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🌼Aranya’s POV🌼

“How dare you get married without my permission, Aranya Rathore!”

That voice.

That one voice from the entrance cut through the crowd like a streak of thunder across a clear sky.

Every head turned.

And my heart—my stubborn, fragile heart—stopped.

“Meera…” I whispered before my mind could even catch up.

There she stood at the door, hands on her hips, that familiar wild hair bouncing against her designer blazer. Dressed in fitted denim, a white crop top, and a sharp jacket that screamed New York runway, Meera Kapoor looked every bit the chaos I’d missed.

She was my hurricane. My voice when I didn’t have one. My best friend.

And she was staring at me like she was two seconds away from throwing her expensive stiletto straight at my head.

The hall went utterly silent. Even the music faded.

She started walking toward me — no, storming — in slow motion, like one of those overly dramatic Bollywood heroines.

Everyone stared, confused.

I could feel the tension in the air. And before I could even blink, she was running straight at me.

“Aranyaaa!” she yelled, stretching her arms.

For a second, my heart swelled. My lips parted into a trembling smile. I didn’t care who was watching — my family, his family, the world. I wanted to run and hug her. To feel like me again.

I took a step forward… but she raised her hand.

Palm flat. A block.

What?

“Uh-uh,” she said, her face turning mock-serious. “You do not get to hug me before answering how this—” she pointed between me and Veer “—happened!”

The room gasped.

Veer, who had been lounging on the sofa like a king moments ago, now straightened. His brows knit together, his jaw tightening. I saw his hand move from his phone to the armrest — slow, deliberate, dangerous.

He turned slightly toward Neil, who stood near the corner, pretending to admire the décor but clearly enjoying the drama.

With that deadly calm voice of his, Veer murmured, “Who is she?”

Neil shrugged innocently, suppressing a grin. “Not sure, but she’s got guts.”

Typical Neil.

Meanwhile, Meera crossed her arms, scanning the entire Chauhan mansion like she was inspecting a crime scene.

Her gaze stopped on me again, and her tone softened. “I just went to New York for ten days, Aaru. Ten. And when I come back, you’re married? Married?!”

She threw her hands up dramatically, earning a few chuckles from Neil and the brothers.

My heart clenched, a mix of guilt and relief crashing inside me. I wanted to explain, but words stumbled in my throat.

“I’ll tell you everything later,” I whispered as I stepped closer and finally wrapped my arms around her.

Her perfume — that familiar lavender scent — hit me and, for a second, I felt safe again. Like I wasn’t Aranya Chauhan, the mistaken bride. I was just Aaru, Meera’s best friend.

When we pulled apart, everyone’s eyes were on us.

Chachi leaned toward me with a confused smile. “Aru beta, who is this cutie?”

I smiled softly. “She’s my best friend — Meera Kapoor.”

Meera turned to the family, folding her hands politely but with her signature sass. “Namaste,” she said with a small bow. “Model, businesswoman, and part-time savior of this trouble magnet right here.” She pointed at me.

The room chuckled, except Veer. His gaze hadn’t left her for even a second — intense, assessing, predatory.

Meera, of course, noticed.

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?”

The air turned thick.

Veer rose slowly from the sofa, every movement calculated. The very aura around him seemed to shift — calm, cold, and lethal. He stood tall, adjusting his cufflinks like the king he was.

“Veer Pratap Singh Chauhan,” he said simply, his voice deep, smooth, and terrifyingly calm. “Her husband.”

The way he said husband sent a shiver crawling down my spine.

But Meera… she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she crossed her arms and met his eyes. “Oh. So you’re him.”

“You sound disappointed,” Veer replied, his tone dripping with quiet dominance.

“I usually am when I meet men who think they can scare women into silence,” she said sweetly.

Neil coughed to hide a laugh. Vivaan looked like he was watching his favorite show. Aaryan muttered something like “this is gonna be fun,” and Kabir tried — and failed — to look serious.

