Hai ...

Hello ....

Happy reading

*******************

His lips moved against hers slowly, softly, like a poet choosing words with care, afraid that even a single wrong syllable might break the rhythm of the verse. There was  hunger at first,  urgency. Later  a gentle meeting, as if he were testing whether this moment was real or only another illusion his tired heart had created. His lips traced hers with reverence, unhurried, lingering, as though he wanted to memorize the shape of her silence.

Radhya’s breath faltered, her chest rising unevenly as the world narrowed to that single point where they touched. His warmth seeped into her, dissolving the walls she had built with reason and fear. When he kissed her again, deeper this time, it felt less like possession and more like surrender. As if he was giving in to something he had fought for far too long. His fingers tightened around her for a fleeting second, not to hold her captive, but to steady himself. And then, just as quickly, he softened. Like a man afraid of his own longing.

That kiss did not steal anything from her. It gave. It awakened parts of her she had kept asleep out of loyalty, out of guilt, out of fear. And when it ended, it left behind a silence that echoed louder than any confession ever could.

Now, hours later, Radhya lay awake in her room, turning from one side to the other, as if rest had abandoned her completely. Dawn had begun to creep in, pale and quiet, the clock blinking five in the morning like a reminder she could not escape. Her mind, however, had been blank the moment after the kiss. Too stunned to process, too shaken to react. When awareness finally returned, she was already in her room at the Mallik house, the night reduced to fragments that refused to arrange themselves properly.

Sleep was nowhere near her. She tried forcing her eyes shut, tried slowing her breath, tried convincing her heart that nothing irreversible had happened. But her body betrayed her. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again. His lips. His warmth. The way his breath had stuttered against hers as if he, too, had lost control.

Finally, she sat up on the bed, fingers pressing against her temples as reality struck like thunder.

She kissed him.

She crossed the line first.

And now, every time she remembered the way his grip had tightened for just a second before surrendering, the way he had kissed her like he was afraid to want her, she knew one thing for certain. She could not meet his eyes again. Not without exposing everything she had been hiding.

“Ahhhhh… ee muddu na savukocchindi,” she groaned, throwing her head back in frustration.

(Translation: This kiss is going to be the death of me.)

She buried her face in her palms and muttered, her voice trembling with panic.

“Now how can I face him? What will he think about me? That I am this kind of girl? Loving someone else and kissing someone else? He might think I am weak. Devudaaa… why couldn’t I control myself?”

Her heart pounded as shame and longing tangled together, refusing to separate. And then, completely uninvited, a song began playing in her head.

“Jumma chumma de de, jumma chumma de de jumma.”

She scrunched her nose in irritation.

“Nahi dungi. Galti se ek baar di thi, baar baar thodi dungi,” she snapped, only to freeze when the song refused to stop.

Her eyes flew open as she realized it was not her imagination. It was her phone.

She turned to the bedside table and saw the screen lighting up with a name that made her stomach flip.

Mr Khadoos Singh.

Her breath caught. She immediately cut the call and stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed her.

“Aaj pehli baar main khud apni ringtone se embarrassed feel ho rahi hoon,” she muttered, tossing the phone aside.

She lay back down, pulling the blanket over her head as if that could shield her from memory. But it was useless. The moment returned uninvited. His lips against hers. The way he kissed her like he was discovering poetry written on skin. Like he was feeling every shiver she tried to hide.

Her eyes burned, though no tears fell. She made a small, helpless sound, curling into herself like a child overwhelmed by emotions too big to understand.

She did not cry.

But she ached.

And somewhere deep inside her, she knew this kiss had not been a mistake.

It was a beginning she was terrified to name.

Hours slipped by without mercy, each minute scratching against her already aching eyes. The sleepless night had left her eyelids heavy, swollen with exhaustion, yet her mind refused to rest. Thoughts collided endlessly, looping back to the same place, the same moment she wished she could erase and protect at the same time.

It was seven in the morning, sunlight filtering timidly through the curtains, touching the edges of her room like an uninvited witness. Still, she had not stepped outside. If it were up to her, she would not have left this room at all today. Not because she feared anyone waiting outside, not even Mallik Sarkaar’s temper. She feared herself. Her feelings. And the consequences chasing close behind them.

A sudden knock shattered the fragile quiet.

“Radhya didi.”

She exhaled slowly, already tired of existing, and walked to the door. The moment she opened it, Sastry stood there, eyes wide, shoulders stiff, panic practically dripping from his face.

“What happened, Sastry?” she asked, her voice softer than she felt.

“Woh ladka aaya hai ghar,” he said nervously. “Aur baba… baba bahut gusse mein hai.”

