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Author's POV
The living area was bright that early afternoon, the sun streaming softly through the large glass panels, painting golden shapes on the marble floor. Isha stood near the center, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta. Her mother was arranging fresh flowers in the corner vase when Isha finally spoke, her voice uncertain but steady.
"Mom, Dad…" she began hesitantly, glancing between them, "can you please tell raghuvanshi's ?"
Both her parents looked up, surprised.
Her father frowned slightly. "Why, beta? You didn't tell tyem?"
Isha took a deep breath. "No, it's just— I realized last night that I told Ranveer bhai sa and Aviyansh about the engagement, but… I completely forgot to tell everyone else. It doesn't feel right that they should find out from bhai sa ya avi. I want you to tell them. Please inform them that my engagement is this evening."
Her father exchanged a glance with his wife — half shock, half pride. "Okayy, but you're sure about this, Isha?"
"I am," she said softly. "And I just want everything to be… peaceful."
Before her mother could say anything more, a maid entered from the hallway. "Madam, lunch is ready."
The tension in the room softened slightly. Isha smiled faintly and nodded. "Alright. Let's go."
They all moved toward the dining area, where the long table was already set with soft linens, silver cutlery, and freshly served dishes. The air carried the aroma of baked bread and saffron rice, blending perfectly with the mellow scent of jasmine from the open windows.
As they sat, conversation gradually returned — gentle laughter, the clinking of plates, small talk to fill the gaps where emotions were still raw. But even as Isha smiled, her mind drifted elsewhere — toward the palace, toward him.
At the Raghuvanshi Palace
The Raghuvanshi Palace stood in its usual grandeur — silent yet alive, proud yet haunted by its history.
The air in the Raghuvanshi Palace's living area was quiet — too quiet.
The light from the chandelier shimmered over the polished floor, casting soft ripples across the marble. The faint sound of clock hands moving was the only thing breaking the silence.
In the main sitting hall, the elders were gathered. Shivansh's grandmother sat upright on the couch, her eyes sharp but weary. Beside her, Shivansh grandfather leaned on his cane, quietly observing the others.
Shivansh's parents were there too, and so was his uncle and aunt and Aviyansh, seated respectfully near his grandfather, his tone soft but full of emotion as he spoke.
"Yes, Dadu," Aviyansh said, " today is Isha engagement and too with Luka — after seeing her — I realized she's not the same girl everyone remembers. She's… changed."
His words echoed lightly in the hall.
"She had to change," Dadi said sharply. "What else could she do? She was broken. Our boy, shivansh.. he's the one who should be blamed."
Her voice trembled, not with anger, but sorrow.
Aviyansh nodded slowly. "Yes, Dadi. But still, it's strange, isn't it? No one ever said why he did what he did. Why he chose—"
"Don't say it," Dadu interrupted quietly. "We can't justify what he did. No matter the reason."
There was a heavy pause.
Shivansh's chose papa exhaled deeply, his voice calm but thoughtful. "Still, maybe there's more to it. Maybe he didn't mean to hurt her… perhaps he was too broken himself to face her again."
The grandmother looked at him sternly. "That doesn't excuse betrayal. When a man cheats, he doesn't just betray the woman — he kills her spirit. She loved him hopelessly. And he threw it away."
Everyone went silent for a moment, the air in the palace thick with memories.
Then his mother, soft-spoken and kind-hearted, added, "I saw her, years ago. She was all light — laughter, warmth, energy. She could brighten a room with one smile. But the last time I saw her… there was coldness in her eyes. Not hatred, just… emptiness. Like the world had drained her color."
"That's why she became Alina," shivansh father whispered.
The name hung in the air like a prayer — or a ghost.
"Maybe she couldn't live as isha anymore," Aviyansh said softly. "Maybe she had to become someone else to survive."
Shivansh's mother nodded. "Perhaps. Sometimes we bury our past to breathe again. But even now, when I look at her — when I think of her — I feel that same warmth somewhere inside. She's still there. Hidden, but alive."
There was silence again.
And then, from the far end of the hall, Ranveer entered. His presence broke the stillness, his expression calm but serious. "Where's Shivansh?"
"He's in the study," Aviyansh replied. "He said he needed some time."
Ranveer nodded and turned, but before leaving, he looked back at the family. "He's planning something," he said in a low tone. "He wants to tell her everything — the whole truth."
"What truth?" Dadu asked.
"The truth about that night," Ranveer said firmly. "About what really happened, why he did that. He believes she deserves to know. He's going to meet her today."
The entire room fell silent.
Even Dadi, who had been outspoken until then, looked uncertain. "If she knows the truth… do you think she'll forgive him?"
Ranveer didn't answer immediately. He simply exhaled, his eyes distant. "Forgiveness isn't what he's hoping for. He just wants her to stop living in pain."
And without another word, he turned and left the hall.
Then, the silence broke — the shrill ring of Dadi's phone sliced through the stillness.
