, hugging that book close, it felt like the right choice.

I told myself it wasn’t about impressing her. It was about preserving that smile. That light.

“Aapki muskurahat ki keemat jitni bhi ho, kam hai,” I had told her. Words I didn’t plan to say.

When she left, clutching her treasure, I stood there for a long time, my mind swirling with unfamiliar feelings.

Back at my penthouse, the message from her arrived.

“Aapne mere liye itna kuch kiya. Kya main aapke liye dinner arrange kar sakti hoon?”

I smirked. A simple, honest invitation. Nothing calculated. No business motives. Just pure kindness.

I replied, “Only if you promise to wear that smile again.”

She didn’t know the darkness I carried, the ghosts of my past.

But somehow, she made me want to believe in light.

“Saruuu! Baby bidooo!” my brother’s loud voice echoed from downstairs as I rolled my eyes, trying to focus on the masala I was mixing for the paneer.

“Bhai, main naam se bhi exist karti hoon!” I shouted back, laughing.

The aroma of ginger, garlic, and love filled the kitchen as I stirred the gravy, pretending to be a MasterChef contestant. Cooking had always been my therapy, a little escape from the chaos in my head—and in this house.

“Sarai, butter kam mat daalna! Tu jaanti hai tere dadda ko kitna pasand hai creamy gravy,” Mom’s voice chimed in from the living room.

“Main expert hoon, Mumma!” I replied, feeling proud, even with my kurti half stained in haldi and my hair tied up in a frizzy bun.

A few minutes later, I carried the bowls to the dining table. My dadda, Akshit Mehra, was already waiting, scrolling through his old WhatsApp group full of dad-joke forwards.

“Arre sun na Suhani,” he said to my mom, “yeh joke dekh—‘Engineer ke dil ka connection hamesha weak hota hai… kyunki woh wire dhoondhta hai, rishta nahi.’”

“Akshittt!” Mom sighed. “Tumhare joke sunke toh mujhe acidity hone lagti hai.”

I burst out laughing, plopping down beside him. “Dadda, yeh toh purana hai! Bhai ne kal bhi yeh sunaya tha.”

Just then, Sameer came striding in like some superhero, still in his gym clothes, hair wet from a shower, looking smug.

“Saru, bas mat bol. Tera bhai best hai. Aur tune jo paneer banaya hai, matlab mujhe sabse zyada pyaara hai.”

He ruffled my hair, and I swatted his hand away. “Bhai! Abhi set kiya tha hair! Tumhara kaam sirf tang karna hai kya?”

He sat down and winked. “Haan. Tum meri baby bidooo ho. Mera farz hai.”

Mom brought in hot rotis, and we all began eating like any other chaotic, lovable Indian family. Laughter echoed. Dadda complained about cholesterol, Mom reminded him of yoga, and Bhai kept stealing my paneer cubes.

It was perfect.

After dinner and a sweet mango kulfi, I tiptoed to my room upstairs, finally craving some quiet. The moonlight streamed in through the balcony curtains, casting gentle shadows on the walls. I hummed a soft tune under my breath, tossing my dupatta onto the chair.

Then I felt it.

A strange… stillness.

Like someone was there.

The curtains shifted slightly. My heart paused.

I picked up my lamp slowly and crept toward the balcony. “Kaun hai wahan? Dekho, mujhe maarna aasan nahi hai!” I warned, though my voice wasn’t exactly threatening.

The curtain fluttered, and suddenly—

A tall figure stepped out.

And my breath hitched.

“Tum?!” I whispered, shocked. “Raghav?”

His face was half-hidden in the dim light, but those eyes—those deep, stormy eyes—I could recognize anywhere. His jaw clenched, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.

He was here.

In my room.

At night.

“Tum pagal ho gaye ho kya? Tum... chhat se aaye ho kya?” I hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the window.

“Aaram se, Sarai... chilla kyun rahi ho? Sab so rahe hain,” he said calmly.

I glared. “Aur agar dadda dekh lete toh? Bhai mil jaata toh Syria bhej dete wapas!”

He chuckled. “Wahan se toh abhi hi aaya hoon. Tumhe lagta hai phir se jaane ka mann hoga?”