For a moment, even I forgot to breathe.

This was the kind of energy that could make sparks fly or start a war.

Veer took a step forward. “You have quite a sharp tongue.”

Meera smiled. “And I use it when people hurt my people.”

She shifted her stance slightly, tilting her chin upward. “I don’t care who you are, Mr. Chauhan. Good, bad, king, or devil — if you ever hurt Aaru again, I swear it’ll be your end.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

Every single person froze — except Neil, who muttered, “Oh, I like her. Finally someone who can talk back to him.”

Veer’s eyes flicked toward him dangerously.

Neil raised both hands in surrender. “Just saying, boss. Healthy dynamic.”

I wanted to disappear.

“Meera!” I hissed, tugging at her arm. “Please don’t—”

“What? Defend you?” she whispered. “Not happening, babe.”

God. She was the same. Fiery, dramatic, unapologetic.

And yet… seeing her stand for me like that, in front of everyone, after everything—I felt something break inside me. The loneliness I’d been holding onto for months cracked open.

But I also saw something in Veer’s eyes when he looked at her — not anger. Not hatred. Just quiet realization. Maybe guilt. Maybe respect.

Whatever it was, it made my heart skip.

Devyani maa, ever the graceful peacemaker, finally laughed softly to break the tension.

“Enough of this tug-of-war now. Come, everyone. It’s time for the Garba night.”

The atmosphere lightened. Laughter replaced silence. Music began to hum faintly from the courtyard.

Meera’s face lit up instantly. She turned to me, her excitement bubbling. “Did you hear that? Garba! Oh my god, Aaru, we’re dancing tonight!”

My jaw dropped. “What—no! I don’t dance.”

“Excuse me?” she gasped dramatically. “You don’t dance? You’re the Garba Queen of the Ahmedabad Fest, two-time winner, queen of twirls and spins?”

I blinked. Everyone turned to look at me like I’d been hiding a national secret.

“Wait, what?” Anika blurted, eyes wide. “Bhabhi! You were the Garba Queen?!”

“Was,” I corrected quickly, cheeks warming.

Meera nudged me. “Still are.”

Veer looked mildly amused — the faintest hint of a smirk touching his lips. “Queen, huh?” he murmured under his breath, and for some reason, that single word sent my heartbeat racing.

“Alright then!” Meera said, clapping her hands. “Aunty—sorry, Devyani ma’am—can we please be the opening pair? Just the first set! Please!”

Devyani smiled warmly. “Of course, beta. I’d be happy to see you both dance.”

“Me?” I panicked. “No… I—”

“Oh come on, Aaru,” Meera said. “You’ll love it!”

Vivaan, leaning lazily against the pillar, grinned. “Wait, Meera Kapoor dancing in our Garba night? I think the festival just got an upgrade.”

Their eyes met for the briefest second — a spark of challenge, curiosity… something electric.

And someone else in the room didn’t seem to like it.

I noticed it, the way a certain pair of eyes darkened in the corner. But before I could figure it out, Meera had already grabbed my hand.

“Come on, Aaru. You’re not escaping tonight."

Veer, who had been quiet all along, finally spoke. His voice was calm, but it carried weight.

“I don’t dance.”

Meera raised a brow. “Oh, no problem, Mr. Serious. We weren’t asking you to.”

Then she smirked mischievously. “But if you did, I’m sure the whole Garba floor would catch fire from intimidation.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Everyone stared at her, waiting for the explosion.

But Veer only tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on her.

“Let her dance,” he said simply, the tone firm, final — the kind of voice no one questioned.

That single permission felt heavier than any gift.

Because in that moment, I realized… he wasn’t stopping me.

He was letting me breathe.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled — a real one.

Meera grinned back, triumphant. “Then it’s settled. Let’s go, Garba Queen.”

And before anyone could stop her, she dragged me toward the courtyard, our laughter echoing through the mansion halls.

Behind us, I could still feel Veer’s gaze — calm, unreadable, yet burning like wildfire.

