Hriday sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, eyes clouded with despair. Gauri stood silently beside him, her presence calm yet fragile in the tense air.

"Sweetheart... why can't Mom just accept us?" he asked, his voice trembling with vulnerability.

"Dadaji gave us his blessings, Dad is slowly coming around... but Mom—why can't she see how deeply we love each other?"

His voice cracked as he spoke, each word etched with pain. Gauri remained quiet, gently sliding her hand along his back, offering what comfort she could.

"Please, Hriday," she whispered, her voice tender, "don't fall apart like this... She'll come around. She has to. Just give her time."

"When?" he snapped, his voice rising, frustration surging like a storm within him. Rage clouded his mind—at himself, at the situation, at the helplessness that gnawed at his chest. He didn't know whom to blame, but the weight of it all was crushing him.

He rose abruptly. Gauri flinched, startled by the suddenness of his movement. Her body tensed.

Hriday saw her fear and instantly softened. He stepped forward, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, guilt thick in his throat. "I lost control. I didn't mean to raise my voice. It's just... I feel so helpless."

He turned away momentarily, running a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing.

"My mother—she was never like this. She always stood by me, always supported my choices. And now... she can't even bring herself to accept the woman I love as her own daughter-in-law. It's like I'm losing her, too."

Gauri moved closer, wrapping her arms around him, grounding him in the warmth of her embrace.

"She'll understand, Hriday. One day, she'll see what we see."

The next morning, sunlight spilled into the Shekhawat mansion like honey—slow and golden. The air still carried the faint trace of incense from the early puja, mingling with the subtle fragrance of jasmine drifting in from the courtyard tree.

Gauri stood barefoot in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, grinding fresh ginger against a stone slab. It had been Dadaji's habit to drink adrak chai every morning, and for the past few weeks, she had made it for him faithfully. Not out of duty—but because he smiled every time she did. And in this house, where warmth was rationed, that smile was rare currency.

"Beta," came a voice from behind her.

She turned, a little startled, to see Dadaji—Harshavardhan Singh Shekhawat—standing in the doorway, wrapped in his cream shawl despite the summer's warmth. His eyes, weathered with age, still gleamed with that familiar mix of sharpness and affection.

"You'll spoil me with this special chai," he said, stepping in slowly.

"I think it's too late for that, Dadaji," Gauri replied with a gentle smile, pouring the steaming tea into his brass cup. "You've already been thoroughly spoiled."

He chuckled, easing himself into the chair by the kitchen table. "And you're clever. I like that. Hriday chose well."

Her smile flickered—just for a second. Chose well. Yes. But not everyone agreed.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Maithili's voice carried in from the dining hall, crisp and deliberate.

"Kamla, I need fresh marigolds for the mandir. The ones the maid brought this morning were half-wilted."

Kamla was passing through the kitchen when Gauri gently stopped her.

"Kamla aunty... may I do that?"

Kamla paused, then nodded. She'd seen Gauri's quiet persistence, her tireless effort to win a place not just in this house—but in its coldest heart. Kamla couldn't change much, but she could offer this small help.

Gauri stepped out into the garden, the sun warming her skin as the soft chhan-chhan of her bangles followed her like a whisper. She clipped the marigolds carefully, cradling them in her dupatta as though gathering flames.

From the veranda, Maithili stood watching. Silent. Still. Her eyes followed every movement—measuring, weighing, withholding.

Inside, Gauri laid the marigolds before the idols, arranging each bloom with reverence. She adjusted the petals as though setting intentions with every touch.

Behind her, Maithili now stood, arms folded like gates.

"Who made the rangoli?" she asked sharply, her voice directed at Kamla as she walked by.

Kamla glanced at Gauri, then replied carefully, "Madam Gauri made the rangoli, Ma'am. Isn't it beautiful?"

Maithili looked down at the delicate peacock spreading across the marble floor—loops of turmeric, vermillion, and rice flour flowing like feathers.

"Anyone can make something like this," she said coolly.

A silence stretched, long and brittle. Gauri didn't move, didn't speak. Her hands remained folded before the gods.

Maithili turned and walked away without another word.

Kamla lingered in the doorway, watching as Gauri's expression faltered. She saw the way her face collapsed inward—just a little—like a flower shrinking from sudden shade.

What could she say?

Gauri remained still, her hands trembling slightly as she brushed away one quiet tear. She looked up at the idol of Krishna Ji—his flute raised, eternal smile serene.

She whispered so softly, even the gods had to lean in to hear:

"Please... just once, let her see me."

The following afternoon, the mansion bustled faintly with the rhythms of domestic life.

Gauri stood by the stove, the ends of her dupatta tucked at her waist. The aroma of roasted cumin, coriander, and slow-simmered lentils curled through the air. She had spent the morning preparing lunch with quiet purpose.

Today, she had cooked Maithili's favorites—paneer methi malai, jeera rice, and the delicate kaddu ki sabzi with the exact blend of sweet and tang Maithili liked. She had even asked Kamla, softly, about the thickness of the rotis her mother-in-law preferred, adjusting the dough until it was just right.

It wasn't an offering. It was a gesture.

As the brass thali was laid on the dining table—every bowl arranged just so—Maithili entered, draped in an elegant chiffon saree, her face composed and unreadable.

Kamla announced, "Madam, Gauri made today's lunch. She said it's your favorite."

Maithili sat down without a word. Her eyes swept over the thali for only a second. Gauri stood nearby, pretending to adjust a bowl of achaar, but her heart thudded in her chest like a drum.

Maithili took a bite. Then another.

She ate quietly. Elegantly. Without pause. Without praise.

When she was done, she picked up her napkin, dabbed at her lips, and rose to her feet.

"Kamla," she said, adjusting her bangles, "tell the cook the rice was slightly underdone today. Make sure it cooked properly next time."

Gauri froze.

Kamla blinked, unsure what to say, and Gauri answered for her. "I'll make sure it's corrected, Ma."

Maithili didn't look at her. She simply walked away.l.

Gauri stood there in the silence she left behind. Her hands were still warm from the kitchen. Her chest, colder than before.

Kamla turned toward her, hesitant. "Gauri, it was perfect. She knows it too."

Gauri smiled faintly, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. "It's alright, Kamla aunty."

She gathered the empty thali, her movements graceful, unshaken.