My eyes narrowed. “Oh, toh baat ghuma rahe ho? Mujhe bataya bhi nahi tumhe chot lagi Syria mein. Tumhare dost ke status se pata chala. Kitna careless ho tum!”

He lowered his gaze. For a moment, he looked... guilty.

“Mujhe laga... tum pareshaan ho jaogi,” he said softly.

“Toh main kya hoon, koi anjaan si ladki?” My voice cracked.

“Tum... tum meri Sarai ho,” he whispered.

And I swear, my heart did a little somersault.

He reached into his jacket pocket and held something out—a small, velvet box.

I hesitated. “Yeh kya hai?”

“Kholo,” he said, his voice unusually gentle.

I opened it slowly, and there it was—a delicate silver anklet, with tiny bells that glimmered like moonlight. The kind I had once told him I loved during a fair in Lucknow.

My throat tightened.

“Tumne yeh... yaad tha?”

He nodded. “Tum gussa thi, na? Toh socha... maafi ek gift sath mein lee chalu”

I burst out laughing despite myself. “Tumse toh koi debate jeet hi nahi sakta. Tum lawyer kyun nahi ban gaye?”

“Main toh tumhara lawyer hoon kaam bolo kar dunga,” he said with a soft grin. “Sirf tumhara.”

I looked away, biting my lip, the anklet still cradled in my hand.

He sat down on the floor near my bed. “Pehna do?”

“Tum na ek nunber ke... drama king ho,” I mumbled but stretched my foot forward anyway.

He gently clasped the anklet around my ankle, his fingers brushing my skin ever so lightly. My breath hitched again.

The tiny bells chimed softly.

“Perfect,” he said, looking up at me.

I tried to act cool. “Warna return karne ka receipt toh hai na?”

He smirked. “Tum wapas nahi kar sakti. Main guarantee ke saath aaya hoon.”

For a moment, everything went still.

The curtains swayed.

The moonlight glowed.

And in that moment, with my annoying, brave, secretly-sweet soldier sitting at my feet, I knew...

I was completely, helplessly falling for Raghav Rathore.

Dhundhli Chhayaayein જ⁀➴

The underground was silent except for the rhythmic sound of my boots against the concrete floor. The walls were damp, breathing the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. I adjusted the collar of my jacket, eyes scanning the dim corridors.

This was the hidden world. The one I had buried deep within myself. The one Sarai could never know.

Main kisi aur duniya ka tha. Ek aisi duniya jahan dard, raaz aur khoon sabse gehri zubaan mein likhe jaate the.

"Sir, package secure hai. Syria ke border se transfer ho chuka hai," one of my men reported, stepping beside me with a file. I nodded, skimming the document.

A shipment that wasn’t arms or drugs — it was information. And in our world, information was power, more than bullets or blood.

I walked past the line of black SUVs, each one ready, armed, waiting. My men knew not to ask questions. My dual life demanded it.

They knew me only as Raavan, the code name I had earned from the ashes of war.

But inside, I was still Raghav. Sarai's Raghav. The man who once stole anklets for a smile.

And tonight, I had to wear the other face.

---

The club was pulsing with music, strobe lights dancing like chaos in motion. Club Nyx belonged to Kieran Rao —

a man of secrets, sins, and silent rage. One of the richest tech kings by day, and the mastermind behind the most ruthless syndicate by night.

He stood in his private suite, glass of whiskey in hand, staring at the skyline like he owned it. Maybe he did.

"Late ho gaye ho, Rathore," he muttered without turning.

"Kaam tha. Syria se fresh intel aayi hai," I replied, stepping in. The door clicked shut behind me.

He turned. His steel-grey eyes met mine.

"Toh suno, Rathore. Time kam hai. Bishops, Morgans, aur Morphies phir se active ho gaye hain. Syria ke camps mein naya racket shuru hua hai."

My jaw tightened. "Bacche?"

He nodded grimly. "Child trafficking. Syria ke refugee camps mein. Unke pichhe koi hai, aur mujhe shak hai... woh Medusa wale."

Medusa.

The name hit like a bullet. I remembered the symbol—a serpent-crowned woman inked across the back of an assassin I once encountered in Aleppo. A ghost from the ruins. That was the first time I saw the symbol. The last time I almost died.