And somehow, even in the chaos, I felt something.

🦋Author’s POV🦋

The lights dimmed.

A sudden hush fell across the courtyard as the dhol beats echoed through the air, bouncing off the marble pillars of the Chauhan mansion. Lanterns shimmered in gold and red, casting soft glows on faces brimming with excitement.

Everyone had settled down, waiting for the performance.

Even Veer — who never believed in festivals, who treated celebrations as unnecessary noise — was seated quietly, his eyes fixed on the stage. He wasn’t here for the music. Or the colours

.

He was here… for her.

Meanwhile, at the corner, Kavya leaned forward toward Vikram, her voice a low hiss of envy.

“When did she ever go to Garba? And who gave her permission to dance?”

Vikram exhaled sharply, his patience finally breaking. “Kavya, for God’s sake, can you shut up for once? Why are you so concerned about her? She’s not even in our house anymore. Leave it.”

For a brief moment, Kavya froze — the sting of his tone sharper than any slap. He had never spoken to her like that before.

And as the lights glowed brighter, the bitterness in her heart only grew darker.

Across from them, the Chauhans were seated in their elegant row. Devyani with her soft smile, Dadu with his prideful eyes, Chachi adjusting her dupatta excitedly — and beside them, the four shadows of power:

Veer, Aarav, Aaryan, and Kabir.

All four sat with the same stoic calm, backs straight, faces unreadable — a quiet intensity that made half the women in the audience sigh dreamily.

The mafia aura wasn’t a rumour — it was an undeniable, magnetic truth.

And then—

Rangi parod aavi khushiyo sang lavi…

The first notes floated through the speakers, filling the air with rhythmic energy. The beats of Garba began to pulse through the courtyard like a heartbeat.

A group of girls entered, their faces covered with dupattas, moving gracefully in circular patterns. The colourful skirts swirled in perfect harmony, the jingling of anklets matching every beat.

Har khaye haiyu haye haye… rangi parod aavi khushiyo sang lavi…

Their steps were soft yet powerful, arms extending in elegant arcs, the choreography flowing like poetry. The guests clapped in rhythm, their energy slowly rising with the music.

And then — the tempo changed.

Hey shubhaarambh ho shubhaarambh… mangal beela aayi…

A spotlight cut through the stage.

Neil and Vivaan stepped forward — both dressed to perfection. Neil, in a deep royal blue kurta with golden embroidery that shimmered under the lights. Vivaan, in an off-white sherwani with hints of maroon and gold.

They danced in sync, twirling the sticks with effortless charm. Every movement was sharp, confident, teasing.

The crowd erupted — screams, whistles, laughter. Girls from the guest section were clapping, some drooling, some daydreaming.

“Uff! Neil bhai looks so good!” one whispered

.

“Vivaan is literally glowing!” another giggled.

Even Anika was fangirling, clapping wildly as her brothers stole the spotlight.

Khwaabo ke beej, kachi zameen pe… humko bona hai…

The crowd cheered as a few men dancers joined them. The rhythm picked up, lights flickered, and from behind the rows of dancers — two silhouettes appeared.

Backs turned. Dupattas covering their shoulders.

Soft orange lights cascaded from above, making their outlines glow like fire.

Raas rachilyo saaj sajilo… shubh ghadi chhe aavi…

As the music hit the next beat — they turned.

And in that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Aranya. And Meera.

Both smiling. Both glowing. Both untouchable.

Aranya moved with elegance — her lehenga a dream woven in moonlight and rose.

She wore a white-gold lehenga, adorned with soft pink embroidery, the skirt flowing like rippling silk. Her dupatta — translucent and dusted with shimmer — trailed behind her like stardust. Every step she took was poetry, every twirl a whisper of grace.

Meera, beside her, was the contrast — fire to Aranya’s moon.

She wore a crimson red lehenga with intricate mirror work and a sleeveless blouse of gold embroidery. Her dupatta was wrapped elegantly over one shoulder, her diamond earrings glinting each time she moved.