That evening, the Shekhawat mansion was bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun. Long shadows stretched across the marble courtyard, and the scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air. The household was quieter now—Shikar hadn't returned yet, and Maithili was resting. Hriday is out of station for business.

Gauri walked slowly across the living room with a brass tray in her hands. On it, a cup of freshly brewed masala chai, a plate of namkeen mathri, and a small dish of soaked almonds—just the way Dadaji liked it.

He was seated in his usual spot, on the carved wooden bench beneath the neem tree, wrapped in his evening shawl despite the lingering warmth. A pigeon cooed lazily from the roof. He looked up as Gauri approached.

"Ah, perfect timing," he said, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "I was beginning to wonder if the world had forgotten about this old man's tea."

Gauri smiled as she set the tray down on the side table.

"How could I forget you, Dadaji?" she said gently. "You're the only one who drinks this strange combination of ginger and fennel."

He laughed, a dry but genuine sound. "And yet, you make it perfectly every single time."

She poured the tea into his cup and was about to take her leave when he patted the empty seat beside him.

"Sit with me, beta. Just for a few minutes."

She hesitated for a second, then sat down quietly, folding her hands in her lap. A breeze rustled the neem leaves overhead.

Dadaji took a sip of the tea and sighed. "Hmm... this is how an evening should be. Quiet. Honest. With good tea."

Gauri smiled faintly, her eyes resting on the courtyard as it turned amber with twilight.

After a moment, he spoke again, voice softer now. "How are your studies going, Gauri?"

She turned to him, surprised by the question. "They're going well, Dadaji. I finished two chapters this week."

"And the office? I heard from Hriday that you're taking on extra responsibilities."

She nodded. "Yes, I'm learning a lot."

He studied her face for a moment—the tiredness under her eyes, the careful calm in her voice.

"And the house?" he added. "Managing all of this—studies, office, and home—it must be exhausting."

Gauri smiled and gave a small shrug. "I'm a multitasker, Dadaji. I don't mind it. I actually... I enjoy it."

"Even the cooking?"

"Especially the cooking," she said, her voice warming slightly. "I know I'm not perfect, but I love making food for everyone. It feels like... something I can offer. Something that speaks without needing to say much."

Dadaji sipped his tea, nodding slowly.

"You remind me of your grandmother," he said after a moment. "Strong hands, quiet strength. She never raised her voice, but she could shake a man's soul just by being kind when he least deserved it."

Gauri looked down, emotion catching in her throat.

"You see, beta," he added, setting his cup down, "in this house, silence is often mistaken for weakness. But I see you. I see what you're trying to do. Just remember—kindness is not submission. And endurance... is its own kind of rebellion."

She turned to him, eyes shining.

"Thank you, Dadaji," she whispered.

He gave her a small, knowing smile.

" And you never talked about your parents!"

Harshvardhan asked. Gauri looked down remembering her mother, Kishori.

Gauri's smile faltered. Her fingers curled slightly into the folds of her dupatta. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, the hum of the haveli faded behind the memory rising in her chest.

She looked up then, her eyes clear with something between pride and grief.

"She was a very strong woman. Raised me single-handedly. She worked long hours in a school as a librarian but still found time to help me with my homework, pack my tiffin, and braid my hair every morning, no matter how tired she was."

Harshavardhan listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but attentive.

"She never complained. Not even when there was barely enough money. Not even when I got sick and she had to walk me to the hospital on foot because we couldn't afford a rickshaw. She made our little one-room flat feel like a kingdom. Just the two of us."

Her voice caught for a second, but she didn't let it fall apart.

"She used to say, 'We may not have a man in the house, but we have enough strength for two.'" Gauri smiled faintly. "She taught me how to fight... without ever raising her voice. Just like you said about Dadiji."

Harshavardhan nodded slowly, something shifting in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or understanding.

"She must've been remarkable," he said.

"She was," Gauri whispered, her voice full of quiet love. "She still is. Even though she's gone now... I carry her with me. Every day."

Harshavardhan didn't press about the father. He didn't need to. There are silences too sacred to question.

Instead, he reached out and gently patted her hand.

Before the silence could deepen further, Gauri suddenly gasped, eyes widening.

"Dadaji! I forgot—I left the dal on the stove!"

She stood up quickly, almost knocking the brass tray in her haste.

Dadaji chuckled softly as she hurried off. "Go, go... before the kitchen turns into a battlefield."

As she disappeared through the archway, he sat back, the smile fading gently from his face. His eyes lingered on the spot where she had been seated just moments ago.

He had noticed it—the glimmer of sadness in her eyes, so carefully tucked behind smiles and soft-spoken words. A heaviness she carried alone.

He sighed, adjusting the folds of his shawl. Hriday was out of station—some work meeting in Pune, he recalled. Had he been here, he would have noticed. He always did where Gauri was concerned. But in his absence, the girl had been holding up too much—too quietly.

Too silently.

The neem leaves rustled above, as if agreeing.

Harshavardhan took another sip of his now lukewarm tea and murmured under his breath, " Maithili doesn't deserve her patience."

Later that night, the Shekhawat dining hall glowed softly under the crystal chandelier, its light casting golden halos across the polished teak table. The scent of tadka dal, cumin rice, and sautéed vegetables lingered in the air—comforting and familiar.

Gauri moved quietly between the chairs, serving each plate with practiced ease. Her pallu tucked in place, she wore a soft peach cotton saree, her expression composed but inwardly tired. She'd barely sat down since morning.

Maithili sat at the head of the table, as always—elegant, distant, her saree crisp, and her face unreadable. Beside her, Shikhar Shekhawat, Hriday's father, leafed through the business pages of the evening newspaper, barely glancing up as food was placed before him.

Dadaji was already seated, leaning slightly forward, hands resting on his walking stick, observing everything quietly.

Gauri finally took her place at the side, only after everyone else had been served.

"Dad a little more rice?" she asked politely.

"No, that's enough," he replied without looking up.

Maithili tasted the sabzi and reached for the salt without a word. Then, with her usual precision, she said, "The lauki is slightly overcooked. Soft to the point of mush."

Gauri's spoon paused halfway to her plate.

"I'll be more careful next time, Mom," she said gently.

Dadaji's eyes narrowed slightly. He took a bite himself.

"Tastes just right to me," he said, not looking at anyone in particular. "Soft, yes, but not overdone. I suppose some of us still remember what home-cooked food is meant to taste like and no one can donut Gauri's cooking skill as she is the cook Hriday has appoint , when he was at Kolkata."

