As Angad led Kiara to the kitchen, he paused at the doorway and gave a small nod before exiting, leaving her alone to face the battlefield of pots, pans, and expectations.
Kiara took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and muttered under her breath, "Time to give my in-laws an earful."
Her bravado, however, quickly faltered as she realized a critical flaw—she couldn't cook. At home, the staff had always done everything for her. Now, confronted with raw ingredients and unfamiliar utensils, she fumbled. Flour scattered across the counter, vegetables rolled onto the floor, and a pan sizzled ominously, threatening to catch fire.
A sharp laugh cut through the chaos. "Is a war going on here… or are you actually trying to cook?"
Kiara spun around to find Yuvaan leaning against the doorway, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Villain," she barked, "why are you here? Please leave!"
"I've come to help you," Yuvaan said casually, stepping closer, his tone smooth, almost teasing.
"I don't need your help!" she snapped, turning back to the stove with flustered hands, trying to salvage what she could.
He came closer, tilting his head, his gaze sharp yet gentle. "Sweetheart," he said, "imagine what your family will say if you fail. Vinod and Susheela with those stern, judgmental faces… your reputation will be crushed."
Kiara froze for a moment, imagining the cold, disapproving expressions. Her resolve wavered, and she let out a small sigh. "Fine… you can help. But don't think this means I like you," she added, her cheeks flushing slightly as she picked up a ladle.
Yuvaan moved behind her, his presence close and grounding. As he guided her hand to stir the ingredients, their eyes met in the reflection of the polished counter. The air grew heavy with a tension neither could ignore—brief, electric, and dangerously intimate.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, as his hand covered hers. "Perfect. That's it."
Kiara's heart thumped erratically. She wanted to scold him, to push away the warmth of his hand, yet a small, involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Cooking had never felt so… complicated.
And Yuvaan? He simply smirked, silently enjoying every second of their tangled, reluctant closeness.
The quiet of the Shetty mansion was pierced only by the rhythmic tick of the antique clock in the study. Vikram sat slumped in his chair, his face pale and drawn, a sheen of sweat forming at his temple. His thoughts raced uncontrollably—Kiara, Yuvaan, the jungle, the Kaal Vriksh… every memory pressed on him like a vice.
Varun, who had been pacing nervously, noticed his father's hand tremble as he reached for a glass of water. "Papa?" he asked, voice tight with worry. "You don't look well. Sit down, take a breath…"
Vikram tried to respond, but a sudden, sharp pain struck his chest. His hand shot up to his forehead as dizziness clouded his vision. "Varun… my blood pressure… it's… shooting up," he gasped, his voice strained, faltering under the weight of panic and fear.
Varun rushed to his side, steadying him as Vikram's knees buckled. "Papa! Hold on! I'm calling the doctor!"
Vikram's breathing was ragged, his normally strong frame seeming fragile as a porcelain doll. "It's… Kiara… I can't… I can't stop thinking… what if something happens to her…" he whispered, a tremor in his voice betraying the fear he usually masked with steel resolve.
Varun's face hardened with determination. "Papa, you listen to me. Kiara is strong, and she has survived more than we could imagine. You need to calm down—your health is important. You can't save her if you collapse now."
Vikram's hand gripped Varun's arm weakly, eyes filled with both pain and helplessness. "She's… my princess… and she's in his world… I can't… I can't bear it…"
Varun guided him to the couch, helping him lie down. "Papa, I promise you, we will get her back. But right now, you need to stay calm. Breathe… just breathe."
As Vikram leaned back, beads of sweat clinging to his temple, his normally commanding presence reduced to a man on the brink, Varun sat beside him, holding his father's hand. The mansion, usually full of warmth, felt hollow and heavy, as though it too mourned the peril of its daughter.
The aroma of spices and the faint hum of the gas stove filled the kitchen, mixing with the tension that lingered like a stubborn shadow. Kiara wiped her hands on a towel, her cheeks flushed from the heat and the effort. Beside her, Yuvaan leaned casually, a teasing glint in his eyes as he watched her straighten the pots and pans.
"So," he said smoothly, "I've helped you cook. Now I'm waiting for those two magical words."
Kiara froze, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, you mean 'thank you'? You really think I'm going to—"
Before she could finish, she stomped sharply on his foot, the sudden pain making him yelp. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, hopping slightly on one leg.
"Oof! Sorry!" Kiara immediately raised her hands in mock surrender, a playful yet angry frown on her face. "But don't expect a thank you from me. Not today. Not ever."
Yuvaan rubbed his foot, wincing, yet the corner of his lips twitched into a smirk. "Noted, sweetheart. But just so you know… I've got a very long memory."
Kiara rolled her eyes, turning back to the counter as if nothing had happened, though the brief moment of closeness lingered between them, sparking heat and tension she couldn't quite ignore.