She looked at the screen, and her expression shifted instantly — surprise, disbelief, and then a strange softness. She lifted her hand slightly. "Shh… everyone, silence please."
Her trembling fingers accepted the call.
"Hello?" she said gently, her tone formal yet curious. "Namaste… oh, yes, it's me."
Everyone turned their eyes toward her — her voice had changed.
It was Isha's mother on the other side.
For a moment, the hall seemed to hold its breath.
"Yes… yes, of course. Oh… today?" Dadi's voice rose just slightly, a note of astonishment lacing her tone. "No, no, don't worry, we'll come. How could we not? She's still our—" she stopped mid-sentence, composing herself. "Thank you for telling me, beta. We'll be there by evening."
When she finally ended the call, she didn't speak for a few seconds. Her wrinkled fingers remained still over the phone screen, and her eyes glistened faintly as she turned to the family.
Everyone waited.
Dadu leaned forward slightly. "Who was it?"
Dadi inhaled deeply, placing the phone slowly on the table. "It was Isha's mother," she said softly. "She called to inform that… today is Isha's engagement."
Dadi continued. "And she said… it was Isha's wish that everyone — including us — should come. She wants it private, only family and close ones. Luka's family, her friends, and ours."
The silence that followed was heavy. The kind of silence where everyone feels the same thing but no one wants to say it first.
Finally, Dadu spoke. "So, it's really happening."
His voice was low, but it carried the weight of realization — that something once theirs, once familiar and close, was now moving out of their reach forever.
Shivansh father gave a faint nod. "Yes. Once she was ours… and today, she's going to someone else."
Her words trembled, but she tried to hide it behind a brittle smile. "Strange, isn't it? How time steals people from you — silently, slowly — and then one day, returns them only to take them away again."
Shivansh's mother looked down, her eyes misted. "At least she's alive," she whispered.
That single sentence seemed to pull everyone's attention.
Dadu sighed deeply. "Alive," he echoed. "That's a blessing in itself. After the news that came five years ago…"
He stopped. Even now, the memory of that time hung like smoke in the air — the day they heard that Isha Maheshwari had died in a plane crash.
For days, Dadi hadn't eaten. Shivansh mother had locked himself in her room. Shivansh father and aviyansh had gone silent for weeks or maybe months.
Dadi closed her eyes for a second, remembering. "That news… it broke something in me," she said softly. "Even now, I remember the morning when I heard it. The sound of that reporter's voice. I dropped the phone — it felt like the world had ended."
Her voice cracked.
"I kept thinking," she whispered, "how could the heavens take away a child so full of life, so full of dreams? She wasn't just a girl to us. She was… light. A kind of sunshine that made this palace less heavy."
Shivansh's mother placed a hand over hers gently. "I know, Ma. I saw you that night. You didn't sleep for days. You kept calling the airlines, the hospitals… hoping someone had made a mistake."
Dadi chuckled faintly through her tears. "Yes. A mistake. I prayed for a mistake. But every time the phone rang, it was just another confirmation — another heartbreak."
Dadu added quietly, "And shivansh he was never the same after that."
Everyone went still again.
"He was broken," Dadi continued softly. "He wouldn't talk, stopped smiling like before. I know he shows her that he cheat but I know my boy he has his morals, he will never do something which broke his Janna hearts maybe be their is something which we don't know, their is something yet to reveal."
The room felt smaller somehow — filled with the ghosts of five years ago.
Then Aviyansh spoke, breaking the stillness. "But now that she's alive…"
Dadu smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth trembling. "Now that she's alive, I feel like we got back a lost heartbeat. But it still hurts… because she's not ours anymore."
"She never really was 'ours,' Papa," Shivansh's mother said gently. "She belonged to herself. And maybe now, she finally found the peace we couldn't give her."
Dadi looked up, eyes moist but proud. "Still, I'm glad. Glad she's found her way. Glad she's standing again, smiling again. Even if that smile is for someone else."
There was a pause, and then Dadu chuckled softly, his old voice trembling. "You know… when that news of her death came, I used to wake up at night hearing her laughter. It was like her spirit was walking these halls, reminding us of what we lost."
Dadi smiled faintly through her tears. "I had nightmares too. Every night, the same dream — her running toward me, calling out, and before I could reach her, the clouds swallowed her whole."
The others listened silently.
"But now," she whispered, "for the first time in years, I think I can finally sleep without that dream."
Aviyansh nodded. "Because she's alive."
"Yes," shivansh father said. "Alive. Changed, but alive. Maybe she had to bury isha to become Alina… but still, somewhere inside, our little girl exists. And that's enough for me."
A moment of silence fell again, but this time it wasn't heavy — it was peaceful.
Then dadu spoke, steady and strong. "We'll go. We'll all go. No excuses. If today is her engagement, then the least we can do is be there — to bless her, even if from afar."
Dadi nodded. "Yes. We'll go."