Maithili didn't respond. She simply folded her roti neatly and took another bite.

The silence between the clinking of cutlery stretched, heavy and brittle.

Shikhar cleared his throat. "Hriday called this afternoon. He'll be back day after tomorrow."

Gauri smiled faintly, her heart fluttering at the thought.

"Did he say how the meeting went?" Harshavardhan asked.

"Successful, it seems," Shikhar replied. "They're expanding the Gurgaon office.."

"That's wonderful," Harshavardhan said, his voice soft with pride.

Maithili set down her glass. "He's always been ambitious. He doesn't let distractions get in his way."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Dadaji looked up sharply, but said nothing. Gauri didn't flinch. She just lowered her eyes and folded her roti calmly.

The dinner continued in silence.

After a while, Dadaji pushed his plate forward gently. "Gauri, that kheer you made last week... the saffron one. Can we have that tomorrow? I haven't stopped thinking about it."

Gauri looked at him, startled for a moment. Then smiled, touched. "Of course, Dadaji. I'll make it for you in the morning."

He gave her a warm nod, then turned to Maithili and added, casually, "You know Maithili left your ego aside for a moment and saw their love ."

Maithili's jaw tightened, just barely.

The Shekhawat mansion slumbered beneath the hush of night.
The central AC murmured a steady lullaby, its soft hum weaving through the silence like a whisper barely daring to speak. Outside, the garden lights cast a muted amber glow, their faint beams stretching shadows across the polished marble floor like delicate brush strokes on a canvas of stone.

Gauri lay sprawled across the bed, her body relaxed against the plush mattress, a crimson saree wrapped around her like a quiet echo of the day's formality. The drape, once precise, now hung with casual elegance. Her blouse, dipped slightly at the back, revealed smooth skin with effortless grace—a private luxury she wore with comfort only solitude permits. Her long, raven hair fell over one shoulder, silky strands glinting faintly in the warm lamplight. One bare foot traced slow, idle circles across the cool silk bed sheet. She was serene, yet a quiet fatigue clung to her like the last light of dusk—graceful, but heavy with all she carried.

Her phone lit up.
Hriday — Incoming Video Call.

She smiled before even answering.
A soft beep, and his face blinked into view—slightly pixelated at first, then clearing like mist revealing a familiar skyline. He looked tired, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the top button undone. There was ease in his posture, affection in his eyes.

"Wow," he breathed, leaning closer to the frame. "Red suits you far too well. Are you trying to kill me from across the country?"

Gauri chuckled, her arm sliding under her head. "I didn't even change for you. I wore this all day."

"Then the rest of the world's luckier than I am," he said softly, eyes twinkling.

She shook her head, a faint blush blooming on her cheeks. "Stop. I'm too tired to flirt."

"That's alright," he replied, grinning. "I've got enough charm for both of us."

The moment softened. His voice lowered, warmer now.

"Rough day?"

She didn't respond right away. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling, then back to the screen, their gleam reflecting more than the light.

"Hriday... I just want peace. A place to belong. A little bit of love that doesn't have to be earned."

His eyes grew gentle. "You have it. Here." He touched his chest. "You've always had it. And one day, even Mom will see it—whether she wants to or not."

Gauri smiled, though her heart still ached quietly. "Dadaji said something like that today. He asked about my mother."

"What did you tell him?"

"That she was strong. That she raised me alone. That everything good in me came from her."

Hriday's voice barely rose above a whisper. "I wish I'd met her."

Gauri reached out and brushed the screen with her fingers. "She would've liked you. You're the first man who made me feel safe enough to fall in love."

He held her gaze, steady and full of something unspoken.

"I'm back in 36 hours," he said. "Will you count them for me?"

"I already am," she murmured.

"Are you missing me?" she asked, her voice low, playful.

Hriday's eyes darkened, his smile deepening.
"If I had to explain how much I miss you, sweetheart... the whole night wouldn't be enough."

Gauri laughed, a lightness returning to her voice.
"Oh really?"

As her laughter echoed softly, Hriday's gaze flickered—drawn to the deep cut of her blouse. The neckline, revealing yet elegant, caught his breath.

"Sweetheart... did you wear that blouse on purpose? Or was it an accident?" he asked, his voice lower now, tinged with mischief.

Gauri stopped laughing and narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by accident? I wore it on purpose. This red saree matches perfectly with this blouse. You bought it for me, remember?"

He grinned, swallowing hard. "You're too innocent sometimes."

"Hriday..." she warned, but he leaned in again.

"Let's play a game," he said suddenly.

"What kind of game?" she asked, suspicious.

"We'll take turns asking each other questions. Whoever answers wrong has to do what the winner says."

Gauri nodded slowly. "Alright."

"I'll go first," Hriday said, but as Gauri began to shift, he quickly added,
"Don't sit up—just stay like that. I'm getting a great view."

Gauri furrowed her brow. "What view? Let me sit, then we'll play."

"No, no sweetheart... you don't have to move."

"I'm sitting. Or no game," she said firmly, already adjusting her posture. Hriday sighed in playful defeat.

"Fine," he muttered. "First question: Why did the computer go to the doctor?"

Gauri stared at him, confused. "What kind of question is that, Hriday?"

"It's a riddle."

She frowned. "I don't know. You tell me."

"Because it had a virus," he said proudly.

Gauri stared at him, deadpan. "That's a dad joke."

"But you lost," he teased.

"What do I have to do?"

Hriday hesitated before replying, "Lie down again. Like before."

Gauri raised an eyebrow. "Hriday—"

"You lost. Rules are rules," he reminded her, smirking. She rolled her eyes but obliged.

"Now it's my turn," she said. "Let's see if you're as smart as you are shameless."

She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious tone.
"If you had to choose between RNA and DNA, which would you pick?"

Hriday smirked—he already knew.
"RNA. Because it has 'U' in it."

Gauri blinked—then laughed in disbelief. She hadn't expected him to turn it around so smoothly.

"I'm sleepy," she declared, half-pouting.

Hriday laughed. He knew her well enough to understand—she was pretending to be annoyed because she didn't win.

"Alright, alright. Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you."

"Hmm. Goodnight. I love you too."

The call ended with a soft click, and the room returned to silence. Gauri stared at the dark screen for a long moment, then turned onto her side, clutching the phone like it still carried the echo of his voice.