Her brows furrowed.

“kon ladka? And why is baba angry so early in the morning?”

Sastry scratched his head, clearly struggling to explain.

“Arey wahi ladka,” he began dramatically. “Jo dikhne mein hippopotamus jaisa hota hai, baatein dinosaur ki tarah karta hai. Uss din ghar bhi aaya tha, khidki se bandar ki tarah ghusa, aur main door se saand ki tarah bhaag gaya. Kya naam tha uska?”

(“He looks like a hippopotamus, talks like a dinosaur. That day he even came to the house, sneaked in through the window like a monkey, and I ran out through the main door like a bull. What was his name?”)

Her heart skipped painfully.

“Krishnansh,” she gasped.

Before Sastry could say another word, she rushed past him, dupatta clutched in her hand, feet barely touching the stairs as she ran down.

By the time she reached the living room, World War Three was already in full swing.

Mallik Sarkaar stood rigid, anger rolling off him in waves, while Krishnansh faced him with equal intensity, jaw set, eyes sharp. The air between them felt charged enough to spark flames.

“Stay away from my daughter,” Mallik Sarkaar warned coldly. “If I see you near her again, things will not be good between us.”

Krishnansh let out a humorless smile.

“Really? Then try stopping me if you can. Until now, I kept my distance intentionally. But not anymore. Now let’s see who wins.”

Before the words could cut any deeper, Radhya rushed forward, grabbed Krishnansh’s arm, and dragged him away from the battlefield. Behind them, Mallik Sarkaar slammed his fist into the couch, fury rattling the room.

Outside the building, the morning air felt heavier than before.

She finally released his arm and turned to him, eyes blazing with a mix of panic and frustration.

“Tum itni subah subah ghar kyu aa gaye?” she demanded. “Tumhe pata hai na baba ko tum bilkul pasand nahi ho.”

“As if I care,” he shot back instantly. “And it’s not like I want to marry him. I just wanted to talk to you. Why weren’t you lifting my calls? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

He paused, noticing her nervous hands twisting into each other, her shoulders tense.

“Woh kal raat…” he began.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” she cut him off immediately.

“How can you not talk about it?” he blurted. “You stole my first kiss.”

The moment the words left his mouth, regret flickered across his face.

She stared at him for a second, then replied without thinking.

“Then go file a case at the police station. I will also say you were equally involved.”

Only after saying it did she realize what she had admitted.

“Radha, we need to talk,” he tried again, his voice softer now. “Just five minutes.”

“No,” she said firmly, already pushing him toward his car. “We will talk in the office. Not here.”

She practically shoved him into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, then leaned down toward the window.

“Go home, ghar pahunch ke chitti likh Lena ,” she said rapidly. “But never come here again. Bye bye.”

He leaned his head out of the window, eyes searching her face.

“Pakka office mein baat karogi na?” he asked quietly.

Her lips trembled, but she nodded, eyes shining dangerously close to tears.

Satisfied, though clearly unwilling, he started the car. The vehicle rolled away, leaving behind dust, silence, and a heartbeat she could not calm.

She stood there for a moment, watching until the car disappeared from view.

Only then did she take a deep breath.

And sighed.

Not in peace.

But in temporary relief, knowing this calm was fragile, borrowed, and already slipping through her fingers.

As if the universe itself had taken personal offence to Radhya’s moment of relief, her phone rang again.

She flinched.

The name flashing on the screen made her spine straighten instantly.

Avinash Srivastav.

Her dada ji.

She hesitated for a second, then lifted the call.

“Radhya,” his voice came sharp and clipped, urgency woven into every syllable. “Emergency hai. Abhi turant Shree Mansion aa jao.”

Her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

“Emergency?” she echoed, already panicking. “Dada ji, kya hua?”

“Phone pe nahi,” he said firmly. “Bas aa jao.”

The call disconnected.

For a moment, she stood frozen, phone still pressed to her ear. A hundred thoughts collided in her head at once.

Kahin maa papa ko pata toh nahi chal gaya ki main hi Arvi hoon?

Ab kya hoga?

Ek war khatam hoti nahi ki doosri shuru ho jaati hai.

Without changing her clothes, without bothering to even comb her hair, she grabbed her scooty keys and rushed out. The night air slapped against her face as she sped through the streets, her mind racing faster than the wheels beneath her.

By the time she reached Shree Mansion, her heart was hammering loudly enough to echo in her ears.

She parked haphazardly and ran inside, skipping formalities, ignoring startled staff, heading straight for Avinash Srivastav’s room.

She pushed the door open.

And stopped dead in her tracks.