She looked bold. Fearless. Dazzling.

The crowd gasped in awe.

Even the stoic brothers — Aaryan and Kabir — couldn’t hide their smiles.

“Bhabhi’s killing it,” Kabir murmured.

Aaryan nodded with a soft grin. “Definitely didn’t see that coming.”

But two men didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

Veer. And Aarav.

Aarav’s chest tightened as he saw his sister move across the floor. He’d seen her dance before — secretly, quietly, when she thought no one was watching.

She was born to dance, he knew that. Even when he pretended not to care.

But tonight, his eyes drifted — not to Aranya.

To Meera.

And something inside him shifted.

He couldn’t understand it — the way his heart started to race.

Her laughter echoed through the hall, bright and unfiltered. Her energy pulled everyone in like a flame.

He caught himself smiling faintly — until he saw her twirl and end up right beside Vivaan.

Vivaan, the ever-charmer, matched her rhythm, their steps perfectly in sync.

The audience went wild, cheering at their chemistry.

Aarav’s jaw clenched. The smile vanished. His grip on the armrest tightened.

He didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

Veer, however, wasn’t looking at anyone else.

His eyes were only on her.

For the first time since their marriage, Aranya wasn’t quiet.

She wasn’t scared.

She wasn’t hiding.

She was alive.

Her laughter, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when the music hit a beat — it did something to him. Something he didn’t understand, something he couldn’t control.

He leaned back in his seat, expression calm, but his heart… his heart was chaos.

Inside his head, words formed — unspoken, untamed, like a poem he didn’t mean to write:

"To my world of shadows, you came as light,

A whisper of dawn in endless night.

Your smile- a flame a soft yet fierce,

Cutting through walls I'd built for years.

If heaven had a glimpse,it would be this-

The curve of your lips, nor warmth,nor grace,

until i saw moonlight upon your face"

His jaw tightened slightly. The corner of his mouth curved — the faintest hint of something dangerously close to awe.

“Veer?” Neil leaned closer, smirking. “You good, bro?”

Veer didn’t answer.

Neil grinned wider. “Yeah, thought so.”

The Garba continued — vibrant, electric.

Neil joined the circle, spinning his sticks with flair. Vivaan and Meera twirled near the center, creating a rhythm of fire and laughter. Aranya danced with joy she hadn’t felt in months, her steps light and free.

For the first time, she wasn’t Rathore’s daughter or Chauhan’s bride.

She was just Aranya.

And in that moment, she was home.

Hey shubhaarambh ho shubhaarambh…

Her eyes sparkled as she turned — and froze.

A sudden tug.

Her bangles caught on something — no, someone.

A shawl. A hand.

Across the circle, a man from the opposite group stood, his shawl looped around her wrist. His expression unreadable. His stance… intentional.

The music dimmed slightly as Aranya struggled to free her hand, confusion flashing across her face.

Before anyone could react, Veer was already standing.

Every eye turned to him as he walked forward — slow, steady, lethal. The sound of his shoes against marble echoed louder than the music.

🌼Aranya’s POV🌼

My bangles clinked softly as I tugged at them again, trying to free myself from the shawl that had somehow looped around my wrist. My heart was already racing because I knew — I felt — that the man opposite wasn’t helping.

It wasn’t an accident. His eyes told me that.

I bit my lip, pulling my hand again, but before I could even blink, the music stopped.

Silence.

The entire courtyard suddenly felt heavier, like the air itself froze. I felt someone’s shadow fall across me — tall, broad, and unmistakably intense.

And then I saw him.

Veer.

He was standing barely a few steps away, his expression calm, but the storm in his eyes was impossible to miss.

The kind of calm that comes right before lightning strikes.

Even without a word, I could feel the heat rolling off him. Not the warmth of affection… but the heat of barely restrained anger.

It felt like standing too close to fire — dangerous yet impossible to move away from.