The soft hum of the hotel room's mini fridge was the only sound breaking the quiet. Outside, the city of Gurgaon buzzed faintly, its lights blinking through the curtains like distant stars. But Hriday didn't notice the skyline, or the way the moon hung low over the high-rise buildings.

His eyes were fixed on the laptop screen.

It was a photo—just a candid shot from a few weeks ago. Gauri standing barefoot on their terrace, her hair tousled by the wind, her saree wrapped carelessly around her like a second skin. She wasn't even looking at the camera. She was gazing off into the distance, lost in a thought he'd never been able to read. But even in stillness, she made his heart stir.

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

"God, it's only been two days," he muttered to himself. "Just two damn days."

And yet, it felt like he was unraveling.

He missed her in ways that surprised even him. It wasn't just the way she looked—though that alone could drive him mad—it was her scent. That faint mix of sandalwood and rose, with something uniquely Gauri beneath it. He missed how it lingered on his shirts, how it stayed on his skin long after she'd walked away.

He missed the warmth of her presence in a room. How she never needed to speak to make herself known—her energy filled the air like music, like incense curling through the corners of his mind.

He glanced at the time. Only 36 hours until his flight. He'd counted it down three times already. Still felt like eternity.

"I'm acting like a fool," he said aloud, shaking his head with a half-smile. "What have you done to me, Gauri?"

He reached for the cup of coffee on the nightstand, now cold. He didn't sip it. He just sat there, holding it, staring at her image on the screen. There was an ache in his chest—quiet but constant, like a heartbeat that had lost its rhythm.

She'd looked tired tonight. Tired, but still stunning. That red saree, the way it draped over her shoulder, the way her blouse dipped just enough—it wasn't intentional seduction. It was worse. It was unconscious beauty. The kind that wasn't trying to impress anyone. The kind that just was.

And it wrecked him.

"I'm coming home tomorrow," he said quietly to her picture. "I should be sleeping. I have meetings in the morning. But here I am. Talking to a photo like a madman."

He smiled softly, his thumb brushing the screen.

"Do you know how crazy I am about you, Gauri? It's not just love anymore. It's something else. It's needing to hear your voice before I can fall asleep. It's reaching for you in the middle of the night and being furious when you're not there."

He set the cup down, leaned forward, and pressed a gentle kiss to the laptop screen.

"Thirty-six hours," he whispered. "Just hold on, sweetheart. I'm counting every second."

The city outside never stopped moving. But inside the room, time stood still—paused somewhere between longing and love, wrapped in the memory of her smile.

Gauri's POV

The silence in the Shekhawat mansion had turned deafening.

It was past midnight now. The soft lights in her room flickered lazily against the pale walls, casting long, golden shadows that reminded her of him—how he used to lean against the doorway with that crooked smile, calling her sweetheart like it was a secret only the two of them shared.

She turned over on the bed, the silk sheets rustling beneath her like whispered memories. Her arm reached out toward the other side—empty, cool. She hated that.

Two days. That was all. But her body missed him like it had been weeks. Her heart ached like it had been years.

She sighed, pressing the pillow closer to her chest, burying her face into it. It smelled faintly of his cologne—faded now, but still enough to make her close her eyes and pretend. Sandalwood and citrus... Hriday.

His voice rang in her ears as if he were right there beside her.

"Sweetheart..."
He always said it with a softness, like the word was made for her alone. No one else had ever said it like he did—half tease, half worship. God, she missed that. Missed him.

She missed how he would pull her close by the waist, kiss her just behind the ear, and then say something utterly ridiculous just to make her laugh. He had a way of turning her irritation into laughter, her silence into sighs, her every boundary into an invitation.

Her lips curved in a wistful smile as her fingers found her phone. She didn't open any apps. Just stared at the screen saver—him, kissing her temple, her eyes half-closed, laughing. A stolen photo he insisted was his favorite.

She whispered into the emptiness of the room, "What have you done to me, Hriday?"

She felt restless. Like her soul kept reaching for him. Like every second without him stretched into an hour.

His love wasn't soft. It was overwhelming. Wild. It crashed into her like waves that didn't ask for permission. He flirted like a storm—relentless, impossible to ignore. And the worst part? She missed that too. His shameless teasing, the way he'd run his fingers down her spine and then grin when she shivered.

She touched her lips, remembering the heat of his kiss. The way he'd pause mid-sentence just to look at her, as if she were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"If I have to tell you how much I miss you, sweetheart... the whole night will be short."

He had said that just hours ago. And now, lying in bed without him, she understood it in full.

She sat up, her eyes burning with unshed tears, then got up and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—hair tousled, the deep red of her saree slightly creased, but her eyes... they were soft. Full. Longing.

"I'm going crazy, Hriday," she whispered to her reflection. "Crazy on your love."

She touched her bare collarbone, remembering his lips there. She missed how he'd trace slow kisses along her neck before pulling her into his arms, whispering things that made her forget the world.

She wasn't the kind of woman who used to believe in this kind of madness. She had built walls, worn armor. But Hriday—he hadn't asked her to take it off. He'd loved her through it. Until she didn't need the armor anymore.

She wrapped her arms around herself, exhaling shakily.

Come back already, she thought. I'm counting hours too.

Then she picked up her phone and opened the chat. She didn't know what to write. So she just sent a voice message—her voice barely above a breath.

"I miss you. And your chaos. Your hands. Your stupid jokes. Your shameless flirting. And you calling me sweetheart like it's the only name I've ever had. Come back fast. I'm going crazy without you."

She hit send before she could stop herself.

Then lay back down. Clutched the pillow again. And closed her eyes, hoping maybe in her dreams, he'd come home early.

The Next Evening – Shekhawat Mansion

The scent of cardamom drifted gently from the kitchen as Gauri stood at the stove, carefully pouring tea into two small porcelain cups. The steam curled upward like incense, fogging her thoughts momentarily as her fingers moved with practiced grace. She was humming softly—an old tune Dadaji used to hum in his younger days.

Her saree today was a soft lavender, tied simply, the pallu tucked neatly at her waist. A few strands of hair had escaped her bun, brushing against her cheeks, damp with the warmth of the kitchen. Her mind was somewhere else. Or rather, with someone else.

Hriday.