And then, quietly, almost like a prayer, she whispered to herself,
"Once she was ours. Today, she'll be someone else's. But no matter what the world calls her — Isha, Alina, or something else's — she'll always be our child."
Her words lingered in the air like an echo — tender, unbreakable, and timeless.
The study smelled faintly of leather and old wood. Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a warm glow over the desk where Shivansh sat, elbows on his knees, head lowered in thought.
Ranveer entered quietly, closing the door behind him.
"You're sure about this?" Ranveer asked.
Shivansh looked up, eyes dark and tired. "I've been sure for years. She deserves to know why it all happened — what I did… or didn't do. Maybe she'll hate me forever after today, but at least she'll know the truth."
Ranveer sat across from him, silent for a moment before speaking. "You're ready to lose her?"
Shivansh smiled faintly — bitterly. "I already lost her once, Ranveer. You don't lose someone twice."
There was a long silence between them — the kind that carries more emotion than words ever could.
Ranveer finally nodded. "Then go. Tell her. Whatever happens after that, we'll face it."
Shivansh stood, straightening his coat, his reflection sharp in the glass cabinet beside him. For a moment, he looked at himself — the man he had become, and the man he used to be.
"Today," he said quietly, almost to himself, "I'm going to meet Isha. And for once, I won't hide behind silence."
Ranveer placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then may the truth set you both free."
Back to Isha place,
After lunch, the house grew quieter, carrying the faint hum of afternoon stillness.
The air smelled of lavender and sunlight, and the soft creak of wooden floors echoed faintly from the corridor.
Everyone had gone about their own small routines — Isha's parents had excused themselves to rest, and the others were still in the living area.
Mehak turned to Isha with a warm smile. "Go rest for a while, sweetheart. You'll need it before I start my makeup magic on you."
Isha chuckled softly, adjusting her dupatta. "I think I'll take that advice."
Mehak grinned, "Good. Sleep for an hour. After that, I'll come and get you ready — my soon-to-be-engaged princess."
"Alright, alright," Isha laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. "I'll go before you start giving me instructions."
Everyone smiled — the mood was light. Luka and Alessandro were sitting with Dhruv, talking about some old rival stories. Arjun and Aarav were playing with little Riyan, their laughter echoing faintly across the hall. Ishika and Pesha had joined Mehak, discussing decoration ideas for the evening.
The house was alive in a calm, domestic rhythm.
As Isha walked down the hallway toward her room, something made her pause. Her parents' door was slightly open — the warm golden light from inside spilling faintly across the floor.
She hesitated.
Five years — five whole years had passed since she'd last felt close enough to knock on that door.
She almost walked past, but then she stopped. Her heart tugged. She turned back and softly knocked.
From inside came her mother's voice, gentle and familiar. "Come in."
Isha pushed the door open slowly — and froze.
Her father was sitting on the rug beside the bed, laughing softly while pressing her mother's feet. The sight made something ache deep inside her. Her mother looked so peaceful, her eyes half closed as she smiled at whatever joke her husband had just cracked.
When they saw Isha, both paused.
Her mother straightened immediately, smiling wide. "Arey, Isha! Come, come in, beta. You don't have to knock on your own parents' door."
Her father smiled too, his eyes warm. "Come sit. You look tired."
Isha walked in slowly and sat beside her mother on the edge of the bed. The air felt different here — softer, more intimate, filled with unspoken words.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Her mother gently brushed Isha's hair back from her face. "You've lost weight," she murmured. "You're taking care of everyone else but not yourself, hmm?"
Isha smiled faintly. "You still notice everything, Mummy."
Her father chuckled quietly. "Of course she does. Mothers never change."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was heavy with memories, with all the things left unsaid.
Finally, her mother broke it.
"Isha…" she said quietly, looking down at her hands. "Can I ask you something?"
Isha looked at her, unsure. "Of course."
Her mother took a deep breath. "Are you… really happy with this? With your engagement, I mean."
The question hung in the air like a heartbeat.
Isha blinked, caught off guard. "Yes, Mummy. I am."
But she continue, smiled faintly, though her eyes were already glassy. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't talk to you all these years. The truth is… I couldn't."
Her fatherfelt her throat tighten.
Her mother's voice trembled. "The day I thought I lost you… the day they said your flight had crashed — something inside me broke. I wasn't in my senses anymore. I used to stare at your pictures for hours, talking to them, as if you could hear me."
Her father quietly placed a hand on his wife's shoulder, his face somber.
"I didn't want you to see me like that," Isha continued. "Broken. Helpless. I wasn't strong enough to face you — not as that shattered version of myself. So I chose silence. I let the world believe what it wanted. Maybe that was selfish, but… I didn't have another option."
Her words trembled with the weight of guilt.
"I didn't want to ignore you, mummy and papa," she said, her voice breaking. "I just didn't want you to see how much I'd fallen apart. You grew up seeing me as someone strong — someone who could handle anything. I couldn't let you see that version of me."