I tried to free my wrist again, whispering, “It’s fine, I’ll handle—”

But before I could finish, Veer stepped forward and with one swift, controlled motion, untangled the shawl from my bangles.

The movement was gentle but there was tension in every line of his body — his jaw tight, his breathing deep, his eyes still locked on the man in front of me.

“Hey, chill, Veer. What happened? It’s just a bangle, right?” the man said, raising both hands casually as if nothing happened.

Veer tilted his head slightly, that dangerous calm never leaving.

“Mr. Sharma… when did you arrive?” His tone was polite — too polite. The kind that carried a warning if you listened closely.

The man — Mr. Sharma — smiled easily. “This morning. And please, Veer, don’t be so formal. You’ll make me feel like an outsider.”

I blinked, looking between them in confusion.

They knew each other?

“Arre, Rohit beta! When did you come?” Dadu’s voice broke through the tension as he walked toward us with a big smile.

Rohit immediately bent down to touch his feet. “This morning, Dadu,” he replied respectfully.

I stood there, still trying to understand what was going on. Who was this man? And why was everyone acting like he was family?

But before I could say anything, I felt something strange — a slight tug.

When I turned, I realized Veer’s hand was still holding the end of my dupatta.

He didn’t even seem to notice.

His grip was tight — protective, possessive — and for some reason, my heartbeat decided to start sprinting.

I tried to pull it back gently, but he didn’t let go. His fingers brushed against the fabric again, and the contact sent a rush of something warm through my chest.

And that’s when I noticed the girls nearby — whispering, staring, some even giggling.

Their expressions screamed one thing: she’s so dead.

I swallowed, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Hmm, Devyani maa, who is this beautiful lady?” Rohit asked suddenly, his eyes shifting toward me.

The Chauhans froze.

I could feel the change in the air.

Devyani maa’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Everyone looked uncertain — Aaryan, Kabir, Chachi — their gazes bouncing between me and Veer.

I felt my throat tighten. My eyes burned. I looked down, fingers curling around my dupatta. I didn’t blame them. After all, Veer never really… accepted me.

Why would they?

Before anyone could say anything, Veer spoke.

Calm. Controlled. But his words hit harder than thunder.

“She’s my wife.”

The world stopped.

Every single person froze mid-breath. The chatter, the whispers, even the music seemed to fade into nothing.

I turned to him, eyes wide. “W-What?”

He didn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed on Rohit. His jaw sharp, his voice cold. “Mrs. Aranya Veer Chauhan.”

My heart skipped a beat.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I felt my chest ache.

The guests began whispering — He’s married? Since when?

The family exchanged silent looks, half shocked, half… relieved.

I saw Devyani maa’s lips curve into the faintest, proudest smile.

Even Dadu’s eyes glistened.

But in the corner of the room, I caught the sharp glare of her.

Kavya.

The bitterness in her eyes was hard to miss. Her lips curled slightly, like the word wife had poisoned the air around her.

“Oh! So nice to meet you,” Rohit said after a moment, clearly trying to ease the tension. He extended his hand toward me. “I’m Rohit Sharma.”

I hesitated. Then, slowly, I placed my hand in his.

It was just a polite handshake, but the second our hands touched, I heard it — the faint sound of someone’s sharp breath.

Veer.

His jaw ticked.

And for the briefest second, I thought the marble floor beneath us might just crack from the weight of his glare.

Before the silence could grow heavier, Rudra uncle jumped in cheerfully, “Aru, he’s our family friend and one of the top five businessmen in the country. You must’ve heard his name.”

I nodded slightly, offering a polite smile. “Yes, I think I have.”

Rohit grinned. “Well, if you ever need help with anything — business, personal, anything — you can always ask me.”

And that was it.

That was the moment Veer’s expression shifted.

His tone dropped a degree colder. “If she needs something, she can ask her husband.”

Every head turned to him.

The tension was almost visible now — sharp, unspoken lines cutting through the air between the two men.