Kieran tossed a photo on the table. A burned truck. Inside, tiny shoes.

"Kya karna hai?" I asked.

"Tum jaoge. Par yeh mission solo hoga. Kisi ko bataana mat. Not even... her."

Sarai.

Meri Saru.

Maine aankhen band ki. Unki hansi, unka gussa, unka chehra mere zehan mein ghoom gaya.

"Tumhare liye mushkil hoga, I know," Kieran said, voice softer now. "Par tum jaante ho, uske liye yeh duniya safe nahi hai."

"Main uske liye har dushman se lad sakta hoon, Kieran. Par uska dil nahi tod sakta."

He sighed. "Toh jhooth jeena seekh lo. Jab tak zarurat ho."

I left without another word.

─⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

The next day, I visited an old contact in the outskirts of the city. He was a retired informant who now ran a chai tapri, the kind that reeked of elaichi and hidden truths.

"Rathore bhai, ek khabar mili hai. Kal night port area mein kuch ajeeb dekha. Ek ladki... bilkul tumhari Sarai jaisi dikhti thi. Par uske saath the Medusa log."

My hands went cold.

"Woh Sarai nahi ho sakti. Tum galat dekh rahe ho," I said firmly.

"Par bhai... aankhon se dekha. Uske haath mein wohi scar tha... wohi awaaz... par uski aankhen... woh alag thi."

Scar?

I drove to the docks like a man possessed. My mind raced.

She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t be involved.

But when I reached the broken warehouse, it was empty.

Almost.

Because behind the rusted barrels, I saw her.

Or someone who looked like her.

She stood with her back to me, leather jacket hugging her figure. Her hair tied in a messy bun, and on her ankle—an anklet, exactly like the one I had given Sarai.

My voice caught in my throat. "Sarai?"

She turned slowly.

Her eyes met mine.

They weren’t Sarai’s.

They were colder. Darker. Sharper.

She smirked. "Tum Raghav ho na? Rathore. Medusa jaanti hai tumhare baare mein. Tumse milke acha laga."

And then I saw it.

The tattoo.

A black serpent curled around a woman’s skull. Medusa.

And before I could react, she threw a smoke bomb.

Coughing, I stumbled out, my instincts kicking in. Whoever she was, she wasn’t Sarai. But she wanted me to think she was.

Someone was playing a dangerous game.

And I was already losing.

That night, I returned to my apartment. My hand trembled as I poured whiskey into a glass, the image of that girl haunting me.

Was Sarai in danger? Or was she hiding something too?

My phone buzzed.

Sarai: "Kya kar rahe ho? Missed you today. Come over? Mom made your favorite rajma."

I stared at the screen.

And typed back.

"Kaam zyada hai. Kal milte hain, Rose"

Rose. The name I gave her when we were teenagers.

I clenched my jaw.

I had to protect her. Even if it meant lying. Even if it meant bleeding in the dark.

But one thing was certain:

The ghosts of Syria had returned.

And the war had just begun.

────୨ৎ────

The Deal of Destiny

The sun began to dip over the vast skyline of Delhi as the clock ticked closer to a critical deadline.

Vikramaditya Rathore, the patriarch of the Rathore empire and father to Raghav, stood in his private study. He stared at the massive oak desk scattered with files, proposals, and business models.

His newest venture, a high-stakes expansion into luxury fashion under Rathore Enterprises, needed a dependable partner—someone who wasn't just skilled but also carried the poise, intellect, and vision that could elevate the brand to elite status.

His mind kept circling back to a single requirement: "Kisi aise insaan ki zarurat hai jo na sirf fashion industry ko samjhe, balki usmein naye standards set kare."

Just then, his phone buzzed.

“Sir, Akshit Mehra se call aaya hai,” said his assistant.

“Put him through,” Vikramaditya said, intrigued. Akshit Mehra—former CEO of SM Heritage, a fashion legacy brand known for its timeless elegance and progressive ethics.

A man Vikramaditya had always respected from afar.