Isha's eyes filled with tears she'd been holding back for years. Isha mother looked at her daughter, her voice small. "I never stop loving you mummy. Not for a single day. I just… didn't know how to come back."
Her mother reached out, cupping Isha's face gently. "You don't have to explain. You were fighting your own battles. And even when you were gone, I still prayed for you — every night. I used to tell your father, 'She's alive somewhere. I can feel it.'"
Her father smiled quietly. "And she was right."
Isha wiped her tears and leaned slightly against her mother. "You know what, Mummy? In those five years, I learned to rebuild myself. Bit by bit. It wasn't easy. But I did."
Her mother looked at her with pride. "You're stronger than I ever was."
Isha smiled faintly. "Maybe. But I had your blood, didn't I?"
Her father laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room. "That's true. You've got her stubbornness too."
Isha laughed through her tears.
Then she looked at both of them, her expression softening. "There's something I want to tell you," she said. "Something I haven't told anyone yet. You'll be surprised — maybe even proud. But… I'll tell you after the engagement."
Her mother raised an eyebrow playfully. "A secret?"
"A good one," Isha said with a small smile. "Something that will make you proud of what I did in those five years."
Her parents exchanged curious glances but didn't press.
Instead, her mother reached out, holding both her daughter's hands. "Whatever it is, I'm already proud of you. You came back to us — that's enough."
Isha smiled softly. "And I'm proud that I finally have my family back."
Without another word, her mother pulled her into an embrace. Her father joined, wrapping both of them in his arms — a family reunited not through words, but through forgiveness.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the slow rhythm of three hearts beating together — steady, warm, healing.
Isha closed her eyes and thought, Maybe I wasn't as strong as I pretended to be… but I'm stronger now, because they're here.
And in that quiet afternoon light, with her parents by her side, the broken pieces of five years slowly began to fit back together again.
The room smelled faintly of jasmine and the distant dust of the afternoon. Sunlight pooled on the floor in a lazy rectangle as Isha closed the door behind her, the domestic quiet folding around her like a soft shawl.
She moved automatically to the latch, fingers already finding the bolt — a small, private ritual she'd built back into her life. For the last five years, locked doors had felt like safety; today, they felt like a place to breathe.
Before the bolt slid home, a shadow moved through the bluish light of the balcony. For a single heartbeat she thought it was the wind, the curtain lifting. Then a figure stepped between the folding glass and the curtain, a dark shape framed by the washed-out sky.
He was there before she realized he'd come close enough to touch. One motion: a firm, airborne shove that hurled her against the wall. Her back hit wall; the world contracted with her and the ringing in her ears. For a second she only registered the pressure — his body pinned against hers, a hand at her mouth, the other ghosting to the small of her waist to hold her in place.
Panic flamed, sharp and hot. Instinct, which had kept her alive through darker nights than this, pushed through first. She clawed for air, met his hand at her mouth and wrenched it away, even as his other arm tightened. Her nails scraped his palm. Something in her, old and fierce and unbroken, shouted.
"Let me go!" Her voice, muffled then raw, tore the polite evening away.
He did not—could not—let go. He loomed, his face a study of exhaustion and something like pleading, and when he spoke his voice was low, dangerously urgent. "Isha. Just… listen to me. Please."
"Are you insane? What the hell are you doing here!!?" she spat, summoning strength from somewhere she'd thought long buried. She lashed out with both feet, shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled back but didn't fall. Instead he retreated to the foot of the bed, hauling himself up and deliberately sitting, as if to show he meant no further violence. His chest heaved.
"I came to talk," he said, as if the day's privacy could excuse the violence that had just occurred. "We may not get another chance. I had to come now."
Her hand flew to the doorknob instinctively; her heart pounded with a dozen things — fury, fear, bewilderment. "You climbed in my balcony," she said, voice a brittle thing. "You—are you out of your mind? This is my home." She jabbed a finger at the open glass behind him, the curtain fluttering. "Go. Leave. Now."
He shrugged, a small, stubborn movement. "You can try to make me go. You can beat the life out of me, if that's what you want." He watched her with a hard, pained amusement. "But I'm not leaving until I've told you the truth."
"You'll tell me truth after you pin me to the wall?" Her laugh was hysterical. "That's how you choose to confess? Shameful."
There was a long pause. His jaw tightened; anger flickered, quickly replaced by something far more fragile. He rose in a fluid motion and closed the short distance between them again, not crudely this time but with a possessive steadiness that made her spine stiffen. He moved so she could feel the weight of him at her back — his front against hers, a hand at her face as if to steady her gaze. The contact was intimate, intrusive; she could smell tobacco and the faint steeliness of aftershave. The room felt small.
"You listen," he said, quieter now. "Please. I won't touch you again. I swear, I will respect the distance you want afterward. I came because I'm tired of pretending. Because you deserve the truth — and because I don't want to lie to myself anymore."
Her hands scrabbled at his wrist. "Say it now," she hissed. "Say it now and get out. Don't make this an evening of theatre."