Every thought kept circling back to him. His voice. His teasing grin. The way he called her sweetheart like a prayer disguised as a joke. Her chest ached just thinking about it.

She didn't know that, at that very moment, Hriday had just stepped into the mansion's hallway like a man returned from exile.

His suitcase hit the marble floor with a soft thud. The servant near the staircase jumped slightly, startled.

"Where is she?" Hriday asked, breathless. "Gauri... where is she?"

The servant blinked, then smiled, understanding the urgency in his voice. "Kitchen, sir. She's making tea."

Hriday didn't wait for more. He was already halfway across the hall, moving like a man possessed.

God, he had missed her.

The two-day trip had felt like a lifetime. He hadn't even stopped to freshen up. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot with sleep deprivation, but there was only one thing he cared about: her.

As he neared the kitchen doorway, he slowed, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumroll. The sound of her soft humming reached his ears first, followed by the gentle clink of metal on ceramic. She hadn't heard him.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

She was right there. Finally.

Hriday stepped into the kitchen like a thief in the night. Silent. Intentional. His eyes drank in the sight of her back—the graceful line of her spine, the way her hips moved slightly as she shifted from one foot to the other. That little sway he had memorized.

He moved closer. Still no sound. Still no words.

When he was just inches behind her, he leaned in—and without warning, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the nape of her neck.

Gauri gasped, the tea nearly spilling as the warm, familiar weight of his lips landed on her skin. Her whole body stilled. Her eyes went wide.

She froze for a moment, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to tears.

Then she slowly turned, her voice barely a whisper.
"Hriday...?"

He was already smiling, already drinking in her stunned expression like it was the only thing that could quench the thirst he'd carried through every mile of the journey.

"Told you I'd be back in 36 hours," he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Couldn't wait even a second longer."

Her hands trembled slightly as she set the cups down behind her. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes searched his face, as if afraid he might disappear if she blinked.

"You're here," she breathed.

He nodded, then pulled her closer, his arms sliding around her waist from behind.

"I couldn't stay away. I missed you like hell, sweetheart," he whispered against her skin. "Missed your voice, your scent, even the way you burn toast when you're distracted."

She laughed then, a soft, breathy sound that cracked at the edges.

"I'm not dreaming, right?" she asked, turning in his arms fully now, her palms resting against his chest.

"You think your dreams kiss you like this?"

Before she could answer, Hriday bent and kissed her again—this time slow, deep, full of every word he hadn't said in the last 36 hours. She melted into him like she had never let go.

And just like that, the ache dissolved. The longing faded. The silence that had haunted her for two nights was replaced by the beat of his heart against hers.

Outside, Dadaji's voice called out faintly from the living room.
"Gauri, where's my—"

"I'll take his tea," Hriday whispered, stealing one more kiss.
Then he grinned.
"But after I steal one more minute with you."

She smiled against his lips, eyes sparkling.

"Take the whole evening, Hriday."

A Few Moments Later

"Gauri beta! My tea is getting cold before it's even been poured!" Dadaji's voice echoed down the hall, gruff with impatience but tinged with affection.

In the kitchen, Gauri pulled away from Hriday with a soft laugh, cheeks flushed from both his kisses and the lingering surprise of his return. She reached behind him to hand him the small tray with the two cups of tea.

"You heard him," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Go earn your place in this house."

Hriday grinned, balancing the tray with practiced ease. "Gladly. Let me serve him before he suspects you've eloped with the milkman."

She rolled her eyes, swatting him lightly on the arm as he turned and walked out of the kitchen, still smirking.

In the living room, Dadaji was sitting on his favorite recliner, reading the newspaper with his reading glasses perched low on his nose. When he heard the approaching footsteps, he didn't bother looking up.

"Finally, Gauri. I was about to declare a fast in protest—"
He paused mid-sentence, lowering the paper. His bushy brows lifted as Hriday entered the room with the tray.

The old man's eyes widened. "Arre Hriday! Tum kab aaye, beta?! When did you get back?"

Hriday bent slightly and placed the tea on the side table. "Just now, Dadaji. Couldn't wait until tomorrow."

Dadaji smiled broadly, his lined face softening. "Couldn't wait... or missing Gauri turned your brain to mush?"

"Both," Hriday said without hesitation, chuckling. "I tried pretending I was fine, but I've been going mad without her. Even her scolding felt like music in my ears."

Dadaji let out a deep, knowing laugh, his chest shaking slightly. "Love has made a poet out of my grandson."

Gauri appeared at the doorway just then, wiping her hands on the end of her saree, trying to compose herself, though her heart still fluttered from the surprise.

Dadaji looked between the two of them, eyes twinkling.
"She made tea, you delivered it—are you trying to score extra points with the elders now?"

"Of course," Hriday replied, sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside the recliner. "Every point gets me closer to your blessing... and maybe a few more nights on the terrace with her."

Dadaji laughed again, sipping the tea. "This tea tastes better when brought with love. Or maybe it's just the happiness in the air."

There was a pause. The kind that hangs gently in rooms filled with shared history and soft futures.

Then Dadaji leaned forward, patting Hriday on the shoulder. "You chose well. Don't ever make her wait too long again."

"I won't," Hriday said, voice steady. "Not even a day, if I can help it."

Gauri looked at the two men—the man who had raised Hriday and the one she loved with everything she had—and felt something settle inside her. Something deep and warm.

She walked over and sat on the armrest of Dadaji's chair, her hand brushing against Hriday's shoulder.

For the first time in two days, her heart stopped pacing. It had found home again.

Later That Night

The stars had spilled across the sky like scattered diamonds, and the city below had quieted to a hum. On the Shekhawat mansion's terrace, the breeze carried a gentle chill and the faint scent of jasmine from the garden below.

Gauri stood near the railing, her hands resting lightly on the cool iron, her hair untied now—fluttering freely behind her like a silken veil. The lavender saree shimmered faintly under the moonlight, clinging to her form as though it, too, didn't want to let go.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the wind kiss her cheeks, her heart finally still after two days of restless waiting. And then—without even turning—she felt it.

Hriday.

His presence always arrived a moment before his footsteps did. It was in the shift of the air, in the way her body seemed to recognize the gravity of his nearness.

"I was wondering when you'd come," she said softly, her eyes still closed.

"I was giving you time," he replied, his voice low and smooth, "but not too much. I've waited long enough."

She smiled, turning slowly to face him.