Inside the room sat Avinash, Mahesh, and Goutham, arranged neatly on the couch like wedding brokers transported straight from another century.

The table in front of them was covered with chaos disguised as order.

Groom photographs.

Biodata files.

Printed horoscopes.

Family lineage charts.

Radhya blinked once.

Then twice.

“Yeh…” she began slowly, eyes scanning the table. “Yeh kya chal raha hai?”

Avinash cleared his throat, trying to look dignified.

“Beta, hum log tumhare liye ladke dekh rahe the.”

“Ladke?” she repeated faintly. " Ithne sare ?? "

Mahesh leaned forward eagerly.

“Bahut achhe ladke hain, bitiya. Ek number ke gems . Business tycoon ka beta, ek army officer, ek NRI doctor.”

“Sab ke sab ameer,” Goutham added proudly. “Izzatdaar khandaan se.”

Her disbelief didn’t explode immediately.

Instead, it simmered.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

She walked forward, sat down on the floor in front of them with unnatural calm, crossed her legs, and then suddenly clutched her hair in both fists.

“Main…” she began softly. “Main abhi subah subah ek jung jeet kar aayi hoon.”

They exchanged confused glances.

“Aur aap log…” she continued, voice rising theatrically. “Aap log bina pooche meri shaadi ka yuddh chhed diye?”

Mahesh frowned.

“Arre shaadi ka yuddh thodi hota hai—”

“Nanu” she snapped sweetly, “mere liye hota hai.”

“Beta, tum 24 ki ho aur jaldi hi 25 ki ho jaogi,” he said patiently.

“Abhi toh shaadi karne ki umar hai.”

Radhya didn’t even blink.

She tilted her head, folded her arms, and asked with alarming calm,

“Haan toh kaunsi constitution mein likha hai, Dada ji,”

“ki ladki jaise hi 25 ki hoti hai, usse turant shaadi kar leni chahiye?”

The room froze.

Mahesh coughed awkwardly.

Goutham suddenly found the ceiling fan extremely interesting.

Avinash sighed.

“Radhya, hum tumhara bhala hi toh chahte hain.”

She stood up suddenly, dupatta flying dramatically, eyes blazing.

“Bhola karne ka yeh tareeka thoda outdated nahi ho gaya hai, dada ji?” she asked. “Photographs? Biodata? Horoscope? Agla step kya hai ? kundli milane ke baad chai biscuit?”

Goutham coughed.

“Biscuit optional hote hain.”

She pointed at him.

“Dekha! Yeh hi problem hai.”

Then she inhaled deeply, straightened her posture, and said with unexpected calm,

“Main ek princess hoon na.”

All three froze the nodded.

“Toh ek rajkumari ki shaadi,” she continued gravely, “arranged marriage ke pamphlets se nahi hoti.”

Mahesh blinked.

“Toh kaise hoti hai?”

She lifted her chin proudly , dramatically.

“Swayamvar se.”

Silence crashed into the room.

“Aur sirf koi bhi swayamvar nahi,” she added, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Aisa swayamvar jahan poora parivaar maujood ho.”

Avinash’s brows shot up.

“Poora parivaar?”

“Haan,” she nodded firmly , mischievously. 

Goutham protested immediately.

“Yeh practical nahi hai.”

She folded her arms.

“Shaadi bhi practical nahi hoti, emotional hoti hai. Choose wisely Dada ji.”

Mahesh tried bargaining.

“Ek-do log chhod kar?”

She smiled dangerously.

“Deal cancelled.”

Avinash studied her for a long moment, then exhaled deeply.

“Tum bilkul apni maa pe gayi ho.”

She smiled innocently.

“Thank you Dada ji.”

Without another word, she turned and walked out, leaving three stunned old men behind.

The door closed softly.

Goutham broke the silence first.

“Whole family matlab?”

Mahesh leaned back thoughtfully.

“Matlab… jo jo iss ghar ko chhod kar apni zindagi mein settle ho gaye hain… sab ko wapas lana chahti hai.”

Avinash didn’t say a word.

He simply picked up his phone from the table and dialed a number.

The call connected.

“Hello, papa,” a cheerful voice answered from the other end.

“Hello, Adit,” Avinash said calmly.

And somewhere in the universe, chaos stretched, yawned, and smiled.

Because where Adit existed, normalcy was never an option.

*************************

Avinova corporation, Mumbai

The conference room was sealed in more ways than one. Thick glass walls muted the outside world, while layers of encrypted screens glowed with classified schematics that never existed on paper. At the center of the table, a rotating hologram of the AMCA prototype hovered silently, its angular frame cutting through light like a promise and a threat at the same time.

The discussion was relentless.