He studied her for a moment, and the hardness around his eyes softened until it was almost pleading. "You said last night we'd talk. You told me we would — not there, but we would. I waited for a chance. I thought I'd have time before tonight. Then I heard the arrangements, and I thought if I don't tell you before you promise yourself to someone else—" His voice broke, the sentence damp with urgency. "I had to come."
"Tell me what?" She twisted, trying to look at him properly, to measure the truth in his face. Her body was tense and trembling; rage rode over fear like a shield. "That you're sorry? That you're sorry you hurt me? That's not a truth that erases five years."
"It's not that simple," he said. "Listen. I didn't come here for you to forgive me or to beg you back. I came because I want you to know the truth which you know isn't true. There are truths you deserve to hear from me — not from whispers or rumors. I'm going to tell you everything I know about that night, about why i did and why things fell apart. I won't excuse myself — or juhi. I just… I want you to have the facts, Isha. Before you—before you make a promise."
She laughed, a harsh, incredulous sound. "Do you think your confession will change me? That this neatly wrapped truth will undo what I've become? Do you know how ridiculous you sound right now?"
He flinched, but kept his gaze on her. "Maybe it won't. Maybe it will. I can't know. But I can't stand the thought of you living with a lie — thinking something happened that didn't, or not knowing why. You deserve better than that."
"So you break into my room like a common thief, pin me to a wall, and then offer 'truth' as an apology?" Her voice trembled between anger and the raw edge of fear. "You have no idea what you're asking. You have no right."
He pressed his forehead to the back of her head for a fraction of a second — a gesture that tried to be intimate and only made her skin crawl — and then he let it go, stepping back just enough to give her air.
"I know," he said in the hollowest voice she had heard from him. "I know I have no right. I know every one of my actions has weight. But I am done living with silence. You were made to carry a story none of us owned. If you let me, I will tell you the truth. If you don't want to hear it, I'll leave. But I can't leave without trying."
She searched his face as if it were a map she'd been given in a foreign language. There were no easy answers there — only lines of wear and the fatigue of someone who had been carrying guilt for years. She felt the old, dull ache bloom under her ribs: the ache of being set adrift by other people's choices, of being pitied, of having to remake herself from scattered pieces.
"Fine," she said at last, jaw working. "Say it. Say everything. But when you finish, you pack your arrogance and leave. You walk out that balcony and you never do this again. You come back with words, not violence."
He nodded once, as if that were the only bargain he had been waiting for. The corner of his mouth twitched — a brief, sad smile. "I'll tell you. But if I am to tell you truly, you have to let me speak without cutting me off."
Her laugh this time was softer, and almost broken. "You don't get to set conditions after you climb into my room."
"For once, please," he said. "If nothing in what I say changes your mind, then you can rip my head off—publicly. I'll deserve that. But you have to let me explain."
She closed her eyes for a slow moment, the room tilting with the weight of what she did next. She had rebuilt so much of herself in the last years; she had learned to choose the battles she would fight. This was a fight she hadn't expected — not this way.
"Ten minutes," she said finally, her voice calm but low. "You get ten minutes. Speak. Then leave. If you try anything else—" She didn't finish the threat. She didn't need to. The promise in her eyes carried its own blade.
He nodded, and for the first time since he'd pushed into the room, there was a plain, brittle relief in his face. He reached into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulled out a small folded paper — notes? Or perhaps a letter — and sat on the edge of the bed, the distance between them small but measured.
"Okay," he said softly. "Ten minutes. I'll start from the beginning — the night of the heart breaks, the so called cheating, why I did that, and why some truths were buried. I'll tell you exactly what I know."
She sat on the chair by the vanity, arms folded across her chest, a statue of iron and vulnerability. Outside, the wind moved the balcony curtain like a live thing. Inside, there were only two people caught in a wound that had never been properly tended, and the room waited, as if holding its breath for what would come next.
But he began.
A sharp, hurried knock broke the still air of Isha's room.
She had just turned away from the balcony when the sound came again — three short, deliberate taps.
"Yeah? Who is it?" she asked, her voice still carrying the remnants of the storm that had just passed inside her chest.
"It's me," came the voice — calm, familiar, restrained.
Her stomach twisted. Of course, it was me her.
Her hand trembled slightly at her side, and she clenched it into a fist. She is here and he is also, what should she do.
"Alina open the door," she said again after a pause, softer this time.
She exhaled, a humorless little laugh escaping her lips. "wait a minute," she said softly, then she turn to shivansh and said coldly, pressing her palm flat against the balcony door to open. "I don't want to look at your face. So, however you came in — the same way you leave. You climbed through the balcony, right? Then go out through the balcony. No need to stand here pretending to be decent, Me her is already here to get me ready. "
For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then his tone, low and wounded, filtered.
"But you gave me ten minutes to talk to you," he said. "You said you'd listen."
