The bedroom was warm—bathed in the golden glow of bedside lamps and softened by the faint scent of jasmine drifting through the half-open window. The rains had just passed, leaving behind a slight chill in the monsoon air, but inside, everything felt close... and electric.

Tarini leaned against the carved teakwood bedpost, her eyes glinting with mischief as she watched Yash fumble with the cufflinks of his shirt. He was struggling—but pretending not to.

“Need help?” she asked, tilting her head.

Yash raised a brow. “Would that be your way of undressing me faster?”

Tarini smirked, stepping closer. “If I said yes?”

He said nothing—just held out his wrist.

She closed the distance between them slowly, deliberately. Her fingers brushed against his skin as she unclasped the first cufflink, her touch feather-light but loaded with intent.

“I like this shirt,” she murmured, undoing the second. “But I’ll like it better on the floor.”

Yash’s breath hitched slightly. She was the only one who could unnerve him like this—elegantly, word by word, glance by glance.

Their eyes locked.

And then suddenly—urgently—he cupped her face and kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss that made time blur—the kind where everything unsaid between two people spilled through in silence. Tarini melted into him, her hands threading through his hair as his arms pulled her close.

She had always been fire. Sharp, clever, endlessly self-assured.

And Yash? He had always been storm—controlled, unpredictable, quietly powerful.

Together, they were combustion.

The kiss deepened. The distance vanished. The room filled with the sounds of breath, whispered names, and tangled fabric. His shirt finally found the floor. Her dupatta slid down her shoulders, forgotten. The bed creaked softly beneath their weight as they moved in sync, skin meeting skin under the flicker of soft lamp light.

But more than desire, what bloomed in the room was intimacy.

Not just of bodies—but of belonging.

Yash kissed the curve of her shoulder as if memorizing it. Tarini smiled against his neck as if she already knew it was hers.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, the world outside—the tensions in the house, the silence between Kashish and Taniskh, the ghost of Shree’s fear—none of it existed.

There was only this room.
These two people.
This warmth.

And the quiet, unspoken promise that they belonged to each other—in every way that mattered.

The room was still.

A soft breeze stirred the sheer curtains, letting in the early amber light of dawn. The warmth from the night before still lingered in the bedsheets, and for a moment, everything felt suspended… like time itself had paused, holding its breath.

Tarini blinked slowly, her lashes damp with sleep, her bare shoulder brushing against the chilled silk of the pillow beside her.

But the space next to her was empty.

She turned her head, fully now, and her heart sank a little—not out of surprise, but out of confirmation.

He was gone.

Again.

No note. No call. No message.

Just the subtle imprint on the bedsheet where his body had once been and the faintest trace of his cologne in the air.

Tarini sat up, the blanket slipping slightly as she pulled her knees to her chest. Her eyes, once heavy with sleep, now brimmed with something else entirely.

Not tears.

She had stopped crying over Yash a long time ago.

But pain doesn’t always look like heartbreak. Sometimes, it looks like silence after a night that felt too real.

She reached for the half-folded kurta lying on the chair and slipped into it. His, of course. She wore it out of habit, or maybe defiance.

She loved him.

She had loved him since college—since the first time he smirked at her during a student council debate, all charm and arrogance wrapped in confidence. Yash Aswar, the boy who broke hearts like it was a reflex.

He had told her, straight-faced, that he didn't believe in love.

And still, she fell.

Hard.

There had been others before her. So many. Girls who chased him, begged him, cried for him. She had thought she was different because he came back to her, over and over.

But coming back isn’t the same as staying.

And last night—what they shared—it wasn’t the first time.

But every time, it felt like it might be the last.

Especially now.

Because his marriage was fixed.

To someone he hadn’t even mentioned by name.

And still… he had come to her.

Why?

For comfort? For habit?

Or for something neither of them had the courage to name?

Tarini buried her face in her hands, willing herself not to think.

You’re not that girl, she told herself.
You’re not the one who waits.

But she was waiting.

Not just for him to return—but for him to choose her.

Even when she knew… deep down… that he might never do that.

Outside the room, the house was waking up. Servants walking through corridors. A door closing somewhere downstairs. The smell of chai floating from the kitchen.

Tarini stood up.

The spell was broken. Morning had come. And love, she reminded herself, wasn’t a word Yash had ever offered her.

Just a body.
Just a night.
Just… maybe.

And maybe was the most dangerous word of all

The morning sunlight filtered gently through the tall arched windows of the Chandravanshi estate, illuminating the marble floor with a golden sheen. The air smelled of cardamom, toast, and simmering milk—domestic, almost peaceful.

But inside Tarini, there was a storm.

She entered through the main door quietly, her hair hastily tied, her kohl smudged, wearing the same kurta from last night—his.

Her sandals tapped softly against the floor as she passed the drawing room and stepped into the grand hallway. She could already hear the soft clinking of cups and the murmur of voices.

Her father and mother were at the breakfast table.

They sat across from each other with a practiced elegance, the kind built over decades of cold routines and social restraint. Her father—Angad Chandravanshi—was engrossed in the morning paper, while her mother—Malini Devi—held her teacup with the kind of stillness that meant she had noticed everything.

Tarini didn’t stop.

Her face was a mask—expressionless, unreadable, yet undeniably exhausted.

Malini Devi’s gaze lifted. Her eyes, sharp and polished from years in society circles, took in everything in one sweep: the wrinkled kurta, the bare face, the faint scent of perfume that wasn’t hers.

She said nothing.

Not yet.

But the silence thickened like steam in the air.

Angad turned a page of the newspaper, barely looking up, but his jaw tightened—just slightly. That was his version of disapproval. No confrontation. Just subtle reminders of expectation.

Still, Tarini didn’t stop.

She walked right past them, head held high, as if she hadn’t seen the judgment etched into the corners of the table.

“Tarini,” Malini said calmly, as if offering another spoon of sugar. “You’re back early.”

No response.

Only footsteps on the staircase.

Still, Tarini didn’t turn.

She climbed each step with quiet defiance, holding in the hurt, the shame, and the unbearable vulnerability of being unseen in a house that watched everything.

No one asked where she had been. They didn’t need to.

They knew.

And she knew they knew.

But in this family, truth was not spoken. It was swallowed, dressed in silence, and passed around with the morning tea.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, her hands were shaking.

Not from guilt.

But from the weight of loving someone who didn’t love her back, and returning to a home where no one ever asked why she hurt.

Behind her, the clinking resumed. Tea was sipped. Conversations shifted back to stocks, politics, wedding preparations.

Tarini closed her bedroom door.

And let herself breathe again.

Sneak peek- Chapter 8

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “Just… listen.”

He didn’t move. Her hand stayed on his wrist, light but insistent.

“I know you h-hate me,” Kasish whispered. “ But we’re stuck. This marriage—it’s real, whether we like it or not. Maybe we don’t have to love each other, but we can… accept it. Move on. Stop fighting.”