Stealth signatures were dissected down to decimal points. Radar absorption matrices. Adaptive skin panels that could alter thermal footprints mid flight. AI assisted threat prediction systems that did not merely react to enemy movement but anticipated it three steps ahead, learning from every near miss and every simulated kill. This was not just an aircraft. It was a thinking weapon. A machine designed to dominate skies where human reflexes alone would fail.

One engineer spoke about neural combat integration, about how the jet’s AI would synchronize with the pilot’s cognitive patterns, reducing reaction time to instinct. Another countered with ethical concerns, warning of overreliance, of a future where machines might decide faster than morality could intervene. Strategic dominance was debated like a chessboard soaked in fuel and fire. Whoever controlled this technology would not need to declare war. Presence alone would be power.

Through it all, Aarav Srivastav sat upright, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers interlocked with deliberate calm. His eyes moved across data streams effortlessly. He asked precise questions. Corrected a miscalculation without raising his voice. Suggested a modification in evasive maneuver algorithms that made even senior analysts pause and nod. This was his domain. Precision. Control. Command.

And yet, he noticed what the data did not reveal.

A fraction of a second delay before Krishnansh responded to a direct question. A tightening of his jaw when the conversation drifted toward autonomous decision making. His gaze lingering just a breath longer on nothing at all, as if his mind had slipped into a parallel room where schematics did not exist.

It was subtle. Invisible to anyone who did not know him well.

But Aarav did.

When the meeting finally adjourned and the room began to empty, the tension did not dissolve so much as retreat. Krishnansh gathered his files, professional as ever, his expression carefully neutral. Aarav fell into step beside him, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in contrast to the classified gravity they had just left behind.

He waited until they were alone in the corridor, where silence felt less formal.

Then he smiled.

“You don’t look like a man worried about aircrafts,” Aarav said lightly, eyes forward as if commenting on the weather. “You look like a man who lost control of his own.”

Krishnansh stopped for half a second too long.

Then he scoffed, the sound practiced. “Don’t overanalyze,” he replied. “The stakes are high. Anyone would be intense.”

Aarav turned to look at him now, really look at him. The sharp suit. The composed face. The eyes that had commanded war machines moments ago and yet carried something unsettled beneath the surface.

He did not argue.

He did not push.

He only smiled, slow and knowing, the kind that said he had already read the answer between the lines.

“Of course,” Aarav said softly. “If you say so.”

Aarav did not stop walking. That was his first tactic. Teasing always worked better when it sounded accidental, when it slipped into the air like an afterthought rather than a confrontation. He matched Krishnansh’s pace, hands still in his pockets, expression infuriatingly casual.

“By the way,” he said, as if remembering something trivial, “interesting pause back there when the AI response latency came up.”

Krishnansh glanced at him briefly. “It was a valid concern.”

“Of course it was,” Aarav agreed far too quickly. Then, with deliberate innocence, he added, “Though I’ve never seen you hesitate over milliseconds before. You usually don’t even blink.”

Krishnansh did not reply. His jaw tightened again, betraying him.

Aarav smiled to himself and went for the real strike.

“Tell me something,” he continued, voice light, almost amused. “Does the AMCA now respond slower… or is it just you, ever since Radhya entered the picture?”

That did it.

Krishnansh stopped walking altogether this time. He turned, eyes sharp, warning flashing clearly. “Don’t bring her into this.”

Aarav raised both hands in mock surrender, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Relax. I didn’t bring her. She’s been living rent free in your head all morning.”

“That’s nonsense,” Krishnansh snapped, resuming his walk. “She has nothing to do with this project.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Aarav said, now openly enjoying himself. “But it’s fascinating how a man who can design stealth trajectories to dodge enemy radar somehow forgets to shield his expressions when her name comes up.”

Krishnansh exhaled sharply. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Aarav tilted his head. “Because when I said ‘strategic dominance,’ your eyes were on the screen. When I said ‘autonomous control,’ you were still focused. But when someone mentioned human error…” he paused deliberately, “your mind went somewhere else entirely.”

Krishnansh did not answer.

Aarav leaned closer, lowering his voice, teasing but not unkind. “Let me guess. Soft eyes. Stubborn silence. A woman who refuses to follow your carefully drawn battle plans.”

Krishnansh shot him a glare. “You’re crossing a line.”

Aarav chuckled. “No. I’m just naming it. Radhya.”

The name hung between them, uninvited and undeniable.

For a split second, Krishnansh’s composure cracked. Not enough for the world to see. Just enough for a friend to notice.

Aarav smiled, satisfied but gentle now. “You know what’s ironic?” he said. “You trust machines to think faster than humans. But one woman makes you forget how to think at all.”