She turned her head toward the mirror, eyes dark and hollow but steady. "I'm taking those ten minutes back," she said bitterly. "Now you can go. I don't want to hear anything. I have my engagement to attend. I don't have time for your broken truths."
Her words were sharp, but there was a crack beneath their edge — a faint tremor that even she could hear.
She hated that her heart still ached for the voice, for the truths. Hated that, after everything, she still felt something like pain when he spoke her name.
He didn't respond at first. The quiet that followed made her throat tighten. She could almost imagine him standing there, one hand resting against the bed, his expression unreadable.
When he finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper. "You're angry," he said. "I deserve that. But I had to tell you the tr7th before…"
"Before what?" she interrupted harshly. "Before I stop being yours? Before I stop living in your shadow? Don't flatter yourself. I don't care anymore."
Her voice faltered near the end, a thin trace of bitterness curling through it. He could hear it, she knew he could. Because the next thing she heard was a quiet exhale — not quite a sigh, more like a breath of defeat.
"Isha," he murmured, "you can hate me all you want. Just… don't pretend this doesn't hurt you too."
Her nails dug into her palm. "It doesn't," she lied. "And even if it did, it's nothing compared to what you made me feel five years ago. That day—" she stopped herself, voice breaking, then caught it again. "No, you don't get to reopen that. Not today. Not when I've built everything back piece by piece."
She could hear the soft scrape of his shoes shifting. "I don't expect forgiveness," he said. "But at least let me—"
"Enough," she snapped, cutting him off. "If you want a card for my engagement, I can send one. Or better, you can collect it yourself later — since you seem so good at finding your way into places where you don't belong."
Her tone turned almost mocking, though her heart hammered with the effort to sound composed. "Come to my engagement if you like. Eat the free food. Smile for the cameras. Pretend you're happy for me. Do whatever makes your conscience feel lighter. But right now, you'll do one thing—leave."
He didn't move. She could feel it — the hesitation, the stubborn silence.
"Leave," she repeated, her voice quieter now, trembling but firm. "Because if you don't, I swear I'll make sure you're thrown out myself."
A long, quiet moment passed. Then, finally, she heard the faint shuffle of movement — shoes crossing to the balcony, the soft whisper of curtains shifting.
He hesitated once at the door, looking back at her. Through the reflection in the mirror, she caught the faint outline of his figure — tall, proud, yet weighed down by something almost human now. He looked at her, and she, standing by the vanity, refused to meet his eyes.
Her jaw clenched as she said coldly, "Go."
And he did. He climbed down the same way he'd come — over the railing, down the carved stone ledge, to the car waiting in the shadowed drive below.
But as he reached the ground, she moved silently to the window, parting the curtain just enough to see him.
He looked different now — not arrogant, not cold, just… lost. The sunlight caught his profile as he stepped into his car, the engine's low growl rising like a sigh.
She stood there, hidden behind the drape, watching him drive away. Her reflection in the glass blurred with his fading outline until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Then she shut the curtain, exhaled shakily, and turned back to the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked calm, almost too calm.
"Enough," she whispered to herself. "Enough now."
She walked to the washroom, splashed cold water over her face until her eyes stopped burning, and let the droplets trace paths down her skin like tiny reminders of everything she refused to cry for.
Then, taking a deep breath, she straightened up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and opened the door.
It was time to get ready — for her engagement, for her next chapter, for whatever version of herself she'd finally decided to be.
Isha opened the door slowly, almost carefully, as if afraid the air itself might shatter if she moved too fast.
Her face looked calm… too calm. The kind of calm that comes only after a storm.
Mehak was standing just outside, one hand on her hip, her usual bright smile instantly fading when she saw Isha's expression.
"Hey… you okay?" Mehak asked, brow furrowing softly.
Isha blinked, as if waking up. "Yeah. Yes. I'm fine."
But her voice… her voice was thin. Carefully controlled.
It was the voice of someone who knew pain like a second language.
Mehak didn't believe her. But Mehak was the kind of friend who understood when not to press too hard.
"Hmm," she said simply. "Come. We need to start getting you ready. Your engagement, future Mrs. Luka."
She tried to tease — lightly, softly, like stepping on glass.
Isha forced a small smile. "Yeah… future Mrs. Luka."
But her heart didn't flutter when she said it.
It should have.
Luka was good. Gentle. He loved her quietly and consistently.
Yet the place where love should have bloomed…
Still ached in someone else's shape.
Mehak stepped inside, setting down her makeup kit near the dressing table.
"Sit," she said, patting the cushioned stool.
Isha sat — but when she did, her knees felt strangely weak, like something inside her had been pulled apart and reassembled incorrectly.
Mehak looked at her through the mirror.
The reflection showed everything Isha didn't say:
the slight tremble in her fingers
the way her eyelashes seemed to hold unspilled tears
the quiet, tired sadness behind her eyes
"What happened?" Mehak asked gently, brushing Isha's hair back. "Something's wrong."
Isha stared at her reflection.