I could feel people staring, whispering. I hated it — the attention, the tension, everything.

“I’ll just go get some water,” I murmured quickly and slipped away before anyone could stop me.

The music had started again, but I couldn’t focus. My heart was still racing.

I sat down near the drinks table, staring at the glass in my hand. The reflection of the lights danced across it, blurry and scattered — much like my thoughts.

What just happened?

Why did he say that?

I didn’t even realize tears were pooling in my eyes until I felt a soft hand touch my shoulder.

“Woh, what was that?” Meera’s voice came — loud and dramatic as ever. “And why did everyone look like they’d seen a ghost when that guy asked who you were? What the hell is going on, Aru? Spill. Right now.”

I looked up at her — my best friend, my chaos, my only sense of normal.

“Meera—”

“No, no, no. Don’t Meera me. Do you realize your husband just publicly declared you as his wife like some mafia movie moment? Everyone froze. Even that Sharma guy looked like someone slapped him with reality!” she said, pacing in front of me. “Start explaining! Everything. Who’s who, what’s what, and why that man looked like he wanted to throw Mr. Shawl Guy off the planet!”

I blinked at her rapid-fire words and sighed. “Express, stop. Please.”

“Express?” she frowned. “Oh, you did not just call me—”

“Yes, I did. Because you’re literally a moving train right now.”

Meera folded her arms. “Fine. Then start talking, slow train.”

I glanced around — too many eyes, too many whispers. “Not here,” I said softly. “Let’s move somewhere safer.”

Her eyes softened instantly, the concern replacing her teasing.

“Okay.” She held my hand. “Lead the way, Mrs. Chauhan.”

The way she said it — teasing, but with that underlying pride — made my heart flutter just a little.

As we walked away from the crowd, my mind replayed everything.

The shawl.

Veer’s hand.

The way he said my wife without hesitation.

And somewhere deep inside, buried under confusion and fear, a tiny spark of something unfamiliar flickered.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was something dangerously close to hope.

🦋Author's pov🦋

The echo of music faded behind them as Aranya and Meera slipped quietly through the long marble corridor that led toward Veer’s room.

Every footstep felt heavier than the last — half because of the noise outside, half because of the storm waiting to break inside.

Veer’s room wasn’t the usual kind of grand — it was cold, sharp, organized to perfection.

A king’s den with no warmth.

The dim yellow light washed over the black-and-grey interiors; everything looked like it had been chosen for control, not comfort.

As the door closed behind them, the distant hum of laughter from the garba night turned into silence.

For the first time that evening, Aranya exhaled.

Meera stood still, her eyes sweeping across the massive room. “Wow,” she muttered, whistling softly. “So this is where Mr. Mafia sleeps? Honestly, not even a plant. Not one green leaf. Just grey and grey and… more grey. This room needs therapy.”

Aranya couldn’t help a faint laugh. “He likes peace.”

“This isn’t peace,” Meera shot back. “This is depression with premium lighting.”

That broke the tension for a second — both of them chuckled before Meera turned serious again. She took Aranya’s hands. “Okay. Start. Everything. Don’t skip details.”

Aranya hesitated, staring at the floor. “It all started the night Shanaya disappeared…”

And then, like opening floodgates, everything poured out.

The forced marriage. The humiliation. Her father’s cold eyes. Kavya’s fake tears. The way she had walked down the aisle wearing her stepsister’s lehenga.

Every word left her mouth like shards of glass — slow, cutting, and bitter.

By the time she finished, Meera’s expression had completely changed.

Her usual spark was replaced by a storm of emotions — shock, rage, disbelief, heartbreak.

“Wait.” Meera blinked, as if trying to absorb it. “You’re telling me… they used you? Your own father made you marry in place of your stepsister that though by blackmailing.?”

Aranya nodded, her voice trembling. “It wasn’t even supposed to be me. He said it was for the family. For the business. I didn’t even understand what was happening until the mangalsutra was around my neck.”