He had changed into a simple black kurta, sleeves rolled up, hair still messy from travel, but his eyes—those warm, hungry eyes—held nothing but her.

They stood in silence for a few beats, just watching each other.

Then Hriday stepped closer, something hidden behind his back.

"I brought you something," he said.

Gauri tilted her head, curious. "What is it now? Another riddle?"

He shook his head, stepping around behind her, so her back faced him again. She shivered slightly—not from the cold, but from the sudden intimacy of his closeness.

"No riddles tonight," he whispered, "Just something I should've given you long ago."

He brought the necklace around her neck gently cool silver meeting warm skin. A delicate chain, with a tiny moon-shaped pendant at its center, studded with a single diamond that caught the starlight like a spark from the sky.

Gauri inhaled sharply, her fingers reaching up instinctively to touch it.

"Hriday..."

"It reminded me of you," he murmured, clasping it behind her neck. "Graceful. Constant. And somehow, always glowing—especially when the world goes dark."

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

She turned in his arms slowly, eyes shining. "It's beautiful."

"So are you," he replied, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "But this—" he tapped the pendant gently, "—is just a reminder for when I can't be around. That you're loved. Without conditions. Without explanations."

She leaned her forehead against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her skin.

"I went crazy without you," she whispered.

"I know," he said, holding her tighter. "I did too. I talked to your photo like a lunatic and counted every damn hour."

She laughed softly, then looked up. "Thank you for this."

"For the necklace?"

"For coming back early. For making love feel like breathing."

He kissed her then. Slowly. Deeply. Like the world had paused just to give them this moment.

And above them, the stars burned a little brighter—as if they, too, were witnessing a love that didn't need grand declarations. Just quiet presence. A touch. A look. A silver moon resting gently on her heart.

Sunlight crept through the lace curtains, spilling across the floor in golden strips. The morning was quiet, the kind of hush that only comes after a night full of whispered confessions and hearts laid bare.

Hriday stirred first, eyes blinking against the pale light. For a moment, he didn't move—he just looked.

Gauri was sleeping beside him, her head resting against his shoulder, one hand curled gently against his chest like she was anchoring herself to him even in her dreams. The moon-shaped pendant he had given her the night before glinted faintly against her collarbone.

She looked peaceful. Almost fragile in her sleep. Like a dream he wasn't sure he deserved to wake up with.

He reached up and gently pushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingertips barely grazing her skin.

"I love you," he whispered, even though she couldn't hear it. "More than I can explain. More than I probably should."

Her lashes fluttered slightly, but she didn't wake.

Hriday smiled. "Still pretending to sleep, huh?"

She didn't respond. But her lips twitched.

Busted.

"You're the worst actress, sweetheart," he teased, brushing the tip of his nose against hers.

She opened her eyes slowly, sleep-heavy and golden. "Mmm. That's rude for someone who just came back from exile."

He laughed softly. "I thought you'd be nicer in the morning."

"I thought you'd bring me tea," she replied, nuzzling closer. "Instead, you bring sarcasm."

"I brought myself," he murmured. "And a necklace. And emotional damage from being away for two whole days."

She giggled, her fingers sliding up to rest on his neck. "Apology accepted."

They lay in silence for a few moments more, just listening to the birds chirping outside the window, the world waking up around them.

Then Gauri pulled back slightly and looked at him. Her expression softened, serious now.

"You know... when you kissed me in the kitchen last night, I didn't just feel surprise."

"What did you feel?" Hriday asked gently.

"I felt safe. Like I could finally stop holding my breath."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and kissed her forehead. "Then let's make a deal."

She raised an eyebrow. "A deal?"

"No more holding your breath. Not for me. Not for anyone. You just breathe. I'll handle the rest."

She smiled. A quiet, teary smile that said more than words ever could.

Outside, the morning continued. Servants moved quietly through the halls. Dadaji was already reading the newspaper, probably expecting his tea.

But in that little world tucked beneath soft sheets and sunshine, Gauri and Hriday existed entirely for each other.

No clock ticking. No distance waiting.

Just a boy hopelessly in love.

And a girl who had finally let herself believe in it.

The dining room smelled of ghee and freshly baked parathas. Silver dishes clinked gently as the maids moved swiftly, setting down bowls of steaming aloo sabzi, creamy curd, and a platter of fresh-cut fruit on the long teakwood table. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm golden patterns on the polished floor.

Gauri entered, dressed in a soft orange saree that draped gracefully around her. The printed blouse added a touch of gentle charm, complementing the glow on her face. Hriday is wearing a crisp navy blue suit.

Hriday noticed immediately. "You're already dressed?"

She nodded. "My result's out today. I need to be there before noon. Department head might announce university rankings."

Hriday's eyes lit up. "Then I'm coming with you."

Gauri blinked. "What? No, Hriday, it's—"

"Non-negotiable," he said, pouring tea into two cups. "Big day. I wouldn't miss it."

Before Gauri could argue further, a voice cut through the quiet.

Hriday glanced at Gauri. Her eyes remained calm, her back unbending. She didn't rise to the bait—but he could feel the tension in her hand as he reached under the table and lightly squeezed her fingers.

"You ready to go?" he asked softly.

She met his gaze, her shoulders relaxing just a little. "Yes. I just need my bag."

As she left the room, Hriday lingered.

Maithili didn't look up. "You're indulging her too much."

"I'm loving her," Hriday said simply. "If that's what indulgence looks like to you, maybe that's the problem."

Maithili looked up then—eyes hard, sharp.

Shikhar sighed but said nothing.

And Hriday turned and walked out, already focused on the woman whose dreams he was determined to stand beside.

The sun beat down gently on the red-brick buildings of the university, their old arches and ivy-clad walls alive with murmurs of excitement. Students buzzed outside the Department, crowding near the notice board. Laughter, nerves, and the sound of hurried footsteps filled the air.

Gauri stood still for a moment, just beyond the gate, staring at the rush of faces with a quiet sort of intensity. Her fingers clutched the strap of her bag, knuckles white.

"You're going to pass out from nerves before you even get near that board," Hriday murmured beside her, holding two cups of cold coffee. "Drink this. Or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in."

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, her eyes never leaving the throng ahead. "Do you see that chaos? I'll need armor. And elbows."

"Good thing you've got both," he said, handing her the cup. "And also me."

That made her chuckle. Just a little.