Aarav stopped near the glass wall overlooking the runway models. He turned slowly, studying Krishnansh with the patience of someone who already knew the answer but wanted to hear the confession out loud.

“Now tell me exactly what happened,” Aarav said, tone calm, almost deceptively serious.

Krishnansh did not

respond immediately. He stared ahead, jaw tight, eyes distant, as if replaying something he had not yet decided whether to regret or protect. A second passed. Then another. Finally, as if choosing the lesser evil, he spoke with forced casualness.

“We kissed yesterday.”

For a heartbeat, the world froze.

Aarav blinked once. Twice.

“Sorry,” he said slowly, leaning forward, “you’ll have to repeat that. My ears might be malfunctioning.”

Krishnansh sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We. Kissed. Yesterday.”

There was silence. Then—

“What?” Aarav burst out, eyes wide. “As in accidentally bumped into each other and lips collided kind of kiss? Or full emotional disaster category kiss?”

Krishnansh shot him a warning look. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“Oh, I’m not exaggerating,” Aarav grinned. “I’m celebrating. This explains everything. The delayed responses. The haunted expressions. The way you looked like a man who lost a classified war document.”

Krishnansh ignored him, voice lower now. “It just… happened. And I don’t know what it means.”

Aarav’s smile softened for half a second before turning mischievous again. “Ah. There it is. The confusion speech.”

“I’m serious,” Krishnansh said. “I don’t understand my feelings. One moment I’m irritated by her existence, the next I can’t stand the idea of anyone else near her.”

“And instead of processing that like a normal human being,” Aarav interrupted, “you kissed her.”

Krishnansh clenched his jaw. “That’s not helping.”

Aarav folded his arms, expression mock thoughtful. “You know, I design weapons that calculate threat probabilities in nanoseconds. And yet you....” he gestured dramatically, “.....will probably take sixty, maybe seventy years to accept that you have feelings for each other.”

Krishnansh glared. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being generous,” Aarav continued cheerfully. “At this speed, you’ll both be eighty, arguing with walking sticks. ‘I’m not in love with you.’ ‘Good, because I’m not either.’ Meanwhile, everyone else will be attending your golden anniversary.”

Krishnansh scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Aarav said, stepping closer, tone teasing but sharp, “are a grown man behaving like a teenager who just discovered emotions and doesn’t know where to file them.”

Krishnansh looked away, frustration bleeding through. “I don’t want to ruin things.”

Aarav’s voice softened just a little. “You already kissed her. That ship didn’t just sail, it fired a missile.”

Krishnansh exhaled, defeated. “I don’t know what to do.”

Aarav clapped a hand on his shoulder, grin returning. “Relax. Confusion is temporary. Denial is optional. But at this rate,” he smirked, “I’ll book a front row seat for the day you finally admit it. Might take a few decades, but I’m patient.”

Krishnansh muttered under his breath, but for the first time that day, the weight on his chest shifted. Not lighter. Just… named.

************************

Krishnansh returned to the office after the meeting at Avinova Corporation with a mind that was anything but present. The drive back had been silent, the city blurring past him as his thoughts refused to stay in one place. The building felt the same as always, glass, steel, discipline, control. And yet, the moment he stepped inside the familiar floor, something shifted.

Radhya was already there.

She sat in her cubicle, focused, posture composed, fingers moving over the keyboard as if nothing in the world had changed. As if last night had not happened. As if she had not turned his world upside down with one impulsive moment. For a second, Krishnansh slowed his steps. He wanted to go to her. To say something. Anything. But the office was awake. People moved around them, voices, footsteps, professionalism hanging thick in the air. Whatever this was between them, it did not belong here. Not yet.

Without looking back, he turned and walked straight into his cabin, the glass door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Minutes passed. Too many.

The silence inside the cabin only worsened the storm in his head. Finally, he pressed the intercom, his voice carefully neutral.

“Ms Radhya, bring the AMCA feasibility assessment report.”

Before the reply could come, he cut the call. He leaned back in his chair, convinced she would walk in, files in hand, eyes nervous, answers ready. He would ask. She would speak. Something would settle.

Instead, the door opened to reveal Peon Ravi, holding the file respectfully in both hands.

Krishnansh’s jaw tightened.

He took the file, did not even open it. In one swift, controlled movement, he tore the papers into pieces. The sound of ripping paper echoed louder than it should have.

Ravi flinched.

“Take this to Ms Radhya,” Krishnansh said coldly. “Tell her the report has mistakes. Ask her to redo it properly and bring it again.”

He nodded frantically and almost ran out.