“Vikramaditya ji,” came the warm yet firm voice over the call, “Main aur meri beti Sarai kuch der mein aapke office aa rahe hain. Mujhe lagta hai aap jise dhoond rahe hain... wo shayad mil gayi hai.”

Vikramaditya raised his brows. “Aapki beti?”

“Haan. Sarai Akshit Mehra. Former design head of SM Heritage. Aur young ceo of fashion empire Apko milke samajh aayega.”

The call ended, leaving Vikramaditya’s mind in motion

Within the hour, the grand hall of Rathore Enterprises lit up with anticipation. Sarai entered with the grace of a queen—draped in a subtle ivory saree with modern detailing.

Her poise was unshaken, eyes radiating intellect, and her aura, commanding yet calm. She wasn’t just a woman walking in; she was a storm wrapped in silk.

Her father, Akshit, stood proudly beside her. “Meri beti se miliye, Sarai Mehra.”

Vikramaditya stood and extended his hand. “Main Vikramaditya Rathore. Aaj mujhe lag raha hai main pehli baar ek CEO se nahi, ek movement se mil raha hoon.”

Sarai smiled, her handshake firm. “Business ek vision ka naam hai, aur vision sirf profit nahi, purpose bhi hona chahiye, Mr. Rathore.”

They sat down to discuss the company’s goals.

Vikramaditya presented their expansion plans, global vision, and sustainability goals. Sarai, never missing a beat, added suggestions, questioned strategies, and even pointed out potential PR risks with a calm assertiveness that earned the respect of the entire board.

“Sir, agar hum craftsmanship ko rural India se jodte hain, toh product bhi rich hoga aur brand story bhi,” she said, her voice filled with conviction. “Aaj kal log kahani kharidte hain, kapde nahi.”

Vikramaditya’s eyes gleamed. He turned to his legal counsel and said, “Draft the agreement. Sarai Mehra will be our official business partner.”

Akshit placed a hand on Sarai’s shoulder. “Tumne hamesha sabit kiya ki tum meri beti nahi, meri sherni ho.”

The boardroom burst into applause.

The Proposal Twist

(Author's POV)

The hum of business talks had barely faded from the halls of Rathore Enterprises, but the memory of Sarai Mehra’s presence still lingered like the soft fragrance of jasmine in spring.

Vikramaditya Rathore, an astute businessman known for his iron hand and uncompromising standards, had found something—or rather, someone—that truly shook the foundation of his seasoned mind.

Sarai was not just a partner. She was the definition of what every empire needed to survive in a changing world: grace with steel, compassion with conviction.

Days had passed since the deal was signed, but for Vikram, every interaction with her replayed vividly.

Her suggestions, her bold opinions, her unwavering presence—he couldn't help but smile.

“Agar mere bete Raghav ki zindagi mein koi ho sakti hai, toh woh Sarai hi honi chahiye. Usmein woh sab kuch hai jo is khandaan ko aage le jaa sakta hai,”

he murmured to himself, sipping his evening tea while watching the sunset from his ancestral haveli.

He had started addressing her lovingly as “meri beti.” It was a name that slipped past the cracks of formality and directly into affection. Not many knew, but Vikram had always wished for a daughter. Sarai had filled that space in the span of mere days.

He often joked with his staff, “Yeh ladki toh meri choti beti hai.”

It was clear to everyone around that the bond Vikram and Sarai were forming was deeper than business.

---

But happiness often comes with shadows trailing behind.

One fine morning, Vikram was in the middle of discussing brand launches when his phone buzzed with a message from an old friend—Akshit Mehra.

“Mujhe aapse zaroori baat karni hai. Personal matter hai. Shaam ko mil sakte hain?”

Curious and slightly concerned, Vikram agreed.

Later that evening in Vikram’s private study, Akshit arrived with a warm yet tight smile.

“Bhai, aap itne pareshaan lag rahe hain. Sab theek?” Vikram asked.

Akshit sighed, glancing away briefly before speaking. “Sarai ke liye ek rishta aaya hai. Aarav Raichand.”

Vikram’s heart skipped a beat. Aarav Raichand? The name rang in his head like a silent alarm.

He composed himself. “Aarav? Uska toh business Mumbai mein hai na?”