Her throat tightened.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Silence stretched — long, heavy, aching.
Then — quietly, almost without breath — she whispered:
"He came."
Mehak froze, comb still in hand.
"Who?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Isha looked down.
Her voice broke the air like a fragile thread:
"Him."
Mehak's eyebrows lowered, her expression darkening.
"He came? Here? In your room??"
Isha nodded slowly.
Mehak slammed the comb onto the table.
"Are you fucking serious? He— How? How did he even—"
"He climbed the balcony," Isha said softly.
Mehak fell silent, stunned.
Isha let out a small laugh — weak, bitter, tired.
"Of course he did. That's just like him, isn't it? Coming into my life… uninvited."
Her voice trembled at the end.
Mehak softened immediately, her anger dissolving into quiet concern.
She kneeled beside Isha, placing a hand on her knee.
"What did he say?"
Isha's eyes glimmered like water reflecting sunlight — but no tears fell.
She had forgotten how to cry.
"He said he wanted to tell me the truth," she said. "He said maybe I would change my mind after hearing it."
Mehak's jaw clenched. "Change your mind? About what? About your engagement? After everything he did?"
Isha's fingers twisted together, knuckles white.
"He looked… different," she whispered. "Not arrogant. Not cold. Just—"
She swallowed hard.
"Just… broken."
Mehak sighed and leaned her forehead against Isha's shoulder.
"And you still care," she murmured.
Isha closed her eyes.
"Yes," she said, the word falling out before she could stop it.
"But not the way I used to. Not like love. Not like longing. More like…"
She struggled for a moment.
"More like a scar. Something that healed… but still aches when you touch it."
Mehak's eyes softened with a kind of quiet pain only a friend can feel for another.
"Isha," she whispered. "You don't have to be strong all the time, you know."
Isha smiled — small, tired, real.
"I know," she said. "But I learned how to be. Because I had no other choice."
Mehak reached out and cupped her cheeks gently.
"You're not alone anymore."
Isha's lips trembled.
"I know," she whispered. "This time, I'm choosing a life where I don't have to beg to be loved."
Mehak kissed her forehead softly.
"Then we get ready," she said quietly. "Not because everything is perfect… but because you earned your happiness."
Isha nodded.
"Let's get ready."
Mehak began wiping Isha's face clean, smoothing cream, brushing powder, each motion delicate and reverent — like she was rebuilding her, piece by piece.
As the makeup brush swept across her skin, Isha looked at herself again in the mirror.
This time, something in her reflection had changed.
Not the pain — pain was still there, quietly breathing like a shadow.
But now there was also resolve.
Strength.
The kind that is forged, not inherited.
The kind only heartbreak can teach.
The room was filled with soft afternoon light—warm, golden, the kind that gently touches the skin instead of burning it. The curtains swayed slightly, bringing in a faint fragrance of mogra from the courtyard. Somewhere downstairs, laughter and footsteps echoed, families preparing for the ceremony.
But inside Isha's room, the world was quieter.
Mehak stood behind her, adjusting the drape of the dupatta over Isha's shoulder.
"I swear to God," she muttered, half frustrated, half emotional, "if you start crying and ruin this makeup, I will personally tie your dupatta into a noose."
Isha laughed weakly, the sound gentle but real this time.
"I'm not crying," she murmured. "Not today."
"Good." Mehak tapped her cheek lightly. "Because today, you are not anyone's past. You are someone's future."
Isha's eyes flickered in the mirror.
She wore a soft pastel peach lehenga, threaded with dull gold that shimmered like sunrise on still water.
No heavy jewelry—just a choker of tiny pearls, delicate earrings, and thin, elegant bangles that jingled softly when she moved. Simple, graceful. The way she always preferred.
Mehak stepped back, admiring.
"You look like—"
She stopped, searching for the right comparison.
"Like someone who has travelled through storms, and still walks like roses grow under her feet."
Isha stared at her reflection.
For a long moment, she didn't say anything.
Then—
"Do you think," she whispered, "that Luka truly deserves all of this?"
Mehak blinked.
"That's… not the question I expected."
Isha looked down at her hands—small, steady, yet trembling faintly.
"He loves someone else," Isha said softly. "I know he does. But I am making him do this all. He chooses it every day, so naturally, so openly… as if love is sunlight."
"And for you," Mehak said gently, "love is…?"
"A place I had to fight my way out of," Isha whispered.
"A place I learned to survive before I learned to breathe."
Mehak's chest tightened.
"Isha," she said slowly, sitting in front of her now, so their eyes met directly, "you are not marrying him to erase your past. You are marrying him because you're finally choosing peace. There is no greater love than that."
Isha swallowed.
Her voice was small now—small in the way broken things are quiet.
"What if my heart… doesn't know how to rest?"
Mehak took her hands, squeezing them.
"It will learn," she said.
"Because someone will hold it gently enough."
Silence settled between them—a soft, meaningful silence.
Then—
A knock on the door.
Arjun peeked inside.