Meera’s eyes filled up instantly. “Aru…”a

“I’m fine,” Aranya whispered, though her voice betrayed her.

“No, you’re not fine!” Meera said, her voice breaking. She threw her arms around Aranya, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry, Aru. I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea you were going through all this. You could’ve called me! I would’ve come back from New York that very second!”

Aranya smiled weakly into her shoulder. “You were working, Meera. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Meera pulled back, her eyes blazing through her tears. “Disturb me? Aranya Rathore, if being there for you is a disturbance, then I want to be disturbed for life.”

That made Aranya laugh through the tears, and Meera smiled faintly. But then her expression darkened again.

“Why is your papa like this? Doing this to his own daughter?”

Aranya looked down. “I wish I knew.”

Meera paced back and forth, angry energy radiating from her every step. “What benefit did he even get after forcing you into this marriage? What kind of father trades his child like she’s part of a business deal?”

“Maybe business,” Aranya said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Meera stopped in her tracks. “Business over daughter? Wow.” She shook her head bitterly. “He isn’t qualified to be called a father.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment — heavy, raw, real.

Then Meera spoke again, her tone softer. “And where’s your stepsister? Shanaya, right? Wasn’t she the one supposed to marry Veer? What happened to her? She must be thrilled, right? I mean, she got away scot-free.”

Aranya sighed. “She… left. Just wrote a letter and disappeared before the wedding.”

Meera frowned. “Wrote a letter and left? That’s it? That doesn’t even sound like a proper plan. Are you sure your stepmother didn’t hide her somewhere? Maybe it’s another trick.”

Aranya shook her head immediately. “No. Kavya would never hide her. If anything, she’d push her toward Veer. It would’ve been a golden chance — her daughter living like a queen here, more money, more status, everyone respecting them—”

“Respect?” Meera interrupted sharply, eyes flashing. “Aru, respect earned through betrayal isn’t respect. It’s currency.”

Aranya looked away. “Maybe. But that’s how they see it. For them, everything has a price — even me.”

Meera walked closer, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “I swear, if I ever meet your father, I’ll—”

“Meera!” Aranya stopped her, laughing softly despite herself. “You’ll what? Punch him? You can’t just—”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” Meera snapped. “And I will, if he tries to hurt you again.”

That fierce protectiveness — that was the Meera Kapoor everyone knew. Confident, fearless, the one who could make a room full of men second-guess their existence with one glare.

Aranya smiled. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, stupid,” Meera replied, but her voice cracked again. “I hate that you went through this alone.”

They both fell silent, the only sound being the faint hum of air conditioning and distant drums from the celebration outside.

After a long moment, Meera spoke again, softly but firmly. “Then why are you still here, Aru? Why are you living in this house? You don’t even love him.”

Aranya didn’t answer immediately.

Her eyes drifted toward the large window, the moonlight spilling across the floor like silver dust.

“It’s complicated,” she said finally.

Meera raised an eyebrow. “Complicated? Or dangerous?”

Aranya exhaled. “Both. Veer isn’t what he seems. He can be terrifying sometimes, but he’s also… different. I don’t understand him.”

Meera crossed her arms. “Don’t try to defend him, Aranya.”

“I’m not,” Aranya said quietly. “But today, when he said I’m his wife — I saw something in his eyes. Something real. Not anger. Not pride. Just… truth. Like he meant it.”

Meera stared at her for a long time before sighing. “You’re starting to sound like a Wattpad heroine, you know that?”

Aranya laughed lightly. “Maybe I am.”

“Well, your Wattpad story needs a rewrite,” Meera declared, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Because I’m officially entering as the bold best friend who ruins the toxic plot twist.”

Aranya smiled, shaking her head. “Oh really? And what do you plan to do, Miss Bold Best Friend?”

Meera leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Simple. We fix this. You don’t deserve this forced mess. So here’s what we’ll do…”

Aranya looked at her, confused. “Do what?”

“You divorce him.”