“Haan,” Akshit nodded, unaware of Vikram’s rising discomfort. “Bachpan se hamare ghar se juda hai. Uski maa meri dost thi. Aarav aur Sarai ki understanding bhi achhi hai.”

Vikram stood silent. Behind his calm exterior, emotions brewed violently. Not just because of Aarav, but because of the thought—someone else calling his Sarai theirs.

Later,

Vikram stood alone in his garden, remembering Sarai laughing with his staff, confidently handling presentations, casually calling him “Rathore Uncle” and helping his sister with charity events.

He muttered, “Woh kisi aur ki ho jaaye? Nahi... yeh toh ho hi nahi sakta.”

For Vikram, Sarai had become more than just a business partner. She had become family his daughter by heart. And in a quiet corner of that vast heart, he hoped maybe she could be more to Raghav too.

But now, this Aarav Raichand had entered the picture like a storm in still waters.

The next day,

He invited Sarai for lunch at the mansion. Everything was delicately prepared—her favorite dishes, fresh lilies in the hallway, classical music playing softly in the background.

As she arrived, Vikram greeted her warmly. “Aaj toh meri ghar ki beti aayi hai.”

Sarai laughed, “Rathore uncle, aapka yeh beti kehna mere staff ko bhi lagta hai main aapki family hoon.”

Vikram’s smile didn’t waver. “Aur ho bhi. Par ek baat karni hai.”

They sat in the sunroom, and he finally spoke. “Aarav Raichand ka rishta aaya hai tumhare liye.”

Sarai’s expression changed for a brief moment—surprise, then stillness. She folded her hands on her lap.

“Haan, papa ne bataya. I’m thinking about it.”

Vikram studied her. “Tum sach mein interested ho?”

Sarai looked at him, straight and sincere. “Mujhe abhi tak kisi mein woh dilchaspi nahi mili jo mujhe mile kisimein. Aarav achhe hain, par... bas abhi soch rahi hoon.”

Vikram breathed a sigh of relief inside. There was still time.

He smiled, “Main toh chahta hoon tum usse shaadi karo jo tumhari aankhon mein bhi khushiyaan le aaye. Jo tumhari value samjhe, tumhari azadi, tumhare dreams. Jo tumhe samjhe!!”

Sarai smiled gently, unaware of the silent war building in his heart.

Later that afternoon,

as Sarai sat in the main hall with Vikram and his mother, Shravni Rathore, the atmosphere shifted into one of familial warmth. Shravni, regal in her pastel silk saree, looked at Sarai with affectionate eyes.

“Tumhari muskaan toh poore haveli mein roshni laati hai, beta,” Shravni said, gently holding Sarai’s hand.

Sarai giggled, “Aap dono mujhe itna pyar dete ho... mujhe lagta hai main iss ghar ki hoon.”

Shravni smiled and walked to her antique chest. She returned with a beautiful silver bracelet adorned with delicate rubies.

“Yeh meri maa ka tha. Har generation mein ek beti ko diya gaya hai. Main chahti hoon, yeh tum pehnao.”

Sarai was stunned. “Par aunty, yeh toh... itna precious hai.”

Shravni cupped her face. “Aur tum usse bhi zyada. Tum jaise ho, vaisi ladki har ghar mein ho toh woh ghar mandir ban jaata hai.”

Vikram smiled proudly from the side. “Dekha, meri maa ko bhi tum pasand ho gayi.”

Sarai’s eyes glistened as she whispered, “Thank you... mein kabhi yeh bhool nahi paungi.”

Shravni fastened the bracelet on Sarai’s wrist. “Tum ab is khandaan ka hissa ho, chahe kisi rishtay mein ho ya nahi.”

(Sarai's POV)

The echoes of boardroom applause still danced in my ears as I stepped out onto the terrace of Rathore Enterprises. Delhi’s skyline had never looked more triumphant—or complicated.

A deal signed, a legacy cemented, and yet, an odd silence tugged at my heart.

I had impressed Vikramaditya Rathore—the man known to reduce seasoned industrialists to trembling messes.

But the way he looked at me… not as a business partner, not as a strategic move, but something else. A fatherly pride? A connection deeper than I expected?