As they moved closer, familiar faces greeted her with excited smiles.

"Gauri! You're here!"

"We were waiting for you!"

"They haven't put up the full list yet!"

"Ma'am said it's huge news!"

Hriday hung back as the students swarmed around her. Gauri, gracious but focused, pushed forward—parting the crowd until she stood right in front of the glass notice board.

The results had just been posted—typed, signed, and stamped.

Her name was right there.

Gauri Shekawat – 1st Rank – Gold Medalist

Her breath caught. For a moment, she didn't move.

Then—

A wave of sound erupted behind her. Cheers. Clapping. Laughter. A few girls squealed, hugging her from both sides. Some boys whooped from the back.

"Congratulations..!!"

Gauri turned slowly, as if unsure she wasn't dreaming.

And then she saw Hriday—leaning against a pillar a few feet away, coffee in one hand, his expression unreadable for half a second.

Then he smiled.

A slow, deep, proud smile that reached his eyes.

She walked toward him in a daze.

He didn't wait for her to speak. Just pulled her into a hug right there in the middle of the crowd—arms wrapped tight, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other anchored to her waist.

"You did it, sweetheart," he whispered. "Top of the damn world."

She buried her face into his chest for a second, overwhelmed. "I... I didn't think it would feel like this. I can't believe I topped..!."

He pulled back, holding her face between his palms. "You didn't just pass, Gauri. You topped the whole department. Do you know how insane that is?"

A shy grin broke through her shock. "You really think so?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. I think I'm going to frame that notice board."

She laughed—truly laughed now.

The head of the department approached them, beaming with approval. "Mrs. Shekawat, I must say—remarkable work. The entire faculty is proud of you. The chancellor himself is expected at the convocation. He asked about you by name."

Gauri bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, sir."

Hriday stepped aside respectfully, letting her take it all in. But his eyes never left her. Watching. Memorizing.

When the crowd thinned, Gauri finally let herself lean against him again.

"I wish my mother were here," she said softly. "She would've cried."

Hriday squeezed her hand. "She would've been proud. Just like I am."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you for coming with me."

He smirked. "Please. I'm your official hype-man now. I'll be annoyed about this for weeks."

She bumped his shoulder. "Good. I think I like annoying things."

They stood there, surrounded by cheers and sunlight, her name still fresh on the list behind them.

The sun slanted through the tall glass windows of the Shekhawat mansion, painting long golden lines across the plush ivory carpets. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and sandalwood incense — freshly lit by the maids after lunch.

Maithili sat gracefully on the cream velvet couch, a strand of pearls around her neck and her lips pressed into a faint, practiced smile. Across from her, Sanjana Ranawat , her lifelong friend, had just finished sipping her second cup of masala tea.

"Arre wah, Maithili," Sanjana said, placing the cup down.

"Your house hasn't changed at all. Still feels like stepping into a Sabyasachi catalogue."

Maithili chuckled, brushing a nonexistent crease off her saree.

"Timeless elegance never needs changing, Sanjana. Unlike fashion—or people."

Sanjana raised an eyebrow, catching the edge in her friend's tone, but chose not to press.

" How are your legs?"

Sanjana asked eyeing her legs.

" They are now okay. You tell me how are you Disha beta? Long time no see!"

Maithili said looking at Disha

" Good Aunty, busy with my work...! Where Hriday didn't see him for a while!"

"Oh, he's out with..." Maithili began, then paused deliberately, her voice lowering half a note. "He's gone to drop Gauri to her university. Something about her result coming out today."

Sanjana tilted her head. "Gauri. That girl even studies!!!"

Maithili smiled tightly. "yes."

Sanjana raised both eyebrows this time, but smirked knowingly. "She is smart you know and clever too."

Disha chimed in, oblivious or pretending to be. "Gauri? Don't say aunty Hriday married that cook girl...! OMG!!! All the while I thought she was some other Gauri."

Maithili's fingers stiffened around her teacup. "yes she is the same girl!"

Sanjana laughed, but her eyes glittered.

"Well, whatever this girl is—don't waste out time on her. Speaking of which..." she reached into her handbag and pulled out a gold-embossed envelope, handing it to Maithili with a flourish.

"You and your entire family must come to Disha's birthday party next Friday. Rooftop at the Leela. Champagne, candlelight, and just enough family drama to keep it exciting."

Disha laughed. "Please come, Maithili aunty along with Shikar uncle and Dadaji . And bring Hriday too."

Maithili's eyes flickered briefly, catching the subtle hint. She tilted her head with a cool, pleased smile. "Of course, beta. We wouldn't miss it. Hriday will be there."

Then, after a beat, she added with airy precision, "It will be nice for him to meet... someone on his level."

Sanjana looked satisfied. Disha pretended to adjust her earring.

A maid entered then, announcing politely, "Madam, Gauri madam and Hriday sir have returned."

Maithili didn't turn. But her fingers still. Her smile remained.

The door creaked open gently.

Gauri entered, In one hand she held her result envelope, fingers still curled around it as though the weight of the day hadn't quite settled.

She paused as she stepped into the drawing room and took in the scene — Maithili, seated like a monarch on her throne; Sanjana, resplendent in a designer saree, leaning back with the ease of old wealth; and beside her, Disha, all manicured grace and thinly veiled scrutiny.

The atmosphere shifted slightly — not hostile, but sharp, like glass beneath silk.

Gauri offered a polite smile. "Namaste, Aunty ." She nodded respectfully to the Disha. "Hello."

Sanjana's smile was a notch too perfect. " want to receive your result?"

"Yes," Gauri said, holding up the envelope. "The results came in earlier than expected."

"Oh?" Sanjana said lightly. "Well, I do hope it was worth all the rushing about."

Before Gauri could answer, Disha leaned forward with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "So you're Gauri, hmm? The... artsy one. The one Hriday's always running after."

Gauri's lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak. Her back straightened almost imperceptibly.

Maithili sipped her tea. "Gauri's... practical," she offered smoothly. "She believes in simplicity. Though sometimes, I wish she believed a little more in polish."

Disha added with faux innocence, "Oh but Maithili aunty, it's sweet, no? Like when a small-town girl tries to fit into a bigger frame. It has... charm."

The silence crackled.

Gauri blinked once. Twice. Then looked down at the envelope. "I topped the university," she said quietly, voice steady. "Gold medalist. First rank across all departments."

There was a pause.