Radhya understood immediately. She did not ask questions. She did not react. She simply sat down and remade the report, line by line, expression calm, fingers steady, heart not so much. When she finished, she sent it again, this time through Pandey ji.

Pandey ji entered the cabin cautiously, glasses slightly crooked, respect written all over his posture.

The report did not even survive two seconds.

Krishnansh tore it apart without looking.

“Same message,” he said sharply.

Pandey ji swallowed, nodded, and left, shaken by a version of Krishnansh he had never seen before.

Back at her desk, Radhya stared at the screen, understanding perfectly. He was not angry at the report. He was angry because she was not coming. And yet, that was exactly why she had not gone.

With a quiet sigh, she opened the document again. But this time, she knew she would have to end this absurd war herself.

Before printing the report, her eyes fell on a magazine lying on her desk. Krishnansh’s photograph stared back at her from the cover, sharp jaw, controlled expression, the man the world admired. Something inside her snapped.

With a pen, she drew a thick moustache over his face. Then a beard. Then exaggerated eyebrows.

Her lips twitched.

“Art acchi hai.”

The voice came from behind her.

Startled, Radhya quickly slid the magazine between the files and turned around. Arjun stood there, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Mujhe nahi pata tha tumhari aadat ab tak nahi badli,” he said lightly.

“J ji?” she asked, confused.

He smiled knowingly. He remembered how in her childhood, whenever Pallavi’s or his photo appeared in a magazine, Arvi would draw cartoons exactly like this.

“Kuch nahi,” Arjun added casually, 

But an idea had already sparked in her mind.

Quickly, she printed the report, gathered the file, and followed Arjun. Bhushan sir stopped Arjun midway.

“Sir, iss document par aapki sign miss ho gayi hai.”

While Arjun turned back, Radhya slipped past them and walked straight into Krishnansh’s cabin.

The moment he saw her, something inside Krishnansh finally calmed. The restlessness in his chest eased, his anger losing its sharp edges. He had been waiting for this moment without even realizing how desperately.

But the relief lasted only seconds.

Arjun entered right behind her.

“Krishnansh, meeting ke liye late ho raha hai. Chalein,” Arjun said.

Krishnansh controlled the irritation rising again and nodded.

Radhya, standing there with the file, celebrated her small victory silently. She had won this round.

Or so she thought.

“Ms Radhya,” Arjun added casually, “tum bhi aa jao. Wahan tumhari zarurat pad sakti hai.”

She looked at him, and for the first time that day, she truly felt cornered. Not by walls or authority, but by circumstance itself. Arjun’s words echoed in her ears, calm and reasonable, leaving her no space to protest without drawing unnecessary attention.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she nodded. The movement felt heavy, as if she were agreeing to walk straight into a storm she had been desperately avoiding. She gathered her file closer to her chest, as though it could shield her from the chaos she sensed waiting ahead.

With measured steps, she followed them out of the cabin, her expression composed enough to fool anyone watching, though inside, her heart had already begun to race.

The moment they entered the conference room, the atmosphere shifted. The low murmur of conversation fell silent as all eyes turned toward them. The clients were already seated, files neatly arranged, expressions sharp and expectant. This was not a space for mistakes or emotions. It was a battlefield of precision, confidence, and control.

Arjun took charge effortlessly, his presence commanding the room. After brief introductions, his gaze shifted to her. Calm. Decisive.

“Radhya, you’ll lead the presentation,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her breath caught for a fraction of a second. She was already standing far too close to Krishnansh, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence without even looking at him. Her fingers tightened around the file, pulse racing, mind scrambling to steady itself.

Then, unexpectedly, his voice reached her. Low. Soft. Only for her.

“Don’t get tensed. It’s okay. You can do this.”

The words were simple, almost casual, but they hit her harder than any warning could have. She did not look at him. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned toward the monitor, drawing strength from the familiar structure of slides and data. In that movement, fate chose to mock her.

The magazine slipped from between the files and landed right in front of the clients.

For a heartbeat, the room froze.

Then someone noticed it. The bold cover. And worse, the very obvious artwork scribbled over Krishnansh’s photograph. A dramatic moustache. A questionable beard. Creative, expressive, and completely unprofessional.

Shock rippled across the table, followed by a wave of unexpected laughter.

Radhya felt the blood drain from her face. Her throat went dry as she slowly bent to pick it up, hands trembling just enough to betray her panic. She didn’t dare look at anyone, except him. One glance was enough.

Krishnansh was staring at her, jaw clenched, eyes dark with a mixture of disbelief and warning. That look alone could have reduced mountains to dust. She swallowed hard, silently apologizing to every god she believed in, and immediately switched on the presentation.