“Tum meri beti jaise ho balki meri khudki beti se badhkar aage ho tum, Sarai. Main toh hamesha aisi kisi ki talash mein tha,” he had said during our private dinner after the deal.

I had laughed softly, unsure how to respond to such warmth. No one called me their ‘babu’ since Mom stopped using that word when I turned sixteen.

But Vikram Sir used it with so much affection, it softened a part of me that had long grown armored.

“Tum meri beti ho. Tumhe dekh kar lagta hai, Raghav ki zindagi sirf better nahi, poori ho sakti hai.”

His words struck deeper than I admitted. Because deep down, a part of me had always admired Raghav Rathore. The mystery, the grit, the way he hid storms behind a calm smile.

But there was a secret no one knew—not even Vikram Sir.

A week passed, and I found myself growing closer to Rathore Enterprises. I was now leading their rebranding campaign, mentoring young women, revamping supply chains, and speaking on fashion panels.

Vikram Sir beamed with pride at every meeting. He sent handwritten notes with my morning coffee: “My pride. My beti”

And yet, an email changed everything.

It came from Papa.

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

“Sarai, humne socha hai ki tumhara rishta Aarav Raichand ke saath tay kar dein. Woh London se wapas aa gaya hai. Successful hai. Tumhare layak hai.”

The ground beneath me shifted.

Aarav Raichand.

The name alone gave me chills. My father’s dream suitor. He was smart, yes. Rich, no doubt. But his charm felt too curated. Too polished. Too much like a résumé than a heart.

I didn’t hate him, no.

But I didn’t want to belong to him.

And worse? I couldn’t tell Papa that I didn’t believe in arranged perfection.

The next morning, I met Vikram Sir at the private tea lounge of the company. He looked at me and paused.

“Kya baat hai, beti? Aankhon mein sawaal hai aaj.”

I wanted to tell him. That my heart felt like a page torn in two. That I had been promised like property, again.

But all I managed was a smile. “Nothing, Sir. Just a lot on my mind.”

Later that night, I sat by my window, watching the city lights. My phone buzzed. It was Raghav. Just a message:

“You okay, Saru?”

Not Sarai. Not business partner. Just… Mehra. Like he always did. It made me smile.

But I couldn’t reply.

Because how do you tell someone you might be someone else's forever, when you’re not even sure you belong to yourself anymore?

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

The next morning, Papa called a family lunch. I knew what was coming. So did Mom.

“Aarav aur uski maa aane wale hain, beta,” Mom whispered as she set the table.

When the Raichands arrived, Aarav smiled politely, made boring jokes, and handed me a bouquet of lilies.

I hate lilies.

But I smiled. Sat through the lunch. Let the charade unfold.

It was only when Papa brought out the family photo albums and began talking about engagement plans that I excused myself.

I locked myself in my room, my heart racing.

And then my phone rang.

Vikramaditya Rathore.

I answered. My voice cracked. “Hello…?”

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

He just said: “Main tumhare ghar ke bahar hoon. Aao.”

I ran.

He stood leaning on his vintage Mustang, looking like a storm waiting to be summoned.

I ran to him. And for the first time, I cried.

He let me.

“Beti!!,” he said softly, “Tum koi samjhota nahi ho jo kisi ko karna hai. Tum faisla ho, Tumhaare naam ka.”

His words broke something inside me—something silent and oppressed.

I wanted to scream that I didn’t belong to Aarav. That I didn’t believe in blind obedience. That I was Sarai Akshit Mehra—and I wanted to build my life, not be handed over like legacy jewelry.

He listened.

Then he said: “Aarav Raichand jaisa aadmi tumhari kahani mein sirf ek panna ho sakta hai, beti! Tum poori kitaab ho.”

I laughed through my tears.

That night, I made a decision.

I wasn’t anyone’s negotiation.

I was a name. A legacy. A fire that couldn’t be contained in an arranged alliance.

I wasn’t just going to say no to Aarav.

I was going to rewrite my fate.

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Thank you so much for reading this chapter I hope you'll love this chapter

Is baar daal diaa some interesting facts and some soft romance!!

Kya matlab I forgot giving some trauma!!

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Word count - 5166 words

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