Then Sanjana gave a tight smile. "How... impressive. I suppose hard work does pay off when you don't have distractions."

Disha followed, her tone edged with mock admiration. "That's amazing. Especially without...you know, real-world experience."

Just then, a voice cut through the air—low, amused, deadly calm.

"Is that jealousy I hear, or just old money trying too hard to stay relevant?"

Hriday.

He stood at the threshold, one eyebrow arched, arms folded casually. But his eyes — sharp, unreadable — were locked on Disha and Sanjana.

Sanjana blinked. "Beta—"

He didn't let her finish. "See, I don't mind you trying to impress my mother. That's tradition. But trying to humiliate someone ten times more accomplished than you just makes you look... tragically insecure."

Disha flushed. "I wasn't—"

"You were," Hriday said, stepping into the room. "But that's alright. We all have different talents. Yours is expensive sarcasm. Gauri's is actually earning her place in the world."

Maithili stiffened. "Hriday—"

He turned to her, his voice gentler but firm. "Mom, I love you. But not even you get to sit by while someone belittles the woman I love."

Silence fell again.

Hriday walked over to Gauri and took the envelope from her hands, holding it up. "Gold medalist," he repeated with pride. "This right here is what legacy actually looks like — not old family names or borrowed reputations."

He turned back to Disha and smiled — razor sharp. "And I think you came here to invite us not to humiliate my wife, am I right?."

Disha looked away.

Sanjana adjusted her bangles, clearly flustered. "Well, I suppose we should leave. Don't want to intrude further."

Maithili forced a smile. "Oh Sanjana, don't take it personally. Hriday is... passionate."

Hriday didn't look away from Gauri. "About the right things."

Sanjana stood. "We'll see you at Disha's birthday, of course?"

Hriday's smile was cold. "We'll think about it."

As Sanjana and Disha walked out, their exit echoing in the suddenly too-large room, Gauri finally looked up at Hriday.

Her voice was quiet. "You didn't have to do that."

He leaned in, brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

"I wanted to. And next time, I won't wait till they finish speaking."

Maithili watched them from her seat, the smile on her face barely hiding the slow burn behind her eyes.

The venue glittered with chandeliers, the air thick with perfume and pretension. Socialites laughed delicately over wine glasses, and Disha floated through the crowd like a butterfly bred in a designer boutique.

Gauri, dressed in a simple peach lehenga with soft curls framing her face, looked like she didn't belong — and yet, somehow, outshone the room without even trying.

Hriday had barely taken his eyes off her.

Maithili stood near the bar with Sanjana, both watching Gauri from a distance. Sanjana's smile had a curve of cruelty.

"A little reminder of her place might do wonders tonight."

Sanjana said to herself. Maithili was unaware of his friend's action.

She gestured subtly, and within moments, a server handed Gauri a glass of what she thought was juice. Gauri took a grateful sip.

The night moved fast. Laughter. Music. Drinks.

Until suddenly—

Gauri was on the dance floor.

Laughing. Spinning. Pulling Hriday with her as the crowd watched in stunned silence.

"Come on, Mr. Husband! You dance like you're scared of your own shoes!"

Hriday looked at her, concerned. Something was off. Her eyes glistened—not just with alcohol, but something deeper, rawer.

"Look at all these people. They look at me like I'm glass. Like if they touch me, I'll break. Or worse, like I'll stain their hands."

She grabbed Hriday's hand, stumbled slightly. "But you... you never looked at me like that. You looked at me like I mattered."

Guests began whispering. Maithili's eyes widened in horror.

Gauri turned to her.

"You don't like me. That's fine. But did you ever try to know me? Did you ever once... hug me? I don't want your jewelry or your pride. I just wanted a mother."

Gauri said to Maithili with her sincere voice.

Maithili opened her mouth—but no words came.

Gauri swayed, laughing tearfully now.

She turned to Shikhar, who had just arrived, sipping whiskey quietly.

"Dad...."
"I never had a chance to experience how father's love feels like..! . Mine left before. But then I married your son... and suddenly I had someone who said 'beta' like it meant something."

Shikhar's expression softened with quiet guilt.

"And Daddaji... I love your stories. About how you stole sweets for Dadiji. About how she made achar and scolded you for sneaking mangoes. You know... when you talk about her... I feel like I know what love looks like."

The crowd watched, caught between discomfort and awe.

Gauri's voice dropped to a whisper.

"I just wanted to belong. Somewhere. To someone."

She stumbled again. Hriday rushed to her, catching her before she hit the floor.

"That's enough. We're leaving."

As he guided her out, the party murmured behind them, stunned and silent. Maithili looked on, shaken to her core.

At car, Gauri leaned her head against the window. Her makeup had smudged, her eyes red from tears, but her voice was fragile, real.

"Hriday..."

She whispered.

He looked over, gently brushing hair away from her face. "Hmm?"

"I didn't see it. I didn't see your love. You were always there. You fought for me. You held me when I couldn't even hold myself."

She turned to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Why didn't I see it earlier? Why did it take all this... pain... to realise that you are... my home?"

Hriday's hands tightened on the wheel.

"I can't live without you now. Not because I'm weak. But because... for the first time... I know what it feels like to be loved."

She buried her face into his shoulder.

"I love you, Hriday. I love you. And I don't care if the world laughs or judges or tries to break me again. Just don't let go."

Hriday said softly, holding her hand.
"I've never let go. You were just too far to feel it."

"I know you're upset, beta. And you have every right to be. What happened at your birthday party was... shameful."Maithili gently, walking closer.

Disha finally looked up, her eyes sharp.

"She ruined my party in front of half the city."

"I know. That's why I'm here."Maithili said with regret.

She took a deep breath, controlling her emotions.

"Gauri is... impulsive. Immature. She doesn't know how to behave in certain circles. I should've never allowed her to come."

"She's your daughter-in-law, Maithili. You don't get to choose when to claim her and when to not."Sanjana said smugly.

Maithili spoke ignoring the jab. "You're right. But I came here not to defend her... only to say that I'm sorry. For you, Sanjana. And for you, Disha."

She turned to Disha, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Again... my apologies."

As she turned to leave, Disha said flatly:

"Let's just hope she doesn't ruin your bond with Hriday too, Aunty."

Maithili paused at the door. A flicker of something—anger, guilt, fear, uncertainty—crossed her face. But she left without another word.