Her voice, though shaken at first, steadied within moments. As if instinct took over, she slipped into her professional skin. She explained figures with clarity, connected strategies with logic, and addressed concerns before they were even voiced. Her confidence returned not loudly, but gracefully, like a river finding its flow again.

The laughter faded. Curiosity replaced it. Then admiration.

The clients leaned forward, nodding, exchanging impressed glances. Questions came, and she answered each one with calm precision. By the time she concluded, the room felt different. Respectful. Convinced.

As appreciation followed, Arjun allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The clients were clearly impressed, not just by the proposal, but by her presence of mind.

Krishnansh said nothing. He simply looked at her, longer this time. The earlier glare softened into something unreadable. Pride, perhaps. Or something far more dangerous.

And Radhya, standing there with her file held firmly, realized something quietly powerful.

No matter how shaken she felt around him, when it came to her work, she never faltered.

Finally, she reached home.

Mallik Sarkaar’s house stood quiet under the night sky, lights glowing softly like nothing in the world was wrong. Radhya slipped out of the car, exhaustion clinging to her bones, heart still racing from the day she had cleverly escaped Krishnansh and, in her mind, won a small victory.

She opened the gate, one hand already on the latch to step inside.....

And her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

He was there.

Krishnansh stood in the parking lot, leaning against his car, arms folded, face unreadable in the dim light. As if he had been waiting not for minutes, but for hours. For her.

“A… aap?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Before she could take another step, before she could even think of running, his hand closed around her wrist. Firm. Not hurting. But leaving no room for escape. He pulled her gently yet decisively away from the gate, toward a shadowed corner near the wall.

“Krishnansh, what are you doing?” she asked, panic flickering in her voice.

“I’m tired, Radhya,” he said quietly.

Not angry. Not sharp. Not commanding.

Just tired in a way that felt heavier than shouting ever could.

Tired like a man who had fought battles all his life and suddenly realized this was the one war he had no strategy for.

“Tired of you running,” he continued, his voice steady but hollow. “Tired of the way you look away every time our eyes meet. Tired of pretending that kiss didn’t happen… as if it was some accident we can erase by silence.”

She froze.

Her body went rigid, breath caught painfully in her chest. The night seemed to hold its breath with her.

The word kiss hung between them, heavy and dangerous, like a truth neither of them had the courage to touch openly. It wasn’t just a memory. It was a wound. A promise. A mistake. A confession. All at once.

“I didn’t come here to judge you,” he said after a pause, his gaze never leaving her face, as if he was afraid she might disappear if he blinked. “I know you still love someone else. I’ve known that from the very beginning.”

His jaw clenched, muscles tightening as if admitting it physically hurt.

“I saw it in the way you guarded your heart. In the way you spoke about love like something sacred but distant. In the way your eyes softened for a name you never said.” He swallowed. “I knew I was walking into something broken.”

Her breath stuttered.

And then she saw it.

Not the man who intimidated boardrooms.

Not the man people feared.

Not the man who always seemed in control.

But a man standing right in front of her, confused and hurting, slowly breaking from the inside without even realizing it.

“But I can’t keep myself away from you anymore,” he said, voice dropping. “And I hate myself for that.”

His honesty was brutal.

“I hate that I think about you when I shouldn’t. I hate that your absence bothers me more than your presence ever did. I hate that knowing you love someone else didn’t push me away… it pulled me closer.”

He exhaled sharply, as if releasing something he had been holding inside for too long.

“That kiss…” he continued, voice lowering, almost hesitant now. “It didn’t make me angry. It didn’t make me think badly of you.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes dark with emotion.

“It made me restless. It made me question everything I’ve believed about myself. About love. About control.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “It made me want answers.”

He took a step closer, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.

“About us,” he said quietly.

“About what you feel.”

“And about what I feel.”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him.

The man everyone feared.

The man who ruled rooms with silence.

The man who never begged, never waited, never faltered.

And yet, standing in front of her, he looked lost. Like someone standing at the edge of something he didn’t know how to cross, terrified of both falling and turning back.

“I just want peace, Radhya,” he said softly. There was no demand in his voice now. Only truth. “My life has always been loud. Complicated. Heavy.” His eyes searched hers. “And somehow, the only time it feels quiet is when you’re around.”

Her throat tightened.

“And if that peace comes with you,” he continued, voice cracking for the first time, “I want all of it. Not just the easy parts.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I want your smile,” he said.

“Your pain.”

“Your confusion.”

“Even your rejection, if that’s all you can give me.”

His voice broke completely then.

“But I cannot take you avoiding me,” he whispered. “Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what we are fighting against.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was filled with everything they were too afraid to say next.