"Uh—can I come in?"
Mehak rolled her eyes. "You already did, genius."
Arjun stepped in, stopping mid-stride when he saw Isha.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
"You look…" he paused, searching, blinking hard, "…like if someone saw you right now, they would fall in love on the spot."
Isha laughed, and this time, it reached her eyes.
"Drama queen," she murmured.
Arjun placed a hand on his chest. "I speak only truths. Ask anyone. Except my ex. She lies."
Mehak threw a hairpin at him.
Arjun ducked. "Okay! Okay! I came to say—everyone is downstairs. Luka too."
At the mention of his name, Isha's breath caught just slightly.
Mehak noticed.
Arjun noticed.
But neither said a word.
Instead, Arjun softened.
His voice lost the joking tone.
"He's nervous," he said quietly. "He's been looking at the stairs every five seconds."
Isha's heart warmed—gently, carefully.
"He adores you, Isha," Arjun continued. "Not like possession. Not like obsession. Just… quietly. Like you're the only person he wants to sit beside when the world feels too loud."
Something in Isha's chest loosened.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'm ready."
Mehak beamed. "Then let's go."
But Isha didn't stand yet.
Instead, she looked at her reflection once more—longer this time.
She saw:
a girl who survived loss,
who rebuilt herself with trembling hands,
who loved deeply,
who broke,
who carried scars,
and still, still, had the courage to choose happiness again.
She whispered to her reflection:
"I'm not walking into a new life. I'm walking into the life I deserve."
And quietly—softly—her reflection smiled back.
She rose.
Her bangles chimed.
Her lehenga swayed.
Her heart steadied.
Mehak lifted the edge of her dupatta.
Arjun opened the door.
The hallway was warm and softly lit.
Voices floated from downstairs.
Music was being tuned.
Rose petals had been scattered along the staircase.
Isha took her first step forward.
Not running.
Not escaping.
Just moving toward what she chose.
Luka stood at the bottom of the staircase, adjusting the button of his sherwani. His expression was composed, neutral — the practiced calm of someone who knew exactly what role he had to play.
The supportive fiancé.
Not the real one.
Never the real one.
His friend.
Her ally.
Nothing more.
Alessandro, Luka's big brother, stood beside him — tall, quiet, dignified. His eyes tracked everything and everyone, calculating, protective in his own silent way.
Ishika and prisha stood with Isha's parents, talking softly.
Dhruv, ritvik, Arab were taking to each other.
Everyone kept glancing toward the staircase.
Waiting.
Then the soft sound of ankles bells — chhum… chhum… — echoed faintly.
And she appeared.
Isha stepped onto the top stair.
And the world shifted.
She wasn't glowing like some fairy-tale bride — no exaggerated charm, no dramatic entrance.
She simply stood there quietly… and yet, everyone felt the weight of her journey.
Even shivansh family also arrived till now.
His grandmother — who once cried herself to sleep for months — pressed a hand to her mouth.
Her father blinked fast, pretending he just had something in his eye.
Her mother took one step forward, then stopped, overwhelmed by the sight of her daughter alive and dressed for a ceremony she thought she would never see.
Even Arav — usually the loud teasing brother-like friend — fell completely silent.
Ishika whispered under her breath to prisha.
"…She looks like she came back from death just to start living again."
Luka looked up at her.
He did soften.
He did melt.
He did act in love, but he didn't need to but still he did everything for her.
He also nodded in the smallest, most respectful gesture.
"I'm here.
As promised.
No matter what happens."
Isha saw it.
Understood it.
Returned the same small nod.
Two soldiers, standing on the same side of a battlefield no one else knew existed.
Her mother placed a hand on her back to remind her of presence — of grounding.
Alessandro stepped forward then, speaking gently but firmly:
"Today is not about past. Today is about Alina becomes ours. Let us honor that first."
Isha finally stepped down the stairs.
Every step was slow, measured.
Not shy.
Not dramatic.
Just… deliberate.
Luka didn't offer his hand — he knew she didn't like being led.
Instead, he simply walked beside her.
Side by side.
Equal footing.
Her father whispered to her mother:
"She doesn't look like a girl who was saved. She looks like a girl who saved herself."
Her mother nodded — tears shining, voice trembling:
"Still… thank God she came back."
Isha reached the center.
She and Luka stood in front of everyone.
A priest stepped forward to begin the rituals.
But then—
A hush fell.
The doors at the far end opened.
And someone entered.
Someone who wasn't supposed to be here.
Someone who had once held Isha's heart like it was a flame he didn't know how to control.
Shivansh.
He stopped mid-step.
He saw her.
A memory slammed into him — their engagement once, her laughing, wearing jasmine in her hair, calling his name.
His jaw tightened.
His hands curled.
He didn't breathe.
And Isha — though she didn't look up — felt him.
Like gravity.
Like a name she once whispered in prayer.
Her fingers trembled for just one second.
Just one.
No one noticed…
Except Luka.
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