“Ansh…” she whispered.

His name left her lips like a warning meant for herself more than him.

He stepped closer.

Not abruptly.

Not aggressively.

Just one step measured, deliberate enough to shrink the distance until the air between them felt charged, heavy, intimate.

Too close.

Her back brushed the cold stone wall, reality pressing in from behind while his presence closed in from the front.

“Krishnansh, we are standing too close,” she said, her voice steadier than her heartbeat. “Please step back.”

He didn’t.

Instead, his jaw tightened, eyes darkening not with desire alone, but with something far more dangerous: restraint slowly giving up.

“You’re making that impossible for me, Radhya.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her side. She lifted her chin, forcing authority into her tone, building walls where her heart wanted to open doors.

“ krishnansh,” she said sharply. “You’re getting married to someone else.”

The words landed.

He exhaled - slow, hollow, as if something inside him had finally cracked open.

“Do you think I’m in love with her?”

The question wasn’t defensive.

It wasn’t angry.

It was tired. Honest. Bare.

She looked at him then...

“No,” she said softly. Firmly. Without hesitation.

His eyes flickered, something raw passing through them.

“Then what is love?” he asked quietly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The night hummed around them. Distant traffic. The world continuing, indifferent to the storm forming in that narrow space.

Radhya’s gaze softened.

Slowly, carefully she lifted his hand.

He stiffened at first, instinctively ready to pull back, to regain control.

But she didn’t let him.

She placed his palm flat against his chest.

“Listen to your heartbeat first,” she said gently.

Her voice wasn’t instructing.

It was inviting.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he listened not to reason, not to responsibility, not to expectations but to himself.

The rhythm beneath his palm was wild.

Uneven.

Uncontrolled.

Alive.

It wasn’t the steady heartbeat of a man in command.

It was the heartbeat of a man afraid of losing something he hadn’t even claimed yet.

“Kuch mehsoos kiya?” she whispered.

His throat tightened. He nodded once.

He didn’t trust his voice - not with the truth threatening to spill out.

“This,” she said, lowering her voice as if naming something sacred, “is called love.”

Something inside him shattered.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Quietly. Completely.

Before she could step back, before fear could return , his arms came around her, pulling her against him.

Not possessive.

Not demanding.

Desperate.

As if letting go would mean falling apart.

She gasped softly, her hands hovering in the air for a second, torn between sense and surrender.

Then she wrapped her arms around him.

Her forehead rested against his shoulder.

His chin pressed into her hair.

They breathed together - unsteady, mismatched, human.

“I love you,” he confessed.

The words fell between them like a truth he had been holding in for far too long heavy, unpolished, undeniable.

They didn’t sound planned.

They didn’t sound brave.

They sounded like surrender.

“Maybe I sound foolish. Maybe I sound stupid,” he continued, his voice cracking at the edges, pride finally losing its grip on him. The man who never faltered, who never bent, now stood bare in front of her. “But yes, Radha… I love you.”

Her name - spoken without distance, without titles, without walls.

Just Radha.

Something inside her chest twisted painfully. That single word carried more weight than all his power, all his authority ever could.

“I don’t know how it happened,” he whispered, his forehead lowering until it almost touched hers. “Or when. There was no moment I can point to. No warning. No permission.” His breath trembled. “I just know that every silence in my life started echoing your name. And I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

Her vision blurred.

Tears welled up, uninvited, unstoppable tears she had been holding back since the day she realized his presence mattered more than it should.

She gripped his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if letting go would mean losing her balance, her sense, her strength. He felt it , her hesitation, her fear and tightened his hold just slightly, grounding her without trapping her.

Her heart raced violently.

This happiness… it felt stolen.

This closeness… it felt forbidden.

And yet, it was real.

She pressed her face against his chest, right where his heartbeat thundered, loud and restless. Each beat felt like a question she didn’t know how to answer.

Her mind screamed warnings - He is engaged. This will hurt. This will destroy things.

But her heart whispered something far more dangerous....

What if this is the truth you’ve been running from?

Her shoulders shook as she inhaled sharply, torn between pulling away and melting completely into him.

Because in that moment, wrapped in his confession, she realized something terrifying.

She wasn’t just afraid of loving him.

She was afraid she already did.

But neither of them noticed.

From the edge of the driveway, hidden behind shadows and parked cars....

Two pairs of eyes watched.

One burned with rage so sharp it promised destruction.

The other stood frozen, shock draining the color from their face, disbelief stealing their breath.

And just like that—Love, once confessed, stopped being a feeling.

It became a threat.

A weapon.

A storm waiting to break.

***********************